The Darkening Sea

by Alexander Kent

Richie smiled for the first time that he could remember.

  ‘It’s called trust,’ he said.

  * * *

  13

  Just Like Us

  * * *

  BY LATE JANUARY 1810 Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho’s little squadron was complete, and as far as the Admiralty was concerned no further reinforcements could be expected.

  Bolitho was disappointed but hardly surprised. He had been heartened by the arrival at Cape Town of the last army transports, which had been escorted all the way from Portsmouth and the Downs by Commodore Keen’s own ships. Fate had decreed that the two seventy-fours that had been the convoy’s main protection had both served under Bolitho’s flag in the Caribbean campaign, which had culminated in the capture of Martinique. One, the elderly Matchless, was commanded by the testy Irish earl, Lord Rathcullen, a difficult man at the best of times; but it had been he who had disobeyed orders and sailed in support of Bolitho’s small force, which had been under attack and hopelessly out-numbered. By hoisting a rear-admiral’s flag, Rathcullen had forced the enemy to believe that Herrick was also at sea with a much stronger squadron, when he had in fact remained ashore. Rathcullen’s voice often twisted in Bolitho’s mind, repeating what Herrick had said. I’ll not be blamed twice. Only at Freetown, when he had dined with Herrick for the last time, had Bolitho truly known the strength of his bitterness.

  The other two-decker was the Glorious. Keen had been wise to choose her for his flagship, Bolitho thought. Her captain, John Crowfoot, who had the appearance of a stooping village clergyman, would be easier to deal with on day-to-day matters than Rathcullen.

  Keen’s other escorts had returned with obvious haste to England. Perhaps their lordships had been afraid that Bolitho might overstep his authority and gather them under his flag.

  Aboard the Valkyrie, his relations with Trevenen had not improved. When Adam arrived triumphantly with his captures, the American privateer Tridente as well as a useful French merchant brig which he had cut out at Lorraine Island, Trevenen had scarcely been able to contain his anger and envy.

  Bolitho had sent the two prizes, along with the U.S. brig Eaglet to Freetown where a court would decide their eventual fate. The brig H.M.S. Thruster, which arrived eventually at the Cape in company with Jenour’s Orcadia, had been sent with them. She would not be much use as a fighting escort but would serve as a daily reminder to the vessel’s crews of the King’s authority.

  Bolitho had moved aboard Valkyrie, even though most flag officers would have preferred more comfortable quarters ashore with the garrison. He felt that his place was at sea, or to at least be able to up-anchor if any further news was received concerning Baratte’s whereabouts. Of Herrick there had been no word at all. Did Baratte think that an attack would be launched to release him? Or was he being held as hostage for some other reason?

  He looked at Yovell who was hunched over the small desk, his pen busily scraping out a fresh set of orders for the various captains. The ship was as quiet as usual, and yet he imagined he could feel a difference. A ship was said to be as good as her captain and no better. Trevenen had gone over to Keen’s Glorious, where he would soon be joined by all the other captains.

  He picked up his hat and said, ‘I shall go on deck. Come across with me when they call away my boat.’

  He found Avery on the quarterdeck talking quietly with Allday. The barrier was down, it seemed, and Bolitho was thankful for both their sakes.

  He shaded his eyes to stare at his little array of ships, dominated by the two seventy-fours. Valkyrie would seem as big as themselves to their lookouts and idlers, he thought. It was strange how old ships parted and eventually joined up together again. The family. In his last squadron, when he had flown his flag in Black Prince, there had been a seventy-four named Valkyrie. What had happened to her, he wondered? Wrecked, blown up in some unknown fight, or paid off into rotting old age like the ship at Freetown …? He glanced along the frigate’s wide deck and at the men who were working at the hundred and one tasks which daily needed doing.

  Some of them looked up, and he thought one was the young sailor who had smiled at him.

  Loyalty went from the top downwards. It was not merely Trevenen’s fault that this was an unhappy ship. It begins with me.

  He looked towards the shore and the white-painted buildings and imagined the soldiers drilling in their constant cloud of dust.

  They could not wait much longer. A regiment would eventually sail from India, while this force would approach the French islands from the south-west.

  He began to pace slowly up and down, barely conscious of the heat across his shoulders.

  The enemy must know of their preparations. With so many merchantmen and coastal traders coming and going it would be impossible to keep anything a secret for long. And what of the big U.S. frigate, Unity? Was she snug in harbour at Bourbon or Mauritius? She would certainly raise the enemy’s hopes if she were.

  He knew Allday had stopped talking to watch him. His concern both warmed and troubled Bolitho, and he wondered how soon it would be before Avery found out about his eye. Then what would he do? Write to Sillitoe perhaps to reveal a weakness in Bolitho he had known nothing about?

  He thought of the letters he had received from Catherine. Vivid descriptions of the countryside, the preparations for Christmas, and her unexpected and personal venture into commerce with the purchase of the collier brig, Maria José. Poor Roxby must have been horrified at the idea, a woman’s place being, in his view, very much in the home.

  When he had first boarded Keen’s flagship upon her arrival here, Bolitho had been astonished by the change in him. Still outwardly youthful, Keen had shown a new maturity, a pride in his promotion and all that it represented. When Bolitho had told him of Adam’s successes and the taking of three prizes, he had felt his genuine pleasure.

  ‘I told Lady Catherine before I left that he would do well. The scope of a whole ocean rather than clawing around Brest or Biscay is exactly what he needs!’

  So far, so good, Bolitho thought. Adam would be over there right now with the others. Their first meeting since … since what?

  Allday moved from the shadow of the hammock nettings. ‘The gig’s coming alongside, Sir Richard.’ He still sounded disgusted that Bolitho should have to make do with the captain’s gig rather than a proper barge like the one in Black Prince.

  Avery joined him by the quarterdeck and watched Urquhart, the first lieutenant, speaking with the captain of marines while the side-party mustered by the entry port.

  ‘I was wondering, sir. Will the prizes that were sent to Freetown cause any friction with the Americans?’

  Bolitho watched him. Avery was managing to drop the use of his title on these informal occasions, and Bolitho himself felt less distanced because of it, more approachable. Allday, of course, still refused to call him anything but Sir Richard.

  He considered the question. Avery had been giving it some serious thought. Few others had, apparently. Theirs had been an ‘It’s a knock at the Frenchies and to hell with all those who help them’ attitude. Avery had weighed the possible consequences, and Bolitho was glad of his involvement.

  ‘Tridente fired on and boarded a British vessel before removing Rear-Admiral Herrick as a prisoner. That is an act of war, with or without the presence of the French lieutenant who led the boarders. Eaglet was, or was not, about her lawful occasions, but she fired on Anemone and she was carrying English deserters or the like.’ He smiled at the lieutenant’s intent expression. ‘Doubtful? It will be up to the courts to decide the rights and wrongs of it. My nephew did well, and I will stand by his actions before the very highest authority. As for the French brig, she will raise a few guineas in prize money or she may become an addition to the fleet.’ He clapped his arm. ‘I do not think our countries will go to war over it.’ He paused. ‘Not yet, in any case.’

  They walked down to the entry port and Bolitho saw Yovell, complete with his weighty satchel of papers, alr
eady in the swaying boat.

  He glanced at Urquhart. He was a good lieutenant, or could be. Bolitho hesitated and made certain that the captain of marines was out of earshot.

  ‘A word, Mr Urquhart.’ He saw him stiffen and stare at a point above his admiral’s shoulder. ‘I understand that you have made it known that you would be prepared to act as prize-master in any future successes?’

  Urquhart swallowed hard. ‘I – I did not speak with the captain, Sir Richard, I …’

  Bolitho studied him. Young, experienced; it would be a waste as well as a loss to the fleet.

  ‘I hear far more than people give me credit for.’ He eyed him impassively. ‘It would mean the end of your hopes. To throw away a position on this proud new vessel would be seen as something more, I think.’ He recalled Avery’s bitterness at their first meeting. ‘You are a lieutenant, Mr Urquhart, and a lieutenant you would remain. You could be inviting oblivion.’

  ‘It is only that …’

  ‘I do not wish to hear, Mr Urquhart. You are committed: I am not. Whatever you may disagree with or find disagreeable, you must consider your part in it, in this ship. D’you understand what I am saying, man?’

  ‘I think so, Sir Richard.’ His eyes moved to meet Bolitho’s. ‘I will take the matter no further.’

  Bolitho nodded. ‘There is the brig Orcadia out yonder. She is commanded by a man who was once a lieutenant, and then a prize-master, but there was a difference. I ordered it, and now he holds a command. As a matter of fact, I got my first command after being given a prize to navigate. But remember: it is so ordered. You do not choose as you please.’ He watched his uncertainty and wondered how Allday had discovered the lieutenant’s secret.

  Bolitho stepped away, and immediately the Royal Marines and side-party sprang into action.

  Allday knew what had just happened. Equally, he knew that the flag lieutenant did not. He followed Avery down into the gig and squeezed against the plump secretary. He did not even glance at the stiff-backed, wooden-faced crew. Allday was thankful he did not have to serve under someone like Trevenen. The first lieutenant had looked stunned by Bolitho’s words: not advice this time, but a warning. He was a fool if he ignored it, Allday thought. But then, most lieutenants were.

  He watched like a hawk as Bolitho descended into the gig, and almost raised one hand to his aid.

  Avery saw it. He had noticed it before. He saw Yovell watching him, his eyes glinting behind his spectacles. He shared this unknown secret too, as did the uncommunicative servant, Ozzard.

  ‘Bear off forrard! Out oars, give way all!’

  Allday watched the lieutenant in charge of the boat, here out of necessity because there was a senior officer aboard, and as nervous as a cat because of it.

  Bolitho shaded his eyes again to watch the Anemone as the boat pulled swiftly abeam. There were men on cradles over the tumblehome busy with paint and brushes where the Tridente’s marksmen had fired on Adam’s ship until Anemone’s measured broadside had completely disabled her. She had left here towed by the captured Eaglet. Nobody could criticise Adam for risking an unsupported attack through a barely-known reef. There had been no other ship available. Bolitho smiled grimly. Had things gone against him, however, Adam more than anyone must have known what it would have cost him.

  He studied the other vessels of his small command, the scarlet coats already assembled on Glorious’s deck to receive him.

  Not a fleet, but properly and aggressively used it might be enough. When Thruster returned and Tyacke arrived from his patrol, if he was free from other orders, they would be ready.

  Allday murmured, ‘Fine-looking ship, Sir Richard.’ He sounded wistful. Remembering how they had first met, Bolitho guessed, aboard the Phalarope. At first commanded by a tyrant like Trevenen, she had become a legend. Herrick had played a large part in it. The thought saddened him.

  ‘Stand by, bowman!’

  Bolitho was grateful for the ship’s shadow as it towered above him. It was strange how he had never got used to this part of it. As a junior captain and now as a vice-admiral, he was always troubled by what those who now stood motionless in the sunlight might see in him, might find wanting. As ever, he had to insist to himself that they would be far more uncertain than he was.

  Avery watched Bolitho clamber lightly up the seventy-four’s weathered side. He asked quietly so that only Yovell should hear, ‘In all the years, has Sir Richard changed much?’

  Yovell picked up his satchel. ‘In a few ways, sir.’ He looked at him curiously. ‘But mostly, he changed all of us!’

  Allday grinned. ‘I think you are wanted on deck, sir!’

  He watched the lieutenant almost fall as he hurried to catch up with his superior.

  Yovell said, ‘I’m not too sure about him, John.’

  ‘An’ I’m not too certain about you, matey!’

  They chuckled like conspirators and the lieutenant in charge of the gig stared after them without understanding what he saw.

  His Britannic Majesty’s brig Larne of fourteen guns pitched and swayed in a steep swell, her slack sails and clattering rigging clear evidence of her becalmed state.

  A few figures moved about her deck, some staggering like drunks as the sturdy hull dipped and slithered into yet another trough. Somewhere to larboard but visible only occasionally to the masthead lookout was the African mainland, Molembo, where many a slaver had been run to ground by vessels like Larne.

  Most countries had outlawed slavery and the traffic that had cost so many lives, but it still went on where the price was right.

  In the brig’s cabin Commander James Tyacke tried to concentrate on his chart, and was cursing the perverse wind that had failed him after such a speedy departure from Freetown after the receipt of Sir Richard Bolitho’s orders. It would be good to see him again. Tyacke was still surprised that he could think so when he had always had very little respect for senior officers. Bolitho had changed all that when the Good Hope campaign had been mounting. He had even endured the crowded discomfort of the little schooner Miranda, which Tyacke had then commanded, and when she had been destroyed by an enemy frigate Bolitho had given him the Larne.

  The seclusion and the independence of the anti-slavery patrols had suited Tyacke very well. Most of his company were prime seamen who shared his need to get away from the greater authority of the fleet. Few sailors cared much about the slave-trade; it was something that happened, or had done until the new laws were approved. But to be free from a flag officer’s demands, with the prospect of prize money, was to every man’s taste.

  Tyacke leaned back and frowned as he listened to his little ship rolling and groaning in the arms of the South Atlantic. He often thought of how he had searched for Bolitho and his lady after Golden Plover’s loss on the hundred-mile reef. His disbelief had changed to prayer, which was rare for him, when he had confirmed who had survived in that sun-blistered longboat.

  He thought of the gown he had kept in a chest in this cabin, the one he had bought in Lisbon for the girl who had promised to be his wife. He had given it to Lady Somervell to cover herself from the sailors’ stares. Later, after Keen’s marriage, which Tyacke had sat in deep shadow to watch, she had returned it to him, beautifully cleaned and packed in a lined box.

  She had written in a little note, ‘For you, James Tyacke, and for a girl who shall deserve it.’

  Tyacke stood up and steadied himself against the motion by gripping a deckhead beam. The cabin was very small, like that of a miniature frigate, but after a schooner it had seemed like a palace.

  He made himself look at his reflection in the hanging mirror. A face which could have been handsome, caring and strong until that day at the Battle of the Nile, as it was now called. The left side of his face was unmarked; the other side was not human. How the eye had survived was a miracle: it seemed to glare out above the melted flesh like an angry, defiant light. Everyone around that gun had died, and Tyacke could remember nothing about it.

 
; For a girl who shall deserve it.

  Tyacke turned away, the old bitterness returning. What woman could be expected to live with that? To wake up and see that terrible, mutilated face beside her?

  He listened to the sea. Here was the only escape. Where he had won the respect of his men and of the man he was sailing to meet.

  He shook himself and decided to go on deck. Most of his men could look at him now without showing pity or horror. He was lucky in that, he thought. He had three lieutenants and more experienced hands than most frigates. Larne even carried a dedicated surgeon, one who used his interest in tropical medicine and the various fevers that plagued these coasts to compile a mass of notes that might one day take him to the College of Surgeons in London.

  The sea air was abrasive, like hot sand off a desert. He squinted in the hard glare and glanced at the watch around him: men he had come to know better and more intimately than he would have believed possible. Ozanne, the first lieutenant, a Channel Islander who had once been a merchant sailor. He had come up the hard way and was five years older than his commander. Pitcairn, the sailing master, was another veteran who shunned the ways and the manners of a big man-of-war although his skills would have taken him anywhere. Livett, the surgeon, was sketching by one of the swivel guns. He had a youthful appearance until he removed his hat, when his head was like a brown egg.

  Tyacke walked to the taffrail and peered astern. The vessel was lifting and dropping into every trough, inert, making no way at all.

  Tyacke knew he should accept it, but he had an impatient nature and hated to feel his command failing to respond to sail or rudder.

  The sailing master judged his mood before saying, ‘Can’t hold, sir. Visibility’s so bad to the east’rd I think there may be a storm blowing up.’

  Tyacke took a telescope and wedged his buttocks against the compass box. Pitcairn was not very often wrong. The glass swept over the writhing sea-mist to where the land should lie.