Darkening Sea

by Kent, Alexander

  Trevenen stared past him, his hands gripped behind his back. “Stand by starboard anchor, if you please.” He did not look at Bolitho. “Take in the driver and t’gan’sls. Prepare to come about.”

  Avery said, “No sign of Larne, Sir Richard.”

  “Man the braces!”

  Bolitho shaded his eyes and studied the scattered array of shipping. Large and small with a collection of moored vessels, obviously prizes, slavers brought here by captains like Tyacke.

  An elderly 64 was anchored close to the shore, the headquarters and accommodation ship for the man who commanded the patrols and fought a private war against fever and sudden death.

  Despite the new laws against it, slavery was still rampant. The risks the slavers took were greater, but so were the profits for the successful. Some of the ships in the trade were as well armed as the brigs and schooners that hunted for them. Most sea officers thought it was all a waste of time, except for those involved in the long-reaching patrols who were making huge sums in prize-money. It should be left until the war was over and won, then they could be as pious as all those others who did not have to fight. The need for fighting ships, no matter how small, far outweighed the tongue-in-cheek display of humanity.

  “Lee braces there!”

  “Helm a’lee, sir!”

  Valkyrie pivotted round, and as her great anchor flung spray high over the beak-head she came slowly to rest on her cable. Trevenen glared up at the yards where men were fisting and lashing the furled sails into place.

  Bolitho said, “I should like the gig, Captain Trevenen. I intend to visit the captain yonder.” He glanced around the quarterdeck. “The ship must have made a splendid sight as she came in.”

  There was no response, and Bolitho made for the companion-way. It was obvious that there would be none.

  Lieutenant Avery said, “Mr Guest, you may go below. I shall need you again shortly.”

  He saw the midshipman’s face stiffen as the captain snapped, “I’ll give the orders here, Mister Avery, and I will trouble you not to interfere! Be content with your grace-and-favour appointment!”

  “I resent that, sir.”

  Trevenen gave a cold smile. “Do you indeed?”

  Avery stood his ground. “It is the only thing we have in common, sir. ”

  The midshipman swallowed hard. “What shall I do, sir?”

  Trevenen swung away. “Do as he asks, and damn your impertinence!”

  Avery found that his hands were clenched so tightly that he was in pain.

  You damned, bloody fool. You vowed to control your feelings, to do nothing that might hurt you more . . .

  He saw Allday watching, just the hint of a smile in his eyes. The big man said quietly, “Right on the waterline, sir. Well done!”

  Avery stared at him. Nobody had ever addressed him like that before. Then he found that he was smiling, the sudden pain of despair already gone. The vice-admiral and his coxswain. Remarkable.

  Bolitho’s voice came from the open skylight.

  “ Mr Avery! When you have quite finished up there I would be obliged to you for your assistance!”

  Allday chuckled as Avery hurried to the companion-way. He had a lot to learn, as had young Jenour. That, like the old family sword, Sir Richard had two edges.

  Captain Edgar Sampson, the senior naval officer at Freetown, watched as Bolitho and Avery made themselves comfortable in two leather chairs that had seen better days. His ship, a small fourth-rate with the once-proud name of Marathon, was now accommodation vessel, headquarters, and supply vessel for the anti-slavery flotilla. It was hard to picture her in the line of battle, or in any other active role for that matter. There were tubs of flowers on the old-fashioned sternwalk, and the gunports did not even have quakers to disguise their emptiness. The ship might never move again, and when her useful life was ended their lordships would probably direct that she become a humble stores hulk, or if too late even for that, would order that she be broken up here in Freetown.

  Sampson was speaking fast and excitedly as he waved his black servant to lay out goblets and fetch the wine. The servant did not speak but looked at the captain as if he were a god.

  Sampson said, “I knew you were coming, Sir Richard, but even when I saw a frigate with a vice-admiral’s flag at the fore I could scarce believe it! I would that I could have prepared a guard of honour to mark the occasion!” He gestured vaguely to the open stern windows. “Most of my Royal Marines are on guard duty until the Prince Henry weighs tomorrow.”

  Bolitho had seen the ship in question while the gig had pulled steadily across the anchorage. Big, old and neglected looking. Even before a guard-boat had raced towards them he had recognised her for what she was: a convict transport. He was thankful that Keen was not here. It would remind him of Zenoria as he had first seen her. Seized up like a common felon, her clothes torn from her back while the crowds of onlookers, prisoners, guards and seamen alike had watched in savage anticipation. She had received just one blow across her naked back, and the wound had opened her skin from shoulder to hip. She would never lose the scar. Like a brand.

  Seeing Bolitho’s rank, the officer of the guard had saluted and the oars had been tossed as a mark of respect.

  Sampson was saying, “She was caught in a storm and put in for repairs. I’ll be glad to see the back of her, I can tell you!”

  The black servant returned and solemnly poured wine for them.

  “Thank you. You learn quickly!”

  The man smiled with equal solemnity and backed away.

  Sampson said, “Took him from a slaver. He works hard, but I think he comes from better stock than most.”

  He saw Avery’s questioning glance and went on sadly, “The slavers tore out his tongue. But he has survived, long enough to see his tormentors kicking from those trees on the point.”

  Avery asked, “What is the Prince Henry like, sir?”

  Sampson raised his glass. “To you, Sir Richard! I feel cut off from the world out here in this stinking hole, but not so far away that I do not hear of your exploits, your brave deeds!” He downed the wine, which was very warm. “If I miss anything then Commander Tyacke of the Larne will tell me. A strange man, though hardly surprising!” He seemed to recall Avery’s question. “Transports in this kind of work are as good only as their masters, Mr Avery. Captain Williams is a hard man, but fair enough, I believe. The ship will be a living hell for some, a narrow escape from the hangman for others. Williams knows all the risks. His hull will be full of felons, murderers, and wronged men for good measure. All will want to escape, and he must be ever-mindful of it.”

  Bolitho saw Avery’s expression, taking it all in. A strong face, and there was sadness too.

  He thought about the transport. It was a long, long haul to the penal colony, the other end of the world. He recalled Admiral Broughton’s curt summing-up when he had left the Admiralty. “Oblivion!”

  “I take it that no mail preceded us, Captain Sampson?”

  Sampson shook his head. He was not old, but had allowed himself to become a character, the kind you might find in one of James Gillray’s cruel cartoons. Sprouting hair, wrinkled stockings and a paunch which made his waistcoat buttons strain to the limit. Like the old Marathon, he knew he would end his days here.

  “No, Sir Richard. Next week maybe.” He slapped his thigh so that some wine slopped unheeded down his coat.

  “Damn me, I almost forgot! The new officer commanding naval vessels at Sydney is also aboard the Prince Henry. I think you know him, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho gripped the arm of his chair. It was not possible, just as he knew it was inevitable. Fate.

  He said quietly, “Rear-Admiral Herrick.”

  Sampson beamed. “My memory is going too, I’m afraid. I heard that you were acquainted, but I did not mention it when he came ashore.” He hesitated. “I mean no disrespect to your friend, Sir Richard, but he discouraged my conversation, and asked that he be shown where the recovered sla
ves are kept until they can be directed to safety.”

  Avery put down his glass, very aware that something important was happening. He knew about the court martial, and how a change of evidence had saved Herrick from a verdict of guilty. It was too close to his own experience to forget it. There had also been talk of Herrick’s failure to support Vice-Admiral Bolitho before the capture of Martinique. Were they still friends?

  Bolitho asked, “If I visit the Prince Henry would it . . .” He broke off as he saw the embarrassment on Sampson’s red face. “I see that it would not!”

  “I cannot stop you, Sir Richard. You are the senior officer here, probably the most senior one anywhere south of the fifteenth parallel!”

  “But my presence on board the transport with the passage stretching ahead like eternity might do serious damage to Captain Williams’s authority.”

  “As I said, Sir Richard. Williams is a hard man, but no tyrant, nor would he wish to be forced by circumstances to become one.”

  “That was well said, and unfair of me to put you in such a position.”

  Sampson stared at him. He might have expected any flag officer, let alone one so famous, to tear him apart and tell him to mind his manners.

  An officer hovered by the door and Sampson said awkwardly, “If you will excuse me, Sir Richard, I have to deal with an accident.” He shrugged. “Until the relief arrives, I am the healer too. My surgeon died of snakebite some weeks back.”

  Bolitho said, “I shall not detain you further.”

  Sampson’s face fell. “I dared to hope we might dine together.” He looked at Avery. “And you too, of course.”

  “We shall be delighted.”

  He turned to Avery as the captain hurried away. His gratitude had been terrible to see.

  “It will likely be a meal to remember, Mr Avery, but if I were here in charge, I too would welcome any arrival and loathe its departure.”

  Avery watched him as he moved from his chair, his dark hair brushing the deckhead between the massive beams. He was touching things as if he did not see them; seeing another old ship perhaps. Remembering her.

  He was learning more every day. Sillitoe must have known what he was offering him. Here was a man without conceit, who could waste his time merely to help a naval castaway like Captain Sampson. He obviously cared about the man who was or had been his friend, and his question about a mail packet told Avery even more. He thought of the way Bolitho had stripped off his soiled shirt without arrogance or shyness in his presence: he had seen the locket too. Bolitho must always wear it. The woman’s face came into his thoughts, her throat, and the strong cheekbones. Bolitho’s love for her more than made up for the hatred of others, and protected her from those who might want to wrong her. Gossip had told Avery that it would not be the first time in her life.

  Allday would know all about her, and might even share some, if not all of his store of memories. Avery smiled. He was still not used to conversing so openly with an ordinary Jack.

  He said, “Tell me I am speaking out of place, Sir Richard, and I will ask for your forgiveness, and tolerance of my ignorance.”

  Bolitho watched him calmly. “I have not yet found you one to ingratiate yourself or to probe. Speak on.”

  “Your rank, your position alone would be recognised instantly on board the Prince Henry. ” He faltered under Bolitho’s grey stare. “They may not know you by name or reputation . . .” He was floundering.

  Bolitho said quietly, “But to them I would represent authority of the highest kind, am I right? In one man they would see every judge, magistrate and law officer who ever ran them to ground.”

  “That is what I was trying to say, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho turned and put his hand on his shoulder. “You spoke only the truth.”

  Avery looked down at the strong, sunburned hand resting on his coat. It was like being someone else, not himself at all. Even when he replied it was like hearing a stranger’s voice.

  “A lieutenant would mean very little, Sir Richard. I could go. I could carry a letter to the rear-admiral if you wish it.”

  He felt Bolitho’s fingers tighten on his shoulder as he said quietly, “He will not come. I know it.”

  Avery waited. There was pain in his voice.

  Bolitho said, “But it was well said.” The hand was withdrawn.

  Avery said tentatively, “Captain Sampson might care to invite him to dine also.”

  At that moment the captain entered and strode straight to his wine cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of cognac and said huskily, “I beg your pardon, Sir Richard.” He downed the glass quickly and refilled it. “Gangrene is a nasty thing. Too late anyway.” He looked at them wearily. “This is not what I intended for your visit, Sir Richard!”

  Avery cleared his throat noisily. “Sir Richard was wondering if you might extend your invitation to Rear-Admiral Herrick, sir?”

  Sampson stared at them, like a drowning man who sees the unexpected arrival of aid.

  “I would be delighted, Sir Richard! I shall inform my servant immediately and send word to the Prince Henry in my launch.

  Bolitho studied his flag lieutenant. “You take many chances, sir.” He saw him look down in embarrassment. “But as Our Nel was known to have said, standing orders will never replace a zealous officer’s initiative!” He smiled. “He still may not come.” A small inner voice seemed to say, You may never see him again. Never. Like Sampson, like the ships that pass and remain only in memory.

  Sampson’s personal steward bustled in, almost another Ozzard but with the accent of the East London slums. He poured more wine and remarked, “Beggin’ yer pardon, Sir Richard, but me old dad served under you in th’ frigate Undine. Begs many a tot o’ rum from anyone oo’ll listen to ’is yarns abaht it!”

  He left the cabin and Bolitho looked at the warm wine. The family again. And yet he had not even told him his name.

  As dusk closed in across the moored ships and the riding lights twinkled on the water like fireflies, Bolitho heard a boat hooking on to the chains. The handful of available marines stamped to attention, and there were muffled voices as Sampson greeted the second flag officer to visit him in days.

  Bolitho found he was watching the screen door, while Avery stood by the stern windows, barely more than a shadow in the flickering candlelight. Why had he doubted that Herrick would come? Not curiosity, or because of friendship, but because he was and always had been a stickler for duty and correct procedures. He would never show disrespect for Captain Sampson’s invitation, no matter what he might think.

  That was the worse part, Bolitho thought. He knew him so well, too well perhaps.

  A marine sentry opened the door and they came into the candlelight.

  Bolitho had two immediate surprises. He could not recall ever seeing Herrick out of uniform, even of the more casual order at sea, and he was shocked to see how he seemed to have aged in so short a time.

  Herrick wore a dark frock coat; it could have been black, with only his shirt to break the sombreness of his appearance. He was a little more stooped, probably because of the wound taken aboard his flagship Benbow. His face was drawn, with deep lines at the mouth, but as he stepped into the dancing lights his eyes were unaltered, as clear and blue as the day Bolitho had met him as a lieutenant.

  They shook hands, Herrick’s grip still hard and firm like tanned leather.

  Bolitho said, “It is good to see you, Thomas. I never thought we should meet like this.”

  Herrick glanced at the tray of glasses, which the black servant was holding out for his inspection.

  He asked curtly, “Ginger beer?”

  Sampson shook his head and began to worry. “I regret, no, sir.”

  “No matter.” Herrick took a glass of red wine and said, “I never thought it either, Sir Richard. But we must do what we must and I have no desire to remain in England,” his blue eyes steadied, “unemployed.”

  Surprisingly Bolitho recalled the tall marine who had
pointed out “the good stuff ” at Hamett-Parker’s reception in London. How he had said it was wrong that Herrick should be sent to New South Wales.

  Herrick glanced at Avery and then at the gold cord on his shoulder. “The other one was appointed elsewhere, I believe?”

  “Yes. Stephen Jenour has a command now.”

  “Another lucky young man.”

  “He deserved it.”

  Herrick watched the glass being refilled as if he did not recall drinking from it.

  Then he turned to Captain Sampson. “Your health, sir, but I do not envy your task here.” To the cabin at large he continued, “It is strange, is it not, that on one hand we are weakening our defences and deploying men and ships when they are sorely needed elsewhere simply to find and free a lot of savages who sold each other to the slavers in the first place!” He smiled suddenly and for only a second Bolitho saw the stubborn caring lieutenant he had known. Herrick said, “While on the other hand we ship our own people like animals, nay, less than beasts, in vessels which can only degrade and brutalise every man and woman amongst them!”

  He changed tack and asked, “And how is her ladyship, Sir Richard, and the child Elizabeth—is she well also?”

  “Lady Catherine is in good health, Thomas.” Even calling him by his title had been like a slap in the face.

  Herrick nodded gravely. “Forgive me. I forgot.”

  The meal Sampson provided was surprisingly appetising with some sort of game bird as the main course, and succulent fish which had also been caught by local boats.

  Sampson noticed none of the tension between his two principal guests, or pretended not to. By the time they reached the fruit and some excellent cheese left by a visiting Indiaman, he was barely able to speak without slurring his words.

  Bolitho looked over at him. Sampson was happy nonetheless.

  Herrick asked, “Do you have big matters arising, Sir Richard? They seem to use you hardly. Perhaps I shall be better off in the colony.”

  A lieutenant peered into the cabin. “Mr Harrison’s respects, sir, and the rear-admiral’s boat is alongside.”

  Herrick stood up abruptly and looked at his watch. “On time anyway.” He glanced at the captain but he was fast asleep, snoring gently, with wine on his bulging waistcoat like the work of an enemy marksman.