Tyacke watched some seamen loitering by an open hatch; they could smell the rum being issued. With little fresh water, and all the beer long gone, rum might be all the spark that was needed.
"A renegade, and an agent for the French when they were preparing to drag Spain into the war. Not that they needed much encouragement!" He heard Kellett clear his throat, and added impatiently, "Is that all the information we have?"
Avery said, "It troubles Sir Richard."
Tyacke turned to Kellett. "This afternoon, Mr. Kellett is that what you were about to ask?"
Kellett gave one of his rare smiles. "Aye, sir."
"Lower gundeck. Both batteries. See if you can knock a minute or two off their time."
He turned back to Avery, his voice very calm. "If Sir Richard requires it, I shall wait until hell freezes." He paused. "But it may take more than extra gun drills to keep the people mindful of their duties, if we delay much longer, eh?"
The cabin skylight was open, and Bolitho heard Avery laugh. Tyacke was a patient man, and he knew his trade better than any he had met.
He returned to the chart, and pictured Frobisher sailing sedately above her own reflection in this Tyrrhenian Sea. So wrong for a ship of her size and quality; this was a place more used to beak-pr owed galleys with banked oars, and bearded warriors in plumed helmets. A place of the gods, of the myths of Greece and Rome.
He smiled at the notion, and opened his notes once again; he held his hand over his blind eye, out of habit, and was surprised that he could accept it. Catherine's letter had given him the strength; their lordships of Admiralty had done the rest.
It was strange about Bethune; he had seemed so suited to the ways and powers of London. Perhaps he had offended someone, which was easy enough at the Admiralty. Even Lord Rhodes' name seemed to have been dropped from despatches and orders. Was Sillitoe's hand in that, too?
He dragged his mind back to that meeting with Mehmet Pasha and his Spanish adviser, Martinez. They had known all about the two frigates moored there; nothing could move without the governor's permission, and his complicity. Martinez had been a successful and daring agent for the French revolutionary government. For Napoleon.
Tyacke needed to provide for his ship, and Bethune was probably waiting in Malta to assume command of the Mediterranean squadron.
I must go home. He did not realise he had spoken aloud to the empty cabin and its dancing, dazzling reflections.
There was no proof that Martinez was any more than he proclaimed. His roles had become less important and possibly more dangerous over the years, and in his own country he would never be trusted again. He thought of his brother, Hugh. A traitor was always remembered for his treachery.
If only he had more ships, especially frigates. This venture was a needle in a haystack; or was it merely vanity, a belief that no one else could see the hidden dangers?
He could smell the rum, and imagined the seamen and marines throughout the flagship, isolated now, and idle, no longer participating in the great events of other times and places.
As he leaned over the table he felt the locket, filmed with sweat, adhering to his skin. It would be spring when they reached England again. So much time lost, so much to rediscover.
He heard Tyacke's shoes outside the door, and, quite suddenly, made up his mind.
Tyacke entered and removed his hat; with his face in shadow, it was barely possible to see the full extent of the terrible scars.
"Join me in a glass, James." Ozzard had appeared, as if by magic. "I think I have pursued my instincts too far this time."
They both watched the wine filling the glasses for a moment, then he said, "We may run down upon Huntress before sunset. I would wish to speak with her captain."
Tyacke nodded. "It is possible, Sir Richard."
Bolitho raised his glass. "Either way, we shall return to Malta." He smiled. "In all truth, James, I wish you the happiness you deserve in your new life!"
Their glasses clinked, and the watchful Ozzard saw some wine splash across the admiral's white breeches. Like blood, he thought. But the admiral had not seen it.
Tyacke was on his feet again. "I shall pass the word, Sir Richard. It may lessen the toils of gun drill!"
Ozzard went into his pantry and found Allday there, carving yet another model ship.
Ozzard could usually conceal his feelings, but on this occasion he was glad that his friend was so engrossed.
Now, even Captain Tyacke had somebody waiting for him.
He thought of the street in Wapping, and heard her dying screams. There was nothing left.
Lieutenant Harry Penrose gripped the companion ladder, and leaned back to stare at the sky while his schooner, Tire'ess, scythed through a ridge of broken water. It never failed to excite him, like riding something alive, which, of course, she was.
The rectangle of sky was duller than usual, with large patches of cloud moving like an untidy flock of sheep. Against it he could see the towering fin of the schooner's mainsail; that, too, seemed darker. Perhaps it would rain. They were not short of water, but just to hear rain running through the scuppers and wetting the sun-dried planking would make a welcome change.
He continued on his way, and heard the squeak of a fiddle from one of the tiny mess decks She was a small ship, and a happy ship, a command for the young. Penrose was twenty-two years old and knew he was lucky to have Tireless, and would be sad to leave her when the time came; just as he knew he would not shirk his duty when it called him elsewhere. It was his life, all he had ever wanted, and had dreamed about as a child. His father and grandfather had been sea officers before him. He smiled. Like Bolitho. He had thought many times since of that unexpected meeting, when he had delivered despatches to the flagship. What had he anticipated? That the hero, the navy's own legend, might prove to be only another imposing figure in gold lace?
He had written to his mother about it, embroidering the story a little, but the truth was still fixed firmly in his mind. The next time we meet, I shall expect to see epaulettes on your shoulders. The sort of man you could talk to. The kind of leader you would follow to the cannon's mouth.
He felt the wind on his face, damp, clinging, but still enough to fill the schooner's sails.
Tireless's only other officer, Lieutenant Jack Tyler, waved vaguely toward the bows.
"Masthead just reported a sail to the sou'east, sir."
Penrose glanced at the sea creaming back from the raked stem.
"I heard the hail. Who is the lookout?"
"Thomas."
"Good enough for me, Jack."
They worked watch and watch, with a master's mate standing in when it was convenient. You got to know the ability and strength of every man aboard, and any weakness too.
Tyler said, "He thinks it's a frigate, but the light's so bad, we may have to wait until tomorrow."
Penrose rubbed his chin. "First light? Another day lost. She must be Huntress, our last rendezvous." He thought of the solitary bag in his cabin and added wryly, "Important, no doubt. Officers' tailoring bills, tearful letters for the mothers' boys, all vital stuff!"
They laughed, more like brothers than captain and first lieutenant.
They both looked up as the masthead pendant cracked out like a coachman's whip, and Penrose said, "I think we might do it before dark, Jack. When she sights us she's bound to claw up as quickly as she can. They must be sick of being the last of the patrols, a guard ship of nothing!"
He made up his mind. "All hands, Jack! Let's get the tops' is on her!" He could not contain his excitement. "Let's show those old men how she can shift herself!"
Only one pipe was necessary; the fiddle fell silent, and the schooner's narrow deck was soon filled with bustling figures.
Tireless did not have a wheel like most vessels, but still mounted a long tiller-bar fixed directly to the rudder head. The helmsmen gripped it between them, glancing at the mainsail and masthead pendant, with only an occasional scrutiny of the compass. For a moment longer all was confusion, or so it might appear to the ignorant landsman, and then, heeling to the thrust of canvas and rudder. Tireless settled on her new course, spray bursting over her jib and spurting through the sealed gun ports, where her sole armament of four four- pounders tugged at their breechings.