Alexander Kent

Language: English

Pages: 0

ISBN: B002M9TO90

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

The Golden Elephant (Rogue Angel, Book 14)


Young Sherlock Holmes: Fire Storm












Himself across his arms amongst the litter of food. Bryan Ferguson had been in a continuous torment of seasickness and fear from the very moment Vibart’s figure had appeared on that coast road. In Falmouth he had been a clerk working at a local boatyard. Physically he was not a strong man, and now in the swinging lantern’s feeble light his face looked as grey as death itself. His thin body was bruised in many places, both from falling against unfamiliar shipboard objects and not least from the.

The Phalarope, Bolitho.” He watched the brief shaft of emotion play across the young captain’s features. “She’s lying out at Spithead right now, rigging set up, yards crossed, a finer frigate never floated.” Bolitho placed the glass slowly on the table to give his mind time to deal with the admiral’s words. The Phalarope, a thirty-twogun frigate, and less than six years old. He had seen her through his glass as he had rounded the Spit Sand three days ago. She was certainly a beautiful ship, all.

Around him like hail. But there had been nothing. He had ended lamely, “You’ll see, sir, things will be different after this.” Bolitho had straightened his back, as if throwing off some invisible weight. When he had turned his grey eyes had been cold and unfeeling. “I hope you are right, Mr Herrick! For my part I was disgusted with such a shambles! I dread to contemplate what might have happened in a fight to the finish!” Herrick had felt himself flushing. “I was only thinking . . .” Bolitho.

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, sir! 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.

And thought around them. Bolitho was suddenly very aware of his responsibility to all of them. The admiral stood up and lifted his glass. “A toast!” His pale eyes flashed below the low beams. “Death to the French!” The glasses came up as one and the voices rumbled the reply, “And confusion to our enemies!” The admiral called to his captain, “Time we were going, Cope!” Bolitho followed him to the upper-deck, only half listening to the scamper of feet and the hurried creak of oars alongside. It.

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