Beyond the Reef

by Kent, Alexander

  Ozzard said scornfully, “You didn’t think I’d throw good gold to the sharks, did you? I sometimes wonder about you, I do indeed.” He relented. “Lead pellets made just as much of a splash, or so I thought at the time.”

  Allday looked at him gravely. “Anything I can ever do for you—but you knows that, don’t you, Tom?”

  Ferguson came back, puzzled. “Lady Catherine wasn’t there.”

  Ozzard shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Probably changed her mind. Women do, you know.”

  Allday walked out into the pale sunlight and climbed into the little cart, the one used for collecting wine or fresh fish from the harbour. Young Matthew, too, took particular notice of Allday’s smart appearance, but like Ferguson he decided not to risk making any sort of joke.

  When they reached the little inn, with the Helford River showing itself beyond the trees, Matthew said, “I’ll be back for you later.” He looked at him fondly, remembering what they had once seen and done together, the “other life” Lady Catherine had once wanted to learn about, which she had now so bravely shared.

  “I’ve never seen you like this afore, John.”

  Allday climbed down. “Hope you never do again.” He strode towards the inn and heard the cart clatter away before he could change his mind.

  It was cool inside the door, a smell of freshness, the simple furniture scrubbed and decorated with wild flowers. There was a lively fire in the grate, and he guessed it would be getting cold earlier in the evenings so close to the river and the sea.

  He tilted his head like an old dog as he caught the aroma of newly baked bread and something cooking in a pot.

  At that moment she came through a low door and stopped dead when she saw him. With one hand she tried to wipe a smudge of flour from her cheek, while with the other she swept a loose lock of hair from her eyes.

  “Oh, Mister Allday! I thought it was the man with the eggs! Seeing me like this—I must look an awful sight!”

  He crossed the room carefully as if he were treading on something delicate. Then he put down his parcel on a serving table. “I brought you a present, Mrs Polin. I hope you like it.”

  She unwrapped it slowly, and all the while he was able to watch her. An awful sight. She was the dearest woman he had ever laid eyes on.

  Without looking up she said shyly, “My name’s Unis.” Then with a gasp of surprise she lifted out the model ship on which Allday had been working before leaving for the Cape of Good Hope.

  He said nothing; but somehow she knew it was the old Hyperion.

  “Is it really for me?” She stared at him, her eyes shining.

  Then she reached out and took one big hand in both of hers.

  “Thank you, John Allday.” Then she smiled at him. “Welcome home.”

  13 . . . AND FAREWELL

  JAMES SEDGEMORE, the Black Prince’s first lieutenant, paused in his endless pacing of the quarterdeck to take a telescope from the midshipman-of-the-watch. His face was reddened by the lively south-easterly wind, and he was very aware of the activity around him as the ship prepared to get under way. Lying to her anchor off Spithead, she was already responding, her masts and rigging shivering, while above the decks tiny figures swarmed like monkeys amongst the black tracery of shrouds and stays, halliards and ratlines.

  Sedgemore trained the glass on the sallyport and saw Black Prince’s long green barge standing off the stairs, the oars pulling and backing to hold her clear of any damage in the choppy water. Tojohns, the captain’s coxswain, was in charge, and would make sure that everything was all right.

  The whole ship was alive with rumour and speculation after some of the tales Tojohns had brought aboard with him. The shipwreck, a mutiny, man-eating sharks, and through it all, the admiral’s lady suffering and enduring with the rest of them.

  A man gave a yelp of pain as a boatswain’s mate swung at him with his rope starter. It would be good to get the people out to some sea room, Sedgemore thought. The officers for the most part were as green as the bulk of the hands, half of whom had never set foot in a King’s ship before. They would soon learn, he thought grimly. He was not going to lose his chances of further promotion because of their ignorance or stupidity. He glanced at this same deck, where his predecessor had been cut in halves by a French ball. That was often how promotion came, and you never questioned it, in case the chance never offered itself again.

  He thought too of his captain, so changed in manner from the time he had left the ship for some vague appointment in Cape Town: his temporary replacement had been swiftly removed after the ship’s unfortunate collision. That had been lucky for Sedgemore too. He himself had been ordered ashore with despatches for the port admiral, and was quite blameless.

  It was good to have Captain Keen back. The other man had been so distant he had been impossible to know. Keen on the other hand had returned cheerful and confident, and apparently not even troubled too much by the large proportion of landmen and scum from the jails.

  There had been one awkward moment however, when Black Prince had left her moorings and sailed through the narrow entrance of Portsmouth Harbour to anchor here off Spithead. The wind had been unusually strong, and Sedgemore had felt the hair rising on his neck as he watched the shallows beneath Portsmouth Point and its cluster of houses seemingly just a few yards clear. He had turned towards his captain, and had seen him smiling as men scampered to the braces, and extra hands had flung themselves on the great double-wheel. Looking back, Keen had shown a new, youthful recklessness, which had not been there when they had waited for Rear-Admiral Herrick’s court martial to begin.

  Surviving the perils of an open boat, or returning to a young wife—it was probably a bit of both.

  More men ran to loosen belaying pins in readiness to free the halliards, so that nothing would stick in the heavy drift of spray when the anchor broke free.

  Sedgemore smiled to himself. Yes, it would be good to go. Not Portugal but the West Indies, it appeared. Where he would be out of reach of his creditors until his fortune improved. Sedgemore was ambitious to a point of devotion. A command of his own, then post-rank; it was like a mapped-out road of his own fate. But his weakness was gambling, and a spell safely in the Indies would keep him out of trouble . . . until the next time. And Sir Richard Bolitho would soon be aboard again. Surely with his experience and leadership, there would be even better chances for advancement.

  He saw Jenour appear momentarily on deck with Yovell before they vanished beneath the poop. Jenour, previously such a lively young officer, full of experiences with which he had sometimes entertained the wardroom, of all those who had come back from almost certain death, seemed subdued and unwilling to talk. However, Sedgemore knew nothing would remain a secret from anyone after a few weeks at sea.

  The fourth lieutenant, Robert Whyham, who was officer-of-the-watch, said, “Barge is shoving off, sir!”

  “I’ll tell the captain. Pipe the guard to the side.” He liked Whyham, who was the only lieutenant from the original wardroom, and had been promoted from sixth place in the past few months. He also envied him without really knowing the reason, except that Whyham had served under Captain Keen in a previous flagship, the French prize Argonaute. There had been glory in her great fight too. Sedgemore rarely allowed his mind to dwell on the harsher side of things.

  He hesitated, a last look round: nothing adrift which he might be blamed for. “And tell that midshipman to go forrard and make certain the admiral’s flag is already bent-on and ready to break on the last order of the salute.”

  Whyham touched his dripping hat. “Aye, sir.”

  At least the reception would go smoothly; both of the Royal Marine officers were from the original detachment which now made up an eighth part of Black Prince’s eight hundred officers and men.

  Lieutenant Sedgemore straightened the lapels on his coat and removed his hat as he reached the rigid marine sentry outside the captain’s screen door.

  One day, I shall have something like
this. For a terrible moment he imagined he had spoken aloud, but when he glanced at the sentry’s eyes he was thankful to see they were suitably blank.

  He rapped on the door with his knuckles. “Captain, sir?”

  The Black Prince’s captain stood directly below the skylight of his day cabin and looked through the spray-dappled glass. The sky was grey, the clouds fast-moving in the occasional gusts against the ship’s high tumblehome, which made itself felt in the very bowels of the hull. He glanced at Jenour, who was half-heartedly examining some papers Yovell had left for Keen’s signature. It was hard to see him in that open boat with his torn hands hauling on an oar; the blood in the bottom after Allday had amputated the Golden Plover’s master’s infected leg. Hard to picture himself either, for that matter.

  He knew what was troubling Jenour, and said, “It had to happen eventually. You have been Sir Richard’s flag lieutenant longer than anyone. He likes you, and this is his way of rewarding you, as is only proper.”

  Jenour came out of his dark thoughts. Bolitho had told him himself that after they had reached the West Indies, and at the first opportunity, he would appoint him in command of some suitable vessel. It was customary, and in his heart Jenour had known it was inevitable. But he did not want to leave the viceadmiral. He had become a part of this precious body, we happy few as poor Oliver Browne had once called it. There were very few of them left now, but that had never deterred him.

  Keen took his silence for a persisting doubt and said, “Responsibility is not yours to toss away. It is a privilege, not a right, as I and others like me soon discovered. Once you were less certain.” He smiled. “Less mature, if you like. But your experience has grown with you, and it is needed more than ever. Look at this ship, Stephen. Boys and old men, volunteers and rascals. It is the way of things. Sir Richard is ordered to the Indies to command a squadron of fourteen sail of the line.” He gestured across the litter of papers. “So what have their lordships offered him? Six instead of fourteen, one frigate instead of the promised three. It never changes. Which is why your skills, like it or not, are sorely needed. Take the vice-admiral’s nephew, for instance. He too was once his flag lieutenant—now he is posted, and commands a fine frigate.”

  Jenour could not compare himself with Adam Bolitho. He was so like his uncle, but had a touch of fire which came from elsewhere, probably his dead father.

  Jenour sighed. “It was good of you to listen, sir.”

  Keen watched him leave and began the routine of preparing himself for sea. Once the anchor was up and catted, he would not leave the quarterdeck until his ship was safely clear of the narrows and with the Needles well abeam. Then south-west into open waters, where his untried hands could find their skills, or lack of them, as the great ship bore down towards the Western Approaches.

  Feet were moving everywhere, with the occasional shout, muffled by distance and the stoutness of the timbers, to tell of the activity and the tension of getting a man-of-war under sail. There would be other thoughts, too, apart from fear of heights above the swaying hull, or fighting out along the yards to learn the mysteries and terrors of making and reefing sails in half a gale. Thoughts of leaving home, perhaps never to return. Men snatched from the streets and lanes by press-gangs who had no time for heart or pity. That was a peculiar aspect of the character of seamen. For the most part those already in the King’s service, even the pressed men, saw no reason why others should not share their own fate.

  He crossed to the larboard side and peered through the streaming glass of the quarter gallery. Blurred, like a painting left out in the rain: the dull grey of fortifications, and the cheerful red roofs beyond. He recalled bringing this ship through the narrow harbour entrance, how Julyan the sailing-master had exclaimed, “God, I thought we was going to take the veranda off the old Quebec Inn for a moment or two!”

  Have I changed so much? Has she done that for me too?

  After all, what had he really expected? He loved her; why had he been surprised that she could at last find it within herself to return it? Perhaps it was merely gratitude . . .

  But it had been none of these things. For a long, long time she had stood pressed in his arms, sobbing quietly, murmuring into his chest.

  Even then, he had doubted it.

  They had sat by the fire in the rooms set aside for them in the great house in Hampshire. For all they knew, it might have been empty but for themselves. Then she had taken his hand and had led him to that adjoining room, where another fire made the shadows dance around them like rejoicing spectres. She had faced him, paces away, her eyes shining in the flames’ reflections, then very deliberately had let her gown fall to the floor. She had come to him, and together they had fallen on to the great bed. He had been in a daze as she had drawn his lips to her thrusting breasts, held his mouth to each nipple until he was roused to madness. But it was not to be so soon. She had stretched herself naked on the bed, so that her curving scar had been laid bare in the flickering firelight: he had never been permitted to see it so unashamedly revealed. She had looked at him over her bare shoulder and had whispered, “Take me as you will. I have the courage now.” Her voice had broken as he had gripped her body with both hands, “And the love you were denied.”

  It had been like that until Keen had received his orders for Portsmouth: passion, exploration, discovery. The parting had been difficult, and left an ache in his heart he had never before experienced.

  There was a tap at the outer door and he said, “Enter!” No wonder he had risked even this ship in a moment of remembered ecstasy.

  Sedgemore glanced around the cabin, where important members of the court martial had taken refreshment during the various adjournments.

  “Sir Richard Bolitho’s barge has just left the sallyport, sir.”

  “Very well.” Keen looked at his watch. Another departure, but this time with hope, the knowledge that she would be waiting for him. He knew now why he had been so unmoved by the events in the jolly-boat. Because he had not cared if he had lived or died, and had nothing to lose.

  “Fast current running, sir.”

  Keen nodded, his thoughts lingering on those nights and sometimes, the days. She had introduced him to a desire and torment he had never known, to pleasures he had never imagined.

  He said abruptly, “Yes. Put all spare hands on the capstan bars today. I want to break out the anchor as soon as possible.”

  “I’ve already done that, sir.”

  Keen smiled. You would. Given time, Sedgemore would become a good first lieutenant; he had already shown that. It was just as well, with all the raw hands at their disposal.

  Sedgemore, he noted, was well turned-out to greet his admiral. His uniform coat had not been thrown together by some dockside Jew, but spoke of a good costly tailor. His sword, too, was expensive, its blade embossed and patterned in blue steel. It certainly did not come out of a lieutenant’s pay, and Keen knew that Sedgemore’s father was a humble saddler.

  Keen brought his mind back to the ship’s business. “I see we have more than a fair share of squeakers amongst our young gentlemen.”

  “Aye, sir. Two of the midshipmen are but twelve years old.”

  Keen picked up his sword. “Well, watch them, Mr Sedgemore.”

  “As if they were my own sons, sir!”

  Keen eyed him calmly. “It was not what I meant. At that tender age they are often the cruellest bullies in the ship. I’ll not have the people harassed more than need be.”

  He strode past him and glanced at the sentry. “How’s the wife, Tully?”

  The marine brought his heels smartly together. “We’re expecting a third bairn, thank you, sir!” He was still beaming as Keen and his first lieutenant came into the watery grey daylight beyond the poop.

  Sedgemore shook his head. He was learning a lot about his captain today. Had he been more perceptive he might have guessed where Keen had first gained his own experience.

  Keen watched the green-painted barge, turning n
ow to pass astern of a motionless yawl. Without the aid of a telescope he could see Bolitho hunched in his boat-cloak at the sternsheets, Allday beside him, and his own coxswain at the tiller. Remembering, yes. Perhaps him most of all. The lovely woman beside him, her body revealed by the soaking spray as she had taken her place in the crowded boat. The mutineers who had died, one at Allday’s hand, the other, if he had indeed been one of the mutineers, under the merciless agony of drinking seawater. There had been news of one other mutineer who had been taking refuge in the boatswain’s big cutter. He had been hanged at Freetown within hours of being marched ashore. Justice was always harder and faster the more sea miles you were from high authority.

  Lady Catherine would have been here in Portsmouth, whatever Bolitho had said. She would be over yonder now, watching the lively barge, clinging to his image as she would soon have to hold on to his memory.

  Keen smiled briefly to the senior Royal Marines officer, Major Bourchier, as he completed inspecting the guard of honour.

  “Sorry to leave, Major?”

  Bourchier puffed out his cheeks, which were almost the colour of his scarlet coat.

  “No, sir, I’m ready for a spot of soldierin’, what?”

  Little imagination, but in truth a good soldier, Keen thought. The only time he had seen him show any emotion had been aboard Herrick’s Benbow after the battle. The marines, the whole afterguard had been scattered like toy soldiers, their mingled blood marking them down for what they were. Perhaps he had seen himself there. What they all thought, at one time or another.

  “Stand by aft! Royal Marines, ready! ”

  It seemed bitterly cold on Portsmouth Point, with a wet, blustery wind making the green barge shine like glass as its crew fought to hold station on the stairs.

  Bolitho glanced past the weathered opening of the sallyport, through which he and so many others had gone before. This time it was so different. He put his arm around her shoulders, hating the moment of parting. He saw Allday on the stairs watching the boat, a sergeant of marines nearby keeping an eye on a squad of his men. Their duty was to see that Bolitho’s remaining minutes in England were undisturbed by curious onlookers. Not that there were many of those. This must surely be a foretaste of the winter, and the October gales.