To Glory We Steer (34 page)

All at once Bolitho felt sick and unclean, as if the mutiny had left him with another, deeper scar.

He said harshly, “I hope we can match the French as well as we can fight each other!” Then he turned and strode aft.

16 A SPECIAL SORT OF
M
AN

M
IDSHIPMAN
Maynard tapped on the door of Bolitho's cabin and reported breathlessly, “Mr Herrick's respects, sir, and we have just sighted two sail on the starboard bow.” He darted a quick glance at the other officers who were standing beside Bolitho's desk. “It's the flagship, and the frigate
Volcano.
”

Bolitho nodded, his face thoughtful. “Thank you. My compliments to Mr Herrick. Tell him to tack the ship to intercept.”

He paused. “And have the prisoners ready to be sent across to
Cassius.
”

He listened to Maynard's feet scurrying up the cabin ladder and then turned back to the other officers. “Well, gentlemen, at last we have found the flagship.”

It had been two days since the
Phalarope
had crept away from the small islets. Two long days in which to think back on mutiny and murder. Bolitho had broken his normal practice of appearing regularly on the quarterdeck, and had spent long, brooding hours in his cabin, reliving each moment, torturing himself with regrets and recriminations.

He looked down at the chart and said slowly, “From what Allday described, I would say that the French are out in force. The two frigates were probably feelers from de Grasse's main fleet. If so, they have changed their plans.”

He tapped the chart with one finger. “De Grasse would never waste frigates at a time like this. It looks to me as if he intends to avoid all the main channels and will use the Dominica passage. That way he might well bypass our patrols.” He stopped thinking aloud, and with sudden briskness rolled up the chart and laid it to one side.

He said, “I shall go over to the
Cassius
and speak to the admiral.” He glanced at the neat pile of reports on the desk. “There is much that Sir Robert will wish to know.” How trite it sounded, he thought bitterly. Like items in the ship's log, bald of feeling or humanity. How could he describe the atmosphere on the main deck when he had spoken a prayer before the shrouded corpses had slid over the side?

Lieutenant Vibart's body, alongside those of the dead mutineers. The rest of the crew had gathered round in silence. Not just a silence of respect or sadness, but something much deeper. It was like an air of shame, a combined feeling of guilt.

He stared at the watching officers beside him. Okes and Rennie, Farquhar and Proby.

Bolitho continued in the same curt tone, “You all showed great resource and courage. I have made a full report and I trust it will receive proper attention.” He did not add that without such a report from the ship's captain the story of the brief, savage mutiny would overshadow all else with the admiral and his superiors. As it was it might still be insufficient to save the ship's name from further harm.

He looked hard at Okes. “You will take over as first lieutenant of course, and Mr Herrick will assume your duties forthwith.” He switched his gaze to Farquhar. “I do not have to add to what I have put in my report about you. You are appointed acting lieutenant immediately. I have no doubt whatever that it will be confirmed with equal speed.”

Farquhar said, “Thank you, sir.” He looked round as if expecting to see an immediate change in his surroundings. “I am very grateful.”

Okes said nervously, “I still can't believe that Mr Vibart is dead.”

Bolitho eyed him impassively. “Death is the only thing which is inevitable, Mr Okes. Yet it is the one thing we can never take for granted!”

There was a tap at the door and Stockdale peered in. “Flagship is signalling, Captain. For you to report on board as soon as possible.”

“Very well, Stockdale. Call away my boat's crew.” He added to the others, “Remember this, gentlemen. The
Phalarope
was nearly lost by mutiny.” He allowed his tongue to linger on the word. “What we have to decide now is whether we have gained anything by a reprieve.” He saw their quick exchange of glances and continued, “The ship is either cleansed of evil or smeared by shame. The choice is ours. Yours and mine!” He looked around their grave faces. “That is all. You may go.”

Stockdale reappeared as the officers filed out, and busied himself getting Bolitho's hat and sword. He said. “Allday is waiting to see you, Captain.” He sounded disapproving.

“Yes. I sent for him.” He listened to the squeal of blocks as the gig was hoisted out, and remembered Stockdale's stricken face as he had returned with the rest of the shore party. He had stared round the stained deck at the corpses and then at his captain. He had said brokenly, “I should never have left you, Captain! Not for an instant!” It was as if he believed he had failed Bolitho. He seemed to think that if he had stayed aboard the mutiny could never have happened.

Bolitho said quietly, “Send him in. He is a good seaman, Stockdale. I wronged
him,
not the other way about!”

Stockdale shook his head, but shambled away to fetch the man who had broken the mutiny.

And what a risk he had taken, Bolitho thought. He had walked back towards the searching marines, knowing full well that they were unaware of his innocence, and that any man might shoot him down without waiting for an explanation. Allday had found Okes and Farquhar, and together it seemed they had decided it best for Allday to try to reach the ship unsupported by anyone but Ferguson. It was a right decision, and a brave one. If Onslow had seen a boatload of men approaching the ship the balance would have tipped in his favour.

There was a tap at the door and Allday stepped into the cabin. Dressed in white trousers and checked shirt, his long hair tied back with a length of codline, he looked every inch the landman's idea of a sailor. On his cheek and neck there were two diagonal scars where Brock had struck with his cane.

Bolitho faced him for several seconds. Then he said, “I called you here to thank you properly for what you did, Allday. I wish I could say something which would help clean away the wrong which was done you.” He shrugged. “But I know of no such reward.”

Allday relaxed slightly. “I understand, sir. As it was, it all turned out for the best.” He grinned self-consciously. “I was a bit scared, I can tell you, sir.” His eyes hardened. “But when I saw Onslow, that was enough! I'm glad I was able to kill him!”

Bolitho studied Allday with new interest. He had a clean-cut, intelligent face, and but for his total lack of education might have gone far and done well by himself.

“Onslow should be a lesson to all of us, Allday.” Bolitho walked to the stern windows, his mind going back over the thought which had nagged him most since the mutiny. “He was doomed by his life and circumstances. It is up to us not to make any more Onslows through cruelty or lack of understanding.” He swung round. “No, Allday, I failed with Onslow. He was just a man like the rest of us. He never stood a real chance from the day he was born!”

Allday stared at him with surprise. “There was nothing
you
could have done for him, if you'll excuse me saying so.” He spread his hands. “He was a bad one, and I've seen a few in my time!”

Maynard peered in the door. “Closing the flagship now, sir. Ready to lower the gig.”

“Very good.” Bolitho looked at Allday. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Allday shifted uncomfortably. “There is one thing, sir.” Then he lifted his chin, his eyes suddenly clear and determined. “It's about Ferguson, your clerk, sir. Are you sending him over with the other mutineers?”

Bolitho spread his arms to allow Stockdale to buckle on his sword. “That was the intention, Allday.” He frowned. “I know he came back with you, and did much to repair the damage he had done by his complicity with Onslow. But,” he shrugged, “there are several charges against him. He aided the mutineers with confidential information, without which any sort of uprising might have been impossible. He attacked a sentry and released a prisoner, the guilt or innocence of whom had not been decided.” He picked up his hat and stared at it. “Do you think he should warrant complete pardon?”

Allday said quietly, “Remember what you said about Onslow, sir? Ferguson's no real sailor, and never will be.” He smiled sadly. “I've looked after him since we were pressed together. If you do this to him I shall feel I've let him down. I shall feel as you do now over Onslow!”

Bolitho nodded. “I will have to think about it.” He walked to the ladder, ducking below the beams. Then he said, “Thank you, Allday. You put a forceful argument.”

He ran up into the sunlight and looked quickly across at the
Cassius.
She looked big and reliable against the blue water, and he could see the other frigate hove-to beyond her.

Herrick touched his hat. “Gig ready, sir.” He glanced questioningly at the silent group of manacled men by the entry port. “Shall I send 'em over while you're with the admiral?”

“If you please, Mr Herrick.” Bolitho caught sight of Allday's tall figure beside the cabin hatch and added sharply, “But have Ferguson kept aboard. I will deal with him myself.”

Herrick looked mystified. “Ferguson, sir?”

Bolitho eyed him coldly. “He
is
my clerk, Mr Herrick! Have you forgotten so soon that you chose him for me?” He gave a brief smile and saw the relief flooding across the other man's face.

“Aye, aye, sir!” Herrick strode to the rail. “Man the side there! Stand by for the captain!”

The pipes trilled and Bolitho vanished down into the boat.

Herrick looked round as old Proby mumbled, “How old is he? Twenty-five or six?” He gave a deep sigh. “I'm twice his age and more beside, and there are others like me aboard the
Phalarope.
” He watched the little gig skimming through the whitecaps towards the swaying ship of the line. “Yet he's like a father to all of us!” He shook his head. “Have you seen the way the crew look at him now, Mr Herrick? Like children caught out doing wrong. They know how he
feels
what has happened, how their shame is more'n doubled for him!”

Herrick stared at him. It was rare for the master to say so much all at once. “I never realised that you admired him, too!”

Proby pouted his pendulous lower lip. “I'm too old for admiration, Mr Herrick. It's deeper'n that. Our captain is a special sort of man.” He frowned and then added, “I'd die for him, and willingly. I can't say more'n that!” He turned with sudden anger. “Blast me, Mr Herrick! How can you let me go on like that?” He shuffled noisily across the quarterdeck like an untidy spider.

Herrick crossed to the rail, his mind still dwelling on Proby's words. Below, watched by armed marines, the remnants of Onslow's conspirators stood awaiting passage to the
Cassius.
Herrick did not share Bolitho's shame on their behalf. He would willingly have hanged each one of them single-handed, if only to lift the despair from Bolitho's shoulders.

He remembered his own exultation when Okes and Rennie had boarded the frigate and he had realised that the mutiny's sudden fire had been quenched. It was then that he had seen through Bolitho's careful mask and had penetrated to the man within. Yes, Proby was right. He was a very special sort of man.

Midshipman Neale crossed to his side and trained his glass on the flagship. Herrick glanced down at the small midshipman and remembered his frantic struggles as they thrust his greased body through the vent hole. Neale's sudden appearance had made quite a sensation when he had flung open the doors of the cable tier. As Ellice, the surgeon, had said later, “There we all was, Mr 'Errick, thinkin' of death or worse, an' suddenly the doors come flyin' open like the gates of 'eaven itself!” The surgeon's crimson face had crinkled into a grin. “When I saw this little naked cherub with the sun behind 'im I thought I was already dead without knowin' it 'ad 'appened!”

Herrick smiled to himself. Neale seemed to have grown in stature since that dreadful day. He said, “In a few years you'll be getting promoted like Mr Farquhar if you go on like this.”

Neale considered the suggestion and then replied, “I never doubted it, sir.” He flushed and added quickly. “Well, not often!”

Sir Robert Napier walked stiffly to a small gilt chair and sat down. For several seconds he stared at Bolitho's tense features and then said dryly, “You are a very erratic and unpredictable young man, Bolitho.” He tapped his fingertips together. “But there is one thing to be said in your favour. You are never dull!”

Bolitho did not trust himself to smile. It was still far too early to know exactly how his ideas had been received. With fretting impatience he had waited in an adjoining cabin while the admiral read his reports, and after what seemed like an hour he was ushered into the great man's presence. There were two other captains already present. Cope of the
Cassius,
and a thickset, unsmiling man Bolitho recognised as Fox of the frigate
Volcano.

The admiral said, “It seems to me that you are getting unnecessarily excited about the French frigates which one of your men sighted.” He waved one hand across his big coloured chart. “Look for yourself, Bolitho. The Leeward and Windward Islands are like a broken chain running from north to south. If the French fleet is out in force, and I say
if,
Sir George Rodney's frigates will have reported the fact, and both sides will have engaged already. That being so, what further can I do in the matter?” He leaned back, his eyes fixed on Bolitho's face.