Colours Aloft! (22 page)

Ozzard bounded across the deck and exclaimed in a desperate whisper, “The gown, sir! She's forgot it!”

Keen watched until the gig had merged with the anchored shadows and then replied, “No matter. I shall hand it to her myself, in England.”

12 DIVIDED
L
OYALTIES

T
HE RESIDENCE
of the flag-officer in charge of all His Majesty's ships, stores and dockyards in the island of Malta was a fine, imposing building.

After the dusty sunlight of the streets Bolitho found the room to which he had been ushered both welcome and cool. One long window looked out across the harbour, the crowded ships at the anchors, the criss-crossing wakes of cutters and gigs as the Navy got down to work for another day.

Waiting. In the Navy you always seemed to be doing it. As a midshipman or lieutenant, and even as a captain. When did it cease, he wondered?

He thought of the brig
Lord Egmont
and pictured her under full sail, heading for the Rock. She would not pause there for fear of fever, but would head out to the Atlantic and drop anchor only when she was in Carrick Roads, within sight of the Bolitho home.

He thought too of the brig's small cabin, and her master, Isaac Tregidgo, facing him across the table.

The master had a face like a block of weathered wood, lined and scarred by years at sea, fast passages and quick rewards. Tregidgo's name was legendary even amongst other masters in the Falmouth Packet Service. Storms, fever, piracy and war, the old man had faced them all. He must be over seventy, Bolitho thought, and he had known him all his life. Even his greeting had been typical.

“Sit ye down, Dick.” He had grinned hugely as Bolitho had dropped his boat-cloak. “An' I hears yewm been honoured by King George, no less,” he had wheezed in the thick air of pipe smoke and brandy. “But yewm still Dick to me!”

Bolitho had heard the girl moving about in the adjoining cabin. It was little more than a hutch, but it was safe.

The master had eyed him curiously. “Might 'ave guessed yewd be up to summat, admiral's flag or not.” He had raised a fist like a smoked ham. “Not to worry, Dick. She's safe with me. I knows me crew are a bunch o' roughknots, but I often carry me grandchildren on short passages. The men knows better'n to cuss an' blaspheme in front o' them!” He had shaken the fist grimly. “I'll give any man, even me own kin, a striped shirt at the gangway if I catches 'im at it!”

The brig had stirred at her cable and old Tregidgo had squinted at the deckhead. “Wind's favourin' me, Dick.” He had added slowly, “I'll see 'er right, just like you said in yer letter.” He had watched him from beneath his sprouting white brows.

“Yewm not seeing too well, are yew, Dick?” He had turned aside to hide his compassion. “God will watch 'e.”

The girl had entered the cabin self-consciously, the midshipman's coat and dirk in her hands.

“Keep the shoes.” Bolitho held her hands. “Mr Hickling will not miss them. You will have to remain a youth until you reach Falmouth.”

She had watched him with that same misty stare he had first seen. It was like an unspoken question. He was still not sure how to answer it.

He had said, “I am sending you to my sister Nancy. She will know what to do.” He had gripped her hands tightly, knowing she would pull away as he added, “Her husband is the squire and the senior magistrate.”

“But, sir, he'll have me—”

He had said, “No. I am not overkeen on the man, but he will not fail over this.”

He wrapped his cloak around him and reached for the companion.

She had said, “I shall never forget you, Sir Richard.”

He had turned to see the tears in her eyes, the sad beauty which even her shorn hair and crumpled shirt could not conceal.

“Nor I you, brave Zenoria.”

On deck he had found the bewildered Hickling waiting for him. A midshipman had left with him. One would return. He had handed him his coat and dirk. Hickling would be safe, no matter what happened. No one could blame a mere midshipman for obeying his vice-admiral.

By the bulwark the old man said, “I 'ear you've one o' th' Stayt boys as yer aide, Dick? From up north?”

Bolitho smiled. To a Cornishman “up north” meant merely the opposite strip of coastline.

“Yes.” There were no secrets for long in Cornwall. Except from the revenue officers.

Tregidgo had gestured in the darkness towards the skylight.

“She's best along of me then.”

“Why d'you say that?”

“Well, 'er father was mixed up in the trouble near Zennor when a man got killed, an' the dragoons was called. Stayt was a magistrate, like the one who's wed to yer sister,” he had wheezed. “The one they calls th' King o' Cornwall.”

The master had leaned closer and had murmured, “It was 'im wot 'anged 'er father. I'm fair surprised young Stayt didn't mention that?”

So am I.
Bolitho had lowered himself into the boat and had told Allday to head for the jetty. He had to think and he knew that Keen would want to see him as soon as he returned.

Sentries had barred his way to the repair docks until he had thrown off his cloak and they had stared with astonishment at his epaulettes. Allday had followed him anxiously, watching each step in case he lost his balance and fell into a dock.

There were some lanterns by the dock where
Supreme
lay. In the gloom she looked as before, her wounds and state of repair hidden in shadow.

Allday had whispered, “Goin' aboard, sir?”

“No.” Unwilling or unable, he still did not know. But he had walked along the rough stones until he had drawn level with the taffrail where the ball had struck and flung him down.

Now, standing in the sunlight by the window,
Supreme
seemed like part of a strange dream. A cruel reminder.

He thought again of Tregidgo's words about Stayt. On his way here to present himself to the flag-officer-in-charge, Bolitho had been tempted more than once to ask Stayt directly about it. His flag-lieutenant had said nothing, even though he must have been aware that the girl was no longer on board.

Bolitho had sent Stayt ashore in the barge to protect his reputation and any suggestion of involvement. Or had he? Was the mistrust already there?

Two servants threw open the high doors and Bolitho turned to face the man who seemed to fill the entrance.

Sir Marcus Laforey, Admiral of the Blue, was gross to a point which even his immaculate uniform could not hide. He had heavylidded eyes and a wide mouth, and when he walked with some difficulty to a chair Bolitho saw that one of his legs was bandaged. Gout, the curse of several admirals he knew.

Admiral Laforey sank carefully into the chair and winced as a servant eased a cushion beneath his foot.

When seated he looked like an irritable toad, Bolitho thought.

The admiral waved his handkerchief. “Sit down, Bolitho.” The lids lifted slightly in a quick appraisal. “Bothersome about all this, what?”

Bolitho sat down and got the impression that his chair had already been carefully positioned so as not to be too close.

Laforey had been on one land appointment after another, and had not been in command at sea since before the war. He looked dried out, obscene, and Malta would very likely be his last appointment. The next would be in Heaven.

“Read the report, Bolitho. Good news about the French seventyfour. Make 'em think, what?”

Bolitho tightened his hold on his sword. With the chair half turned towards the window his vision was blurred. He stared at a point beyond the admiral's fat shoulder and said, “I believe the French will be out soon, sir. Jobert may be hoping to make a diversion so that the main fleet can slip out of Toulon. Egypt or the Strait of Gibraltar—”

Laforey grunted. “Don't speak to me about Gibraltar! That bloody fever, not safe to let anything or anyone land here if they've been there en route. This place is like a ship aground, there's always some sort of sickness amongst the people an' the military.” He touched his brow with the handkerchief. “Good wine is gettin' scarce. Spanish muck an' little else, dammit!”

He had not listened to a word, Bolitho thought.

Laforey stirred himself, “Now about this court of inquiry, what?”

“My captain is accused—”

Laforey wagged a spatulate finger. “No, no, dear fellow, not
accused!
Others may have to do that. It is all a mere formality. I have not read the details but my flag-captain and this Mr, er, Pullen from their lordships assure me that it will be a matter of hours rather than days.”

Bolitho said evenly, “Captain Keen is possibly the best officer I have ever had under me, Sir Marcus. He has shown his courage and excellence on many occasions, from midshipman to command. In my opinion he should rate flag rank.”

Laforey's lids lifted again and beneath them the small eyes were cold and without pity.

“Bit young, I'd have thought. Too many inexperienced popinjays about these days, what?” He glared at his bandaged foot. “If I could hoist my flag above the Channel Fleet instead of this, this—” he stared round resentfully, “I'd soon make the mothers' boys shed a few tears!”

He tried to lean forward but his belly prevented him.

“Now, see here, Bolitho, what really happened, eh?” He searched Bolitho's face as if for an answer. “Needed a woman, did he?”

Bolitho stood up, “I will not discuss my officers in this fashion, Sir Marcus.”

Surprisingly Laforey seemed pleased. “Suit yerself. The court will sit tomorrow. If Captain Keen is sensible I am sure that you will be able to put to sea without further delay. There is a convoy due, and I cannot stand incompetence, anything which might make life here even more unbearable.” He watched as Bolitho stood up. “I hear you were wounded too, Sir Richard?” He did not expand on it. “It is part of our service.”

“Indeed, sir.” Bolitho could barely conceal the irony in his voice. “There will be many more if the French succeed in joining their fleets together.”

Laforey shrugged. “I am afraid I cannot entertain you longer, Sir Richard. My day is full. I sometimes wonder if their lordships and Whitehall realize the extent of my responsibility here.”

The interview was over.

Bolitho walked down a passageway and saw a servant with a tray carrying two decanters and a single goblet towards the room he had just left. The admiral was about to extend his responsibility, he thought bitterly.

Stayt was waiting for him in the marble lobby.

He watched curiously as Bolitho shaded his eyes to stare at the harbour. Then he said, “You asked about the
Benbow,
sir. She has recently completed an overhaul here.”

“And whose flag has she hoisted?”

“I thought you would know, sir. She is Rear-Admiral Herrick's flagship.”

Bolitho turned towards the shadows in the lobby to contain his feelings. The last part of the pattern, as he had known there would be. It was not imagination, now he knew it, even before Stayt said, “Rear-Admiral Herrick is to take the chair at the court of inquiry, sir.”

“I shall see him.”

“It might be unwise, sir.” Stayt's deepset eyes watched him calmly. “It could be misconstrued, by some, that is.”

Thomas Herrick, his best friend, who had nearly died for him more than once.

In his mind he could see Herrick's eyes, clear blue, stubborn at times, too easily hurt, above all honest. Now the word “honest” seemed to stand out to mock him.

Stayt said, “There will be a letter awaiting you aboard
Argonaute,
I understand, sir. You will not need to attend the court. A written statement will suffice.”

Bolitho turned towards him, his voice hard. “Will you write one also?”

Stayt met his gaze without flinching. “I am ordered to attend the court to give evidence, sir.”

It was like being snared in an invisible net which was being squeezed tighter every hour.

“I shall be there, be certain of that!”

Stayt followed him into the dusty sunshine and waited on the steps which faced the harbour.

Bolitho said, “Did you imagine I would stand by and say nothing? Well,
did
you?”

“If there is anything I can do, sir—”

Bolitho felt his eye sting and knew it was anger rather than injury.

“Not for the present. You are dismissed. Return to the ship.”

He strode down towards the jetty where Allday stood by the barge. There were other
Argonaute
boats nearby and Stayt would have to use one of them.

The boat coxswains stood up and touched their hats as they saw him. Their routine did not allow for emotions like his. Stores had to be arranged, and the purser would have been ashore since first light to carry out his bargaining with chandlers and traders alike.

Bolitho said, “To the
Benbow,
if you please.”