Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef (41 page)

Over three months since he had left Spithead. It felt like eternity. And Sutcliffe was still defying death. He wondered how Herrick was managing to stay out of trouble.

Esse exclaimed, “But I almost forgot, Sir Richard! As we weighed anchor, Anemone entered harbour. I was not able to speak much with Captain Bolitho, but I gather he was bringing despatches for Lord Sutcliffe. He shouted across to me that it was something important. But I did not catch the gist of it.”

“How strange. My nephew was in my mind just now as I watched Tybalt running down on us. But why here? It must be serious.” The unanswered questions hung in the cabin’s still air. Despatches for the admiral. But the Admiralty would be in ignorance about Sutcliffe’s condition.

He persisted, “Can you remember nothing further of this conversation?”

Esse frowned so that his pale eyes disappeared. “I took little notice, Sir Richard, as it did not concern the squadron.”

“What did he say?”

“The French. He said something about enemy ships … I assumed he meant in home waters.”

“My God.” Bolitho saw Ozzard peering through his hatch. “Fetch the captain and my flag lieutenant!”

To the bemused Esse he said, “I shall give you written orders. You must return to English Harbour with all haste. You will see Rear-Admiral Herrick and make certain that copies of my despatches are sent immediately to St Kitts and to London.” He turned away so that Esse should not see his despair. London? It could as well be the moon for all the good it would do now.

Keen and Jenour entered. Bolitho said tersely, “Adam has come from England. Despatches from the Admiralty, no doubt—they’d never release a frigate otherwise.”

Keen said gently, “But we don’t know for certain, sir.”

“My responsibility, Val.” He tried to smile but it eluded him. It had been reported over the months that the French were secretly reinforcing their squadrons in the Caribbean. Now they were ready. In a matter of weeks a combined naval and military force would attack Martinique. And with some of the English supporting squadrons tied down in Jamaica … He felt a cold touch on his spine. It would be Herrick’s massacred convoy all over again.

He said quietly, “Make quite sure that Rear-Admiral Herrick understands. Every available ship and garrison must stand-to. For once the enemy has scattered our invasion force, they will surely turn upon Antigua.”

Esse nodded, his face very calm. “I shall do my best.”

“Leave me now. I have matters to dictate.”

Alone with Keen and Jenour, while the ship pitched on a low swell and the upper deck echoed to the squeak and thud of Sedgemore’s mock battle, Bolitho said, “You think me mad?”

“Far from that, sir.” Keen paused. “But it must be said: it is all surmise.”

“Possibly. But we know from the past week that there is no enemy movement down here. So the ships must be elsewhere, correct?”

“If they are coming this way, sir.”

Bolitho strode about the cabin. There was no news. So why should he care, with a mad superior who would see any initiative, even by him, as gross insubordination? It would be a bitter twist of fate if Herrick were a witness at his court martial!

Aloud he said harshly, “But I do care. It is what we are here for!”

To Keen he said more evenly, “Bring the ship about, Val, and signal the others to keep station on us. We will pass through the St Lucia Channel tonight. A longer haul, but it will give us more favourable winds. With luck we shall meet with Captain Crowfoot’s ships and then we can beat up to wind’rd. Tybalt will have rejoined us by then. If not …” He did not need to say more.

Keen said, “I’m ready, sir.”

Bolitho smiled at him. “To the final battle, the gates of hell if need be, eh, Val?”

Keen did not smile in return. “Yes,” he said. “Always.”

Rear-Admiral Thomas Herrick stood by an open window and mopped his face with his handkerchief. The noon heat made it hard to think, and the persistent attacks by mosquitoes and other insects were a constant irritation.

Seated at a table, Captain John Pearse, now his second-in-command because of the admiral’s disgusting illness but normally captain of the busy dockyard, watched him guardedly. Pearse was content enough with his appointment even though he knew he would rise no higher in the navy. He had been a long time in the Indies and was used to the extremes of climate; also long enough to avoid the many fevers and diseases which weekly led to sea-burials or funerals in the small garrison cemeteries, with their pathetic regimental crests and the names of towns and villages in the mother-country Pearse could barely remember. He wondered what was so disturbing Herrick. Sutcliffe was dying; he must die, or he would drive his staff as mad as himself. The horror of his appalling condition—sores, black vomit and near-blindness—pervaded the whole building, and Herrick’s temper was daily growing more fraught.

There had been one such display of unreasonable anger just now when a messenger had come to inform them that the frigate Tybalt had cleared the entrance and was now on passage to join Bolitho’s squadron, and that yet another frigate had been reported standing inshore. “She’s the Anemone, sir, 38, commanded by …” He had got no further. Herrick had snarled, “I know who commands her, man—Sir Richard’s nephew! Stop wasting my time!”

Pearse said carefully, “I think it would be prudent to recall Tybalt, sir. Anemone may have news which might need attention.”

Herrick saw the two frigates passing one another on a converging tack, the red coats moving on the battery to prepare a salute.

“I think not.” The two vessels were slowly drawing apart now. Why was Adam here? Surely there was no more news since Black Prince had arrived at English Harbour? He heard feet running by, servants going to assist the admiral no doubt. Diseased of body and diseased of mind. He were better dead.

Pearse fiddled with some papers and looked warily at Herrick. “Perhaps the French have surrendered.” He regretted it immediately.

“Surrendered? Never in a million years, man! Damned barbarians, they’ll fight to the last ditch.”

He winced as the first guns echoed around the harbour. He strode to the sill and watched the frigate gliding towards the guard-boat. The breeze was fresher; it might clear the air. He saw the gunsmoke drifting close to the water and recalled his own service in frigates. But never in command of one.

It had been Adam who had brought the news to him of Dulcie’s terrible death. Had it been anyone else he might have been able to contain it, at least for a while, from the curious. But Adam was a Bolitho, even if he held the family name only because of his uncle; he had been born a bastard, and his father had deserted the navy to join the American rebels … and yet that shame never tarnished him, or impeded his promotion.

It was all so unfair. Dulcie had given him everything: stability, pride, and above all, love. But a child had been denied them. He watched the flash of the final gun, the anchor throwing up spray as Anemone came to rest. Even Richard and his wife had been blessed with a daughter. How could he have turned his back on her? He thought suddenly of Catherine. She had stayed with Dulcie to the end, in very real danger to herself. Why can I not come to terms with it?

He said abruptly, “Pass the word to the signal-station, Captain Pearse. I want to see Anemone’s captain before anyone else does.”

Captain Pearse nodded uneasily. It was unlikely that Lord Sutcliffe would know or care what was happening.

It was another hour before Adam Bolitho arrived, his hat crammed under one arm, his short hanger pressed against his thigh.

Herrick shook his hand. “Do not keep me in suspense, Adam! This is most unexpected. How long have you been at sea?”

Adam glanced around. Although the officer-of-the-guard had shouted to him from his boat that Lord Sutcliffe was sick, he had somehow expected to find him here.

“Eighteen days, sir.” He smiled, the recklessness on his tanned face wiping away the shadows of command.

Herrick waved him to a chair and sat down opposite him, frowning.

“Why the urgency?”

“I have important despatches from the Admiralty, sir. It seems that the bad weather in the Atlantic allowed some French ships to avoid our blockading squadrons.” He waited, expecting some reaction he could recognise. “I am ordered to acquaint Lord Sutcliffe with the despatches without delay.”

“Impossible. He is too ill. I cannot tell him anything.”

“But—” Adam grappled with Herrick’s blunt reply. “It may be vital. It is said that the enemy ships are on passage here, though I believe that some, if not all, are already arrived. I clashed with a shore-mounted gun a day ago. Heated shot—I was nearly in irons until we worked clear. French soldiers too …”

“You had time to go after the enemy then? Looking for a prize, perhaps?”

Adam regarded him with surprise. “Yes, there was a schooner, sir. She was carrying powder and soldiers and I dished her up as we left.”

“Very commendable.” Herrick looked at his hands in his lap. “Your uncle is to the south’rd; he has divided his squadron. You see, we had no frigates until Tybalt returned from Port Royal. And now you.” He looked up, his blue eyes very bright. “And I gather there is another on passage too. A veritable fleet indeed!”

Adam controlled his disappointment and a growing impatience with effort. “What is it, sir? Is something wrong? Maybe I could help.”

“Wrong? Why should there be?” He was on his feet again and standing by the window without realising he had moved. “Your family seems to think it holds the answer to all ills, wouldn’t you say?”

Adam stood up slowly. “May I speak plainly, sir?”

“I would expect nothing else.”

“I have known you since I was a midshipman. I have always thought of you as a friend, as well as an experienced sailor.”

“Has it changed?” Herrick squinted into the light, seeing the distant activity aboard this young man’s ship.

“Later I seemed to become someone who came between you and your true friend.” He gestured toward the sea. “Who is out there now, and in ignorance of these French reinforcements.” His voice was sharper, but he could not help it. “I am no longer that midshipman, sir. I command one of His Majesty’s finest frigates, and I believe I am successful at it.”

“There is no need to shout.” Herrick faced him. “I am not empowered to open Lord Sutcliffe’s despatches—even you must realise that. Your uncle commands the squadron, and our other vessels are gathered either at Jamaica or the Barbados. We have only local patrols, which sail out of here and St Kitts, but you must know that, surely.” His tone was impatient. “I only wish Rear-Admiral Hector Gossage were here to share the rewards of his damned folly!”

Adam watched him uneasily. “That would be difficult. I heard he had died within weeks of taking up his appointment.”

Herrick stared at him. “My God! I did not know.”

Adam looked away. “Then I shall make sail forthwith and seek out my uncle’s squadron. He must be warned.” He hesitated, hating to plead. “I beg you, sir, for his love if for nothing else, open the despatches!”

Herrick said coldly, “There is a lot of the rebel in you, did you know that?”

“If you are referring to my late father, sir, remember what they say about casting the first stone.”

“Thank you for reminding me. You may return to your ship and prepare for sea. I will order the water-lighters alongside immediately.” He saw the cloud lift from the young captain’s face and added harshly, “No, not for you to skip about the ocean in search of glory! I am ordering you to Port Royal. The admiral there can decide. He and General Beckwith are to lead the invasion of Martinique.”

Adam said with disbelief, “But by then it will be too late!”

“Don’t lecture me, my boy—this is war, not the pulpit.”

“I will await your pleasure, sir.” He was a stranger; there was nothing more to be said or done here. “I can scarce credit what has happened, what has become of something which was so dear to my uncle.” He swung away. “But no longer to me, sir!”

It was dusk by the time Anemone had again weighed anchor and was setting her topsails in a glowing copper sunset. Herrick watched from the window, and after some hesitation raised a goblet of cognac to his lips. The first he had taken since Gossage’s astounding evidence on the last day of the court martial.

Damn that young tiger for his impertinence. His arrogance. Herrick drained the brandy and almost choked on it. He would take no more risks, no matter how the critics might jabber about it later. They were safe. He would never be that now. In any case, Black Prince was a big ship, far larger than his poor Benbow had been on that terrible day. She was capable of her own defence.

The door opened and Captain Pearse entered the silent room. He looked at the empty goblet and the unopened despatches, which lay by the strongbox.

Herrick said heavily, “I said no interruptions! I want to think! And if it’s about Captain Adam Bolitho, I’ll trouble you not to interfere!”

The captain replied coldly, “The surgeon has been to see me, sir. Lord Sutcliffe has just died.”

His eyes glowed in the candlelight as he watched Herrick take the news, gripping the sill with one hand. “So you command here until relieved, sir.”