Sergeant Plummer said quietly, "The old gentleman has died, sir."
It was rare for a man to look dignified in death, Bolitho thought. He said, "Remove his leg-iron, Sergeant, then take him to where the others lie dead." He walked to the door as more men with Lieutenant Urquhart hurried in.
Avery asked, "And what about this man, sir?"
The prisoner's eyes watched him like bright stones.
"We'll leave him with the others. Dead."
The man's protests filled the barred room so that Herrick seemed to stir as if in a bad dream.
"I will not take him to the ship. The people have had enough examples of authority to witness." He watched the horror and disbelief on the man's face. "The only witnesses will be the women you destroyed! "
Outside the door Bolitho leaned against the wall, the stones surprisingly cold through his shirt. He listened to the man's screams and pleading cries as he was dragged down the steep stairs.
Avery waited with Allday as some sailors carried Herrick's limp body carefully through the door.
Avery asked bluntly, "What does it mean? You can tell me, man! "
Allday looked at him sadly. "It means he's found his friend again."
They fell in step to follow the others, then Allday asked, "What did you say to that rat, sir?"
"Well, I was not certain, you see. But all priests speak Latin. I was answering the question he should have asked. I said, To Lead the Fleet, to Follow the King."
A single shot echoed over the monastery and Allday spat on the ground.
"Hope he said his prayers! "
16. Captains All
Yovell leaned slightly to one side as Bolitho ran his eyes over the orders he had just completed. Around them the big frigate groaned uneasily as she lay hove-to while Laertes's captain came over in his gig.
Two days had passed since the landing party had entered the monastery and had rescued Herrick.
There had been others found there in the same spartan captivity. Apart from the remainder of the monks they had discovered some twenty masters and other officers from the many prizes taken by Baratte and his ships.
Bolitho had listened with great care to each of the prisoners and had built up a much clearer picture in his mind of the enemy's strength. Baratte had employed many small vessels for his attacks, and had fitted out some of his captures as privateers and for spying on ships sailing alone.
Baratte was both well-informed and prepared for any attempt by the military to deploy their transports, without which they would be beaten before they had even started.
Major-General Drummond's force was the obvious target. Baratte would know the strength of the Cape Town squadron, which even with Keen's support would be at great risk.
Bolitho had already dispatched the brig Orcadia with all the information he could muster, and had told Jenour to tell Keen to press the army to hold fast until Baratte's ships could be dealt with.
Jenour had seemed listless and tired, and Bolitho had wished that he had had more time to speak with him. But time was slipping away, and with Thruster gone and Jenour sent to find Keen's ships he was well aware of the need for action. James Tyacke had come aboard only briefly at Bolitho's request, and had confirmed that the unknown English captain had to be a former sea-officer, who had commanded a small frigate in the King's navy until he had been court-martialled for cruelty to enemy prisoners-of-war. He was exactly the kind of unscrupulous character who would fit Baratte's requirements. A man who had recruited a company of scum, most of whom would hang if brought to justice. His name was Simon Hannay: privateer, pirate and murderer, who had for too long struck fear into the hearts of ship masters who sailed alone on the great ocean.
Tyacke had come up against him when he had been controlling a large flotilla of vessels which had preyed regularly along the African coastline. When slavery had been outlawed and the patrols had been strengthened Hannay had discovered that the Arab slave-traders were more frightened of the Devil with half a face than they were of him. Not for the first time he had offered his services to the French, and according to one of the freed prisoners he had been given a thirty-two gun frigate appropriately named Le Corsaire. Baratte flew his flag in another frigate, Chacal. She was new, but little was known about her. Baratte had many other small vessels, brigs, brigantines and former coastal schooners.
Bolitho walked away from the table and stared thoughtfully at the shimmering ocean. It was noon, and by now Tyacke would have clawed his way up to windward, ready to dash down on the two frigates if any strange sail was sighted.
He heard the stamp of feet and the shrill twitter of calls as Captain Dawes of the Laertes was piped aboard. Avery was up there to welcome him with Captain Trevenen.
Bolitho thought of the powerful emotions he had seen on Avery's introspective face when they had buried the two women and the elderly abbot among the wild flowers on the hillside. He himself had been shocked when he had seen the murdered women. Both were young, the wives of fishermen. They had been spared nothing, even the mercy of a quick death. One of the released sailors had told him about the night when the guards had been mad with drink, and their wild cries had mingled with the screams of the women. Simon Hannay had not been there, but he might as well have been. And he would pay for it.
The monks had been almost harder to understand, Bolitho thought. They had displayed neither gratitude nor anger, and had shown little grief at the death of their abbot. Perhaps life on that pitiless islet had destroyed their capacity to feel the normal, worldly emotions of ordinary men.
He thought of Herrick down below in the sickbay, watched over by George Minchin the surgeon. Herrick had suffered greatly, and Minchin had insisted that he be left alone until some progress had been made.
Bolitho could still hear him calling him by name in that filthy cell.
There was a tap at the door and Trevenen, followed by Avery and Captain Dawes, came into the cabin. Dawes was young, about Adam's age, but had the severe deportment of a much older man. Perhaps he already saw himself as an admiral like his father.
Yovell moved to a corner where he could make notes if required, and
Ozzard stood with a napkin over his arm while he waited to serve refreshments.
Trevenen sat down heavily. He had almost shown surprise when he had seen the man who had posed as the abbot and who had broken Herrick's hand with a rock shot to death by the captain of marines.
He had said in his harsh voice, "It was quite unexpected, Sir Richard."
Bolitho had faced him calmly, the dead women's contorted features still clear in his mind.
"I do not enjoy seeing a man die, even scum like that one. I simply could not think of a reason for allowing him to live."
While Avery held the chart, Bolitho discussed the despatch he had sent with Jenour.
"Although it depletes our strength still further, it may prevent a greater loss of life."
Dawes peered at the chart. Two frigates, Sir Richard?" His eyes sharpened. He was already seeing fame and prize money. "We can manage to dish them up! "
Trevenen said doubtfully, "The renegade, Simon Hannay -what do we know of him?"
"Commander Tyacke knows him as well as anyone, but stories of his bloody career are legion."
Why was Trevenen so unwilling to take Tyacke's word? He seemed to sift every event as if looking for flaws. Or what he considered to be a waste. Like the rescued mariners and the prisoners, for instance. Bolitho had seen him complaining to the purser about the extra mouths he would have to feed. It was as if it would all come out of his own pocket.
He said quietly, "The real puzzle remains the role of the American, Unity. Without her interference we can tackle Baratte, and win."
Trevenen interrupted, "He'd not risk war, Sir Richard! " He sounded outraged.