Allday passed him without a word to close the cabin skylight, so that the sound of the punishment would be muffled.
It was a strange fact about Allday, Yovell thought. He loathed officers who abused their authority, but showed no sympathy for any man who raised his hand against it.
Bolitho said, ‘I shall dictate orders for the squadron. Some will already know, but if the two frigates intend to reinforce the Barbary corsairs against allied commerce, it is essential that each captain recognises them as the enemy.’
He looked at her letters. She must have written every day. So that he could live her life with her, and share it, week by week, season by season. He clenched his fingers again as the drums beat out their staccato roll. Then the lash, a loud crack across the naked flesh, followed by the shout from M’Clune, the master-at-arms. ‘One!’
Then the drums again, and the sharp crack of the cat. One of the ship’s hard men, Tyacke had said, who had threatened a petty officer.
‘Two!’
Yovell looked at his interlaced fingers below the table. It only took one rotten apple, Allday had often proclaimed.
‘Three!’
Yovell glanced up again, and then stared as Bolitho got abruptly to his feet, a canvas envelope still gripped in one hand.
He said, with great anxiety, ‘What is it, Sir Richard?’ conscious only of the expression on Bolitho’s tanned face. Surprise, disbelief, but above all, a release which he had rarely seen before.
Bolitho seemed to hear him for the first time.
He answered quietly, and yet even the urgent drums could not quench it, ‘From the Admiralty.’ He turned, and looked for Allday. ‘We are to pay off, old friend. We’re going home.’
Allday let out his breath, very slowly.
‘Well, that’s it an’ all about it!’
The waiting was over.
17
‘Until Hell Freezes’
YET ANOTHER FORENOON watch was ending, working parties preparing to gather up their tools and equipment, eyes alert for any over-zealous petty officer. The sailmaker and his crew had squatted cross-legged in any shade they could find, needles and palms moving busily like backstreet tailors. The carpenter and his men had continued their endless search for material in need of repair. At times like this, the upper deck was aptly known as the market-place.
Aft, below the poop, some of Frobisher’s midshipmen waited with their sextants to shoot the noon sun, some frowning with concentration, and very aware of their captain’s tall figure by the quarterdeck rail.
In his mind, Tyacke was seeing the ship’s slow progress, east by south, and some one hundred miles to the east of the Sardinian island. It was a sailor’s vision, and that of a navigator, but to any layman the sea would appear an empty, glittering desert, as it had been for days. For weeks. They had met only one of their frigates, and had been in contact with another courier vessel; otherwise, they had seen nothing. He saw the first lieutenant making his way aft, pausing to speak with one of the bosun’s mates. Like the other officers, Kellett was showing signs of strain. Frobisher had been shorthanded even before her fight with the chebecks, shorthanded long before she had commissioned at Portsmouth, and that, he thought, was due largely to her last captain’s indifference.
The thought of Portsmouth brought another stab of anger. More men had been excused from duties because of sickness: poisoned meat, the surgeon had insisted.
Tyacke had an innate distrust of all victualling yards, and an immense dislike and suspicion of the common run of ships’ pursers. Between them, yard and purser could dispense food already rotten in the casks without any captain’s knowledge, until it was too late. A lot of money changed hands this way, and Tyacke had often heard it said that half of any naval port was owned by dishonest pursers and suppliers.
The casks in question had been put aboard at Portsmouth a year ago. How old they really were would remain a mystery; the date markings burned into every such barrel had been carefully defaced, and men were laid off as a result. Tyacke tightened his jaw. It would not end there.
He glanced at the poop, and imagined the admiral going through his despatches yet again. Was all this a waste of time? Who could say? But, as the captain, Tyacke had to consider the demands of his company, the growing shortages of fresh fruit and even of drinking water. An armed marine sentry by the water cask on deck was evidence of that.
He was staring at one of the midshipmen without realising it, and saw the sextant quiver in his hands. This, perhaps, was not what he had expected when he had donned the King’s coat.
He turned away and gave his attention to the topsails, filled but only just; the weather was part of the general malaise. It was the usual north-westerly wind, but without life, sultry, more like the sirocco of this region at a later time of the year.
He considered the orders Bolitho had given him to study. When Frobisher eventually ended her mission and returned to Malta, Bolitho’s successor would be there to relieve him; he had very probably already arrived. Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune. Tyacke had sensed Bolitho’s surprise at the choice; he knew the officer, and they had served together. The navy was a family ….
The thought uppermost in his mind returned; it had come, increasingly, to haunt him. Frobisher would be returning to England; Sir Richard would be allowed to lower his flag, to pass the burden to someone else. For a change.
He had heard Kellett and the others discussing it, when they thought he was out of earshot.
Going home. He had to come to terms with it; it was a concept totally unknown to him in all his years of service. Going home. He knew what it meant to Bolitho, even to Allday. But to him, England had become something alien, a place only of more scrutiny, more revulsion, more pain. Until that last letter from the woman he had once intended to marry. Interesting, warm, mature, truthful…. He had tried to dismiss it, to laugh at himself, to accept that there was nothing for him.
In his heart, he knew that Bolitho had guessed some of it, but had said little. That was their strength.
It had all come to a head when Kellett had blurted it out, a day after they had parted with the schooner. The whole wardroom had been alive with speculation and concern for the future. What would happen to Frobisher? To them?
Tyacke had already asked himself that. Would she end up an empty hulk, in ordinary in some crowded dockyard, or allowed to sink still further to the status of a storeship or a floating prison? It had happened to other ships; Bolitho’s Hyperion and even Nelson’s Victory had been dragged from ignominy to serve again when the country was in danger of invasion and defeat. To find glory when others had been prepared to let them rot.
Kellett had asked him in his usual quiet fashion, ‘When we return to the fleet, sir, may I ask, what shall you do?’
It had been then, without any hint or warning, that Tyacke had found his way, his purpose.
‘I shall remain with the ship.’
Running away was not the answer. It never had been. He belonged.
And Marion would be there to help him. For all kinds of reasons, reasons he would have previously denied, or laughed at, they needed each other.
He thought of Bolitho and his Catherine. Love was the strongest bond.
He heard a step on the deck beside him, but it was not the first lieutenant; it was Avery, squinting at the sea and tugging at his shirt while he stared around from horizon to horizon.
Tyacke said, ‘I have to see Sir Richard.’ He hesitated over his choice of words. ‘It is my duty to advise him.’
‘I know.’ Avery watched the vivid blue eyes, Tyacke coming to a decision. He said, ‘Sir Richard knows this cannot continue much longer. As soon as we return to Malta, it will be out of his hands. But you know him well enough – he cannot let it rest. It seems there is some flaw in it, in the pattern, which refuses to fit.’
‘I know. He spoke of the Spaniard, Captain Martinez, the one you met in Algiers.’
Avery nodded, and felt more sweat run down h
is spine. He often thought of that fine house in London, and of the lovely Susanna; even those, he would exchange at this moment for a bath in pure, clean water.
‘There was a brief mention of him in the last despatches from Admiralty. Someone took the time and trouble to look into Sir Richard’s report, a lowly clerk most likely!’
Tyacke watched some seamen loitering by an open hatch; they could smell the rum being issued. With little fresh water, and all the beer long gone, rum might be all the spark that was needed.
‘A renegade, and an agent for the French when they were preparing to drag Spain into the war. Not that they needed much encouragement!’ He heard Kellett clear his throat, and added impatiently, ‘Is that all the information we have?’
Avery said, ‘It troubles Sir Richard.’
Tyacke turned to Kellett. ‘This afternoon, Mr Kellett – is that what you were about to ask?’
Kellett gave one of his rare smiles. ‘Aye, sir.’
‘Lower gundeck. Both batteries. See if you can knock a minute or two off their time.’
He turned back to Avery, his voice very calm. ‘If Sir Richard requires it, I shall wait until hell freezes.’ He paused. ‘But it may take more than extra gun drills to keep the people mindful of their duties, if we delay much longer, eh?’
The cabin skylight was open, and Bolitho heard Avery laugh. Tyacke was a patient man, and he knew his trade better than any he had met.
He returned to the chart, and pictured Frobisher sailing sedately above her own reflection in this Tyrrhenian Sea. So wrong for a ship of her size and quality; this was a place more used to beak-prowed galleys with banked oars, and bearded warriors in plumed helmets. A place of the gods, of the myths of Greece and Rome.
He smiled at the notion, and opened his notes once again; he held his hand over his blind eye, out of habit, and was surprised that he could accept it. Catherine’s letter had given him the strength; their lordships of Admiralty had done the rest.
It was strange about Bethune; he had seemed so suited to the ways and powers of London. Perhaps he had offended someone, which was easy enough at the Admiralty. Even Lord Rhodes’ name seemed to have been dropped from despatches and orders. Was Sillitoe’s hand in that, too?
He dragged his mind back to that meeting with Mehmet Pasha and his Spanish adviser, Martinez. They had known all about the two frigates moored there; nothing could move without the governor’s permission, and his complicity. Martinez had been a successful and daring agent for the French revolutionary government. For Napoleon.
Tyacke needed to provide for his ship, and Bethune was probably waiting in Malta to assume command of the Mediterranean squadron.
I must go home. He did not realise he had spoken aloud to the empty cabin and its dancing, dazzling reflections.
There was no proof that Martinez was any more than he proclaimed. His roles had become less important and possibly more dangerous over the years, and in his own country he would never be trusted again. He thought of his brother, Hugh. A traitor was always remembered for his treachery.
If only he had more ships, especially frigates. This venture was a needle in a haystack; or was it merely vanity, a belief that no one else could see the hidden dangers?
He could smell the rum, and imagined the seamen and marines throughout the flagship, isolated now, and idle, no longer participating in the great events of other times and places.
As he leaned over the table he felt the locket, filmed with sweat, adhering to his skin. It would be spring when they reached England again. So much time lost, so much to rediscover.
He heard Tyacke’s shoes outside the door, and, quite suddenly, made up his mind.
Tyacke entered and removed his hat; with his face in shadow, it was barely possible to see the full extent of the terrible scars.
‘Join me in a glass, James.’ Ozzard had appeared, as if by magic. ‘I think I have pursued my instincts too far this time.’ They both watched the wine filling the glasses for a moment, then he said, ‘We may run down upon Huntress before sunset. I would wish to speak with her captain.’
Tyacke nodded. ‘It is possible, Sir Richard.’
Bolitho raised his glass. ‘Either way, we shall return to Malta.’ He smiled. ‘In all truth, James, I wish you the happiness you deserve in your new life!’
Their glasses clinked, and the watchful Ozzard saw some wine splash across the admiral’s white breeches. Like blood, he thought. But the admiral had not seen it.
Tyacke was on his feet again. ‘I shall pass the word, Sir Richard. It may lessen the toils of gun drill!’
Ozzard went into his pantry and found Allday there, carving yet another model ship.
Ozzard could usually conceal his feelings, but on this occasion he was glad that his friend was so engrossed.
Now, even Captain Tyacke had somebody waiting for him.
He thought of the street in Wapping, and heard her dying screams. There was nothing left.
Lieutenant Harry Penrose gripped the companion ladder, and leaned back to stare at the sky while his schooner, Tireless, scythed through a ridge of broken water. It never failed to excite him, like riding something alive, which, of course, she was.
The rectangle of sky was duller than usual, with large patches of cloud moving like an untidy flock of sheep. Against it he could see the towering fin of the schooner’s mainsail; that, too, seemed darker. Perhaps it would rain. They were not short of water, but just to hear rain running through the scuppers and wetting the sun-dried planking would make a welcome change.
He continued on his way, and heard the squeak of a fiddle from one of the tiny messdecks. She was a small ship, and a happy ship, a command for the young. Penrose was twenty-two years old and knew he was lucky to have Tireless, and would be sad to leave her when the time came; just as he knew he would not shirk his duty when it called him elsewhere. It was his life, all he had ever wanted, and had dreamed about as a child. His father and grandfather had been sea officers before him. He smiled. Like Bolitho. He had thought many times since of that unexpected meeting, when he had delivered despatches to the flagship. What had he anticipated? That the hero, the navy’s own legend, might prove to be only another imposing figure in gold lace?
He had written to his mother about it, embroidering the story a little, but the truth was still fixed firmly in his mind. The next time we meet, I shall expect to see epaulettes on your shoulders. The sort of man you could talk to. The kind of leader you would follow to the cannon’s mouth.
He felt the wind on his face, damp, clinging, but still enough to fill the schooner’s sails.
Tireless’s only other officer, Lieutenant Jack Tyler, waved vaguely toward the bows.
‘Masthead just reported a sail to the sou’east, sir.’
Penrose glanced at the sea creaming back from the raked stem.
‘I heard the hail. Who is the lookout?’
‘Thomas.’
‘Good enough for me, Jack.’
They worked watch and watch, with a master’s mate standing in when it was convenient. You got to know the ability and strength of every man aboard, and any weakness too.
Tyler said, ‘He thinks it’s a frigate, but the light’s so bad, we may have to wait until tomorrow.’
Penrose rubbed his chin. ‘First light? Another day lost. She must be Huntress, our last rendezvous.’ He thought of the solitary bag in his cabin and added wryly, ‘Important, no doubt. Officers’ tailoring bills, tearful letters for the mothers’ boys, all vital stuff!’
They laughed, more like brothers than captain and first lieutenant.
They both looked up as the masthead pendant cracked out like a coachman’s whip, and Penrose said, ‘I think we might do it before dark, Jack. When she sights us she’s bound to claw up as quickly as she can. They must be sick of being the last of the patrols, a guardship of nothing!’
He made up his mind. ‘All hands, Jack! Let’s get the tops’ls on her!’ He could not contain his excitement.
‘Let’s show those old men how she can shift herself!’
Only one pipe was necessary; the fiddle fell silent, and the schooner’s narrow deck was soon filled with bustling figures. Tireless did not have a wheel like most vessels, but still mounted a long tiller-bar fixed directly to the rudder head. The helmsmen gripped it between them, glancing at the mainsail and masthead pendant, with only an occasional scrutiny of the compass. For a moment longer all was confusion, or so it might appear to the ignorant landsman, and then, heeling to the thrust of canvas and rudder, Tireless settled on her new course, spray bursting over her jib and spurting through the sealed gunports, where her sole armament of four four-pounders tugged at their breechings.
‘Sou’east, steady she goes, sir!’ Even the senior helmsman was grinning, his sunburned face wet with spray, as if it had indeed started to pour.
The lookout called again, ‘Frigate, sir! Larboard bow! Huntress right ’nough!’
Penrose nodded. Thomas would know; he had eyes like a heron. And they had met with Huntress more than a few times on her endless patrols. Penrose thought of her captain. Older than most frigate men, with experience in other ships, and probably in merchantmen too, he was friendly enough, but one who stood no nonsense. Penrose had noticed that he never received anything but official letters with the despatches.
He lifted a telescope and waited for the image to settle in the lens, and at the same time accustomed his legs to the schooner’s lively plunges. The habit and the motion had become part of himself.
Even in the dull light he could see the familiar outline, the shining black and buff hull, the chequered line of closed gunports. A fifth-rate, not new, but a fine command. He smiled to himself. For a younger man, of course.
He saw her ensign curling from the peak, so clean and white against the dull backdrop. Ant-like figures in her tops, some watching, hoping for a letter to bring back the precious memories, a face, a touch.
Tyler said, ‘The bugger’s not changing tack! Making us do all the work!’
Penrose grinned. The light was holding. They would pass the bag across and be away before dark, back to Malta. And after that? Not that it truly mattered ….
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