'Ozzard's got some soup, sir.' He glared at the white-crusted sails and added, 'I'd rather be becalmed than in this!'
Bolitho watched the next party of seamen clambering down from aloft. It was to be hoped they would find something hot below, too. Knowing Neale, he decided he would manage something for his men.
He looked up at the bulging canvas,' following Allday's gaze. Iron hard,, and brutal for the seamen who had to fight and control it. And yet it had a strange beauty. The small realization helped to drive his anxieties back into the shadows.
'Then I'll come down. I'd relish some soup, though I doubt if I could keep much else in my stomach!'
Allday grinned and stood aside to allow Bolitho to reach the companionway.
In the years he had served Bolitho he had never once seen him seasick. But there was said to be a first time for everyone.
Right aft, with the stern lifting and falling into a quarter sea, the scene was more like a grotto than a cabin. The windows were laced with fine ice, so that the filtered light made it seem colder than it was.
Bolitho sat and consumed Ozzard's soup, amazed that he could feel his appetite responding readily. More suited to a skinny midshipman than a flag officer, he thought.
Neale joined him later and placed his chart on the table for Bolitho's inspection.
'If the British merchantmen are in fact at Gotland, sir,' Neale jabbed his brass dividers on the chart, 'they will be lying here, on the north-western coast.' He looked at Bolitho's intent features. 'Below the guns of the fortress, no doubt.'
Bolitho rubbed his chin and tried to transfer the lines and figures into the sea and land, wind and current.
'If the ships are not there, Captain Neale, we have come in vain. But Mr Inskip strikes me as a man who is very shrewd and careful with his information. In theory, the ships will be in Swedish waters, but as the Russians seized them, and the French are showing interest, it seems I have little alternative but to cut them out. With the ships freed the motive for war is removed and any hope of the Tsar's success in invading England will melt with the snow.'
Neale pouted, his face full of mixed emotions.
Bolitho watched him and said, 'Speak your mind, Captain. I am too well used to Captain Herrick's ways to exclude you from free speech.'
'I doubt that the French will be expecting us to arrive, that is, assuming the Ajax is on the same course as ourselves. I will be eager to get to grips with her, sir, my ship owes a few scores. But to speak plainly, I think you have more chance of starting a war than preventing one.' He spread his hands helplessly and looked like a midshipman again. 'I cannot imagine why our admiral failed to act on these threats long ago.'
Bolitho glanced away, recalling Browne's words and Admiral Beauchamp's warning. Was Admiral Damerum the root cause of the warning? If so, why? It did not make any sense at all.
'How is the weather?'
Neale smiled, knowing Bolitho was giving himself time to think.
'Still snowing, sir, but no worse. My sailing master believes it may clear towards dawn.'
They both looked meaningly at the chart. By that time, events might have been decided for them.
Close-hauled on the larboard tack the frigate Styx drove steadily to the north, the sea sluicing over the weather bulwark and smashing down on the opposite side in regular assaults. Men too numbed by the wet and cold to speak kept a constant watch on running tackles and the trim of each yard, minds blank to all else but the pain and the danger.
Unseen on one beam was the Swedish coastline, and then as the frigate passed the southernmost point of Gotland the sea became choppier but less violent as she began the final part of her journey.
Bolitho was up and dressed before first light, so restless that Aliday had a harder time than usual shaving him. The ice was still clinging to the stern windows, but when the dawn eventually broke through it was brighter, and even promised a hint of sunlight.
Bolitho snatched up his hat and looked at Allday. 'God, you take your time, man!'
Allday wiped his razor methodically. 'Time was when admirals had patience, sir.'
Bolitho smiled at him and hurried on deck, the breath knocked instantly from his body by the keen wind.
Figures bustled about on every hand, and when Bolitho took a glass from the rack he saw the sprawling island of Gotland to starboard, blurred and humped in the dim light, like a sleeping sea-monster. It was said to be a strange place, with its fortified city and tales of raids and counter-raids going back over hundreds of years. It was not difficult to picture the Viking long-ships sweeping towards that inhospitable coast, he thought.
Neale crossed the deck and touched his hat.
'Permission to clear for action, sir? The people have been fed, but the benefit of a hot meal will soon fade if they are not kept busy.'
`Carry on, if you please. You command here. I am a passenger.'
Neale walked away, hiding a smile.
`Mr Pickthorn! Beat to quarters and clear for action!' He turned and held Bolitho's gaze, cutting back the years. 'And I want two minutes lopped off the time, d'you hear?'
The sun probed through the drifting flurries of snow and touched the taut sails with the colour of pewter. Everything shone, even the sailors' hair as they ran to obey the urgent tattoo of drums had droplets of melting ice as if they had been dragged up from the sea-bed.
Pascoe strode past buckling on his curved hanger and calling the names of the Benbow's men. Bolitho noticed that when he called one in particular, a new hand named Babbage, he paused and studied him gravely, separating him from the crowd with a quick scrutiny.
A candidate for promotion, or someone to be warned for carelessness? Bolitho caught his nephew's eye and nodded to him.
`Well, you have a frigate, Adam. How does it feel?'
Pascoe smiled broadly. 'Like the wind, sir!'
The first lieutenant, puffing with exertion and red from the keen air, called, 'Ship cleared for action, sir!'
Neale dosed his watch with a snap. 'Smartly done, Mr Pickthorn.'
Then he turned and touched his hat to Bolitho. 'We are yours to lead, sir.'
Browne watched the preparations and then the sudden stillness along the gundeck and said half to himself, `But to where, I wonder?'
Bolitho moved the telescope carefully along the grey shoreline. If only the snow would go altogether. Yet in his heart he knew it was their only ally, their one guard against detection.
Figures moved restlessly around and past him. The occasional clink of metal or the scrape of a handspike intruded into the telescope's small, circular world to distract him.
He tried to recall everything he had studied on the chart and in Neale's notes. A headland should be standing out somewhere on the lee bow, and around it would lie the ships.
Bolitho bit his lip to contain his racing thoughts and anxieties. Maybe, could, might, perhaps, they were useless to him now.
He heard Neale say, `Shall I run up the colours, sir?'
'Please do: I suggest you hoist an ensign to the fore and main also. If our captured merchantmen are over yonder, they'll need all the convincing we can offer.'
He glanced up at the mizzen truck where his own flag had been broken when he had transferred from the Benbow. It might make the French, and anyone else who would otherwise try to attack them, imagine that other ships were on their way in support. Even very junior admirals were not expected to stray about in frigates.
Bolitho asked, `How is- the wind?'
The master replied instantly, `Shifted a point, sir. Nor'westerly.'
Bolitho nodded, too absorbed in his thoughts to notice how an edge had come to his voice.
`Let her fall off three points, if you will. We'll weather the headland as close as we can.'
The sailing master said, `Well, I dunno, sir…' Then he saw the look in Neale's eye and cut his protest short.
The big wheel creaked over, three helmsmen, legs wide apart to keep their balance on the icy deck planking, watching sails and compass like hawks.
Eventually the master said, `East by north, sir.'
Bolitho ignored the seamen as they ran to retrim the yards and braces, the heavy tramp of the afterguard as they followed suit. Neale had learned a lot. Stripped to topsails, forecourse and jib, Styx was responding well, leaning forward under her icehard canvas as if eager on her own account to do battle.
He looked at the gun crews, huddled together for comfort but ready. The sand on the deck around the long twelvepounders to prevent the men from slipping already changing to liquid gold.
How bright the marines' coats looked in the strange light. With snow gathering on their hats they could have been a child's toys at Christmas time.
He saw Pascoe by the forward guns, one hand resting on his hanger, his slim outline swaying easily with the regular plunge of the stem. He was talking to another junior lieutenant, probably discussing their chances. It was often like that. Trying to appear calm, to remain sane when your heart was gripped in a vice and you -imagined every seaman near you could hear its frantic pounding.
`Land on the lee bow, sir!' A slight pause. `Almost dead ahead!'
Neale called sharply, `Leadsman in the chains, Mr Pickthorn. Begin sounding in fifteen minutes.'
If he was afraid of his command running aground he concealed it very well, Bolitho thought.
Bolitho steadied his glass once more. The land looked very close. An illusion, he knew, but if the wind veered suddenly, or they lost it entirely, they would be hard put to claw away.
Neale said, `Take in the forecourse.' He moved closer to Bolitho. `May I bring her up a point, sir?'
Bolitho lowered the glass and looked at him. 'Very well.'
He stared up at the bright flags at each masthead and gaff. He could feel the snowflakes melting on his eyes, moistening his lips. It helped to steady him.
The big forecourse was already booming and flapping reluctantly up to its yard, the seamen spread out above it fisting and kicking the frozen canvas like apes gone mad. Slivers of ice fell through the nets above the gun crews like fragments of broken glass, and Bolitho saw a petty officer stoop to retrieve a piece before jamming it into his mouth.
Another familiar sign. The mouth like dust, when you craved for beer, water, anything.
If only the people in England could see them, he thought grimly. These same sort of men throughout the fleet lived in squalor but fought with dignity and incredible courage. Sweepings from jails some of them perhaps, ill-used ashore and afloat, but they were all that stood between Napoleon or anyone else who became an enemy. He almost smiled as he recalled something his father had once said. ' England must love enemies, Richard. We make so many of them!'
The first lieutenant called, 'Permission to load, sir?'
Neale glanced at Bolitho then replied, `Yes. But not doubleshotted, Mr Pickthorn. With the breeches almost frozen solid, I fear it would do more damage to us than the Frenchies!'
Bolitho gripped his hands together behind him. So confident in him, they even had a mental picture of their enemy firmly fixed. If the bay was empty, that trust would fade just as swiftly.
The leadsman's thick arm was revolving in a slow circle, then he released the lead and line and craned over to watch it splash down beyond the bows.
'By the mark ten!'
Bolitho 'sensed the master shifting restlessly by the wheel, imagining the craggy bottom gliding beneath the coppered hull. The lead splashed down again.
'An' a quarter less ten!'
Bolitho clamped his jaws together. They had to get as near as possible. He saw the great slab of land rising above the bowsprit and jib-boom, filled with menace.
'By the mark seven!'
The ship's marine lieutenant cleared his throat nervously and one of the quarterdeck seamen jumped with alarm. 'By the mark five!'
Bolitho heard the master whispering to Neale. Thirty feet of water. It was not much with the shelving bottom so close. 'Deep four!' The leadsman sounded quite unperturbed again.
As if he was convinced he was about to die and there was nothing he could do about it.
Bolitho levelled the glass again. Two isolated dwelling houses, like pale bricks on the hillside. Drifting smoke, too, or was it? The snow made it hard to see anything clearly. Smoke from an early morning hearth? Or some forewarned battery heating shot to give the impudent Styx a hot reception?
He saw the surf boiling below the headland, the sharp glitter of ice caught in the reflected glare.
`Bring her up two points, Captain Neale.'
He shut the glass with a snap and handed it to a midshipman.
The seamen had been poised for the order like athletes, and as the braces squealed and the yards added their confidence to the rudder, the frigate headed up further to windward, the headland moving back like a great stone door.
The leadsman called, 'By the mark ten!'
Somewhere a man gave an ironic cheer.
'Nor'-east, sir! Full an' bye V
Bolitho gripped the quarterdeck rail as he had done so many times in so many ships.
Any moment now. The wind was right, with the ship sailing as dose to it as she could and still keep the canvas drawing. Once round the headland it must be quick and definite, the shock of surprise like ice water across a sleeping sailor.
`Run out, if you please.'
Bolitho looked away from the little group of officers. If the bay was empty they would laugh at his pitiful preparations. But if they lost precious minutes to save his pride they would curse him with justification.
As the second lieutenant dropped his hand the guns trundled to the ports, trucks squealing as the crews controlled their downhill advance with tackles and handspikes. It was no easy task with the planking so treacherous.
Almost together the black muzzles of the twelve-pounders thrust through the ports, while here and there a gun captain reached out to brush snow from his charge.
'Starboard battery run out, sir!'
'Deck there!' The tension was broken momentarily as the masthead lookout yelled excitedly, 'Ships at anchor round the point, sir!'
Bolitho looked at Neale, and beyond him where Allday was moving his big cutlass back and forth through the air like a wand.
Then forward again, to where his nephew had climbed on to a gun truck to see beyond the nettings.
If every other man-jack aboard had doubted him, these three had not.
'Stand by to wear ship!'
'Hands to the braces there!'
As topmen and others employed at each mast dashed to obey, only the gun crews remained motionless, each captain watching his small world which was held in a square port like a picture.
Neale held up his hand. 'Be easy, lads! Easy now!'
Bolitho heard him. It was like someone calming a nervous horse.
He stared hard across the nettings, barely able to control his feelings. It was all there. Half a dozen merchantmen anchored close together. Somehow dejected in their coatings of white snow, their crossed yards devoid of movement or life.
Allday had moved up to his shoulder, as he always did. To be near. To be ready.
Bolitho could hear his heavy breathing as he said, 'English ships, sir. No doubt about it.' His thick arm shot forward. 'And look yonder! The damn Frenchie!'
Bolitho snatched the glass again and trained it through the masts and rigging. There she was, the Ajax, as he remembered her. Further inshore was a second man-of-war, larger and more cumbersome. Probably a cut down two-decker. The escort for the seized merchantmen, waiting to ride out the weather or await orders.
The paler outline of the fortress walls were almost lost in drifting snowflakes, but somewhere a trumpet gave a strident blare, and Bolitho pictured the startled, cursing soldiers as they ran to man their defences. No man thought too well when roused from a warm bunk to face this kind of weather.
'Now, Captain Neale! Alter course and cut astern of the merchantmen! '
A long way off a gun boomed out, the sound without menace in the snow. A testing shot? A call to arms? Bolitho could feel the excitement welling up like madness. It was too late, whatever it was.
He put his hand down to steady himself as the wheel went over and the Styx changed tack towards the anchorage. His palm touched- the brilliantly gilded hilt of his presentation. sword, and with something like shock he remembered he had left his old blade in the Benbow.
Allday saw his uncertainty and felt the same anxiety.
Bolitho turned and looked at him. He knew that Allday understood and would be blaming himself.
'Never fear, Allday, we did not know our visit to the Danes would end here.'
They both smiled, but neither was deceived. It was like an. omen.
'The Ajax has cut her cable, sir!' A midshipman was dancing with excitement. 'They are in a real confusion!'
Bolitho watched the first scrap of canvas appear on the other frigate's yards, the steep angle of her masts as wind and current carried her towards the shore.
Neale had drawn his sword and was holding it above the nearest gun crew as if to restrain them. The French ship was standing higher through the snow now, taking on shape and personality. More sails had appeared, and above the din of spray and canvas they heard the rumble of gun trucks, the urgent shrill of a whistle.
Across his shoulder Neale called, 'Don't let -her fall off too much! We'll hold the Frenchman 'twixt us and any shore battery!'
Bolitho studied the enemy frigate as she appeared to move astern. Neale had forgotten nothing. From the corner of his eye, even as the Styx completed her slight change of tack, he saw the captain's sword slice down.
'As you bear! Fire!'
6. Quickley done
Bolitho felt his eyes smarting painfully as a freak breeze brought some of the gunsmoke down across the quarterdeck. He watched the guns hurling themselves inboard on their tackles, the fiery orange tongues ripping through the swirling snow, his ears half-deafened by the noise. Then the quarterdeck six-pounders added their sharper notes, the balls falling short or beyond the other, ship, some even hitting her.
Like madmen the crews were already sponging out their weapons, ramming home fresh charges and balls before throwing their weight on the tackles once again.
And still the French captain had failed to fire a single shot in reply.
The hands of the gun captains were raised in a ragged line, and the first lieutenant yelled, `Stand by! Fire!'
Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the dense smoke being driven downwind towards the other ship. They were on a converging tack, the slightly heavier Ajax spreading even her topgallants to fight her way into more open water.
There was a cheer as the Ajax 's topsails danced and shook to the onslaught, the wind exploring the shot holes and ripping the maincourse apart like an old sack.
Then the enemy replied. At a range of perhaps a cable, the broadside was ill-timed and badly aimed, but Bolitho felt the iron smashing into the Styx 's hull, and a stray ball striking further aft beneath his feet. The deck rebounded as if being struck by a great hammer, but Neale's gun crews did not even seem to notice.
'Stop your vents! Sponge out! Load!'
All the drills, the training and the threats had paid off. `Run out!'
The smoke writhed between the two ships, its heart bright with red and orange as if it contained life of its own. Then the balls crashed into the Styx 's side once more even as she returned the broadside.
Bolitho saw one gun overturned, some of its crew writhing across the deck, leaving patterns of scarlet to mark their agony. Holes appeared in the sails, and Bolitho heard a ball tear above the quarterdeck within feet of where he stood.
Neale was pacing back and forth, watching the helm, the sails, his gun crews, everything.
'Fire!'
Whooping and yelling the men threw themselves on their guns again, barely pausing to see where their shots had gone before they reloaded.
Bolitho walked aft, his feet slipping on slush as he raised his telescope to seek out the other man-of-war. She was still at anchor but her decks were crammed with sailors. But she was not making sail or even running out her artillery, and as he moved the glass further he saw the blue and white flag of Russia. The Tsar wished more than anything else to be a respected friend and ally of Napoleon. His captain obviously thought differently, probably still stunned by the ferocity of Styx 's attack.
A ball slammed through the nettings behind him and he heard a chorus of cries and shrieks. The line of marines, who had been training their muskets over' the tightly packed hammocks in readiness to engage, had been parted by bloody confusion. Men crawled and staggered through the smoke, and two were smashed to bloody gruel on the opposite side.
Their sergeant was yelling, `Stand fast, marines! Face yer front!'
The marine lieutenant was sitting with back to the bulwark, his face in his hands, his fingers the same colour as his coat.
Neale shouted, `The Frenchman has recovered his wits, sir! He'll try using chain-shot presently!'
Bolitho stared quickly around. It had been only minutes, yet felt an eternity. The cluster of English merchantmen were as before, but small figures dashed along their yards and gangways, cheering or calling for aid, it was impossible to tell.
Neale saw his glance and suggested, 'I'll send the quarter boat, sir! Those poor devils may have no officers to help them escape.'
Bolitho nodded, and as men rushed aft to the quarter boat he said to Browne, 'You go.' He clapped him on the shoulder, expecting him to be as relaxed as he looked. But his shoulder was like a carriage spring, and he added quietly, `Captain Neale has enough to contend with.'
Browne licked his lips and winced as more enemy shots crashed into the side, throwing up cruel splinters, one opening a man's arm and hurling him to the deck.
Then he said, `Very well, sir.' He forced a smile. `I shall have a fine view!'
Moments later the boat was pulling lustily towards the merchant ships. Somebody had even had the presence of mind to hoist a British ensign above the transom.
The Ajax was moving closer, her gunports flashing fire at regular intervals. But the wind was holding her over, and many of her balls shrieked above the Styx 's gangway, bringing down oddments of cordage and severed blocks like dead fruit.
Bolitho looked along the gundeck, seeing Pascoe's white breeches faintly through the smoke and snow as he directed the. forward guns towards the enemy.
The broadsides were getting more ragged, the men too dazed by the din and thunder of battle to keep up their original timing.
Some lay dead or badly injured, others tried to drag them clear of the recoiling cannon, their faces masks of determination and shock.
There came a wild chorus of yells from the forecastle, and Bolitho saw the Frenchman's foremast part like a carrot, the upper spars and yards, complete with thrashing canvas and rigging and not a few men, plunged across her forecastle. Even through the roar of battle they heard it, like a cliff falling,. and the effect was instantaneous. As most of the topmast staggered over the side, trailing broken shrouds like black weed behind it, the frigate swung drunkenly into the wind, the wreckage acting as a giant sea-anchor.
Neale cupped his hands, his sword dangling from his wrist, as he yelled, `Full broadside, Mr Pickthorn! Double-shotted with grape for good measure!'
Wallowing helplessly while her seamen tried to hack the trailing wreckage away, the Ajax drifted end-on towards Neale's battery. There was no fear of the double-shotting splitting the breeches now, Bolitho thought. The guns were so overheated that he could feel the nearest one like an open furnace.
He saw one old gun captain cradling each shot in his hard hands before allowing it to be rammed home. It had to be perfect this time.
Neale clambered up into the lee shrouds and snatched his first lieutenant's speaking trumpet to shout, `Strike your colours! Surrender!' He sounded almost as if he were pleading. But the only answer was a volley of musket shots, one of which clanged against his sword like a bell.
He climbed down to the deck, his eyes bleak as he stared at the raised fists of his gun captains.
'So be it then.' He looked at his first lieutenant and gave a curt nod.
The broadside, which thundered with mounting fury from bow to stern, gun by gun, as the Styx sailed slowly past the enemy's figurehead, was terrible to see. Wreckage flew high in the air and the mainmast fell in a great swooping crash to join the other broken spars alongside. Bolitho thought he saw the frigate drop her bows under the murderous weight of iron, and he saw a young midshipman biting the sleeve of his coat with horror as long tendrils of blood ran from the Ajax 's scuppers, as if she and not her people were dying.
A master's mate shouted, `The merchantmen are weighing, sir.' He sounded beyond understanding, past belief.
Bolitho nodded, still watching the beaten frigate. Vanquished in battle, but her tricolour was still flying, and he knew from hard experience that she at least would live to fight again.
He guessed that Neale and many of his men still had fire enough to try and seize the Ajax as a prize. But they had done plenty, and far more than he had dared hope. To go further, and flaunt the authority of the Swedish commandant and the one-sided neutrality of a Russian warship, would be pushing the odds too far.
He looked instead at the merchantmen. There were six in all, their sailors busily spreading more sails and trying to avoid collision with one another as they steered towards the small frigate which flew four flags for all to see.
Neale wiped his smoke-grimed features and said, 'Your flag lieutenant will not be the same again, I fear, sir.' He sighed as a wounded man was carried past. 'Nor any of us, for that matter.'
He turned to watch the nearest merchantman passing abeam, her larboard gangway alive with cheering men.
He added dryly, `We did what we came to do, sir. I think it only fair we borrow a few of their prime seamen? The least they can do to show their gratitude!'
Pascoe came aft and touched his hat. He waited for Neale to walk away to deal with the countless problems left behind by the fight, then said, 'That was quickly done, sir!'
Bolitho rested one hand on his shoulder. 'Barely twenty minutes. I can scarce believe it. Captain Neale is a fine seaman.'
Pascoe did not look at him, but his mouth twitched in a smile.
`I believe he learned a lot in his first ship, Uncle?'
Mr Charles Inskip strode back and forth through the highceilinged room as if it were no longer big enough to contain him. Even his wig, which he had donned to lend dignity to his authority, was knocked awry with his agitation.
`God damn it, Bolitho, what am I to do about you?' He did not wait for a reply. 'You abuse the Danish neutrality and slink off in the night with some cock-and-bull scheme for a cuttingout expedition, and now you are back here in Cophenagen! You do not even have the sense to stay away!'
Bolitho waited for the squall to pass. He could sympathize with Inskip's unwelcome role here, but he had no regrets about the released ships. By now they would be passing through the narrows and out into the North Sea. To have left them in the Tsar's hands, to be handed possibly to the French as some kind of gift or bribe, was unthinkable. It would have been even more cruel to leave their luckless crews to rot in some prison camp or freeze to death in alien surroundings.
He said impassively, 'It was the least I could do, sir. The merchantmen have no cause to fear attack from the Danes. They were wrongly seized, much as the Danish ships were impounded by us this year. But if I had not anchored here again, had trailed my coat instead beneath the shore batteries of the Sound Channel, I would have provoked a disaster.'
He thought suddenly of the passage back. No one had had time to precede them and yet rumour had outpaced everything.' The waterfront had been packed with silent townspeople, in spite of the bitter cold, and later, when permission had been granted by the port admiral to carry out repairs and to carry the dead ashore for burial, something like a great sigh had gone up from the watchers.
Inskip did not seem to hear him. 'I might have expected such action from one of your captains. But the flag officer of a squadron, indeed not! Just by being there you represented your King and Parliament.'
`You mean that a mere captain could be dismissed, court martialled, if things went against him, sir?'
Inskip paused in his agitated pacing and said, `Well? You know the risks as well as the rewards for command!'
Bolitho knew he was getting nowhere and said, `Anyway, I should like to send word to my flag captain, if that is possible. I told him I might be away from the squadron for a week at the most. It is that now.'
Inskip glared at him. 'Oh dammit, Bolitho. I did not say you could not achieve what you set out to do. It was your method I doubted.' He gave a wry grin. `I have already sent a message to your squadron.' He shook his head. `I cannot imagine what they will say in Parliament, or here in the Palace, but I'd have given a lot to see you free our merchantmen! My aide has already spoken with your Captain Neale. That young man told him that the Styx dished up the enemy in no more than twenty minutes!'
Bolitho recalled Herrick's comment. Men, not ships, win battles.
'True, sir. It was the fastest frigate action I have yet witnessed.'
Inskip regarded him calmly. 'I suggest you were more than a mere witness.' He crossed to the window and peered at the square below. 'The snow has stopped.' Almost off-handedly he added, `You must prepare yourself to meet the Adjutant General while you are here. Possibly this evening. In the meantime you will remain as my guest.'
`'And the ship, sir?'
'I am assured she will be allowed to leave when temporary repairs are completed. But…' the word hung in the air as he turned to face Bolitho, 'your stay will be rather more permanent if the Danes request me to hand you over to them.'
He rubbed his hands as an elegant footman entered with a tray and said, `But for now we will toast your, er, victory, eh?'
Later, when he had been joined by Lieutenant Browne, Bolitho dictated a full report of his discovery and the action against the French frigate. He would leave higher authority to draw its own conclusions about the rights and wrongs of it.
By permitting the French ship to interfere with seized merchantmen within Swedish waters, and in the presence of one ofthe Tsar's own vessels, it would be a hard knot to untangle; he thought.