Flag Captain (40 page)

“Here! Show me, Herrick. Mark it on the chart!”

Herrick glanced enquiringly at Bolitho and then stooped over the desk.

“She was heading almost due east, sir.”

“And you nearly overhauled her? In a two-decker?” Broughton sounded desperate.

“Aye, sir.
Impulsive
may be old, and her hull is so ripe that I fear it would fall apart but for the copper, but she's the fastest ship in the fleet.” There was real pride in his voice. “
Auriga
might have gone into Cartagena, sir. In which case . . .”

Broughton shook his head. “Never. My patrols would have seen and engaged her.” He rubbed his chin vigorously. “Due east, you say? By heaven, we might still run her to earth!” He looked at Herrick. “And by God I'd not have hung a few miserable mutineers! I would have hanged the lot of them!”

Herrick said respectfully, “I can well believe it, Sir Lucius.”

Broughton did not seem to hear, “Signal Gillmor to give chase at once. He can do anything he likes to hold or delay
Auriga. Restless
can maintain watch to the windward of us.” He glanced at Herrick. “You will close to visual distance with
Restless,
” he gave a short smile, “as your ship is so swift, and relay my instructions to her without delay.” He nodded curtly. “Carry on.”

Outside the cabin Herrick asked, “Is he always like that?”

“Usually.” Bolitho paused by the quarterdeck ladder. “Is Adam doing well? I mean, could you . . .”

Herrick grinned. “He is ready to sit his exam for lieutenant, if that is what you mean.” He watched Bolitho and then added, “Shall I send him across to you?”

“Thank you. I am short of officers.” He smiled, unable to hide his eagerness. “I would appreciate it.”

Herrick touched his arm. “I have taught him all I know.”

“Then he will be ready.”

Herrick's grin was huge. “I had a good teacher, remember?”

Almost before Herrick's boat had cast off from the chains the
Euryalus
's yards were alive with flags.
Coquette
went about with the ease of a thoroughbred, as if a string had been severed to free her from the other ships, and as the seamen poured up from the gangways Bolitho felt as if he was being given a new strength.

Partridge muttered, “Cap'n seems 'appy 'bout somethin'!”

Keverne nodded. “So it would appear.” Then he snatched his speaking trumpet and hurried towards the rail.

18 THE
T
RAP

A
LLDAY
opened the cabin door and announced, “Mr Midshipman Pascoe, Captain!” In spite of the attempted formality his face was breaking into a great grin of pleasure.

It was late evening, and but for a brief encounter when the boy had clambered hurriedly from the boat, he had not been able to speak with him. It had been a strange meeting. He had seen Pascoe's face changing from excitement to caution, a sort of reserved shyness, as he had removed his hat and said, “Coming aboard to join, sir.”

Bolitho had been equally formal, aware of Keverne and the others nearby watching the unexpected reunion.

He had said awkwardly, “Mr Keverne will give you your duties. You are to take the position of acting sixth lieutenant. I am sure Mr Keverne will be able to equip you with the necessary clothing and anything else you might need . . .” He had broken off as a battered midshipman's chest had been hauled unceremoniously from the boat alongside. It was then that he had fully realised the importance of that moment in time.

Pascoe had said quietly, “I thought you might wish me to transfer to your ship, sir.” He'd paused. “I hoped. So I was ready . . .”

Now, as Allday closed the door to leave them together for the first time, he felt the warmth flooding through him, yet was aware of the change which had grown between them.

“Here, Adam, sit down by me.” He gestured to the table which Trute had laid with unusual care. “The food is not too exciting, but doubtless no worse than you've been accustomed to.”

He fumbled with a decanter, aware the whole time of the boy's eyes watching him. How he had changed. He was taller and looked more confident, more sure of himself. And yet, there was the same dark restlessness, like that of a young colt, which he had remembered since their parting two years ago.

The boy took the glass and said simply, “I have been waiting for this moment.” Then he smiled, and Bolitho was again reminded of those other faces in the portraits at Falmouth. “When Captain Herrick told me you were wounded . . .”

Bolitho raised his glass. “Let us forget about that. How have you been?” He ushered him to the table, vaguely conscious as always of the deck's steady vibration and the regular rolls of the hull as the ship plunged in pursuit of
Coquette
in accordance with Broughton's orders.

He pulled a steaming dish of beef towards him. It was recently from the cask and was probably already going bad. But in the warm lantern light, and served as it was on the best cabin pewter, it looked almost luxurious. He hesitated, suddenly confused by his inability to use the knife. The realisation both angered and embarrassed him. This was to have been a perfect moment, spared of duties on deck, and for once almost free of pain.

Pascoe reached across the table and took the knife from his hand. For a moment their eyes met and then he said softly, “Let me, Uncle!” He smiled again. “Captain Herrick has trained me to do all manner of things.”

Bolitho watched him as he bent over the plate, the hair, as black as his own, falling rebelliously over his eyes as he sawed busily through the tough meat.

“Thank you, Adam.” He smiled to himself. Seventeen. It was so easy to remember what it had been like as a young midshipman. And Adam was actually enjoying himself. There was neither pity nor deception in his voice as he chatted excitedly about the
Impulsive
's part in the mutiny, of Herrick and all the dozens of things which had changed him from a young boy to a confident replica of his father, and himself.

Bolitho had difficulty in eating the meat even after it had been cut into small pieces for him. But Adam had no such qualms and helped himself again and again from the platter.

Bolitho asked, “How can you keep stuffing yourself and be as thin as a stick?”

Adam eyed him gravely. “A midshipman's lot is a hard one.”

They both laughed and Bolitho said, “Well, maybe your days in the gunroom are numbered. Once an examination can be arranged, I see no reason why you should not sit for lieutenant.”

The boy dropped his eyes. “I will try not to betray that trust.”

Bolitho watched him for several seconds. This boy could never betray anyone. He was the one who had been wronged. Again he had the pressing feeling that he wanted to do something about it and without more delay. The wound in his shoulder was a warning. The next time might be final.

He said clumsily, “There is a lawyer in Falmouth named Quince.” He hesitated, trying to make his voice sound matter-of-fact. “When we return home I would like you to come with me and see him.”

Pascoe pushed the plate away and wiped his mouth. “Why, Uncle?”

Why? How could so great a question be crammed into one tiny word?

He stood up and walked along the swaying deck towards the windows. Below he could see the frothing wake gleaming like snow in the light of a stern lantern and imagined he could see
Valorous
following at a discreet distance through the darkness. In the thick glass he saw Pascoe's reflection as he sat at the table, his chin in his hands. Like a child for these moments of privacy and value which might soon pass.

He said, “I want to be sure that you have the house and property when I am dead, Adam.” He heard the boy gasp and cursed himself for the crudity of his words. “I know that with luck I will be bothering you for years to come.” He turned and smiled at him. “However, I want to be
certain
about this thing!”

Pascoe made to rise but Bolitho crossed to the table and laid one hand on his shoulder.

“It would have been yours one day had life been kinder. I intend to see that right is not ignored by others.” He hurried on, unable to stop himself “You do not bear our family name, but you are as much a part of it and of me as would otherwise be possible.” He squeezed his shoulder, seeing the boy wipe his eyes with his hand. “Now away with you to your watch. I'll not have my officers saying behind my back that I show favour to some upstart nephew!”

Pascoe stood up very slowly and then said quietly, “Captain Herrick was right about you.” He walked from the table, his face hidden until he turned again by the door. “He said you were the finest man he ever met. He also said . . .” But he could not finish it and almost ran from the cabin.

Bolitho walked to the stern windows and stared unseeingly at the leaping spray. He felt at peace for the first time since . . . he could not remember when that had been. Perhaps at last he would be able to help the boy. To right some of the wrong which had been done to him. At least he had been spared meeting with Draffen. To hear his hints about Hugh's implication with slavery would turn the knife in his heart yet again and might damage him to an extent beyond repair.

There was a tap at the door. It was Ashton. “Mr Meheux's respects, sir.” His eyes wandered to the greasy plates. “He would like to take in another reef. The wind is rising from the nor' west.”

Bolitho nodded and picked up his hat. The moment of peace was to be laid aside again.

“I will go up directly.” He walked to the door adding, “When I return, I will not think it amiss if the rest of that meat has vanished.” He smiled as he closed the door behind him. It was the same frugal food as was served to the ship's company. But seated in the undreamed-of splendour of his captain's cabin, Ashton would think it a banquet, although what Trute would say was hard to imagine.

The morning watch still had an hour to run when Bolitho strode on to the quarterdeck. Although he had been up and about several times during the night, he felt remarkably fresh, and his shoulder was sore rather than painful. He paused to peer at the swinging compass card. North-east, as it had remained since his last inspection before dawn.

The sky was very clear, with a washed-out look, and in a fresh north-westerly wind the sea stretched in an endless display of small white-horses from horizon to horizon.

As he had sat toying with his breakfast and lingering over his last supply of good coffee he had waited for the call from a lookout or the scamper of feet as someone came to bring a message that
Coquette
had been sighted. But as daylight strengthened and the deck above his head had echoed to the sluice of water and swabs, with all the usual chatter between the seamen, he had known there was no ship to see.

Now, as he walked towards the quarterdeck rail, his face impassive to shield his sudden uncertainty, he knew too that he must dissuade Broughton from continuing the chase.

For over seventeen hours since Broughton had sent
Coquette
in hot pursuit of the captured frigate the squadron had pressed on with every sail set to maximum advantage.

During the night when they had altered course to this present tack there had been several breath-stopping moments as
Valorous
had surged out of the gloom like a phantom ship bent on smashing into
Euryalus
's stern.

He had examined his chart while he had finished the coffee in the private world beyond his cabin bulkhead. They were now some sixty miles due south of Ibiza and still pushing further and further into the Mediterranean. Ironically, Broughton's determination to recapture the
Auriga
had taken them back across the same waters as before, and the ships were now less than eighty miles north by east from Djafou.

Keverne gauged it was time to speak. “Good morning, sir.” He smiled. “Again.”

Bolitho looked past him and saw the
Impulsive
's bulging top-gallants far out on the lee quarter, pale yellow in the sunlight. Broughton had decreed that she should play a lone role on the squadron's flank. She was faster than the others, and without a frigate at his disposal, and only the little
Restless
away on the horizon, Broughton had little choice in his deployment.

He said, “Signal
Tanais
to make more sail, if you please. She is out of station again.”

Keverne frowned and touched his hat. “Aye, aye, sir.”

Bolitho walked to the weather side and commenced his morning pacing.
Tanais
was a little to leeward of the line, but hardly sufficient to warrant a signal under their peculiar circumstances. Every ship was doing her best, and the squadron had logged in almost regular seven knots since the last alteration of course. Keverne was probably thinking he had mentioned it merely to remind him of the earlier collision with the two-decker. Imagined perhaps that Bolitho was making an offhand criticism.

His feet moved faster in time with his thoughts. Keverne could think what he liked. There was more than his comfort at stake this morning. On the face of it Broughton's insistence was fair enough.
Coquette
and
Restless
had been off the Spanish coast when the captured frigate had somehow passed between the separated groups of vessels. It was equally possible that
Auriga
could not regain the Spanish coast without losing her lead and exposing herself to a clash with the pursuers. The prevailing north-west wind, which was so favourable to Broughton's ships, would soon make short work of
Auriga
's advantage. He frowned. It was getting him nowhere. Anyway, that was yesterday, when there had still been some real hope of a capture. But
Auriga
's captain may have had no intention of turning towards Spain or France. Majorca or Port Mahon, further east even to some secret mission all of her own, she might be heading on and on with all the speed her sails could muster.

Perhaps if he had not been so concerned with his own personal affairs, his pleasure at seeing the boy again he might have confronted Broughton earlier. He frowned angrily. Always the
perhaps
and the
maybe.

“Good morning, sir.”

He halted and saw Pascoe watching him from the top of the starboard gangway.

Bolitho relaxed slightly. “How are you settling in?”

The boy nodded. “I have been all over the ship, sir.” He looked suddenly grave. “It is hard to realise that it was here where the French surrendered.” He walked a few paces aft and stared at the damp. “I was thinking of Mr Selby, the master's mate, who died to save me. I often think about him.”

Bolitho clenched his hand behind him. Would it never end? Always Hugh seemed to be at his shoulder, making mock of his efforts to forget. What would Adam say now, this second, if he knew Selby had been his own father? Perhaps their blood had been so strong that even the deception had been only temporary.

He knew too that the boy's words had made him realise something else. He was jealous. Jealous because he still remembered a father he had not knowingly seen, and because it was something which could not be shared. Suppose he did discover the truth about Hugh and learn that his identity even at the moment of death had been denied him? At the time it had been vital for his own safety, as it was now for the boy's future. But would those things seem important to him if he found the truth?