Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef (40 page)

Bolitho murmured, “The admiral cannot see very well—any kind of light sears his eyes. Do you understand?”

Jenour gravely commented, “He does not have long, Sir Richard. It is tertiary syphilis at the most virulent stage.”

Despite his anxiety, Bolitho found time to be surprised at the young lieutenant’s understanding. But then his father was an apothecary, and his uncle a doctor of some repute in Southampton. They had probably hated Jenour’s throwing away a possible career in medicine for the risks and uncertainty of naval service.

He said, “Help me, Stephen.” He did not need to explain further.

As the door was opened he found himself in complete darkness. But as he strained his eyes he saw a sliver of hard sunlight between two curtains and knew he was in the room where she had discovered his injury, and he had been unable to distinguish the colour of a ribbon in her hair. Yesterday.

“Be seated, Sir Richard.” The voice came out of nowhere, surprisingly strong, petulant even, like someone who had been kept waiting.

Bolitho gasped, and instantly felt Jenour’s hand at his elbow. He had collided with a low stool or table, and the realisation of his helplessness made him suddenly despairing and angry.

“I am sorry to greet you in this fashion.” The tone said otherwise.

Bolitho found a chair and sat on it carefully. In that one sliver of light he could see the man’s outline against the wall, and worse, his eyes, like white stones in the solitary beam.

“And I am sorry that you are thus indisposed, my lord.”

There was silence, and Bolitho became aware of the sour stench in the room, the odour of soiled linen.

“I am, of course, aware of your reputation and your family history. I am honoured that you should be sent here to replace me.”

“I did not know, my lord. Nobody in England has heard of your …”

“Misfortune? Was that how you were about to describe it?”

“I meant no disrespect, my lord.”

“No, no, of course, you would not. I command here. My orders stand until …” He broke off in a fit of coughing and retching.

Bolitho waited and then said, “The French will surely know of our intentions to attack and, if possible, seize Martinique. Without it they would be unable to operate in the Caribbean. My orders are to seek out the enemy before he can use his ships to attack and weaken our assault. We need all our strength.” He paused. It was hopeless. Like talking to a shadow. But Sutcliffe was right about one thing. He did hold overall command, diseased, mad or otherwise. He continued, “May I suggest that when Tybalt returns from Jamaica you send a fast schooner there and request the admiral to give you further support?”

Sutcliffe cleared his throat noisily. “Rear-Admiral Herrick authorised the impressment of those schooners, but then he is a man well acquainted with insubordination. I have every intention of informing their lordships of any further acts of disloyalty. Do I make myself clear?”

Bolitho answered quietly, “It sounds like a threat, my lord.”

“No. A promise, certainly!”

Jenour shuffled his feet and instantly the disembodied eyes shifted towards him. “Who is that? You brought a witness?”

“My flag lieutenant.”

“I see.” He laughed gently, a chilling sound in such a stifling room. “I knew Viscount Somervell, of course, when he was His Majesty’s Inspector General in the Indies and I was in the Barbados. A man of honour, I thought … but you will doubtless disagree, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho touched his eye, his mind reeling. The man was mad. But not so mad that he had lost the use of spite.

“You are correct, my lord. I do disagree.” He was committed now. “I know him to have been a knave, a liar and a man who enjoyed killing for the sake of it!”

He heard the admiral vomit into a basin and clenched his fists in disgust. God, were these the wages of sin the old rector at Falmouth had threatened them with, when they had all been frightened children? The legacy of doom?

When Sutcliffe spoke again he sounded quite calm, dangerously so.

“I have heard your reports of some so-called Dutch frigate, your passionate belief that the enemy intends to divide our forces. Here, you will obey me. Carry out your patrols and exercise your people; that would make good sense. But try to discredit me and I will see you damned to hell!”

“Very probably, my lord.” He stood up and waited for Jenour to guide his arm.

“I have not dismissed you yet, sir.”

Bolitho turned wearily. It was so pointless, so futile. With the greater part of the fleet held in readiness to repel an attack on Jamaica, the way was wide open for French counter-action. And all I have is six ships.

Jamaica was nearly thirteen hundred miles to the west. Even with favourable winds it would take ships far too long to regain their command of the Leeward Islands.

He said, “I believe that the enemy intend to attack our bases here, my lord.”

“Here? Antigua? St Kitts perhaps? Where else do you imagine them?” He gave a shrill laugh which ended in another bout of retching. This time it did not stop.

Bolitho found the door open, Jenour’s face filled with concern as the half-light of the hallway greeted them.

The surgeon was waiting for him, standing apart from the others as if he had guessed what had happened.

“How long, Doctor?” He heard Sutcliffe ringing his bell, saw the obvious reluctance of the servants to answer it. “Can you tell me that?”

The doctor shrugged. “Out here, men and women die every day, quietly and without complaint. It is God’s will, they say. I have grown accustomed to it, though I can never accept it.” He considered the question. “Impossible to say, Sir Richard. He might die tomorrow; he could survive a month, even longer, by which time he will not know his own name.”

“Then we are done for.” He felt the fury rising again. There were thousands of men depending on their superiors. Did nobody care? The admiral was going to die, eaten alive by his disease. But to the outside world, if it believed the lie, he was a man worn out by his devotion to duty.

The surgeon stood by one of the shaded windows, and pointed at the bright silver line of the horizon.

“Yonder lies the enemy, Sir Richard. He is not there for no purpose.” He studied Bolitho’s grave features. “For you, God’s will is not enough, is it?”

For a long moment Bolitho stood with Jenour on the sun-baked jetty while the barge was manoeuvred alongside the stairs. In the violent light the same officers who had been sent to greet him hovered discreetly and at a distance. Perhaps they were glad to see him leave after disturbing their secluded world, thinking perhaps that routine would save them. Sutcliffe would die, and after a fitting ceremonial funeral, another admiral would arrive. Life would go on.

“Well, Stephen, what do you think of this?”

Jenour stared out to sea. “I believe that Lord Sutcliffe is fully aware of his authority, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho waited. “I need to know, Stephen. To rest on one’s own views can be like an unbaited trap.”

Jenour bit his lip. “None of the officers here would dare to defy him. Right or wrong, Lord Sutcliffe commands their destinies. To speak otherwise would be seen as treason, or at best, mutiny.” His open face was filled with anxiety. “Nobody will support you, Sir Richard.” He faltered. “Except the squadron and your captains, who will expect you to act on their behalf.”

Bolitho said bitterly, “Yes, and ask them to die for me.” He turned aside as the barge hooked on. “What of Rear-Admiral Herrick? Come on, speak out, man—as my friend now!”

“He will do nothing. He risked all for his own satisfaction at his court martial.” He watched the pain in Bolitho’s eyes. “He will never do so again.”

Allday stepped on to the jetty and removed his hat, immediately taking in Bolitho’s expression and the flag lieutenant’s unusual intensity.

Bolitho climbed down after Jenour and settled in the sternsheets.

It was the second time in the day that Jenour had surprised him. Once again, he knew he was right.

17

SHIPS PASSING

BOLITHO went on deck, the taste of coffee lingering on his tongue. Keen was about to exercise the upper gun deck’s twelve-pounders and he saw the casual glances as he walked to the quarterdeck rail. They had become used to seeing their vice-admiral dressed so informally in only shirt and breeches, and Bolitho was pleased that Keen had impressed it on all his officers to do likewise. If it did not make them seem more approachable, it might at least show them as human beings.

Keen smiled. “Sail in sight, sir. Hull-up to wind’rd.” He tried to make it interesting, a piece of news to break the day-to-day monotony.

Black Prince was steering due south, some 250 miles from Antigua. Abeam, the lookouts could just manage to distinguish the island of St Lucia, the silent volcano of Soufriere a prominent landmark that had saved many seafarers over the years.

Astern of the flagship the two 74s Valkyrie and Relentless kept their snail’s pace, their reflections barely moving on a dark blue sea which appeared solid enough to walk on, like crude glass. The remaining ships Bolitho had placed under Crowfoot’s command, and sent to patrol the Guadeloupe Passage to the north.

This was frustration at its worst. The ships were too slow, and on several occasions they had sighted unidentified vessels, which had soon headed away rather than face the prospect of being stopped and searched by the powerful men-of-war. They had to have smaller ships in support. Godschale, a frigate captain himself in that other war, should have moved heaven and earth to get them.

Who was the newcomer? Obviously not an enemy. He would have been off like a fox at the sight of hounds if he was.

Sedgemore was shouting to Lieutenant Whyham, “Keep them at it, sir! I want these twelve-pounders cleared for action in ten minutes, less if they have the will for it!”

Bolitho glanced at the gun crews. Bare backs less rawly burned, and more the colour of leather. He had not timed the upper batteries, but he knew by his own standards as a captain that they were a long way from Sedgemore’s target.

“Deck there! She’s a frigate!”

Bolitho saw Keen watching him. What was it this time, Sutcliffe’s death or news of home? Or the war had ended, and they had been the last to know.

“Heave-to, Captain Keen. Let him run down on us.” He looked again at the gun crews. “I would suggest you continue the drills, Mr Sedgemore. It has been known for ships to carry on fighting even when adrift.”

“Aloft with a glass, Mr Houston!” Keen turned away to escape Sedgemore’s sudden deflation. “Mr Julyan, stand by to wear ship, if you please!”

While the big three-decker floundered round into the wind and her two consorts endeavoured to remain on station, their pyramids of sails almost lifeless, the upper deck’s twenty-eight guns went through the frantic routine of clearing for action.

“Deck, sir! She’s made her number!” The midshipman’s voice was shrill when calling from such a height and Bolitho guessed that he hated the fact. “She’s the Tybalt, 36, Captain Esse!”

Bolitho tried to contain his sudden hope. The last of his squadron, and a frigate. It was like an answered prayer.

He lifted a glass from the rack and trained it on the approaching ship. Where was Adam now, he wondered? And where had the time gone? It was now mid-January 1809. A new year, without anything to show for it. He thought of England, the bitter wind off the Atlantic seeping around the old house and gardens. What of Catherine? Could she really be happy in that kind of life, alone amongst people who for the most part would always remain strangers? Or might she become bored, impatient, and turn to other distractions?

In two hours Tybalt was almost in gunshot range and Bolitho said, “Captain repair on board as soon as is convenient, Val.”

He frowned when one of the gun crews fell about in confusion as the twelve-pounder, released from its breeching-rope, ran momentarily out of control.

Sedgemore yelled, “God damn your eyes, Blake, your people are all cripples today!”

Bolitho touched the locket beneath his damp shirt and smiled. What was he thinking of? They were lovers. Nothing could break that.

He waited until the frigate was hove-to and had lowered her gig and then went below to his cabin. Let there be news this time.

Captain William Esse was tall and thin with a pleasant smile and an old-fashioned manner, which seemed at odds with his 25 years. He laid a canvas bag on the cabin table and seated himself with great care, as if afraid his long legs might become entangled.

“What news, Captain Esse? I must know without delay.”

Esse smiled and took a glass from Ozzard. “Jamaica was hot, Sir Richard, and the slave-revolt little more than a skirmish. The extra soldiers were not needed at all.” He shrugged. “So we brought them back to Antigua.”

“What of Lord Sutcliffe?”

Esse gave him a blank stare. “He is still alive, Sir Richard, although I was not asked to see him.” He saw Bolitho’s expression and added hastily, “A fast packet visited English Harbour. There are letters for you from England.”

Bolitho touched the heavy pouch. Letters from Catherine, one at least. It was like a hunger, a longing. All the rest was disappointment. There was no news of the enemy. Perhaps the threat was only in his mind. Or maybe the journey in the open boat had blunted his reckoning in some way?