He glanced at Keen’s profile. “We shall just beat eight bells, Val, and so save Mr Penhaligon’s reputation!”
“All acknowledged, sir!”
As the signal was briskly hauled to the deck, the ships faced up to the feeble breeze and dropped anchor.
Bolitho said, “I have to go aft. I shall require my barge directly.”
Keen faced him. “You’ll not wait for the rear-admiral to come aboard, Sir Richard?”
Keen must have guessed that he was going to visit Benbow mainly to avoid having to greet Herrick with all the usual formalities. Their last meeting had been across the court’s table. When next they met it would have to be as man-to-man. For both their sakes.
“Old friends do not need to rest on tradition, Val.” Bolitho hoped it sounded more convincing than it felt.
He tried to push it from his mind. Herrick had been here a long time; he might well have news of the enemy. Intelligence was everything. Without the little scraps of information gathered by the patrols and casual encounters they were helpless.
He heard Allday calling hoarsely to his barge crew, the creak of tackles as the boat, soon followed by others, was swayed up and over the gangway.
A few local craft were already approaching the ships, their hulls crammed with cheap wares to tempt the sailors to part with their money. Like Portsmouth and any other seaport, there would be women too for the land-starved men if the captains turned a blind eye. It must be hard for any man to accept, Bolitho thought. The officers came and went as duty permitted, but only trusted hands and those of the press-gangs were ever allowed to set foot ashore. Month in and year out, it was a marvel there had not been more outbreaks of rebellion in the fleet.
He thought of Catherine as he had left her. Keen would be thinking the same about Zenoria. It would be ten thousand times worse if they could not meet until the war had ended, or they had been thrown on the beach as rejected cripples, like the one-legged man.
He went to his cabin and collected some letters which had been brought on board Firefly at the last moment. For Herrick. He gave a grim smile. Like bearing gifts.
Ozzard pattered round him, his eyes everywhere, to make sure that Bolitho had forgotten nothing.
It made Bolitho think of Catherine’s face when he had presented her with the fan Ozzard had cleaned.
She had said, “Keep it. It is all I have to give you. Have it by you. Then I shall be near when you need me.”
He sighed and walked out past the sentry and Keen’s open cabin door, where fresh white paint disguised where Haven’s pistol had been fired. Haven was lucky that Parris was still alive. Or was he? His career was wrecked, and there would be nothing waiting for him when he eventually reached his home.
He walked into the bright sunlight and saw the Royal Marines assembled at the entry-port, boatswain’s mates with their silver calls, Keen and Jenour ready to pay their respects.
Major Adams of the Royal Marines raised his sword and barked:
“Guard ready, sir!”
Keen looked at Bolitho. “Barge alongside, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho raised his hat to the quarterdeck and saw bare-backed seamen working aloft on the mizzen yard peering down at him, their feet dangling in space.
One ship. One company.
Bolitho hurried down to the barge. The memories would have to wait.
Rear-Admiral Thomas Herrick stood with his hands grasped behind his back and watched the other ships anchoring, while the wind fell away to leave their sails almost empty. Gunsmoke from exchanged salutes drifted towards the shore, and Herrick tensed as he saw the green barge being lowered alongside Hyperion almost as soon as the Jack was hoisted forward.
Captain Hector Gossage remarked, “It seems that the vice-admiral is coming to us immediately, sir.”
Herrick grunted. There were so many new faces in his command, and his flag captain had only been with him for a few months. His predecessor, Dewar, had gone home in ill health and Herrick still missed him.
Herrick said, “Prepare to receive him. Full guard. You know what to do.”
He wanted to be left alone, to think. When he had received his new orders from Sir Owen Godschale at the Admiralty, Herrick had thought of little else. The last time he had met Bolitho had been here in the Mediterranean when Benbow had been under heavy attack from Jobert’s squadron. Re-united in battle, friends meeting against the heartless terms of war. But afterwards, when Bolitho had sailed for England, Herrick had thought a great deal about the court of enquiry, how Bolitho had cursed them after he had heard of Inch’s death. Herrick still believed that Bolitho’s hurt and anger had been directed at him, not the anonymous court.
He thought of Godschale’s personal letter, which had accompanied the changed orders. Herrick had already learned of the liaison between Bolitho and the woman he had known as Catherine Pareja. He had always felt ill-at-ease with her, out of his depth. A proud, uninhibited woman. In his eyes she lacked modesty, humility. He thought of his dear, loving Dulcie at their new house in Kent. Not a bit like her at all.
How brave Dulcie had been when she had been told finally that she could not bear him any children. She had said softly, “If only we had met earlier, Thomas. Maybe we would have had a fine son to follow you into the navy.”
He thought of Bolitho’s life in Falmouth, the same old grey house where he had been entertained when Bolitho had commanded Phalarope, and he had risen to become his first lieutenant. It seemed like a century ago.
Herrick had always been stocky, but he had filled out comfortably since he had married Dulcie, and had risen to the unbelievable height of rear-admiral as well. He had been out here so long that his round, honest face was almost the colour of mahogany, which made his bright blue eyes and the streaks of grey in his hair seem all the more noticeable.
What could Richard Bolitho be thinking of? He had a lovely wife and daughter he could be proud of. Any serving officer could envy his record, fights won at cost to himself, but never failing to hold his men’s values close to his heart. His sailors had called him Equality Dick, a nickname taken up by the popular newssheets ashore. But some of those were telling a very different story now. Of the vice-admiral who cared more for a lady than his own reputation.
Godschale had skirted round it very well in his letter.
“I know you are both old friends, but you may find it diffi-cult now to serve under him when you were expecting quite rightly to be relieved.”
By saying nothing, Godschale had said everything. A warning or a threat? You could take it either way.
He heard the marines falling in at the entry port, their officer snapping out commands as he inspected the guard.
Captain Gossage rejoined him and watched the array of anchored ships.
He said, “They look fine enough, sir.”
Herrick nodded. His own ships needed to be relieved, if only for a quick overhaul and complete restoring. He had only been able to release one vessel at a time for watering or to gather new victuals, and the sudden change of orders to place him under Bolitho’s flag had left everyone surprised or resentful.
Gossage was saying, “I served with Edmund Haven a few years ago, sir.”
“Haven?” Herrick pulled his mind back. “Bolitho’s flag captain.”
Gossage nodded. “A dull fellow, I thought. Only got Hyperion because she was little more than a hulk.”
Herrick dug his chin into his neckcloth. “I’d not let Sir Richard hear you say that. It is not a view he would share.”
The officer-of-the-watch called, “The barge is casting off, sir!”
“Very well. Man the side.”
In her last letter Dulcie had said little about Belinda. They had been in touch, but it seemed likely that any confidences would be kept secret. He smiled sadly. Even from him.
Herrick thought too of the girl Bolitho had once loved and married—Cheney Seton. Herrick had been at the marriage. It had been his terrible mission to carry the news of her tra
gic death to Bolitho at sea. He had known that Belinda was not another like her. But Bolitho had seemed settled, especially after he had been presented with a daughter. Herrick tried to keep things straight. It had nothing to do with the cruel fact that Dulcie was beyond the age to give him children. Even as he arranged his thoughts he recognised the lie. Could almost hear the comparison. Why them and not us?
And now there was Catherine. Rumours were always blown up out of all proportion. Like Nelson’s much-vaunted affair. Later, Nelson would regret it. When he laid down his sword for the last time, there would be many old enemies eager to forget his triumphs and his worth. Herrick came of a poor family and knew how hard it was to rise above any superior’s dislike, let alone outright hostility. Bolitho had saved him from it, had given him the chance he would otherwise never have had. There was no denying that. And yet—
Gossage straightened his hat. “Barge approaching, sir!”
A voice yelled, “Clear the upper deck!”
It would not look right to have the gun deck and forecastle crowded with idlers when Bolitho came aboard. But they were there all the same, despite some tempting smells from the galley funnel.
Herrick gripped his sword and pressed it to his side. Old friends. None closer. How could it happen like this?
The calls shrilled and the Royal Marine fifers struck into Heart of Oak, while the guard slapped their muskets to the present in a small cloud of pipeclay.
Bolitho stood framed against the sea’s silky blue and doffed his hat.
He had not changed, Herrick thought. And as far as he could see, he had no grey hairs, although he was a year older than Herrick himself.
Bolitho nodded to the Royal Marines and said, “Smart guard, Major.” Then he strode across to Herrick and thrust out his hand.
Herrick seized it, knowing how important this moment was, perhaps to Bolitho as well.
“Welcome, Sir Richard!”
Bolitho smiled, his teeth white against his sunburned skin.
“It is good to see you, Thomas. Though I fear you must hate this change of plans.”
Together they walked aft to the great cabin while the guard was dismissed, and Allday cast off the barge to idle comfortably within Benbow’s fat shadow.
In the cabin it seemed cool after the quarterdeck, and Herrick watched as Bolitho seated himself by the stern windows, saw his eyes moving around while he recalled it as it had once been. His own flagship. There had been other changes too. That last battle had made certain of that.
The servant brought some wine and Bolitho said, “It seems that Our Nel is still in the Atlantic.”
Herrick swallowed his wine without noticing it. “So they say. I have heard that he may return to England and haul down his flag, as it looks unlikely that the French will venture out in strength. Not this year anyway.”
“Is that what you think?” Bolitho examined the glass. Herrick was on edge. More than he had expected. “It is possible, of course, that the enemy may slip through the Strait again and run for Toulon.”
Herrick frowned. “If so, we shall have ’em. Caught between us and the main fleet.”
“But suppose Villeneuve intends to break out from another direction? By the time their lordships got word to us, he would be beating up the Channel, while we remain kicking our heels in ignorance.”
Herrick stirred uneasily. “I am keeping up my patrols—”
“I knew you would. I see you are short of a ship?”
Herrick was startled. “ Absolute, yes. I sent her to Gibraltar. She’s so rotten, I wonder she remains afloat.” He seemed to stiffen. “It was my responsibility. I did not know then that you were assuming total command.”
Bolitho smiled. “Easy, Thomas. It was not meant as a criticism. I might have done the same.”
Herrick looked at the deck. Might. He said, “I shall be pleased to hear of your intentions.”
“Presently, Thomas. Perhaps we might sup together?”
Herrick looked up and saw the grey eyes watching him. Pleading with him?
He replied, “I’d relish that.” He faltered. “You could bring Captain Haven if you wish, although I understand—”
Bolitho stared at him. Of course. He would not have heard yet.
“Haven is under arrest, Thomas. In due course I expect he will stand trial for attempting to murder his first lieutenant.” He almost smiled at Herrick’s astonishment. It probably sounded completely insane. He added, “Haven imagined that the lieutenant was having an affair with his wife. There was a child. He was wrong, as it turned out. But the damage was done.”
Herrick refilled his glass and spilled some wine on the table without heeding it.
“I have to speak out, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho watched him gravely. “No rank or title ’twixt us, Thomas—unless you need a barricade for your purpose?”
Herrick exclaimed, “This woman. What can she mean to you except—”
Bolitho said quietly, “You and I are friends, Thomas. Let us remain as such.” He looked past him and pictured Catherine in the shadows. He said, “I am in love with her. Is that so hard to understand?” He tried to keep the bitterness from his tone. “How would you feel, Thomas, if some stranger referred to your Dulcie as this woman, eh?”
Herrick gripped the arms of his chair. “God damn it, Richard, why do you twist the truth? You know, you must know what everyone is saying, that you are besotted by her, have thrown your wife and child to the winds so that you can lose yourself, and to hell with all who care for you!”
Bolitho thought briefly of the grand house in London. “I’ve thrown nobody to the winds. I have found someone I can love. Reason does not come into it.” He stood up and crossed to the windows. “You must know I do not act lightly in such matters.” He swung round. “Are you judging me too? Who are you— Christ?”
They faced each other like enemies. Then Bolitho said, “I need her, and I pray that she may always need me. Now let that be an end to it, man!”
Herrick took several deep breaths and refilled both glasses.
“I shall never agree.” He fixed Bolitho with the bright blue eyes he had always remembered. “But I’ll not let it put my duty at risk.”
Bolitho sat down again. “Duty, Thomas? Don’t speak to me of that. I’ve had a bellyful of late.” He made up his mind. “This combined squadron is our responsibility. I am not usurping your leadership and that you must know. I don’t share their lordships’ attitude on the French, that is if they indeed have one. Pierre Villeneuve is a man of great intelligence; he is not one to go by the book of fighting instructions. He needs to be cautious on the one hand, for if he fails in his ultimate mission to clear the Channel for invasion, then he must die at the guillotine.”
Herrick muttered, “Barbarians!”
Bolitho smiled. “We must explore every possibility and keep our ships together except for the patrols. When the time comes, it will be a hard sail to find and support Nelson and brave Collingwood.” He put down his glass very slowly. “You see, I do not believe that the French will wait until next year. They have run the course.” He looked through the sun’s glare towards the anchored ships. “So have we.”
Herrick felt safer on familiar ground. “Who do you have as flag captain?”
Bolitho watched him and said dryly, “Captain Keen. There is none better. Now that you are promoted beyond my reach, Thomas.”
Herrick did not hide his dismay. “So we are all drawn together?”
Bolitho nodded. “Remember Lieutenant Browne—how he called us We Happy Few? ”
Herrick frowned. “I don’t need reminding.”
“Well, think on it, Thomas, my friend, there are even fewer of us now!”
Bolitho stood up and reached for his hat. “I must return to Hyperion. Perhaps later—” He left it unsaid. Then he placed the packet of letters for Herrick on the table.
“From England, Thomas. There will be more news, I expect.” Their eyes met and Bolitho ended quiet
ly, “I wanted you to hear it from me, as a friend, rather than assault your ears with more gossip from the sewers.”
Herrick protested, “I did not mean to hurt you. It is for you that I care.”
Bolitho shrugged. “We will fight the war together, Thomas. It seems that will have to suffice.”
They stood side-by-side at the entry port while Allday manoeuvred the barge alongside once again. Allday had never been caught out before and would be fuming about it.
Like everyone else he must have expected him to remain longer with his oldest friend.
Bolitho walked towards the entry port as the marine guard presented their muskets to the salute, the bayonets shining like ice in the glare.
He caught his shoe in a ring-bolt, and would have fallen but for a lieutenant who thrust out his arm to save him.
“Thank you, sir!”
He saw Herrick staring at him with sudden anxiety, the major of marines swaying beside the guard with his sword still rigid in his gloved hand.
Herrick exclaimed, “Are you well, Sir Richard?”
Bolitho looked at the nearest ship and gritted his teeth as the mist partly covered his eye. A close thing. He had been so gripped with emotion and disappointment at this visit that he had allowed his guard to fall. As in a sword-fight, it only took a second.
He replied, “Well enough, thank you.”
They looked at one another. “It shall not happen again.”
Some seamen had climbed into the shrouds and began to cheer as the barge pulled strongly from the shadow and into the sunlight. Allday swung the tiller bar and glanced quickly at Bolitho’s squared shoulders, the familiar ribbon which drew his hair back above the collar. Allday could remember it no other way.
He listened to the cheers, carried on by another of the seventy-fours close by.
Fools, he thought savagely. What the hell did they know? They had seen nothing, knew even less.
But he had watched, and had felt it even from the barge. Two friends with nothing to say, nothing to span the gap which had yawned between them like a moat around a fortress.
He saw the stroke oarsman watching Bolitho instead of his loom and glared at him until he paled under his stare.
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