Glassport rumbled, “Not captain for long, I’ll wager!” Several of the guests chuckled.
A black footman entered the room and after the smallest glance at Somervell padded to Bolitho’s chair, an envelope balanced carefully on a silver salver.
Bolitho took it and prayed that his eye would not torture him now.
Glassport was going on again. “My only frigate, by God! I’m dashed hard put to know—”
He broke off as Somervell interrupted rudely, “What is it, Sir Richard? Are we to share it?”
Bolitho folded the paper and glanced at the black footman. He was in time to see a strange sympathy on the man’s face, as if he knew.
“You may be spared the spectacle of a brave officer’s dishonour, Commodore Glassport.” His voice was hard and although it was directed at one man it gripped the whole table.
“Captain Price is dead.” There was a chorus of gasps. “He hanged himself.” He could not resist adding, “Are you satisfied?”
Somervell pushed himself back from the table. “I think this may be a suitable moment for the ladies to retire.” He rose effortlessly to his feet, as if it was a duty rather than a courtesy.
Bolitho faced her and saw the concern stark in her eyes as if she wanted to tell him out loud.
Instead she said, “We will meet.” She waited for him to raise his head from a brief bow. “Soon.” Then with a hiss of silk she merged with the shadows.
Bolitho sat down and watched unseeingly as another hand placed a fresh glass by his place.
It was not their fault, not even the mindless Glassport’s.
What could I have done? Nothing could interfere with the mission he intended to undertake.
It might have happened to any one of them. He thought of young Adam instead of the wretched Price sitting alone and picturing the grim faces of the court, the sword turned against him on the table.
It was curious that the message about Price’s death had been sent directly from St John’s to Hyperion, his flagship. Haven must have read and considered it before sending it ashore, probably in the charge of some midshipman who in turn would hand it to a footman. It would not have hurt him to bring it in person, he thought.
He realised with a start that the others were on their feet, glasses raised to him in a toast.
Glassport said gruffly, “To our flag officer, Sir Richard Bolitho, and may he bring us fresh victories!” Even the huge amount of wine he had consumed could not hide the humiliation in his voice.
Bolitho stood up and bowed, but not before he had seen that the white-clad figure at the opposite end had not touched his glass. Bolitho felt his blood stir, like the moment when the top-sails of an enemy revealed their intentions, or that moment in early dawn when he had faced another in a duel.
Then he thought of her eyes and her last word. Soon.
He picked up his own glass. So be it then.
The six days which followed Hyperion’s arrival at English Harbour were, for Bolitho at least, packed with activity.
Every morning, within an hour of the guardboat’s delivery of messages or signals from the shore Bolitho climbed into his barge and with a puzzled flag lieutenant at his elbow threw himself into the affairs of the ships and sailors at his disposal. On the face of it, it was not a very impressive force. Even allowing for three small vessels still in their patrol areas, the flotilla, for it was no more than that, seemed singularly unsuited for the task in hand. Bolitho knew that their lordships’ loosely-worded instructions, which were locked in his strongbox, carried all the risk and responsibility of direct orders given to a senior captain, or a lowly one like Price.
The main Antigua squadron, consisting of six ships of the line, were reported as being scattered far to the north-west in the Bahama Islands, probably probing enemy intentions or making a show of force to deter would-be blockade-runners from the Americas. The admiral was known to Bolitho, Sir Peter Folliot, a quiet, dignified officer who was said to be sorely tried by ill-health. Not the best ingredients for aggressive action against the French or their Spanish ally.
On the sixth morning, as Bolitho was being carried across the barely ruffled water towards the last of his command, he considered the results of his inspection and studies. Apart from Obdurate, an elderly seventy-four, which was still undergoing storm repairs in the dockyard, he had a total of five brigs, one sloop-of-war, and Thor, a bomb-vessel, which he had left until last. He could have summoned each commander to the flagship; it would have been what they were expecting of any flag officer, let alone one of Bolitho’s reputation. They were soon to learn that he liked to discover things for himself, to get the feel of the men he would lead, if not inspire.
He considered Somervell, and his failure to visit Hyperion as he had promised after the reception. Was he making him wait deliberately, to put him in his place, or was he indifferent to the final plan, which they would need to discuss before Bolitho could take decisive action?
He watched the rise and fall of the oars, the way the barge-men averted their eyes whenever he glanced at them, Allday’s black shadow across the scrubbed thwarts, passing vessels and those at anchor. Antigua might be a British possession, one so heavily defended that a need for more ships was unnecessary, but there were plenty of traders and coastal sailing-masters, who, if not actual spies, would be ready and willing to part with information to the enemy if only for their own free passage.
Bolitho shaded his eyes and looked towards the nearest hillside, to a battery of heavy guns marked only by a rough parapet and a lifeless flag above it. Defence was all very well, but you won wars by attacking. He saw dust along the coast road, people on the move, and thought again of Catherine. She had been rarely out of his thoughts, and he knew in his heart he had worked himself so hard to hold his personal feelings at bay where they could not interfere.
Perhaps she had told Somervell everything which had happened between them. Or maybe he had forced it out of her? He dismissed the latter immediately. Catherine was too strong to be used like that. He recalled her previous husband, a man twice her age, but one of surprising courage when he had tried to help Bolitho’s men defend a merchant ship from corsairs. Catherine had hated him then. Their feelings for each other had grown from that animosity. Like steel in the livid heat of a forge. He was still not sure what had happened to them, where it might otherwise have led.
Such a short climax in London after their meeting outside the Admiralty, when Bolitho had just been appointed commodore of his own squadron.
Seven years and one month. Catherine had forgotten nothing. It was unnerving, and at the same time exciting, to realise how she had managed to follow his career, and his life; two separate things as she had put it.
Allday whispered, “They’ve manned the side, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho tilted his hat and stared towards the bomb-vessel. His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Thor.
Small when compared with a frigate or line-of-battle ship, but at the same time heavy-looking and powerful. Designed for bombarding shore installations and the like. Thor’s main armament consisted of two massive thirteen-inch mortars. The vessel had to be powerfully built to withstand the downward recoil of the mortars, which were fired almost vertically. With ten heavy carronades and some smaller six-pounders, Thor would be a slow sailer. But unlike many of her earlier consorts which had been ketch-rigged, Thor mounted three masts and a more balanced ship-rig, which might offer some improvement in perverse winds.
A shadow passed over Bolitho’s thoughts. Francis Inch had been given command of a bomb-vessel after he had left Hyperion.
He looked up and saw Allday watching him. It was uncanny.
Allday said quietly, “The old Hekla, Sir Richard—remember her?”
Bolitho nodded, not seeing Lieutenant Jenour’s mystified stare. It was hard to accept that Inch was dead. Like so many now.
“Attention on deck!”
Calls trilled and Bolitho seized a ladder with both hands to haul himself thr
ough the low entry port.
The vessels he had already visited in harbour had seemed startled by his arrival on board. Their commanders were young; all but one had been lieutenants just months ago.
There was no such nervousness about Thor’s captain, Bolitho thought as he doffed his hat to the small quarterdeck.
Commander Ludovic Imrie was tall and narrow-shouldered, so that his solitary gold epaulette looked as if it might fall off at any moment. He stood over six feet, and when you considered Thor’s headroom, four feet six inches in some sections, it must have seemed like being caged.
“I bid you welcome, Sir Richard.” Imrie’s voice was surprisingly deep, with a Scottish burr which reminded Bolitho of his mother. Bolitho was introduced to two lieutenants and a few junior warrant officers. A small company. He had already noted their names, and sensed their reserve giving way to interest or curiosity.
Imrie dismissed the side-party and after a brief hesitation ushered Bolitho below to his small stern-cabin. As they stooped beneath the massive deck beams, Bolitho recalled his first command, a sloop-of-war; how her first lieutenant had apologised for the lack of space for the new commander. Bolitho had been almost beside himself with glee. After a lieutenant’s tiny berth in a ship of the line it had seemed like a palace.
Thor’s was even smaller. They sat opposite one another while a wizened messman brought a bottle and some glasses. A far cry from Somervell’s table, Bolitho thought.
Imrie spoke easily about his command, which he had held for two years. He was obviously very proud of Thor, and Bolitho sensed an immediate resentment when he suggested that bombs, for the most part, had achieved little so far in the various theatres of war.
“Given a chance, sir—” He grinned and shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I beg your pardon, Sir Richard, I should have known.”
Bolitho sipped the wine; it was remarkably cool. “Known what?”
Imrie said, “I’d heard you tested your captains with a question or two—”
Bolitho smiled. “It worked this time.” He remembered some of the others he had met in Antigua. He had felt something akin to hostility, if not actual dislike. Because of Price, perhaps? After all, they had known him, had worked in company with his frigate. They might think that he had killed himself deliberately because Bolitho had refused to intervene. Bolitho could think of several occasions when he had felt much the same.
Imrie stared through the skylight at the empty sky.
“If I could lie near a good target, sir, I’d put down such a barrage, the enemy’d think Hell had dropped amongst them. The Dons have never faced—” He faltered and added apologetically, “I mean, that is, if we were against the Spaniards at any time—”
Bolitho eyed him steadily. Imrie had worked it out all by himself. Why else would his vice-admiral bother to call on him? Price’s exploits and disaster on the Spanish Main linked with Thor’s obvious advantages in the shallows where Consort had run aground had formed their own picture in his mind.
Bolitho said, “That is well thought, Commander Imrie. I will trust you to keep your suppositions to yourself.” It was odd that none of the others, not even Haven, had once questioned their motives for being here.
Bolitho rubbed his left eyelid and then withdrew his hand quickly. “I have studied the reports, and have re-read the notes my aide took down when I spoke to Captain Price.”
Imrie had a long face with a craggy jaw and looked as if he could be a formidable opponent in any circumstances. But his features softened as he listened to Bolitho. Perhaps because he had referred to the dead man by his full rank. It offered some small dignity, a far cry from the lonely grave below the East Battery.
Bolitho said, “The approaches are too well protected for what I must keep in mind. Any well-sited artillery can destroy a slow-moving vessel with ease, and with heated shot the effect would be disastrous.”
Imrie rubbed his chin, his eyes far away. As Bolitho had noticed, they were unmatched, one dark and the other pale blue.
He said, “If we are both thinking of the same patch of coast, Sir Richard, and of course we can’t be sure of that—”
Jenour watched, fascinated. These two officers, each a veteran in his own field, yet able to discuss something he still could not grasp, and chuckle over it like two conspiring schoolboys. It was unbelievable.
Bolitho nodded. “But if—”
“Even Thor might have to lay-off too far to use the mortars, Sir Richard.” He scanned his face as if expecting an argument or disappointment. “We don’t draw much less than Consort did.”
A boat thudded alongside and Bolitho heard Allday barking at someone for interrupting their conference.
Then his face appeared in the skylight. He said, “Beggin’ your pardon, Sir Richard. Message from Hyperion. The Inspector General is come aboard.”
Bolitho concealed a tremor of excitement. Somervell had given in to curiosity at last. Or was he imagining that also? That there was already some kind of contest between them?
Bolitho stood up and winced as his head struck one of the beams.
Imrie exclaimed, “God damn it, Sir Richard, I should have warned you!”
Bolitho reached for his hat. “It acted as a reminder. It was less painful than the memory.”
On deck, the side-party had assembled and Bolitho saw Hyperion’s jollyboat already pulling back to the ship. Allday clambered fuming down to the waiting barge. He had sent that pink-faced midshipman off with a flea in his ear. Young puppy. He glared at the bargemen. “Stand by in the boat, damn you!”
Bolitho made a decision. “Tell your senior to take over, Imrie. I wish you to accompany me directly.”
Imrie’s jaw dropped open. “But, Sir Richard—”
Bolitho saw his first lieutenant watching them. “He is just aching to take command, albeit for a day—it is every first lieutenant’s dream!” He was amazed at his own good humour. It was like a dam holding all the worries here and at home back and out of view.
He stooped over as if to examine one of the snout-nosed twenty-four-pounder carronades. It gave him time to massage his eye again, to drive off the mist which the sharp sunlight had thrown at him as if to crack his confidence.
Imrie whispered to Jenour, “What a man, eh? I think I’d follow him to hell and back!”
Jenour watched Bolitho’s shoulders. “Aye, sir.” It was only a guess, but he saw more of Bolitho than anyone apart from Allday and the cabin staff. It was strange that they never mentioned it. But Jenour’s uncle was a physician in Southampton. He had spoken of something like this. Jenour had seen Bolitho caught off balance, like the moment when the Viscount’s beautiful wife had reached out to aid him, and other times at sea before that.
But nothing was ever said about it. He had to be mistaken.
All the way across the anchorage Bolitho pondered over his mission. If he had frigates, even one at his disposal, he could plan around the one, formidable obstacle.
La Guaira, the Spanish port on the Main and gateway to the capital Caracas, was impregnable. That was only because nobody had ever attempted it before. He could feel Imrie’s curiosity and was glad he had visited the Thor before discussing the venture with Haven and the others.
Imrie would be confident but not reckless. Price had believed he could do it, although for different reasons. Had he succeeded, it was unlikely that even a tiny fishing dory could slip through the Dons’ defences afterwards.
Allday muttered, “We have to put round t’other side, Sir Richard.” He sounded irritated, and Bolitho knew that he was still brooding over his newly-discovered and as quickly lost son.
Jenour stood up and swayed in the barge. “The water-lighters are alongside, Sir Richard. Shall I signal them to stand away for you?”
Bolitho tugged his coat. “Sit down, you impatient young upstart.” He knew the young lieutenant was smiling at his rebuke. “We need fresh water, and Hyperion does have two sides to her!”
They pulled around the bo
ws and past the out-thrust trident. Bolitho glanced up at the figurehead’s fierce stare. Many a man must have seen that lancing through the gunsmoke and felt a last fear before he was cut down in battle.
He found Haven agitated and probably worried that Bolitho would berate him.
“I am sorry about the lighters, sir! I was not expecting you!”
Bolitho crossed the deck and looked down. Again, it was to test his eye, to prepare it for the cool shadows between decks.
“No matter.” He knew Haven was watching Imrie with suspicion and said, “Commander Imrie is my guest.” He rested his hands on the sun-baked woodwork and regarded the nearest lighter. They were huge, flat-bottomed craft, their open hulls lined with great casks of water. One line of casks had already been hoisted up and lowered inboard on tackles; and Bolitho saw Parris, the first lieutenant, one foot resting negligently on a hatch coaming, watching Sheargold the beaky-faced purser check each cask before it was sent below. He was about to turn away and then said, “The lighter is still on even keel, yet all the casks are on the outboard side.”
Haven observed him warily, as if he thought Bolitho had been too long in the sun.
“They are so constructed, sir. Nothing will tilt them.”
Bolitho straightened his back and looked at Imrie.
“There you have it, Imrie. A platform for your mortars!” He ignored their combined astonishment.
“Now, I must meet the Inspector General!”
In the bars of bright forenoon sunlight, The Right Honourable the Viscount Somervell lounged against a leather-backed chair and listened without interruption. He was dressed in very pale green with brocade and stitching which would put any prince to shame. Close-to and in the brilliant glare Somervell looked younger, mid-thirties, her age or perhaps less.
Bolitho tried not to think beyond the outline of his plan, but Catherine seemed to linger in the great cabin like a shadow, as if she too was making comparisons.
Bolitho walked to the stern windows and looked out at some passing fishing boats. The anchorage was still flat and calm, but the mist was drifting seawards, and the pendant above an anchored brig was lifting occasionally to a lifeless breeze.
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