Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef (14 page)

Three days outward bound from Falmouth, and already the Golden Plover had displayed her speed, and the responding pride of her shaggy-haired master.

The two helmsmen stood, bare feet splayed on the deck, their eyes moving occasionally from compass to the driver’s quivering peak. Neither glanced at Bolitho.

Maybe they were getting used to their passengers, he thought, or perhaps it was because like Keen and Jenour he had discarded his uniform coat, and was more recognisable as an ordinary man.

Three days, and already they were well past the hazards of Biscay, where just once the masthead lookout had called down to report a man-of-war’s upper yards on the horizon. Samuel Bezant had immediately altered course away from it, and confided to Bolitho that he cared not whether it was friend or foe. Either could bring the attention of another, and his orders were to stand away from involvement with the blockading squadron.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Sir Richard, but any flagship will call on me to lie-to on some pretext or another.”

Of the enemy he had said almost scornfully, “Many’s the time my Plover’s outsailed even a frigate. She’s broad in the beam, but so too is she deep-keeled, and can come about in most weather better than any other!”

Bezant was here now, in deep discussion with his mate, another wild-looking man by the name of Jeff Lincoln.

Bolitho crossed the deck to join them. “You are making a fair speed.”

Bezant studied him carefully as if it might be taken as a complaint.

“Aye, Sir Richard, I’m well pleased. We should anchor at Gibraltar in two days.”

Like most masters he might have put into Madeira, even Lisbon, to replenish stores at more favourable prices. But it made good sense to keep away. With the French in occupation of Portugal it was possible they might have landed on some of the islands too. Golden Plover was well-stocked and had only a small company to supply rather than the mass of hands required for any King’s ship; she could enjoy the luxury of long passages while keeping away from danger. There was always concern about fresh water, but Bezant had his own sources on lesser-known islands if for any reason the wind and weather turned against them.

The mere mention of Gibraltar seemed to squeeze Bolitho’s heart like an icy hand. Where he had landed after losing Hyperion. How many, many memories linked him still to that old ship.

“I’ll not be sorry to get under way again from the Rock, Sir Richard. It is in our best interest to keep well clear of the land—a thousand eyes watch the comings and goings of every vessel there. Sometimes I feel more like a pirate than a packet-master!”

“Deck there!”

They looked up at the masthead, where only the topsail was still in bright sunshine. The lookout was pointing with one arm, like a bronze figure in a church.

“Sail to the nor’-east!”

Bezant hardly seemed to need to raise his voice. “You keep watching that ‘un, Billy!” To Bolitho he added carelessly, “Probably one o’ your ships, Sir Richard. Either way, I shall lose him after dark.”

“What cargo do you carry?”

Bezant seemed to shy away. “Well, seeing it’s you, I suppose …” He looked at him with sudden determination, as if it was something which had been uppermost in his mind from the moment he had received his orders. “It’s another reason I don’t need to draw attention to Plover’s whereabouts.” He took a deep breath. “It’s gold. Pay for the army at Cape Town. Now, with such an important passenger aboard for good measure I feel the stuff is burning a hole right through the keel.”

He added with sudden bitterness, “I don’t know why they can’t send a man-o’-war, a frigate or the like. Those fellows are used to looking for trouble. I’m paid to stay out of it.”

Bolitho thought of the growing pressure for action against the French in Portugal, Spain eventually as well, if Napoleon continued to mount pressure against his old ally.

He heard himself say, “Because there are not enough such vessels.” He smiled, remembering his father. “There never were.”

There was a light step at the companion-way and Bolitho saw the waif-like figure of Sophie watching him, holding on to a handrail as if her life depended on it. Even though the Bay of Biscay had been kinder than usual, Sophie had taken it badly and had been sick for a whole day. Now she was her lively self again, her eyes, bright with curiosity, reflecting the dying sunlight. She must be finding all this very different from the Jewish tailor’s shop in far-off Whitechapel.

“Supper’s ready, Sir Richard. I was sent to fetch you, like …”

Catherine had been explaining to the girl how she should be careful where she went on board the Golden Plover.

Bolitho had heard her whisper in reply without any sort of shyness, “Oh, I knows about men, me lady. I’ll watch me step right enough!”

The cabin looked welcoming, the deckhead lantern already fit and spiralling with each plunge of the stem. Keen was in quiet conversation with Catherine, and Jenour was apparently writing at a small, beautifully-carved desk. It could have a story to tell, he thought; it had probably been made by a ship’s carpenter, like some of his own furniture at Falmouth.

He paused and glanced over Jenour’s shoulder. But it was not an addition to yet another long letter to his parents; it was a sketch. Men washing down the foredeck, a gull with flapping wings perched on the bulwark screeching for food.

Jenour became aware of his shadow and looked up. He immediately blushed.

“Just a drawing to put in with the letter, Sir Richard.” He attempted to put it away but Bolitho picked it up and studied it with care. “Just a drawing, Stephen? I think it is quite excellent.”

He felt Catherine slip her hand under his arm as she moved across the gently swaying deck.

She said, “I’ve already told him so—I have asked him to do a portrait of you and me.” Their eyes met and it was as before, as if the cabin were otherwise empty. “Together.”

Bolitho smiled. Her eyes seemed to caress him. “He is far better at it than being a flag lieutenant!”

Ozzard waited for them to be seated, then joined Sophie in the pantry ready to serve them.

Catherine said, “How every woman would envy me. Three handsome sea officers, and nobody else to share them!” She looked at Bolitho and saw his change of expression. “Tell me, Richard, what is wrong?”

Jenour forgot his embarrassment and his inner pleasure, and Keen was suddenly alert and all attention, as if he were himself in command of this vessel.

Bolitho said quietly, “I believe we are being followed. The master says not, but I have a feeling about it.”

Keen remarked, “I have rarely known your feelings to mislead you, sir.”

Catherine watched him from the opposite end of the table, wanting to be close to him, to share the sudden intrusion.

She asked, “Why? Because of us?”

Bolitho glanced at the pantry hatch and said, “We are carrying enough gold to pay the whole of the military at Cape Town.” He heard the clatter of plates and murmured, “Tomorrow, Val, I shall want all your experience. Take a glass and go aloft. Tell me what you see.” He hesitated. “My eye may try to deceive me.” He turned to Catherine and saw her dismay. “I am all right, Catherine.” He looked away as Ozzard entered, the girl with serving dishes behind him. I have to be.

True to his word Samuel Bezant, master of the Golden Plover, dropped anchor beneath the Rock’s towering protection just two days after sighting the strange vessel astern.

Bolitho sent Keen and Jenour ashore to offer his compliments to the port admiral but decided to remain in the comparative privacy of the poop. Catherine stood beside him staring up at the great wedge-shape of Gibraltar and said, “I wish we could walk there together.” She gave a small sigh. “But you are right to stay here. Especially if you still believe that sighting the other vessel was no accident.”

Keen had climbed aloft with his telescope and had reported seeing the topmasts and yards of a small, two-masted ship, very likely a brig. But a sea-mist had closed over the horizon and when it cleared the other craft, like a will-o’-the-wisp, had vanished; nor had she been sighted again.

Bolitho ran his hand down her spine and felt her stiffen. He said quietly, “I cannot bear to leave you alone.”

She faced him, her lips slightly parted. “What would they think if they came here and found us … well, found us?” She laughed and moved from his reach. “But I love being here with you. Even at home you are still the King’s officer. Here you are forced to stand aside and allow others to do the planning and sail the ship as they must … and there is time for us. I see you at peace; you reading your Shakespeare aloud to me in the evenings—you make it come alive. And you smoke your pipe, something you rarely do, even at Falmouth. It stirs me with need and desire at the same time.”

“Are they not the same?”

Her chin lifted and she looked at him straight in the eyes. “I will show you the difference when …”

But a boat thudded alongside and shortly afterwards Bezant came aft to report on his visit ashore. He looked troubled, even angry.

“The port admiral would take no refusals and threatened to make his displeasure known to the Admiralty with the next mail-packet.”

He glanced uncomfortably at Catherine who said, “You may speak in front of me, Captain. I am no stranger to bad news.”

Bezant shrugged. “I am ordered to take twelve prisoners to Cape Town. This is no vessel for such miserable work.”

Bolitho asked, “What kind of prisoners?”

Bezant was already rearranging things in his mind. “Oh, just army deserters, Sir Richard, not true felons. They are said to have decided to hide aboard a transport when it left Cape Town. They decided to run, rather than remain out there.”

Bolitho barely remembered the port admiral but knew from his reputation that sending these soldiers back to their regiment would be his idea of justice. It was not his province to imprison them until another ship called, which could better accommodate them.

Catherine asked quietly, “What will happen?”

Bezant sighed. “They’ll be hanged if they’re lucky, m’lady. I once witnessed the army’s idea of field punishment.” He looked at Bolitho and added, “Like a flogging round the fleet, Sir Richard. Few survive it.”

Bolitho walked to the open stern windows and winced as sunlight reflected from the open sea lanced into his injured eye.

“What is it, Sir Richard?” Bezant stared from one to the other.

“It is nothing.” Bolitho tried to soften his tone. “But thank you.” He turned and saw the pain in her expression. She knew. She always knew.

Someone tapped at the door and Bolitho heard the mate, Lincoln, muttering to his captain.

Bezant sent him away and said harshly, “Hell’s teeth! Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady, but I am beset by trouble!”

He calmed himself with considerable effort, and yet seemed strangely glad to be able to share his problems with Bolitho, despite his fame and his rank.

“I sent my second mate ashore to visit the garrison surgeon. He has been in pain since we quit Falmouth. I thought it was caused by too many visits to the taverns or the like. But it seems it may be very serious, something eating at his insides. Jeff Lincoln and me have sailed watch-an’-watch afore when he got sick, but not on long passages like this ‘un.” He dropped his glance to the deck, as if he were seeing the cargo glittering with menace somewhere below.

“Jeff Lincoln has brought off a temporary mate until we can make other changes. His papers seem in order, and the port admiral’s aide doesn’t appear ready to discuss that either.” He suddenly gave a broad grin. “But sailors don’t expect things easy, do they, Sir Richard?”

He lumbered away, calling out instructions to his boatswain as he went.

“It won’t affect us, will it, Richard?” She was still watching him for some sign of pain in his injured eye.

Sophie entered with a pile of clean shirts and announced excitedly, “There’s other land over yonder, me lady! I thought this was all the land over ‘ere!”

Catherine put her arm round the girl’s thin shoulders. “That’s Africa you can see, Sophie.” They watched her astonishment. “You’ve come quite a long way.”

But the girl could only stare and whisper, “Africa.”

Bolitho said, “Go and ask Tojohns to take you where you can see it with a glass.” As the door closed he said, “I’ll not be sorry to get away from this place.” He almost shuddered. “An unlucky landfall.”

The door opened again but it was Allday. “You wanted me, Sir Richard?”

Their eyes met. How did he know? Bolitho said, “I want to issue some pistols. A brace each. Do it when the hands are turned-to for weighing anchor.”

Allday glanced at Catherine’s figure by the open stern windows. He said casually, “Already done, an’ me an’ Tojohns have got a piece each.” He grinned. “No sense in trusting Mr Yovell with one—he’s likely to kill himself!”

Catherine said, “I have my own little toy in the cabin.” Her voice was suddenly husky. “I nearly used it once.” Bolitho looked at her, remembering the drunken army officer who had made a play for her in the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. Bolitho had called him out, but the soldier’s friend had dragged him away, offering frantic apologies as he went. Afterwards Catherine had opened her reticule and had shown him the tiny pistol inside. Barely enough to do more than wound a man. But certainly it would have laid low the drunken soldier if things had gone against her man.