Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef (30 page)

The fourth lieutenant, Robert Whyham, who was officer-of-the-watch, said, “Barge is shoving off, sir!”

“I’ll tell the captain. Pipe the guard to the side.” He liked Whyham, who was the only lieutenant from the original wardroom, and had been promoted from sixth place in the past few months. He also envied him without really knowing the reason, except that Whyham had served under Captain Keen in a previous flagship, the French prize Argonaute. There had been glory in her great fight too. Sedgemore rarely allowed his mind to dwell on the harsher side of things.

He hesitated, a last look round: nothing adrift which he might be blamed for. “And tell that midshipman to go forrard and make certain the admiral’s flag is already bent-on and ready to break on the last order of the salute.”

Whyham touched his dripping hat. “Aye, sir.”

At least the reception would go smoothly; both of the Royal Marine officers were from the original detachment which now made up an eighth part of Black Prince’s eight hundred officers and men.

Lieutenant Sedgemore straightened the lapels on his coat and removed his hat as he reached the rigid marine sentry outside the captain’s screen door.

One day, I shall have something like this. For a terrible moment he imagined he had spoken aloud, but when he glanced at the sentry’s eyes he was thankful to see they were suitably blank.

He rapped on the door with his knuckles. “Captain, sir?”

The Black Prince’s captain stood directly below the skylight of his day cabin and looked through the spray-dappled glass. The sky was grey, the clouds fast-moving in the occasional gusts against the ship’s high tumblehome, which made itself felt in the very bowels of the hull. He glanced at Jenour, who was half-heartedly examining some papers Yovell had left for Keen’s signature. It was hard to see him in that open boat with his torn hands hauling on an oar; the blood in the bottom after Allday had amputated the Golden Plover’s master’s infected leg. Hard to picture himself either, for that matter.

He knew what was troubling Jenour, and said, “It had to happen eventually. You have been Sir Richard’s flag lieutenant longer than anyone. He likes you, and this is his way of rewarding you, as is only proper.”

Jenour came out of his dark thoughts. Bolitho had told him himself that after they had reached the West Indies, and at the first opportunity, he would appoint him in command of some suitable vessel. It was customary, and in his heart Jenour had known it was inevitable. But he did not want to leave the vice-admiral. He had become a part of this precious body, we happy few as poor Oliver Browne had once called it. There were very few of them left now, but that had never deterred him.

Keen took his silence for a persisting doubt and said, “Responsibility is not yours to toss away. It is a privilege, not a right, as I and others like me soon discovered. Once you were less certain.” He smiled. “Less mature, if you like. But your experience has grown with you, and it is needed more than ever. Look at this ship, Stephen. Boys and old men, volunteers and rascals. It is the way of things. Sir Richard is ordered to the Indies to command a squadron of fourteen sail of the line.” He gestured across the litter of papers. “So what have their lordships offered him? Six instead of fourteen, one frigate instead of the promised three. It never changes. Which is why your skills, like it or not, are sorely needed. Take the vice-admiral’s nephew, for instance. He too was once his flag lieutenant—now he is posted, and commands a fine frigate.”

Jenour could not compare himself with Adam Bolitho. He was so like his uncle, but had a touch of fire which came from elsewhere, probably his dead father.

Jenour sighed. “It was good of you to listen, sir.”

Keen watched him leave and began the routine of preparing himself for sea. Once the anchor was up and catted, he would not leave the quarterdeck until his ship was safely clear of the narrows and with the Needles well abeam. Then south-west into open waters, where his untried hands could find their skills, or lack of them, as the great ship bore down towards the Western Approaches.

Feet were moving everywhere, with the occasional shout, muffled by distance and the stoutness of the timbers, to tell of the activity and the tension of getting a man-of-war under sail. There would be other thoughts, too, apart from fear of heights above the swaying hull, or fighting out along the yards to learn the mysteries and terrors of making and reefing sails in half a gale. Thoughts of leaving home, perhaps never to return. Men snatched from the streets and lanes by press-gangs who had no time for heart or pity. That was a peculiar aspect of the character of seamen. For the most part those already in the King’s service, even the pressed men, saw no reason why others should not share their own fate.

He crossed to the larboard side and peered through the streaming glass of the quarter gallery. Blurred, like a painting left out in the rain: the dull grey of fortifications, and the cheerful red roofs beyond. He recalled bringing this ship through the narrow harbour entrance, how Julyan the sailing-master had exclaimed, “God, I thought we was going to take the veranda off the old Quebec Inn for a moment or two!”

Have I changed so much? Has she done that for me too?

After all, what had he really expected? He loved her; why had he been surprised that she could at last find it within herself to return it? Perhaps it was merely gratitude …

But it had been none of these things. For a long, long time she had stood pressed in his arms, sobbing quietly, murmuring into his chest.

Even then, he had doubted it.

They had sat by the fire in the rooms set aside for them in the great house in Hampshire. For all they knew, it might have been empty but for themselves. Then she had taken his hand and had led him to that adjoining room, where another fire made the shadows dance around them like rejoicing spectres. She had faced him, paces away, her eyes shining in the flames’ reflections, then very deliberately had let her gown fall to the floor. She had come to him, and together they had fallen on to the great bed. He had been in a daze as she had drawn his lips to her thrusting breasts, held his mouth to each nipple until he was roused to madness. But it was not to be so soon. She had stretched herself naked on the bed, so that her curving scar had been laid bare in the flickering firelight: he had never been permitted to see it so unashamedly revealed. She had looked at him over her bare shoulder and had whispered, “Take me as you will. I have the courage now.” Her voice had broken as he had gripped her body with both hands, “And the love you were denied.”

It had been like that until Keen had received his orders for Portsmouth: passion, exploration, discovery. The parting had been difficult, and left an ache in his heart he had never before experienced.

There was a tap at the outer door and he said, “Enter!” No wonder he had risked even this ship in a moment of remembered ecstasy.

Sedgemore glanced around the cabin, where important members of the court martial had taken refreshment during the various adjournments.

“Sir Richard Bolitho’s barge has just left the sallyport, sir.”

“Very well.” Keen looked at his watch. Another departure, but this time with hope, the knowledge that she would be waiting for him. He knew now why he had been so unmoved by the events in the jolly-boat. Because he had not cared if he had lived or died, and had nothing to lose.

“Fast current running, sir.”

Keen nodded, his thoughts lingering on those nights and sometimes, the days. She had introduced him to a desire and torment he had never known, to pleasures he had never imagined.

He said abruptly, “Yes. Put all spare hands on the capstan bars today. I want to break out the anchor as soon as possible.”

“I’ve already done that, sir.”

Keen smiled. You would. Given time, Sedgemore would become a good first lieutenant; he had already shown that. It was just as well, with all the raw hands at their disposal.

Sedgemore, he noted, was well turned-out to greet his admiral. His uniform coat had not been thrown together by some dockside Jew, but spoke of a good costly tailor. His sword, too, was expensive, its blade embossed and patterned in blue steel. It certainly did not come out of a lieutenant’s pay, and Keen knew that Sedgemore’s father was a humble saddler.

Keen brought his mind back to the ship’s business. “I see we have more than a fair share of squeakers amongst our young gentlemen.”

“Aye, sir. Two of the midshipmen are but twelve years old.”

Keen picked up his sword. “Well, watch them, Mr Sedgemore.”

“As if they were my own sons, sir!”

Keen eyed him calmly. “It was not what I meant. At that tender age they are often the cruellest bullies in the ship. I’ll not have the people harassed more than need be.”

He strode past him and glanced at the sentry. “How’s the wife, Tully?”

The marine brought his heels smartly together. “We’re expecting a third bairn, thank you, sir!” He was still beaming as Keen and his first lieutenant came into the watery grey daylight beyond the poop.

Sedgemore shook his head. He was learning a lot about his captain today. Had he been more perceptive he might have guessed where Keen had first gained his own experience.

Keen watched the green-painted barge, turning now to pass astern of a motionless yawl. Without the aid of a telescope he could see Bolitho hunched in his boat-cloak at the sternsheets, Allday beside him, and his own coxswain at the tiller. Remembering, yes. Perhaps him most of all. The lovely woman beside him, her body revealed by the soaking spray as she had taken her place in the crowded boat. The mutineers who had died, one at Allday’s hand, the other, if he had indeed been one of the mutineers, under the merciless agony of drinking seawater. There had been news of one other mutineer who had been taking refuge in the boatswain’s big cutter. He had been hanged at Freetown within hours of being marched ashore. Justice was always harder and faster the more sea miles you were from high authority.

Lady Catherine would have been here in Portsmouth, whatever Bolitho had said. She would be over yonder now, watching the lively barge, clinging to his image as she would soon have to hold on to his memory.

Keen smiled briefly to the senior Royal Marines officer, Major Bourchier, as he completed inspecting the guard of honour.

“Sorry to leave, Major?”

Bourchier puffed out his cheeks, which were almost the colour of his scarlet coat.

“No, sir, I’m ready for a spot of soldierin’, what?”

Little imagination, but in truth a good soldier, Keen thought. The only time he had seen him show any emotion had been aboard Herrick’s Benbow after the battle. The marines, the whole afterguard had been scattered like toy soldiers, their mingled blood marking them down for what they were. Perhaps he had seen himself there. What they all thought, at one time or another.

“Stand by aft! Royal Marines, ready!”

It seemed bitterly cold on Portsmouth Point, with a wet, blustery wind making the green barge shine like glass as its crew fought to hold station on the stairs.

Bolitho glanced past the weathered opening of the sallyport, through which he and so many others had gone before. This time it was so different. He put his arm around her shoulders, hating the moment of parting. He saw Allday on the stairs watching the boat, a sergeant of marines nearby keeping an eye on a squad of his men. Their duty was to see that Bolitho’s remaining minutes in England were undisturbed by curious onlookers. Not that there were many of those. This must surely be a foretaste of the winter, and the October gales.

Catherine brushed some wet hair from her face and gazed at him searchingly.

“You will take care, dearest of men?”

He held her. “You know I will. I have everything to live for—now.” He had begged her not to wait, but to go straight on to Falmouth. But he had known it would not happen.

She said, “When we were in that boat …” She hesitated, wanting to be anywhere but on this windswept street. “I knew I could face death with you beside me. Without you …” Again he heard the difficult pause. “You see, I am not so brave.”

On their way here, with Matthew guiding the carriage through the deep ruts, which would become a bog as soon as winter closed in, he had told her about his squadron: six sail of the line instead of fourteen, one frigate instead of three. Even with the addition of Black Prince, arguably one of the most powerful ships in the world, it was not much of a force for finally stamping out French power and possessions in the Caribbean. And all because Bonaparte had wanted to take Portugal and put his own son on the throne of Spain. The action had divided their forces yet again, so that the Danish ships seized to complement the fleet were still not enough.

He said, “I shall miss you with all my heart.” She said nothing and he knew she was finding it equally hard. Release her shoulders, step out on to the stairs and into the barge. It will be over.

He recalled how she had shown immediate dismay when he had told her that his solitary frigate was to be the old Tybalt, a ship he knew well, with a captain who would be worth his weight in gold when sniffing out the enemy’s strength in the Indies.

“Not Adam, then?” Was she so concerned for his safety that she wanted all those dearest around him?

He asked, “What shall you do?”

She was watching him intensely, desperately. “I shall help Ferguson—and maybe Zenoria will ask my advice in seeking a house of her own in Cornwall. I know that Valentine’s family still awes her …” Bolitho was not surprised. Lavish houses in London and in Hampshire, one brother a wealthy lawyer and the other who described himself simply as a “farmer”: he owned even more land than Roxby.