Beyond the Reef

by Kent, Alexander

  Bolitho stared after her, then sighed as the drums began to rattle to beat up the marines at their barracks.

  A glance; a word; a promise. They could not dissolve the immediate problems. He straightened his back and touched the crudely mended wound in his left thigh, a legacy of eight years ago, and his mind lingered on what she had told him. Dissolve, no; but once again she had made him feel restored. He was ready.

  John Cotgrave, the Judge Advocate, stood up and faced the seated officers in the great cabin.

  “I am ready, Sir James.”

  Hamett-Parker grunted. “Proceed.”

  Cotgrave said, “Captain Hector Gossage has stated that he wishes to complete his evidence, and the surgeon has assured me that he will be able.” He glanced briefly at Herrick’s set features. “However, with the Court’s indulgence, I would suggest that Captain Gossage’s appearance be made later, when he has been examined again.”

  Hamett-Parker asked, “Well sir, how is this to be managed, Mr Cotgrave?” He sounded irritated by the sudden change of tack.

  “May I suggest, Sir James, that the last witness for today be called first? I do not intend to summon Captain Keen of this ship; it would merely be to corroborate this important witness’s testimony.”

  Bolitho saw the quick exchange of glances. Gossage would be the final witness, so any previous evidence of an indifferent nature, or testimony which might be in Herrick’s favour, would be forgotten. Gossage was hostile—a broken man, but one whose ability to hate was clearly unimpaired.

  The officer of the Court next in seniority, Vice-Admiral Cuthbert Nevill, asked mildly, “It is all rather unusual, surely?”

  Hamett-Parker did not even turn. “The case itself is more so, what?”

  Cotgrave faced the assembled visitors. “The next witness is an officer well known to all of us and to every loyal Englishman. At no time was he consulted on the strategy used to defend the convoy, and only arrived . . .” He hesitated and allowed his words to sink in “. . . in this very ship at the scene of the battle, when all was lost. The convoy of twenty ships sunk or captured, the remaining escort, Egret of 60 guns, also destroyed, and overwhelmed by a superior enemy force as we have heard described here.”

  Bolitho heard the shuffle of feet and the creak of chairs as the assembled visitors peered around the great cabin. It would be hard for landsmen to visualise this powerful three-decker cleared for action, from these same stern windows to the foremost divisions of guns. Harder still to see death here, or imagine the roar and crash of artillery, the screams of the wounded. The captains present would see it differently, however, and be reminded, if they needed a reminder, that the final responsibility was theirs, or lay with the man who flew his flag above all of them.

  Cotgrave continued, “I would ask Sir Richard Bolitho, ViceAdmiral of the Red, to come aft.”

  Bolitho stood up, his mind suddenly like ice, recalling Catherine’s words when they had lain awake in the night. Remember, Richard, you are not to blame. And this morning when he had looked from the window over the darkness of the dockyard. Just a man. Was it only this morning?

  “Now, Sir Richard, if you would care to be seated?”

  Bolitho replied, “I prefer to stand, thank you.”

  Hamett-Parker asked, “Are you not satisfied with the way this Court is being conducted, Sir Richard?”

  Bolitho gave a short bow. This man is an enemy. “ Black Prince is my flagship, Sir James. Had I not been called to give this testimony, something which my own flag captain is well able to offer, I might have been a member of this Court. A more useful and profitable role, surely?”

  The vice-admiral named Nevill muttered, “Quite agree.”

  Cotgrave said, “Let us continue, Sir Richard, for all our sakes.”

  “I am ready.”

  “For the benefit of the Court, Sir Richard, tell us what happened when the brig Larne arrived off Copenhagen with the news of the convoy’s predicament. Not too fast for my clerks, if you please, and for the gentlemen from the newspapers.”

  Bolitho said, “I was summoned to Admiral Gambier’s flagship Prince of Wales, where, after discussing the ‘predicament’ as you choose to call it, and hearing of it from Commander Tyacke, I pleaded to be allowed to go to Rear-Admiral Herrick’s assistance.”

  “It was night-time, was it not?” Cotgrave singled out a sheet of notes. “I am given to understand that when the dangers of navigating the Narrows in the dark were pointed out you stated that you had done it before, under Nelson?”

  “That is true.”

  Cotgrave smiled gently. “Very forceful. You were guided through eventually by the brig Larne and followed by Nicator, an elderly 74 from your own squadron?”

  Bolitho said, “We might have been in time.”

  “In the event, you were not.” He continued smoothly, “Now please describe the scene when daylight found you on that particular morning.” He wagged a finger like some church schoolmaster and added, “May I remind you, Sir Richard, there are landsmen present—we have not all shared your own wealth of experience, of which we have heard much over the years.”

  There was absolute silence in the cabin, so that even the slight patter of rain against the tall stern windows seemed an interruption.

  “I had had the ship’s sailmaker create a false Danish flag. It was my intention to lure the largest enemy ship, the San Mateo, into close range, to make her captain believe Black Prince was a Danish prize.” He hesitated over the enemy’s name, and guessed it was not lost on many present. “For we, too, were outnumbered. But for the ruse I fear we might have shared Benbow’s fate.”

  “By this time, the Benbow had become a dismasted onlooker, I believe?”

  Bolitho saw Herrick lean forward as if to interrupt and answered, “Hardly that. Benbow’s guns were still firing, and even though her steering had carried away and her masts were gone, she did not strike.”

  Cotgrave looked at the intent faces of the Court. “After you had forced the enemy to submit, and the prize crews of the surviving ships were ordered to lay down their arms, you then boarded the Benbow. Tell us what you found.”

  Bolitho looked steadily at Herrick. “There were more dead than alive in view, and the afterguard, helmsmen, gun crews had all been cut down by chainshot and canister at close range. She was so badly damaged that it was all we could do to rig temporary steering, and eventually take her in tow.”

  Hamett-Parker commented without feeling, “It seems likely she will remain a hulk until her final disposal.”

  Cotgrave nodded gravely. “Of course, Sir Richard, you and the accused have been friends for years. I imagine he was more than relieved to see your ships and most of all, yourself.”

  Bolitho turned towards the rain-dappled windows, a shaft of watery sunlight glinting on the Nile medal, which he always wore with pride.

  “It was a scene from hell. We had little time to speak with one another, and the rear-admiral’s wound required immediate attention.”

  He looked once again at Herrick, recalling that morning, the bitterness in his voice. It will be another triumph for you. Like an accusation.

  “In that case, Sir James?” Cotgrave started as Herrick rose to his feet and gripped the chairback for support.

  Hamett-Parker snapped, “You have a question?” He seemed surprised.

  Herrick nodded, his eyes still on Bolitho. “I do, Sir James.”

  “Very well.” To Bolitho he said, “Remember, Sir Richard, you are still under oath.”

  Herrick said quietly, “It is not a point of evidence.” He was speaking to the court, to everyone here, and to those who would never come back to speak of anything. His eyes, his whole being was directed at Bolitho.

  “I am ready.”

  “I want to make something clear. I would like to know, had you been in my position that day, would you have acted as I did?”

  Cotgrave said hastily, “I hardly think—”

  Hamett-Parker waved his challeng
e aside. “I see no wrong in it. Please answer, Sir Richard—we are all attention!”

  Bolitho faced the officers but could feel the intensity of Herrick’s eyes. “There are several ways to defend a convoy, Sir James, even if the escort is insufficient, as it surely was that day. Sometimes you can signal the vessels in the convoy to draw together to add their own artillery in the defence of all. It is a well-known tactic of the Honourable East India Company. Likewise you can order the ships to disperse, leaving the slower ones to be sacrificed.”

  They all stared at Herrick as he said calmly, “It is not what I asked.”

  Cotgrave bit his lip. “That is so, Sir Richard. You must answer.”

  Hamett-Parker snapped, “Even if the reply might damage the circumstances of a friend. You are a man of honour, sir. We are waiting!”

  He tried to read Herrick’s mind, divine the intention behind this. What are you doing? What are you making me do? There was something else there too. It was almost amusement, a mocking challenge. Another triumph for you, Richard!

  Bolitho replied quietly, “I would not.”

  Hamett-Parker pressed his fingertips together and put his head on one side like a bird of prey.

  “I believe that some here present may not have heard, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho looked at him coldly. “I said: I would not! ”

  Herrick sat down and said, “Thank you. A man of honour.”

  Bolitho stared at him. Herrick had forced him into answering the one question which would surely condemn him. It had been deliberate, brutal in its intensity.

  Hamett-Parker nodded very slowly. “If there is nothing further, Sir Richard?”

  Bolitho said, “I can only say that the accused is a gallant and loyal officer. I have served alongside him many times and know all his qualities. He has saved my life, and he has given his to the service of his country.”

  Cotgrave cleared his throat. “Some might suggest that you are biased, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho turned on him angrily. “And why not? In God’s name, what are true friends for?”

  Hamett-Parker interrupted, “We will adjourn until after refreshment, gentlemen.” He looked at Bolitho. “By which time Captain Gossage will be present to continue with his assessment of the rear-admiral’s intentions on that day.”

  Bolitho waited for the great cabin to empty, and sat alone, his head in his hands. Where was the vice-admiral now?

  Keen joined him and said quietly, “I was at the door, Sir Richard—I heard everything. They will demand the most severe punishment of all.”

  He was shocked to see Bolitho’s face when he looked up at him: the tears in his eyes.

  “He has just executed himself, Val. And for what?”

  For a long, long moment the question seemed to hang in the air like an epitaph.

  Lady Catherine Somervell stood beside a window, one hand toying absently with a curtain. The roofs of the nearest dockyard sheds were wet with rain, but already there was a promise of sunshine, and of some warmth. She saw and cared for none of it.

  She was thinking of Black Prince, out there somewhere unseen behind the tall buildings. The court martial would have recommenced, and this afternoon Richard would try to defend his friend, even if he could only offer help through personal evidence.

  She looked over her shoulder at her new maid Sophie. In the filtered sunshine, with her dark hair hanging down to her eyes as she smoothed out one of her mistress’s gowns ready for packing, she could have been fully Spanish. Her mother had married a trader of that country who had vanished shortly after the Revolution in France; he had never been seen alive again. There had been three children, and Sophie was the youngest. She had gone to work for a tailor in Whitechapel, and within a year had proved herself a quick learner and an excellent seamstress, but her mother had become ill and had asked Catherine to take her into service. She had known she was dying and used her earlier friendship with Catherine as the only escape for her remaining child: London was no place for a girl like Sophie to be left to fend for herself. If Sophie grieved for her mother, she did not show it. Perhaps, Catherine thought, when she knew her better, she might share the rest of the story.

  “I wonder if they will fire another gun when the court martial is finally over.” She wished she had asked Richard before he had left this morning. But she had not wanted to distract him, to offer him hope when there might be none.

  Sophie paused. “Don’t know, me lady.”

  Catherine smiled at her. Sophie’s voice had the accent of the streets, an aspect of London Catherine had known at her age, and earlier. It helped in some way, a reminder.

  Catherine thought of the dawn when she had awakened with something like panic when she had found him gone. She turned the beautiful ring on her finger, which Bolitho had put on her left hand after Keen’s wedding at Zennor, and tried to take some reassurance from it. But what of the next time they were parted, when Bolitho was once more at sea with his men and his ships, a target for every enemy sharpshooter as poor Nelson had been?

  She shook her head, as if he had just spoken to her. There was the long passage to the Cape and back. It might be uncomfortable, but she would enjoy every second they could still be together.

  When Richard returned this evening or later perhaps, whatever the outcome, she would make him forget. She must. Then she turned the ring again to the shaft of sun which had at last penetrated the low clouds over the Solent, and watched the play of light across its diamonds and rubies. She could recall the exact moment, when all the others had left the church for the wedding celebrations. Richard taking her hand. In the eyes of God we are married, dearest Kate. It was something she would never forget.

  There was a rap at the door and one of the resident servants entered the room and gave a clumsy curtsy.

  “There be a gennelman downstairs, m’lady. He begs an audience with you.”

  Catherine waited and then replied, “I can sometimes read your thoughts, my girl, but I need a little help now.”

  The girl gave her a cow-like stare, and eventually produced a small envelope from an apron pocket.

  Catherine smiled. The Admiralty house did not apparently run to a silver tray for such purposes.

  She tore it open and walked to the window again. It was not a note, there was only an engraved card inside. She looked at it for several seconds until a face seemed to form there. Sillitoe. Sir Paul Sillitoe, whom she had met at Admiral Godschale’s reception by the river.

  She was still uncertain whether he was a friend or another potential danger to Richard. But he had shown her kindness in his strange, withdrawn manner.

  “I shall come down.”

  The hall was empty, and the door still partly ajar; she saw a smart phaeton with a pair of matching greys outside in the road. Sillitoe was standing in the small drawing-room, feet apart, hands behind him.

  As she appeared he took her proffered hand and touched it with his lips.

  “Lady Catherine, you honour me too much, when I have given you so little warning of my arrival.” He waited until she had seated herself and said, “I have urgent business in London, but I thought I must see you before you depart for the Cape of Good Hope.” He grimaced. “An unfortunate name, I think.”

  “Is anything wrong, Sir Paul? Are we not to go after all?”

  “Wrong?” He was watching her now, his hooded eyes full of curiosity. “Why should there be?” He walked past her and hesitated by the chair; and for an instant she expected him to touch her, place a hand on her shoulder, and she could feel her body stiffen in readiness.

  “I was merely thinking that you might find the prospect of a longish voyage, hemmed in by foul-mouthed sailors, unpleasant. It is not what I would choose for you.”

  “I am used to ships.” She glanced at him, her eyes flashing. “Sailors too.”

  “It was merely a thought, one which disturbed me more than I would admit to anyone else. I experienced a moment of delusion, wherein I imagined your sta
ying behind, with me to guide you around the town, and offer you—if only temporarily—my companionship.”

  “Is that what you really came to tell me?” She was astonished at the calmness in her voice, and equally by the man’s cool impudence and declaration. “For if so it is better that you go at once. Sir Richard has enough on his mind without suffering the added burden of unfaithfulness. I should say, how dare you, Sir Paul, but then I already know how men like you dare.”

  “Ah, yes, Sir Richard.” He looked away. “How I envy him—”

  He seemed to be searching for words without losing her attention and tolerance. “I wanted to know, Lady Catherine—I believe he calls you Kate?”

  “Yes—and only he does.”

  Sillitoe sighed. “As I was saying before I was again distracted by your lovely presence—I will always be available as a friend, more if you should ever need that. That is what I came to say.” He moved towards her as she made to rise from the chair. “No, please stay, Lady Catherine. I must lose some miles before dark.” He took her hand, forcefully as she did not offer it, and held it, his eyes locked with hers. “I knew your late husband, the Viscount Somervell. He was a fool. He deserved what he got.” Then he kissed her hand and released it. “ Bon voyage, Lady Catherine.” He swept his hat from a chair. “Think of me sometimes.”

  It was growing dark in the street outside, and long after the phaeton had clattered away, Catherine still sat in the damp, empty room looking at the door.

  Like the words she had spoken to Richard this morning. They strike at you from every side. Sillitoe’s visit had put another edge to them.

  She stood up, startled, as a dull bang echoed across the harbour. They did fire a gun, after all.

  She stared at herself in a mirror with something like defiance. Richard would have to be told about the visit. There were others who would be only too willing. But not all of it. Another duel, as Belinda had once flung in her face? She shook her head very slowly and saw the confidence returning to her reflection.

  Only death would ever come between them.