Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef (43 page)

Keen closed the door very quietly and hurried up the companion ladder.

“Shorten sail, Mr Sedgemore!” He shaded his eyes against the fierce light to look at Jenour’s flags streaming from the yards, the signals midshipman with his raised glass calling out as each of the ships acknowledged.

Julyan the sailing-master shouted, “As before, sir!”

Keen nodded, his mind busy. “When we get under full canvas again we shall continue to the nor-‘west. Your noon sights will have to be your best today, Mr Julyan, for afterwards we will change tack and steer for the islands, Bird Island in particular.”

Their eyes met and then Julyan said, “Tomorrow, then?”

Keen turned away as the calls shrilled to muster the watch on deck for shortening sail. “Master’s Mate, find the seaman named William Owen for me.” Do it now, Val, Bolitho had said. Was it the same instinct which Keen had cause to respect? How did he know? But he did know, as Julyan accepted it without question.

He saw Owen striding along the lee gangway, completely at ease, as he had appeared even after the Golden Plover’s loss.

He stepped on to the quarterdeck and knuckled his forehead. “Aye, sir?”

“Everyone spoke well of you, Owen, although I already knew your abilities.” He tried to smile. “It shall be logged immediately that you are to be promoted, with pay and victuals accordingly.”

Owen stared at him. He had an open, homely face which reminded Keen of Allday, when he had first met him aboard the frigate Undine under Bolitho’s command. All those dangerous years ago, when he himself had been a young midshipman, like the one on watch nearby: De Courcy, who was pretending not to listen.

“Well, thank ‘ee, sir!” Owen seemed genuinely pleased. “I’ve been at sea in one ship or t’other for fifteen years. Never thought this would happen!” He repeated with a grin, “Thank ‘ee, sir.”

Keen thought of the man in the great cabin below his feet. How did he know?

“Mr Sedgemore will explain your duties, at his leisure, but for the moment I am putting you with my cox’n. Together you will assist Mr Gilpin the bosun, should I need the boats to be lowered.”

Just for the briefest moment Keen saw his eyes flicker. “But keep it to yourself.” He turned as Sedgemore hurried towards him. “Something wrong?”

“I heard a mention of boats, sir.”

“And you will know why.”

Sedgemore stared round as Masterman, the sergeant of marines, exclaimed, “Gawd, look at the old Relentless! She’s gettin’ a bustle on, an’ no mistake!”

Sedgemore persisted quietly, “But the sea is empty, sir.”

“We are informed that our combined attack on Martinique by Vice-Admiral Cochrane’s ships and the army under General Beckwith is due to begin at any time. Weather permitting, in a matter of days. If I were the French commander of the ships and men at his disposal, I would move against vital bases—Antigua, for instance. If taken, it would leave our fleet like a headless chicken.”

Sedgemore found himself looking at the place on the quarterdeck where his predecessor Cazalet had died. Smart cordage, spotless decks, the men at the helm watching the compass and sails as they had always done. It was hard to imagine the hell it had been.

He said tentatively, “But what if we came against them, sir, I—I mean without support?” It was rare to see him at such a loss for words.

“Then the people will fight, as they have never done before. Hereabouts the sea is a bottomless cavern, a place of total darkness, I believe. It is not much of an alternative, do you think?”

Sedgemore hurried away, needing something to do to stay his mind.

“Relentless on station, sir!”

Keen walked to the weather side and watched Valkyrie, under every stitch of canvas, clawing away towards the horizon to complete their line abreast, then he saw the vice-admiral’s coxswain making his way aft and called, “Memories, Allday?”

Allday squinted up at him and gave his lop-sided grin. “Few more o’ them shortly, I shouldn’t wonder, sir!”

He vanished beneath the deck, going to the great cabin, knowing in his own private way that he was needed there.

Keen turned to the officer-of-the-watch, the third lieutenant. “I am going to my quarters, Mr Joyce. Call me at noon so that we may compare sun-sights.” He paused. “Earlier if you need me.”

Joyce smiled. He had served captains he would never dare to call, even if the ship seemed to be falling apart; afterwards they would blame an uncertain lieutenant with equal passion. To his midshipman he said, “Remember all that you see and hear, Mr De Courcy. It might stand you in good stead, in the unlikely event that you stay alive long enough to be given a command!”

The midshipman, who was fifteen, was not too troubled by Joyce’s manner. His father was a rear-admiral, and his grandfather before him.

“Aye, aye, sir! I will take heed of everything!”

Joyce turned away, hiding a smile. Cheeky little bugger, he thought.

Shortly after the ritual of shooting the sun with their sextants, and the murmured comparisons around the chart table, Black Prince and her two consorts crossed the eighteenth parallel, and came around towards the western horizon.

Lieutenant Stephen Jenour noted Ozzard’s dour expression as he passed him at the cabin screen doors; the little man was carrying away Bolitho’s breakfast, the one he had come to know was his favourite at sea. A slice of fat pork, fried pale brown with biscuit crumbs, and black treacle on a separate ship’s biscuit. It was untouched, and only the coffee had vanished.

He saw Allday running a cloth up and down Bolitho’s old sword as he must have done a thousand times, while his gaze rested on the broad panorama through the stern windows. Even allowing for the salt stains on the thick glass and the hazy dawn light, the view was breathtaking. The eastern horizon coming to life, the sea choppy and milky under the steady pressure of wind. Birds too, gliding back and forth below the ship’s counter waiting for scraps, screaming away occasionally as some fish or other rose too close to the surface.

Jenour saw Bolitho on the bench seat, one foot on the checkered deck covering, his other knee drawn up to his chin; he saw too that his heavy uniform coat and hat lay on a chair, like the garb of some actor waiting in the wings.

He rather wished he could try his hand with his sketch book, but there was no time, and he told himself he could never capture the tension and the curious intimacy of this private moment.

Bolitho turned his head. “Look at the birds, Stephen. If only we knew what they had seen in their flights amongst the islands. Perhaps nothing.” He glanced at a line of serried wave crests as the wind sped amongst them. “If I am wrong this time, and with the wind still pressing, it may take days to beat back again and search elsewhere.”

Jenour said, “Relentless is in sight abeam, Sir Richard. She is on perfect station, it seems.”

Somewhere far ahead of Black Prince’s tapering jib-boom lay the islands. They would still be in shadow, but daylight, when it came, would be swift.

“How is Captain Keen?”

“He was about early, Sir Richard. I could sleep very little too.”

Bolitho gave a quick smile. “At least you do not have to stand watches with the others, Stephen. Maybe I do not work you hard enough.”

He let his mind drift with the spray against the stern windows, the hollow boom of the tiller-head as the rudder took the strain of sea and wind.

There is nothing more I can do. I am in a dark room. I cannot even rely on circumstances, for I do not know them.

Suppose the enemy attacked Antigua? What would Herrick do? Face another hopeless battle like the last? Or would he order a withdrawal until help arrived? He would fight. To punish himself, or to cast scorn on those who had wanted him guilty.

He thought of Adam’s anger and sense of betrayal, and tried to picture how it had been between him and his old friend. Something else was troubling Adam; maybe he would share it, given the chance.

Jenour said, “That was a hail from the masthead, Sir Richard.” His face was both troubled and excited.

Bolitho saw Allday’s polishing cloth pause on the keen old blade. He had not heard it either.

“Be easy, Stephen. We shall know soon enough.”

Jenour watched him, fascinated, envious of the way he could contain his inner feelings, especially when so much depended on today. Or tomorrow. But he knew it would be today.

The sentry bawled, “Midshipman-of-the-watch, sah!”

Midshipman M’Innes entered timidly and peered around the semi-dark cabin. “Captain Keen’s respects, Sir Richard, and … and …”

Bolitho prompted gently, “We are all agog, Mr M’Innes, so please share it with us.”

The youth flushed under his sunburn. “A sail is reported to the west’rd. The lookout says she may be a frigate.”

Bolitho smiled, but his mind was like ice. A frigate. She would be able to see Black Prince, if not the others, set against the brightening horizon. A friend then? She must be Tybalt. He tried to quell his rising hope. Even with a frigate it would take days to search amongst these islands.

“My compliments to the Captain. I shall come directly.”

He picked up his empty coffee cup and stared at it. “Little boys and old men. Good ones and felons.”

Allday grinned. “Nothing changes, Sir Richard.” He picked up the sword and thrust it into its fine leather scabbard. It must have worn out many of those in its lifetime, he thought. But only the one sword.

“Not yet, old friend.” Bolitho looked towards his flag lieutenant, and there was something like pain in his grey eyes. “Are you prepared, Stephen?”

Jenour said steadily, although he did not fully understand, “I’m ready, Sir Richard.”

“Come, let us go up.” He touched his arm impetuously. “They are not always the same thing!”

Allday watched them leave and sat down in Bolitho’s chair. The wound was aching badly. A sure sign. He laughed harshly. Nerves? An old Jack like you! Blast your eyes for a fool!

Ozzard had entered silently. “What is it, John?”

“Do something for me. Fetch my jacket an’ cutlass from my mess, will you?”

Ozzard reacted predictably. “I’m not your servant!”

Allday felt the tension draining away. It always did when you knew. “I’ll be needed in a minute or two, Tom.” He saw Ozzard’s sudden anxiety and added kindly, “We’re going to fight today. So be off with you, eh, matey?” He seized one thin arm as Ozzard began to hurry away. “I shall speak my piece, then close the hatches.” He felt fear through the little man’s sleeve. “If the worst happens …” He let the words sink in. “I want no more o’ that madness we had in our old Hyperion. Like it or not, we’re mates. We stand together.” He watched the gratitude in Ozzard’s eyes and added roughly, “Fetch me a wet too, eh?”

Unaware of the private drama in the great cabin, Bolitho stood beside Keen and Jenour at the quarterdeck rail, his arms folded as he watched the sea opening itself on either beam in the first feeble sunlight. He saw Relentless directly abeam, perhaps a mile away until daylight made signals readily visible. Beyond her he thought he saw Valkyrie’s pale pyramid of sails, and wondered if Flippance had also sighted the far-off ship.

Bolitho glanced at the many figures moving along the upper gun deck and in the rigging overhead. The work never ceased. Splicing and repairing, tarring-down and caulking, and always the guns which dominated their daily lives. On the crowded messdecks the seamen who lived with them saw the guns when they were piped from their hammocks, with a touch of a starter for the last ones out, at their messdeck tables, where they took their too-often crude meals and drank their daily tots, or beer if any was still drinkable. The guns separated them like silent guardians. When they were off watch and repaired their clothing, “a bit of jewing” as the sailors termed it, or made models and yarned of ships and places they had seen, so too, the guns were always with them.

And as a result of all the drills and the demanding discipline, the guns would wait for the ports to open, and be run out, and would turn those same messdecks into a smoke-filled hell.

“A glass, if you please.” He took it from Midshipman M’Innes and trained it abeam. The nearest 74 was sharper now, and he could even see tiny figures moving along the gangways, covering the hammocks which had been packed down hard in the nettings for another day.

Midshipman Houston stood with, but apart from, his signals party, his telescope raised, his face almost disdainful. He was probably thinking of his hoped-for promotion to lieutenant: the first rung on the ladder.

“She’s Tybalt, sir!”

As men chatted and discussed what it might mean, Bolitho levelled the glass again and wanted to cover his injured eye with his hand, but the telescope was too heavy. And those around him might see, and suspect.

How grey it looked beyond the flapping jib, but that would soon change. He found the frigate’s pale topsails and saw the tiny, bright flags, the only true colour against the horizon, suddenly dip and vanish.

“Another signal, Mr Houston!” Keen’s voice was unusually sharp.

“Aye, sir!” His voice was sulky, like the time he had been ordered aloft for bearing down on the seaman Owen.

Jenour read it first. “Signal, Sir Richard. Enemy ships bearing north-west!”