Two days had passed since the landing party had entered the monastery and had rescued Herrick.
There had been others found there in the same spartan captivity. Apart from the remainder of the monks they had discovered some twenty masters and other officers from the many prizes taken by Baratte and his ships.
Bolitho had listened with great care to each of the prisoners and had built up a much clearer picture in his mind of the enemy's strength. Baratte had employed many small vessels for his attacks, and had fitted out some of his captures as privateers and for spying on ships sailing alone.
Baratte was both well-informed and prepared for any attempt by the military to deploy their transports, without which they would be beaten before they had even started.
Major-General Drummond's force was the obvious target. Baratte would know the strength of the Cape Town squadron, which even with Keen's support would be at great risk.
Bolitho had already dispatched the brig Orcadia with all the information he could muster, and had told Jenour to tell Keen to press the army to hold fast until Baratte's ships could be dealt with.
Jenour had seemed listless and tired, and Bolitho had wished that he had had more time to speak with him. But time was slipping away, and with Thruster gone and Jenour sent to find Keen's ships he was well aware of the need for action. James Tyacke had come aboard only briefly at Bolitho's request, and had confirmed that the unknown English captain had to be a former sea-officer, who had commanded a small frigate in the King's navy until he had been court-martialled for cruelty to enemy prisoners-of-war. He was exactly the kind of unscrupulous character who would fit Baratte's requirements. A man who had recruited a company of scum, most of whom would hang if brought to justice. His name was Simon Hannay: privateer, pirate and murderer, who had for too long struck fear into the hearts of ship masters who sailed alone on the great ocean.
Tyacke had come up against him when he had been controlling a large flotilla of vessels which had preyed regularly along the African coastline. When slavery had been outlawed and the patrols had been strengthened Hannay had discovered that the Arab slave-traders were more frightened of the Devil with half a face than they were of him. Not for the first time he had offered his services to the French, and according to one of the freed prisoners he had been given a thirty-two gun frigate appropriately named Le Corsaire. Baratte flew his flag in another frigate, Chacal. She was new, but little was known about her. Baratte had many other small vessels, brigs, brigantines and former coastal schooners.
Bolitho walked away from the table and stared thoughtfully at the shimmering ocean. It was noon, and by now Tyacke would have clawed his way up to windward, ready to dash down on the two frigates if any strange sail was sighted.
He heard the stamp of feet and the shrill twitter of calls as Captain Dawes of the Laertes was piped aboard. Avery was up there to welcome him with Captain Trevenen.
Bolitho thought of the powerful emotions he had seen on Avery's introspective face when they had buried the two women and the elderly abbot among the wild flowers on the hillside. He himself had been shocked when he had seen the murdered women. Both were young, the wives of fishermen. They had been spared nothing, even the mercy of a quick death. One of the released sailors had told him about the night when the guards had been mad with drink, and their wild cries had mingled with the screams of the women. Simon Hannay had not been there, but he might as well have been. And he would pay for it.
The monks had been almost harder to understand, Bolitho thought. They had displayed neither gratitude nor anger, and had shown little grief at the death of their abbot. Perhaps life on that pitiless islet had destroyed their capacity to feel the normal, worldly emotions of ordinary men.
He thought of Herrick down below in the sickbay, watched over by George Minchin the surgeon. Herrick had suffered greatly, and Minchin had insisted that he be left alone until some progress had been made.
Bolitho could still hear him calling him by name in that filthy cell.
There was a tap at the door and Trevenen, followed by Avery and Captain Dawes, came into the cabin. Dawes was young, about Adam's age, but had the severe deportment of a much older man. Perhaps he already saw himself as an admiral like his father.
Yovell moved to a corner where he could make notes if required, and Ozzard stood with a napkin over his arm while he waited to serve refreshments.
Trevenen sat down heavily. He had almost shown surprise when he had seen the man who had posed as the abbot and who had broken Herrick's hand with a rock shot to death by the captain of marines.
He had said in his harsh voice, "It was quite unexpected, Sir Richard."
Bolitho had faced him calmly, the dead women's contorted features still clear in his mind.
"I do not enjoy seeing a man die, even scum like that one. I simply could not think of a reason for allowing him to live."
While Avery held the chart, Bolitho discussed the despatch he had sent with Jenour.
"Although it depletes our strength still further, it may prevent a greater loss of life."
Dawes peered at the chart. Two frigates, Sir Richard?" His eyes sharpened. He was already seeing fame and prize money. "We can manage to dish them up!"
Trevenen said doubtfully, "The renegade, Simon Hannay -what do we know of him?"
"Commander Tyacke knows him as well as anyone, but stories of his bloody career are legion."
Why was Trevenen so unwilling to take Tyacke's word? He seemed to sift every event as if looking for flaws. Or what he considered to be a waste. Like the rescued mariners and the prisoners, for instance. Bolitho had seen him complaining to the purser about the extra mouths he would have to feed. It was as if it would all come out of his own pocket.
He said quietly, "The real puzzle remains the role of the American, Unity. Without her interference we can tackle Baratte, and win."
Trevenen interrupted, "He'd not risk war, Sir Richard!" He sounded outraged.
"He might have a plan." Bolitho studied them, and wished Adam were present. "His government did not send their most experienced captain in their greatest frigate merely to show the flag. In his place I know what I would do. I would provoke an argument. It is nothing new in war, or in peace either, for that matter."
Trevenen was unconvinced. "Suppose Baratte has more men-of-war than we know of?"
"I'm sure he has. But the main force sailing from India will be heavily escorted. There will even be some of John Company's ships taking part. My guess is that Baratte will deploy his strength in their direction." He looked at Dawes. "Remember, your ship was once his, and I am his most hated enemy. Both good reasons for engaging us, eh?"
He heard the sentry murmuring outside the screen door and saw Ozzard scurry over to open it.
Bolitho's heart sank. It was Minchin, the surgeon. He said, "If you will excuse me, gentlemen. Take some wine before we eat." He spoke so easily that neither of the captains would have recognised his anxiety.
Minchin waited for the door to close. "I'd not disturb you, Sir Richard, but..."
"Is it Rear-Admiral Herrick?"
The surgeon ran his fingers through his untidy grey hair.
"I'm troubled about him. He's in great pain. I'm only a ship's surgeon butchers they call the likes of us..."
Bolitho touched his arm. "Have you forgotten Hyperion so soon? But for you, many more would have died that day,"
Minchin shook his head. "Some would have been better off if they had."
They walked to the lower companionway and Bolitho saw Allday sitting on an upturned water cask working on one of his carvings. He glanced across, his eyes full of understanding, as if he had spoken aloud.
Deeper into Valkyrie's great hull to the orlop deck below the waterline. Here all sounds of sea and wind were muted, with only the timbers murmuring like voices in the depths of the ocean itself. Here were stores, cordage, tar and paint, the canvas lockers and the hanging magazine. The very stuff of the ship herself.
> They entered the sickbay, spacious and well-lit in contrast to most of those Bolitho had seen. The surgeon's mate closed a book he had been reading and glided past.
Herrick was staring at the door as they entered, as if he had known they were coming.
Bolitho leaned over the cot. "How are you, Thomas?"
He was afraid that Herrick might forget what they had shared, that he might turn against him again.
Herrick studied him, his eyes very blue in the fixed lanterns. "It plagues me, Richard, but I have had a lot of time to think. About you, about us." He tried to smile but his face was stiff with agony. He said, "You look tired, Richard..." He made as if to reach out, then suddenly screwed his eyes tightly shut and said quietly, "I'll lose my hand, won't I?"
Bolitho saw the surgeon nod. It was almost curt, as if he had already decided. He looked at Minchin. "Well?"
The surgeon sat down on a chest. "It has to be done, sir." He faltered. To the elbow."
Herrick gasped. "Oh, my God!"
"Are you certain?" Bolitho glanced at the surgeon's reddened features.
Minchin nodded. "As soon as possible, sir. Otherwise..." He did not need to continue.
Bolitho put his hand gently on Herrick's shoulder. "Is there anything I can do?"
Herrick opened his eyes and said, "I have failed you."
Bolitho tried to smile. "No, Thomas. Think of yourself. Try to hold on."
Herrick stared up at him. He had been washed and shaved and to a stranger would appear quite normal. He peered at the blood-stained bandages on his broken hand.
"Send the telescope to my sister... if I can't fight it, Richard."
Bolitho looked back from the door. "You will fight it. And win, too."
The walk to the cabin seemed endless. To Allday he said, "I have a favour to ask, old friend."
Allday nodded his shaggy head, and rolled up the leather cloth in which he carried his knives and the sail maker twine he used for rigging his ship models.
"Never fear, Sir Richard, I'll stay with him." He watched the pain in Bolitho's eyes. "I'll tell you if anything happens."
"Thank you." He touched his powerful arm but was unable to say more.
Allday watched him approach the door, where the sentry was already as stiff as a rammer in spite of the heavy motion.
Once through the door, face to face with his assembled captains, he would show nothing of his private despair. Allday was certain of it. What did they know? All they wanted was glory and someone to lead and protect them.
Ozzard came through the door and Allday said roughly, "You got some brandy, Tom? The best stuff?"
Ozzard studied him. Not for himself then. This was different.
"I'll fetch it for you, John."
"I'll have a wet me self afterwards."
Afterwards. The finality of the word seemed to linger long after Allday had gone below.
Captain Adam Bolitho glanced at his reflection in the cabin mirror and frowned as he tugged his waistcoat into place and adjusted the sword at his hip. Anemone was plunging badly in the quarter-sea, and the cabin's heavy humidity warned of rain quite soon. Not rain as over the fields and villages of Cornwall, but heavy, mind-dulling deluges which could often pass away from a ship before any worthwhile drinking water had been saved. But he could leave that to his first lieutenant.
Adam Bolitho hated the ritual of a flogging, although to most sailors it was something that could never be permanently avoided. Perhaps this one had been the result of the endless patrols, sighting nothing unless it was a courier-brig or some trader trying to stay friendly. with both sides in a war he did not understand. Boredom, disappointment after losing their prizes to the enemy when before they had cheered, a close company at least until the news had been passed to them by a naval cutter on the anti-slavery patrol: Anemone's people were restless and surly. Sail and gun drills could no longer contain their frustration, and their eager expectation of close combat with the real enemy had given way to a sullen resentment.
The man in question had struck a petty officer after an argument about a change of duties. At other times Adam would have demanded an enquiry into the incident, but in this case the petty officer was an experienced and unusually patient seaman. Adam had known the reverse many times, when authority was abused even by officers, and the resulting discipline was unjust although administered in the name of duty.
The sailor was a land man one of those pressed off Portsmouth Point who, despite several threats, had remained a rebel, a lower-deck lawyer as Adam had heard his uncle describe such men.
There was a tap at the door and the first lieutenant looked into the cabin, his expression vaguely surprised, as if he had almost forgotten what his captain looked like in full uniform.
"Yes, Aubrey, what is it?" He regretted his curtness immediately. "Are you ready?"
Martin said uncertainly, "I believe this was my fault, sir. As the senior aboard I should have foreseen it. Nipped it in the bud."
As if to mock his words they heard the trill of calls, the sudden scamper of bare feet.
"All hands! All hands lay aft to witness punishment!"
Adam answered, "In a way I can understand how they feel, but empathy is a luxury in which no captain should indulge for long. We are always at risk, Aubrey, even with those we think we know. I have heard of it many times. When the ship is a tinderbox for whatever reason, even understanding can be mistaken for weakness."
Martin nodded, and guessed the captain had learned much of what he said from Richard Bolitho.
He asked, "Any further orders, sir?"
Adam looked away. He was showing that same weakness even by discussing it. He said, "Both watches at six bells this afternoon. We will alter course again, the next leg of our patrol." He tried to smile but the effort was too much. "In two days, maybe three, we should sight the commodore's convoy. There will be plenty to do for all of us then!" He was conscious that he had not mentioned Keen by name. Was that all part of his guilt?
They went on deck together, the sun high overhead making each set sail appear transparent against the taut black rigging.
The Royal Marines were lined up across the quarterdeck with their lieutenant, Montague Baldwin. The curved sabre he favoured was already drawn and resting across his shoulder. Lieutenant Dacre was the officer-of-the-watch and stood beside Partridge the sailing master, youth and old age together. The midshipmen and other warrant ranks stood by the quarterdeck rail, while on the gun deck, the gangways, and clinging to the shrouds the bulk of Anemone's company watched in silence.
Martin saw the captain nod and give his own signal for the ritual to begin. The prisoner was brought up, a tall erect figure, head upheld like some well-known felon going to the gallows, flanked by Gwynne the boatswain and one of his mates, and followed by McKillop the surgeon and by the master-at-arms. Then there was complete silence, and even the bellying canvas seemed still.
"Uncover!" The few present wearing hats removed them.
Some men watched the prisoner, who had been generally disliked until now; the rest kept their eyes on the slim, dark-haired figure with the gleaming epaulettes, surrounded by his officers, protected by the double rank of marines, and yet completely alone.
Adam removed his hat and tugged the Articles of War from his coat. As he did so he looked at the prisoner. Of one company, he thought, yet a thousand miles apart.
His voice was steady and without emotion, so that many of the assembled seamen and marines barely heard him. Not that it mattered: the old Jacks at least knew the relevant articles by heart. Adam even imagined that he saw the carpenter nudge one of his mates when he reached the last line. ... Or shall suffer death as is hereinafter mentioned." He shut the folder and added, "Given under my hand in His Britannic Majesty's Ship Anemone." He replaced his cocked hat. "Carry out the sentence."
The grating had already been rigged against the gangway, and before he could resist the prisoner was stripped to the waist and seized up, arms apart,
with further lashings to hold his legs so that he was spreadeagled.
Adam saw the youngest midshipman closing and opening his fists, but not out of pity. His eyes were fixed on the man's muscular back with the expression of a stag-hound approaching a kill.
Adam snapped, "Carry on, Mr. Gwynne."
Somebody shouted, "You show 'em, Toby!"
Lieutenant Baldwin said calmly, "Steady, marines."
It reminded Adam of Keen when he had served under him. He had used the same tone in moments of great tension, like a groom calming a nervous mount.
"Take that man's name!"
Gwynne the boatswain, who was completely deaf in one ear after close action with a French man-of-war, called, "How many, sir?"
Alexander Kent - Bolitho 20 Darkening Sea Page 28
