Bolitho asked quietly, "What of your senior officer-Commodore Warren? I am surprised that he would release his biggest fifth-rate at a time when he might need your full support."
He had a vague picture of Commodore Warren in his mind, like a faded portrait. He had known him briefly during the ill-fated attempt by the French Royalists to land and retake Toulon from the Revolutionary army Bolitho had been a captain then like Varian, and his ship had been Hyperion. He had not seen Warren since. But the navy was a family and he had heard of him serving on various stations in the West Indies and the Spanish Main.
Varian said abruptly, "The Commodore is unwell, Sir Richard. In my opinion he should never have been given-"
Bolitho said, "As the senior captain you have assumed over-all charge of the supporting squadron; is that it?"
"I have made a full report, Sir Richard."
"Which I shall read in due course." Bolitho moved his hand consciously away from his eyelid and added, "It is my intention to hasten the attack on Cape Town. Time is of the essence. Which is why this fast passage was of the utmost importance." He saw the shot go home but continued, "So we will return to the squadron in company. I intend to see Commodore Warren without delay."
He stood up and walked to the quarter windows to watch the crests beginning to ruffle like crisp lace in the wind. The ship was rising to it. Eager to move again.
Varian tried to recompose himself. "The other vessels, Sir Richard?"
Bolitho said, "There are none. There will be none. As it is I am authorised to despatch several of the ships here directly to England."
"Has something happened, sir?"
He said quietly, "Last October our fleet under Lord Nelson defeated the enemy off Cape Trafalgar."
Varian swallowed hard. "We did not know, Sir Richard! " For once he seemed at a loss. "A victory! By God, that is great news."
Bolitho shrugged. "Brave Nelson is dead. So the victory is a hollow one."
There was a tap at the door and Poland stepped into the cabin. The two captains glanced at one another and nodded like old acquaintances, but Bolitho sensed they were completely divided as if by the bars of a smithy's furnace.
"The wind is freshening from the nor'-west, Sir Richard." Poland did not look again at the other man. "Zest's gig is still hooked on to the chains."
Bolitho held out his hand. "I shall see you again, Captain Varian." He relented slightly. "The blockade continues around all enemy ports. It is vital. And though heartened by our victory at Trafalgar, our own forces are weakened by it nonetheless."
The door closed behind them and Bolitho heard the shrill of calls as Varian was piped over the side into his gig.
He moved restlessly about the cabin, remembering one of the meetings he had had with Admiral Sir Owen Godschale at the Admiralty The last one, in fact, when he had outlined the need for urgency The Combined Fleets of France and Spain had been thoroughly beaten, but the war was not won. Already it had been reported that at least three small French squadrons had broken through the tightly-stretched blockade, and had seemingly vanished into the Atlantic. Was this to be Napoleon's new strategy? To raid ports and isolated islands, to prey upon supply ships and trade routes, to give the British squadrons no rest while they the French gathered another fleet?
He could almost smile at Godschale's contemptuous dismissal of the enemy's strength. One group which had outwitted the blockading squadron off Brest had been under the veteran Vice Amiral Leissegues, and his flagship was the 120-gun first-rate Imperial. Hardly small.
The French might even have their eye on Cape Town. It was impossible to guess at the havoc they could create there. They could sever the routes to India and the East Indies as surely as the blade of an axe.
He remembered the studied coolness between Godschale and himself. The admiral had been a contemporary of his; they had even been posted together on the same date. There was no other similarity.
Bolitho was suddenly conscious of the distance between himself and Catherine. Godschale, like so many others, had tried to keep them apart, may even have plotted with Belinda to have Catherine dishonoured and lost in lies. But Bolitho doubted that. The admiral was too fond of his own power and comfort to risk a scandal.
Or was he? It was openly said that Godschale's next step was to the House of Lords. There might be others there who would wish to destroy them through Godschale.
Catherine's words rang in his ears. Don't you see what they are doing to us?
Perhaps this mission to the Cape was merely a beginning. To keep him employed without respite, knowing that he would never resign, no matter what they did.
He crossed to the rack and touched the old family sword, dull by contrast with the fine presentation blade below it. Other Bolithos had worn it, proved it, and sometimes had fallen with it still gripped in a dead hand. He could not see any of them giving up without a fight. The thought gave him comfort, and when Allday came into the cabin he saw him smiling, the first time for a long while.
Allday said, "The whole squadron will know about Lord Nelson by now, Sir Richard. It'll take the heart out of some." He gestured towards the nearest gunport as if he could already see the African mainland. "Not worth dyin' for, they'll say. Not like standing 'twixt the mounseers and England, clearin' the way like we did! "
Bolitho was moved beyond his own anxieties and said, "With old oaks like you about, they'll soon take heed! "
Allday gave his slow grin. "I'll wager two o' the cap'ns will have some grief afore long as well."
Bolitho eyed him severely. "You damned fox! What do you know of it?"
"At present, not much, Sir Richard. But I does know that Cap'n Poland was once the other gentleman's first lieutenant."
Bolitho shook his head. Without Allday he would have nobody to share his feelings or fears. Others looked to him only for leadership-they wanted nothing more.
Allday took down the sword and wrapped it in his special cloth.
"But it's what I always says, Sir Richard, and every true Jack knows it." He gave another grin. "It's aft the most honour may be, but forrard you finds the better men. An' that's no error! "
After Allday had gone Bolitho seated himself at the table and opened his personal log. Inside it was the letter he had started when England 's mist and drizzle had faded astern, and the long passage had begun.
When she would read it, or if it even reached her, he would not know until she was in his arms. Her skin against his, her tears and her joy mingled with his own.
He leaned over the letter while he touched the locket through his new shirt.
Another dawn, dearest Kate, and how I long for thee. He was still writing when the ship changed tack yet again, and from the high masthead came the cry that the assembled ships had been sighted.
Bolitho went on deck at noon, and felt the sun strike his face and shoulders like fire; his shoes stuck to the deck-seams as he strode to the hammock-nettings with a telescope from the rack.
Mountains, red and pink in the harsh, misty glare, and over all the sun, which was like burnished silver, strong enough to drain all colour from the sky around it.
He shifted the glass slightly, his legs braced as the lazy offshore swell lifted the keel and rolled noisily down either beam. Table Mountain, a paler wedge, but still shrouded in haze and mystery like some giant's altar.
There were the ships. His eyes moved professionally across the mixed collection. The elderly sixty-four Themis, which he knew was Commodore Warren's ship. Warren was ill. How ill? He had not enquired further of Varian. It would show his hand, or display uncertainty when he must soon need these unknown men to trust him without question.
Another frigate, some schooners and two large supply vessels. The cream of the attacking force would be as Varian had described, to the north-west where the ships could anchor well offshore, whereas here there was only one natural bank shallow enough to ride at their cables. Beyond the hundred-fathom line the sea's bed fell away to infinity, a black oblivion where nothing moved.