Colours Aloft! (3 page)

He said softly, “All those men, little more than boys some of them. Farquhar, Keverne, Veitch,” he looked away, “young John Neale, remember? And the rest, where are they? Dead, maimed, ekeing out their lives in one poxy hospital or another, and for what?”

Keen had never seen him like this before. “We'll beat the Frogs, sir.”

Bolitho gripped his arm. “I daresay. But a lot of good men will have to pay for others' complacency and stupidity.”

He controlled his voice and said calmly, “I will go aft and read my despatches. Dine with me tonight, eh, Val?”

Keen touched his hat and watched him leave the quarterdeck. He saw Stayt, the new flag-lieutenant, strolling towards the poop and wondered if he could replace Bolitho's nephew or the previous aide Browne. He smiled sadly.
With an “e.”

Keen walked to the quarterdeck rail and rested his hand on it. Soon the ship would be alive again, a working creature, driven by her pyramids of canvas, expected to deal with anything, anywhere. He glanced up to Bolitho's flag at the fore. There was no man he would rather serve, none he respected more. Loved. From the moment he had joined Bolitho's ship as a midshipman he had found his affection growing. Amidst death and danger in the Great South Sea, when Bolitho had almost died of fever, he had still found the strength to support him in his own loss. Keen still thought of the lovely Malua, who had died of the same terrible fever. Unlike most sea officers, he had never married, had never really recovered from losing her.

He looked along his command and felt vaguely pleased with all they had achieved in so short a time. He recalled the neverending broadsides, the carnage above and below decks in that last battle. He touched his left shoulder where a splinter had smashed him down. It still ached on occasions. But he was alive. He looked at the men high above the decks working at their endless splicing and other ropework.

It had been his good fortune to retain some of the older, seasoned men from
Achates.
Big Harry Rooke, the boatswain; Grace, the carpenter, who had been worth his weight in gold during the refit at Plymouth. Even Black Joe Langtry, the fearsome looking master-at-arms, had come aboard
Argonaute.
But they were still well short of seamen. He rubbed his chin as he had seen Bolitho do when he was considering a problem. The port-admiral and a local magistrate were doing their best, but Keen wanted prime seamen, not felons. The thought made him glance across at the two big transports, one an ex-Indiaman by the look of her. They were to carry convicts to the new colony. Was it the right way to expand a place, he wondered? A felon was a felon and the gallows a fitter end for his kind.

Paget, the first lieutenant, crossed the deck and touched his hat. “Permission to exercise the lower battery during the afternoon watch, sir?”

Keen saw him glance aft to the poop and smiled. “Have no fear, Mr Paget, our admiral greatly approves of efficient gunnery! So do I!”

Paget walked away. A good lieutenant, slightly older than the others, he had been in the merchant service for a time during the Peace of Amiens. He should have a command, albeit a small one. The little
Supreme
's new commander, Hallowes, had been Keen's fourth lieutenant until the battle. Keen could see it now. Adam Bolitho and Hallowes in a madcap attack on
Argonaute
's stern. With a handful of men they had placed charges around the mainmast and brought it down like a gigantic tree. The enemy had struck almost immediately. So why not Paget? His report was good and he seemed competent enough.

Keen began to pace up and down, his chin in his neckcloth, momentarily oblivious to the rattle of blocks and the hoarse cries of his petty officers as more stores were hauled aboard. Time would tell. One thing was certain, it would be a harder war this time. The feeling of being cheated, even betrayed, after so shortlived a peace would put an edge on every temper.

It would be good to see Inch again, to watch his long horseface light up when he met Bolitho. It was a sobering thought to realize that Inch and himself were the only post-captains in the squadron. Inch's two-decker
Helicon
would arrive from the Nore at any time. Then, under orders once more, they would put out to sea where every sighting would likely be hostile. To Gibraltar, and then?

While Keen paced the deck immersed in his thoughts, Bolitho wandered about his unfamiliar quarters as Ozzard and some extra hands moved his possessions into their new places.

The old sword was on its rack above the fine presentation one from Falmouth's public subscription. He could remember quite clearly his father giving him the old blade in the grey house where he had been born.

He said gravely, “England needs all her sons now.” He had been grieving for Hugh's disgrace, his desertion from the Navy. Hugh should have been given the sword. It would be Adam's one day.

Bolitho walked into the sleeping compartment and stared at himself in his mirror. Where had the years gone? He would be forty-seven next month. He looked ten years younger but the thought, like the others, disturbed him.

He thought of Belinda, back in Falmouth. Would there be more changes when he returned? He grimaced at his reflection then turned away. “If, more like.”

Ozzard started. “Sir?”

Bolitho smiled. “Nothing. I have been ashore for too many weeks. The next horizon will cure that directly.”

Ozzard was packing things into drawers and a fine hanging wardrobe. He liked to be busy. He hesitated over one drawer and made to tidy some new shirts. His fingers touched a miniature portrait of a girl with long chestnut hair and green eyes. She was so beautiful, he thought.

Twigg, his new assistant, peered over his shoulder. “Shall we 'ang it, Tom? I would if I 'ad a wife like 'er!”

“Get about your work!” Ozzard closed the drawer carefully. It was not Twigg's fault, the miniature looked very like Lady Belinda. But Ozzard knew differently: he had heard Bolitho call out her name when he had been badly wounded.
Cheney.

Why did she have to die? He picked up a pair of shoes and regarded them unseeingly.

The deck rolled slightly and Ozzard sighed.

This was a life he had come to understand. Better than those poor devils in the convict ships. He gave a gentle smile. If fate had been less kind he might have taken the same one-way passage.

Three days later the small squadron with
Argonaute
in the van stood down-Channel in a brisk northerly wind.

They had sailed on the ebb, but there was no letter. Bolitho locked his own in the strongbox and watched the land slipping away into the dusk.
My England, when shall I see you again?

It was like a cry from the heart, but only the sea replied.

2 IN
D
ISTRESS

B
OLITHO
walked across the poop and idly watched the other three ships of the line following astern. It was two long days since they had weighed anchor at Spithead and, apart from sail and gun drill, there had been little to break the monotony.

Inch's
Helicon
was directly astern, with
Despatch
and
Icarus
in direct line although not without a few forthright signals from the flagship.

They had to learn good station-keeping and to respond to every signal without delay. There would be no time later on.

Far away on the starboard quarter, with only her pale topsails showing above the sea and spray, the solitary frigate
Barracouta
held carefully to windward, ready to dash down and investigate any sighting or support her heavy consorts if so ordered. Bolitho could picture them all, and their captains whom he had seen just briefly prior to sailing. The brig
Rapid
and the small, rakish cutter
Supreme
were sweeping far ahead of their flagship, Bolitho's eyes and intelligence.

Bolitho had decided to leave the briefing to Keen when the captains had assembled in
Argonaute
's wardroom. He had always hated speeches just for the want of making them. When they reached the Rock he would know better what was expected and would then lay his intentions before the others.

Inch's face had been creased with delight when Bolitho had greeted him aboard. He had not changed. Still eager and completely trusting, Bolitho knew he could never share his doubts with one so loyal. Inch would agree with everything he said and did, even to the mouth of Hell.

He turned to watch the hands at work on the gun deck. He had noticed several faces he knew from the
Achates.
He had remarked to Keen that it did him credit they had volunteered to serve under him again. He had not seen Keen smile to himself, just as it had never occurred to him that they might have volunteered because of their admiral.

He had seen the loping, misshapen Crocker, the gun captain who had blown down this ship's mainmast and so finished the battle, looking no different despite his new uniform. He had gained promotion to gunner's mate and was rarely far away when the drills were carried out.

He saw Allday on the larboard gangway with a fresh-faced youth he guessed was his newly discovered son. It did not seem possible, and he wondered when Allday would decide the time was right and proper to bring him aft to the great cabin. Allday would know better than anyone Bolitho's dislike of showing favours in a crowded man-of-war. He would doubtless judge the moment perfectly.

Two bells chimed out from the forecastle and Bolitho stirred restlessly. He felt so apart from the ship and those who followed his flag. Keen and his officers dealt with everything, and day by day
Argonaute
's company were led, encouraged and driven into a working team. Minutes were knocked off the time for clearing for action, for reefing and making sail, but Bolitho could only share it at a distance.

The hours dragged heavily and he found himself envying Keen as well as the other captains who had their ships to fill their days.

He walked to the opposite side and stared at the dull, grey sea with its serried ranks of wave crests. One hundred miles abeam was Lorient. He glanced forward to the figurehead's pale shoulder. They had passed Brest in the night, where this ship had been built. Did
Argonaute
feel it, he wondered?

Curiously enough Inch's
Helicon
was also a French prize, but had had her name changed as was the custom when the battle where she had been taken had been badly fought.

Bolitho touched the nettings. Nobody could say that about this ship. She had fought well from start to finish. Nelson would be hard put to control the Mediterranean if the enemy had more admirals of Jobert's breed.

“Deck there!
Rapid
's signallin', sir!”

Bolitho glanced up at the masthead lookout on his precarious, swooping perch. The wind had backed slightly and was almost directly astern. It would be lively up there.

He opened his mouth to speak but Keen was already present.

“Get aloft, Mr Sheaffe, with haste now!”

Bolitho watched the slim midshipman swarming up the shrouds. He was sixteen but looked older, and rarely skylarked with the other “young gentlemen” off duty, or during the dogwatches.

He wondered momentarily if Adam would have been so serious had he been his son.

Eventually Sheaffe was able to level his big signals telescope and shouted down to the deck.

“From
Supreme,
repeated
Rapid,
sir!” All eyes were raised to his foreshortened silhouette. The clouds seemed to be racing directly above the masthead.

“Sail in sight to the south'rd!”

Keen exclaimed, “I wonder?” He looked at Bolitho. “Frenchies, sir?”

Bolitho said, “Doubt it. We saw some of the blockading squadron yesterday. The enemy would have to slip past them first.” He smiled at Keen's expression. He was disappointed. It was as clear as if he had said it aloud.

Bolitho said, “Signal
Supreme
to investigate. She carries only pop-guns, but can outpace anything that floats.”

The signal dashed up to the yards and broke stiffly to the wind.
Rapid
would be waiting to repeat it to the cutter which was out of sight from the flagship. He knew Lieutenant Hallowes' reputation for recklessness and hoped he would take care. Otherwise his new command would be short-lived.

Bolitho heard a step beside him and saw his flag-lieutenant watching the signal party critically as Sheaffe slid down to the deck again.

Stayt said, “Slow. You must do better, Mr Sheaffe, or I shall know why.”

Bolitho said nothing. At least Stayt did not care about reprimanding an admiral's son.

Stayt said, “Whoever it is will probably turn and run, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. If it was a merchantman, no matter what flag she wore, her master would not wish to lose any of his prime seamen to a King's ship.

He wondered about Stayt. His father had quit the sea a sick man and owned some land around the little village of Zennor. Stayt's brothers were both clergymen but it was hard to picture the lieutenant wearing the cloth.

Stayt had a swarthy complexion and dark restless eyes. Like a gypsy. He was not handsome like Keen, but had the rugged good looks which would appeal to women.

Bolitho knew that Stayt always carried a small pistol under his coat and wanted to ask him why. A curious habit, as if he was expecting trouble.

Sheaffe spoke urgently to his assistant midshipman and then climbed swiftly up the mizzen shrouds with his telescope. He was smarting, whereas most midshipmen would have taken Stayt's comment as part of their lot. A midshipman was neither fish nor fowl, who stood between the lieutenants and the people, and was respected by neither for the most part. It was strange they never remembered that fact when they became lieutenants, Bolitho thought.

“From
Supreme,
sir!” Sheaffe's voice was sharp. “She's the
Orontes!
”

Keen said, “One of the convict ships. But they sailed two days before us.” He eyed Bolitho questioningly. “Strange?”

“From
Supreme,
sir. Ship requires assistance.”

“Make to
Supreme.
” Keen had seen Bolitho nod.
“Heave-to and await the flag.”
He waited for the signal to break out. Now a general signal.
“Make more sail.”

Stayt closed his glass with a snap. “The squadron has all acknowledged, sir.”

Bolitho watched the hands dashing up the shrouds and out along the yards to set more sail. The other ships were doing likewise. There was no obvious danger but the squadron would keep in formation. Bolitho had known traps in the past, his own and the enemy's. He was taking no chances.

The deck staggered and spray lifted above the taffrail as
Argonaute
responded to the extra pressure of canvas.

“We'll be up to them by noon, sir.” Keen watched the set of each sail and then shouted, “Another pull on the weather forebrace, Mr Chaytor! Your division is in confusion today!” He lowered his speaking-trumpet and turned aside. There was little wrong with the lieutenant's division, but it did no harm to drive them a bit more. He saw Bolitho smile and knew that he had seen through his guard.

Luke Fallowfield, the sailing-master, watched the hardening sails and put another man on the big double-wheel. He had been master in flagships before but had never known one like Bolitho's. Most admirals stayed away in their great cabins, but not this one. Fallowfield was short, but massively built like a huge cask. He had no neck and his head sat directly on his shoulders like a great red pumpkin. He was a shabby, shambling mass of a man, who usually cast the smell of rum in his wake, but his knowledge of navigation and ship-handling was unsurpassed.

Bolitho was getting to know their faces, the way they responded to their superiors and subordinates. It kept him in touch. Without this small contact he knew he would be forced into his shielded quarters. In his heart he admitted he did not want to be left alone with his thoughts.

The
Orontes
grew and lifted from the grey water with each turn of the glass. Lying-to nearby, the
Supreme
remained an onlooker, her hull rolling and pitching in the troughs.

As soon as
Argonaute
was within signalling distance Keen observed, “Lost their rudder, damn them!”

Stayt said, “The other ship was an ex-Indiaman and in good condition.” His lip curled. “This one is a hulk. I'm glad for their sakes the Bay is being kind.”

Bolitho took a glass and watched the slow exchange of signals. Stayt was right about the ship's appearance. More like a slaver than a government transport.

He said, “If we take her in tow, Val,” he saw Keen's dismay, “and assist her back to port, we will reduce our strength and slow our passage. We cannot abandon her.”

Old Fallowfield mumbled, “Squall gettin' near, zur.” He stared blankly at the officers. “No doubt in my mind.”

“That settles it.” Bolitho folded his arms. “Send a boat across and discover what has happened to her consort, the
Philomela.
” He watched Big Harry Rooke, the boatswain, beckoning a boat's crew towards the tier. It was bad luck, but they had no choice.

“We will escort her to Gibraltar.”

Keen protested, “We'll take days longer with her in tow, sir.”

He was eager to get there. More so to become involved against the enemy. He did not alter.

The first lieutenant clambered down into the waiting boat and was soon speeding across the water towards the drifting vessel.

What a way for the convicts to begin what was already a terrible voyage, Bolitho thought. He tried to shut it from his mind and concentrate on what he must do. If he left the squadron and went on ahead in
Barracouta
or
Rapid
to discover what was required of him, there might be an unexpected attack during his absence. A barely trained squadron without its admiral would certainly attract the French if they learned of it.

He made up his mind. “Signal
Barracouta
to close on the flag. Captain to repair on board.” He could already see Lapish's youthful face, grateful to be released from his ponderous companions, to be free of authority.

“Then signal
Helicon
to prepare to tow.” Inch was by far the most experienced captain, but he would not thank him for it. Not even loyal Inch.

It took the remainder of the day to pass the massive hawser to the rudderless transport, and some hundred sailors from Inch's command to do it. By the time they had formed up once more in some sort of order
Barracouta
was already hull down on the horizon and soon out of sight altogether. Lapish would carry despatches from Bolitho to the Governor and commander-in-chief. At least everyone would know they would eventually arrive under the Rock.

Darkness closed in and when Bolitho went aft to the great cabin he saw that the table was carefully laid, the sides and deckhead glittering to the swinging lanterns and new candles.

The exercise with the
Orontes
and the passing of the tow had given Bolitho an appetite. It had helped to pass the time, to see his squadron doing something other than running out guns or shortening sail.

Ozzard watched him and was satisfied. It was good to see Bolitho in a warmer mood. He would dine with the captain and the new flag-lieutenant. Ozzard was reserving his opinion on the latter. There was something false about Lieutenant Stayt, he decided. Like the lawyer he had once worked for.