Always the pain.
Thomas Herrick stood by the stern windows and stared across the water towards the lights of the port.
Ozzard waited with a tray, his eyes opaque as he watched the visitor, preparing for the worst or the best, as fortune dictated.
“A drink, Thomas? We are presently well stocked, so you can have what you will.” Bolitho saw the indecision.
Herrick sat down carefully, his body still held at a stiff angle.
“I would relish some ginger beer. I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like.”
Bolitho waited for Ozzard to bustle away and then tossed his heavy coat on to the stern bench seat.
“How long have you known, Thomas?”
Herrick’s eyes moved slowly around the great cabin, remembering other visits perhaps, or the days when his own flag flew above his Benbow.
“Two days—a fast packet from England. I could scarcely believe it, and even when your ship was reported offshore I thought some fool might have made a mistake.” He lowered his head and rested it on his hand. “When I think of all we went through . . .” His voice almost broke. “I still believe it all part of a nightmare.”
Bolitho walked to his chair and rested one hand on his shoulder, as much to steady Herrick as to conceal his own sudden emotion from the returned Ozzard.
Herrick made another effort, and held the fine goblet critically to the lanterns. “Ginger beer.” He watched the clear bubbles. “No wonder they call these the Islands of Death. They try to pretend this is a part of England, and if they don’t drink themselves into early graves, then they fall to a list of fevers that are more than a match for most of our surgeons.” He drank deeply and did not protest when Ozzard refilled the goblet.
Bolitho sat down and took a glass of the hock Catherine had had sent aboard. Ozzard had a knack of keeping such wines cool in the spacious bilges, but it was still something of a miracle how he managed—the hock tasted as if it had been lying in some icy Highland stream.
“And Lord Sutcliffe?” He spoke with care, and could feel Herrick’s uncertainty and discomfort like a part of himself.
Herrick gave a shrug. “Fever. He has been moved up to St John’s—the air is better, they say, but I fear for his life. He placed me in command here until the new squadron was formed . . . then I was to be at the disposal of its flag officer.” The blue eyes lifted and fixed on Bolitho, regarding him steadily for the first time since he had stepped aboard. “ You, in fact, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho said, “Richard. I’d prefer it.”
It was hard to come to grips with this new, remote Herrick, difficult to see him in either of his past guises: the earnest lieutenant, or the defiant rear-admiral who had been within a hair’s breadth of death at his own court martial. There was something of each still remaining, but nothing of both as a single person.
Herrick gazed through the cabin’s dimness again as from somewhere in the ship they heard the far-off calls and the thud of bare feet as watchkeepers rushed to right a wrong above or below deck.
Herrick said, “I never thought I would miss all this after what happened. I’ve had a bellyful of transports—vessels under warrant with masters I personally would not trust to scrub out the heads!”
“And you have had all this to carry on your shoulders, as well as your other work here?”
Herrick did not seem to have heard. “Your eye, Richard. Is it still as bad?”
“You’ve told nobody, Thomas?”
Herrick shook his head, the gesture so familiar that it turned a knife in Bolitho’s heart.
“It was ’twixt friends—I’ve said nothing. Nor would I.” He hesitated, turning over another thought which had troubled him since Black Prince’s arrival. “The Golden Plover. ” He faltered. “I saw Keen and Jenour just now. Was—your—lady saved? Forgive me—I must ask.”
“Yes.” One wrong word or mistimed memory might break this contact forever. “In truth, Thomas, I think that but for her we would all have been lost.” He forced a smile. “After Golden Plover I take your point about transports under warrant!”
Herrick was on his feet, moving beneath the lanterns to throw his shadow across the tethered guns and leather-covered furniture like some restless dancer.
“I’ve done what I can. Without authority I have commandeered twenty schooners and cutters from here and from St Kitts. Without further authority I have swept the dockyard and barracks of lieutenants and ancient mariners, and packed them off on patrols which we cannot otherwise sustain.”
It was like watching someone coming back to life. Bolitho said quietly, “You have my authority, Thomas.”
Herrick, reassured, reeled off all the things he had introduced to give early warning of enemy men-of-war, blockade runners or any suspicious vessel, be it slaver or genuine neutral trader.
“I’ve told them to stand no nonsense. If any master defies our flag he will not move freely in these waters again!” He smiled, and again his whole being changed. “You will remember, Richard, I was in a merchantman myself between wars. I know a few of their tricks!”
“Is our frigate in harbour?”
“I sent her to Port Royal with some additional soldiers on board—another slave revolt. It was best to act with all haste.”
“So we have the squadron, seven sail of the line. And your flotilla of smaller ‘eyes.’”
Herrick frowned. “Six, for the present anyway. The 74 Matchless is in dock. She was caught in a storm two weeks back and lost her foremast. It’s a marvel she didn’t drive ashore.”
He sounded suddenly angry, and Bolitho asked. “Captain Mackbeath, is it not?”
“No, he was replaced after Copenhagen.” His eyes clouded over. Remembering Benbow again, all those who had died that day. “She has a new captain now, more’s the pity—the Lord Rathcullen, who seems unable to take advice about anything. But you know what they say about Irishmen, peers or otherwise.”
Bolitho smiled. “About we Cornishmen too, on occasions!”
Herrick’s eyes crinkled, and he gave a brief laugh. “Aye, damme, I asked for that!”
“Will you sup with me tonight, Thomas?” He saw Herrick’s immediate caution. “I mean with me alone. I would take it as a favour . . . the land can bide awhile. We are sailors again.”
Herrick shifted in his chair. “I had it all prepared . . .” He seemed, again, embarrassed and ill at ease.
“It is done. I cannot say what it means to me. We have each had our own reefs to cross, but others will look to us, and care little enough for our troubles.”
Herrick said after a silence, and rather uncertainly, “I shall tell you my ideas if I may. When I return to my residence . . .” He smiled at some recollection. “The yard-master’s house in fact— frugal and without pretence—I shall work on the plan I was going to present to our new flag officer.”
Bolitho asked quietly, “Do you ever sleep, Thomas?” “Enough.”
“Did you receive any other news from the packet?”
Herrick took several seconds to drag himself back to the present.
“We are promised another frigate. She’s the Ipswich, 38. Captain Pym.”
“I don’t know the ship, I’m afraid.”
Herrick’s eyes were distant once more. “No. She’s from my part of the world, the Nore.” He changed tack suddenly. “You heard about Gossage, I suppose.” His mouth tightened. “ RearAdmiral Gossage, indeed. I wonder how many pieces of silver that rated?”
He was driving himself hard in his unexpected and temporary command, giving himself no time to brood on what had gone before, or on the loss of his ship, for Benbow was a hulk, and would never leave the dockyard again. What a way to end, after all they had done together.
“Easy, Thomas. Put it behind you.”
Herrick eyed him curiously, as much as if to ask, “Could you?”
Bolitho persisted, “Life still has much to offer.”
“Maybe.” He sat stolidly, with the empty goblet claspe
d in his square hands like a talisman. “In truth, I am grateful to be of some use again. When I heard the news about you . . .” He shook his head. “I thought it was another chance. Lady Luck.” He looked at him, suddenly desperate. “But it’s not been easy.”
“Who knows what we might achieve this time?”
Herrick sounded bitter. “They are fools out here. They don’t understand, nor do they know what to expect. Pink-cheeked soldiers more used to the bogs of Ireland than this godforsaken place, and senior officers who’ve scarcely heard a shot fired!”
Bolitho said quietly, “‘He never set a squadron in the field, Nor the division of a battle knows, More than a spinster.’”
Herrick stared at him. “Our Nel?”
Bolitho smiled as he saw his friend emerging. “No, Shakespeare. But it could easily have been.”
In the pantry Allday nudged Ozzard. “More like it, eh?” But he had been thinking of the little inn in Cornwall, and came awkwardly to the point. “Will you pen a letter for me, Tom?”
Ozzard said darkly, “ Be warned, that’s all I ask.” He saw Allday’s expression and sighed. “Course I will. Anything for a bit o’ peace!”
The big three-decker lay to her cable, her open gunports reflected in the calm anchorage like lines of eyes. The sentries paced their sections, and from one of the mess-decks came the plaintive notes of a fiddle. The officer-of-the-watch paused in his discussion with a master’s mate as the captain appeared by the abandoned double-wheel, where men had fought wind and sea only a week ago as they strove to reach calmer waters.
Keen turned away from the shadowy watchkeepers and walked, deep in thought, to the poop ladder.
His ship and all her company, prime sailors, felons, cowards and honest men who would soon depend on him again, from his ambitious first lieutenant to the squeaking midshipmen, from surgeon to purser’s clerk, they were his to command. An honour; but that he could take for granted. He watched the guard-boat pulling slowly between the moored ships, a riding-light gleaming momentarily on a naked bayonet. He tried to imagine Sir Richard Bolitho and his old friend warily coming together in the great cabin. It would be difficult for both of them. The one who had found all he had ever wanted in his woman; the other who had lost everything, and nearly his life as well.
Seabirds flashed past the lights from the wardroom windows and he thought of that night in the open boat.
Tonight they will nest in Africa.
What price survival then?
He summoned her face, and the memory of unexpected love, which had left them both dazed with disbelief. For the first time in his life, there was someone waiting for him.
He recalled her last embrace, the warmth of her body against his.
“Captain, sir?” The lieutenant hovered on the top of the poop ladder.
“What is it?”
“Mr Julyan’s respects, sir, and he thinks the wind is getting up from the west’rd.”
“Very well, Mr Daubeny. Inform the first lieutenant and pipe the larboard watch.”
As the lieutenant hurried down the ladder Keen pushed all else to the back of his mind.
As he had heard Bolitho say on occasions, “That was then. This is now.”
He was the captain again.
16 POWER OF COMMAND
LADY CATHERINE SOMERVELL stood by one of the tall windows in the library and looked across the garden. The snow was heavier now, and the wheel-tracks of Lewis Roxby’s smart phaeton had almost vanished in just half an hour. Kneeling on a rug before a crackling fire, Nancy was finishing her story of Miles Vincent’s disappearance, and how it was later discovered that he had been taken by the press-gang and put aboard a man-of-war in Carrick Road.
Catherine watched the persistent snow and thought of Black Prince as she had last seen her standing out to sea, taking her heart with her.
She had spoken to some of the old sailors who worked on the estate, men who had served Richard in the past, before they had been cut down in battle; she was even jealous of them when they spoke of days she had never, could never share. One of them calculated that given the time of year and the inexperience of her company, Black Prince should have reached the Indies by now. A world away. Her man, doing things he had been ordered to do, hiding his own worries so that his men would see only confidence.
She turned away from the snow and asked guiltily, “I’m sorry, Nancy—what did you say?”
“I shouldn’t burden you with it, but she is my sister, one of the family . . . and despite her shortcomings I feel responsible for her, especially with her husband dead.” She looked up as though uncertain. “I was wondering, dear Catherine, if you could tell Richard about it when next you write. Lewis is doing all he can, of course, as it was obviously a mistake.”
Catherine studied her thoughtfully. What Richard’s mother must have been like. Fair, with clear fresh skin. She had a pretty mouth, perhaps all that remained of the young girl who had been in love with Richard’s friend.
Nancy took her silence for disagreement. “I know Miles does not make a favourable impression, but . . .”
Catherine walked to the fire and sat on the edge of a stool, feeling the heat on her face, imagining him here with her, now.
She said, “When I first met him, I found him glib, with a higher opinion of himself than I would have thought healthy. What I have heard of him since has not improved that image.”
She saw Nancy’s dismay and smiled. “But I will tell Richard in my next letter. I write every few days, in the hope they will reach him in some sort of order.” Inwardly she believed that the young Miles Vincent had probably got what he deserved. He had apparently been at a cock-fight somewhere out towards the Helford River, and the press-gang had burst in on it. They had only found three men who did not possess a legal protection —one of them had been Vincent. She thought of his arrogance, the way he had stared at her during Roxby’s dinner, with the smirk of a conceited child. She thought of Allday and others like Ferguson and the estate workers, seized by the hated press without pity or consideration. The navy needed men, and always would as long as the war dragged on. So men would be taken from the farms and the taverns, from the arms of their loved ones, to rub shoulders with those who had escaped the gallows for the sea at the assizes.
Nancy was saying, “Lewis has already written to his friend, the port admiral at Plymouth . . . but it might take so long.”
Catherine adjusted her gown and Nancy exclaimed, “My dear—I can still see that place where the sun burned you!”
“I hope I never lose it. It will always remind me.”
“Will you come for Christmas, Catherine? I would be so unhappy to think of you alone here. Please say you will. I would never forgive myself otherwise.”
Catherine reached out and pressed her arm. “Sweet Nancy, you are all responsibilities today! I shall think about it . . .” She turned as her maid entered the room. “What is it, Sophie?”
“A letter, me lady. The boy just brought it.”
Nancy watched her as she took the letter and saw her eyes mist over as she quickly scanned the handwriting.
“I shall leave, Catherine. It is no moment to share . . .”
Catherine opened the letter and shook her head. “No, no—it is from Adam.” The handwriting was unfamiliar, and yet similar. It was a short impetuous letter, and somehow typical of him: she could see his grave dark features as he had written it, from Portsmouth it appeared, no doubt with his Anemone coming to life all around him as she completed storing and made ready for sea.
He wrote, “You have been much in my mind of late, and I would that I had been free to speak with you as we have done in the past. There is no one else with whom I can share my thoughts. And when I see what you have done for my beloved uncle I am all gratitude and love for you.” The rest of the letter was almost formal, as if he were composing a report for his admiral. But he ended like the young man who had grown up in war. “Please remember me to my friends at Falmouth, and to C
aptain Keen’s wife should you see her. With affectionate regard, Adam.” She folded it as if it were something precious.
Nancy said, “What is it?”
“It seems that the French are out. The foul weather was their friend, not ours . . . Adam is ordered to the West Indies with all haste.”
“How do they know with such certainty that the French are heading there?”
“They know.” She stood up and walked back to the window. Two grooms were reharnessing a fine pair of horses to the phaeton, and as the snow drifted down on them they flicked their ears with obvious displeasure.
Nancy came up beside her and put her arm around her waist. Afterwards Catherine thought it could have been the act of a sister.
“So they will all be together again?”
Catherine said, “I knew in my heart it would happen. We both believe in fate. How else could we have lost each other and then come together again? It was fate.” She turned her head and smiled at her. “You must be glad that your man has his feet on dry land.”
Nancy looked at her very directly. Her eyes, Catherine thought, were the colour of lavender, opened to the sun, and they did not blink as she said quietly, “I once thought to become a sailor’s wife.” Then she threw her arms around her. “I am so selfish—”
“That you are not.” She followed her into the adjoining room and picked up the old cloak she sometimes wore when riding; Richard had once taken it to sea with him, in that other world.
Ferguson, muffled against the weather, was talking with the grooms and helped Nancy into the carriage, noting the tears and the brightness of her eyes as he did so.
As the horses thudded across the packed snow Catherine said, “Do you wish to see me?”
Ferguson followed her through the doors. “I wondered if there was anything I could do, my lady?”
“Take a glass of something with me.” He looked uneasily at his filthy boots but she waved him down. “Be seated. I need to talk.”
He watched her as she took two glasses from a cabinet, her hair shining like glass in the firelight. He still could not picture her in a boat with only some ragged survivors for company.
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