“Deck there!” Several of the seamen exchanged grins at the midshipman’s squeaky cry from the crosstrees. “She’s made her number!”
Cazalet, the first lieutenant, a tough-looking man with dark, bushy eyebrows, raised his speaking-trumpet. “We are all in suspense, Mr Gough!”
The boy squeaked again, although even from that dizzy height he sounded crushed. “Number Five-Four-Six, sir!”
Bosanquet already had his book open. “Zest sir, forty-four, Captain Charles Varian!”
Jenour had appeared at his side like a shadow. “You will need to change the captain’s name.” He darted a glance at Bolitho. “He is no longer in command.”
Keen said. “Make our reply, if you please.”
Bolitho turned away. Some of the watching faces probably saw him as Varian’s executioner, and might judge him accordingly.
He saw the boatswain, whose name was already slotted into his mind as Ben Gilpin, with a small working party, supervising the rigging of a grating on the lee side of the deck. Ready for the ritual of punishment. It would seem so much worse for those who had never been to sea in a King’s ship before. And for many of the others, it could only brutalise them further.
Bolitho stiffened as he saw Felicity’s son standing nearby, watching with fixed attention. Bolitho touched his eye and did not see Jenour glance across at him. He saw only Vincent’s face. For one so young he had an expression of cruel anticipation.
Keen called, “Alter course two points, Mr Cazalet, we will wait for Zest to run down on us!”
Jenour stood apart from the bustling seamen as they manned the braces for retrimming the great yards to hold the wind, immersed in his private thoughts. All of his family were in or connected with the medical profession, and he had mentioned the foreign-sounding doctor Rudolf Braks to his uncle just before leaving to join the flagship.
His uncle, a quiet and much respected physician, had responded instantly.
“Of course—the man who attended Lord Nelson and visits the King because of his failing sight. If he can do nothing to help your admiral, then there is nobody who can.”
The words still hung in his mind like part of a guilty secret.
He heard the first lieutenant ask, “Pipe the hands aft to witness punishment, sir?” Then Keen’s equally taut reply. “Attend to it, Mr Cazalet, but I want loyalty, not fear!”
Bolitho walked towards the poop and knew Allday was following him. He had sensed the unusual bitterness in Keen’s words. Had he perhaps been remembering how he had saved Zenoria from a savage whipping aboard the convict transport, when he had rescued her and helped to confirm her innocence? But not before she had taken one stroke across her naked back from shoulder to hip, something which she would never lose. Was that, too, keeping them apart?
He entered the stern cabin and threw himself onto the bench.
A new ship. No experience, unblooded, a stranger to the line of battle. Bolitho clenched his fist as he heard the staccato roll of the Royal Marines’ drums. He could barely hear the crack of the lash across the seaman’s body, but he felt it as if it were happening to himself.
He thought of Herrick, how he would be; what he was going through. Bolitho had heard from Admiral Godschale that it had been Anemone, Adam’s command, which had carried the news of Dulcie’s death. A double twist, he thought. It would have been better if it had been a total stranger.
He tried to think about the squadron he was taking from Herrick. Five ships of the line and only two frigates. There were never enough.
Allday walked across the cabin, his eyes watchful. “Punishment’s over, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho barely heard. He was thinking of Vincent again, of his sister’s reproachful coldness towards Catherine.
He said distantly, “Never hold out your hand too often, old friend.” As he turned away he added, “You can get badly bitten.”
“Watch your stroke!” Allday leaned forward, one hand on the tiller bar, as if he were riding across the choppy water instead of steering the Black Prince’s barge. Even with all his experience it was going to be a difficult crossing from one flagship to the other. He knew better than to use some of his stronger language in front of his admiral, but later he would have no such qualms. In their turn, the bargemen put all their weight on the painted looms, conscious more of Allday’s threatening gaze, perhaps, than their passenger.
Bolitho turned and looked back at his new flagship. It was the first time he had seen her properly in her own element. The light was dull and grey, but even so the powerful three-decker seemed to shine like polished glass, her black and buff hull and the chequered pattern of gunports making a splash of welcome colour against the miserable North Sea afternoon. Beyond her, and turning away almost guiltily, the Zest was standing off to resume her proper station.
Bolitho felt Jenour watching him as the green-painted barge lifted and plunged over the water in sickening swoops.
Keen had done well, he thought. He must have been pulled around the ship before and after he had first taken her to sea. He had checked the trim of the great hull, and had ordered some of the ballast to be moved, and many of the stores shifted to different holds to give the ship the right lift at the stem. He saw the figurehead reaching out with his sword from beneath the beakhead. It was one of the most lifelike he’d yet seen, carved and painted more to impress than frighten. The son of Edward III, complete with chain mail, fleur-de-lis and English lions. From the black-crowned helmet to the figure’s unflinching stare, it could have been a living being. The carver had been one of the most famous of his breed, old Aaron Mallow of Sheerness. Sadly, Black Prince’s figurehead had been his last; he had died shortly after the ship had been launched for fitting-out.
Bolitho looked instead at Benbow, once his own flagship, when Herrick had been his captain. A seventy-four like Hyperion but much heavier, for she had been built much later when there were still the oak forests to provide for her. Now the forests of Kent and Sussex, Hampshire and the West Country were left bare, raped by the mounting demands of a war which never lessened in its ferocity.
He saw the scarlet of the marines, the dull glint of metal in the fading light, and felt a pang of anxiety. Herrick was his oldest friend. Had been until . . . He thought suddenly of what Keen had told him about the man who had been flogged. Stripped and seized up to the grating by wrists and knees, he had taken a dozen lashes without a protest, only the usual sound of the air being beaten from his lungs with each blow of the cat.
It was while he was being cut down that an unknown voice had yelled out from the silent onlookers, “We’ll make it even for you, Jim!”
Needless to say, the ship’s corporal and the master-at-arms had been unable to discover the culprit. In a way, Bolitho was glad, but he had shared Keen’s uneasiness that anyone should show defiance in front of his captain and the armed marines.
And so the unknown seaman named Jim Fittock had become something of a martyr because of Felicity’s son Miles Vincent. Bolitho tightened his jaw. It must not happen again.
The other flagship loomed over him, and he sensed Allday’s seething exasperation as the bowman had to make several attempts to hook on to the main chains.
As he clambered up the salt-caked side he was thankful for the dull light. To trip and fall like the other time would not rouse any confidence either.
The quarterdeck seemed quiet and sheltered after the blustery crossing in an open boat, so that the sudden din of drums and fifes, a Royal Marines captain shouting orders to the guard plus the dwindling echo of the calls which had piped him aboard took him by surprise.
In those few moments he saw several familiar faces, suitably expressionless for the occasion, with the flag captain Hector Gossage standing like a rock in front of his officers. He saw the new flag lieutenant who had replaced De Broux, the one with the damned Frenchie name as Herrick had put it. The newcomer was plump, and his face was empty of animation or intelligence.
Then he saw Herrick an
d felt a cold hand around his heart.
Herrick’s hair, once brown and only touched with grey like frost, was almost colourless, and his bronzed features seemed suddenly lined. He could recall their brief meeting in the Admiralty corridor, the two visiting captains gaping at them as Bolitho had called after Herrick, his voice shaking with anger and with hurt. It did not seem possible a man could change so much in so short a time.
Herrick said, “You are welcome, Sir Richard.” He shook hands, his palm hard and firm as Bolitho had always remembered. “You will remember Captain Gossage, of course?”
Bolitho nodded, but did not take his eyes from Herrick. “My heart is full for you, Thomas.”
Herrick gave what might have been a shrug, perhaps to cover his innermost feelings. He said in a vague tone, “Dismiss the hands, Captain Gossage. Keep station on Black Prince, but call me if the weather goes against us.” He gestured aft. “Join me, Sir Richard. We can talk a while.” Bolitho ducked beneath the poop and studied his friend as Herrick led the way into the shadows between decks. Had he always been so stooped? He did not recall so. As if he were carrying the pain of his loss like a burden on his back.
In the great cabin where Bolitho had so often paced and fretted over the next action or the enemy’s intentions, he looked around as if to see something of himself still lingering here. But there was nothing. It could have been the great cabin of almost any ship of the line, he thought.
A servant he did not recognise brought a chair for him, and Herrick asked in an almost matter-of-fact voice, “A drink perhaps?”
He did not wait for answer. “Bring the brandy, Murray.” Then he faced Bolitho and said, “I received word you were coming. I am relieved so that Benbow can have some repairs carried out. We almost lost the rudder in a gale . . . but I expect you were in England at the time. It was bad—the sea took a master’s mate and two seamen, poor devils. No chance of finding ’em.”
Bolitho tried not to interrupt. Herrick was coming around to what he wanted to say. He had always been like that. But brandy, that was something else. Wine, yes, ginger beer more likely; he must have been drinking heavily since Adam had brought him the news.
Herrick said, “I got your letter. It was good of you.” He nodded to the servant and then snapped, “Leave it, man, I can manage!” That, too, was not like the old Herrick, the champion of the common seaman more than anyone he had known. Bolitho watched the hand shaking as he slopped two huge measures of brandy into the goblets, some of it spilling unheeded on to the black and white chequered deck covering. “Good stuff this. My patrols took it off a smuggler.” Then he turned and stared at him, his eyes still as clear and blue as Bolitho remembered. It was like seeing someone familiar peering out of another’s body.
“God damn it, I wasn’t with her when she needed me most!” The words were torn out of him. “I’d warned her about working amongst those bloody prisoners—I’d hang the lot of them if I had my way!” He walked to a bulkhead where Bolitho had once hung his swords. Herrick’s fighting hanger dangled from it, swaying unevenly to the pitch of the ship as she fought to keep station on Black Prince. But Herrick was touching the finely finished, silver-mounted telescope, the one which Dulcie had bought for him from the best instrument maker in London’s Strand; Bolitho doubted if he knew what he was doing. He probably touched it for comfort rather than to be reminded.
Bolitho said, “I could not get to the house in time. Otherwise I would . . .”
Herrick tilted the goblet until it was empty. “Lady Bolitho told me all about those damned Dons who worked around the house. She would have sent them packing!” He looked at Bolitho and asked abruptly, “Was it all taken care of?”
“Yes. Your sister was there. A lot of Dulcie’s friends too.”
Herrick said in a small voice, “I wasn’t even there to see her buried. Alone . . .” The one word echoed around the cabin until he said, “Your lady tried her best . . .”
Bolitho said quietly, “Dulcie was not alone. Catherine stayed with her, attended to her every need until she was mercifully released from her suffering. It took courage, for there was no little danger to her.”
Herrick walked to the table and lifted the brandy, then waved it vaguely towards the sea.
“Just her? With my Dulcie!”
“Aye. She’d not even allow your housekeeper in close contact.”
Herrick rubbed his eyes as if they were hurting him. “I suppose you think that gives you the opportunity to redeem her in my opinion.”
Bolitho kept his voice level. “I am not here to score points from your grief. I am well reminded when you came to me with terrible news. I grieve for you, Thomas, for I know what it is to lose love—just as I understand how it feels to discover it.”
Herrick sat down heavily and refilled his goblet, his features set in tight concentration, as if every thought was an effort.
Then he said in a thick voice, “So you’ve got your woman, and I’ve lost everything. Dulcie gave me strength, she made me feel somebody. A long, long step from the son of a poor clerk to rear-admiral, eh?” When Bolitho said nothing he leaned over the table and shouted, “But you wouldn’t understand! I saw it in young Adam when he came aboard—it’s all there in him too, like they speak of it in the news-sheets. The Bolitho charm—isn’t that so?”
“I shall leave now, Thomas.” His despair was so destructive it was too terrible to watch. Later Herrick would regret his outburst, his words so bitter that it had sounded like something he had been nursing all down the years. A warmth gone sour; envy where there had once been the strongest bond of true friendship. “Use your time in England to think and relive the good things you found together—and when next we meet—”
Herrick lurched to his feet and almost fell. For an instant his eyes seemed to clear again and he blurted out, “Your injury? Is it improved now?” Somehow through the mist of distress and loss he must have recalled when Bolitho had almost fallen on this same vessel.
Then he said, “Lady Catherine’s husband is dead, I hear?” It was a challenge, like an accusation. “Convenient—”
“Not so, Thomas. One day you might understand.” Bolitho turned and recovered his hat and cloak as the door opened a few inches, and Captain Gossage peered in at them.
“I was about to inform the rear-admiral that the wind is rising, Sir Richard.” His glance moved quickly to Herrick who was slumped down again in his chair, his eyes trying to focus, but without success.
Gossage said swiftly, with what he thought was discretion, “I will call the guard, Sir Richard, and have you seen over the side.”
Bolitho looked gravely at his friend and answered, “No, call my barge.” He hesitated by the screen door and lowered his voice, so that the marine sentry should not hear.
“Then attend your admiral. There sits a brave man, but badly wounded now—no less than by the enemy’s fire.” He nodded curtly. “I bid you good-day, Captain Gossage.”
He found Jenour waiting for him on deck and saw a messenger running from Gossage to recall the barge to the chains.
Jenour had rarely seen him look so grim, so sad at the same time. But he was not so inexperienced in Bolitho’s ways to ask what had occurred during his visit, or mention the glaring fact that Rear-Admiral Herrick was not on deck to show the proper respect at Bolitho’s departure.
Instead he said brightly, “I heard the sailing-master confide that yonder lies the Dutch coast—but we are losing it fast in another squall.” He fell silent as Bolitho looked at him for the first time.
Bolitho touched his eye with his fingers, and felt it sting like a cruel reminder. Then he asked, “Is the barge alongside, Stephen?”
As Jenour left him he thought he heard him murmur, “Dear God, I would that it were Cornwall.”
The captain of marines yelled, “Guard of Honour, present arms!”
The rest was lost as Bolitho swung himself out and down to the pitching barge, as if the sea had reclaimed him.
L
ieutenant Stephen Jenour tucked his hat beneath his arm and entered Bolitho’s day cabin. Outside on the open deck the air was still very cold, but a lull in the blustery wind had smoothed out the North Sea’s short, steep waves and remained with them. The presence of some watery sunlight gave an illusion of warmth in the crowded messes, and here in the great cabin.
Bolitho was leaning over a chart, his hands spread across it as if to encompass the squadron’s limits. He looked tired, Jenour thought, but calmer than the moment he had left his friend aboard Benbow. He could only guess at what had come between them but knew it had affected Bolitho deeply.
Beyond the tall stern windows he could see two of the squadron’s seventy-fours, the Glorious and the old Sunderland. The latter was so elderly that many aboard Black Prince had thought her either hulked or sunk in battle. There were few campaigns she had missed; she would be, Jenour thought, about the same age as Hyperion.
With Benbow returned to England there were five ships of the line awaiting Black Prince’s signals, and two others, the Tenacious and the Valkyrie, were undergoing repairs in England. Jenour had thought it strange that Rear-Admiral Herrick had detached two of his depleted strength without waiting to hear Bolitho’s views on the subject. But he had kept his thoughts to himself. He had learned to recognise most, if not all of Bolitho’s moods and sensitivities, and knew that he was occasionally only partly in his flagship, while the rest of the time he was in spirit with Catherine in England.
He realised that Bolitho had raised his eyes from the chart, and was watching him patiently. Jenour flushed, something he still did far too often—much to his own annoyance.
The Only Victor Page 30
