Inshore Squadron (23 page)

Winding coach roads, bushes standing darkly by the side like hunched groups of footpads, cold wind and the stinging cut of rain to keep his mind awake.

Now it was almost dawn, and in the dull grey light even Portsmouth looked like a dream's interpretation, without reality.

The boat's coxswain swung the tiller and headed towards a solitary top-light which Bolitho knew to be his flagship.

Browne had said very little during the hard ride, and was slumped beside him, either too tired to speak or immersed in some plan of his own.

The officer of the guard snapped, “Show the lantern!”

He was a lieutenant with a terrible facial disfigurement from some sea-fight in the past.

The bowman slid the shutter of his lantern and held it above his head.

Bolitho could imagine
Benbow
's drowsy watchkeepers, the marine sentries on the forecastle and poop, the pandemonium which would begin as soon as they realised he was returning.

Across the dark water came the age-old challenge.
“Boat ahoy?”

The coxswain cupped his hands, probably enjoying the chaos he was about to cause.

“Flag! Benbow!”

Bolitho said, “I hope to God Captain Herrick is aboard.”

He despised himself immediately for thinking otherwise. Of course he would be here.

Like a rounded cliff
Benbow
's side loomed over the boat, and high above, more starkly etched against the dull sky, her masts and yards made a black pattern all of their own.

“Toss your oars!”

The boat glided the last few yards to the main chains, but when Bolitho made to rise from his seat he almost cried out with pain as his leg buckled beneath him.

Browne whispered urgently, “Here, sir, let me help!”

Bolitho stared up at the entry port, his vision misting with pain. What had he expected? A ride like that was enough to break any wound. His sense of urgency, his need to get here had made him lie to Browne. He had barely ridden a horse, and certainly not so hard, for several years.

He said, “No. I must manage.
Must.
”

The lieutenant raised his hat, and the oarsmen sat in their boat, panting with exertion, as they watched Bolitho climb slowly up the
Benbow
's side.

Herrick was there, dishevelled and anxious as he hurried forward to meet him.

Bolitho said huskily, “Later, Thomas. Come aft with me now.”

Startled figures moved from and then retreated to the shadows. Acting Lieutenant Aggett, in charge of the hated morning watch. Perhaps he was already regretting his unexpected promotion after the death of the sixth lieutenant.

Others, too, but Bolitho had thoughts only for his cabin. To reach it and find the peace to think.

The marine sentry outside his cabin stamped to attention, his uniform very bright beneath the solitary lantern.

Bolitho limped past him. “Good morning, Williams.” He did not see the pleasure on the man's face that he had found time to remember his name.

Ozzard was in the stern cabin, bustling and muttering as he lit the lanterns and brought life to the green leather and the heavy-beamed deckhead.

Herrick stared at Bolitho as he sank into a chair and gasped, “Get my boots off, Ozzard.”

Browne warned, “Easy, man.”

Herrick saw the broad patch of blood on Bolitho's thigh.

“God Almighty!”

Bolitho tensed against the pain. “Tell me, Thomas. About this damned duel.”

Herrick said, “I passed all I knew to Browne, sir. I was not sure where you might be at that time. But
Relentless
sails on the morning tide. Pascoe will be out of harm's way.”

He winced as Bolitho gave a sharp cry.

“I'll pass the word for the surgeon.”

“Later.”
Bolitho turned to Ozzard. “A drink, please. Anything. As fast as you like.” To Herrick he said, “How did Adam take it?”

“Badly, sir. He spoke of honour, of your trust in him, and of causing you trouble because of his dead father.” Herrick frowned, reliving and hating it. “I had to use my authority in the end. That was almost the worst part.”

Bolitho nodded. “To think Adam has always dreamed of joining a frigate. To have it spoiled in this way is bad, but you acted well, Thomas. Captain Rowley Peel is young and ambitious, and has proved his skill at arms. More than that, he is a stranger to me, so he has no axe to grind. Dear Inch would say black was white if he thought it would please me. Like you in that respect.”

He took a goblet from Ozzard and drank deeply. It was ice-cold hock which Ozzard had been keeping in his secret store in the bilges.

Bolitho sank back and said, “Another. And fetch some for Captain Herrick and my flag lieutenant.” He looked at each of them in turn. “I am indebted to you both for more reasons than I can name.”

Browne blurted out, “Do you intend to face Roche, sir?”

Herrick almost choked on his wine.
“What?”

Bolitho asked, “When is the meet?”

“This morning at eight, sir. On the Gosport side. But it is not necessary now. I can inform the port admiral and have Roche charged.”

“Do you think that anyone who would use Adam to get at me would not try again? It is no coincidence.” He saw Herrick's expression. “You've remembered something?”

Herrick licked his lips. “Your nephew made a strange remark, sir. This Lieutenant Roche remarked that he had been looking for him.
I was going to meet you
or something of that sort.”

“That settles it.”

He thought suddenly of her face. But whose, Cheney's, or the girl he had left in London at that sombre house?

Browne said, “He means it.”

Bolitho smiled. “Now you may fetch the surgeon. I'll need a new dressing, and some fresh breeches and shoes.”

Browne replied, “And shirt.” He hesitated. “In case of the worst, sir.”

As he left the cabin Herrick said, “I'll come with you.”

“Major Clinton is probably better used to such matters. You are too close, Thomas.” He thought of Allday. “It is better this way.”

Browne returned, out of breath. “Surgeon's coming aft, sir.”

“Good. Arrange for a boat, and a carriage of some kind if it's any distance.”

He closed his eyes as the pain returned. But for Herrick's message he would still be in London. Any delay and the time for the duel would have been past.

If Damerum was behind it, he would be waiting to gloat over Roche's victory.

He said quietly, “There is a letter in my strongbox, Thomas.” He saw Herrick's eyes widen with alarm. “I am a coward. I should have told Adam about his father's death. It is all written in the letter. Give it to him if I fall today.”

Herrick exclaimed, “You could not tell him, sir. By so doing you would have revealed yourself for harbouring a traitor. And then your brother would have been taken and Pascoe would have seen him hang.”

“That is what I told myself, Thomas. Maybe that, too, was a lie. Perhaps I was frightened Adam would hate me for the deceit. I think that is what it was.”

The surgeon entered the cabin and glared at Bolitho like an enraged skull.

“With all respect, sir, do you
want
to die?”

Herrick said heavily, “Hold your tongue and do what is required.” As he made for the screen door he added, “You might as well try to stop a charging bull.”

But there was no humour in his voice, and long after he had gone his words seemed to hang in the air.

Major Clinton said, “I think it best that we should stop now, sir.” He peered through the small window. “It is reckless to advertise such matters.”

Bolitho climbed down from the small carriage and looked at the sky. It was almost eight o'clock but the light was still poor.

Clinton tucked his case of pistols under his cloak and added, “I shall see the fellow's second, sir. I'll not be long.” But still he hesitated. “If you are really intent on this?”

“I am. Remember, confine your remarks to Roche's second to the minimum.”

Clinton nodded. “I'll not forget, sir. Just as you told me. Although . . .” He did not finish it.

Bolitho placed his hat on the carriage seat and tugged his cloak more tightly around him. Small things stood out. Some early sparrows searching for food. The fact that the muffled coachman had got down from his seat to stand by his horses' heads. To pacify them at the first pistol shots. That his hands were damp with sweat.

What it must be like for a condemned man, he thought vaguely. Trying to hold on to small, ordinary things, as if by so doing he could stop time itself.

Clinton came back, his face grim. “They're waiting, sir.”

Bolitho walked beside him through the wet grass to a small clearing, beyond which Clinton had said there was a bog.

Clinton said, “The pistols are examined and accepted, sir.”

“What did he say to annoy you so much, Major?”

“Damned impudence! When I told him Mr Pascoe had been ordered to sea and that another sea officer of the Bolitho family was to take his place, he just laughed!
It won't save his honour or his life,
he said!”

Bolitho saw two carriages standing discreetly beneath some trees. One for his opponent, the other for some trustworthy doctor, no doubt.

He watched Roche and his second striding purposefully to meet them. Roche was a powerful-looking man, and he was almost swaggering with conceit and confidence.

They faced each other, and Roche's second said crisply, “You will each take fifteen paces, turn and fire. If neither falls, each of you will advance five paces and fire again.”

Roche bared his teeth in a grin. “Let's begin. I need a drink.”

Bolitho looked at the two open cases, his mind empty of everything but that by using two pistols it would have been even easier for a trained marksman to kill his opponent.

He said, “Take my cloak, Major.”

He tried not to look at Roche's face as he threw the cloak from his shoulders. In the grey light, and set against the bare, dripping trees, his uniform stood out like a painting. The bright epaulettes, the single gold stripe on his sleeve, the buttons, one of which on another coat had almost cost him his leg.

Eventually he did turn to face Roche. The transformation was complete. Instead of his sneering amusement at the thought of another kill he was staring at Bolitho as if he was having a seizure or that his neckcloth was choking him.

“Well, Mr Roche?”

“But—but I cannot fight with . . .”

“With a rear-admiral? Does rank decide who will live or die, Mr Roche?”

He nodded to Clinton, thankful that he at least was outwardly in control of his feelings.

“Let us get on with it.”

He heard Roche mutter, “Tell him, John. I'll stand down.”

Bolitho lifted the two long-barrelled pistols from their case and cocked them. His heart was pounding so hard that he thought Roche and the others must hear it.

Bolitho said, “But I will not.”

He turned his back and waited, the pistols pointing at the clouds.

If Roche decided to go through with it he would be dead in about three minutes.

The second cleared his throat. There was no other sound now, even the sparrows were silent.

“Fifteen paces.
Begin!
”

Bolitho fixed his eyes on a straight elm tree and walked carefully towards it, counting each step like the beat of his heart.

Adam would have been doing it at this very moment. If by any chance Roche had failed to kill him with the first ball the second would have finished him. Those extra paces, after being narrowly missed by a professional duellist, or maybe wounded, would have destroyed any remaining confidence.

“Thirteen . . . fourteen . . .
fifteen!
”

Bolitho's shoes squeaked on the grass as he turned and dropped his right arm. He saw Roche's shirt outlined above the smooth barrel and then realised that his arms were at his sides, his pistols pointing to the ground.

Roche called hoarsely, “I cannot shoot you, sir!
Please!
”

His second turned to stare at him, more used to hearing a victim pleading before Roche had cut him down.

Bolitho kept his aim steady although the pistol felt like a cannon ball.

He said, “If you finish me, Mr Roche, do you imagine that whoever paid you to kill my nephew will stand by you? At best you will be transported for life. But my guess is that there are many who would use their influence to see you dance on a gibbet like the common felon you are!”