Her arrival had been an unexpected but welcome diversion as far as Herrick was concerned. The tension aboard the frigate was getting bad enough to feel, like something with a soul of its own. In a matter of days there had been seven floggings, but instead of settling the crew into dumb- servility it had only helped to drive° a firm wedge between quarterdeck and forecastle. There was little chatter or laughter any more between decks, and when an officer passed close by a group of seamen, the latter would lapse into sullen silence and turn their faces away.
Midshipman Maynard had reported, `The brig is Witch of Looe, sir! She has despatches for us!'
Vibart had waited importantly on the quarterdeck, alone and aloof, saying nothing and watching everything.
A boat had skipped across the choppy water, and soon a young lieutenant had climbed aboard carrying the inevitable canvas envelope.
Herrick had been standing nearby, straining his ears and trying to imagine what was happening. He had heard Vibart asking about the flagship and the lieutenant's brief reply.
`These orders are from the admiral, sir. I have nothing to add.'
The reply had been too brief, almost insolent, and Herrick had guessed that the young lieutenant was high enough on the admiral's list of favourites to afford such rudeness.
Vibart had started to tell the brig's messenger about the raid on Mola Island and had then clamped his jaw tightly shut. He had turned on his heel, merely adding for Herrick's benefit, `Get the ship under way again, Mr. Herrick. I have work to do!'
He was always the same now, Herrick pondered. Fluctuating between ponderous self-importance and fits of blind rage. From one hour to the next you could never be sure of his reactions, and it was doubly bad because he was always in evidence. Watching and criticising and bawling out fresh orders to overrule those of his subordinates.
Herrick had stopped the lieutenant at the entry port and had tried to get more information.
The officer had regarded him thoughtfully. 'St. Kitts has fallen. The fleet is falling back and regrouping. I am on my way to Antigua now.' He had stared across at his own ship. `But Rodney is said to be on his way back from England with twelve ships; of the line. I hope to God he will be in time.' Then he added quickly, 'Where is your captain?'
'Dead.' Herrick's tongue had lingered on the word. 'We lost him at Mola Island.'
'Well, I don't care much for your new commander, my friend.' The lieutenant had paused above his swaying boat. 'We have been searching for the Phalarope for two days! The admiral will not be pleased that you were off your station, Mola Island or not!' He had rolled his eyes. 'Sir Robert is a stickler for routine.'
Herrick's mind shifted to the next part in the sequence of events which had sent the Phalarope on her new course towards the islands. Vibart had called a meeting in the stem cabin. Every officer and warrant officer had been present, and it was somehow typical of Vibart that while he sat comfortably in his chair, all the others were kept standing.
'Sir Robert Napier has received information that the Andiron is lying off Nevis.' He had plunged into what sounded I very like a carefully rehearsed speech. 'She is apparently carrying out repairs and awaiting fresh orders, but there is no saying how long she will remain there: He had looked slowly around their faces. `Sir Robert requires that we make our way to Nevis forthwith to sink or cut-out the Andiron.' His words had dropped in the cabin like stones in a pool. 'We will make as quick a passage as possible.' He had glared meaningly. 'So make sure there are no mistakes, Mr. Proby!'
Herrick had been studying Vibart during his announcement, and had been surprised by his apparent eagerness to begin the operation. It might be a false piece of intelligence, but if not, it would not be an easy matter to cut-out an anchored ship close inshore to a hostile island.
Then, as Vibart had droned on about details and timing, he had realised that Vibart's demeanour owed much to his own uncertainty. So far, although he had been in command since Bolitho's loss, Okes stood in the best position to gain full credit for past successes against the enemy. He still had to ensure the firmness of his own control, and this new operation was the obvious opportunity.
It was odd that he had sent no despatches across to the Witch of Looe, Herrick thought. It was just as if he wanted to save the whole record for the admiral's car alone. Sir Robert might be angry about Phalarope being off station, but the destruction of the Mola Island battery and transports, and a victory over the privateer Andiron would do much to placate anyone but the devil himself.
But now that Vibart had had time to consider the full implications of his orders he had changed yet again. As the ship drove towards the chosen rendezvous he had grown nervous and edgy, and more than once had let his impatience get the upper hand. Only that morning he had had a man flogged for letting a marline-spike fall from the foreyard. It had struck quivering in the deck within feet of Packwood, a boatswain's mate. Vibart had been brooding on the quarterdeck, watching the boats being checked and moved ready for instant lowering. Packwood's startled shout had given him yet one more outlet for his unpredictable temper.
'Get that man down here!' His voice had stopped all work on the maindeck. 'I saw what he did! That was meant to fall on Packwood!'
Even the boatswain's mate had voiced a protest. 'It's lively aloft today, sir. It was an accident.'
Vibart's face had gone scarlet. 'Silence! Or I'll see your backbones, too!'
Again the dread pipe. 'All hands lay aft to witness punishment!'
Again the agonising passage of time while the grating was rigged and the marines had made a scarlet rectangle on the quarterdeck.
The seaman in question was, a man called Kirk. He was a thin, hollow-eyed sailor who had gone amost deaf after the encounter with the Andiron, his ears apparently permanently damaged by the thundering crash of broadsides.
Mr. Quintal, the boatswain, had walked slowly aft, the familiar red baize bag swinging from his wrist as the silent company parted to allow him through.
Up to the last moment, even as Vibart closed the Articles of War and announced harshly, `Four dozen, Mr. Quintal!', Herrick doubted if Kirk had heard a single word.
Only when the boatswain's mates seized him and stripped his thin body and spread-eagled him across the grating like a writhing crucifix did he start to scream and protest.
Most men took their punishment in silence. The tremendous force of a single blow from the cat-o'-nine-tails was enough to drive the wind from the lungs and left little to cry on.
Kirk's cries continued as his wrists were tied in position so that his feet were only just touching the deck, and the boatswain's mates exchanged quick glances, momentarily unnerved by the man's terror.
Quintal drew the lash from the red bag and handed it to Packwood. Gruffly he had said, `Two dozen. Josling can do the other two.' Under his breath he had added, `If he lives that long!'
Vibart had replaced his hat and nodded curtly. `Carry on!'
Herrick had seen plenty of floggings, and had steeled himself to accept what was part of naval life. But this, one had seemed different, and unfair because of Vibart's obvious eagerness.
The marine drummer had struck into a quick roll, and Packwood had drawn back his thick arm.
`One!' The lash came down with a swishing crack.
As usual Herrick had been sickly fascinated by the time it took to show its mark. For a moment there was nothing on the man's naked back, not even a bruise, but even as the lash swung back for the second stroke the whole area of taut skin from the shoulder to the waist opened and shone in a crisscross mass of fine cuts.
'Twol' Kirk screamed and wriggled helplessly on the grating, and Herrick saw blood on his chin and knew that he had bitten through his tongue.
`Three!' Packwood faltered and hit again, his eyes glassy as Kirk's back began to shred into a tangle of bloody flesh.
Vibart's voice had cut through the roll of the drum. 'Harder, Packwood! Don't go easy on the scum, unless you wish to change places with him!'
And so it had continued. Stroke by stroke, to the inhuman rattle of the drum. Kirk had fallen silent and limp after the first dozen, but when Ellice, the surgeon, had pronounced grimly, ' 'E's still alive, sir, but not takin' it well!', Vibart had snapped, `Carry on with punishment!'
Herrick had seen Mishipman Neale holding Maynard's sleeve as if for support as the grisly flogging had continued.
Kirk had little flesh to begin with, and after eighteen strokes Herrick thought he could see the gleam of bone and muscle through the man's butchered skin.
Josling had taken the lash from his fellow boatswain's mate and had run it through his fingers to clear it of flesh and gristle. With a quick glance upwards at Vibart's expressionless face he had carried on with the second two dozen.
At the twentieth stroke Mr. Quintal had knocked up Josling's arm and had said firmly, `That's enough, sir! He's dyin'!'
Kirk's bloodied body had been cut down and carried below, but only after Ellice had backed up the boatswain's quick intervention. He had muttered vaguely, `Might live. Can't say. I think his kidneys have burst.'
Herrick had looked for some sign of pity or even triumph on Vibart's heavy features. But there had been nothing but stony indifference. Captain Pomfret had watched floggings like a man will watch a spectacle of sport, and at each bloody conclusion he was almost elated, as if he had just experienced some perverted sexual act. But not Vibart. There was nothing at all which Herrick could recognise as feeling of 'any sort.
He turned away swiftly as Vibart appeared at the cabin hatch and sniffed at the wind. Vibart studied the strange copper sky and remarked slowly, `Wind's freshened. We'll shorten sail in ten minutes.' He glanced at Proby. `Now, are you sure of our position? Our exact position?'
Proby nodded gloomily. `Aye, sir. Nevis bears nor'-east, near on fifteen miles.'
Vibart regarded him searchingly. `I hope for your sake that is so, Mr. Proby.' He contented himself with another quick bark at the helmsman, `Watch her head, you fool! Keep her close to the wind!'
Herrick glanced aloft and knew that the ship was running perfectly. Vibart was obviously getting more and more on edge as they drew nearer the island. Not afraid. He had never shown a sign of fear at any time. No, it went far deeper, to the lurking possibility of failure.
Vibart saw Herrick watching him and snapped, `Have you detailed the cutting-out parties?'
'Aye, sir. All the boats except the gig are prepared. The gig is' unsuitable for this work.'
'I know that, Mr. Herrick!' Vibart's eyes were flecked with red. 'You will take over-all charge of the boarders with Maynard, Packwood and Parker in charge of the other three boats.' He looked darkly at the men working on deck. 'As a master's mate, Parker will be ideal for getting sail on the Andiron if you succeed in your attack.'
'Yes, sir.' Herrick knew all this. He had detailed each man
personally, and had already decided on his set plan. He asked,
'Do you expect much opposition, sir?'
'We are committed now. It doesn't matter what I think!' Proby consulted his massive watch and said, 'Call all hands! Prepare to shorten sail!'
Herrick wondered why Vibart had left it so long. Several times he had seen fishing boats in the far distance. There was no point in advertising the Phalarope's haste by her obvious press of sail.
The seamen were already climbing the shrouds and pulling themselves out along the swaying yards. With the ship's uncomfortable motion the business of taking in sails was all the more dangerous to the unwary.
Vibart growled, 'This will make us harder to see. And with the wind rising all the time it will save us the trouble of shortening later on.' He seemed to be thinking aloud.
Proby cupped his hands and yelled hoarsely, 'Tops'ls and jib's all we need! Lively there!'
Followed by Vibart's eyes and the urgent shouts of their petty officers the men aloft fought at the thrashing canvas, cursing the wind and the treacherous sails: which tried their utmost to hurl the men from the yards to -the deck beneath.
Herrick felt the ship's motion ease slightly as topgallants and courses contracted and finally submitted to the struggling seamen. He watched the long cruising rollers and gauged the distance between them. It would be more sheltered below Nevis 's lee, he thought, but even so it would not be easy to keep the raiding boats together. He caught sight of Okes standing at the lee rail, and found himself wondering why Vibart had not chosen him for the cutting-out expedition. If Okes was so changed and reliable, he was the obvious choice.
Captain Rennie sauntered across the quarterdeck and remarked quietly, 'Congratulations, Herrick. I hope you do well tonight. I wish I could come with you, but the marines are hardly suitable for falling about in boats!'
Herrick smiled. 'Thank you.'
Rennie gestured towards Okes. 'It would seem that our commanding officer knows more than we thought, eh? He will not trust this attack to a man who is as weak as water!'
Herrick glanced quickly at the open skylight. 'Keep your voice down! Your remarks might be taken seriously!'
Rennie shrugged but dropped his voice. 'I feel past caring. Like a man walking on ice. It can only take so much!'
He walked away, and Herrick stood watching the seamen shinning down from the work aloft. If only Bolitho were here to inspire and carry them all, he thought heavily. He could imagine the Phalarope sailing into Antigua with Vibart expanding with pleasure as cheers and congratulations marked their return to the fleet and to glory. It would make victory all the more bitter, he thought. But for Bolitho the Phalarope would never have got this far, and if Vibart retained his command the future was bleak indeed.
Tobias Ellice rolled aft and mounted. the quarterdeck ladder, touching his shabby hat and belching simultaneously. 'Kirk's dead,' he grunted abruptly. 'I'm having him sewn up nice an' neat like!'
Herrick replied, 'Very well. I'll put it in the log.' He could smell the rum on the surgeon's breath and wondered how the man was able to perform his duties.
Ellice said, 'You can also put in the log that I'm sick of this ship and the whole bloody lot of you!' He swayed tipsily and would have fallen but for Herrick's arm. He muttered, 'Treat 'em like dogs!' He shook his head vaguely. 'No, not dogs, they live like kings by comparison.'
Herrick regarded him wearily. 'Have you finished?'
Ellice took a giant red handkerchief from the tail of his coat and blew his nose loudly. 'You can sneer, Mr. Herrick! You're off to gain glory tonight and to test your steel against the enemy.' He bared his teeth and tried to focus Herrick in his rheumy eyes. 'But you'll change yer tune when you're down below waiting for the saw to lop off your pretty arm or take away a leg or two!'
'Only two?' Herrick eyed him with sad amusement.
Ellice became suddenly serious as his rum-sodden mind grappled with Herrick's question. 'You can live without 'em, boy! I've seen it many a time.' He dropped his voice. 'But watch out for your wedding-tackle! A woman'll forgive much, but lose that lot and you might as well be food for the fish!'
Herrick watched him go and then strode aft to the taffrail. Another man dead. Whose turn would it be next?
Bryan Ferguson took another cutlass from the deep chest and handed it to old Ben Strachan. The latter peered quickly along the heavy blade and then bent over the grindstone and began to run the cutlass back and forth across the spinning stone, his eyes gleaming brightly in the flying sparks.
Ferguson looked at the berth deck and at the leaping shadows cast by the madly swinging lanterns as the ship rolled and staggered beneath his feet. It was strange how he was now able to retain his balance, and even his stomach seemed able to resist the lurking agony of seasickness.
The low-beamed berth deck was strangely deserted by comparison with its usual appearance of crowded humanity, he thought. Apart from the men selected for the boarding parties, all other available hands were on deck preparing the ship for action. As he watched Strachan concentrating on his sharpening he could hear the menacing rumble of gun trucks as the main armament was carefully loaded and then lashed once more behind 'sealed ports. The decks were already sanded, and he could hear Mr. Brock, the gunner, yelling some last-minute instructions to, his magazine party.
There was a strong smell of neat rum pervading the berth deck, and he turned to stare at the huddled groups of seamen who remained below efijoying a small moment of rest before taking to the boats.
He said quietly to Strachan, `What will happen, do you think?'
Strachan tested the blade and laid it carefully on the pile beside him. `Hard to tell, mate. I've been on a few cuttin' out raids meself. Sometimes it was all over with a few prayers and a few `'Oh my Gods" an' afore you knew what 'ad 'appened you was back aboard none the worse! An' other times you was shocked to be still alive!'
Ferguson nodded, unable to picture the nerve-wrenching horror of a raid in total darkness. His new duties as clerk kept him away from that sort of danger and had somehow thrown him further apart from his companions.
It was all he could do to stay clear of trouble with the first lieutenant. Vibart read every order and account at least twice, and he never failed to follow up a complaint with a threat of punishment.
Ferguson thought back to the floggings and the last one in particular. He had wanted to hide his face, yet was stricken and mesmerised by the relentless punishment so that he had watched it to the end. Kirk had died in the sickbay, but his sobbing cries still seemed to hover in the space which had once been his home.
Strachan remarked, `It's gettin' pretty rough up top. I wouldn't like to be takin' part!' He shook his grey head. `It was as black as a pig's belly when I last took a look!'
Onslow, the big seaman from the Cassius, sauntered across and stared thoughtfully at Ferguson for several seconds. In his checked shirt and tight canvas trousers he looked even taller and more formidable than usual, and his thick hair was tied to the nape of his neck with a piece of red ribbon.
He said. `You'll be staying aboard then?' He smiled. `And quite right, too.' He rested his hand on Ferguson 's thin shoulder. `You save your energy, my lad. I'll want to be knowing what is happening down aft in the cabin.'
Ferguson stared at him. `I-I don't understand?'
Onslow yawned and spread his arms. `It's always just as well to know what the officers are planning next, y'see. That's what stops men like us staying rabble. With knowledge,' he tapped his forehead meaningly, `we are equal to them, and ready!'
Lugg, a gunner's mate, ran down a ladder and squinted through the gloom. `Right, you lot! On deck and lively about it! Each man takes a cutlass and muster aft!'
Onslow eyed him calmly. `What, no pistols?'
Lugg replied coldly, `I'll pistol you if you don't learn some manners!'
There was a rasp of steel as each hurrying figure took a cutlass, and once or twice Ferguson spoke to a passing familiar face, but each time he received no answer.
Strachan wiped his hands and muttered, `Save yer breath, mate. They're thinkin' of what lies ahead. There'll be talk – enough later, I shouldn't wonder!'
John Allday hung back to the last. Then he picked up a cutlass and swung it slowly in the lamplight. Quietly he said, `Be careful of Onslow, Bryan. He is a born troublemaker. I don't trust him an inch!'
Ferguson studied his friend with surprise and something like guilt. Since his unexpected change of jobs to captain's clerk he had seemingly drifted away from Allday's quiet protection, and whenever he had returned to the berth deck it had always been Onslow or his friend Pook who had dragged him into a tight circle of chatter and speculation.
Allday saw the uncertainty on Ferguson 's face and added, `You saw the flogging, Bryan. Be warned!'
`But Onslow is on our side, surely?' Ferguson wanted to understand. `You heard him talking today. He was as sickened as the rest of us!'
`I heard him.' Allday's mouth twisted in a grim smile. `But he only talks. He is never the one who goes to the gratings!'
Old Strachan mumbled, `I seen a lad like 'im in the old Gorgon. Stirred up the men till they never knew which way ter jump. They'anged'im in the end!'
`And they'll hang all of us if he keeps up this mutinous talk!' Aliday's eyes flashed. `We are here, and we must make the best of it!'
Lugg peered down the ladder and bellowed, `Come up on deck, you idle bugger! You're the last as usual!' But there was no real anger in his voice. He was as tense and jumpy as everyone else aboard.
Ferguson called, `Good luck!' but Allday was already running on deck, his eyes momentarily blinded in the darkness which enclosed the pitching hull like a cloak.
Overhead there were few stars, and then only occasionally visible between the low scudding clouds.
Petty officers were bawling names, and slipping and cursing the seamen pushed into separate parties near the boats which were already clear of their chocks and ready to be swayed outboard.
Allday saw the white lapels of Lieutenant Derrick's coat gleaming faintly against the dark sky and eras strangely glad he was going with his boat. Midshipman Maynard seemed a likeable enough youngster, but he lacked both experience and confidence. He could see him now whispering furtively to his small friend Neale below the quarterdeck.
Herrick said sharply, 'Now listen to me, lads! I will lead in the launch. The cutter will follow close astern and then the pinnace. Mr. Parker will stay last in the jolly boat.' He had to shout above the moaning wind, and Allday glanced uneasily at the creaming water alongside and the rising spectres of blown spray. It would be a hard pull, he thought, and automatically spat on his hands.
He pricked up his ears as Parker, the master's mate, reported, `All present, Mr. Herrick. Sixty-six men all told!'
`Very good. I will inform the…: He faltered and added harshly, `I will tell Mr. Vibart!'
Allday bit his lip. There was no love lost between Herrick and the new captain, he thought.
He saw Onslow leaning negligently against a pike rack and remembered Ferguson 's uneasiness. It was odd how eager Onslow had been to see Ferguson appointed as clerk, he decided. And how convenient it had been that Mathias, Bolitho's original clerk, had died in the hold.
"Sway out the cutter!' Mr. Quintal groped his way towards the tackle. `Hoist away there!'
Allday faltered, his mind suddenly filled with one, stark picture. He had been masthead lookout the morning Mathias had fallen to his death. It was strange how he had not thought of the connection before. He had seen the clerk climbing through the small inspection hatch shortly before he had been found unconscious and dying. But there had already been someone else in the hold before that! He looked quickly at Onslow, remembering the exact moment and the fact that it had been Onslow who had reported the clerk's fall.
He felt Quintal's hard hand on his shoulder and threw his weight against the tackle with the others. All at once the sea seemed to become rougher and the Phalarope seemed to shrink by comparison.
Through his racing thoughts he heard Onslow say casually, `We'll give the buggers a taste of steel!'
But who did he mean? Allday wondered.
11. FORTUNE OF WAR
The Phalarope's heavy launch, packed as she was with additional men of the cutting-out raid, began to whip water within minutes- of leaving the security of the frigate's side.
Herrick wedged himself in one comer of the stern and peered over the heads of the straining oarsmen, his vision hampered by both darkness and a continuous stream of bursting spray. He tried to concentrate on the set plan of attack, but as time dragged by and the boat's swooping motion became more pronounced he found that half of his mind dwelt on the realisation that things were already moving against him. The wind had gained in force, and he didn't need to consult his small compass to know that it had also veered more to the east, so that what cover there might have been from the island was lost in an angry welter of tossing whitecaps and great swirling patterns of backwash from partially hidden rocks.
Every so often he looked astern and was thankful to see the cutter riding in his wake, her banks of oars slashing one moment at wave crests and then buried to the rowlocks as the boat dropped into another sickening trough.
Ryan, a,seasoned quartermaster, swung the tiller bar and yelled, 'She'm takin' it poorly, sirl The lads are all but wore out!'
Herrick nodded but did not reply. It was obvious from the slow, laboured stroke that the men were already exhausted and in no shape for carrying out any sort of attack. More and more Herrick was nagged by the thought that Vibart had dropped the boats too soon. Nevis Island was still only a darker patch in the night's angry backcloth, and there was no sign at all of the chosen landmarks.
He felt a surge of anger when he remembered Vibart's brusqueness when he had last seen him. All he had wanted was to get the boats away. No second plan, no arrangements for possible discovery had even been discussed.
The Andiron was supposed to be ancknred below Dogwood Point, but even allowing for better shelter inshore, it was still likely that her captain had called extra hands to watch for possible dangers in the rising wind. Herrick had a sudden picture of his exhausted boats' crews arriving at the ship's side to be met with a murderous fire from the awakened and eager gunners.
Ryan was shouting again. `There's a strong drift, y'see! It'll carry us clear of the 'eadland, sir!' He sounded bitter. `It'll be a long pull to clear the point at this rate.'
As if to, back his words there was ann anonymous rumble of voices from the darkened boat. Someone muttered, `We should turn back. There's no chance now!'
Herrick glared down the boat. `Silence! Do you want the whole island to hear us?'
Ryan whispered, `Could we not lie beneath the point, sir?' He sounded slightly ashamed. `We could rest the men a bit an' then try again.'
Herrick nodded, another plan forming in his brain. `Good idea. Signal the cutter, Ryan.' He took the tiller as the quartermaster opened the shutter of his lantern and blinked it twice astern. To the oarsmen he snapped, `Keep the stroke! Together, now!' There was no muttering, but he could sense them all watching him in the darkness. He added, `The rest of you keep baling, and watch the oars. I want 'em muffled at every pull!'
Ryan said, `Cutter's turnip', sir. I can see the pinnace back there, too.'
`Well, thank God for that!' Herrick forgot the grumbling seamen as the skyline hardened into a jagged overhanging cliff. It was Dogwood Point well enough, but they had drifted further than he had feared. They were not below it, but on the wrong side altogether. As he stared wretchedly at the land's hostile outline he felt the boat's motion begin to ease and heard the oars pick up a steadier time as the launch thrust into more sheltered water.
He said quietly, `Oars! Easy with those blades now! You sound like a lot of damn cattle!'
The boat rode uneasily in the inshore swell while the weary sailors fell across their oars and sucked gratefully at the damp air. The pinnace moved out of the gloom and lay close by, and then the cutter crossed to the other side and paddled nearer so that Midshipman Maynard could make himself heard.
`What shall we do, Mr. Herrick?'
`Lie here for a bit!' Herrick spoke slowly to give himself time to sort out his hazy ideas. He wished Maynard would not sound so lost and bewildered in front of his men. Things were already bad enough. He added, `Where is Mr. Parker and the jolly boat?'
Maynard shrugged, and Packwood, the boatswain's mate, called quickly from the pinnace, `We've lost sight of him long since, Mr. Herrick!'
Herrick controlled his reply with an effort. `Maybe he turned back!'
A seaman murmured, `Sunk more likely!'
Herrick made up his mind. `Come alongside! But get some fenders out!'
He waited, holding his breath as- the two boats sidled against the launch. At each creak and thud he expected to hear shouts from ashore, or the ominous rattle of musket fire. But only the wind and the hissing spray interrupted his words as Maynard and Packwood craned to hear him.
`If we pull around the point we shall be too late to make an attack.'
Maynard muttered petulantly, `We were given too far to row in my opinion. It was impossible from the start!'
Herrick snarled, `No one is asking for your opinion, so just listen to me will you?' Herrick was surprised at the savagery in his own voice but hurried on, There should be a bit of foreshore below the point, so we'll head for it now. Mr. Packwood will wait with half a crew per boat and lie as close as possible to the rocks.' He waited, feeling the tension dragging at his patience. `Understand?'
They nodded doubtfully and he continued, `Mr. Maynard will accompany me ashore with thirty men. If we scale the point we should be able to see down the other side. If the Andiron is still there we might try an attack even now, especially if she looks peaceful enough and is close to the headland. Otherwise we will head back to the picking-up area.' He had a brief picture of Vibart's scorn and rage when he returned to announce the failure of the attack. He again felt the same unreasonable anger at the mission. The admiral should have sent a heavier force. Even the Cassius would have helped just by adding her strength and availability for the final withdrawal.
Perhaps it was his own fault after all. If he had not trusted Vibart's complacency and had checked the distance from the shore more carefully. If only he had allowed for the change of wind and the savage offshore drift. He shook himself angrily. It was too late now. The present was all that counted.
But he still found time to imagine Bolitho in these circumstances. The mental picture of that impassive face helped to steady him and he said in a level voice, 'Bear off and head for the rocks. But not a sound, any of you!'
.One by one the boats moved inshore, and when almost hemmed in by dark-fanged rocks the first men leapt slipping and cursing into shallow water.
There was no point in trying to split the party into groups now, Herrick decided. It would take too long, and they had taken enough chances already. He watched the three boats move clear and then snapped, `Mr. Maynard, come with me. McIntosh will take charge down here.' He groped through his mind to remember the carefully listed names. 'Allday and Martin follow me!'