Tyacke was standing by the table now, Avery by the fine wine cooler, his hand touching it as if to reassure himself. Beyond the screen there was utter silence except for the muffled sounds of sea and rigging. A ship holding her breath.
Tyacke said, "Shall I remain on this course, Sir Richard?"
Bolitho walked to the table and lifted a corner of the chart. His unfinished letter still lay there; it had been hidden by the chart. Lieutenant Penrose could have picked it up, put it inside his spray-dappled coat before returning to his little command. And, sooner or later, she would have read it… He recalled what Tyacke had asked him; he had not questioned or even doubted him. So much trust. It was like a betrayal, and he was suddenly angry.
Those fools in London, what do they know or even care, until all at once it is too late! All they can think about is grand receptions, peerages and self- congratulation! Men have died because of their arrogance and complacency! And will go on dying!"
Avery had stepped away from the cooler, his eyes very bright in the filtered sunshine. He had never seen Bolitho reveal his anger before, even though, many times, he had guessed it was there.
Bolitho said, "Huntress was taken, a vital link in the chain of an overstretched squadron! What did their lordships expect? Perhaps that the tyrant would remain passive, indifferent? This is not merely a man, but a colossus, one who has cowed and conquered every force that stood against him, from Egypt to the snows of Russia, from the Indian Ocean to the Spanish Main. What in hell's name did they expect?"
He calmed himself with an effort. "There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of men who owed their power and influence to Napoleon. Without him to direct them, they are nothing." He thought of Penrose again, and his signal. "Oh, they will come, and we shall be ready for them." He plucked his shirt from his body. "But the trap is sprung. The maybes and the if onlys have no place here."
He looked at Tyacke, his eyes very clear. "You thought, perhaps, that nobody but a fool would challenge a ship of the line?"
Tyacke glanced at the chart, and saw the letter beneath it.
"Frobisher will dish them up, Sir Richard, you have my word on it!"
Yovell had appeared silently, and ventured, "Then it will be war, Sir Richard?"
Bolitho said, "We shall soon know."
They all looked at the open skylight as the lookout's voice pealed, "Deck there! Sail to the nor'east!"
Bolitho turned to Avery. "Take a glass, George. I need your experience today."
Avery snatched up his hat. "Could it be Huntress. Sir Richard?"
Another voice reached down to the great cabin. It was Midshipman Singleton this time.
"Deck there! Another sail to the nor'east!"
Bolitho pushed the lock of hair from his forehead. "I think not, George." Then he smiled, and Avery was very conscious of the warmth in it. "And fetch down Mr. Singleton, or he'll have no lungs left!"
The door closed and Tyacke waited, blue eyes watching every movement, every changing mood, like reflections on the sea's face.
Bolitho nodded slowly. "Yes, James, the two we saw in Algiers. Privateers, renegades, pirates, who can say? They will fight. They cannot afford to fail."
Tyacke glanced around the cabin, imagining it stripped of all things personal, precious to this unbreakable man. A place of war.
"I would like to speak with the people, Sir Richard."
Bolitho touched his arm as he walked to the opposite side. "Good. It is their right."
Tyacke understood. What you would do in my place. What so many would not.
Their eyes met, and Bolitho said quietly, "Ten minutes, then? It will be enough, I think."
Tyacke closed the door behind him, and Yovell, too, prepared to leave.
Bolitho said. "Wait a moment, Daniel. Bring me a pen. Then you may put this letter in the strongbox."
Yovell went to the desk where he kept his pens. Pipes shrilled, and he was surprised that he was unafraid.
"All hands! Clear the lower deck and lay aft!"
He looked toward the tall figure by the table, remembering. It is their right. Then he pulled open a drawer, his mind clear. He would fetch his Bible; it had never failed to comfort him. He placed a fresh pen on the table and saw Bolitho press the letter between his hands. His profile was composed, as if he was able to detach himself and his mind from the din of running feet, and the voices calling to one another. Voices offering hope and reassurance, and he was moved by them.
And then there was utter silence again; he thought of the flag lieutenant up in the cross trees with his telescope, probably looking down at the ship and the assembled seamen and marines, so rarely seen all together at one time.
Bolitho did not look up as Yovell padded quietly from the cabin. He read the first part of the letter very slowly, and hoped she would hear his voice when she read it. How could he be so sure that she would even receive it, or that they would be victorious today?
The pen hesitated above the letter, and then he smiled. There was nothing to add.
He wrote, I love thee, Kate, my rose. Then he kissed it, and sealed it with great care.
He was aware of the Royal Marine sentry outside the door, shuffling his feet and probably trying to hear what the captain was saying on deck.
The adjoining door opened and Allday entered, pausing only to close the skylight. His own way of holding the things he hated at bay. He said offhandedly, "Young Mr. Singleton says there are two frigates. Sir Richard." He glanced at the eighteen-pounder gun near him. "They'll not do much, no matter what they thinks, an' that's no error!"
Bolitho smiled at him. and hoped that there was no sadness in his heart.
But we know differently, my dear friend. We have done it ourselves. Can you not remember?
Instead he said. "We've a fine day for it, old friend." He saw Allday's eyes move to the swords on their rack. "So let's be about it!"
Ozzard was here also, Bolitho's coat over his narrow shoulder. "This one. Sir Richard?"
"Yes."
It would be a hard fight, no matter what Allday thought about it. Frobisher's company would need to see him. To know they were not alone, and that someone cared for them.
Then the drums began to rattle, urgent and insistent.
"Hands to quarters! Clear for action!"
He slipped his arms into the sleeves and took his hat from Ozzard. The one she had persuaded him to buy in that other, timeless shop in St. James's.
My admiral of England.
He held out his arms and waited for Allday to fasten the old sword into position. Ozzard would take the glittering presentation blade with him when he went down to the orlop, when the guns began their deadly symphony.
Allday opened the door for him and the marine sentry slammed his heels together, waiting to be released from this duty so that he could be with his comrades.
Allday closed the door from habit, even though the ship would soon be cleared from bow to stern, screens and cabins torn down, personal possessions stowed away until they were recovered by their owners, or sold to their mates if fate turned against them.
He found time to notice that Bolitho did not look back.
Captain James Tyacke stood by the quarterdeck rail, his arms folded while he surveyed the ship, his ship, in this moment of instinct and experience when nothing could be overlooked. He could feel the first lieutenant watching him, perhaps seeking approval, or preparing for some sharp criticism. But he was a good officer, and he had done well. The chain slings had been rigged to the yards, and nets spread to protect men on the maindeck from falling debris. There were boarding nets also. They could not estimate the strength or the determination of the enemy. If fanatics from a chebeck could hack their way aboard, this was no time to take chances.
He looked along each line of guns, the eighteen-pounders which made up half of Frobisher's artillery. Until action was joined, each remained a separate unit, the gun captains sorting over the rows of black balls in the shot garlands. A good gun captain could select a perfectly moulded shot just by turning it in his hands.