To Glory We Steer (35 page)

Bolitho glanced quickly at the other officers. Cope, being Sir Robert's flag-captain, would naturally stay noncommittal until he knew his master's intentions. Fox was the man to convince. He was said to be a hard man, and as he was somewhat old for his rank, inclined to be over-cautious.

Bolitho took his own chart and laid it carefully across the admiral's. He started quietly. “The whole plan to contain and engage the French fleet is based on one main theme, sir. We know that de Grasse has his strongest force at Martinique to the south. To meet with his Spanish ally and to reach Jamaica, his first necessity is to
avoid
any damaging action with us.”

The admiral said irritably, “I know that, dammit!”

Bolitho continued, “I believe that the two frigates were part of a scouting force, ahead of the main fleet.” He ran his finger along the chart. “He could sail north from Martinique, and if necessary deploy his ships amongst the scattered islands en route. Then, at his most suitable moment he could swing west to Jamaica as planned.” He looked at Fox who met his eyes without expression. He added urgently, “Sir George Rodney is depending on a quick engagement, sir. But suppose de Grasse avoids that first contact, or, even worse, he makes a feint attack on our ships and
then
heads north?” He waited, watching the admiral's pale eyes moving across the chart.

Sir Robert said grudgingly, “It could happen, I suppose. De Grasse could skirt any hostile land and then keep close inshore of more friendly territory, Guadeloupe for instance.” He puckered his lower lip. “He would thereby avoid a running battle in open water, like the Martinique Passage.” He nodded, his face suddenly grave. “Yours is a dangerous supposition, Bolitho.”

Captain Cope said uneasily, “If the French can get ahead of Rodney we're done for!”

Bolitho asked, “Could I suggest something, sir?” He tried to gauge the extent of his own forcefulness. “If I am wrong, there can be no real harm in my idea.”

The admiral shrugged. “I cannot find it in my heart to dampen such rare enthusiasm, Bolitho.” He wagged one finger. “But I do not promise to abide by it!”

Bolitho leaned across the chart. “My ship was down here in search of fresh water . . .”

The admiral interrupted, “And well off her allotted station incidentally!”

“Yes, sir.” Bolitho hurried on. “Allowing for perhaps a day without wind, and a further two days to regain contact with their admiral, the two French frigates would have had ample time to examine the full extent of
this
Channel.” He stood back slightly as the other two captains craned over to look. “There is a whole cluster of small islands to the north of the Dominica Passage.” He paused. “The Isles des Saintes. If I were de Grasse, that is where I would make for. From that point he could swing west to Jamaica, or run for safety at Guadeloupe if Rodney's fleet is too close on his heels.” He swallowed and added, “If our squadron moved south-east we might be in a better position to observe, and if necessary to report to Sir George Rodney what is happening!”

Sir Robert rubbed his chin. “What do you think, Cope?”

The flag-captain shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “It's hard to say, sir. If Bolitho is right, and I am sure he has considered the matter most carefully, then de Grasse will have chosen the most unlikely route to slip past our blockade.” He added unhelpfully, “But of course, if he is wrong, then we will have left our allotted station without good cause!”

The admiral glared at him. “You don't have to remind me!” He turned his gaze on Fox, who was still leaning over the chart. “Well?”

Fox straightened his back. “I think I agree with Bolitho.” He paused. “However, there is one point which he seems to have overlooked.” He jabbed at the pencilled lines with his finger. “If Sir George Rodney flushes de Grasse away from the Dominica Passage the Frogs will certainly have the advantage. The wind is too poor to allow our fleet time to re-engage before de Grasse dashes for open water.” He drew his finger slowly across the chart in a straight line. “But our squadron might be right across their line of escape!”

The admiral stirred in his chair. “Do you think I had not considered this?” He glared at Bolitho. “Well, what do
you
say?”

Bolitho answered stubbornly, “I still say we shall be in a better position to report and, if necessary, shadow the enemy, sir.”

The admiral stood up and began to pace with sudden agitation. “If only I could get some real news! I sent the brig
Witch of Looe
away days ago to try and gain intelligence, but with this damn climate what can you expect?” He stared through the open stern windows. “Sometimes we are becalmed for days on end. The war could be over for all I know!”

Bolitho said, “I could take the
Phalarope
to the south'rd, sir.”

“No!” The admiral's voice was like a whipcrack. “I will have no captain of mine taking what should be my responsibility!”

He gave a frosty smile. “Or was it your intention to force me into this decision?” He did not wait for a reply. “Very well, gentlemen. We will make sail and proceed south-east immediately.” He stared at each of them in turn. “But I want nothing foolhardy! If we sight the enemy we will retire and report our findings to Sir George Rodney.”

Bolitho masked his disappointment. He must be content. He had not even expected Sir Robert Napier to agree to leaving the present area, let alone to commit himself to what might well be a pointless and time-wasting venture.

As he turned to follow Fox the admiral added sharply. “And as to that other matter, Bolitho.” He rested his hand on the open envelope. “I will deal with that in my own way. I do not wish the reputation of my ships to be tarnished by mutiny. I intend that it should stay within the squadron.” He was looking impatient again. “As for Lieutenant Vibart, well, I suppose it cannot be helped now. A dead officer is no use to me, no matter how he died!”

Bolitho tried to think of a suitable reply. “He died bravely, sir.”

The admiral grunted. “So did the Christians in Rome! And damn little good it did anybody!”

Bolitho backed from the cabin and then hurried on deck to summon his boat. The sea was still speckled with small whitecaps, and the admiral's flag was streaming bravely in the freshening breeze. It was good sailing weather, he thought. And that was too rare to waste at any time.

With the ponderous two-decker between them, the frigates spread their sails and hauled off on either beam. By nightfall the wind had fallen slightly, but was still sufficient to make the sails boom with unaccustomed vigour as the yards were braced round to keep all three ships on a slow starboard tack.

Before the night fell completely to hide one vessel from another there was a final unhappy incident. Bolitho had been striding up and down the weather side of the quarterdeck when he heard Okes snap, “Mr Maynard! Lively there! Train your glass on the flagship. She seems to be hoisting a signal.” Bolitho had crossed the deck to watch the midshipman fumbling with his long telescope. It was strange for the admiral to be sending signals in such poor visibility. A flare would have been more effective.

Maynard had lowered his glass and looked round at the two officers. He had looked sick, as he had on the day he had discovered Evans's body. “It's no signal, sir!”

Bolitho had taken the glass from the youth's hands and trained it across the hammock netting. Coldly he had watched the small black dot rising towards the
Cassius
's main-yard. It had twisted as it made its slow journey. Twisted and kicked, so that in his imagination Bolitho had thought he could hear the drum's staccato roll and the steady tramp of bare feet as the selected men had hauled the choking mutineer slowly up to the yard.

Maynard was wrong about one thing. It
was
a signal to every man who saw it.

Bolitho had returned the glass and said, “I am going below, Mr Okes. See that you have the best lookouts aloft, and call me if you sight
anything.
” He had glanced quickly at Maynard and added quietly, “That man, whoever he was, knew the price of his folly. Discipline demands that it be paid in full!”

He turned on his heel and walked below, despising himself for the cold unreality of his words. In his mind he seemed to hear Vibart's thick, accusing voice, still jeering at him for his weakness. What did one more death matter? Fever and unaccountable accident, the cannon's harvest or the end of a rope, it was all the same in the end.

He threw himself across his cot and stared at the deckhead. A captain had to be above such things, to be able to play God without thought for those who served him. Then he remembered Allday's words and the blind trust of men like Herrick and Stockdale. Such men deserved his attention, even his love, he thought vaguely. To use power as a tyrant was to be without honour. To be without honour was to be less than a man.

With that thought uppermost in his mind he fell into a deep sleep.

“Captain, sir!” Midshipman Neale rested his hand anxiously on Bolitho's arm and then jumped back in alarm as the cot swayed violently to one side.

Bolitho swung his legs to the deck and stared for a long moment while his mind sought to recover from the nightmare. He had been surrounded by screaming, faceless men, and his arms had been pinioned while he felt a noose being tightened around his neck. Neale's hand had only added to the nightmare's reality, and he could still feel the sweat running across his spine.

He said harshly, “What is it?” The cabin was still in darkness, and it took him several more seconds to recover his composure.

Neale said, “Mr Herrick's respects, sir. He thinks you should know we've heard something.” He fell back another pace as Bolitho lurched to his feet. “It sounded like gunfire, sir!”

Bolitho did not pause to find his coat but ran quickly to the quarterdeck. It was almost dawn, and already the sky was painted in a pale blue strip beyond the gently corkscrewing bows.

“What is it, Mr Herrick?” He moved to the rail and cupped his hands to his ears.

Herrick stared at him uncertainly. “I could be mistaken, sir. It might have been thunder.”

“Most unlikely.” Bolitho shivered slightly in the cool dawn breeze. “Can you see the
Cassius
yet?”

“No, sir.” Herrick pointed vaguely. “There's a mist coming up. It'll be another hot day, I'm thinking.”

Bolitho stiffened as a low rumble echoed sullenly across the open water. “Maybe hotter than you think, Mr Herrick.” He glanced up at the jerking canvas. “The wind seems to be holding.” He was suddenly aware that there were several figures already standing on the main deck. Everyone faced forward, listening and wondering.

Bolitho said, “Call the hands.” He peered upwards again. In the dim light he could just see the masthead pendant whipping out like a pointing finger. “Take out the second reef, Mr Herrick. And set the foresail and spanker.”

Herrick called for a boatswain's mate, and seconds later the ship came alive to the call of pipes and the stamp of running feet.

Then Herrick said, “I still can't see the flagship, sir.”

“We won't wait for her!” Bolitho watched the men swarming aloft and listened to the harsh bark of commands. “That is gunfire ahead. Make no mistake about it!”

Proby came on deck buttoning his heavy coat. He seemed half asleep, but as the big spanker filled with wind and the deck canted obediently to the wind's eager thrust he contained any comment he might have felt and crossed to the wheel.

Bolitho said calmly, “Alter course two points to larboard, Mr Proby.” The ship's sudden response to wind and sail had swept away the strain and sleep from his mind. He had been right. The waiting was almost over.

He looked sideways at Herrick and saw his face was clearer in the growing light. He looked worried and not a little startled by the swift chain of events.

Bolitho said quietly, “We will investigate, Mr Herrick.” He pointed at the men swarming back along the yards. “I want chain slings fitted on every yard. If we are called to action our people have enough to contend with at the guns. I don't want them crushed by falling spars.” He halted the lieutenant in his tracks. “And have nets spread above the main deck, too.” He made himself stand quite still by the rail, his hands resting on the worn and polished wood. He could feel the ship trembling beneath his palms, as if his thoughts were being transformed into new life, and the life was flowing through the
Phalarope
even as he watched.

From newly awakened chaos the ship had already settled down into a purposeful rhythm. All the weeks of training, the hours of persistent instruction were giving their rewards.

Stockdale joined him by the rail. “I'll get your coat, sir.”

“Not yet, Stockdale. That can keep for a moment longer.” He turned as Okes appeared at the ladder, his face still crumpled from sleep. “I want the hands to eat well this morning, Mr Okes. I have a feeling that the galley fire will be out for some time to come.” He saw the understanding spreading across the officer's face. “
This
time we will be ready!”