Broughton came on deck and walked to Bolitho’s side. His voice was offhand and remote.
“What is she?”
Bolitho saw Tothill’s men with their next hoist of flags and said, “There is only the one, sir, but she will suffice.”
Broughton stared at him, confused by his vague reply.
Then Tothill shouted, “Signal, sir. Hekla to Flag. Request instructions.”
Once again Bolitho felt his throat quivering with suppressed strain and emotion. The Hekla had arrived. Somehow Inch had managed to join them with neither escort nor another bomb for company.
Without awaiting the admiral’s comments he said, “Signal her captain to repair on board forthwith.”
Then he turned and looked at the admiral, his eyes calm again. “With your permission, sir, I would like to attempt what we came to do.” He paused, seeing the flush mounting to Broughton’s checks. “Unless you would still prefer to ally yourself with pirates?”
Broughton swallowed hard and then replied, “Report to me when Hekla’s captain is come aboard.” Then he turned and walked stiffly towards the poop.
Bolitho looked down at his hands. They were shaking, yet quite normal in appearance. His whole body seemed to be quivering, and for a brief instant he imagined his old fever was returning.
But it was not the fever. It was something far more powerful.
Keverne crossed the deck and touched his hat. “Strange-looking craft, sir.” He faltered under Bolitho’s gaze. “The bomb, I meant, sir.”
Bolitho smiled, the tension draining out of him like blood.
“Just now she is the most welcome sight I have seen for a long, long while, Mr Keverne.” He plucked at his shirt and added, “I will go aft and change. Call me when the Hekla’s boat is near. I want to greet her captain myself.” Then he strode away.
Keverne said, “You know, I think I may never understand our captain.”
Weigall swung round from the rail. “What? What did you say?”
“Nothing.” Keverne walked to the opposite side. “Return to your dreams, Mr Weigall.”
He glanced up at Broughton’s flag flapping from the foremast and found himself wondering at the swift change in Bolitho’s mood. But it did appear as if the waiting was done, and that at least was something.
After the furnace heat of the day the night air was almost icy. Bolitho stood up in the sternsheets of his barge and signalled to Allday with his arm.
Allday barked, “Easy all!” and as one the oars rose dripping from the water and remained still, so that the dying bow wave gurgling around the stem seemed suddenly very loud.
Bolitho turned and strained his eyes into the darkness astern. They were following, and he could see the dancing phosphorescence around the two leading boats like bright clinging weed and occasional white feathers from the muffled oars.
The first boat loomed from the darkness and hands reached out to seize the gunwales to prevent further sound from any sort of collision. It was Lieutenant Bickford, his voice serious and quite normal, as if he were reporting his division for inspection.
“The rest are close astern of me, sir. How much further, do you think?”
Bolitho felt the two hulls rising and falling on the deep inshore swell, and wondered where the squadron had reached when the wind had at last decided to fade to a light breeze. All day, as he and the others had worked to put his plan of attack into motion, he had expected it to drop, a kind of inbuilt instinct which he could never properly explain. If it had done so before he was ready the plan would have had to be postponed, perhaps cancelled altogether.
He replied, “About three cables, I believe. We will carry on now, Mr Bickford, so keep a good lookout.”
At a further command the boats drifted apart once more, and as the oars started to move Bolitho sat down on the thwart, his eyes trained slightly to starboard where he would first see the bay’s western headland. Provided he had not misjudged the drift or the uneasy power of the swell.
He made himself think back over the busy afternoon, trying to discover any flaw in his hazardous plan. Yet each time he seemed to see Inch’s face, hear his voice as he had sat in the Euryalus’s stern cabin. A voice so weary and drained of life that he had seemed much older than his twenty-six years.
It was hard to recall Inch as he had once been as a junior lieutenant, eager but bumbling, loyal but without experience, more so when Bolitho considered what he had just done on his behalf. Inch had waited fretting at Gibraltar for an escort, knowing how desperately the two bombs were needed, and realising too that no such escort might ever arrive. He had taken his courage in both hands and had confronted the local admiral for permission to sail unaided. Typically, the admiral had granted permission, on the written understanding that whatever happened as a result would be Inch’s own responsibility. The other bomb vessel, Devastation, had also up-anchored without delay, and together they had headed
out from the Rock’s protection, both commanders expecting to be attacked within hours by the patrolling Spanish frigates which had been so much in evidence.
As he had told his story Bolitho had been reminded of his own words to Draffen at Gibraltar about Inch’s luck. That luck had certainly held, for they had not sighted a single ship. Until that very morning, when out of a sea mist Inch’s lookout had reported a fast-moving Spanish frigate. There was little doubt in Bolitho’s mind that it was the one sighted by Coquette turning to dash back to Spain with the news of Broughton’s attack on Djafou. Perhaps her captain had imagined the two small and ungainly bombs were part of a trap being sprung to catch him before he could escape. Otherwise, he would hardly have been likely to have engaged them.
Inch had sent his small company to quarters, and with his consort some half mile abeam had prepared to give battle.
With all sail set the thirty-two-gun frigate had gone about to take advantage of the wind, her first broadside dismasting the Devastation and raking her decks with grape and chain shot. But the little bomb was sturdily built, and her guns had replied with equal vigour. Inch had seen several balls hitting the enemy’s hull on the waterline before a second savage broadside had smashed the Devastation into silence.
Inch had expected the same treatment, but had put his ship between the frigate and the other bomb and had opened fire. Maybe the Spanish captain had counted upon Inch to turn and run after witnessing the fate of his companions, or perhaps he still expected to see the Coquette’s topgallants above the horizon in hot pursuit. But the challenge was enough. The frigate had gone about again, leaving Inch to lower boats and pick up the survivors from the other bomb, which had turned turtle and started to sink.
It was obvious to Bolitho that Inch was torn between two real emotions. He was brooding over the loss of the Devastation and
most of her company. But for his own eagerness she would still be anchored at Gibraltar, safe and unharmed.
Yet when Bolitho had outlined what he intended to do this same night he had seen something of the old Inch, too. Pride and a light of complete trust which had made him so very important in Bolitho’s memory.
Now, in Hekla his first and only command, Inch was anchored beyond the opposite headland, and within a very short while would be attempting something untried in naval history. With Bolitho and his own gunner he had climbed to the top of the beaked headland where the marines lolled like corpses in the scalding glare, and had carefully constructed a map of the fortress. Bolitho had said nothing which might have broken Inch’s concentration, and had been very aware of the deftness with which he went about his work. Ranges, bearings and measurements were added to the map, while the gunner had murmured occasional hints about charges, amounts of powder and fuses, most of which had been a foreign language to Bolitho.