BOLITHO PLACED HIS sealed letter to Catherine on the table and pictured her reading it, perhaps by her roses, or more probably in the privacy of their rooms. It had been bad enough, leaving her in Falmouth, and this letter was little comfort. Not yet; even sending it was like breaking a precious link.
He pulled out his watch and flicked open the guard: almost two o’clock in the afternoon. No turning back.
He sighed and replaced the watch in his pocket, his eyes moving around the room, its dark timbers almost black with age and the smoke from a thousand fires. He had only stayed at the famous George Inn once before, then as a young captain. It was a timeless place, which had seen more admirals and captains come and go than he could imagine.
The room looked bare now that his chests had been taken out to be sent to his new flagship, empty, ready to forget him and welcome another.
It was not difficult to see Nelson here, perhaps in this very room, on his last days ashore in England. He had left his beloved Emma at their house in Merton. What was she doing now? And what of those who had promised Nelson that she would be taken care of?
He turned away, angry with himself for making the comparison. There was none. Only the bitter rift of separation was the same.
He heard voices on the stairs; one was Avery, the other Allday. It was time.
Down the stairs, the scene was exactly as he had expected. The landlord, anxious to please, careful not to show it. There were plenty of uniforms in evidence, sea officers obviously enjoying themselves, each careful to catch his eye as he passed. Some might have served with him, most had never seen him in the flesh before. But they all knew him.
It was said that when Nelson left the George for the last time the streets had been packed with people trying to catch a glimpse of him, and show their admiration for their hero. Perhaps it had even been love.
He himself had never met ‘Our Nel’, although even Adam had exchanged a word or two with him when he had been carrying despatches.
He saw Avery watching him from the doorway, his eyes tawny in the reflected sunlight. Beyond him, Allday stood with his back to the inn, as if he had already rejected the land.
The street was busy, but quite ordinary. No cheering crowds or curious sightseers this time; but then, there was no war raging across the Channel.
‘We’ll walk to the Sally Port.’ He saw Allday turn and touch his hat to him, the admiral’s coxswain.
Avery observed him thoughtfully, trying to guess the mood of the man to whom he was loyal before all else.
Bolitho said, ‘No bands, no parades, George.’ He smiled. ‘Like God, the navy is only fully appreciated when danger is at the gates!’
Avery tried to sense bitterness or regret, but there was none. He had seen the letter Bolitho had given to the landlord, and knew the truth would be in it, for her alone. For Catherine.
He said, ‘The ship is short-handed, sir. I think Captain Tyacke is eager to put to sea, to learn the strengths and weaknesses amongst the people.’ Even Tyacke was different, he thought. Once a hard man to know, he had become as close to a friend as was possible within their ordered lives. And he had seemed withdrawn, as if a part of him were still lingering elsewhere.
He wondered what Bolitho truly thought about the choice of flagship; he himself had only had a few days aboard Frobisher, and he had found little time to meet the other officers, or get the feel of the ship. In a rare moment of confidence, Tyacke had told him that Frobisher, if properly manned and drilled, would be a fast sailer, and had a hull so well designed that even in heavy seas she might remain a relatively dry ship. That would prove a godsend for her seamen when required to make or reef rebellious canvas, finding what warmth and comfort they could between decks afterwards.
Avery had expected there might be some resentment at Tyacke’s appointment, but he had discovered that Frobisher’s previous captain had been suddenly discharged as medically unfit, and sent ashore with the Admiralty’s blessing. Avery had served Bolitho long enough to know that the real reason for the captain’s hasty departure was probably something very different, and he had gained the impression that the ship’s lieutenants, at least, were glad to see him go. Tyacke had revealed nothing of his own thoughts. He had his own methods of gaining a company’s loyalty, and would tolerate nothing less than the standards he had set in Indomitable.
Bolitho tugged his hat down more firmly as they rounded a corner and the wind off the sea swept to greet them.
Avery had explained that Tyacke had changed the anchorage after leaving the dockyard, and the ship now lay off St Helens on the east coast of the Isle of Wight. A long, stiff pull for any barge crew, he thought, and Allday would be watching their behaviour and that of the barge with a critical eye. Like other old Jacks, he had always maintained that a ship could be judged by the appearance and handling of her boats.
He considered his own change of role. Tyacke would have attended to everything, food and stores, fresh water, and any fruit juice he could lay hands on, keeping his subordinates at arm’s length until he had learned the reliability, or otherwise, of lieutenants and warrant officers, purser, gunner and boatswain. Bolitho gave a brief smile. And, of course, the midshipmen, the ‘young gentlemen’, for some reason he had not yet discovered always the bane of Tyacke’s life.
He saw Allday on the jetty, apparently relaxed and untroubled, but Bolitho knew him so well. He would already have learned everything he could about the Frobisher of seventy-four guns, once the French two-decker Glorieux. Completed too late for Trafalgar, she had had only a brief career under the Tricolour before she was attacked and captured by two of the blockading squadron while on passage from Belle Isle to Brest. That had been four years ago. Allday would be thinking of that, too: the same year he had married Unis at Fallowfield.
Prize ships, put to work against their old masters, were commonplace in the navy. There had been times when even ships rated as unfit through rot or disrepair had been pressed into service, like his own Hyperion, a ship of which they still yarned and sang in the taverns and alehouses. How Hyperion cleared the way …. Would their lordships make the same mistake of running the fleet down to the bare bones, simply because the immediate danger had been withdrawn?
He glanced at Avery, who was speaking with a waterman, noticing the stiffness with which he held and moved his shoulder when he was not conscious of it. Like Allday and his wounded chest, where a Spanish blade had hacked him down.
They were loyal; it was more than mere loyalty. But they were both sacrificing so much, perhaps a last chance, for his sake.
‘Ah, here she be!’ Allday scowled. ‘A fresh coat of paint will be the first thing!’
Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the barge, which had suddenly appeared around the stern of an anchored frigate. It had probably been obtained direct from the dockyard where Frobisher had just completed an overhaul; there would have been no time to paint it dark green, as was the custom for flag officers’ barges. Again, he felt the same sense of doubt. The last captain, Charles Oliphant, might have remained as his flag captain unless he had explicitly requested James Tyacke.
He recalled Admiral Lord Rhodes’s obvious eagerness for him to take Frobisher as flagship.
He looked at Avery again; perhaps he had noticed the flaw. Captain Oliphant was related in some capacity to Rhodes, although he could not recall where he had heard it mentioned. He frowned. But he would remember.
The barge turned in a wide arc and tossed oars, the bowman hooking on to the jetty while a seaman vaulted onto the worn stonework. Smart enough, with a lieutenant in charge, no doubt wondering what this first encounter would be like.
Avery said quietly, ‘That’s Pennington, second lieutenant, sir.’
Allday conceded, ‘Not too bad.’
The lieutenant stepped ashore and doffed his hat.
‘I am ready to take you directly to your flagship, Sir Richard.’ The eyes, Bolitho noticed, were careful not to meet his own.
‘It is
a long pull to St Helens, Mr Pennington.’ He saw the surprise at the use of his name. ‘I think they might rest easy for ten minutes.’
The lieutenant stared at the oarsmen, their raised blades dripping like wet bones.
‘That will not be necessary, Sir Richard.’
Bolitho said gently, ‘Have you so short a memory, sir, that you cannot remember what it was like when you first pulled an oar?’
Pennington dropped his eyes. ‘I see, Sir Richard. Very well.’ He turned away, and nodded to the boat’s coxswain. ‘Rest easy, O’Connor!’
Allday saw the ripple of surprise run through the boat. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, he thought.
Eventually, they were cast off and pulling strongly into the Solent. There were ships of every size and rate, and Bolitho saw sunlight flash on several telescopes as they watched him pass. It would soon be all around Spithead, he thought; the navy was a family, whether you liked it or not.
‘What is the state of the ship, Mr Pennington?’ Again, he was aware of an immediate caution, as if the lieutenant suspected a trap.
‘All provisioned and watered, Sir Richard.’
‘Short-handed?’
‘Thirty trained men short, Sir Richard. Full complement of marines.’
Thirty short, out of a full company of six hundred souls, was not crippling, but the last captain should have used his time in the dockyard to recruit or poach men from other sources.
He peered over at a small brig which was scudding abeam, and preparing to set her courses. A fine-looking little ship, he thought, and he wondered if Tyacke had seen her, and was remembering his own command, Larne, which he had given up for Indomitable. For me.
Allday leaned forward as they passed another anchored man-of-war, and Bolitho saw the quick glance from the stroke oarsman, seeing it for himself: the admiral’s coxswain who sat close to his master like a companion.
Allday said, ‘There she is, Sir Richard. I’d know them Frenchie lines anywhere.’
Bolitho shaded his eyes again, aware of the blurring of his vision. The reminder. The taunt.
What Allday had said was true. The longer line of the upper hull, the planking extended beneath the beakhead to offer added strength and protection, were distinctively French. British shipbuilders had continued to end their upper gundeck with a flat bulkhead, which rendered the forepart of the ship weaker than the sides. Tyacke would have made full note of that; his own terrible injury at the Nile was the result of French fire devastating the gundeck where he was serving at the time.
Slightly broader in the beam than her English counterparts, Frobisher would provide a better platform for her artillery in poor sailing conditions.
He shook himself mentally. The war was over. It was to be Malta, not Halifax this time. He thought suddenly of Adam, and of Valentine Keen. Nothing more must happen to them, with the war in North America so nearly finished. Neither side could win, even as neither side could demonstrate a willingness to submit.
He put his hand to his eyes again as the barge swept beneath the ship’s long and tapering jib boom, and did not see Avery’s immediate concern. And here was the figurehead, shining in fresh paint and gilt: Sir Martin Frobisher, explorer, navigator, and one of Drake’s fighting captains. He had been portrayed with jutting beard, staring blue eyes, and a black Elizabethan breastplate.
He wondered what had become of the original figurehead, so obviously unsuitable when the ship had changed names. It was not unknown for a prize to retain its old name, but the navy already had a Glorious on the list, and confusion might have occurred in the endless ebb and flow of signals and fleet orders.
The lieutenant called, ‘Bows!’
And there it was. The curved tumblehome, the new black and buff paint, the entry-port and the waiting rank of scarlet.
His flagship. It was a proud moment.
He touched the locket beneath his shirt, and prepared to stand as the barge surged alongside.
I am here, Kate.
He turned, momentarily off guard, convinced that he had heard her voice; he could not have been mistaken.
Don’t leave me.
The Royal Marine sentry outside the screen door of the great cabin was as stiff and motionless as a man could be with the ship swaying gently at her anchor. After the bright sunlight, the shouted commands, the fifes and drums, the din of a flagship’s welcome to her new lord and master, it seemed peaceful here, protected.
The ceremony had been brief, with his flag breaking at the mainmast truck, timed to the exact beat of a drum, and standing out in the Solent breeze like painted metal.
There had followed a quick presentation to the assembled ranks of lieutenants and senior warrant officers: a nod here, a nervous smile there, each man glancing surreptitiously at him before he, in turn, came under scrutiny.
Like the marine sentry, given time, he would get to know them, some better than others. It was always the hardest part to accept: the division, the barrier which rank had thrust upon him. He was not the captain. He could never again be as close as a captain to the people he commanded.
He nodded to the sentry, and although the man’s eyes did not flicker beneath his glazed leather hat, the contact had been made.
The stern cabin was broad, spacious, and strangely welcoming. Even the strong smells of paint and fresh tar which pervaded the whole ship could not interfere with the familiarity of these things. The wine cooler with the Bolitho crest carved upon it, which Catherine had had made to replace the one lost with Hyperion, the high-backed chair in which he sometimes slept, his desk, his books, some old, some she had given him because of the clarity of their print. He saw Ozzard hovering by what was apparently his pantry door, and he had already seen his secretary, Yovell, observing from his own vantage point during the ceremony, when the admiral’s flag had been broken out. They had worked very hard to prepare this place for him, and he had been moved by it.
Tyacke followed him into the cabin. ‘All fair, Sir Richard?’
He nodded. ‘You have done well, James, in so short a time.’
Tyacke glanced around. ‘There’s more room here than there would have been. Four eighteen-pounders were removed.’
Bolitho watched him carefully, but saw no sign of strain or discouragement. A new command, an unknown company, a way of doing things which might offend or irritate him, but Tyacke’s face gave nothing away.
‘Take a glass, James.’ He guessed that Avery, like Allday, had purposely stayed away for this first meeting since they had shaken hands at Plymouth, where Indomitable had been paid off.
‘I’d relish that, sir.’ He made to take out his watch, and then hesitated. ‘But only one glass. I’ve still a few ends to splice before I’m ready.’
Bolitho watched Ozzard pouring the wine, apparently indifferent to the sounds of a ship at anchor, muffled voices, the clatter of blocks and tackles as more provisions or equipment were hoisted aboard. The Caribbean, Mauritius, Halifax, and now Malta. His thoughts were unknown, the barrier here the greatest of all.
Tyacke sat, but Bolitho knew his ear was pitched to that other world.
He said, ‘I’ve been through the books and the signals. They seem to be in order.’
Bolitho waited, knowing what was coming next.
‘The punishment book lists nothing unusual.’ He looked at Bolitho. ‘Not like some we’ve seen together, sir.’ He was referring to the frigate Reaper, but, almost superstitiously, avoided mentioning her name. ‘Discipline is fair enough, but they need more gun and sail drills before I’m handing out any bouquets!’
‘And what of your officers?’
Tyacke raised his glass, and paused as a boatswain’s call twittered in the distance.
Then he said, ‘The senior lieutenant, Kellett, seems very competent.’ He looked at him directly, no longer averting the burned face, as he had in the past. ‘I may be speaking out of turn, sir, but I think the first lieutenant has been carrying this ship, not just during the overhaul, but
before that. I can feel it. Sense it.’
Bolitho sipped the wine. Perhaps it had come from the shop in St James’s Street, where he had gone with her.
He would force the issue no further. It would be an intrusion, and Tyacke would tell him when he had made up his mind. When he was certain.
Tyacke said, ‘The midshipmen now, they’re another story. Most of them are newly joined and come from naval families. Some are young, too young for my taste.’
Any ship on an important commission, or Admiralty or government business, would have encouraged parents, who saw it as an opportunity only too rare in peacetime, and with the fleet being cut down. William Bligh of the ill-fated Bounty had had no difficulty in acquiring very young midshipmen for his command.
Tyacke said suddenly, ‘But given time and a good run through Biscay, we might see the makings of something.’ For a moment his blue eyes were very clear and distant, like Herrick, Bolitho thought, or perhaps more like the man Tyacke had once been. ‘But I still find myself looking around expecting to see old faces, the ones who can make or break any ship.’
Who did he mean? Indomitable, Larne, or further back still, perhaps even before the Nile?
Bolitho said, ‘I do it myself. All the time.’
He did not see the sudden, searching expression in Tyacke’s eyes.
He said, ‘You are satisfied, James? Being here, when perhaps you could have found a different sea to challenge?’
Tyacke seemed surprised, or relieved, that he had not asked something else. He touched his face, although Bolitho sensed that he did not even notice it.
‘There is no escape, sir. There never was.’ Then, firmly, ‘It suits me well, sir.’
He put down the glass and got to his feet, his eyes resting briefly on the gleaming presentation sword, which Allday had already placed on its rack; part of the show, he once called it. Unlike the old family blade at his hip. The legend. The charisma, as his flag lieutenant Oliver Browne had described it. Another lost face. He smiled reminiscently. Browne with an ‘e’.
Tyacke hesitated. ‘I was wondering, sir ….’
Bolitho said, ‘Ask me, James. You may always do that.’
Sword of Honour Page 8