Was it just imagination, a twist of words? Or had the tall Dane been trying to warn him, knowing at the same time that Inskip would not recognise it, or might challenge even a hint of suggestion?
Lieutenant Jenour remarked quietly, “At least we shall be back in England before the winter gales return to the North Sea, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho took his arm and felt him tense as he said, “I think we were delayed deliberately, Stephen, not the other way round.” He saw the understanding in Jenour’s eyes. “And it is a long way yet to England, remember?” He heard Inskip calling to his secretary and added sharply, “Not a word. Just hurry our departure as much as you can without causing a stir.” He shook his arm lightly. “Something else to tell your parents about, eh?”
Allday watched their exchange. Bolitho’s alertness, like a reawakening, and the young lieutenant’s sudden excitement. Jenour had never been able to hide his feelings anyway.
He walked across and clipped the old sword to Bolitho’s belt. Like the moment when they had prepared to leave Truculent and transfer to the Danish frigate for the final approach to Copenhagen. Something unspoken seemed to pass between them.
Bolitho looked at him searchingly until Allday murmured, “Seems we might soon be needing this old blade again, Sir Richard?”
Inskip bustled into the room. “A good hot tub and a fine English serving of roast beef, that’s what I—” His eyes flashed between them and he asked suspiciously, “I suppose you think it was all a waste of time, what?”
Bolitho faced him grimly, the first elation of danger already contained. “Indeed, Sir Charles, I hope that is all it was!”
The same short journey in a sealed carriage as when they had arrived, and then on to the wet, windswept jetty, where a boat was hooked on waiting for them. Inskip pulled his heavy coat around his body and gave the Danish captain a curt nod before he clambered down into the boat.
His face was a mask, his mind already grappling with what he had heard and probably with what had remained unsaid.
Bolitho waited for the others to fit themselves amongst the baggage in the sternsheets and turned to look across at the city, now blurred with rain like a painting left out in bad weather. He was moved by what he saw. The familiar green spires and handsome buildings, none of which he had been allowed to revisit. Catherine would love it.
He realised that the Danish captain was waiting. To make certain that he shared no contact with anyone; or was he merely curious to discover more about the man whose cannon had once pounded their ships into submission? Richard Bolitho, next to Nelson the youngest vice-admiral on the Navy List. Now, with Nelson gone—Bolitho shook it from his thoughts. Perhaps this very captain was a part of some scheme to delay them.
The captain said, “I wish you God’s speed, Sir Richard. Perhaps we shall meet again?”
No, he was not part of some sinister plot. Bolitho smiled, remembering his own remark to Haarder. I am a sea-officer, sir.
He replied, “In fairer times, Captajn Pedersen, when you and I are no longer needed.”
He climbed down into the boat, one hand gripping Allday’s shoulder as the hull lurched against the piles.
Apart from an occasional command from the boat’s coxswain, nothing was said by the passengers huddled in the sternsheets. Bolitho glanced at a passing guardboat, the lieutenant rising to doff his hat as he passed. All the correct courtesies, he thought, and was suddenly saddened by it. Like in fairer times. It was more than likely that the next time he met with that captain or any other, it would be across the muzzles of a full broadside.
Captain Poland was waiting with his side-party to greet them as they climbed aboard and the Danish longboat backed away from the chains in a welter of icy spray.
Poland began, “I hope all is well, Sir Richard?” He stared after Inskip as he pushed past the reception and hurried aft to the poop.
Bolitho said, “Prepare to get under way immediately, Captain Poland. We are to be escorted by Dryaden as before, but yours is the faster ship. Once clear of the narrows I want you to sail Truculent like you did to Good Hope!” He wished that Poland would stop staring at him. “I shall explain why, directly, but I believe we may have to fight before we are much older.”
Poland was at last coming out of his daze. “Er, yes, Sir Richard. I shall attend to it—” He peered round for his first lieutenant. “If fight we must then my ship will give good account—” But when he looked again, Bolitho had vanished. He cupped his hands, his voice shattering the stillness of the side-party while they shivered in the intermittent rain.
“Mr Williams! Prepare to get the ship under way! Have the master lay aft!” He swung round, rain water running from his hat. “Mr Munro, be so good as to pipe all hands, unless of course you are too engrossed in staring at the city yonder. I daresay you will see more than that before long!” He watched the lieutenant as he fled from the quarterdeck. Then he snapped, “Once clear of land we shall exercise gun crews, Mr Williams.” He derived some pleasure from the lieutenant’s surprise. “It seems we are a passenger-vessel no longer!”
Lieutenant Williams watched him stride away, his hat and coat shining in the downpour like wet coal. Poland never explained anything until he was himself absolutely certain. Williams gave a wry grin, then picked up his speaking-trumpet as the midshipman of the watch reported that the Danish frigate was already shortening her cable.
Why should he anyway? He was, after all, the captain!
As the calls shrilled and echoed between decks and the seamen came pouring from every hatch and along each gangway, Truculent’s first lieutenant felt the excitement run through him like heady wine. Then he took a deep breath and raised his speaking-trumpet.
“Man the capstan!” He squinted through the rain. “Hands aloft, loose tops’ls!”
He saw his friend gazing at him, grinning despite the captain’s sarcasm. “Remember, lads, they’re all watching us over yonder. Let’s show ’em that nobody can weigh faster than Truculent!”
In the stern cabin Bolitho paused over the chart, the rain still dropping from his coat and hair on to his calculations.
The clank of the capstan, the surge of water alongside which drowned the sounds of shantyman or violin, and the feeling of life running through the hull like no other sensation.
He knew Poland would be down shortly to report that the anchor was hove short. That part of it was no longer his concern. Bolitho sighed and leaned over the chart again. Then so be it.
Bolitho felt Jenour’s hand on his shoulder and was instantly awake. A second earlier and he had been trudging up the hill towards the house, his eyes searching for her, his legs refusing to carry him any closer. Now as his eyes took in the faint grey light from the stern windows he saw Jenour holding on to the swaying cot, his face wet as if he had been in the rain.
Jenour gasped, “First light, Sir Richard!” He swallowed and clenched his jaws. “I—I’ve been sick, sir!”
Bolitho listened to the roar of water against the side, the heave and groan of timbers as the frigate fought her way through the gale. He could also hear someone vomiting and guessed it was Inskip. Seasoned traveller in his country’s service he might be; frigate sailor he was not.
Bolitho saw Allday’s dark shadow edging down the cabin towards him, his body leaning over like a tree in the wind.
Allday showed his teeth in the gloom and held out a mug of steaming coffee. He said above the chorus of sea and wind, “Last coffee for a bit, Sir Richard. Th’ galley’s flooded!” He looked unsympathetically at the flag lieutenant. “Nice bit o’ salt pork is what you needs, sir.”
Jenour ran down the sloping deck and disappeared.
Bolitho sipped the coffee and felt it restoring him, driving sleep and dreams into memory.
“What’s happening?”
Allday reached up and steadied himself by gripping the edge of a deckhead beam. “We’re still under reefed tops’ls an’ jib, ’though the Cap’n was fair reluctant to shorten an
ything ’til the main t’gallant blew to ribbons! I heard the master say that the Danish ship is preparing to go about.”
Bolitho slid carefully to the deck as he had done ten thousand times, in so many vessels from topsail-cutter to a lordly first-rate. Allday unshuttered a lantern and held it over the table while he peered at his chart. Poland was doing well in spite of the savage weather which had plagued them since they had left the sheltered narrows. Truculent would now be at the northern limits of the Kattegat and would soon be changing tack to head south-west through the Skagerrak—more sea room, less chance of running afoul of any fishermen who were mad enough to be out in weather like this.
Allday said helpfully, “Wind’s shifted since the first watch, Sir Richard. A real nor’-easter, blowin’ fit to bust every spar. Straight down from the Arctic if you asks me.”
He produced a heavy tarpaulin coat, knowing Bolitho would want to see for himself. As the deck rose and plunged down again, Allday held on to one of the tethered nine-pounders to meet the violent motion. He felt the old wound in his chest come to life, sear his insides until he could scarcely stop himself from calling out.
Bolitho watched him and held out his hand. “Here, hold on!”
Allday felt the pain recede as if it was reluctant to offer him peace. He shook himself like a great dog and forced a grin. “Not too bad, sir. Comes at you when you’re least ready, the bugger!”
Bolitho said, “You know what I told you before. I meant it then, I mean it still.” He saw Allday stiffen, ready to argue. “You deserve it anyway, after what you’ve done for your country.” He dropped his voice. “For me.”
Allday waited for the deck to sway upright again and replied, “An’ what’d I do then, Sir Richard? Stand around the inn tellin’ lies like all the other old tars? Be a sheep-watcher again? Or marry some rich widow-woman, an’ God knows there are enough of them around with this war goin’ on an’ on!”
Bolitho lurched towards the screen door and saw the marine sentry clinging to a stanchion, his face no better than Jenour’s. It was useless to try and convince Allday, he thought.
Water tumbled over the companion-way coaming and down to the deck below, and when Bolitho managed to reach the top of the ladder the wind nearly took his breath away.
Both watches were on deck, the air filled with shredded shouts and the slither of feet in water as it surged over the lee side.
Poland saw him and pulled himself along the quarterdeck rail to join him.
“I am sorry you were disturbed, Sir Richard!”
Bolitho smiled at him, his hair already thick with salt spray. “You cannot be blamed for the weather!” He was not sure if Poland heard him. “What is our position?”
Poland pointed across the lee bow. “The last point of land, Skagen’s Horn. We will change tack in about half an hour.” His voice was hoarse from shouting into the gale and the cold spray. “I have barely lost an hour, Sir Richard!”
Bolitho nodded. “I know. You are doing well.” Always the uncertainty, the search for criticism. It was a pity he did not remember that when he was berating his lieutenants.
Poland added, “Dryaden split a tops’l yard and most of her driver during the night.” He sounded pleased. “We’ll be leaving her soon.”
Bolitho shivered and was glad that he had had the last coffee as Allday had put it.
Poland had done what he had asked of him. Had kept Truculent in the lead all the way. Dryaden was not even in sight now except possibly from the masthead. He stared up through the shining black web of rigging and felt his head swim. Who would be a lookout in this gale?
Poland muttered something as several men ran to secure one of the boats on the tier; they were wading waist deep in water one moment, then seemed to rise higher than the quarterdeck the next.
Poland shouted, “I’ve three men below with injuries. I ordered the surgeon to make certain they were real and proper—no malingerers, I told him!”
Bolitho looked away. I’m sure of that, he thought.
Aloud he said, “Once clear of the Skaggerak we can use this nor’-easterly to good advantage.” He saw Poland nod, not yet committed. “We will have a companion for the final passage across the North Sea. You can reduce sail then if need be to carry out repairs and relight the galley fire.”
Poland showed no surprise that Bolitho should know about the galley. Instead he said bluntly, “You ordered Zest to make the rendezvous, Sir Richard? I make no secret of it—Captain Varian and I do not see eye to eye.”
“I am aware of it. I am also conscious that even with our reinforcements from Cape Town and the Caribbean we are pitifully short of frigates.” He did not add as usual although it had always been so; he had heard his father complaining about it often enough. “So you had best forget your private differences and concentrate on the task in hand.”
In the bitter wind, with sea and spindrift reaching further out on either beam as the grey light continued to expand, it was hard to think of plots and schemers in high places. This was the place which truly counted. If England lost command of the seas she would surely lose everything else, with freedom at the top of the tally.
He was glad all the same that he had taken every precaution he could think of. If he was to be proved mistaken he would have lost nothing. But if not—He turned as the lookout yelled, “Deck there! Th’ Dane’s gone about!”
Poland staggered as another sea lifted and burst over the beak-head, his hands gripped behind him, his body responding to the deck’s pitch with the ease of a rider on a well-trained stallion.
Bolitho moved away, his eyes slitted against the weather as he watched a faint blur of land seemingly far away to larboard. In fact he knew it was probably less than two miles distant. Poland was staying as close-hauled as he dared, using the north-east wind to weather the headland, The Skaw as it was respectfully called. He thought suddenly of his own elation when he had been roused by Allday on that other occasion when they had sighted The Lizard; what Catherine had later told him about her certainty that he had been near, although she could not possibly have known.
“All hands! All hands! Stand by to wear ship!”
Red-eyed and sagging with fatigue, their bodies bruised and bloodied by their fight with wind and sea, Truculent’s seamen and marines staggered to their stations at halliards and braces like old men or drunkards.
Poland called sharply, “Get your best topmen aloft, Mr Williams—I want the t’gan’s’ls on her as soon as we are on the new course.” He glared at Hull, the sailing master. “This must be smartly done, sir!” It sounded like a threat.
Williams raised his speaking-trumpet. How his arm must ache, Bolitho thought. “Stand by on the quarterdeck!” He waited, judging the moment. “Alter course three points to larboard!” He gestured angrily with the speaking-trumpet as a wave swept over the nettings and hurled several men from their positions, while others stood firm, crouching and spitting out mouthfuls of water.
“Mr Lancer! More hands on the lee braces there!”
Poland nodded, his chin close to his chest. “Put up your helm!”
With a thunder of canvas and the squeal of blocks Truculent began to pay off to the wind, so that the sails refilled and held the ship almost upright instead of lying over to the mercy of the gale.
Poland consulted the compass and said, “Hold her steady, Mr Hull.”
Bolitho saw the master glare at his back as he replied smartly, “Steady she goes, sir! West-by-north.”
“Deck there!”
Poland peered up at the scudding, full-bellied clouds, his features raw from endless hours on deck. “What does that fool want?”
The lookout called again, “Sail on the starboard quarter!”
Poland looked along the length of his ship where men bustled about amidst the confusion of water and broken rigging, while they carried out repairs as they would perform under fire. Duty, discipline and tradition. It was all they knew.
He said, “Get somebody aloft
with a glass, Mr Williams.” Poland darted a quick glance at Bolitho by the weather rail. How could he have known?
Bolitho saw the glance. It was as if Poland had shouted the question out loud. He felt the tension draining out of him, the uncertainty replaced by a cold, bitter logic.
A master’s mate, Hull’s best, had been sent to the masthead, and soon he bellowed down in a voice which had become as hardened to a sailor’s life as a cannon which has seen a world of battles.
“Deck thar! Man-o’-war, zur!” A long pause while Truculent surged and dipped her jib-boom into a mountainous wave. It felt like striking a sandbar. Then he yelled, “Small ’un, zur! Corvette, aye, ’tis a corvette!”
Hull muttered, “If ’e says she’s a corvette, then that she be!”
Poland walked unsteadily towards Bolitho and touched his hat with stiff formality. “Frenchman, Sir Richard.” He hesitated before adding, “Too small to hamper us.”
“Big enough to seek us out, Captain Poland, to hang to our coat-tails until—” He shrugged and said, “Whatever it is we shall soon know.”
Poland digested it and asked, “Orders, Sir Richard?”
Bolitho looked past him at the listless exhausted seamen. Poland was right. No corvette would dare to challenge a thirty-six-gun frigate. So her captain must know that he would not be alone for much longer; and then . . .
He heard himself reply, “Have the boatswain’s party clear out the galley and relight the fires immediately.” He ignored Poland’s expression. His face was full of questions; the galley had obviously not been high on his list. “Your people are in no state to fight—they are worn out. A good hot meal, and a double ration of rum, and you will have men who will follow your orders and not give in at the first whiff of grape.” He saw Poland nod and said, “I must see Sir Charles Inskip. I fear he is in for another unpleasant surprise.”
Allday was standing close by and saw one of the seamen nudge his companion with a grin. “See, Bill? Our Dick’s not bothered, so why should we be, eh?”
Allday sighed. Our Dick. Now they were his men too.
The Only Victor Page 22
