“Very probably, my lord.” He stood up and waited for Jenour to guide his arm.
“I have not dismissed you yet, sir.”
Bolitho turned wearily. It was so pointless, so futile. With the greater part of the fleet held in readiness to repel an attack on Jamaica, the way was wide open for French counter-action. And all I have is six ships.
Jamaica was nearly thirteen hundred miles to the west. Even with favourable winds it would take ships far too long to regain their command of the Leeward Islands.
He said, “I believe that the enemy intend to attack our bases here, my lord.”
“Here? Antigua? St Kitts perhaps? Where else do you imagine them?” He gave a shrill laugh which ended in another bout of retching. This time it did not stop.
Bolitho found the door open, Jenour’s face filled with concern as the half-light of the hallway greeted them.
The surgeon was waiting for him, standing apart from the others as if he had guessed what had happened.
“How long, Doctor?” He heard Sutcliffe ringing his bell, saw the obvious reluctance of the servants to answer it. “Can you tell me that?”
The doctor shrugged. “Out here, men and women die every day, quietly and without complaint. It is God’s will, they say. I have grown accustomed to it, though I can never accept it.” He considered the question. “Impossible to say, Sir Richard. He might die tomorrow; he could survive a month, even longer, by which time he will not know his own name.”
“Then we are done for.” He felt the fury rising again. There were thousands of men depending on their superiors. Did nobody care? The admiral was going to die, eaten alive by his disease. But to the outside world, if it believed the lie, he was a man worn out by his devotion to duty.
The surgeon stood by one of the shaded windows, and pointed at the bright silver line of the horizon.
“Yonder lies the enemy, Sir Richard. He is not there for no purpose.” He studied Bolitho’s grave features. “For you, God’s will is not enough, is it?”
For a long moment Bolitho stood with Jenour on the sunbaked jetty while the barge was manoeuvred alongside the stairs. In the violent light the same officers who had been sent to greet him hovered discreetly and at a distance. Perhaps they were glad to see him leave after disturbing their secluded world, thinking perhaps that routine would save them. Sutcliffe would die, and after a fitting ceremonial funeral, another admiral would arrive. Life would go on.
“Well, Stephen, what do you think of this?”
Jenour stared out to sea. “I believe that Lord Sutcliffe is fully aware of his authority, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho waited. “I need to know, Stephen. To rest on one’s own views can be like an unbaited trap.”
Jenour bit his lip. “None of the officers here would dare to defy him. Right or wrong, Lord Sutcliffe commands their destinies. To speak otherwise would be seen as treason, or at best, mutiny.” His open face was filled with anxiety. “Nobody will support you, Sir Richard.” He faltered. “Except the squadron and your captains, who will expect you to act on their behalf.”
Bolitho said bitterly, “Yes, and ask them to die for me.” He turned aside as the barge hooked on. “What of Rear-Admiral Herrick? Come on, speak out, man—as my friend now!”
“He will do nothing. He risked all for his own satisfaction at his court martial.” He watched the pain in Bolitho’s eyes. “He will never do so again.”
Allday stepped on to the jetty and removed his hat, immediately taking in Bolitho’s expression and the flag lieutenant’s unusual intensity.
Bolitho climbed down after Jenour and settled in the sternsheets.
It was the second time in the day that Jenour had surprised him. Once again, he knew he was right.
17 SHIPS PASSING
BOLITHO went on deck, the taste of coffee lingering on his tongue. Keen was about to exercise the upper gun deck’s twelve-pounders and he saw the casual glances as he walked to the quarterdeck rail. They had become used to seeing their vice-admiral dressed so informally in only shirt and breeches, and Bolitho was pleased that Keen had impressed it on all his officers to do likewise. If it did not make them seem more approachable, it might at least show them as human beings.
Keen smiled. “Sail in sight, sir. Hull-up to wind’rd.” He tried to make it interesting, a piece of news to break the day-to-day monotony.
Black Prince was steering due south, some 250 miles from Antigua. Abeam, the lookouts could just manage to distinguish the island of St Lucia, the silent volcano of Soufrière a prominent landmark that had saved many seafarers over the years.
Astern of the flagship the two 74 s Valkyrie and Relentless kept their snail’s pace, their reflections barely moving on a dark blue sea which appeared solid enough to walk on, like crude glass. The remaining ships Bolitho had placed under Crowfoot’s command, and sent to patrol the Guadeloupe Passage to the north.
This was frustration at its worst. The ships were too slow, and on several occasions they had sighted unidentified vessels, which had soon headed away rather than face the prospect of being stopped and searched by the powerful men-of-war. They had to have smaller ships in support. Godschale, a frigate captain himself in that other war, should have moved heaven and earth to get them.
Who was the newcomer? Obviously not an enemy. He would have been off like a fox at the sight of hounds if he was.
Sedgemore was shouting to Lieutenant Whyham, “Keep them at it, sir! I want these twelve-pounders cleared for action in ten minutes, less if they have the will for it!”
Bolitho glanced at the gun crews. Bare backs less rawly burned, and more the colour of leather. He had not timed the upper batteries, but he knew by his own standards as a captain that they were a long way from Sedgemore’s target.
“Deck there! She’s a frigate!”
Bolitho saw Keen watching him. What was it this time, Sutcliffe’s death or news of home? Or the war had ended, and they had been the last to know.
“Heave-to, Captain Keen. Let him run down on us.” He looked again at the gun crews. “I would suggest you continue the drills, Mr Sedgemore. It has been known for ships to carry on fighting even when adrift.”
“Aloft with a glass, Mr Houston!” Keen turned away to escape Sedgemore’s sudden deflation. “Mr Julyan, stand by to wear ship, if you please!”
While the big three-decker floundered round into the wind and her two consorts endeavoured to remain on station, their pyramids of sails almost lifeless, the upper deck’s twenty-eight guns went through the frantic routine of clearing for action.
“Deck, sir! She’s made her number!” The midshipman’s voice was shrill when calling from such a height and Bolitho guessed that he hated the fact. “She’s the Tybalt, 36, Captain Esse!”
Bolitho tried to contain his sudden hope. The last of his squadron, and a frigate. It was like an answered prayer.
He lifted a glass from the rack and trained it on the approaching ship. Where was Adam now, he wondered? And where had the time gone? It was now mid-January 1809. A new year, without anything to show for it. He thought of England, the bitter wind off the Atlantic seeping around the old house and gardens. What of Catherine? Could she really be happy in that kind of life, alone amongst people who for the most part would always remain strangers? Or might she become bored, impatient, and turn to other distractions?
In two hours Tybalt was almost in gunshot range and Bolitho said, “Captain repair on board as soon as is convenient, Val.”
He frowned when one of the gun crews fell about in confusion as the twelve-pounder, released from its breeching-rope, ran momentarily out of control.
Sedgemore yelled, “God damn your eyes, Blake, your people are all cripples today!”
Bolitho touched the locket beneath his damp shirt and smiled. What was he thinking of? They were lovers. Nothing could break that.
He waited until the frigate was hove-to and had lowered her gig and then went below to his cabin. Let there be news this tim
e.
Captain William Esse was tall and thin with a pleasant smile and an old-fashioned manner, which seemed at odds with his 25 years. He laid a canvas bag on the cabin table and seated himself with great care, as if afraid his long legs might become entangled.
“What news, Captain Esse? I must know without delay.”
Esse smiled and took a glass from Ozzard. “Jamaica was hot, Sir Richard, and the slave-revolt little more than a skirmish. The extra soldiers were not needed at all.” He shrugged. “So we brought them back to Antigua.”
“What of Lord Sutcliffe?”
Esse gave him a blank stare. “He is still alive, Sir Richard, although I was not asked to see him.” He saw Bolitho’s expression and added hastily, “A fast packet visited English Harbour. There are letters for you from England.”
Bolitho touched the heavy pouch. Letters from Catherine, one at least. It was like a hunger, a longing. All the rest was disappointment. There was no news of the enemy. Perhaps the threat was only in his mind. Or maybe the journey in the open boat had blunted his reckoning in some way?
Over three months since he had left Spithead. It felt like eternity. And Sutcliffe was still defying death. He wondered how Herrick was managing to stay out of trouble.
Esse exclaimed, “But I almost forgot, Sir Richard! As we weighed anchor, Anemone entered harbour. I was not able to speak much with Captain Bolitho, but I gather he was bringing despatches for Lord Sutcliffe. He shouted across to me that it was something important. But I did not catch the gist of it.”
“How strange. My nephew was in my mind just now as I watched Tybalt running down on us. But why here? It must be serious.” The unanswered questions hung in the cabin’s still air. Despatches for the admiral. But the Admiralty would be in ignorance about Sutcliffe’s condition.
He persisted, “Can you remember nothing further of this conversation?”
Esse frowned so that his pale eyes disappeared. “I took little notice, Sir Richard, as it did not concern the squadron.”
“What did he say?”
“The French. He said something about enemy ships . . . I assumed he meant in home waters.”
“My God.” Bolitho saw Ozzard peering through his hatch. “Fetch the captain and my flag lieutenant!”
To the bemused Esse he said, “I shall give you written orders. You must return to English Harbour with all haste. You will see Rear-Admiral Herrick and make certain that copies of my despatches are sent immediately to St Kitts and to London.” He turned away so that Esse should not see his despair. London? It could as well be the moon for all the good it would do now.
Keen and Jenour entered. Bolitho said tersely, “Adam has come from England. Despatches from the Admiralty, no doubt—they’d never release a frigate otherwise.”
Keen said gently, “But we don’t know for certain, sir.”
“My responsibility, Val.” He tried to smile but it eluded him. It had been reported over the months that the French were secretly reinforcing their squadrons in the Caribbean. Now they were ready. In a matter of weeks a combined naval and military force would attack Martinique. And with some of the English supporting squadrons tied down in Jamaica . . . He felt a cold touch on his spine. It would be Herrick’s massacred convoy all over again.
He said quietly, “Make quite sure that Rear-Admiral Herrick understands. Every available ship and garrison must stand-to. For once the enemy has scattered our invasion force, they will surely turn upon Antigua.”
Esse nodded, his face very calm. “I shall do my best.”
“Leave me now. I have matters to dictate.”
Alone with Keen and Jenour, while the ship pitched on a low swell and the upper deck echoed to the squeak and thud of Sedgemore’s mock battle, Bolitho said, “You think me mad?”
“Far from that, sir.” Keen paused. “But it must be said: it is all surmise.”
“Possibly. But we know from the past week that there is no enemy movement down here. So the ships must be elsewhere, correct?”
“If they are coming this way, sir.”
Bolitho strode about the cabin. There was no news. So why should he care, with a mad superior who would see any initiative, even by him, as gross insubordination? It would be a bitter twist of fate if Herrick were a witness at his court martial!
Aloud he said harshly, “But I do care. It is what we are here for!”
To Keen he said more evenly, “Bring the ship about, Val, and signal the others to keep station on us. We will pass through the St Lucia Channel tonight. A longer haul, but it will give us more favourable winds. With luck we shall meet with Captain Crowfoot’s ships and then we can beat up to wind’rd. Tybalt will have rejoined us by then. If not . . .” He did not need to say more.
Keen said, “I’m ready, sir.”
Bolitho smiled at him. “To the final battle, the gates of hell if need be, eh, Val?”
Keen did not smile in return. “Yes,” he said. “Always.”
Rear-Admiral Thomas Herrick stood by an open window and mopped his face with his handkerchief. The noon heat made it hard to think, and the persistent attacks by mosquitoes and other insects were a constant irritation.
Seated at a table, Captain John Pearse, now his second-in-command because of the admiral’s disgusting illness but normally captain of the busy dockyard, watched him guardedly. Pearse was content enough with his appointment even though he knew he would rise no higher in the navy. He had been a long time in the Indies and was used to the extremes of climate; also long enough to avoid the many fevers and diseases which weekly led to seaburials or funerals in the small garrison cemeteries, with their pathetic regimental crests and the names of towns and villages in the mother-country Pearse could barely remember. He wondered what was so disturbing Herrick. Sutcliffe was dying; he must die, or he would drive his staff as mad as himself. The horror of his appalling condition—sores, black vomit and near-blindness—pervaded the whole building, and Herrick’s temper was daily growing more fraught.
There had been one such display of unreasonable anger just now when a messenger had come to inform them that the frigate Tybalt had cleared the entrance and was now on passage to join Bolitho’s squadron, and that yet another frigate had been reported standing inshore. “She’s the Anemone, sir, 38, commanded by . . .” He had got no further. Herrick had snarled, “I know who commands her, man—Sir Richard’s nephew! Stop wasting my time! ”
Pearse said carefully, “I think it would be prudent to recall Tybalt, sir. Anemone may have news which might need attention.”
Herrick saw the two frigates passing one another on a converging tack, the red coats moving on the battery to prepare a salute.
“I think not.” The two vessels were slowly drawing apart now. Why was Adam here? Surely there was no more news since Black Prince had arrived at English Harbour? He heard feet running by, servants going to assist the admiral no doubt. Diseased of body and diseased of mind. He were better dead.
Pearse fiddled with some papers and looked warily at Herrick. “Perhaps the French have surrendered.” He regretted it immediately.
“Surrendered? Never in a million years, man! Damned barbarians, they’ll fight to the last ditch.”
He winced as the first guns echoed around the harbour. He strode to the sill and watched the frigate gliding towards the guard-boat. The breeze was fresher; it might clear the air. He saw the gunsmoke drifting close to the water and recalled his own service in frigates. But never in command of one.
It had been Adam who had brought the news to him of Dulcie’s terrible death. Had it been anyone else he might have been able to contain it, at least for a while, from the curious. But Adam was a Bolitho, even if he held the family name only because of his uncle; he had been born a bastard, and his father had deserted the navy to join the American rebels . . . and yet that shame never tarnished him, or impeded his promotion.
It was all so unfair. Dulcie had given him everything: stability, pride, and above all, love. But a
child had been denied them. He watched the flash of the final gun, the anchor throwing up spray as Anemone came to rest. Even Richard and his wife had been blessed with a daughter. How could he have turned his back on her? He thought suddenly of Catherine. She had stayed with Dulcie to the end, in very real danger to herself. Why can I not come to terms with it?
He said abruptly, “Pass the word to the signal-station, Captain Pearse. I want to see Anemone’s captain before anyone else does.”
Captain Pearse nodded uneasily. It was unlikely that Lord Sutcliffe would know or care what was happening.
It was another hour before Adam Bolitho arrived, his hat crammed under one arm, his short hanger pressed against his thigh.
Herrick shook his hand. “Do not keep me in suspense, Adam! This is most unexpected. How long have you been at sea?”
Adam glanced around. Although the officer-of-the-guard had shouted to him from his boat that Lord Sutcliffe was sick, he had somehow expected to find him here.
“Eighteen days, sir.” He smiled, the recklessness on his tanned face wiping away the shadows of command.
Herrick waved him to a chair and sat down opposite him, frowning.
“Why the urgency?”
“I have important despatches from the Admiralty, sir. It seems that the bad weather in the Atlantic allowed some French ships to avoid our blockading squadrons.” He waited, expecting some reaction he could recognise. “I am ordered to acquaint Lord Sutcliffe with the despatches without delay.”
“Impossible. He is too ill. I cannot tell him anything.”
“But—” Adam grappled with Herrick’s blunt reply. “It may be vital. It is said that the enemy ships are on passage here, though I believe that some, if not all, are already arrived. I clashed with a shore-mounted gun a day ago. Heated shot—I was nearly in irons until we worked clear. French soldiers too . . .”
“You had time to go after the enemy then? Looking for a prize, perhaps?”
Adam regarded him with surprise. “Yes, there was a schooner, sir. She was carrying powder and soldiers and I dished her up as we left.”
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