Darkening Sea (28 page)

Urquhart tried again. “We mean no harm. We will leave you in peace.” He turned helplessly and exclaimed, “He speaks no English!”

Avery felt the wildness surging through him. Something he thought he had lost or learned to contain.

The others stared at him as he said quietly,
“Duncere Classem Regem Sequi.”

The abbot could only gape at him, and he added in a harsher tone, “Nor Latin either, it would seem!” He knew Urquhart was unable to understand, and he shouted,
“Take this man!”

A seaman seized the man's robe but he was too strong for him.

Allday pushed past them. “Sorry, Father!” Then he smashed his fist into the man's face and sent him reeling down the steps.

Someone yelled, “There be boats comin', sir!”

Allday straightened up and allowed the imposter's hand to fall on the stones. “See the tar, sir! If he's a cleric, I'd be the Queen of England!” Then he seemed to realise what had been shouted and said with relief, “Sir Richard, then. I knew it somehow!”

They all stared around as two shots cracked out, their sharp echoes repeating and ringing around the narrow landing-place as if twenty marksmen were firing.

Someone gave a shrill scream, and even as their ears cringed to that a corpse fell from the rocks overhead, still clinging to a smoking musket until he hit the ground and rolled off into the water below.

“Who was hit?” Urquhart stared round, his eyes wild.

A seaman called, “Mr Powys, sir! He's dead!”

Somebody else said, “He's no bloody loss.”

“Silence!” Urquhart was trying to assert himself.

Bolitho and the captain of marines appeared at the landing-place, and a squad of scarlet coats fanned out amongst the rocks, their bayonets very bright in the sunshine.

Bolitho climbed up beside them and nodded to Allday. “Well, old friend?”

Allday grinned, but the pain in his chest had been awakened and he had to speak carefully.

“This fellow must be one of them, Sir Richard.” He held up a pistol. “Not quite right an' proper for a man of the cloth, eh?”

Bolitho looked at the abbot who was trying to recover his senses. Then he said, “We've much to do here.”

Protheroe, who had been with the unpopular midshipman, appeared on the slope, his eyes dull with shock. As a boatswain's mate he was one of those required to carry out a flogging, and yet by the navy's own code he was not blamed for what he must do. Especially under Trevenen's command.

“What is it, man?”

Protheroe wiped his mouth. “Two women we found, sir. Raped several times is my guess, then cut about somethin' terrible!” He was shaking despite everything he had seen in his service.

Bolitho glanced at the figure in the brown robe and saw his eyes move. He said calmly, “There appear to be no trees here. Take this man to the water's edge. Captain Loftus, you will detail a firing party. At once!”

Captain Loftus looked so grim that it was likely he would shoot the man himself. As he stepped forward the imposter flung himself forward, and would have gripped Bolitho's shoes but for Allday's heavy foot across his neck.

“Down, you scum! Butchering women—is that all you're good for?”

“Please!
Please!
” The man's earlier composure, which had so convinced Urquhart, had vanished like smoke. “It wasn't me! It was some of the others!”

“Strange how often it's the others!”

Avery felt his hand trembling on his sword hilt but managed to say, “Speaks English now well enough!”

“How many of you are there here?” Bolitho turned away. He was beyond pity. The women were probably fishermen's wives, daughters even. What a terrible way to end. Later he would see the corpses for himself, and tend to them. But now . . . his voice hardened. “Speak out, man!”

The man did not struggle as a marine dragged off the robe and took the fine staff from him as if it might break.

The cowering figure sobbed, “We was ordered to stay here, sir! I speak the truth! The monks are safe enough, sir! I'm a religious man—I was against what happened. Have mercy, sir!”

Bolitho snapped, “Get a flag of truce for this creature, Mr Urquhart, and go with him to the door. His friends will know they cannot be rescued while we are here. If they resist I will have the door broken down, and there will be no quarter.”

Urquhart was staring at him as if he had never seen him before.

Bolitho watched as the man was dragged to his feet and a white rag produced from somewhere. He did not notice at the time, but it had blood on it. It was probably the hated midshipman's shirt.

“How many men? I did not hear a reply!”

But the prisoner was gaping at something beyond him, and without turning Bolitho knew it was the
Valkyrie
moving past the entrance. She more than anything would convince the pirates, or whatever they were.

Avery whispered, “I'll go, Sir Richard. If they recognise you . . .”

Bolitho tried to smile. “Like this?” He plucked at his grubby shirt. Had that hidden marksman seen him in uniform, he and not Midshipman Powys would be lying dead. He noticed that Avery had used his title despite what he had told him. It revealed that he was not as calm as he appeared.

He walked up the steps and asked, “What of the Abbot? Did you murder him too?”

The man tried to turn but two marines gripped him fast. He whined, “No, sir! A man of God?” He sounded almost shocked at the suggestion. “He's locked in a room with the other prisoner!”

It was as if someone had spoken in his ear. “You had better not be lying.”

The door was already opening when they reached it. There were ten of them. Had they wanted to they could have held the place against an army. But they were throwing down their weapons and getting a few blows from the marines as they drove them into a corner.

Bolitho saw the marksman swoop up an expensive-looking pistol from the floor, his eyes gleaming. Despite his smart uniform he still looked like a poacher in the guise of a ferret.

Their voices rang and echoed around the walls, which were dripping with moisture. The sound of chanting in this place must be like the cries of the damned.

His heart was beating so painfully that he had to pause on the stairs to recover his breath.

“Captain Loftus, search the building, though I doubt if you'll find anything. Have the prisoners taken to the beach. Tie them up if need be.” He was speaking in a harsh, clipped tone he barely recognised as his own, and his mouth was as dry as dust.

Allday said, “This is the place, I think, Sir Richard.” He sounded very wary.

Avery lifted a large key from a hook beside the door and after a slight hesitation he opened it.

There was bright sunshine streaming in through a window, alien in this place, which was without furniture. The floor was strewn with loose straw. A man with a white beard was leaning against the wall, his leg chained to a ringbolt, his breathing laboured and shallow.

Bolitho said softly, “Send word to the ship and have the surgeon attend here.”

He bent and then knelt beside the other man who was propped against the wall, one hand in filthy bandages. For a moment longer Bolitho thought he was dead.

He said, “Thomas. Can you hear me?”

Herrick lifted his chin, then very slowly opened his eyes. Blue in the sunlight, they seemed the only living thing about him.

A marine handed Bolitho his water flask, and Herrick stared at the man's bright uniform as if he could not believe it was real.

Bolitho held the flask to his lips and saw Herrick's pathetic attempt to swallow some water.

Herrick said suddenly, “Allday! It's you, you rascal!” Then he coughed and water ran down his chin.

Allday watched, his face like stone. “Aye, sir. You can't get rid o' me that easy!”

Bolitho looked round and noticed Herrick's best uniform coat hanging on a wall, carefully protected from dust and damp by a piece of linen.

Herrick must have seen his eyes move toward it, and said, “They wanted to parade us together, so they had to keep my clothing nice and clean.” He almost laughed, but he groaned with the pain.

Bolitho took the bandaged hand very carefully and prayed that the surgeon would soon come.

“Who did this to you, Thomas? Was it Baratte?”

“He was here, but I did not see him. It was another man.”

“American or French?”

Herrick stared at the crude bandage. “Neither. A bloody Englishman!”

“Save your strength, Thomas. I think I know the man now.”

But Herrick was staring past him again, at the prisoner who had taken the abbot's place. “Whoever he was, he knew he was wasting his time when he questioned me about the squadron.” His body shook with silent laughter. “Not that I had anything to tell. Remember, I was on my way to the great country.” Then he became very calm. “So this renegade, or whoever he is, made me a promise before he left. That I would never hold a sword for the King again.” He gestured with his head to a stone block in the corner. “They held my arm and smashed my hand with that!” He held up the bandage and Bolitho could imagine the damage and the agony. “But they even made a mistake there, eh, Richard?”

Bolitho looked down, his eyes blurring. “Yes, Thomas, you are left-handed.”

Herrick was fighting to stay conscious. “That prisoner by the door. He did it.”

Then he fainted. Bolitho held him in his arms and waited while a marine pried open the leg-iron with his bayonet.

He looked round, thinking that Herrick had called him by name; and that while he had been struggling to speak, something had stopped, like a clock.

Sergeant Plummer said quietly, “The gentleman has died, sir.”

It was rare for a man to look dignified in death, Bolitho thought. He said, “Remove his leg-iron, Sergeant, then take him to where the others lie dead.” He walked to the door as more men with Lieutenant Urquhart hurried in.

Avery asked, “And what about this man, sir?”

The prisoner's eyes watched him like bright stones.

“We'll leave him with the others. Dead.”

The man's protests filled the barred room so that Herrick seemed to stir as if in a bad dream.

“I will not take him to the ship. The people have had enough examples of authority to witness.” He watched the horror and disbelief on the man's face. “The only witnesses will be the women you destroyed!”

Outside the door Bolitho leaned against the wall, the stones surprisingly cold through his shirt. He listened to the man's screams and pleading cries as he was dragged down the steep stairs.

Avery waited with Allday as some sailors carried Herrick's limp body carefully through the door.

Avery asked bluntly, “What does it mean? You can tell me, man!”

Allday looked at him sadly. “It means he's found his friend again.”

They fell in step to follow the others, then Allday asked, “What
did
you say to that rat, sir?”

“Well, I was not certain, you see. But all priests speak Latin. I was answering the question he should have asked. I said, To Lead the Fleet, to Follow the King.”

A single shot echoed over the monastery and Allday spat on the ground.

“Hope he said his prayers!”

16 CAPTAINS
A
LL

Y
OVELL
leaned slightly to one side as Bolitho ran his eyes over the orders he had just completed. Around them the big frigate groaned uneasily as she lay hove-to while
Laertes
' captain came over in his gig.

Two days had passed since the landing party had entered the monastery and had rescued Herrick.

There had been others found there in the same spartan captivity. Apart from the remainder of the monks they had discovered some twenty masters and other officers from the many prizes taken by Baratte and his ships.

Bolitho had listened with great care to each of the prisoners and had built up a much clearer picture in his mind of the enemy's strength. Baratte had employed many small vessels for his attacks, and had fitted out some of his captures as privateers and for spying on ships sailing alone.

Baratte was both well-informed and prepared for any attempt by the military to deploy their transports, without which they would be beaten before they had even started.

Major-General Drummond's force was the obvious target. Baratte would know the strength of the Cape Town squadron, which even with Keen's support would be at great risk.

Bolitho had already despatched the brig
Orcadia
with all the information he could muster, and had told Jenour to tell Keen to press the army to hold fast until Baratte's ships could be dealt with.

Jenour had seemed listless and tired, and Bolitho had wished that he had had more time to speak with him. But time was slipping away, and with
Thruster
gone and Jenour sent to find Keen's ships he was well aware of the need for action. James Tyacke had come aboard only briefly at Bolitho's request, and had confirmed that the unknown English captain had to be a former sea officer, who had commanded a small frigate in the King's navy until he had been court-martialled for cruelty to enemy prisoners-of-war. He was exactly the kind of unscrupulous character who would fit Baratte's requirements. A man who had recruited a company of scum, most of whom would hang if brought to justice. His name was Simon Hannay: privateer, pirate and murderer, who had for too long struck fear into the hearts of ship masters who sailed alone on the great ocean.

Tyacke had come up against him when he had been controlling a large flotilla of vessels which had preyed regularly along the African coastline. When slavery had been outlawed and the patrols had been strengthened, Hannay had discovered that the Arab slave-traders were more frightened of
the devil with half a face
than they were of him. Not for the first time he had offered his services to the French, and according to one of the freed prisoners he had been given a
32
-gun frigate appropriately named
Le Corsaire.
Baratte flew his flag in another frigate,
Chacal.
She was new, but little was known about her. Baratte had many other small vessels, brigs, brigantines and former coastal schooners.

Bolitho walked away from the table and stared thoughtfully at the shimmering ocean. It was noon, and by now Tyacke would have clawed his way up to windward, ready to dash down on the two frigates if any strange sail was sighted.

He heard the stamp of feet and the shrill twitter of calls as Captain Dawes of the
Laertes
was piped aboard. Avery was up there to welcome him with Captain Trevenen.

Bolitho thought of the powerful emotions he had seen on Avery's introspective face when they had buried the two women and the elderly abbot among the wild flowers on the hillside. He himself had been shocked when he had seen the murdered women. Both were young, the wives of fishermen. They had been spared nothing, even the mercy of a quick death. One of the released sailors had told him about the night when the guards had been mad with drink, and their wild cries had mingled with the screams of the women. Simon Hannay had not been there, but he might as well have been. And he would pay for it.

The monks had been almost harder to understand, Bolitho thought. They had displayed neither gratitude nor anger, and had shown little grief at the death of their abbot. Perhaps life on that pitiless islet had destroyed their capacity to feel the normal, worldly emotions of ordinary men.

He thought of Herrick down below in the sickbay, watched over by George Minchin the surgeon. Herrick had suffered greatly, and Minchin had insisted that he be left alone until some progress had been made.

Bolitho could still hear him calling him by name in that filthy cell.

There was a tap at the door and Trevenen, followed by Avery and Captain Dawes, came into the cabin. Dawes was young, about Adam's age, but had the severe deportment of a much older man. Perhaps he already saw himself as an admiral like his father.

Yovell moved to a corner where he could make notes if required, and Ozzard stood with a napkin over his arm while he waited to serve refreshments.

Trevenen sat down heavily. He had almost shown surprise when he had seen the man who had posed as the abbot and who had broken Herrick's hand with a rock shot to death by the captain of marines.

He had said in his harsh voice, “It was quite unexpected, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho had faced him calmly, the dead women's contorted features still clear in his mind.

“I do not enjoy seeing a man die, even scum like that one. I simply could not think of a reason for allowing him to live.”

While Avery held the chart, Bolitho discussed the despatch he had sent with Jenour.

“Although it depletes our strength still further, it may prevent a greater loss of life.”

Dawes peered at the chart. “Two frigates, Sir Richard?” His eyes sharpened. He was already seeing fame and prize-money. “We can manage to dish
them
up!”

Trevenen said doubtfully, “The renegade, Simon Hannay— what do we know of him?”

“Commander Tyacke knows him as well as anyone, but stories of his bloody career are legend.”

Why was Trevenen so unwilling to take Tyacke's word? He seemed to sift every event as if looking for flaws. Or what he considered to be a waste. Like the rescued mariners and the prisoners, for instance. Bolitho had seen him complaining to the purser about the extra mouths he would have to feed. It was as if it would all come out of his own pocket.

He said quietly, “The real puzzle remains the role of the American,
Unity.
Without her interference we can tackle Baratte, and win.”

Trevenen interrupted, “He'd not risk war, Sir Richard!” He sounded outraged.

“He might have a plan.” Bolitho studied them, and wished Adam were present. “His government did not send their most experienced captain in their greatest frigate merely to
show the flag.
In his place I know what I would do. I would provoke an argument. It is nothing new in war, or in peace either, for that matter.”

Trevenen was unconvinced. “Suppose Baratte has more menof-war than we know of?”

“I'm sure he has. But the main force sailing from India will be heavily escorted. There will even be some of John Company's ships taking part. My guess is that Baratte will deploy his strength in their direction.” He looked at Dawes. “Remember, your ship was once his, and I am his most hated enemy. Both good reasons for engaging
us,
eh?”

He heard the sentry murmuring outside the screen door and saw Ozzard scurry over to open it.

Bolitho's heart sank. It was Minchin, the surgeon. He said, “If you will excuse me, gentlemen. Take some wine before we eat.” He spoke so easily that neither of the captains would have recognised his anxiety.

Minchin waited for the door to close. “I'd not disturb you, Sir Richard, but . . .”

“Is it Rear-Admiral Herrick?”

The surgeon ran his fingers through his untidy grey hair.

“I'm troubled about him. He's in great pain. I'm only a ship's surgeon—
butchers
they call the likes of us . . .”

Bolitho touched his arm. “Have you forgotten
Hyperion
so soon? But for you, many more would have died that day.”

Minchin shook his head. “Some would have been better off if they had.”

They walked to the lower companion-way and Bolitho saw Allday sitting on an upturned water cask working on one of his carvings. He glanced across, his eyes full of understanding, as if he had spoken aloud.

Deeper into
Valkyrie
's great hull to the orlop deck below the waterline. Here all sounds of sea and wind were muted, with only the timbers murmuring like voices in the depths of the ocean itself. Here were stores, cordage, tar and paint, the canvas lockers and the hanging magazine. The very stuff of the ship herself.

They entered the sickbay, spacious and well-lit in contrast to most of those Bolitho had seen. The surgeon's mate closed a book he had been reading and glided past.

Herrick was staring at the door as they entered, as if he had known they were coming.

Bolitho leaned over the cot. “How are you, Thomas?”

He was afraid that Herrick might forget what they had shared, that he might turn against him again.

Herrick studied him, his eyes very blue in the fixed lanterns. “It plagues me, Richard, but I have had a lot of time to think. About you, about us.” He tried to smile but his face was stiff with agony. He said, “You look tired, Richard . . .” He made as if to reach out, then suddenly screwed his eyes tightly shut and said quietly, “I'll lose my hand, won't I?”

Bolitho saw the surgeon nod. It was almost curt, as if he had already decided. He looked at Minchin. “Well?”

The surgeon sat down on a chest. “It has to be done, sir.” He faltered. “To the elbow.”

Herrick gasped. “Oh, my God!”

“Are you certain?” Bolitho glanced at the surgeon's reddened features.

Minchin nodded. “As soon as possible, sir. Otherwise . . .” He did not need to continue.

Bolitho put his hand gently on Herrick's shoulder. “Is there anything I can do?”

Herrick opened his eyes and said, “I have failed you.”

Bolitho tried to smile. “No, Thomas. Think of yourself. Try to hold on.”

Herrick stared up at him. He had been washed and shaved and to a stranger would appear quite normal. He peered at the blood-stained bandages on his broken hand.

“Send the telescope to my sister . . . if I can't fight it, Richard.”

Bolitho looked back from the door. “You
will
fight it. And win, too.”

The walk to the cabin seemed endless. To Allday he said, “I have a favour to ask, old friend.”

Allday nodded his shaggy head, and rolled up the leather cloth in which he carried his knives and the sailmaker's twine he used for rigging his ship models.

“Never fear, Sir Richard, I'll stay with him.” He watched the pain in Bolitho's eyes. “I'll tell you if anything happens.”

“Thank you.” He touched his powerful arm but was unable to say more.

Allday watched him approach the door, where the sentry was already as stiff as a rammer in spite of the heavy motion.

Once through the door, face to face with his assembled captains, he would show nothing of his private despair. Allday was certain of it. What did they know? All they wanted was glory and someone to lead and protect them.

Ozzard came through the door and Allday said roughly, “You got some brandy, Tom? The best stuff?”

Ozzard studied him. Not for himself then. This was different.

“I'll fetch it for you, John.”

“I'll have a wet meself, afterwards.”

Afterwards.
The finality of the word seemed to linger long after Allday had gone below.

Captain Adam Bolitho glanced at his reflection in the cabin mirror and frowned as he tugged his waistcoat into place and adjusted the sword at his hip.
Anemone
was plunging badly in the quarter-sea, and the cabin's heavy humidity warned of rain quite soon. Not rain as over the fields and villages of Cornwall, but heavy, mind-dulling deluges which could often pass away from a ship before any worthwhile drinking water had been saved. But he could leave that to his first lieutenant.

Adam Bolitho hated the ritual of a flogging, although to most sailors it was something that could never be permanently avoided. Perhaps this one had been the result of the endless patrols, sighting nothing unless it was a courier brig or some trader trying to stay friendly with both sides in a war he did not understand. Boredom, disappointment after losing their prizes to the enemy when before they had cheered, a close company at least until the news had been passed to them by a naval cutter on the antislavery patrol:
Anemone
's people were restless and surly. Sail and gun drills could no longer contain their frustration, and their eager expectation of close combat with the real enemy had given way to a sullen resentment.