“Aye, there are always those, Mr Wolfe. Make a signal to Nicator and Indomitable. Captains repair on board. ” He shook his head helplessly. “It can wait. Sit you down and have some of the admiral’s wine. He says it is very good.”
Wolfe replied, “Later I’ll be glad to. But I have certain duties to deal with. I’ll make that signal at eight bells, sir. Time enough then.”
Outside the cabin Wolfe almost fell over the tiny shape of Ozzard. God, the man had been weeping. Everyone must know already. Always the same in the Navy. No damn secrets.
Wolfe paused in the sunlight and took several deep breaths.
He had no special duties, but it was more than he could do to sit and watch Herrick’s anguish. The fact he could do nothing for a man he had come to respect so much troubled him deeply, and he could not recall ever feeling so useless.
In the cabin Herrick poured himself another goblet of wine, then another. It did not help, but it was something to do.
His hand paused in mid air as his glance settled on the sword rack and the presentation sword which Bolitho had left behind when he had gone over to Styx.
It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. But not much to show for the man who had earned it a hundred times over.
Herrick climbed out of the Benbow’s green-painted barge and waited for his coxswain to join him on the jetty.
He was later, much later, than he had intended in getting ashore. There was a dusky red glow over the Sound and anchorage, and the ships looked at peace on the flat water.
Herrick had sent a message to his wife, telling her as much as he could. She was a sensible woman and rarely lost her self-control. But Herrick had meant to be with her when the Falmouth coach rolled in.
“Return to the ship, Tuck. I’ll get a wherry when I return.
Mr Wolfe knows where I am.”
The coxswain touched his hat. He knew all about it but was thinking more of Allday than Bolitho. As coxswains they had come to know each other well, and got along together.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“And if there is any rumour through the lower deck …”
Tuck nodded. “Aye, sir, I know. I’ll be across ’ere so fast the keel won’t touch the water.”
Herrick strode along the jetty, his shoes clicking on the round, worn cobbles which had felt the tread of a legion of seafaring men as far back as Drake, and further still.
Herrick paused, unnerved, as he saw the Golden Lion, its windows glowing red in the sunset, as if the whole building were ablaze. In the yard a coach stood empty, abandoned by its team of horses, a servant or two loading boxes on its roof for the next leg to Exeter.
It was bad enough as it was, but for the coach to be on time, even early on this particular evening, made it worse.
He saw a one-legged man, balanced on a crude crutch, playing a tin whistle to the amusement of some urchins and a few A
passers-by. His shabby red coat showed he had once been a marine, the darker patch on one sleeve where the chevrons had once been sewn told Herrick he had also been a sergeant.
Herrick fumbled for some coins in his pocket and thrust them at the crippled figure. He was ashamed and embarrassed, angry too that such a man could end like this. If peace did eventually come, there would be many more red coats begging in the streets.
But the man did not seem at all perturbed. He gave a broad grin and touched his forehead with mock smartness.
“Sar’nt Tolcher, sir. This is the life, eh, Cap’n?”
Herrick nodded sadly. “What ship, Sergeant?”
“Last one, sir? The old Culloden, Cap’n Troubridge, a real gennelman ’e was, for a sea-officer, that’s to say.”
Herrick needed to go, but something held him. This unknown marine had been at the Nile when he and Bolitho had been there.
Another ship, but there.
“Good luck to you.” Herrick hurried away towards the entrance.
The marine pocketed the money, aware that his small audi-ence had gone. But the stocky captain with the bright blue eyes had made up for a lot.
Down to the Volunteer now for a few pots of ale with the lads.
His crutch scraping over the cobbles, the crippled marine, one-time sergeant in the Culloden, was soon lost from sight.
Both women were facing the door as Herrick entered their room, as if they had been there for hours.
He said, “I am sorry, Dulcie, I was detained. Fresh orders.”
He did not see the sudden anxiety in his wife’s eyes for he was looking at the girl who was standing by an unlit fire.
God, she is beautiful. She was dressed in a dark green gown, her chestnut hair tied back to the nape of her neck by a matching ribbon. She looked pale, her brown eyes filling her face as she asked, “Any news, Thomas?”
Herrick was moved both by her control and the easy use of his name.
He replied, “Not yet.” He walked to a small table, picked up a glass and put it down again. “But news travels slowly, good news that is.”
He walked across to her and took her hands in his. Against his hard seaman’s hands they felt soft and gentle. Helpless.
She said quietly, “Dulcie told me what you wrote in your note. And I heard something about the loss of the ship from some officers downstairs. Is there any hope?”
Her eyes lifted to his. They made her outward calm a lie. Her eyes were pleading with him.
Herrick said, “We know very little at present. It’s a foul bit of coast there, and as far as I can discover, Styx foundered after hitting something, possibly a wreck, and went down immediately.”
Herrick had gone over it a hundred times, even while he had been explaining his orders to the other captains. He knew well enough what it would have been like. Herrick had lost a command of his own. He could hear the din of falling spars, the screams, the pandemonium of a well-ordered ship falling apart.
Men swimming and dying. Some going bravely, others cursing their mothers’ names until the sea silenced them.
“But your Richard was in good company. Allday would be at his side, and young Neale was a first-rate captain.”
She looked quickly at the other woman. “Who will tell his nephew?”
Herrick released her hands very gently. “No need for that. He was there. Aboard the ship which—” He caught the words in time. “In Phalarope. She was in company at the time.”
Dulcie Herrick touched her breast. “Bless the boy.”
“Aye. He’ll take it badly.”
Belinda Laidlaw sat down for the first time since she had left the coach.
“Captain Herrick.” She tried to smile. “Thomas, for you are his friend, and now mine too, I hope. What do you think happened?”
Herrick felt his wife place a glass in his hand and eyed her warmly.
Then he said, “Richard has always been a frigate captain at heart. He would want to go for the enemy, waste no time. But as the rear-admiral in total command he had other responsibilities this day. To execute Admiral Beauchamp’s plan to help rid England of a mounting threat of invasion. It was his task, his duty.” He looked at her imploringly. “God, ma’am, if you knew how he cared, what it cost him to put to sea without seeing you, without explaining. The last time I saw him he was fretting about it, the unfairness to you.” He added firmly, “But if you know Richard, really know him, you will understand that to him honour and love are as one.”
She nodded, her lips moist. “That I do know. I will have it no other way. We met only last year, merely months ago, of which time I have been with him just a few days. How I envy you, Thomas, sharing things with him, looking back on memories I shall never know.” She shook her head, her hair tossing over one shoulder. “I will never give him up, Thomas. Not now.”
Tears ran unheeded down her cheeks, but when Herrick and his wife moved towards her she said, “No. I am all right! I do not intend to lose myself in self-pity now that Richard needs me.”
Herrick stared at her. “That warms me deeply, ma�
�am. But do not destroy yourself for hoping too much, promise me.”
“Too much?” She walked to the open windows and stepped out on to the balcony, her slim figure framed against the sea and sky. “Impossible. He is what I live for. There is nothing more I care about, dear friend.”
Herrick felt his wife’s hand in his and squeezed it gently.
Belinda was like a ship caught aback by a fierce squall. Only time would tell.
He looked at his wife as she whispered, “You spoke of orders, Thomas?”
“Forgive me, dearest. With all this on my mind …” He looked at the window as the girl re-entered the room. “I have been ordered to sail with a merchant convoy to Gibraltar. Several valuable cargoes, I understand, and a rich prize at any time.”
He recalled his dismay and fury at being sent on a convoy when he needed to be here. Admiral Hoskyn had spoken of his respect for him. But if he refused to accept this first duty as acting-commodore, not respect, love, even a knighthood would save him. The Navy had a long, long memory.
He added, “It will be a safe if wearisome task, and I shall be back in Plymouth before you know it.” It was only half a lie, and came easier than he had expected.
Belinda touched his sleeve. “Will the ships come here?”
“Aye. Two from Bristol and the others from the Downs.”
She nodded her head, her eyes very bright. “I shall take passage in one of them. I have some friends in Gibraltar. With friends and money I might be able to discover some news of Richard.”
Herrick opened his mouth to protest but shut it as he saw Dulcie give a brief shake of the head. It was true that more information had been gleaned from Spain and Portugal about dead or missing officers than through accepted sources, but her sincerity, her incredible belief that Richard Bolitho was alive and safe would leave her vulnerable, and a long way from help if the worst happened.
“One is an Indiaman, the Duchess of Cornwall. I believe you had some contact with John Company in India. I am certain they will make you as comfortable as they can. I will send her master a letter.” He forced a grin. “Being a commodore must have some uses!”
She smiled gravely. “Thank you. You are good to me. I only wish I could sail with you instead.”
Herrick flushed. “Lord, ma’am, with all the roughknots and gallows’-bait I have to carry as my company, I’d not rest easy in my cot!”
She tossed her hair from her shoulder. No wonder Bolitho was completely captivated, Herrick thought.
She said, “At least I shall see your ship every day, Thomas. I will not feel so alone.”
Dulcie took her hand in hers. “You will never be that, my dear.”
Herrick heard a clock chime and cursed it silently.
“I have to leave.” He looked at the girl in the green gown.
“You will have to get used to this too.” He was deceiving her. Or was he gaining some of her courage, her belief?
Outside in the cooler evening air everything looked much as before. Herrick glanced at the street corner, half hoping to see the one-legged marine there.
At the jetty he saw the barge riding motionless in shadow, then the oars swinging into life as she headed towards him.
Herrick gripped his sword tightly and wished his eyes would stop stinging. Tuck would no more let him take a waterman’s boat than spit on the flag.
Between them, Tuck and the beautiful girl with the chestnut hair had given him a new strength, although deep inside him he knew he would probably pay dearly for it. But that was tomorrow. This was now.
He tapped his scabbard on the worn cobbles and said half to himself, “Hold on, Richard! We’re not done yet!”
“You wish to see me, sir?” Lieutenant Adam Pascoe stood in the centre of the cabin, his eyes on a point above the captain’s right epaulette.
Emes sat back in his chair, his fingertips pressed together.
“I do.”
Beyond the screen and the darkened stern windows it was
quiet but for the muffled sounds of sea and wind, the regular creak of timbers.
Emes said, “It is five days since Styx foundered. Tomorrow it will be six. I do not intend to go through another hour, let alone a day, with you saying nothing but the briefest words demanded of your duties. You are my first lieutenant, an honoured appointment for one so young. But perhaps you are too young after all?”
Pascoe looked at him squarely. “I can’t understand! How could you do it? How could you leave them to die like that?”
“Keep your voice down, Mr Pascoe, and address me as sir at all times.”
Tap … tap … tap … his fingers touched each other very gently and exactly.
“The attack on those French vessels was pointless, once the presence of larger men-of-war was realized. This is a very old frigate, Mr Pascoe, not a liner! ”
Pascoe dropped his gaze, his hands shaking so that he had to press them against his thighs to control himself. He had thought about it, dreamt about it, and never lost it since that terrible moment. If his uncle had died, it would not be death he would have feared. But the sight of the Phalarope, the ship he had once loved, going about to leave him and his men to drown or to perish from their wounds, would have been the worst part for him.
Emes was saying in his usual controlled tones, “If your uncle had not been aboard Styx, you might have felt differently. You are too involved, too close to accept the facts. Styx had no chance.
My first responsibility was to this ship, and as senior officer to take control of the remainder of our strength. A brave but pointless gesture would get no thanks from the Admiralty, nor from the widows you would create if you had your way. I am satisfied with your duties up to a point. But if I have cause to admonish you again, I will see you stand before a court martial, do you understand?”
Pascoe blurted out hotly, “Do you think I care about—”
“Then you should!” Both hands came down on the table with a bang. “From what I have heard, your uncle’s family has a proud name, am I right?”
Pascoe nodded jerkily. “He has done everything for me.
Everything.”
“Quite so.” Emes relaxed very slowly. “You are of that family, the same blood.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then remember this. You may be the last of the Bolitho family.” He held up one hand as Pascoe made to protest. “You may be. Just as I am the last in mine. When you return home, others will be looking to you. There is more at stake now than your despair. Hate me if you will, but do your duty well—that is all I ask, no, demand! ”
“May I go, sir?”
Emes looked down at his hands and waited for the door to close behind the young lieutenant with the unruly black hair.
Then he touched his forehead and looked at his palm. It was wet with sweat, and he felt dirty and sick.
It was not over, and he knew that it would take more than time to heal it. Pascoe would not let it lie there, and in his despair might destroy everything.
Emes picked up his pen and stared emptily at his log book.
He had been right, he knew he had been right, and he must make the others recognize the fact.
Would the nightmare never end? The accusations and the contempt he had been shown by those who had never heard a shot fired or known the agony of a captain’s worst decision.
Those same unknown inquisitors would condemn him out-right. To be given a chance, and then allow his admiral to be lost without some personal sacrifice could have no defence in their eyes.
He glanced round the cabin, remembering Bolitho here, how he must have felt aboard his old command after all this time. If he needed further reminder of that meeting he only had to look at his first lieutenant, it was stark and clear in his eyes.
In his neat hand he began to write. Today’s patrol passed without further incident …
7. The S ecret
SINGLY and in groups, defiant, or dazed to the point of collapse, the survivors from Neale’s co
mmand staggered up the shelving beach which in the time it had taken to reach it had been ringed by a cordon of armed soldiers.
Almost the worst part of it was the complete silence. The bewildered sailors lay or squatted on the wet sand and stared not at their captors but at the lively water where their ship had once been. Others walked dejectedly in the shallows, peering at the flotsam, searching for a swimmer amongst the drifting corpses while the gulls hovered eagerly overhead.
Further along the beach a few women were tending to some other survivors. A handful of seamen from one of the invasion craft which Styx had sunk before she too had foundered. They glared at the growing crowd of British sailors, showing a hatred which even the distance and the line of soldiers could not hide.
Bolitho watched the boats pulling off shore, fishermen mostly, hastily commandeered by the local military to search for the living, friend and foe alike.
Neale groaned and tried to get to his feet. “How many?”
Allday replied, “Hundred, maybe more. Can’t be sure.”
Neale fell back and stared dazedly at the blue sky. “Less than half, dear God!”
Browne, who had somehow managed to retain his hat during the pull to the beach, asked, “What happens now? I am somewhat unused to this.”
Bolitho held his head back and allowed the sun to penetrate the ache in his eyes and brain. Prisoners. Somewhere on the enemy coast. Because of his own folly.
He said shortly, “Go amongst the others. Call a muster.”
He saw Styx’s surgeon on his knees beside a spreadeagled seaman. Thank heaven he had survived. Some of the men looked in a bad way.
The three midshipmen had all lived through it, as had the youthful third lieutenant, although he was barely conscious, and delirious with his shattered arm. Bundy, the master, the boatswain too, and one or two marines, although most of the afterguard had been swept away when the mizzen had crashed amongst them.
As Neale had said, less than half. In the twinkling of an eye.
Bolitho shaded his face and stared seaward again. The mist seemed thicker, and there was no sign even of the French men-of-war. But the flotillas of invasion craft were assembling into some kind of order and would soon be on their way again. This time they would know they had an escort nearby and also be more vigilant against another surprise attack.
A Tradition of Victory Page 10