Allday swore that he would never take anyone at face value again. For or against me, that’ll be my measure of a man.
Bolitho twisted round suddenly and shaded his eyes to look at him.
“It’s all right, Allday.” He saw his words sink in. “So be easy.”
Allday forgot his watching bargemen and grinned awkwardly. Bolitho had read his thoughts even with his back turned.
Allday said, “I was rememberin’, Sir Richard.”
“I know that. But at the moment I’m too full to speak on it.”
The barge glided to the main chains and Bolitho glanced up at the waiting side-party.
He hesitated. “I sometimes think we may hope for too much, old friend.”
Then he was gone, and the shrill of calls announced his arrival on deck.
Allday shook his head and muttered, “I never seen him like this afore.”
“What’s that, Cox’n?”
Allday swung round, his eyes blazing. “And you! Watch your stroke in future, or I’ll have the hide off ye!”
He forgot the bargemen and stared hard at the towering tumblehome of the ship’s side. Close to, you could see the gouged scars of battle beneath the smart buff and black paintwork.
Like us, he thought, suddenly troubled. Waiting for the last fight. When it came, you would need all the friends you could find.
15 A TIME FOR ACTION
BOLITHO leaned on one elbow and put his signature on yet another despatch for the Admiralty. In the great cabin the air was heavy and humid, and even with gunports and skylight open, he felt the sweat running down his spine. He had discarded his coat, and his shirt was open almost to his waist, but it made little difference.
He stared at the date on the next despatch which Yovell pushed discreetly before him. September; over three months since he had said his farewell to Catherine and returned to Gibraltar. He looked towards the open stern windows. To this. Hardly a ripple today, and the sea shone like glass, almost too painful to watch.
It seemed far longer. The endless days of beating up and down in the teeth of a raw Levantine, or lying becalmed without even a whisper of a breeze to fill the sails.
It could not go on. It was like sitting on a powder-keg and worse. Or was it all in his mind, a tension born of his own uncertainties? Fresh water was getting low again, and that might soon provoke trouble on the crowded messdecks.
Of the enemy there was no sign. Hyperion and her consorts lay to the west of Sardinia, while Herrick and his depleted squadron maintained their endless patrol from the Strait of Sicily to as far north as Naples Bay.
The other occupant of the cabin gave a polite cough. Bolitho glanced up and smiled. “Routine, Sir Piers, but it will not take much longer.”
Sir Piers Blachford settled down in his chair and stretched out his long legs. To the officers in the squadron his arrival in the last courier brig had been seen as another responsibility, a civilian sent to probe and investigate, a resented intruder.
It had not taken long for this strange man to alter all that. If they were honest, most of those who had taken offence at his arrival would be sorry to see him leave.
Blachford was a senior member of the College of Surgeons, one of the few who had volunteered to visit the navy’s squadrons, no matter at what discomfort to themselves, to examine injuries and their treatment in the spartan and often horrific conditions of a man-of-war. He was a man of boundless energy and never seemed to tire as he was ferried from one ship to the other to meet and reason with their surgeons, to instruct each captain on the better use of their meagre facilities for caring for the sick.
And yet he was some twenty years older than Bolitho, as thin as a ramrod, with the longest and most pointed nose Bolitho had ever seen. It was more like an instrument for his trade than part of his face. Also, he was very tall, and creeping about the different decks and peering into storerooms and sickbays must have taxed his strength and his patience, but he never complained. Bolitho would miss him. It was a rare treat to share a conversation at the end of a day with a man whose world was healing, rather than running an elusive enemy to ground.
Bolitho had received two letters from Catherine, both in the same parcel from a naval schooner.
She was safe and well in the Hampshire house which was owned by Keen’s father. He was a powerful man in the City of London, and kept the country house as a retreat. He had welcomed Catherine there, just as he had Zenoria. The favour went two ways, because one of Keen’s sisters was there also, her husband, a lieutenant with the Channel Fleet, having been lost at sea. A comfort, and a warning too.
He nodded to Yovell, who gathered up the papers and withdrew.
Bolitho said, “I expect that your ship will meet with us soon. I hope we have helped in your research?”
Blachford eyed him thoughtfully. “I am always amazed that casualties are not greater when I see the hell-holes in which they endure their suffering. It will take time to compare our findings at the College of Surgeons. It will be well spent. The recognition of wounds, the responses of the victims, a division of causes, be they gunshot or caused by thrusting or slashing blades. Immediate recognition can save time, and eventually lives. Mortification, gangrene and the terror it brings with it, each must be treated differently.”
Bolitho tried to imagine this same, reedy man with the wispy white hair in the midst of a battle. Surprisingly, it was not difficult.
He said, “It is something we all dread.”
Blachford smiled faintly. “That is very honest. I am afraid one tends to think of senior officers as glory-seeking men without heart.”
Bolitho smiled back. “Both our worlds appear different from the outside. When I joined my first ship I was a boy. I had to learn that the packed, frightening world between decks was not just a mass, a mindless body. It took me a long time.” He stared at the glittering reflections that moved across one of the guns which shared the cabin, as Hyperion responded to a breath of wind. “I am still learning.”
Through the open skylight he heard the shrill of a call, the slap of bare feet as the watch on deck responded to the order to man the braces yet again, and retrim the great yards to hold this cupful of wind. He heard Parris, too, and was reminded of a strange incident when one of the infrequent Levantine gales had swept down on them from the east, throwing the ship into confusion.
A man had gone overboard, probably like Keen’s sister’s husband, and while the ship forged away with the gale, the sailor had floundered astern, waiting to perish. For no ship could be brought about in such a blow without the real risk of dismasting her. Some captains would not even have considered it.
Keen had been on deck and had yelled for the quarter-boat to be cast adrift. The man overboard could obviously swim; there was a chance he might be able to reach the boat. There were also some captains who would have denied even that, saying that any boat was worth far more than a common seaman who might die anyway.
But Parris had shinned down to the boat with a handful of volunteers. The next morning the wind had backed and dropped, its amusement at their efforts postponed. They had recovered the boat, and the half-drowned seaman.
Parris had been sick with pain from his wounded shoulder, and Blachford had examined it afresh, and had done all he could. Bolitho had seen respect on Keen’s face, just as he had recorded Parris’s fanatical determination to prove himself. Because of him, there was one family in Portsmouth who would not grieve just yet. Blachford must also have been thinking of it, as well as all the other small incidents which when moulded into one hull made a fighting ship.
He remarked, “That was a brave thing your lieutenant did. Not many would even attempt it. It can be no help to see your own ship being carried further and further away until you are quite alone.”
Bolitho called for Ozzard. “Some wine?” He smiled. “You are only unpopular aboard this ship if you ask for water!”
The joke hid the truth. They had to divide the squadron soon. If they di
d not water the ships . . . He shut it from his mind as Ozzard entered the cabin.
And all the time he felt Blachford watching him. He had only once touched on the subject of his eye, but had dropped the matter when Bolitho had made light of it.
Blachford said abruptly, “You must do something about your eye. I have a fine colleague who will be pleased to examine it if I ask him.”
Bolitho watched Ozzard as he poured the wine. There was nothing on the little man’s face to show he was listening to every word.
Bolitho spread his hands. “What can I do? Leave the squadron when at any moment the enemy may break out?”
Blachford was unmoved. “You have a second-in-command. Are you afraid to delegate? I did hear that you took the treasure galleon because you would not risk another in your place.”
Bolitho smiled. “Perhaps I did not care about the risk.”
Blachford sipped his wine but his eyes remained on Bolitho. Bolitho was reminded of a watchful heron in the reeds at Falmouth. Waiting to strike.
“But that has changed?” The heron blinked at him.
“You are playing games with me.”
“Not really. To cure the sick is one thing. To understand the leaders who decide if a man shall live or die is another essential part of my studies.”
Bolitho stood up and moved restlessly about the cabin. “I am the cat on the wrong side of every door. When I am at home I fret about my ships and my sailors. Once here and I yearn for just a sight of England, the feel of grass underfoot, the smell of the land.”
Blachford said quietly, “Think about it. A raging gale like the one I shared with you, the sting of salt spray and the constant demands of duty are no place for what you need.” He made up his mind. “I tell you this. If you do not heed my warning you will lose all sight in that eye.”
Bolitho looked down at him and smiled sadly. “And if I hand over my flag? Can you be sure the eye will be saved?”
Blachford shrugged. “I am certain of nothing, but—”
Bolitho touched his shoulder. “Aye, the but; it is always there. No, I cannot leave. Call me what you will, but I am needed here.” He waved his hand towards the water. “Hundreds of men are depending on me, just as their sons will probably depend on your eventual findings, eh?”
Blachford sighed. “I call you stubborn.”
Bolitho said. “I am not ready for the surgeon’s wings-and-limbs tub just yet, and I do not yearn for glory as some will proclaim.”
“At least think about it.” Blachford waited and added gently, “You have another to consider now.”
Bolitho looked up as a far-off voice cried out, “Deck there! Sail on the lee bow!”
Bolitho laughed. “With luck that will be your passage to England. I fear I am no match for your devious ways.”
Blachford stood up and ducked his head between the massive beams. “I never thought it, but I’ll be sorry to go.” He looked at Bolitho curiously. “How can you know that from a masthead’s call?”
Bolitho grinned. “No other ship would dare come near us!”
Later, as the newcomer drew closer, the officer-of-the-watch reported to Keen that she was the brig Firefly. The vessel which, like the old Superb in Nelson’s famous squadron, sailed when others slept.
Bolitho watched as Blachford’s much-used chests and folios were carried on deck and said, “You will meet my nephew. He is good company.”
But Firefly was no longer captained by Adam Bolitho; it was another young commander who hurried aboard the flagship to make his report.
Bolitho met him aft and asked, “What of my nephew?”
The commander, who looked like a midshipman aping his betters, explained that Adam had received his promotion. It was all he knew, and was almost tongue-tied at meeting a vice-admiral face to face. Especially one who was now well known for reasons other than the sea, Bolitho thought bleakly.
He was glad for Adam. But he would have liked more than anything to see him.
Keen stood beside him as Firefly spread more sails, and tacked around in an effort to catch the feeble wind.
Keen said, “It seems wrong without him in command.”
Bolitho looked up at Hyperion’s braced yards, the masthead pendant lifting and curling in the glare.
“Aye, Val, I wish him all the luck—” he faltered and remembered Herrick’s Lady Luck. “With men like Sir Piers Blachford taking an interest at long last, maybe Adam’s navy will be a safer one for those who serve the fleet.”
He watched the brig until she was stern-on and spreading more canvas, and her upper yards were touched with gold. In two weeks’ time Firefly would be in England.
Keen moved away as Bolitho began to pace up and down the weather side of the quarterdeck.
In his loose, white shirt, his lock of hair blowing in the breeze, he did not look much like an admiral.
Keen smiled. He was a man.
A week later the schooner Lady Jane, sailing under Admiralty warrant, was sighted by the frigate Tybalt, whose captain immediately signalled his flagship.
The wind was fair but had veered considerably, so that the smart schooner had to beat back and forth for several hours before more signals could be exchanged.
On Hyperion’s quarterdeck, Bolitho stood with Keen and watched the schooner’s white sails fill to the opposite tack, while Jenour’s signals party ran up another acknowledgement.
Jenour said excitedly, “She is from Gibraltar with despatches, Sir Richard.”
Keen remarked, “They must be urgent. The schooner is making heavy weather of it.” He gestured to Parris. “Prepare to heave-to, if you please.”
Calls trilled between decks and men swarmed through hatch-ways and along the upper deck to be mustered by their petty officers.
Bolitho touched his eyelid and pressed it gently. It had barely troubled him since Sir Piers Blachford had left the ship. Was it possible that it might improve, despite what he had said?
“Lady Jane’s hove-to, Sir Richard. She’s putting down a boat.”
Someone chuckled, “Gawd, her captain looks about twelve years old!”
Bolitho watched the small boat rising and dipping over the smooth-sided swell.
He had been in his cabin when the hail had come from the masthead about Tybalt’s signal. He had been composing fresh orders for Herrick and his captains. Divide the squadron. Delay no longer.
Bolitho glanced at the nearest gangway, the bare-backed seamen clinging to the nettings to watch as the boat pulled nearer. Was it wrong to curse boredom when the alternative could be sudden death?
“Heave-to, if you please!”
Parris raised his speaking trumpet. “Maintops’l braces!” Even he seemed to have forgotten his wound.
Hyperion came slowly into the wind, while Bolitho kept his gaze on the approaching boat.
Suppose it was just one more despatch, which in the end meant nothing? He swung away to hide the anger he felt for himself. In God’s name, he should be used to that by now.
Lady Jane’s captain, a pink-cheeked lieutenant named Edwardes, clambered through the entry port and stared around like someone trapped.
Keen stepped forward. “Come aft, sir. My admiral will speak with you.”
But Bolitho stared at the second figure who was being hauled unceremoniously on deck, accompanied by grins and nudges from the seamen.
Bolitho exclaimed, “So you could not stay away!”
Sir Piers Blachford waved a warning hand as a sailor made to drop his case of instruments on the deck. Then he said simply, “I had reached Gibraltar. There I was told that the French are massed at Cadiz with their Spanish allies. I could not see my way to joining the fleet, so I decided to return here in the schooner.” He smiled gently. “I have the blessing of authority behind me, Sir Richard.”
Keen smiled wryly. “You are more likely to get sunburn or dry rot if you stay with us, Sir Piers!” But his eyes were on Bolitho, seeing the change in him. It never failed to move him, jus
t to watch his expression, the sudden glint in his dark grey eyes.
In the cabin Bolitho slit open the weighted canvas envelope himself. The shipboard sounds seemed to be muffled, as if Hyperion too was holding her breath.
The others stood around like unrehearsed players. Keen, feet astride, his fair hair and handsome features picked out in a bar of sunlight. Yovell by the table, a pen still gripped in his hand. Sir Piers Blachford, sitting down because of his height, but unusually subdued, as if he knew this was a moment he must share and remember. Jenour by the table, close enough for Bolitho to hear his rapid breathing. And Lieutenant Edwardes who had carried the despatches under all sail from the Rock, gulping gratefully from a tankard which Ozzard had put into his hand.
And of course, Allday. Was it by chance, or had he taken his stance by the rack with its two swords to mark the moment?
Bolitho said quietly, “Last month Lord Nelson hauled down his flag and returned home after failing to bring the French to battle.” He glanced at Blachford. “The French fleet is at Cadiz, so too the Spanish squadrons. Vice-Admiral Collingwood is blockading the enemy in Cadiz.”
Jenour whispered, “And Lord Nelson?”
Bolitho looked at him. “Nelson has rejoined Victory, and is now doubtless with the fleet.”
For a long moment nobody spoke. Then Keen asked, “They will break out? They must.”
Bolitho gripped his hands behind him. “I agree. Villeneuve is ready. He has no choice. Which way will he head? North to Biscay, or back here, Toulon perhaps?” He studied their intent faces. “We shall be ready. We are ordered to prepare to join Lord Nelson, to blockade or to fight; only Villeneuve knows which.”
He felt every muscle relax, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
He looked at the pink-cheeked lieutenant. “So you are on your way?”
“Aye, Sir Richard.” He waved vaguely. “First to Malta, and then . . .”
Bolitho watched the sparkle in his eyes; he was planning how he would relate to his friends, how he had carried the word to the rest of the fleet.
“I wish you Godspeed.”
Keen left to see the young man over the side and Bolitho said, “Make a signal to Tybalt, repeated to Phaedra. Captain to close the Flag and repair on board without delay.”
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