Bolitho straightened his back and clasped his fingers together behind him. "Did you see her name, Mr Evans?"
"Well, we were proper busy when she let fly with a bowchaser, but my little schooner can show a clean pair o' heels as anyone will tell you…"
Bolitho remarked, "She was L'Intrepide, was she not?"
The others stared at him and Keen asked, "But how could you know, sir?"
"A premonition." He turned from the table to conceal his face from them. It was here; he could feel it. Not just yet, but soon, quite soon.
"The larger vessel-how big, d'you think?"
Evans nodded to Ozzard and took another tankard of rum. Then he wiped his lips with the back of his rough hand and frowned. It seemed habitual.
"Well, I'm no real judge, but she were a liner right enough." He glanced professionally around the cabin. "Bigger'n this 'un, see?"
"What?" Bolitho turned back at Keen's sudden surprise and doubt. "Must be a mistake, sir. I have read every word of those reports from the Admiralty No ship larger than a seventy-four survived Trafalgar. They were either taken or destroyed in the gale that followed the battle." He looked almost accusingly towards the wild-haired lieutenant. "No agent has reported the building of any vessel such as the one you describe."
The lieutenant grinned. The burden was no longer his, and the rum was very good.
"Well, that's what I saw, Sir Richard, an' I've been at sea for twenty-five year. I were nine when I ran out o' Cardiff. Never regretted it." He shot Keen a pitying glance. "Long enough to know which is the sharp end o' a pike!"
Keen laughed, the strain leaving his face as he retorted, "You are an impudent fellow, but I think I asked for it! "
Bolitho watched him, the news momentarily at arm's length. Only Keen would be man enough to make such an admission to a subordinate. It would never have occurred to Bolitho that he might have learned it from his own example.
Bolitho said, "I want you to carry a despatch to Portsmouth. It could be urgent."
Keen said, "The Nore would be a shorter passage, sir."
Bolitho shook his head, thinking aloud. They have the telegraph at Portsmouth. It will be faster." He eyed Evans meaningly as he swallowed some more rum. "I take it you have a reliable mate? "
It was not lost on the shaggy Welshman. "I won't let you down, Sir Richard. My little schooner will be there by Monday."
"There will be a letter also." He met Evans' searching stare. "I would appreciate if you send it by post-horse yourself. I shall pay you directly."
The man grinned. "God love you, no, Sir Richard. I know them buggers at Portsmouth Point an' they owe me a favour or two! "
Keen seemed to come out of his thoughts. "I have a letter as well which could perhaps go with it, Sir Richard?"
Bolitho nodded, understanding. If the worst happened he might never know Zenoria's love. It did not bear even thinking about.
"You are doing the right thing, Val," he said quietly. "My lady will ensure she receives it."
By noon the schooner was under way again, watched with envy by those who knew her destination, and wished that their next landfall would be England.
While Bolitho and Keen thought about their respective letters, carried in the schooner's safe with the despatches, other smaller dramas were being enacted deep in the hull, as is the way with all large men-of-war.
Two seamen who had been working under the direction of Holland, the purser's clerk, to hoist a fresh cask of salt pork from the store, were squatting in almost total darkness, a bottle of cognac wedged between them. One of the men was Fittock, who had been flogged for insubordination. The other was a Devonian named Duthy a ropemaker and, like his friend, an experienced seaman.
They were speaking in quiet murmurs, knowing they should not still be here. But like most of the skilled hands they disliked being cooped up with untrained ignorant landsmen who were always bleating about discipline, as Duthy put it.
He said, "I'll be glad to swallow the anchor when me time's up, Jim, but I'll miss some of it, all the same. I've learned a trade out of the navy, an' provided I can stay in one piece…"
Fittock swallowed hard and felt the heat of the spirit run through him. No wonder the wardroom drank it.
He nodded. "Provided, yes, mate, there's always that."
"Yew think we'm goin' to fight, Jim?"
Fittock rubbed his back against a cask. The scars of the lash were still sore, even now.
He showed his teeth. "You knows the old proverb, mate? If death rakes the decks, may it be like prize money."
His friend shook his head. "Don't understand, Jim."
Fittock laughed. "So that the officers get the biggest share! "
"Now here's a fine thing! "
They both lurched to their feet as someone slid the shutter from a lantern, and they saw Midshipman Vincent staring at them, his mouth lifted in a faint smile. Behind him, his crossbelt white in the gloom, was the ship's corporal.
Vincent said coldly, "Just as well I came to complete the rounds." The officer-of-the-watch had sent him after seeing the purser's clerk appear on deck alone, but he made it sound as if it was his own idea. "Scum like you, Fittock, never learn, do you?"
Duthy protested, "We weren't doin' nothin', sir. We was standin' easy, so to speak! "
"Don't lie to me, you pig! " Vincent thrust out his hand. "Give me that bottle! I'll see your backbones for this! "
Anger, resentment, the scars on his back, and of course the cognac were part and parcel of what happened next.
Fittock retorted angrily, "Think you can't do no wrong 'cause yer uncle's the viceadmiral, is that it? Why, you little shite, I've served with 'im afore, an' you're not fit to be in the same ship as 'im! "
Vincent stared at him glassily. It was all going wrong.
"Corporal, seize that man! Take him aft! " He almost screamed. "That's an order, man! "
The ship's corporal licked his lips and made as if to unsling his musket. "Come on, Jim Fittock, you knows the rules. Let's not 'ave any trouble, eh?"
Feet scraped on the gratings between the casks and some white breeches moved into the lantern's glow.
Midshipman Roger Segrave said calmly, "There'll be no trouble, Corporal."
Vincent hissed, "What the hell are you saying? They were drinking unlawfully, and when I discovered them-"
"They were 'insubordinate,' I suppose?" Segrave was astonished by his own easy tones. Like a total stranger's.
He said, "Cut along, you two." He turned to the corporal, who was staring at him, his sweating face full of gratitude. "And you. I'll not be needing you."
Vincent shouted wildly, "What about the cognac?" But of course, like magic, it had vanished.
Fittock paused and looked him in the eyes, and said softly, "I'll not forget." Then he was gone.
"One more thing, Corporal." The leggings and polished boots froze on the ladder. "Close the hatch when you leave."
Vincent was staring at him with disbelief. "Are you mad?"
Segrave tossed his coat to the deck. "I used to know someone very like you." He began to roll up his sleeves. "He was a bully too-a petty little tyrant who made my life a misery."
Vincent forced a laugh. In the damp, cool hold it came back as a mocking echo.
"So it was all too much for you, was it?"
Surprisingly, Segrave found he could answer without emotion.
"Yes. It was. Until one day I met your uncle and a man with only half a face. After that I accepted fear-I can do so again."
He heard the hatch thud into position. "All this time I've watched you using your uncle's name so that you can torment those who can't answer back. I'm not surprised you were thrown out of the H.E.I.C." It was only a guess but he saw it hit home. "So now you'll know what it feels like! "
Vincent exclaimed, "I'll call you out-"