Keen regarded him gravely. “A word of advice, Mr Pascoe.”
He saw Pascoe’s chin lift stubbornly. That wary glance Keen had grown to know in the past.
He said, “In the wardroom the lieutenants and others can speak as they please provided their private views do not spread among the people. As captain I stand apart, so too does the flag-lieutenant. Despite your wish to serve your uncle, I suspect you accepted the post more to please him than yourself?”
Keen knew he had guessed correctly and saw the shot go home.
He added, “Being a sea officer is totally different from being an admiral’s aide. You have to be discreet, cautious even, for there will be others who might wish to win a confidence.”
He wondered if he should go further and decided it was too important to avoid.
“Some may want to harm your uncle. So stay clear of the rights and wrongs of something you cannot alter. Otherwise, hurtful or not, it were better for you to go ashore right now and beg a replacement from the port-admiral at Spithead.”
Pascoe smiled. “Thank you, sir. I deserved that. But I’d not leave my uncle. Not now. Not ever. He is everything to me.”
Keen watched the young lieutenant’s unusual display of emotion. He knew most of the story anyway. How Pascoe had been born out of wedlock, the son of Bolitho’s dead brother. Bolitho’s brother had been a renegade, a traitor during the American War, and had commanded an enemy privateer with no less audacity than John Paul Jones. It must have been hard on Bolitho. And on this youthful officer who had been sent to seek out Bolitho by his dying mother as his only hope of a future.
Keen said quietly, “I understand.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “Better than you realise.”
The midshipman of the watch hurried across the deck and touched his hat nervously.
Keen looked at him. He was new to the ship as well.
The boy stammered, “Sir, there is a boat putting off from the yard.”
Keen shaded his eyes again and stared across the nettings. One of the shipyard’s own boats was already pulling towards the anchored two-decker. Keen saw the sunlight glint on the gold epaulettes and cocked hat and felt something like panic.
Trust Bolitho not to wait for his barge to be sent across. So he was that eager to get on with the mission, right or wrong.
He kept his face impassive as he said, “My compliments to the officer of the watch, Mr er . . . er . . .”
“Puxley, sir.”
“Well, Mr Puxley, pipe for the side-party and guard.”
He stopped the boy as he made to run for the ladder.
“Walk, Mr Puxley!”
Pascoe turned aside to hide a smile. Bolitho had probably said as much to Keen when he had been a grubby midshipman. He certainly did to me.
As the boatswain’s mates ran between decks and their calls shrilled like trapped birds, the marines stamped to the entry port, their scarlet coats and white crossbelts in stark contrast to the bustling seamen.
Keen beckoned to the officer of the watch and said curtly, “And Mr Mountsteven, I would trouble you to keep a weather-eye open for your betters in future.”
Pascoe straightened his hat and tucked some of his rebellious hair beneath it. Bolitho had probably said that too.
Keen walked to the entry port and looked towards the boat. He could see Bolitho sitting in the sternsheets, that old sword clasped firmly between his knees. To see him join any ship without the family sword would be like sacrilege, he thought.
There was Allday too, massive and watchful as he eyed the boat’s crew with obvious displeasure. What had Pascoe’s predecessor, the Hon. Oliver Browne, called the squadron? We Happy Few. There were very few of them now. Keen glanced at the big red ensign which flapped only occasionally from the poop. But there were enough.
Achates’ first lieutenant, Matthew Quantock, a tall, heavy-jowled Manxman, watched the boat and then said, “All ready, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Quantock.”
In his few weeks aboard while the overhaul was completed and he had gone through every list, log and book which concerned the ship, Keen had felt his way with care. It was not as if he was new to command. But to this ship’s company he was different. A stranger. Until he had won their respect he would take nothing and nobody for granted.
The first lieutenant glanced at the signals midshipman by the foremast and said almost to himself, “I’ll lay odds Old Katie never expected to be a flagship, sir.”
Keen smiled. He had learned something new. Old Katie. A ship with a nickname was usually a happy one.
The boat hooked on to the main-chains and Captain Dewar of the Royal Marines drew his sword. The thin rasp of steel never failed to touch Keen. Like a memory. A chord of battle.
Keen looked at his command. All the idlers had drawn away from the entry port, and even the hands working on the yards high above the deck were motionless as they peered at the little scene below.
The small marine fifers raised their instruments, the boatswain’s mates moistened their silver calls on their tongues.
Keen stepped forward, proud, nervous, apprehensive; it was all and none of these things.
Bolitho’s cocked hat appeared above the scrubbed grating and as the calls shrilled and twittered Captain Dewar roared, “Royal Marines! Present arms!”
On the last command, as the pipe-clay hovered in a pale cloud above the slapped musket-slings, the fifers broke into Heart of Oak.
Bolitho removed his hat to the quarterdeck and then smiled at Keen.
Together they turned to watch as the Union Flag broke smartly from the foremast.
Bolitho gripped Keen’s hand. “They do you credit.”
Keen answered, “And you us, sir.”
Bolitho looked at the stiff faces of the marine guard, the nervous watchfulness of some midshipmen. In time he would know most of them, and they him. He was back, and the green swathe of coastline was only part of a memory.
Bolitho tugged his shirt away from his skin and then put his signature to yet another letter which Yovell, his plump clerk, had prepared for him.
He glanced around the spacious stern cabin. It was larger than he had expected in a ship of some thirteen hundred tons.
Ozzard, his little servant, poured some fresh coffee and bustled away to the adjoining pantry. If he was sorry to be leaving the security of the Bolitho house in Falmouth he did not show it. He was an odd bird, who had once been a lawyer’s clerk before he had chosen the uncertain life in a King’s ship. Some said he had done so to avoid the gallows, but he was worth his weight in gold to Bolitho.
He looked at Keen who was standing by the open stern windows. His good looks and elegant manner revealed nothing of the competent sea officer he really was.
“Well, Val, what do you make of it?”
Keen turned towards him, his face in shadow from the hard sunlight.
“I have studied the chart and appreciate the value of San Felipe in time of war. Whoever commands there is in a strong position.” He shrugged. “A great lagoon, a fortress on high ground which can control the approaches, the town too if need be. I can see no sense in giving it to the French.”
He thought Pascoe was smiling at his words and added, “But I assume their lordships know more than I do.”
Bolitho chuckled. “Do not rely on it, Val.”
The coffee was good. Bolitho felt surprisingly fresh and rested after his first night aboard. The journey had been tiring, the many pauses along the way to take refreshment, to sleep or to change horses had been even more so as he had thought of Belinda and what she had come to mean to him.
But the feel of a ship around him had awakened him also.
The smells of tar and fresh paint, cordage and the packed world of Achates’ five hundred officers, seamen and marines was something he could not ignore, nor did he wish to.
Achates was a well-found ship, and from what he had already discovered held a record second to none. Perhaps Admiral Sheaffe’s choice
had been the right one after all. A small sixty-four instead of a proud squadron which might intimidate the Americans and the French alike.
He said, “I have already sent word to Captain Duncan at Plymouth. He will sail direct to San Felipe in his Sparrowhawk without delay.”
It was easy to picture Duncan’s bluff red face as he read his orders. He too would be glad to get away before his frigate was paid off into oblivion. Duncan had also been with Bolitho’s squadron. It was like knowing Keen in some ways, he thought. They were extensions of his own mind and ideas.
That was something which he still found hard to accept. No longer did he have to wait for the written word from his flag-officer. No more did he need to fret over the uncertainty or unfairness of his place in affairs. Now the decision as to when and how to act was his. So too the final responsibility.
He added, “Duncan’s presence at San Felipe may lessen the shock for the inhabitants there. I doubt if the governor will see it in the same way as Parliament.”
Ozzard tiptoed across the cabin and waited for Bolitho to notice his mole-like figure. Even his hands dangled at his waist like paws.
He said, “Beg pardon, Captain, but the first lieutenant has sent his respects and requires me to tell you that the wind has shifted, though very slight.”
Keen looked at Bolitho and grinned. “I told him to inform me, sir. It’s still not much of a wind, but enough to break out the anchor. With your permission, sir?”
Bolitho nodded. It was infectious. It had not changed after all.
“Yovell, put my despatches in the yard-boat alongside.”
He saw his clerk hold the letter he had written to Belinda with special care. She would be reading it as Achates passed the Lizard on her way to the Atlantic rollers, he thought.
He heard Keen’s voice through the open skylight, the trill of calls and slap of bare feet over the dried planks as the seamen ran to their stations.
Bolitho made himself sit in his chair and sip the coffee. Keen would have enough to deal with as he sailed his ship clear of the land for the first time without having him there as well.
How many times had he stood at the quarterdeck rail, his heart bounding with hope and excitement, searching his soul in case he had forgotten something when it was already too late?
Tackles squeaked and cordage squealed through countless blocks, and very faintly, far away it sounded, Bolitho heard the plaintive notes of a violin while the shantyman added his weight to the men on the capstan bars.
Yovell came back breathing hard.
“All despatches ashore, zur.” His round Devonian dialect seemed to match his handwriting on the many copies of signals and despatches he had penned for Bolitho in the past two years.
Keen returned, his hat tucked beneath one arm.
“The anchor is hove short, sir. I wonder if you would care to join me on deck? It would do well for the people to see you are with them.”
Bolitho smiled. “Thank you, Val.”
Keen hesitated and glanced at Pascoe.
“There is one thing I do not understand, sir. The courier delivered a letter for the flag-lieutenant. He only just reached the ship in time.”
Bolitho looked at his nephew. It was the moment, and it had almost been postponed because of the need to get under way while the feeble wind lasted.
He saw Yovell beaming at him and was suddenly fearful that he had done the wrong thing.
He said, “I shall come on deck directly, Captain Keen.”
Bolitho took the sealed letter and glanced quickly at it to make certain it was the right one. Then he snatched his hat from Ozzard and walked with Keen to the door.
Keen was saying, “I expect it was a careless mistake, sir.”
Bolitho pressed the letter into his nephew’s hand.
“I shall be on deck if you need me.”
Entirely mystified, Keen accompanied him beneath the shadows of the poop deck and past the great double wheel where the helmsmen and quartermaster waited, tensed, for the anchor to break loose from the ground.
The ship was alive with seamen and marines. The topmen were already high aloft on the upper yards, spread out like monkeys as they handled the loosely braided sails. The braces were manned, and as the pawls of the capstan clanked round to the tune of the fiddle, petty officers and master’s mates watched their divisions like hawks, very aware of the flag at the fore.
Allday was on deck by one of the quarterdeck twelve-pounders when he realized that Ozzard had neglected to clip on Bolitho’s sword for him. With a silent curse he darted aft and bustled past the marine sentry into the great cabin.
With a start he saw Pascoe was still there, an open document hanging from one hand.
Like Yovell, who had written most of the letters, Allday knew what the document contained. He had been deeply moved that he was one of the very few who did.
“All right, sir?”
When the youthful lieutenant turned to face him, Allday was shocked to see there were tears on his cheeks.
“Easy, sir! He wanted you to be pleased!”
“Pleased?”
Pascoe took a few paces towards the side and back again. As if he did not understand what was happening.
“And you knew about it, Allday?”
“Aye, sir. After a fashion.”
Allday had seen and done many things, and Bolitho had said more than once that with education he might have achieved a lot more than a sailor’s life. But he did not need to be able to read what was written on the envelope. No wonder Captain Keen had been all aback, he thought.
The letter was addressed to Adam Bolitho, Esq., Flag-Lieutenant on board His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Achates.
Adam stared at the writing, his eyes too blurred with emotion to read much further. The lawyer’s impressive wax seals, the rights to the Bolitho property in Falmouth. He could not go on.
Allday took his elbow and guided him to the bench seat below the stern windows.
“I’ll fetch you a wet, sir. After that we’ll take the old sword on deck together.” He saw him nod and added quietly, “After all, sir, you’re a real Bolitho now. Like him.”
From another world a voice yelled, “Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”
The stamp of feet and the harsh cries of the petty officers seemed to be held at bay.
Allday poured a glass of brandy and carried it to the lieutenant he had known since he had come aboard Bolitho’s Hyperion as a fourteen-year-old midshipman.
“Here, sir.”
Adam said quietly, “You asked me if I was pleased. There are no words for the way I feel. He didn’t have to . . .”
Allday wished he could have a drink too. “It’s what he wanted. What he’s always wanted.”
The deck tilted as the ship continued to pay off to the wind’s thrust in her topsails and jib.
Allday took down the worn old sword from the rack and turned it over in his hands. They had nearly lost it for good last time. He looked at the young lieutenant, the image of the man on deck. It would be his one day.
Lieutenant Adam Bolitho wiped his face with his cuff and said, “Let’s be about it then, eh, Allday?” But the bravado would not hold. He gripped the coxswain’s massive arm and exclaimed, “I’m glad you were here just now.”
Allday grinned as he followed him from the cabin.
Pleased? He was pleased right enough. Otherwise, lieutenant or not, he’d have put the young rascal across his knee and beaten some sense into him.
Adam walked out into the sunlight. He did not see the curious stares, nor did he hear a muttered curse as a hurrying seaman almost fell to the deck as he tripped on the flag-lieutenant’s foot. He took the sword from Allday and held it against Bolitho’s side as he made to clip it into place.
Bolitho watched him and was glad. “Thank you, Adam.”
The lieutenant nodded and tried to speak.
Bolitho took his arm and turned him towards the rolling shoreline as it glided abeam, moving away as the
ship headed into deeper water.
“Later, Adam. There’ll be plenty of time.”
The first lieutenant raised his speaking-trumpet and squinted up through the black rigging.
“Loose t’gan’s’ls!”
He glanced at the group by the windward side. The youthful vice-admiral with his flag-lieutenant on deck to see if the ship was good enough, more than likely.
Allday saw the glance and hid a grin.
You’ve got a lot to learn, matey, an’ that’s no error.
3 MAN OF ACTION
FOR A FULL week after weighing anchor Achates was the victim of feeble and perverse winds. There was barely an hour when all hands were spared the tasks of trimming the sails in order to avoid losing steerage-way or being forced back over their previous course.
The deadly monotony was having its effect on the ship’s company. After all the haste and excitement of getting away from the land, the sudden torpor had resulted in more than one flogging at the gratings because of frayed tempers and bursts of insubordination.
Bolitho had watched Keen’s face after one of the floggings. Some captains would have cared nothing for the routine of punishment, but Keen was different. It was typical of Bolitho that it never occurred to him that Keen had gained his experience under his command.
Keen had remarked, “The worst part of it is I can understand their feelings. Some have not set foot ashore since returning from the Indies. Now they’re off again. Grateful to be spared the poverty of being without work, but resentful at what is little better than pressed service.”
The start of the second week brought a freshening wind from the north-east, and with spray bursting beneath her weathered figurehead it had brought life to the ship once more.
The masthead lookouts had sighted only a few sails on the blurred horizon, and these had changed tack and headed away immediately. Home-bound ships, out of touch for many months with the events in Europe, would take no chances when sighting a man-of-war. War might have broken out again for all they knew. Some masters might still not know that an armistice had even been signed.
Success to the Brave Page 3
