Alexander Kent - Bolitho 17

by Honour This Day [lit]

  The wound troubled him, and he often found it hard to straighten his shoulders without the pain lancing through him as a cruel reminder.

  Bolitho had sometimes suggested that he should remain ashore, if only for a time. He no longer offered him a chance of complete freedom from the navy he had served so well; he knew it would injure Allday like a worse wound.

  The barge pointed her stern towards the nearest jetty and Allday saw Bolitho’s fingers fasten around the scabbard of the old sword between his knees. So many battles. So often they had marvelled that they had been spared once again when so many others had fallen.

  He watched critically as the bowman withdrew his oar and rose with a boathook held ready to snatch for the jettychains. They looked smart enough, Allday conceded, in their tarred hats and fresh checkered shirts. But it needed more than paint to make a ship sail.

  Allday himself was an imposing figure, although he was rarely aware of it unless he caught the eye of some girl or other, which was more often than he might admit. In his fine blue coat with the special gilt buttons Bolitho had presented to him, and his breeches, he looked every inch the Heart of Oak so popular in theatre and pleasure-gardert performances.

  The guardboat moved aside, the officer in charge rising to doff his hat while his oarsmen tossed their looms in salute.

  With a start Allday realised that Bolitho had turned to look up at him, his hand momentarily above one eye as if to shield it from the glare. He said nothing, but there was a message in the glance, as if he had shouted it aloud. Like a plea; a recognition which excluded all others for those few seconds.

  Allday was a simple man, but he remembered the look long after Bolitho had left the barge. It both worried and moved him.

  As if he had shared something precious.

  He saw some of the bargernen staring at him and roared, ”I’ve seen smarter jacks thrown out of a brothel, but by God you’ll do better next time, an’ that’s no error!”

  Jenour stepped ashore and smiled as the solitary midshipman blushed with embarrassment at the coxswain’s sudden outburst.

  The flag lieutenant had been with Bolitho just over a month, but already he was beginning to recognize the strange charisma of the man he served, his hero since he had been like that tongue-tied midshipman. Bolitho’s voice scattered his thoughts.

  ”Come along, Mr Jenour. The barge can wait; the affairs of war will not.”

  Jenour hid a grin. ”Aye, Sir Richard.”

  He thought of his parents in Hampshire, how they had shaken their heads when he had told them he intended to be Bolitho’s aide one day.

  Bolitho had seen the grin and felt the return of his sense of loss.

  He knew how the young lieutenant felt, how he had once been himself. In the navy’s private world you found and hung on to friends with all your might. When they fell you lost something with them. Survival did not spare you the pain of their passing; it never could.

  He stopped abruptly on the jetty stairs and thought of Hyperion’s first lieutenant. Those gipsy good looks - of course. It had been Keveme he had recalled to mind. They were so alike.

  Charles Keveme, once his first lieutenant in Euryalus, who had been killed at Copenhagen as captain of his own ship.

  ”Are you all right, Sir Richard?”

  ”Damn you, yes!” Bolitho swung round instantly and touched Jenour’s cuff. ”Forgive me. Rank offers many privileges. Being foul-mannered is not one of them.”

  He walked up the stairs while Jenour stared after him.

  Yovell sighed as he sweated up the steep stone steps. The poor lieutenant had a lot to learn. It was to be hoped he had the time.

  The long room seemed remarkably cool after the heat beyond the shaded windows.

  Bolitho sat in a straight-backed chair and sipped a glass of hock, and marvelled that anything could stay so cold. Lieutenant Jenour and Yovell sat at a separate table, which was littered with files and folios of signals and reports. It was strange to consider that it had been in a more austere part of this same building that Bolitho had waited and fretted for the news of his first command.

  The hock was good and very clear. He realised that his glass was already being refilled by a Negro servant and knew he had to be careful. Bolitho enjoyed a glass of wine but had found it easy to avoid the common pitfall in the navy of over-imbibing. That could so often lead to disgrace at the court martial table.

  It was too easy to see himself in those first black days at Falmouth, where he had returned there expecting - expecting what? How could he plead dismay and bitterness when truthfully his heart had remained in the church with Chaney?

  How still the house had been as he had moved restlessly through the deepening shadows, the candles he held aloft in one hand playing on those stern-faced portraits he had known since he was Elizabeth’s age.

  He had awakened with his forehead resting on a table amidst puddles of spilled wine, his mouth like a birdcage, his mind disgusted. He had stared at the empty bottles, but could not even remember dragging them from the cellar. The household must have known, and when Ferguson had come to him he had seen that he was fully dressed from the previous day and must have been prowling and searching for a way to help. Bolitho had had to force the truth out of Allday, for he could not recall ordering him out of the house, to leave him alone with his misery. He suspected he had said far worse; he had later heard that Allday had also drunk the night away in the tavern where the innkeeper’s daughter had always waited for him, and hoped.

  He glanced up and realised that the other officer was speaking to him.

  Commodore Aubrey Glassport, Commissioner of the Dockyard in Antigua, and until Hyperion’s anchor had dropped, the senior naval officer here, was explaining the whereabouts and dispersal of the local patrols.

  ”With a vast sea area, Sir Richard, we are hard put to chase and detain blockade-runners or other suspect vessels. The French and their Spanish allies, on the other hand...”

  Bolitho pulled a chart towards him. The same old story. Not enough, too many ships-of-the-line ordered elsewhere to reinforce the fleets in the Channel and Mediterranean.

  For over an hour he had examined the various reports, the results which had to be set against the days and weeks of patrolling the countless islands and inlets. Occasionally a more daring captain would risk life and limb to break into an enemy anchorage and either cut out a prize or carry out a swift bombardment. It made good reading. It did little to cripple a superior enemy. His mouth hardened. Superior - in numbers only.

  Glassport took his silence for acceptance and rambled on. He was a round, comfortable man, with sparse hair, and a moonface which told more of good living than fighting the elements or the French.

  He was to have been retired long since, Bolitho had heard, but he had a good rapport with the dockyard so had been kept here. judging by his cellar he obviously carried his good relations to the victualling masters as well.

  Glassport was saying, ”I am fully aware of your past achievements, Sir Richard, and how honoured I am to have you visit my command. I believe that when you were first here, America too was active against us, with many privateers as well as the French fleet. The fact we are no longer at war with America does not necessarily remove the threat of involvement, nor the increasing danger of their supplies and ships to the enemy.” He put down the chart. ”In the next few weeks I want each patrol to be contacted. Do you have a courier-brig here at present?”

  He watched the man’s sudden uncertainty and astonishment. The upending of his quiet, comfortable existence.

  ”I shall need to see each captain personally. Can you arrange it?”

  ”Weller, ahem - yes, Sir Richard.”

  ”Good.” He picked up the glass and studied the sunlight reflected in its stern. If he moved it very slightly to the left - he waited, sensing Yovell’s eyes watching, Jenour’s curiosity.

  He added, ”I was told that His Majesty’s Inspector General is still in the Indies?”

&
nbsp; Glassport muttered wretchedly, ”My flag lieutenant will know exactly.” Bolitho tensed as the glass’s shape blurred over. Like a filmy curtain. It had come more quickly, or was it preying on his mind so much that he was imagining the deterioration?

  He exclaimed, ”A simple enough question, I’d have thought. Is he, or is he not?”

  Bolitho looked down at the hand in his lap and thought it should be shaking. Remorse, anger; it was there. Like the moment on the jetty when he had turned on Jenour.

  He said more calmly, ”He has been out here for several months, I believe?” He looked up, despairing that his eye might mist over once more.

  Glassport replied, ”Viscount Somervell is staying here in Antigua.” He added defensively, ”I trust he is satisfied with his findings.”

  Bolitho said nothing. The Inspector General might have been just one more burden to the top-hamper of war. It seemed absurd that someone with such a high-sounding appointment should be employed on a tour of inspection in the West Indies, when England, standing alone against France and the fleets of Spain, was daily expecting an invasion.

  Bolitho’s instructions from the Admiralty made it dear that he was to meet with the Viscount Somervell without delay, if it meant moving immediately to another island, even to Jamaica.

  But he was here. That was something.

  Bolitho was feeling weary. He had met most of the dockyard officers and officials, had inspected two topsail cutters which were being completed for naval service, and had toured the local batteries, with Jenour and Glassport finding it hard to keep up with his pace.

  He smiled wryly. He was paying for it now.

  Glassport watched him sip the hock before saying, ”There is a small reception for you this evening, Sir Richard.” He seemed to falter as the grey eyes lifted to him again.

  ”It hardly measures up to the occasion, but it was arranged only after your, er, flagship was reported.”

  Bolitho noted the hesitation. Just one more who doubted his choice of ship.

  Glassport must have feared a possible refusal and scampered on, ”Viscount Somervell will be expecting you.”

  ”I see. He glanced at Jenour. ”Inform the Captain.”

  As the lieutenant made to excuse himself from the room Bolitho said, ”Send a message with my cox’n. I need you with me.”

  Jenour stared, then nodded. He was learning a lot today. Bolitho waited for Yovell to bring the next pile of papers to the table. A far cry from command, the day-to-day running of a ship and her affairs. Every ship was like a small town, a family even.

  He wondered how Adam was faring with his new command. All he could find as an answer to his thought was envy. Adam was exactly like he had been. More reckless perhaps, but with the same doubtful attitude to his seniors.

  Glassport watched him as he leafed through the papers while Yovell stooped politely above his right shoulder.

  So this was the man behind the legend. Another Nelson, some said. Though God alone knew Nelson was not very popular in high places. He was the right man to command a fleet. Necessary, but afterwards? He studied Bolitho’s lowered head, the loose lock above his eye. A grave, sensitive face, he thought, hard to picture in the battles he had read about. He knew Bolitho had been badly wounded several times, that he had almost died of a fever, although he did not know much about it.

  A Knight of the Bath, from a fine old seafaring family, looked on as a hero by the people of England. All the things which Glassport would like to be and to have.

  So why had he come to Antigua? There was little or no prospect of a fleet action, and provided they could get reinforcements for the various flotillas, and a replacement for... He wilted as Bolitho touched on that very point, as if he had looked up quickly to see right into his mind with those steady, compelling grey eyes.

  ”The Dons took the frigate Consort from us?” It sounded like an accusation.

  ”Two months back, Sir Richard. She drove aground under fire. One of my schooners was able to take off most of her company before the enemy stood against her. The schooner did well, I thought that...”

  ”The Consort’s captain?”

  ”At St. John’s, Sir Richard. He is awaiting the convenience of a court martial.”

  ”Is he indeed.” Bolitho stood up and turned as Jenour reentered the room. ”We are going to St. John’s.” Jenour swallowed hard. ”If there is a carriage, Sir Richard.”

  He looked at Glassport as if for guidance.

  Bolitho picked up his sword. ”Two horses, my lad.” He tried to hide his sudden excitement. Or was it merely trailing a coat to draw him from his other anxiety?

  ”You are from Hampshire, right?”

  Jenour nodded. ”Yes. that is right, sir.”

  ”It’s settled then. Two horses immediately.”

  Glassport stared from one to the other.

  ”But the reception, Sir Richard?” He sounded horrified.

  ”I shall return. This will give me an appetite.” Bolitho smiled. He thought of Allday’s patience, Ozzard and the others.

  Bolitho peered closely at his reflection in an ornate wall mirror, then thrust the loose lock of hair from his forehead. In the mirror he could see Allday and Ozzard watching him anxiously, and his new flag lieutenant Stephen Jenour massaging his hip after their ride to St. John’s and back to English Harbour.

  It had been hot, dusty but unexpectedly exhilarating, and had almost been worthwhile just to see the expressions of passersby as they had galloped along in the hazy sunshine.

  It was dark now, dusk came early to the islands, and Bolitho had to study himself very carefully while his ear recorded the sound of violins, the muffled murmur of voices from the grand room where the reception was being held.

  Ozzard had brought fresh stockings from the ship, while Allday had collected the fine presentation sword to replace the old blade Bolitho had been wearing.

  Bolitho sighed. Most of the candles were protected by tall hurricane glasses so the light was not too strong. It might hide his crumpled shirt, and the stain left by the saddle on his breeches.

  There had been no time to return to Hyperion. Damn GLassport and his reception. Bolitho would much rather have stayed in his Italy I cabin and sifted through all which the frigate captain had told him.

  Captain Matthew Price was young to hold command of so fine a vessel. The Consort of thirty-six guns had been working through some shoals when she had been fired on by a coastal battery. She had been that close inshore when she had unfortunately run aground. It was much as Glassport had described. A schooner had taken off many of Consort’s people, but had well forced to run, her task incomplete, as Spanish men-of-war had arrived on the scene.

  Captain Price was so junior that he had not even been posted, and if a court martial ruled against him, which was more than likely, he would lose everything. At best he might return to the rank of lieutenant. The worst did not bear thinking about.

  As Price sat in a small government-owned house to await the calling of the court martial he had plenty to ponder about. Not least that it might have been better had he been taken prisoner, or killed in battle. For his ship had been refloated and was now a part of His Most Catholic Majesty’s fleet at La Guaira on the Spanish Main. Frigates were worth their tonnage in gold, and the navy was always in desperate need of them. When Bolitho had been in the Mediterranean there were only six frigates available between Gibraltar and the Levant. The president of Price’s court martial would not be able to exclude that fact from his considerations.

  Once, in desperation, the young captain had asked Bolitho what he thought of the possible outcome.

  Bolitho had told him to expect his sword to point towards him at the table. To hazard his ship was one thing. To lose it to a hated enemy was another entirely.

  There had been no sense in promising Price he could do something to divert the court’s findings. Price had taken a great risk to discover the Spanish intentions. Laid beside what Bolitho already knew, his information
could be invaluable. But it would not help the Consort’s captain now.

  Bolitho said, ”I suppose it is time.” He looked at a tall clock and added, ”Are our officers present yet?” Jenour nodded, then winced as the ache throbbed through his thighs and buttocks. Bolitho was a superb horseman, but then so was he, or so he had believed. Bolitho’s little joke about people from Hampshire being excellent riders had acted as a spur, but at no time had Jenour been able to keep pace with him.

  He said, ”The first lieutenant arrived with the others while you were changing, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho looked down at the immaculate stockings and remembered when he had been a lowly lieutenant with only one fine pair for such occasions as this. The rest had been darned so many times it had been a wonder they had held together.

  It gave him time to think about Captain Haven’s request to remain aboard ship. He had explained that a storm might spring up without warning and prevent his return from the shore in time to take the necessary precautions. The air was heavy and humid, and the sunset had been like blood.

  Hyperion’s sailing master, Isaac Penhaligon, a fellow Cornishman by birth at least, had insisted that a storm was very unlikely.

  It was as if Haven preferred to keep to himself, even though someone at the reception might take his absence as a snub.

  If only Keen was still his flag captain. He had but to ask, and Keen would have come with him. Loyalty, friendship, love, it was something of each.

  But Bolitho had pressed Keen to remain in England, at least until he had settled the problems of his lovely Zenoria. More than anything else Keen wanted to marry his dark-eyed girl with the flowing chestnut hair. They loved and were so obviously in love that Bolitho could not bring himself to separate them so soon after they had found each other.

  Or was he comparing their love with his own house?

  He stopped his thoughts right there. It was not the time.

  Maybe it never could be now.

  Perhaps Haven did not like him? He might even be afraid of him. That was something Bolitho had often found hard to believe in his own days as a captain. When he had first stepped aboard a new command he had tried to hide his nervousness and apprehension. It had been much later when he had understood that a ship’s company was far more likely to be worried about him and what he might do.