He saw Pascoe's face and smiled. "What's the matter, Adam? Don’t you want Nelson to come? He is the best we have", and -the youngest. That alone should please you!" Pascoe dropped his gaze and smiled. "One of the foretopmen said it for me. We’ve got our own Nelson already."
"I never heard such nonsense!" Bolitho made for the ladder, adding, "You"re getting as bad as that cox"n of mine!"
That night as Bolitho sat in Osiris's unfamiliar cabin, writing his report on his conclusions, he listened to the creak and mutter of the hull around him. The wind was rising slightly, and had already veered more to the north-west. The sloop Harebell, which had set sail just before darkness, would be making heavy going, tacking back and forth, back and forth, merely to stay in the same place.
He thought of Javal" s swarthy face as he had come aboard, surprised at seeing the broad pendant above Osiris, relieved to discover that Farquhar was not yet the commodore.
He had explained bluntly that after failing to discover the ships at the pre-arranged rendezvous, and hearing from a fisherman that they were at anchor in Syracuse, he had made a second patrol of the MessinaStrait, and with the wind backing, had gone farther north in search of news. He had explained, "I make no excuses, sir. I’m used to in- dependence, but I don’tabuse it. I put into Naples and visited the British Minister there. I had to come back with some- thing." His hard face had eased slightly. "Had I known that you were off on your own, er, expedition, sir, I’d have sailed right into Valletta and brought you out, Knights or not!"
Javal knew his weak spot. As an ex-frigate captain, Bolitho had acted rashly by going to see Yves Gorse, but in keeping with his old calling. Perhaps Javal had used the point to dilute his own guilt.
Javal had explained, 'sir William Hamilton may be old, sir, but he has a vast knowledge of affairs, and the communications to inform him."
Bolitho signed his report and stared at the opposite bulkhead. His tarnished sword looked out of place against the ornate panelling.
Javal had delivered only one piece of news. To be more precise, he had brought a name.
Sir William had been informed through his chain of associates and spies that the one man who could determine the next weeks and months was known to be making for Toulon. That man would not be prepared to waste time on empty gestures.
His name was Bonaparte.
14. Run to Earth
Any hopes of a quick passage to Corfu, or of Javal" s lookouts sighting Lysander far ahead of the depleted squadron, were dashed within days of weighing anchor. The wind veered violently to the north, and as all hands worked feverishly to shorten sail, even Osiris's master expressed his surprise at the intensity and speed of the change. Swooping down from the Adriatic, the wind transformed the gentle blue swell into a waste of steep, savage crests, while above the staggering mastheads the sky became one unbroken cloud bank.
Day after day, the two ships of the line used their bulk and strength to ride out the storm, while behind shuttered gun ports their companies fought their own battles against the sickening motion, and waited for the call, * All hands! Hands aloft and reef tops "Is!" Then to a more perilous contest against the wind, clinging to dizzily swaying yards and fighting each murderous foot of canvas.
Buzzard, unable to withstand such a battering, had been made to run ahead of the storm, so that to the remaining ships it seemed as if the whole world was confined to this small arena of noise and drenching seas. For the visibility dropped. with the hours, and it was hard to tell spray from rain, or from which direction the wind would attack next.
For Bolitho, the endless days made him feel remote from Osiris's own struggle. The faces he met whenever he went on deck were unfamiliar, shouted opinions as yet carried no weight. He saw Farquhar in a different light as well. Several times he had given way to displays of anger which had made even the urbane Outhwaite quail, and once he had reprimanded a bosun's mate for not striking a man hard enough when he protested at being sent aloft in a full gale. The bosun's mate had tried to explain that the culprit was not a proper seaman, but a cooper's assistant. So many hands had been hurt in the storm that, like the officers, the bosun's mate was trying to gather as much extra muscle as he could.
Farquhar had shouted, "Don’t you dare argue! You’ve had to flog men! You know what it will feel like if you cross words with me again!"
The man had been driven aloft, and had fallen outboard without even a cry as he had lost his hold on the futtock shrouds.
Bolitho wondered how Herrick was managing to ride out the storm, and where he was during each sickening day.
Farquhar had said, "But for this bloody weather, I’d have caught up with Lysander!"
"I doubt it." Bolitho had reached beyond empty agreement. "Lysander is a faster ship. And she is well handled."
It was unfair on Farquhar, but he had shown such indifference to Herrick's possible fate that it was all he could do to restrain some more biting comment. Like a nagging con- science, a small voice seemed to repeat, It was your decision. You drove Herrick too hard, too soon. It was your fault.
And then, a week after leaving Syracuse, the gale eased and backed to the north-west, but as the sky cleared and the sea regained its deep blue, Bolitho knew it would take several more days to recover lost ground. To beat back through time and distance which they had surrendered to the storm.
Whenever he went on deck he was aware that the officers on duty were careful to avoid his eye, and stayed well clear of his lonely pacing on the poop. His chosen solitude gave him time to think, although without fresh information it was like re-ploughing old land with nothing to sow.
During the forenoon on the ninth day he was in the cabin, studying his chart and drinking a tankard of ginger beer, something which Farquhar had stored in some quantity for his personal use.
How Farquhar would laugh, if after all there was nothing in Corfu to sustain his theories. He would not show it, of course, but it would be there just the same. It would not merely prove Farquhar correct in his actions, but also that he was far more suited to hold this or some other command.
Sir Charles Farquhar. It was strange that he should be so irritated by the man's title. He was getting like Herrick perhaps. No, it went deeper than that. It was because Farquhar had not earned it, and now would never want for anything again. You only had to look at the Navy List to see* where the promotion went. He thought of Pascoe's words and smiled. The "Nelsons" of this world gained their rewards and even titles on the battlefield, or facing an enemy's broadside. Their precarious advancement was often admired but rarely envied by those more fortunate ashore.
Bolitho walked restlessly around the cabin, hearing the seamen working on deck and in the yards above it. Splicing and re-rigging. After a storm each job was doubly essential. He smiled again. Those more fortunate ashore. In his heart he knew he would fight with all his means to avoid a post at the Admiralty or in some busy naval port.
He returned to the chart and stared at it once more. Corfu, a long, spindly island which seemed about to lock itself snugly to the Greek mainland. A narrow approach from the south, about ten miles across for a ship under sail. From the north, much less. Inviting self-destruction if the French had shore batteries along the high ground. Although the island was separated from the mainland by what was to all intents a small, private sea, some twenty by ten miles in size, the two real hazards were the narrow channels north and south. Also, the one good anchorage was on the eastern shore, so any sort of surprise there was out of the question. Herrick would know it, too. He was stubborn and determined, but he was no fool, and never had been.