The captain said sharply, “Recall the boarding party and cast that hulk adrift. She’ll not fight again.”
The masthead lookout yelled again, “Ship o’ th’ line, sir! ’Tis the Benbow! ”
Bolitho walked across the deck and knelt beside Neale who had been laid there to await the surgeon’s attention.
Neale stared up at the sky and whispered, “We did it, sir.
Together. ”
His hand lifted from his side and clasped Bolitho’s as firmly as he could.
“It was all I wanted, sir.”
Allday crouched on his other side to shield his eyes from the early sunlight. “Easy, Cap’n Neale. You’re going home now, you see.”
But Bolitho felt the hand go limp in his, and after a moment he bent over to close Neale’s eyes.
“He’s there, Allday. He’s gone home.”
10. For the A dmiral’s lady
“I STILL can’t believe it, sir.”
Herrick shook his head again, unable to accept what his decision had brought. From the moment he had made signalling contact with the frigate Ganymede he had paced up and down the quarterdeck, cursing the time it took for both ships to draw together, the further, seemingly endless delay as his own coxswain, Tuck, had taken the barge to collect Bolitho.
He had listened enthralled as Bolitho had sat by the stern windows in his torn clothing and had allowed Ozzard to fuss over him like a nursery maid.
And now, with the frigate following in Benbow’s wake, they were standing away from the French coast, the wind no longer an enemy.
Bolitho explained, “Ganymede was at a disadvantage. Her captain tried an old ruse and tempted the Ceres to follow him. He even took some severe damage to give the enemy overconfidence.”
He shrugged heavily. It no longer seemed to matter. “Then he luffed, and put two broadsides into her before she knew what was happening. It still could have gone against him, but the last raking cut down Ceres ’ captain, and the rest you know, Thomas.”
He had already told Herrick about the new chain of semaphore stations, but even that seemed unimportant set against Neale’s death.
Herrick saw the pain in his eyes and said, “The French ships which were sighted as Benbow showed herself must have been directed to aid Ceres by that same semaphore.” He rubbed his chin. “Well, we know about it now, damn them.”
Bolitho stared past him at the empty sword rack. “And they will know we know. The danger is there just the same.”
He thought of the two soldiers who had fallen to Allday’s cutlass. They must have had specific orders to kill the prisoners if the ship was in danger of being seized. It had been that close.
But the arrival of the French ships had made Ceres ’ capture impossible. It would not be long before the French high command knew that their prisoners had escaped, that the secret would be out.
Lieutenant Wolfe entered the cabin and tried not to stare at Bolitho as he was stripped of his shirt and torn breeches by Loveys, the ship’s surgeon, while he lay against the seat and con-sumed his fifth cup of scalding coffee.
Wolfe said, “With respect, sir. Convoy in sight to the sou’-east. All accounted for.”
Herrick smiled. “Thank you. I’ll come up presently.”
As the door closed Bolitho said, “You took a wild risk, Thomas.
Your head would have been on the block if the convoy had been in danger. The fact you thought it safe would have carried as much water as a shrimping net at your court martial.”
Herrick grinned. “I felt certain I’d discover something if only I could help Ganymede to take the enemy.” He eyed Bolitho warmly. “I never dreamed …”
“Neither did I.”
Bolitho looked up as Ozzard, followed by Allday, entered the cabin with clean clothing and his other dress coat.
He said wearily, “Fetch the old sea-going one, Ozzard. I don’t feel like celebrating.”
Allday stared at Herrick in disbelief. “You’ve not told him, sir?”
“Told me what?” He needed to be alone. To sift his feelings, decide what to do, discover where he had gone wrong.
Herrick looked almost as astonished as Allday. “Damn my eyes, in all the excitement I forgot to explain!”
Bolitho listened without a word, as if by inserting a question, A
or by trying to smooth out the ridges in Herrick’s tale, he might destroy it completely.
As Herrick lapsed into silence he said, “And she is in the convoy, Thomas? Right here, amongst us?”
Herrick stammered, “Aye, sir. I was that worried, you see—”
Bolitho stood up and took Herrick’s hard hands in his “Bless you, old friend. This morning I believed I had taken enough, more than I could safely hold. But now …” He shook his head slowly.
“You have told me something which is stronger than any balm.”
He turned away, as if he expected to see the other ships through the stern windows. Belinda had taken passage to Gibraltar.
Danger and discomfort had meant nothing, his likely fate had not shaken her confidence for an instant. And now she was here in the Bay.
Herrick moved towards the door, content and troubled at the same time.
“I’ll leave you. It will be a while before we exchange signals.”
He hesitated, unwilling to cast a shadow on the moment. “About Captain Neale …”
“We’ll bury him at dusk. His friends and family in England will have their memories of him. As he once was. But I think he’d wish to stay with his men.”
The door closed silently, and Bolitho lay back again and allowed the sun to warm him through the thick glass.
Neale had known from the beginning he was going to die.
Only his occasional bouts of delirium had deceived the rest of them. One thought, one force had kept him going, and that had been freedom. To gain it in company of his friends so that he could die in peace had been paramount. It was all I wanted, he had said. His last words on earth.
Bolitho found he was on his feet without noticing he had moved. He did not even see Browne enter the cabin, or Allday’s sudden concern.
John Neale was gone. He would not die unavenged.
Barely making a ripple above her own black and buff reflection, Benbow moved slowly past other anchored vessels, all of which were dwarfed by the towering natural fortress of Gibraltar.
It was morning, with the Rock and surrounding landscape partly hidden in mist, a foretaste of the heat to come.
Bolitho stood apart from the other officers and left Herrick free to manœuvre his command the last cable or so to the anchorage. With all canvas but topsails and jib clewed up, Benbow would make a fine sight as she altered course very slightly away from her convoy, the largest vessel of which was already making signals to the shore.
It had taken nearly nine days to reach Gibraltar, and Grubb had described it as a fair and speedy passage. To Bolitho it had been the longest he could recall, and even the daily sight of Belinda on the Indiaman’s poop had failed to calm his sense of urgency and need.
From the beginning, when Herrick had made a signal to the Duchess of Cornwall, their daily rendezvous, separated by the sea and one other ship, had been without any sort of arrangement. It was as if she knew he would be there, as if she had to see him to ensure it was not a dream but a twist of fate which had brought them together. Bolitho had watched her through a telescope, oblivious to the glances of his officers and other watchkeepers.
She always waved, her long hair held down by a large straw hat which in turn was tied beneath her chin by a ribbon.
Now the waiting was almost over and Bolitho felt strangely nervous.
Herrick’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Hands wear ship!”
Wolfe’s long legs emerged from the mizzen-mast’s shadow.
“Man the braces, there! Tops’l sheets!”
Bolitho shaded his eyes and looked towards an anchored man-of-war. She had already been id
entified by the signals midshipman.
She was the Dorsetshire, eighty, flagship of Vice-Admiral Sir John Studdart. He could see the admiral’s flag drooping almost life-lessly from the Dorsetshire’s foremast, and wondered what the officer of the watch would make of his own flag at Benbow’s mizzen instead of Herrick’s broad-pendant.
“Tops’l clew lines! Wake up, that man!”
Grubb called, “Ready, sir!”
“Helm a-lee!”
With tired dignity Benbow turned very slowly into the breeze, the way going off her as the remaining sails flapped in confusion before they were fisted to the yards by the waiting topmen.
“Let go!”
Spray flew above the forecastle as the big anchor splashed down into the clear water and more feet stampeded to the boat tier in readiness for lowering the barge alongside with a minimum delay.
Glasses would have been trained on the Benbow’s performance from the moment she had begun her final approach, her fifteen-gun salute to the vice-admiral’s flag booming and reverberating around the bay like a bombardment. Gun for gun the flagship had replied, the smoke drifting upwards on the warm air to min-gle with haze which encircled the Rock like cloud.
“Away, barge crew!” That was Allday, his face showing nothing of the strain he must have endured as a prisoner, his natural sense of responsibility for Bolitho making it that much worse for him.
Herrick joined Bolitho by the nettings and touched his hat.
“Will you go across to the flagship now, sir?”
“Aye, Thomas. No sense in delaying. Someone else might get to Sir John’s ear before me otherwise.” His eyes moved to the distant Indiaman. “I have much to do.”
Herrick saw the quick glance. It was not lost on him, any more than all the other times when he had seen Bolitho on deck, looking for the slim figure in the shady straw hat.
“Barge alongside, sir.” Wolfe watched him curiously, ever ready to learn something from the bond which linked Bolitho to Herrick.
The marines were at the entry port, the boatswain’s mates ready with their silver calls and moistening them on their lips.
Bolitho pressed his sword against his hip, sensing its unfamiliarity, the feeling of loss for his old family blade. He gritted his teeth and walked towards the port. He tried not to limp or to show his sadness for what had gone before. Little pictures flitted through his mind. The old sword on the French commandant’s table, the swarthy rear-admiral, Jean Remond, who had been unable to accept that Bolitho would not swear to make no escape attempt. Above and through it all he saw Neale. Brave, despairing, and in the last seconds of life, strangely content.
The marines presented arms, the calls shrilled, and Bolitho climbed swiftly down to where Allday, splendid in his blue coat and nankeen breeches, and hat in hand, stood to receive him.
Browne was already in the sternsheets, expressionless as he studied Bolitho’s face.
They all watch me, Bolitho thought. Did they expect to see more than a man?
“Bear off forrard! Give way, all!” Allday thrust the tiller bar over, his eyes slitted against the reflected glare.
Bolitho asked softly, “You feel glad to be back, Allday?”
The big coxswain nodded, but did not take his eyes from the nearby guard-boat.
“I’ve damned the fleet an’ all it stands for a few times, sir, an’
I’d be a Tom Pepper if I said different.” He glanced briefly at the guard-boat, her oars tossed, a lieutenant standing to remove his hat as the barge sped past him. “But it’s my world for now. Home.”
Browne said, “I can understand that too, sir.”
Bolitho settled down on the thwart, his hat tugged firmly across his forehead.
“We all but lost it, Oliver.”
“Toss your oars! Stand by, bowman!” Allday ignored the faces above the Dorsetshire’s gangway, the glint of sunlight on bayonets, the scarlets and blues, the difference of one ship from another.
Bolitho climbed up to the entry port and the clatter and shrill of salutes began all over again.
He saw the vice-admiral by the poop as he waited for his flag-captain to complete the formal welcome before he strolled across the quarterdeck to make his own.
Bolitho had known Studdart as a fellow captain during the American revolution. But he had not seen him for several years and was surprised he had aged so much. He had grown portly, and his round, untroubled face looked as if he enjoyed good living to the full.
He shook him warmly by the hand and exclaimed, “Damn me eyes, Bolitho, you are a sight indeed! Last thing I heard was that the Frogs had stuck your head on a pike!” He laughed loudly.
“Come aft and tell me all. I’d like to be on the same tack as the news bulletins.” He gestured vaguely towards the side. “No doubt the Dons in Algeciras saw your arrival just now. They’ll pass the word to Boney, of that I’m certain.”
In the great cabin it was comparatively cool, and after dismissing his servants and sending Browne on an errand, Vice-Admiral Sir John Studdart settled down in silence to listen to Bolitho’s story. He did not interrupt once, and as Bolitho outlined his ideas on the enemy’s chain of semaphore stations he found time to admire Studdart’s relaxed self-control. No wonder he had been promoted ahead of his time. He had taught himself not to worry, or at least not to show it.
Bolitho touched only lightly on Neale’s death, and it was then that the vice-admiral felt moved to speak.
“Styx’s loss was an accident of war. The death of her captain no less distressing.” He reached out to refill their wine goblets.
“However, I would not expect you to blame yourself for his death.
Your flag flies above Benbow, as mine does here. It is why we were given the honour to lead, and why Admiral Beauchamp selected you for the task in Biscay. You did all you could. No one can blame you now. The very fact you discovered the presence of an efficient French semaphore system, when none of our so-called agents has seen fit to inform us, is an additional bounty. Your value to England and the Navy is your life. By escaping with honour, you have fulfilled the faith which Admiral Beauchamp bestowed on you.” He leaned back and studied him cheerfully. “Am I right?”
Bolitho said, “I’ve still not achieved what I was sent to do.
The destruction of the enemy’s invasion craft before they are moved to the Channel took priority in my orders. As for our knowing about the semaphore stations along the Biscay coast, it can make no difference. The French can still direct their ships where they are most needed while ours are floundering off shore for all to see. And the newly built invasion craft are all the safer now that our captains are aware of their additional protection.”
Studdart smiled wryly. “You’ve not changed, I’ll say that.
Dashing about the countryside like a junior lieutenant, risking life and limb when you should be ordering others to take a few chances.” He shook his head, suddenly grave. “It won’t do. You have your written orders, and only their lordships can alter them.
Once they know you are safe. Maybe news will arrive in the next vessel from England, who knows? But you are in a position to postpone all further action. Beauchamp’s strategy is already out-of-date because of what you discovered when you were taken prisoner. Let it lie, Bolitho. You have a record which anyone, even Nelson, would envy. Don’t create enemies in high places. Peace A
or war, your future is assured. But stir up trouble in Admiralty or Parliament and you are done for.”
Bolitho rubbed his palm along the arm of his chair. He felt trapped, resentful, even though he knew Studdart’s advice was sound.
Who would care next year what had happened in Biscay?
Perhaps it was all rumour anyway and the French were as desperate for peace as anyone, and with no thought of forcing an invasion when their old enemy was off guard.
Studdart was watching him. “At least think about it, Bolitho.”
He waved one hand towards the stern windows. “You could rem
ain here a while, and perhaps request new orders. You might be sent into the Mediterranean to join Saumarez on his campaign, anything would be preferable to the damned Bay of Biscay.”
“Yes, sir. I shall think about it.” He put down his goblet very carefully. “In the meantime, I have to complete some despatches for England.”
The vice-admiral tugged out his watch and examined it.
“God’s teeth, I am expected ashore by the general in one hour.”
He got to his feet and regarded Bolitho calmly. “Do more than think about it. You are a flag-officer, and must not involve yourself with the affairs of subordinates. You command, they obey, it is the old order of things, as well you know.”
Bolitho stood up and smiled. “Yes, sir.”
The vice-admiral waited until his visitor had reached the door and then said, “Give the lady my warmest regards. She might care to sup with me before she leaves the Rock, eh?”
As the door closed Studdart walked slowly to the stern windows and stared at the anchored ships of his squadron.
Bolitho would not take heed of his advice, and they both knew it.
The second time he might not be so lucky. Either way. Death or ignominy would be the outcome if he failed again.
Yet in spite of that realization Studdart was surprised to find he envied him.
The Honourable East India Company’s ship Duchess of Cornwall presented a scene of orderly confusion which left little room for the courtesies of greeting a King’s officer, even a rear-admiral.
Leaving Allday scowling up from the barge, and followed closely by Browne, Bolitho allowed himself to be led aft by a harassed lieutenant.
She was a fine ship, he thought grudgingly. No wonder sailors preferred the pay and comfort of an Indiaman to the harsh life in a man-of-war.
Tackles swayed and bobbed from lighters alongside, and as cargo was unloaded with skilled ease, more boxes and well-packed nets were lowered through the hatches for the next leg of the voyage.
The most unfamiliar setting to Bolitho was the chattering crowd of passengers who had either come aboard or were waiting to be ferried across to the garrison.
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