Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef (32 page)

It is the star to every wandering barque,

Whose worth’s unknown, altho’ his height be taken.

Then he seemed to find her reassurance.

Love’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks …

He got up, oblivious to the shouted commands from the deck, the squeal of tackles, the shiver of the capstan through every timber.

He went to the stern windows and hoisted one open, his face and chest instantly drenched in rain and spray.

Just once, he called her name, and across the tumbling water he heard her cry.

Don’t leave me.

14

BAD BLOOD

OZZARD waited for the deck to sway upright again before refilling his vice-admiral’s cup with fresh coffee.

It was the afternoon of the sixth day since leaving Spithead, and it seemed as if every contested mile of their passage so far had been dogged by foul weather and the inevitable stream of accidents. Captain Keen had been forced to up-anchor with the ship’s complement still fifty short, and with so many unskilled landmen aboard it was no wonder there had been injuries, and worse.

One man had vanished during a shrieking gale in the middle of the night, his cries unheard as he was swept over the side by a great white-bearded wave. Others had suffered cracked bones and torn hands, so that Coutts, the surgeon, had pleaded personally with Keen to reduce sail and ride out each storm under reefed canvas.

But day by day, bad weather or not, the drills continued, one mast racing the other to make or shorten sail, the rigging of safety nets over the upper gun deck to become used to doing it even in pitch darkness if required, so that the crews of the thirty-eight 12-pounders would not be crushed by falling spars and rigging should they be called to action.

Deck by deck, from the massive carronades in the bows to the middle and lower gun deck where the main armament of powerful thirty-two-pounders, or “long nines” as they were nicknamed, the men lived behind sealed ports as great seas boiled along the weather side, and flung solid sheets of water high up over the nettings.

Keen had shown his faith in his warrant officers and those specialists who were the backbone of any ship, and had been quick to display his confidence in them over matters of discipline. With a company so mixed, and with many completely inexperienced, tempers frayed and fists flew on several occasions. It led inevitably to the harsh and degrading spectacle of punishment, the lash laying a man’s back in cruel stripes while the rain spread the blood around the gratings, and the marine drummer boys beat out the time between each stroke.

Bolitho, more than any other, knew how Keen hated the use of flogging. But discipline had to be upheld, especially in a ship sailing alone, and each day standing deeper and deeper into the Atlantic.

Keen was equally unbending with his lieutenants and midshipmen. The former he would take aside and speak to in his quiet, contained fashion. If the officer was foolish enough to ignore his advice, the second interview was of a very different nature. James Cross, the sixth lieutenant who had accompanied the barge to ferry Bolitho from Portsmouth Point, was a case in point. He seemed eager enough, but at most duties he had displayed an incompetence which made even the most hardened petty officer groan.

Allday had been heard to comment, “He’ll be the death of someone afore long. Should’ve been strangled at birth!”

The midshipmen, for the most part, came from established naval families. To sail in the flagship under an officer so renowned, or notorious as some insisted, was a chance of advancement and promotion which could not be overlooked. It was strange that after so many years, victories and setbacks, bloody battles and the demanding rigours of blockade duty, there were many who still believed that the war would soon be over, especially now that English soldiers stood on enemy soil. For young officers hoping for a rewarding life in the King’s service, it might be a last chance of making a name for themselves before their lordships cut the fleet to the bone, and cast their sailors, from poop to forecastle, on the beach: such was a nation’s gratitude.

Ozzard opened the screen door and Keen stepped into the cabin, his cheeks glowing from the sharp northerly wind.

“Coffee, Val?”

Keen sat down, but his head was still tilted as if he was listening to the activity on the upper deck.

Then he took the coffee and sipped it gratefully. Bolitho watched him, thinking of Joseph Browne’s old shop in St James’s, to which Catherine had taken him during their visits to London, and where she must have arranged for all the fine coffee, cheeses and wine to be sent to the ship. Close by had been another shop, Lock’s the hatters. Bolitho had been reluctant for her to indulge in what he had believed extravagance when she had wanted to buy him a new gold-laced hat, to replace the one he had tossed to Julyan the sailing-master when they had sailed to meet the great San Mateo. She had insisted, reminding him, “Your hero purchased his hats here. Did he, I wonder, deprive his Emma of the pleasure of paying?”

Bolitho smiled at the memory. So many things found and enjoyed in that other London, which he had never known until she had shown him.

Keen said absently, “The master says we have logged some 860 miles, give or take. If the wind eases I’ll get more canvas on her. I am heartily sick of this!”

Bolitho looked at the salt-caked stern windows. Six days. It already felt a month or more. He had not kept his promise to raise a glass to Catherine on the night of his birthday. There had been a great gale, the one when they had lost a man outboard, and he had been on deck rather than endure the torment of listening and wondering. As the old heron-like surgeon, Sir Piers Blachford, had remarked, “In your heart you are still a captain, and you find it hard to delegate that task to others.”

Keen remarked, “I wonder what Zenoria is doing. To have thought her husband lost, and to recover him only to lose him again is sour medicine. I would gladly spare her it.”

Bolitho glanced at the books, one of which was lying open, as he had left it. Such good company. It was as though he read to her in the late watches of the night, and not merely to himself. When he closed his eyes he could see her so clearly, the candlelight playing around her throat and high cheekbones; could imagine the silk of her skin beneath his hands, her eager response. What would he feel when the ship anchored at English Harbour? She would be thinking about it, remembering the inevitability of it. Fate.

The sentry tapped his musket on the deck and shouted, “First lieutenant, sir!”

Keen grimaced. “Why do they bellow so much, I wonder? You would think we were in an open field.”

Ozzard opened the door, and Lieutenant Sedgemore stepped swiftly inside.

“I do beg your pardon, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho listened to gun trucks squealing somewhere. The middle gun deck most likely, the seamen gasping and slipping as they ran out the twenty-four-pounders, each action made more dangerous by the tilting obstinacy of the damp planking.

But Keen knew what he wanted, and would take no second-best.

Bolitho said, “If it is the ship’s business that cannot wait, my quarters are yours, Mr Sedgemore.”

The lieutenant looked at him uneasily, as if expecting another motive, or some new sarcasm.

“Er—thank you, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho hid a smile. I have obviously passed the test.

To Keen the first lieutenant explained, “The masthead reported a sail to the nor’-east during the morning watch, sir.”

Keen waited. “I know. I bid the midshipman insert the sighting in the log.”

Another flicker of surprise, as if Sedgemore had not expected his captain to concern himself with the ordinary deck-log.

Bolitho commented as he glanced around the spacious cabin, “This is no Hyperion, Val. I could hear almost everything from my quarters then!” They smiled briefly at one another, sharing the memory.

Sedgemore said, “She has just been sighted again, sir. Same bearing.”

Keen rubbed his chin. “Not much choice in this wind.” He looked at Bolitho. “Not another case of Golden Plover, surely, sir?”

Bolitho said, “If the stranger is an enemy he will keep his distance, and we are surely too slow to run him down. As for secrecy, I expect half of England knows what we are about, and our eventual landfall.”

Keen was thinking aloud, “Mr Julyan predicts a clear sky this afternoon—like Allday, I think he has an ear in the Almighty’s court. I’ll have our new ‘volunteer’ go aloft, with a glass if need be. Some eyes cannot be trusted.” He hesitated, suddenly uncertain. “I am a fool, Sir Richard. I meant no comparison.”

Bolitho touched his arm impetuously. “You are no fool, and you speak good sense.”

Keen said, “Secure the gun crews, Mr Sedgemore. We will exercise repel-boarders drill at six bells.”

Sedgemore backed out, his eyes everywhere until the door was shut.

“How is he progressing, Val?”

Keen watched him anxiously as he touched his left eye with his fingertips. He guessed that Bolitho did it unconsciously: the irritation was never far away. Like a threat.

“He is not yet quite ready to assume my command, sir, but it does no harm to allow him that belief!”

They laughed, the threat once more held at bay.

That same afternoon the northerly wind eased slightly, and the sea’s face showed some colour as the scudding clouds began to scatter. But when the sun eventually revealed itself it held no warmth, and the salt-hardened sails shone in the glare but gave off no tell-tale steam.

Bolitho went on deck and stood with Jenour by the quarterdeck rail, keeping out of the way as both watches of the hands were turned-to for making more sail as Keen had hoped. Keen was on the opposite side, looking aloft as the first topmen dashed quickly up the quivering ratlines—the captain, his own world revolving around him. Bolitho felt the old touch of envy, and wondered what Zenoria would say if she could see her husband now. His eyes squinting against the hard sunlight, wings of fair hair flapping from beneath his plain, seagoing hat, he was in command and controlling a dozen things at once.

The senior midshipman, a haughty youth named Houston, was beckoning to the seaman William Owen. Due for lieutenant’s examination at the first opportunity, Houston was very aware of Bolitho’s nearness.

He called importantly, “Wait!”

Allday was below the poop with Tojohns and said scornfully, “Look at him, cocking his chest like a half-pay admiral! He’ll be a proper little terror when he gets made up!”

Tojohns grinned. “If someone don’t stamp on him first!”

Keen looked round and smiled. “Ah, Owen! How are you finding life in a somewhat larger craft than your last, eh?”

Owen chuckled, the midshipman forgotten. “It’ll suit, sir. I just wish her ladyship was here to give some advice to the cook!”

Bolitho approved. Keen had shown the arrogant “young gentleman” that Owen was a man, not a dog.

Keen glanced across. “Shall he go aloft, Sir Richard? I’ll not make more sail until he has looked for our companion.”

Bolitho called, “Take the signal midshipman’s glass, Owen. You may scorn such things, but I think it will aid you.”

Another memory. In an elegant London shop selling navigational instruments, he had seen Catherine examine a telescope, and heard the establishment’s rotund owner explaining that it was the very latest and best of its kind. He had been very conscious of her inner battle while she touched the gleaming glass; then she had shaken her head, and Bolitho thought he knew why. She had been remembering Herrick, and the beautiful telescope which had been Dulcie’s last present to him. She wanted no part of it, nor any sort of comparison.

“Deck there!”

Bolitho shook himself. Owen had reached the main crosstrees while he had been day-dreaming.

“Sail to the nor’-east, sir!”

Bolitho looked at the cruising white crests. The wind was still easing; he had no difficulty in hearing Owen’s cry. Yesterday, even this morning, it would have been lost in the violence of wind and sea.

Bolitho said, “Fetch him down, Captain Keen. You are eager to make her lift her skirts, I’ll wager!”

Owen arrived on deck even as the great main course and foresail boomed and thundered in noisy disarray until the yards were hauled round to trap the wind, and make each sail harden like a steel breastplate.

“Well, Owen, what is she?”

Men who were not actually working at halliards and braces, or fighting their way out on the great yards to free more canvas, loitered nearby to listen.

Owen replied, “Frigate, Sir Richard. Not big—28 guns or thereabouts.” He returned the long telescope to Midshipman Houston.

“Thank you, sir.”

Houston almost snatched it, with such bad grace that Keen remarked, “Mr Sedgemore, I think a word during the last dog-watch would be useful.”

The first lieutenant paused in the tumult of chasing men to their proper stations, in one case stopping to thrust a loose line into a man’s grasp, and stared at him. His eyes flashed dangerously as they settled on the midshipman and he said sharply, “See me, Mr Houston, sir!”