Perhaps in that cool Admiralty room it had sounded childish.
Sheaffe had replied calmly, “And we do not wish you to provoke a war either, sir!”
As if to finalize the moment of departure, one of the horses stamped its hoof on the cobbles.
Bolitho kissed her hard on the mouth and tasted the salt of her tears.
“I shall return, Belinda.”
Very gently they prised themselves apart and Bolitho walked down the worn steps to the waiting carriage.
Allday was standing with a groom, but Bolitho gestured to the open door.
“Ride with me, Allday.”
He turned and glanced back at her. Against the grey stone she looked strangely vulnerable and he wanted to hold her just once more.
The next instant he was in the carriage and the wheels were clattering over the cobbles and through the gates.
It was done.
Allday sat with his fingers clasped and watched Bolitho’s grave features and tried to measure the depth of his mood.
Seven months ashore seemed a lifetime to Allday, although he knew better than to suggest as much to Bolitho. It was probably the longest he had been away from a King’s ship since that first time when he had made his living here in Cornwall as a shepherd, when a man-of-war, one commanded by Bolitho, had dropped anchor and landed her press-gang to scavenge for hands. There had been several local men caught that day. Allday had been one, the steward Ferguson another. Poor Ferguson had lost an arm at the Saintes but, like Allday, had stayed with Bolitho ever since.
The warm air, the heavy scent of the countryside were making him drowsy, and he knew that although Bolitho wanted companionship for the long haul to the Beaulieu River in Hampshire where their next ship was lying, he did not want to gossip. There would be time enough for that in the weeks and months ahead.
Another ship. What would she be like? Allday was surprised that he could still be curious. In his strong position as the vice-admiral’s personal coxswain he had nothing to fear from anyone. But he was too much of a seaman not to be interested.
Not a great first rate of a hundred guns or more, not even a new seventy-four like Benbow, Bolitho’s last flagship, but the smallest ship of the line still in commission.
His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Achates of sixty-four guns was one of a dying breed. More like an oversized frigate than a massive line-of-battle ship which could withstand the pounding and destruction of close action.
She was twenty-one years old, a true veteran, and had seen every kind of combat in her time. She had spent most of her recent years in the Caribbean and had sailed countless leagues from her base in Antigua to the far south along the Spanish Main.
Allday wondered uneasily why she had been allotted to Bolitho as his flagship. To his simple reasoning it seemed like one more slur. He should have been given a knighthood for what he had done and endured for England. But always there seemed to be someone in authority who nursed some dislike or hatred of the man for whom Allday would willingly die if need be.
He thought of the parting he had just witnessed. What a fine pair they made. The lovely lady with the long chestnut hair and the youthful vice-admiral whose hair was as jet-black as the day Allday had joined his ship as a pressed hand.
From the opposite seat Bolitho saw Allday’s head loll into a doze and felt the strength of the man, was grateful for his presence here.
Allday had thickened out and looked as if nothing could ever break him. The oak. He smiled to himself in spite of his sense of loss at leaving Belinda when she most needed him.
He had known Allday like a raging lion on the reddened deck of one ship or another. And he had seen him in tears as he had carried Bolitho below when he had been badly wounded in battle. It was impossible to imagine any place without Allday.
Bolitho also thought about his new flagship for this special commission which would take him to America and the Caribbean.
There was comfort in knowing that her new captain was also a good friend. Valentine Keen, who had once been one of Bolitho’s midshipmen, who had shared excitement and sorrow in very different circumstances. Achates’ previous captain had died of a fever as his ship had sailed home from Antigua to the yard where she had been built to undergo a much needed overhaul and refit.
It would be good to have Keen as his flag-captain, he thought. He watched Allday’s head fall to his chest and remembered it had been he who had once saved Keen’s life, had personally cut a jagged splinter from his groin because he had not trusted the ship’s drunken surgeon.
Bolitho watched a group of farm workers by a field gate as they paused to drink rough cider from great earthenware jugs.
A few glanced at the carriage, one even raised his arm in salute. The word would soon be around Falmouth. A Bolitho was leaving again. Would he return?
He thought of Belinda in that big, quiet house. If only . . .
Bolitho looked at the new gold lace on his coat and tried to settle his thoughts on the months ahead. He was not the first sea officer to leave home when a wife or family most needed him.
Nor would he be the last.
The peace could not endure, no matter what the politicians and experts proclaimed. Too many had already died, too many scores were still unsettled.
With sixty of England’s one hundred ships of the line laid up and out of commission, and some forty thousand seamen and marines discharged, the French would be stupid to ignore such complacency.
He tried to concentrate on Achates’ eventual destination, the island of San Felipe which lay across the Windward Passage between Cuba and Haiti like a rugged sentinel. The island’s history was as wild and bloody as some others in the Caribbean. Originally Spanish, it had been occupied and held by France until the American Rebellion when it had been seized by Britain after a series of attacks at great cost to both sides.
Now, as part of the agreement with France, the island was to be handed back as a sign of good faith. But when Admiral Rodney’s ships had taken the island in 1782, just a year after Achates’ keel had first slipped into salt water, it had been a barren, hostile place. Now, according to all the information Bolitho had obtained from the Admiralty, it was both prosperous and thriving.
The present governor was a retired vice-admiral, Sir Humphrey Rivers, Knight of the Bath. He had made his life on San Felipe, had even named the port Georgetown to mark the island’s permanent place under the British flag.
There was an excellent harbour, and the island’s trade thrived on sugar, coffee and molasses, the growing prosperity owing much to a secondary population of slaves which had been brought originally from Africa.
Admiral Sheaffe had explained that whereas in war San Felipe had provided an excellent outpost to command the routes to Jamaica and a strategic base for hunting down enemy privateers, in peace it was a liability, unnecessary to the British Crown.
It had made no sense at the time, and as the carriage gathered speed down a steep incline and the sea reappeared on Bolitho’s right, it made even less now.
Surely if the island was worth dying for it was worth keeping?
It seemed like a betrayal, more callous than Bolitho would have believed possible. Why then had he been chosen for the task instead of a skilled politician?
A man of tact as well as a man of action, Sheaffe had said.
Bolitho smiled grimly. He had heard that kind of explanation many times. If you were proved right others received the praise. If you made the wrong move you took all the blame.
He shut his orders from his mind. It was useless to plan beyond the written word. Everything might have changed by the time his ship next dropped anchor.
It would be strange not to have Browne as his flag-lieutenant. Intelligent, skilled with the ways of admiralty and government, Browne had been a tower of strength since he had been appointed as his aide. Now Browne was the lord and master of estates and property Bolitho could only guess at, his father having died in the last few months.
&nbs
p; Browne had come to Cornwall to say his farewell. It had been a wrench for both of them. Bolitho had decided then and there he would ask his nephew, Adam Pascoe, to take his place. With so many young officers being put ashore it seemed right to offer him the post, even though it went against Bolitho’s instinct to use his authority to grant a favour. But he loved his nephew as if he had been his own son, and they had come through many hazards together. The experience would do him good.
Browne had raised a doubtful eyebrow at the idea. Perhaps he had been trying to warn him against having one so close as an aide, one who is supposed to stand aside and remain impartial when required.
But to be without a ship at the age of twenty-one, when he most needed a chance to further his career, had seemed a more weighty argument.
Bolitho rested his head on the warm leather seat.
Valentine Keen, Adam and Allday. They would sustain each other. There would be no more other familiar faces this time, or would there?
Achates had originally commissioned at the Nore, whereas Bolitho was more used to West Country ships or those from Spithead.
Belinda had been so pleased at his sudden and advanced promotion, when all he had wanted was to be with her when their first child was born.
Vice-Admiral of the Red. It barely seemed to matter. Some had even compared him with Nelson! Curiously enough, this made Bolitho uneasy, as if he were merely playing a part. It was indeed odd to realize that Achates was almost a twin of Nelson’s favourite and his last command before his own promotion to flag-rank. His famous Agamemnon had been laid down and built in the same yard, that of Henry Adams of Bucklers Hard on the Beaulieu River.
The dwindling number of sixty-fours had one sure advantage. Bigger than anything faster. Faster than anything bigger. No wonder captains of heavier vessels looked on them with begrudging admiration.
Nelson had once said of his little Agamemnon that she was an excellent sailer and even when running close to the wind under storm-staysails could match many a frigate.
Bolitho wondered if Keen was equally agreeable with Achates. After his recent command of a powerful seventy-four he might already be regretting his decision to accept the role of Bolitho’s flag-captain.
The horses slowed to a gentle trot while some sheep crossed the narrow road and bustled their way into an adjoining field.
A young woman with a child on her hip, her husband’s midday meal carried in a red handkerchief, stared at the carriage as it moved past. She bobbed her head to Bolitho and flashed him a white smile.
Bolitho thought of Belinda, how she would manage when their child was born. A son to follow the tradition, to walk the deck of a new generation of King’s ships. A daughter perhaps, to grow up and win the heart of a young man in a world he might never know.
Bolitho had confided little of his mission to Belinda. He wanted to keep her free of worry. Also she might resent the reason for his leaving her when she had time to think about it.
He tried to think about San Felipe’s governor, the man who would have to hand over his tiny kingdom to their old foe.
He glanced at Allday, now rolling gently to the carriage’s motion and fast asleep. He had known all about Sir Humphrey Rivers, Knight of the Bath.
Bolitho smiled. Allday gathered information about the comings and goings in the fleet and hoarded it as a magpie guards its treasure trove of coloured glass and beads.
Rivers had captained a frigate named Crusader during the American Revolution at about the same time when Bolitho had been given his first command, the little sloop-of-war Sparrow.
He had made quite a name for himself hunting French privateers and taking prizes of every shape and size. One day near the Chesapeake he had misjudged the danger in his eagerness to run down an American brig. His Crusader had ploughed into some shallows and had become a total wreck. Rivers had been taken prisoner but had returned to Britain after the war.
He was said to have made influential friends during his captivity, and afterwards when he had been promoted to command a squadron in the West Indies. He had money in the City of London, property too in Jamaica. He did not sound like the kind of man who would fit easily into the plans of the government in Whitehall.
Bolitho grimaced at his reflection in the dusty glass. Not even if the plan was to be offered by someone of equal rank.
The carriage wheels dipped and shuddered through some deep ruts in the road and Bolitho winced as the pain of his wound dragged at his left thigh like a hot claw.
Belinda had even helped to dispel his self-consciousness about that. Occasionally when the pain was re-awakened he found himself limping and he had felt humiliated because of her.
He stirred on his seat as he recalled her touch in the night, her soft body against his, the secret words which had been lost in their passion for one another. She had kissed the wound where a musket-ball and the surgeon’s probe had left an ugly scar and had made the injury more a mark of pride than a cruel reminder.
All this and more he was leaving behind with each turn of the wheels. Tonight it would be worse when the carriage stopped for the first change of horses in Torbay. It was better to join a ship and sail with the first possible tide and leave no room for regrets and longing.
He looked at Allday and wondered what he really thought about quitting the land yet again with his future as uncertain as the next horizon.
Flag at the fore. Allday was genuinely proud of it. That was something which the Admiral Sheaffes of this world could never understand.
2 “OLD KATIE”
CAPTAIN Valentine Keen walked from beneath the poop and crossed to the larboard nettings. Around him and along the upper gun deck, and high overhead on the yards and rigging, the hands were hard at work.
The officer of the watch touched his hat to Keen and then moved to the opposite side of the deck. Like everyone else, he was careful to appear busy but unconcerned at his captain’s presence.
Keen glanced along his new command. He had already been pulled around Achates in his gig to study her lines and her trim as she rocked gently above her black and buff reflection.
Ready for sea. It was every captain’s personal decision as to when that possibility was a fact. There was no room for second thoughts once the anchor was catted and the ship standing out from the land.
It was warm and humid even for May, and the protective folds of the land were misty with haze. He hoped that some kind of wind would soon get up nonetheless. Bolitho would be impatient to get away, to cut his ties with the shore, although Keen knew his reasons were different from his own.
He shaded his eyes and looked up at the foremast truck. Achates had never worn an admiral’s flag before. It would be interesting to see if it changed her.
He moved into a patch of shade by the poop ladder and watched the activity along the upper deck. The ship had a good feel to her, he thought. Something permanent and hard-won over the years. Several of her lieutenants had once served aboard as midshipmen, and most of her hard core of warrant officers, the backbone of any man-of-war, had been on the books for years.
There was an air of confidence about her, a lively eagerness to get away from the land before she too suffered the fate of so many others. Keen’s own ship, Nicator, a seventy-four, which had distinguished herself at Copenhagen and later in the Bay of Biscay, was already laid up in ordinary. Unwanted, like her people who had fought so hard when the drums had beaten to quarters.
The previous captain had served in Achates for seven years. It was strange that he had commanded the ship for so long a period and had left no trace of his own personality in his quarters. Maybe he had invested it in his ship’s company. They certainly seemed contented enough, although there had been the usual desertions during the overhaul here. Wives, sweethearts, children grown out of all recognition; Keen could hardly blame them for giving in to the temptation to run.
Keen ran his finger round his neckcloth and watched one of the ship’s boats being swayed up and over the gangw
ay and then lowered on to its tier. Every boat would have to be filled with water if this heat held to stop it from opening up.
Keen examined his feelings. He was glad to be leaving, especially with Bolitho. He had served under him twice before in other ships. First as midshipman, then as third lieutenant. They had shared the pain of losing loved ones, and now that Bolitho had married, Keen was still alone.
His thoughts wandered to his orders which Bolitho had sent to him.
A strange mission. Unique in his experience.
He glanced at the starboard line of black eighteen-pounders, run out as if for battle to allow the sailmaker and his crew maximum space on deck for stitching some canvas.
Peace or war, a King’s ship must always be ready. Twice Keen had served under Bolitho between the wars and had known the folly of over-confidence where a signed peace was concerned.
He heard feet on the companion ladder and saw Lieutenant Adam Pascoe climbing on deck.
It never failed to surprise Keen. Pascoe could have been Bolitho’s young brother. The same black hair, although Pascoe’s was cut short at the nape of the neck in the new naval fashion, the same restlessness. Grave and withdrawn one moment, full of boyish excitement the other.
Twenty-one years old, Keen thought. Without a war and its demands on lives and ships Pascoe would be lucky to gain advancement or a ship of his own.
“Good-day, Mr Pascoe. Is everything in the admiral’s quarters to the flag-lieutenant’s liking?”
Pascoe smiled. “Aye, sir. With four of the after eighteen-pounders removed to the hold and replaced by Quakers, the admiral will have plenty of space.”
Keen looked at the quarterdeck and said, “I have seen him content with ten paces of a deck. Back and forth, up and down, his daily stroll to arrange his ideas, to exercise his mind as well as his limbs.”
Pascoe said suddenly, “I see no sense in this mission, sir. We fought the enemy to a standstill so that he needed a peace to lick his wounds. And yet our government has seen fit to give up almost all of our possessions which we won from the French. Everything but Ceylon and Trinidad we have let go and cannot even decide definitely to keep Malta. And now San Felipe is to go the same way, and the admiral’s lot is to have the dirty task of doing it.”
Success to the Brave Page 2
