4

SEEK AND FIND

THEMIS’S STERN CABIN was like a furnace in spite of the open gunports and the windsails rigged to each hatchway, so it was difficult even to think. Bolitho sat at the table, his head resting on one hand while he scanned the contents of the pouch which had been ferried across from the schooner Miranda.

Commodore Warren slumped in a high-backed chair, his ashen features turned towards the nearest port, his only movement when he plucked his uniform coat or shirt away from his damp skin.

Seated beside Bolitho, his plump, round-shouldered secretary, Daniel Yovell, had to repeatedly push his gold-rimmed spectacles back into position when they slipped down his nose, as he wrote the notes which Bolitho might require later on.

Warren asked suddenly, “You are not surprised by the army’s reply to your request, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho dragged his thoughts away from the pouch which Miranda’s boarding party had discovered. The evidence of the chart was interesting, but the lengthy letter to some French merchant in Cape Town was far more so.

He replied, “Much what I expected, Commodore Warren. But we have to use the proper channels. By now, Sir David Baird’s soldiers will have begun their landings. It is too late to prevent it, even if I could.”

Jenour stood beside the stern windows and watched the Miranda as she swung above her reflection, a perfect twin on the calm water. Her commander had been fortunate, he thought. A few hours later and he would have lost the wind completely.

He turned as Bolitho said, “Your French is excellent, Stephen. When you translated this letter for me, did you notice anything unusual?”

Jenour tried to shake off the torpor. Of them all, Bolitho looked the coolest. Dressed in shirt and breeches, his coat tossed aside on to a chest, he even managed to appear alert, although Jenour knew that he had been pacing the cabin since Miranda’s sails had been sighted closing the land. That had been at dawn. It was now high noon. In this oven-heat men trod warily; it was a dangerous time when frayed tempers brought sharp discipline, with an aftermath of resentment. Better to be at sea, with every man too busy to brood.

Jenour screwed up his face. “If the letter is a code I cannot read it, Sir Richard. It is the kind of letter that one merchant might send to another, passed perhaps by one ship on passage to that particular destination. After all, it is quite possible for French merchants to be in Cape Town surely?”

Bolitho massaged his forehead. It was a code, and he was surprised that even the quick-witted Jenour had missed a vital clue.

It fell to Yovell, who had been peering at his papers, his fat fingers holding his spectacles in place, to discover it.

He exclaimed, “The battle off Cape Trafalgar, Sir Richard! The sender mentions it to his friend!”

Bolitho saw their expressions begin to change. “Quite what you would expect, eh? Except that Truculent made a record passage here from England, before anyone in this squadron knew about the battle and Lord Nelson’s death. So to have time in hand to pass this letter to a slaver, the sender must have been in these waters ahead of us!”

Warren dabbed his mouth with care. “A French man-of-war?”

Jenour clenched his fists with disbelief. “One of those which broke out of Brest?”

Bolitho tugged the chart towards him. “Cape Town is the clue, my friends, although I fear I cannot determine what it is.”

He made up his mind. “Make a signal to Miranda, Stephen. Summon her commander aboard. I would like to meet him in any case.”

As Jenour turned towards the door Commodore Warren said humbly, “I am sorry. It slipped my mind, Sir Richard. Lieutenant Tyacke has been aboard since he delivered the pouch.”

Bolitho bit back a sharp retort. It was not now the time, but later … He sighed. Two frigate captains who disliked one another—their commodore who showed little interest in the whole operation—and a mixed handful of vessels which had barely worked with one another before. Small beginnings.

He said, “Ask him to come in, Stephen.”

Warren shifted uneasily. “There is another thing about him …”

But Jenour already had the door to the cabin open, so he did not finish it.

Jenour stepped into the other cabin and looked at the tall man who was standing by an open gunport, his hands clasped behind him.

“If you will step aft—Sir Richard Bolitho wishes to speak with you.” He was relieved to see that the lieutenant had at least been given refreshment, and doubtless some of the commodore’s terrible wine. “We were not aware that you were still …” The words froze on his lips as the other man turned to stare at him. How could anyone live with a wound like that?

Tyacke said abruptly, “And who are you, might I ask?” Then he saw the twist of gold lace at Jenour’s shoulder. “I see, Flag Lieutenant.”

Jenour tried again. “Forgive me. I did not mean—”

Tyacke shifted the sword at his belt and turned his disfigurement aside. “I am accustomed to it. But I don’t have to enjoy it.” He did not attempt to hide his anger and bitterness. Who did they think they were?

He lowered his head between the deck beams and stepped into the enlarged cabin. For a few moments he was taken completely off-balance. The commodore he knew slightly by sight, and for some lingering seconds he imagined that the plump man in the plain blue coat must be the much-talked about Bolitho. Not an heroic figure; but then most of the flagofficers Tyacke had met were not.

“Will you accept my apologies, Mr Tyacke?” Bolitho walked from the shadows and crossed beneath a skylight. “I was not told you had been kept waiting. Please forgive this oversight and take a seat, will you?”

Tyacke sat down awkwardly. Perhaps he had been at sea too long, or had misheard somehow. But the man in the white shirt, with the almost gentle manner of greeting, was not what he had expected. For one thing Bolitho looked no older than himself, although he knew he must be nearer fifty than forty. But for the deep lines around his mouth, and the traces of white in a solitary lock of hair above one eye, he was a young man. Bolitho was looking at him again in that strangely direct and open manner. The eyes were grey, and for a few seconds Tyacke felt tongue-tied, more like Midshipman Segrave than himself.

Bolitho continued, “Your discovery aboard that slaver may be more useful than any of us realise.” He smiled suddenly, so that he appeared even younger. “I am trying to fathom how it may help us.”

A door opened, and a very small servant padded across the cabin and paused by Tyacke’s chair. “Some hock, sir?” He watched Tyacke’s expression and added mildly, “It is quite cold, sir.” It sounded as if it was better wine than was usually available in this elderly flagship.

Tyacke swallowed hard. This must be one of Bolitho’s men too. He drank deeply, trying to contain something he thought he had lost. Emotion. The little man had not even blinked; had shown neither curiosity nor disgust.

Bolitho observed him and saw the lieutenant’s hand tremble as his glass was refilled. Another survivor. One more victim which the war had tossed aside, as the sea gave up driftwood.

He asked quietly, “Where is this Albacora now?”

Tyacke seemed to pull himself out of his thoughts with a physical effort.

“She will be here in two days, Sir Richard. I left a small prize crew aboard and the injured midshipman.”

Bolitho nodded. “I read of him in your report. He sounds a brave youngster.”

Tyacke dropped his gaze. “He surprised me.”

Bolitho looked at his secretary. “I shall require you to write some orders for another of the schooners.” His voice hardened and he saw the commodore watching him anxiously. “I want the Albacora put alongside one of the storeships when she arrives. She must be met at sea, out of sight of prying telescopes ashore, then brought to her moorings at night.” He waited for his words to sink in. “Will you attend to that, Commodore Warren?”

Warren bobbed and fell into a fit of violent coughing.

Bolitho turned his back and studied the tall lieutenant. “I wish to take passage in your command, Mr Tyacke.” He saw the disbelief, the arguments rushing into the man’s eyes. “I am used to small vessels so have no fear for my—er, dignity!”

When he looked again, the commodore had left the cabin, but he could still hear him coughing. Jenour was at Yovell’s shoulder peering at the plump Devonian’s neat, round writing.

For a few minutes they were alone, ignored. Bolitho asked softly, “Where did it happen?” That was all he said, but he saw the words hit Tyacke like a clenched fist.

Then Tyacke met his gaze and said without hesitation, “The Nile, Sir Richard. The Majestic, seventy-four.”

Bolitho nodded very slowly. “Yes. Captain Westcott. A fine man. Sadly missed.” He touched his left eyelid with one finger and Tyacke imagined that he saw him wince.

Bolitho said, “Please return to your ship. As soon as the remainder of your people arrive in the prize, your prize, Mr Tyacke, be prepared to weigh anchor again.”

Tyacke glanced at the others but Jenour was studying some papers; or perhaps he simply could not face him.

Bolitho added, “I shall want you to take me to the Cape itself, beyond if need be. I am doing no good here.”

As Tyacke turned to leave Bolitho called to him, “There is one more thing.” He walked across the cabin until they faced each other again. “I would like to shake your hand.” His grasp was firm. “You are a very brave officer.” For just seconds he hesitated. “You have given me hope. I shall not forget.”

Tyacke found himself in the harsh sunlight and then down in Miranda’s longboat before he knew what had happened.

Simcox was in the boat, agog with excitement and questions.

Tyacke watched dully as the boat cast off and the seamen picked up the stroke. Then he said without emphasis, “He wants us to take him to the Cape.”

Simcox stared. “A viceadmiral! In Miranda!”

The lieutenant nodded, remembering, holding on to it. And lastly the handshake, the momentary wistfulness in Bolitho’s voice.

Simcox was unnerved by the change in his friend. Something strange and important must have happened aboard the flagship. He hoped that Tyacke had not been hurt again.

He tried to pass it off. “And I’ll bet you forgot to ask him about our beer ration, what say you?”

But Tyacke had not heard him. He repeated, “Take him to the Cape. By the living God, I’d sail that man to hell and back if he asked me!”

They did not speak again until they reached Miranda.

Richard Bolitho wedged himself in one corner of the Miranda’s small cabin and then stretched out his legs. The motion was certainly lively, he thought ruefully, and even his stomach, which had been hardened by every sort of sea and under most conditions, was queasy.

Lieutenant Tyacke had been on deck for most of the time since they had hauled anchor, and although he could see nothing apart from the bright blue rectangle through the skylight, Bolitho guessed that once clear of the choppy inshore currents things might be easier.

It seemed odd not to have Ozzard pattering about, anticipating his every need even before he had thought of it himself. But space was precious in the rakish schooner, and in any case it might appear as a slight to Miranda’s people if he brought his own servant. It was probably shock enough to see him climb aboard, despite Tyacke’s warning beforehand. As he had made his way aft Bolitho had caught glimpses of the varied expressions. Astonishment, curiosity, maybe even resentment. Like Tyacke, whose voice seemed to be everywhere on deck, they might see his presence more as an invasion of their private world than any sort of honour. He had asked Jenour to remain in the flagship, too. His eyes and ears were as useful as Miranda’s.

Bolitho had seen the captured slaver alongside one of the transports, but had not gone over to her. He had heard about the woman in the master’s cabin, and the deserter who was now under guard in the flagship, awaiting his fate. He guessed there were several other things which had not been mentioned in Tyacke’s report.

He heard the boom of canvas as the fore-topsail filled out to the wind, and imagined he could feel the instant response while the schooner settled on her new tack.

He looked around the cramped cabin, hearing once more in his mind Allday’s outspoken disapproval.

“Not fit for a viceadmiral, ‘specially you, Sir Richard! A collier would offer more comfort!” He was out there somewhere, either quietly fuming, or, having accepted it, sharing a “wet” with one of the Miranda’s senior hands. He usually managed to settle in that way, and gain more information than Bolitho might do in a year.

The cabin was packed with personal belongings, sea chests, clothing and weapons, the latter within easy reach for any occupant.

Tyacke had left the wounded midshipman in the care of Themis’s surgeon. There was another story there, too, but Bolitho doubted if Tyacke would share it. The tall, powerful lieutenant discouraged confidences, apart from with his friend, the acting-master. Maybe he had always been a solitary man, and his terrible scars had only increased his isolation.

Bolitho opened his chart and moved it beneath a swaying deckhead lantern. Even it was not spiralling now so violently. These great sails were like wings; could hold the schooner steady on her deep keel when other vessels would be pitching like corks.

Bolitho looked at the chart, the hundreds of tiny soundings, bearings and identifying marks. He found that he was rubbing his injured eye, and stopped instantly, as if someone had called aloud to him.

He could feel sweat on his spine and then knew why Allday had been so insistent about his not boarding Miranda.

Bolitho shook his head and peered at the chart again. It was no use. It was the cabin. Not so different from the one he had been using in the topsail cutter Supreme. October 1803, when the French had found the little cutter and had fired on her; when Bolitho’s life had changed. One enemy ball had slammed into some buckets of sand and hurled him to the deck.

It had been noon, but when he had been helped to his feet he had found only darkness. His left eye had plagued him badly since. In his old Hyperion it had almost cost him his life. The damage had been like a sea-mist creeping over the eye, rendering him half-blind. He recalled Catherine’s pleas before he had left Portsmouth in Truculent. Aboard Hyperion, at the height of her last-ever voyage, they had carried an eminent surgeon, Sir Piers Blachford, who with others of his profession had been scattered throughout the embattled squadrons of the fleet to discover at first hand what ship’s surgeons had to contend with in action. As an eventual result of their findings, it was hoped by the College of Surgeons in London that it would not be left to the butchers of the trade to deal with the appalling wounds and amputations which were the price of any battle.

Blachford, like a tall, reedy heron, had told Bolitho that he would lose the sight of his left eye completely unless he quit the sea for a period of time lengthy enough to afford him the proper examination and perhaps treatment. Even then, he could not be sure …

Bolitho stared at the chart’s wavering coastline and imagined he could feel the old pain deep inside his eye. It was imagination allied to fear. It had to be. He looked desperately around the cabin again. Allday had known. He always did.

But it was not just a question of duty or arrogance. Bolitho did not have the conceit to pretend it was either. There were so few leaders with the experience, the understanding, that were needed so much now, perhaps even more so than before Trafalgar. With Nelson gone, and the enemy forces on land untouched by the victory and his sacrifice, it was just a matter of time before the next blow fell.

The door banged open and Tyacke, bent double, thrust himself on to one of the bench seats. He was breathing hard as if he had been personally fighting his enemy, the sea, and his shirt was blotchy with spray. Bolitho noticed that he sat in the opposite corner where his disfigurement was in the deepest shadow.

Tyacke said, “We’re running due south, Sir Richard. The wind’s veered a place, but that’s all to the good should we want to come about in a hurry.” He glanced at Bolitho. “Are you certain this is what you want to do, sir?”

Bolitho smiled and gestured to the clothing which hung from the deckhead. His own sea-going coat was no better than Tyacke’s and he had purposely left the epaulettes with Ozzard.

He said, “I know you cannot always tell the contents of a cask by its label, but at least I would hope that your people will feel more at ease. It was my choice, Mr Tyacke, so do not blame yourself.” He changed the subject. “Is all well with your company?”

Tyacke’s eyes sharpened as he replied, “I have one matter left to deal with, but it must wait until I can speak to the person involved.” He sounded wary. “It is ship’s business, Sir Richard. Nothing which will impair the needs of this passage.”

“I am glad to know it.” Bolitho folded the chart, feeling Tyacke watching him. All Miranda’s people were returned on board. But for the midshipman, who had according to Tyacke’s report acted with gallantry to save the master’s mate’s life. Ship’s business, he had said. He smiled briefly. In other words, not mine.

Tyacke saw the smile and relaxed slightly, his hands hidden beneath the table. It was not easy. For him it was more than an intrusion; it was the deprivation of his freedom to think and act.

He said, “There will be some food very soon, sir.” He grinned uncomfortably. “I know you told me not to use your title aboard this vessel, but it comes a bit hard.”

“It should draw us closer.” Bolitho felt his stomach contract. He was hungry, in spite of everything. Perhaps Sir Piers Blachford was wrong. It was not unknown. When he returned to England … well, perhaps then he would take Catherine’s advice.

He recalled one of the transports he had visited while waiting for Miranda’s return from SaldanhaBay. It had been unspeakable; and a miracle some of the soldiers had not died of disease already. The stench had been appalling, more like a farmyard than a vessel in the King’s service. Men, horses, guns and equipment, packed deck upon deck, with less room than a convict ship.

And so they must wait and endure it, until Sir David Baird’s artillery and foot soldiers fought their way to the gates of Cape Town. But suppose the Dutch were stronger than anyone realised? They might turn the English advance into a rout, in which case there was only Commodore Warren’s small force to land soldiers and marines and harass the enemy from the rear. The wretched men he had seen aboard the transport would be no match for the difficult landing, let alone the fighting expected of them.

He heard Allday’s deep voice beyond the door and knew he was helping one of Tyacke’s men to fetch a meal for the officers.

Bolitho said, “With your experience, you should have a larger command.” Again he saw the guard drop in the ruined face. “Your promotion ought to have been immediate.”

Tyacke’s eyes flashed. “I was offered it, sir. I declined it.” There was something like sad pride in his tone. “Miranda’s enough for me, and nobody can find cause to complain on her performance.”

Bolitho turned as a seaman bowed through the door with some steaming dishes. A far cry from a ship of the line. From Hyperion.

The old ship’s name was still hanging in his mind when he saw Allday look at him across the sailor’s stooped shoulders. He murmured, “It is all right, old friend. Believe me.”

Allday responded with a cautious grin, as if he were only half-convinced.

The door closed and Tyacke watched covertly as Bolitho cut the greasy pork on his plate as if it were some rare delicacy.

Simcox kept asking him what Bolitho was like. Really like.

How could he explain? How might he describe a man who refrained from probing with his questions, when anyone else of his rank and fame would have insisted? Or how could he begin to tell Simcox about the bond between the admiral and his coxswain? Old friend, he had just called him. It was like having a vibrant force in the hull. A new light.

He thought of Simcox’s earlier remark and smiled to himself. He poured two goblets of madeira and said, “I was just thinking, sir. Some beer would not come amiss, if we could lay hands on some.”

Bolitho held up the goblet to the lantern, his face serious for a few seconds until he realised that the glass and not his eye had misted over.

Tyacke, sensing his change of mood, exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, Sir Rich—er—sir!”

It was the first time Bolitho had seen him in irons.

“Beer, you say? I will pass the word to the army. It is the very least they can do.” He was still holding the goblet when he asked, “It is Saturday, is it not? So we shall call a toast.”

Tyacke took up his glass. “Sweethearts and wives, sir?”

Bolitho touched the locket beneath his shirt and shook his head.

“To loved ones. May they be patient with us.”

Tyacke drank the toast but said nothing, as he had no one to care if he lived or died.

He glanced at Bolitho’s expression and was deeply moved nonetheless. For a moment at least he was with her, no matter the many miles which held them apart.

Allday wiped his glittering razor and grunted, “That should do it, Sir Richard. About all the water is fit for in this ship!” He did not conceal his disgust. “It’ll be a fisherman’s dory next at this pace, I’m thinking.”

Bolitho sighed and slipped into the same crumpled shirt. It was the luxury he missed the most, a clean shirt when he needed it. Like stockings; they seemed to mark his progress from midshipmen’s berth to flagofficer. Even as a lowly lieutenant there had been occasions when he had but two pairs of stockings to his name. But in many ways they had been good times; or maybe they always were, in hindsight—the memories of youth.

He thought of Tyacke’s brief mention of his midshipman. Something was wrong there. He glanced up at the pale glow in the skylight. Dawn already; he was surprised that he had slept without waking once.

Allday gestured to the coffee and added, “Barely kills the taste!”

Bolitho smiled. How Allday could shave him when he could scarcely stand upright beneath the skylight was a marvel. He could never recall him cutting his face once.

He was right about the coffee. He decided to send a despatch regarding beer for the sweltering ships. It would help until they could take on fresh water.

Commodore Warren should have made some arrangements. Perhaps he no longer cared? Bolitho pushed the coffee away. Or maybe somebody wanted him out of the way. Like me.

He heard the sluice of water and the crank of a pump as the hands washed down the deck for a new day. Like everything else in the sixty-five-foot schooner, the sounds were always close, more personal than in any larger craft.

“I’ll go up.” He rose from the seat and winced as his head glanced off a deckhead beam.

Allday folded his razor away with great care and muttered, “Bloody little paintpot, that’s all she is!” Then he followed Bolitho up the short companion ladder and into the damp wind.

Bolitho walked to the compass box. How much steeper the angle of the deck seemed than when he had been below. There appeared to be people everywhere, swabbing down, working in the shrouds, or engaged in the many tasks with running-rigging and coiled halliards.

Tyacke touched his forehead, “Morning, sir. Steady at sou’east-by-south.” He raised one arm and pointed over the bulwark. “That’s the beginning of the Cape, sir, ‘bout four miles abeam.” He smiled, proud of his little ship. “I’d not risk weathering it much closer. You have to be careful not to be deceived by the soundings hereabouts. There’s no bottom according to some charts, but if you glance yonder you’ll see a reef all the same!” It seemed to amuse him. Another challenge perhaps?

Bolitho turned and saw all the watching eyes drop or return to their various tasks. Like pulling on a line of puppets.

Tyacke said quietly, “Don’t mind them, sir. The highest ranking officer who came aboard before you, begging your pardon, was the commander in charge of the guard at Gibraltar.”

Simcox joined them and said, “Sky’s clearin’, sir.” It was a totally unnecessary comment and Bolitho knew that he was like the rest, nervous in his presence.

“When do you become appointed Master, Mr Simcox?”

The man shifted his feet. “Not certain, Sir Richard.” He glanced at his friend and Bolitho could guess what was troubling him. Leaving Miranda; taking away Tyacke’s only prop.

Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the sea changing colour in the faint sunshine. Plenty of birds this morning, messengers from the land. He looked abeam and saw the mass of TableMountain, and another across the larboard bow still wreathed in mist, with only its high, craggy ridges bathed in gold.

Simcox cleared his throat. “The wind favours us, Sir Richard, but I’ve known ships caught in a gale to the south’rd o’ this point, blown all the way to Cape Agulhas afore they could fight their way back!”

Bolitho nodded. Experience? Or was it a warning? Suppose there were men-of-war around the jutting tusk of the Cape? It was unlikely they would wish to reveal themselves for the sake of one frail schooner. But Supreme had been small too when the frigate had run down on her.

Tyacke lowered his telescope and said, “Call all hands, Ben.” The first name had slipped out by accident. “We will wear ship and steer due east.” He glanced at Bolitho. “Into the lion’s den!”

Bolitho looked up at the whipping pendant. Yes, Tyacke would miss the acting-master when he was promoted to full warrant rank. He might even see his replacement as another intruder.

He said, “It is the only way, Mr Tyacke, but I shall not hazard the ship unduly.”

The seamen ran to the braces and halliards, fingers loosening belaying pins, casting off lines from their cleats with such deft familiarity that they needed no shouts or curses to hasten them. The sky was growing brighter by the minute, and Bolitho felt his stomach muscles tighten when he considered what he must do. He could sense Allday gazing at him while he stood ready to assist the helmsmen if needed.

It had not just been stockings which had marked Bolitho’s change of fortune. Once he had gained promotion to lieutenant at the tender age of eighteen, he had been freed from the one duty he had feared and hated most. As a lieutenant, no longer did he have to scramble up the treacherous ratlines to his particular station aloft whenever the pipe was shrilled between decks, or while he stood his watch with the others.

He had never gotten used to it. In all weathers, with the ship hidden below by a drifting mist of spray and spindrift, he had clung to his precarious perch, watching his men, some of whom had been sent aloft for the first time in their lives. He had seen sailors fall to an agonising death on the deck, hurled from rigging and yard by the force of a gale, or by billowing canvas which had refused all efforts to quell it.

Others had dropped into the sea, to surface perhaps in time to see their ship vanishing into a squall. It was no wonder that young men fled when the press gangs were on the prowl.

“Stand by aft!” Tyacke wiped the spray from his scarred face with the back of his hand, his eyes everywhere while he studied his men and the set of each sail.

“Let go an’ haul! Roundly there! Tom, another hand on th’ forebrace!”

The shadows of the main and staysail seemed to pass right over the busy figures as the long tiller bar went down, the canvas and rigging clattering in protest.

Bolitho could feel his shoes slipping, and saw the sea creaming under the lee rail as Tyacke brought her round. He saw too the uneven barrier of land stagger across the bowsprit while the schooner continued to swing.

Allday muttered, “By God, she can turn on a sovereign!” But everyone was too busy, and the noise too overwhelming, to hear what might be admiration instead of scorn.

“Meet her! Steady as you go! Now, let her fall off a point!”

The senior helmsman croaked, “Steady she goes, sir! East by north!”

“Secure!” Tyacke peered up into the glare. “Hands aloft to reef tops’l, Mr Simcox!” A quick grin flashed between them. “With the wind abeam it’ll not do the work intended, and we might lose it.”

The twin masts swayed almost vertical and then leaned over once more to the wind’s thrust.

Bolitho said, “A glass, if you please.” He tried not to swallow. “I am going to the foremast to take a look.” He ignored Allday’s unspoken protest. “I imagine that there will not be too many watching eyes this early!”

Without giving himself time to change his mind he strode forward, and after a quick glance at the surging water leaping up from the stem, he swung himself on to the weather bulwark and dug his hands and feet into the ratlines. Up and up, his steps mounting the shivering and protesting shrouds. Never look down. He had never forgotten that. He heard rather than saw the topmen descending the opposite side, their work done as quickly as thought. What must they think, he wondered? A viceadmiral making an exhibition of himself, for some reason known only to himself …

The masthead lookout had watched him all the way, and as he clambered, gasping, to the lower yard he said cheerfully, “Foine day, Zur Richard!”

Bolitho clung to a stay and waited for his heart to return to normal. Damn the others who had raced him up the shrouds when they had all been reckless midshipmen.

He turned and stared at the lookout. “You’re a Cornishman.”

The sailor grinned and bobbed his head. He did not appear to be holding on to anything. “That be roight, zur. From Penzance.”

Bolitho unslung the telescope from around his shoulders. Two Cornishmen. So strange a meeting-place.

It took several attempts to train the glass in time with the schooner’s lunges into the offshore breakers. He saw the sharp beak of the headland creeping out towards the weather bow, a telltale spurt of spray from the reefs Tyacke had mentioned.

It was already much warmer; his shirt clung to him like another skin. He could see the crisscross of currents as the sea contested the jutting land before surging, confused and beaten, around it. As it had since time began. From this point and beyond, two great oceans, the Atlantic and the Indian Ocean, met. It was like a giant hinge, a gateway which gave access to India, Ceylon and all the territories of New South Wales. No wonder Cape Town was so valuable, so cherished. It was like Gibraltar at the gates of the Mediterranean: whoever held the Rock also held the key.

“Ships, zur! Larboard, yonder!”

Bolitho did not need to ask how he could already see them without the advantage of a telescope. Good lookouts were born, not trained, and he had always respected such sailors. The ones who were first to sight the dreaded breakers ahead when every chart claimed otherwise. Often in time for the captain to bring his ship about and save the lives of all aboard.

He waited for the glass to steady again and felt his face stiffen.

Two large ships at anchor; or were they moored fore-and-aft? It would seem so, he thought, to offer greater protection, a defence against a cutting-out attempt, and also to provide a fixed battery of guns to fend off attack.

The lookout said, “Beggin’ yer pardon, zur. I reckon they be Dutch Indiamen.”

Bolitho nodded. Like the Honourable East India Company, such vessels were usually well-manned and armed and had proved more than a match for privateers, even men-of-war on occasions.

He turned to watch the sea breaking over some rocks. It was far enough. Further, and Tyacke would be hard put to claw away into open water.

Whatever the ships were doing, they represented a real threat. They had probably brought stores and men for the Dutch garrison, and might well be expecting others to join them.

Bolitho stared down at the deck and almost lost his grip. The mast was so steeply angled to the wind that the topmast leaned right over the blue water. He could even see his own shadow reflected on the crests.

“You may come about, Mr Tyacke!” For a moment he thought he had not heard, then saw the men running to their stations again.

A tall waterspout lifted suddenly abeam and seconds later Bolitho heard the echoing boom of a gun. He had no idea where it came from, but it was too close to ignore.

He made to lower himself to the ratlines again when the lookout said hoarsely, “There be a third ‘un, zur!”

Bolitho stared at him, then raised the glass again. He must be quick. Already the jib was flapping wildly, spilling wind and cracking like musket-fire as the helm went over.

Then, for just a few seconds, he saw the masts and furled sails of the other vessel, her hull lower and almost hidden by the two bigger ships. Dutch or French, it did not really matter. Bolitho had been a frigate captain and had commanded three of them in his time; there was no mistaking that familiar rig.

Waiting, maybe, for the letter which Tyacke’s men had found aboard the Albacora. Bolitho pushed the hair from his eyes as the mast bucked and swayed over again and the spar felt as if it would splinter itself apart. This was a very large bay, according to Tyacke’s chart some twenty miles across, far bigger than Table Bay which they had passed before dawn.

Whatever the Dutch commander’s motives might be, he obviously considered the bay and the moored ships well worth protecting. A frontal attack by the English squadron would be costly and probably end in disaster.

He touched the man’s shoulder. “Take care of those eyes!” Even as he spoke the words they seemed to come back at him like a mocking threat. He did not hear the lookout’s reply; he had begun the difficult climb down to the deck.

Tyacke listened to what he had seen before saying, “They could divide us until—”

“Until they are reinforced? I agree.” Bolitho made up his mind. “You will close with the squadron as fast as you wish.” He found that he could look at the lieutenant’s terrible scars without steeling himself. “Then I will need to speak with the general.” He touched Tyacke’s arm. “Sir David will not be too pleased.”

Tyacke strode away, calling commands, watching the compass and rudder while Simcox scrawled his calculations on a slate.

A voice seemed to whisper inside Bolitho’s mind. Why interfere? Why not let others take responsibility—or are you allowing yourself to be taken in a trap like some wild animal?

He shook his head, as if he was replying to someone else. How could he request Commodore Popham to detach some of his ships, when they might be needed to evacuate the soldiers and marines if the worst happened? And Warren; could he be trusted any more than the arrogant Captain Varian?

He found Allday waiting near the weather shrouds and said,”I have been thinking …”

Allday faced him. “You saw th’ size o’ that ball, Sir Richard? It’s a fortress. We’d need more ships, an’ even then we’d be hard put to close with the buggers.” Then he gave a great sigh and rubbed his chest, where the pain of a Spanish sword-thrust lurked as a constant reminder. “But I sees it’s no use me arguing—is it, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho eyed him fondly. “I don’t want to see men butchered to no good purpose, old friend.”

“Nor I, but …”

“And I want to go home. The two enjoined make only one course to take. And if we delay I fear that we shall lose the both.”

From the opposite side Tyacke watched them thoughtfully.

Simcox joined him and mopped his face with his red handkerchief. “A close thing, James.”

Tyacke saw Bolitho clap his hand on Allday’s thick arm, the same impetuous gesture he had used to himself. The youthful viceadmiral with the wild black hair blowing in the wind, in his soiled shirt and tar-smeared breeches, was actually laughing, until his coxswain responded with a reluctant grin.

Almost to himself Tyacke replied, “We are not out of the woods yet, Ben.” He tried to hide his relief from his friend as the haze-shrouded headland began to swing away across the quarter. “But they’ll cheer as loud as all the rest when the call comes. They’ve never seen a real battle, that’s why.” But Simcox had gone to supervise his men again, and did not hear.