There was another silence, so that the hammering somewhere deep in the hull became insistent, and to Bolitho suddenly urgent.
Graves asked, “What will we do now, sir?” He sounded wary.
Bolitho faced them gravely. “Captain Selby is dead. Killed in the first broadside.”
He walked to the quarter windows and stared towards the drifting frigate. Without effort he could picture the wounded first lieutenant, the man who had somehow fought his ship alongside the enemy. Knowing it was all he could do despite the crippling losses and damage already suffered. Now, without a single lieutenant, aided by a mere handful of junior warrant officers, he was doing his utmost to repair the ship. To get her to safety before the sea or an enemy found him again.
In the shattered chaos of Selby’s cabin he had unlocked the safe and handed Bolitho the despatches without hesitation. Even now that he was back in his own cabin he found it hard to believe. Junior command, and then, almost in the twinkling of an eye, he was to shoulder the total responsibility for them all. Colquhoun and Maulby were beyond reach. And Selby was dead. He had seen his corpse on the splintered quarterdeck, pinned beneath an up-ended nine-pounder, one hand still clutching his sword like a useless talisman.
Tyrrell’s voice made him turn towards them again.
“Then you are in command, sir?”
The lieutenants were watching him intently, their faces showing both doubt and apprehension.
Bolitho nodded slowly. “We will continue with the transports before dusk. After we have ferried the Miranda’s wounded across to them and done what we can for their own ship.” He tried not to think of the endless problems which lay ahead. “When we have made contact with the squadron as ordered we will proceed with the despatches to the Commander-in-Chief.”
He let his eyes stray around the cabin. All at once it was smaller, the sloop more vulnerable.
“And Miranda, sir?” Tyrrell’s tone was hushed.
Bolitho kept his voice level and without emotion, knowing that if he showed them even for an instant, his true feelings, they would lose what small faith they still retained.
“Her people will do what they must. We cannot stay with her, nor would they wish it.”
Spray pattered against the thick windows. The wind was already freshening slightly.
Tyrrell licked his lips, his eyes distant as he stared towards the dismasted frigate.
Bolitho added, “That will be all. Keep the hands working until the last minute.”
The two lieutenants, in their filthy shirts and breeches, turned and left the cabin without another word.
Bolitho looked at Fitch and said, “You may go, too. I wish to think.”
When Fitch and his helpers had gone he rested his head in his hands and allowed his body to sway with the ship’s uncomfortable motion.
Tyrrell probably thought him heartless for leaving the other ship without company or aid. Graves, too, would no doubt be finding plenty of fuel for his own personal fires.
He stood up, fighting back the tiredness and strain, knowing he must not heed nor care about their considerations. They were in a war which for too long they had only skirted like spectators. If learn they must, it were better to be done at once.
Then he recalled the Miranda’s lieutenant, the bitterness in his voice as he had described the action. He was able to add little to what Bolitho already knew and guessed. But for one thing, the name of the big privateer. Bonaventure . It was a name he would not forget.
There was a tap at the door. It was Lock, his face dark with gloom as he began to recount a list of stores damaged in the brief fight with the brig.
Bolitho faced him and said quietly, “Now let me have a full list, Mr. Lock, and I will give you my opinion.”
It was useless to think of what had passed. He was alone now, and only the future, like the next horizon, had any true meaning for him.
5 ALL THE LUCK . . .
“GUARDBOAT approaching, sir!”
Bolitho nodded. “Very well.”
He had already seen it, but was concentrating instead on the overlapping lines of anchored ships, the nearest of which, a two-decker, wore a rear-admiral’s flag at her mizzen.
Then he took a quick glance along the busy gun deck, the preparations to drop anchor for the first time since leaving Antigua. It was ten days since they had watched the Miranda’s battered outline fall further and further astern until they had lost it altogether. Days of fretting impatience as they repeatedly shortened sail to keep station on the two transports. And when at last they had found a frigate of the inshore squadron they had received not freedom but yet another unexplained leg to the journey. Sparrow would not hand over her charge of the transports, nor would she close with the shore to supervise their unloading. Instead she was to proceed with all dispatch to New York. The frigate’s captain had been impatient to be away and had merely sent a midshipman across to Sparrow with his orders. From what little he had discovered, Bolitho gathered the frigate had been waiting and patrolling for three weeks in order that his message could be passed on to the convoy and had no wish to be involved further.
He shifted his gaze to the guardboat, rocking gently in the offshore swell, a large blue flag lifting and curling from her bows to mark where the sloop should anchor.
The wheel creaked as Buckle passed his directions to the helmsmen, and forward on the beakhead, framed against the glittering water, he saw Graves waiting for the command to anchor. He heard someone laugh and saw the two transports idling awkwardly towards another anchorage, their yards alive with men as they shortened sail.
Dalkeith saw him turn and remarked, “Glad to see the back of ’em, eh, sir?” He mopped his face with a handkerchief. “They’ve been with us so long I felt we were towing the beasts.”
The gunner climbed halfway up the ladder and called, “Permission to begin the salute, sir?”
Bolitho nodded. “If you please, Mr. Yule.” He turned away, knowing that but for the gunner’s request he would have forgotten all about it in his concern for what would happen next.
While the Sparrow continued easily towards the guardboat, her canvas clewed up but for topsails and jib, the air shook to the regular bang of cannon fire as she paid her respects to the rear-admiral’s flag.
Bolitho wanted to take Bethune’s big telescope and study the other ships, but guessed too many glasses would now be on him. His natural curiosity might be seen as uncertainty, or the apprehension of a young commander approaching an unfamiliar anchorage. Instead he made himself walk a few paces along the weather side, noting with satisfaction that the nettings were neatly filled with hammocks and every unused line and halliard was either belayed or flaked down on the decks. Of their clash with the brig there was little or no visible sign. The ten days had been well used to replace woodwork and apply fresh paint.
Tyrrell was standing at the rail, a speaking trumpet under one arm. In his blue coat and cocked hat he seemed unfamiliar again, a stranger, like the day he had come into the cabin after his visit to the flagship.
The last wisp of gunsmoke drifted forward above the anchor party, and he concentrated his attention on the last half cable of distance. The other ships were spread out on either bow and looked impressive, indestructible.
He raised one hand slowly. “Lee braces, Mr. Tyrrell. Hands wear ship!”
Why then was he so apprehensive? Perhaps the frigate’s curt orders had hidden something deeper? He tried to disregard it. After all, he had been sick to death of the slow passage with the transports, so how much worse it must have been for the solitary frigate.
Tyrrell’s voice brought a screaming chorus from the circling gulls which had been with them for several days.
“Tops’l sheets!” He was squinting into the sunlight, watching the darting figures high above the deck. “Tops’l clew lines! Roundly does it, lads!”
Bethune’s voice cut across the shouted orders and the flapping crack of canvas.
“From Flag to Sp
arrow, sir. Repair on board.”
Bolitho nodded. “Acknowledge.” The admiral did not believe in wasting time.
“Helm a’lee!”
Gently, easily, the Sparrow turned her jib-boom into the wind, her sails vanishing as the topmen vied with each other to fist the unruly canvas under control.
“Let go!”
From forward came a brief splash as the anchor plunged to the bottom, and before Graves had turned to signal the quarterdeck Tilby, the boatswain, was already urging the boatlowerers to sway out the gig.
Tyrrell came aft and touched his hat. “I hope you get good news, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Bolitho wondered what it must be like for Tyrrell. He was back off his own coastline. Sandy Hook. He must have sailed this way many times in his father’s schooner. But there was nothing on his features to betray whatever he was thinking. The usual controlled respect which he had shown since the battle.
Tyrrell had not spared himself in his efforts to get the damage repaired. He had a manner which at first glance seemed easy going, even casual, but there was no doubting his ability, or the edge of his tongue if someone was foolish enough to mistake his attitude for weakness.
“I doubt that I will be long in the flagship.” Bolitho watched the gig’s crew tumbling down the side.
“Th’ admiral may ask you to take lunch, sir.” Tyrrell’s eyes crinkled in a rare smile. “I gather th’ old Parthian is known for a good table.”
Stockdale called, “Gig’s ready, sir.”
Bolitho looked at Tyrrell. “Make arrangements for taking in fresh water and casks. I have told Mr. Lock to see what he can do about fruit.”
Tyrrell followed him to the entry port where the side party were assembled.
He hesitated and then asked quietly, “If you could find out anything about . . .” He shrugged. “But then I guess you’ll be too busy, sir.”
Bolitho ran his eye over the nearby seamen. Had he learned anything about them since he had taken command? Did he even know what they thought of him?
He replied, “I will do what I can. Perhaps your father has sent some message for you.”
Tyrrell was still staring after him as he clambered into the boat, his ears ringing to the squeal of pipes.
When Bolitho climbed up through the Parthian’s gilded entry port and doffed his hat to the quarterdeck he was immediately reminded of the Trojan, the life he had so recently left behind. All the old smells and sights came crowding back, and he marvelled that he had forgotten so much in so brief a time.
A lieutenant guided him to the flag captain’s cabin and relieved him of the despatches and a bag of letters which Miranda had brought from England.
He said, “The admiral will read these first, sir.” His eyes moved swiftly over Bolitho’s new uniform coat. Searching perhaps for the same old answer. Why him and not me?
The admiral did not send for him for a full hour, although it felt twice as long. To avoid repeatedly examining his watch he made himself listen to the sounds around and above him. The old, familiar noises of a teeming community encased in one great hull. It took little imagination to hear Captain Pears’s harsh voice complaining, “Mr. Bolitho! Are you aware that the weather forebrace is as slack as a sow’s tail? ’Pon my soul, you’ll have to do better if you wish to make something of yourself!”
He was smiling ruefully when the lieutenant returned and without further ceremony led him aft to the great cabin.
Sir Evelyn Christie, Rear-Admiral of the Red, and commanding the Inshore Squadron, was fanning his face with a napkin, and after a searching examination of Bolitho’s general appearance said, “A glass of claret, Commander.” He did not wait for an answer but gestured to his servant, a splendid-looking man in scarlet jacket and brilliant yellow breeches.
“I was somewhat surprised to see your name affixed to the report.” The admiral’s eyes were fastened on the claret, as if daring the servant to spill even a drip. “You say in it that Ransome died of fever.” He took a glass and examined it critically. “Damn good job, if you ask me. Young popinjay. Too much money and no damn integrity.” Ransome disposed of he continued calmly, “I expect you’re concerned about the change of plans, eh?”
Bolitho felt a chair nudge the back of his legs and realised the silent servant had somehow managed to arrange a glass of claret on a small table, fetch a chair, and all without apparently moving or uttering a sound.
The admiral scowled. “Take no notice. The man’s a fool.” He added sharply, “Well?”
Bolitho replied, “I was expecting to . . .”
Rear-Admiral Christie interrupted, “Yes. I imagine you were.” He paused, his head on one side like an irritable bird. “The claret. Well?”
“Very good, Sir Evelyn.”
“Hmm.” The admiral seated himself carefully on a gilt chair. “Took it off a blockade runner last month. Palatable.”
Something metallic crashed across a deck beyond the bulkhead and he snapped savagely, “Go and tell the officer of the watch, with my compliments, that if I hear one more unseemly sound during this interview I will personally take him to task!”
The servant fled from the cabin and the admiral gave a slow smile.
“Keep them jumping. That’s the answer. Don’t give ’em too much time to think.”
In the very next breath he changed the tack yet again.
“Fact is, Bolitho, things are not going too well. Thank God you at least are a man who knows how to abide by the letter of his orders. In your place I might have said to hell with waiting around for some damn patrol to find out what was happening. I might even have gone so far as to take those transports direct to the army.”
Bolitho stiffened. It sounded genuine enough, but perhaps the admiral was merely hinting at a criticism. Maybe he thought he should have made straight for the exact rendezvous, used his initiative instead of acting as he had.
The admiral’s next words changed that.
“You were not to know, of course, but the army is in the process of evacuating Philadelphia. Failing back.” He looked down at the empty glass. “Sounds better than a retreat, but it amounts to the same.”
Bolitho was stunned. Reverses he could accept. This war was so extended, the areas so vast and little known, that no plan of battle of the old style could be expected. But to quit Philadelphia, the vital command garrison of the Delaware, was unthinkable. In spite of his caution he said, “Surely that was unnecessary, sir? I thought we had destroyed all the American forts and outposts on the Delaware last year.”
The admiral eyed him shrewdly. “That was last year, before Burgoyne surrendered at Saratoga. The whole of this area is overrun with bands of raiders and enemy informers.” He threw open the chart. “With my squadron I must patrol and keep watch over the whole three hundred miles of coastline, from New York down to Cape Henry on Chesapeake Bay. It is a labyrinth. Inlets and rivers, coves and hiding places where you could fail to sight a three-decker at a mile’s range. And every day the sea teems with shipping. From the north, and as far south as the Spanish Main and Caribbean. Dutch, Portuguese, Spanish, and most of ’em intent on slipping past my patrols with stores and guns for the enemy.”
He poured two more glasses of claret.
“However, now that you have brought these despatches we are aware of the extent of our dangers. The French are out in the open at last. I have already sent word to the Commander-in-Chief and all senior officers here.”
He smiled. “You did well, Bolitho. No one could have expected so newly appointed a commander to act as you did.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Bolitho thrust away the opposite side of the picture. If he had sailed with the rich transports into an enemy trap, the admiral would have spoken very differently.
“Pity about Miranda . We are cruelly short of frigates.”
“About the Bonaventure, sir, I was wondering . . .”
“You are a man who does a lot of wondering.” The a
dmiral continued to smile. “Not too bad a fault in some. I knew your father. I hope he is well?” He did not wait for or expect an answer. He hurried on, “I am drafting fresh orders for you. The military, in their haste, unfortunately allowed an headquarters company to become lost.” He added dryly, “Between ourselves, I, too, have done a certain amount of wondering . About some of our military colleagues ashore. Some, or so it would appear, did not obtain the necessary brains to match their appointments.”
He gave an elaborate sigh. “But then, who am I to judge? We are fortunate. We carry our homes, our manner of existence, around with us like sea-turtles. It is hard to compare that with some wretched infantryman, loaded down with pack and musket, footsore and half starved. He has to contend with living off the land, fighting shadows, being shot at by American woodsmen as well as coming to grips with well-trained troops.”
Bolitho watched him curiously. On the face of it the admiral was nothing out of the ordinary, no more than you would expect of one backed up by his power and authority. But his features certainly hid a razor-sharp mind, the way he could throw it around from one aspect to the next without losing sight of anything.
“What about the Bonaventure, by the way?”
“She’s big and fast, sir.” Bolitho readjusted his mind again. “At least forty guns and well handled. I am sure she was the one which followed us, yet was well able to outsail us when the time came.” He waited, but the admiral’s face was a mask. “A match for any frigate.”
“Point taken. I will make inquiries about her pedigree.” He opened his watch. “I want you to sail today and find that missing company of foot-soldiers before they are captured.”
Bolitho stared at him. “But, sir, I have my orders.”
“Ah, yes.” He bobbed his head. “Now you have mine, eh?”
Bolitho sank back in the chair, “Yes, sir.”
“I neglected to mention that the soldiers are transporting gold bullion. God knows the exact amount, I find it difficult on occasions to crack the military mind into precise details. But it is a great deal. Fortunes of war, army pay, booty, whatever it is, you may be sure it is valuable.” He smiled. “It has a complete general with it!”
Sloop of War Page 9
