Colours Aloft! (11 page)

“Surgeon, sir!”

Keen released her hand. It felt like being cast adrift. Guilty.

He called, “Enter!” Then said, “I do not wish this to end—”

Tuson entered and eyed them impassively. His hands looked red, as if he had been scrubbing them.

“Some breakfast?” Keen waved him to a chair.

The surgeon gave a wry smile. “No, sir. But I'd relish some strong coffee.”

He looked at the girl. “How are you today?”

She dropped her eyes. “I am well, sir.”

Tuson took a cup from Ozzard. “More than can be said for your companion, young Millie.”

Millie was the Jamaican maidservant. She seemed to have no other name.

Tuson added, “I think she'd risk fever on the Rock rather than go through another storm like last night.”

Keen looked up at the skylight as the masthead lookout shouted to the deck.

Tuson said, “Sounds like another ship.” But he was watching the girl, her small hands gripped into fists, the quick movements of her breasts. Keen must have said something. She looked different.

She said to Keen, “Is it friend or foe?”

Keen restrained himself from getting up and opening the skylight. They would come to him when he was needed. Another lesson Bolitho had taught him well.

He replied, “Both of our ships were sighted an hour ago.” He watched her mouth. “While you were asleep.”

She held his gaze. “I did not go back to sleep.”

Tuson pricked up his ears, but masked his curiosity.

The sentry called, “First lieutenant, sir!”

Paget entered, his coat black with spray. “The masthead has sighted a sail to the sou'-west.” His eyes stayed firmly away from the girl at the table. This made his interest all the more obvious.

Keen said, “South-west?” Without looking at the chart he could picture the other vessels.
Icarus
was almost three miles abeam, and
Rapid
far ahead, little more than a shadow against the murky horizon.

Paget added, “I went aloft myself, sir. She's a Frenchie, I'll stake my life on it.”

Keen eyed him thoughtfully. He was learning more about Paget every day.

Paget waited and dropped his shot with great skill. “She's rigged like us, sir. Sail o' the line, no doubt about it.”

Keen was on his feet, unaware that the others were watching him, Paget with pride at what he had discovered without being ordered, Tuson with interest as he studied Keen as he had Bolitho on many occasions. Weight of command, a captain's ability, determination, it was all there. Only in the girl's eyes was there tenderness, anxiety too for this other side to Keen's character.

“She will know what we are about.” Keen paused by the stern windows and pictured the other vessel. “She is following us. Reporting our movements to another ship maybe.”

Paget said stubbornly, “She's made no signals, sir. I've put Mr Chaytor aloft with a glass. He'll tell me if he sees any hoists.”

Keen walked reluctantly to the chart and wished suddenly Bolitho was here. The French were using one of their heavy ships, even though frigates had been reported.
Argonaute
could come about and give chase. It might be hopeless, it would certainly take a long time with a southerly wind across the starboard quarter.

He said, “Make a signal to
Icarus
to remain on station.”

In his mind he saw not the ship but the sour face of her captain. “Then signal
Rapid
to close on the flag.”

Paget hesitated by the door. “Shall we chase her, sir? We might catch her if the wind backs a mite further. I reckon this ship'd outfly anything!”

Keen smiled grimly, warmed by Paget's enthusiasm.

“Make the signals, then call all hands and set the t'gan's'ls, after that the royals too.”

Paget glanced quickly at the lively crests astern, blurred and unreal through the salt-caked glass. It was blowing hard to set more canvas just yet. But his captain seemed to hold no doubts. The door closed and moments later the shrill calls and the stampede of feet made the ship stir herself yet again.

Tuson asked, “She'll run, won't she, sir?”

Keen brought his mind back to the cabin. “I've no doubt.” He smiled. “I'm a poor host. What did you come to see me about?”

Tuson stood up and swayed to the slope of the deck.

“News of last night's injuries, sir. Ten in all. Broken bones mostly. It could have been far worse.”

“Not for the wretch who went outboard. But thank you. They are in good hands. I think you know how I appreciate your presence amongst us.”

Tuson walked to the door. In his plain dark coat with his white hair hanging neatly over his collar he looked more like a cleric than a ship's surgeon.

He never drank. Keen had seen his eyes on some of the others when they had been filling their glasses. Something terrible must have happened in his past.

The door closed and he said quietly, “A good man.”

They faced each other across the table.

She spoke first. “I will leave.” She looked at her bare feet, small against the checkered canvas. “I saw you just now. The man. The one who cried out aboard that ship after the whip had cut my back. The one who comforted me, and now who insists he loves me.” She walked round the table, her slim figure angled to the deck. “What will become of us?”

He waited until she had walked up to him and said, “I will make you love me.”

He shut his mind to a cry from the masthead. That must be Chaytor, the second lieutenant.

“She's making more sail, sir!” So the French ship was in pursuit, did not want to lose them.

She reached up and laid her palm on his cheek. When he made to hold her she said quickly, “No. Not like this.” She held her hand to his face for several seconds, her eyes never leaving his. Then she said, “I shall go now.” She sounded reassured, satisfied by what she had discovered. “If Ozzard can take me?”

Keen nodded, his mouth quite dry.

“Do not forget.”

She turned by the door and looked at him. “That would be impossible.”

Ozzard opened the door and she was gone.

Keen walked round the cabin, touching things, seeing none of them. Then he paused by the new, high-backed chair and smiled at it. What would he have done?

Then he went on deck and saw Paget and the officer-of-the-watch studying the braced yards and the set of every sail. The great main-yard was bending like some huge bow. Even the master glanced at him with some apprehension.

A midshipman called, “
Rapid
's acknowledged, sir!” He saw Keen and fell into a confused silence.

Keen gripped his hands together beneath his coat-tails and felt suddenly chilled.

Lieutenant Chaytor yelled, “She's set more sail, sir!”

Keen looked at Paget. “Shorten sail, if you please. Take in the main course.” He saw something like relief on their faces.

Keen watched
Icarus
responding, her sails being fisted to the yards as she followed the flagship's example.

Minutes dragged past. Perhaps he was wrong. Suppose the French captain wanted to close and fight? Two to one, but it could happen. He let out his breath very slowly as the masthead called, “She's shortening sail, sir.”

Keen walked to the foot of the mizzen and touched the boarding pikes which were racked around its fat trunk.

That Frenchman
wants me to turn and go after him. He's goading me. It is what he expects of me!
The realization was still a shock.

He said, “As soon as
Rapid
is close enough, tell her to make all sail and find
Supreme.
Quarrell will have noted the first landfall on his chart.”

Paget watched him guardedly, aware of Keen's sharpness, his change of mood.

“Tell him that our admiral must know we are being followed but not pursued. There is no time to write him separate orders.” The same chill swept through him. The French captain expected him to begin a chase. It would divide their force even further. The realization made him feel pale. He added, “Tell
Rapid
to make haste. As soon as Quarrell understands,
we
shall set all plain sail.” He glanced at the masts and added, “Even if we tear the sticks from her.”

Later, in the stern cabin again, Keen heard Paget repeating his orders, his voice booming through a speaking-trumpet.

Rapid
would live up to her name. He felt suddenly anxious and when he looked at Bolitho's chair it was with the thought it might remain empty for ever.

Bolitho sat on the side of a low bunk in
Supreme
's tiny cabin. It was stiflingly hot between decks and he knew it must be evening.

Someone squeezed through the door and said, “Getting dark, sir.” Bolitho reached out and seized his arm. It was Hallowes; he sounded beaten and subdued, so much so that he had not noticed what he had said, Bolitho thought despairingly.

He touched the damp bandage across his eyes.
Perhaps it will always be dark for me?
Why the sudden fear? He should have expected something like it to happen. God knew, he had seen enough good men struck down. But like this?

He said, “Tell me what you're doing!” There was a bite in his tone, and he knew it was to crush his own self-pity.

During the afternoon Hallowes had tried to recover one of the boats. A strong swimmer had volunteered to go out for it. It was maddening for Hallowes to see both of his boats drifting in the distance, out of reach and unconcerned.

It was strange but men who could swim well were rare in the Navy. This one had got only twenty yards when a solitary musket shot from the shore had killed him. There had been a great groan from the watching seamen as their messmate threw up his arms and vanished, a pink cloud rising above him.

The French sailors who had been landed earlier must be still there, watching the cutter and waiting for their own ship to recover them.

Hallowes said tightly, “I've had all the guns loaded with grape and canister, sir. We'll give a good account of ourselves when those devils come at us.”

Bolitho released his hold and sank back against the curved hull. The sobs and cries had all but finished. Seven men had been killed in that brief mauling. One, the diminutive midshipman named Duncannon, had died lying across Bolitho's lap. He had felt the boy sobbing quietly, his tears mixing with his blood.

Bolitho said, “Help me on deck. Where's my flag-lieutenant?”

“Here, sir.” Stayt had been with him and he had not known. The realization made him suddenly angry. They had all depended on him; now they were losing heart so fast they would have no fight in them despite what Hallowes thought.

He said, “Put more swimmers over the side. If we can get the boats we might kedge
Supreme
closer to the headland. There are rocks there. We'd be safer from that damned frigate.”

“Aye, sir.” Hallowes sounded doubtful. “I'll see to it right away.”

He hurried away and Stayt murmured, “Ready, sir?”

Bolitho stood up carefully to avoid the deckhead. Every time he moved the pain in his eyes returned, stinging like fire, pricking them into torment.

He held Stayt's arm and felt the man's pistol bump against him.

The frigate had left them alone, prepared to wait until nightfall. They were in no hurry. It would have been different if they had known they had the English admiral almost in their hands. Bolitho winced as his eyes stung with emotion. A useless, helpless admiral.

On deck it felt clammy although a steady breeze slapped wavelets along the hull like catspaws.

Stayt whispered, “He's had them all keep down, sir. Behind the bulwarks. They all seem to be armed.”

“Good.” Bolitho moved his head from side to side. He could smell the land, could picture it in his mind. What a place to die, he thought, like the young midshipman, the hill lookout, all the others he had not even known.

He heard Okes' resonant voice and Sheaffe answering.

“Where's my cox'n?”

Bankart was right behind him. “Present, sir.”

If only Allday were here. Bolitho held his bandaged eyes in his palms. No, Allday had done and suffered enough.

Hallowes said in a hushed voice, “The swimmers are here, sir.”

Sheaffe sounded very near. “I'm going, Sir Richard. I learned when I was a child.”

Bolitho held out his hand, “Here, take my hand.” He said, “I was taught early too.” Somehow he had known it would be Sheaffe. “Listen to me. When you reach the boat, either of them, no matter, I want you to stay there. Drop a stream anchor if you will, it's shallow enough. Who is with you?”