“We ’eard you was back sir.” Taylor was speaking rapidly. “An’ because o’ me knowin’ you like, I was chosen to come.” He smiled bitterly. “I thought as I’d ’ave to borrow a boat or swim to yer ship. You comin’ ashore so soon made things easier like.” He dropped his eyes under Bolitho’s gaze.
“Are you in trouble, Taylor?”
He looked up, his eyes suddenly defensive. “That will depend on you, sir. I was chosen to speak with you, an’, an’, knowin’ you as a fair an’ just captain, sir, I thought maybe you’d listen to . . .”
Bolitho stood up and studied him calmly. “Your ship, where is she lying?”
Taylor jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Long the coast to th’ east’rd, sir.” Something like pride crossed his tanned face. “Frigate, thirty-six, sir.”
“I see.” Bolitho walked slowly to the empty fireplace and back again. “And you, and men like you, have seized control, is that it? A mutineer? ” He saw the man flinch and added harshly, “If you knew me, really knew me, you’d realise I’d not parley with those who betray their trust!”
Taylor said thickly, “If you’d ’ear me out, sir, that’s all I ask. After that you can ’ave me seized an’ ’anged if you so wish it, an’ well I knows that fact.”
Bolitho bit his lip. It had taken courage to come here like this. Courage and something more. This Taylor was no freshly pressed man, no lower deck sea-lawyer. He was a professional seaman. It could not have been easy for him. At any moment during his journey to Falmouth he might have been seen anyway by someone wishing to ingratiate himself with the authorities, and a patrol might even now be marching to the gates.
He said, “Very well. I cannot promise to agree with your views, but I will listen. That is all I can say.”
Taylor relaxed slightly. “We ’ave bin attached to the Channel Fleet, sir, an’ in regular commission for two years. We’ve ’ad little rest, for the fleet is always short o’ frigates, as you well knows. We was at Spit’ead when the trouble started last month, but our cap’n put to sea afore we could show our support with the others.” He bunched his hands tightly and continued bitterly, “I must say it, sir, so’s you’ll understand. Our cap’n’s a ’ard man, an’ th’ first lieutenant’s so taken with abusin’ the people there’s ’ardly one aboard whose back ’as not bin ripped open by th’ cat!”
Bolitho gripped his hands behind him. Stop him now, before he says any more. By listening so far you have implicated yourself in God knows what.
Instead he said coldly, “We are at war, Taylor. Times are hard for officers as well as seamen.”
Taylor eyed him stubbornly. “When the trouble broke at Spit’ead it was agreed by th’ delegates of the Fleet that we would go to sea an’ fight if th’ Frogs came out. There’s not a single Jack who’d be disloyal, sir. But some o’ the ships ’ave bad officers, sir, there’s none can say otherwise. There’s some where no pay or bounty ’as bin paid for months an’ the ’ands near starvin’ on foul food! When Black Dick,” he flushed, “beg pardon, sir, I mean Lord ’Owe, spoke to our delegates it was all settled. ’E agreed to our requests as best ’e could.” He frowned. “But we was at sea by then an’ ’ad no part in the settlement. In fact, our cap’n ’as bin worse instead o’ better! An’ that’s God’s truth, on my oath!”
“So you’ve taken the ship?”
“Aye, sir. Until justice is agreed on.” He looked at the floor. “We ’eard of the orders to join this new squadron under Vice-Admiral Broughton. It’ll maybe mean years away from England. It’s not fair that our wrongs should stay unrighted. We knew Admiral Broughton at Spit’ead, sir. ’E’s said to be a good officer, but would go ’ard with any more trouble.”
“And if I say nothing can be done, what then?”
Taylor looked him in the eyes. “There’s many aboard who swear we’ll ’ang anyway. They want to sail the ship to France an’ trade ’er for their freedom.” He hardened his jaw. “But those like me say otherwise, sir. We just want our rights like the boys at Spit’ead got.”
Bolitho eyed him narrowly. How much did Taylor know of the other unrest at the Nore? He might be genuine, or could be the tool of someone more experienced in revolt. There was little doubt that what he had said of his ship was true.
He said, “Have you harmed anyone aboard?”
“None, sir, you’ve my word.” Taylor spread his hands plead-ingly. “If you could tell ’em that you’d put our case to the admiral, sir, it’d make a world o’ difference! “Something like a sad smile showed on his rough features. “I think some of the lieutenants an’ th’ master are a might glad it’s ’appened, sir. It’s bin a terrible
un’appy ship.”
Bolitho’s mind moved rapidly. Vice-Admiral Broughton might be in London. He could be anywhere. Until he hoisted his flag Rear-Admiral Thelwall was still in command, and he was too sick to be involved in anything like this.
There was Captain Rook, and the officer commanding the local garrison. There were probably dragoons still at Truro, and the port admiral thirty miles away in Plymouth. And all were equally useless at this moment of time.
If a frigate was indeed handed over to the enemy it might act as a general signal to the men at the Nore, who were still hovering on the brink of mutiny. It might even be seen as the thing to do when all else had failed. A chill ran down his spine. If the French got to hear of it they would act without delay to put an invasion into force. The thought of a confused demoralised fleet being destroyed because he alone had failed to act was unthinkable, no matter what the consequences might be later.
He asked shortly, “What else were you told to explain?”
“The Auriga’s anchored in Veryan Bay. Some eight miles from ’ere. Do you know of it, sir?”
Bolitho smiled grimly. “I am a Cornishman, Taylor. Yes, I know it well.”
Taylor licked his lips. Maybe he had been expecting instant arrest. Now that Bolitho was listening to him he seemed unable to get the words out fast enough.
“If I’m not back afore sunset they’ll make sail, sir. We bin approached by an armed cutter more’n once an’ we’ve told ’em to stand off, that we’re anchored to carry out some repairs.”
Bolitho nodded. It was not unusual for smaller ships to take refuge in that particular bay. It was quiet and fairly well sheltered in anything but severe weather. Whoever had steered this mutiny to its present state certainly knew what he was doing.
Taylor continued, “There’s a little inn on the west side o’ th’ bay, sir.”
Bolitho said, “The Drake’s Head. A smugglers’ haunt, to all accounts.”
“Maybe, sir.” Taylor watched him uncertainly. “But if you’ll come there tonight an’ meet our delegates, we can settle matters there an’ then like.”
Bolitho turned away. How easy it all sounded. And what was the Auriga’s captain supposed to think about it? Merely pack his chest and leave? The simple reasoning probably seemed sound enough between decks, but it would cut little cloth when it reached higher authority.
But the most important and urgent thing was to stop the ship being taken and given to the enemy. Bolitho had no doubt that her captain was all and more than Taylor had described. There were enough of such petty tyrants throughout the Service, and he had even assumed an earlier command himself because of the previous captain’s callousness.
Anyway, he could not hide his head and ignore it.
He said, “Very well.”
“Thank you, sir.” Taylor nodded vehemently. “You must come alone, but for a servant. They says they’ll kill the cap’n if there’s any sort o’ treachery.” He hung his head. “I’m sorry, sir, it was none o’ my wantin’. All I wished was to end me days in one piece, with a pot o’ prize money at th’ end o’ it to open a little inn maybe, or a chandler’s.”
Bolitho looked at him gravely. Instead, you’ll probably end on a yardarm, he thought.
Taylor said suddenly, “They’ll listen to you, sir. I just know it.
With a new cap’n the ship’d be ready to live again.”
“I will promise nothing. Lord Howe’s pardon should certainly have applied to your ship, however . . .” He faced the other man steadily. “It could go hard with you, as I expect you know.”
“Aye, sir. But when you’ve lived with misery for so long it is a chance we must face up to.”
Bolitho walked to the door. “I will ride to the inn at dusk. If what you have told me is true, I will do what I can to bring the matter to a rightful conclusion.”
The relief on Taylor’s face faded as Bolitho added flatly, “If on the other hand this is some delaying tactic to give your people more time to dispose of the ship, be in no doubt of the consequences. It has been done before, and the culprits have always been run to ground.” He paused. “Eventually.”
The man knuckled his forehead and hurried out into the passage.
Ferguson watched him go with obvious distaste.
“Is it all well, sir?”
“At present, thank you.” He pulled his watch from his pocket. “Send someone to signal for my barge.” He saw the disappointment on Ferguson’s face and added, “I will be back ashore later today, but there are things to attend to.”
An hour later Bolitho climbed up through the Euryalus’s gilded entry port and removed his hat to the pipes’ shrill greeting and the stamp and slap of muskets.
Keverne looked unusually preoccupied. When they reached the quarterdeck he said shortly, “The surgeon is worried about the admiral, sir. He is very low, and I am afraid for him.”
Bolitho glanced at Allday whose face had been screwed up with burning curiosity ever since the barge had reached the jetty.
“Keep the bargemen standing by. I may require them soon.”
Then he strode aft and down to the admiral’s quarters.
Lying quietly in his cot the admiral seemed even smaller and more fragile. His eyes were shut, and there was blood on his shirt-front as well as the handkerchief.
Bolitho glanced at the surgeon, a thin, wiry man with unusually large and hairy hands.
“Well, Mr Spargo?”
He shrugged. “I cannot be sure, sir. He ought to be on shore. I am only a ship’s surgeon.” He shrugged again. “But the effort of moving him now might be fatal.”
Bolitho nodded, his mind made up.
“Then leave him here and watch him well.” To Keverne he said, “Come up to my cabin.”
Keverne followed him in silence until they had reached the wide cabin which ran the whole breadth of the poop. Through the open stern windows was a perfect view of St Anthony Head, moving slightly as the ship swung ponderously on the current.
“I have to go ashore again, Mr Keverne.” He must be careful not to involve his first lieutenant, yet at the same time he had to be primed enough to know what to do if the scheme misfired.
Keverne’s face was a mask. “Sir?”
Bolitho unclipped his sword and laid it on the table.
“There is no news of Vice-Admiral Broughton yet. Nor is there any hint of unrest ashore. Captain Rook’s boats will be alongside after our people have had their meal, and you can carry on with loading stores all afternoon and into the dog watches if the sea remains calm.”
Keverne waited, knowing there was more to come.
“Sir Charles is very sick, as you have seen.” Bolitho wished Keverne would show some curiosity, like Herrick would have done when he had been his first lieutenant. “So you will be in command until my return.”
“When will that be, sir?”
“I am not sure. Later tonight perhaps!”
He had Keverne’s interest roused at last.
“Is there something I can do to help, sir?” He paused. “Will there be trouble?”
“Not if I can prevent it. I will leave written orders for you to act upon if I am delayed for more than the night. You will open them and take whatever . . .” he held up his hand, “no, every necessary step to see that they are carried out without delay.” His mind grappled with the picture of the chart within his brain. It would take Euryalus more than two hours to up anchor and reach Veryan Bay, where the sight of her terrible armament would soon quell even the stoutest heart into submission. But by then it might be far too late.
Why not put to sea now, without further delay? No one would blame him, probably quite the reverse. He frowned and dismissed the idea immediately. This was to be a new squadron. And with the war entering its most dangerous stage so far, it would be a bad beginning for the flagship to pound an anchored consort into a bloody shambles because he had not the nerve or the will to do otherwise.
Surprisingly, Keverne smiled, showing his even teeth.
“I have not been with you for eighteen months and learned nothing of your methods, sir.” The smile vanished. “And I hope I have your confidence!”
Bolitho smiled. “A captain can only go so far to share his thoughts, Mr Keverne. His responsibility he must hold to himself, as you will one day discover.” If it goes badly tonight you may be promoted earlier than you imagine, he thought bleakly.
Trute, the cabin servant, stepped gingerly through the door and asked, “Permission to lay th’ table for your lunch, sir?”
Keverne said, “I will go and attend to the hands, sir.” He watched distantly as Trute busied himself with plates and cutlery at the long table. “I’ll not be sorry to get to sea again.” He left the cabin without another word.
As Bolitho sat moodily at his lonely table toying with the cold rabbit pie which must have been sent directly from the shore by Rook, he thought back over what Taylor had told him. The fact that he had been able to reach Falmouth and find the house so quickly spoke volumes, and suggested there were other watchful eyes already close by, ready to pass the word back to the Auriga. Any sort of deception, marines landed at the jetty or some such precaution other than normal port practice, would soon arouse suspicion, and the Auriga’s captain would be in grave danger, the consequences terrible.
He stood up angrily. How long would it take before such men were pruned from the Navy once and for all? A new breed of officer was growing up, and finding the scope to attack the enemy as well as better the living conditions of their own seamen. But here and there was the bully and tyrant, often men with influence in high places who could not be broken or removed until moments like these, when it was too late.
Trute returned and eyed him worriedly. “Did yew not like the pie, sir?” He was a Devon man and viewed Bolitho, like all Cornishmen, with both apprehension and a little awe.
“Later perhaps.” Bolitho glanced at the sword. Old and so worn, the one which appeared in many of those family portraits. “I will leave this in your care.” He tried to keep his voice normal. “I shall take a hanger.” He paused. “And pistols.”
Trute gaped at the sword. “ Leave it, sir?”
Bolitho ignored him. “Now pass the word for my cox’n.”
Allday was equally surprised. “Won’t seem the same without the sword, Captain.” He shook his head. “Whatever next!”
Bolitho snapped, “I have told you before that one of these days you will open your mouth too wide. You are not so old and wise that you can avoid my displeasure!”
Allday smiled. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
It was hopeless. “We will be going ashore together. Do you know the Drake’s Head?”
Allday became serious. “Aye. Veryan Bay. ’Tis owned by an old yaw-sighted villain. One eye points forrard, t’other almost abeam, but his wits are as sharp as a midshipman’s hunger.”
“Good. That is where we are going.”
Allday frowned as Trute re-entered and laid a brace of pistols on the table beside a curved hanger.
He asked mildly. “A duel, Captain?”
“Call away the barge. Then give my compliments to Mr Keverne and tell him I am ready to leave, as soon as I have written his orders.”
Bolitho made a further visit to see the admiral, but there was little change. He appeared to be r
esting quietly, his wizened face more relaxed in sleep.
On deck he found Keverne waiting for him.
“Barge alongside, sir.” Keverne looked aloft at the listless flag. “The wind has died for some while, I think.”
Bolitho grunted. It was just as if Keverne was trying to warn him. That once he left the ship he was alone and without much hope of assistance. He cursed his own uncertainty. Keverne did not know, and anyway, what else could be done? To wait until the new admiral arrived was merely hiding from the responsibility he had accepted as his own. He said abruptly, “Look after her.” Then he lowered himself down to the waiting boat.
When they reached the jetty he climbed the steps and paused to look back. Framed against the blue water and clear sky the ship seemed indestructible, permanent. An illusion, he thought grimly. No vessel was stronger than those who served her.
Allday watched critically as the acting coxswain manoeuvred the barge clear of the stones for the return journey. Then he asked, “What now, Captain?”
“To the house. I have things to do, and we will require two horses.”
He reached up and felt the locket beneath his shirt. The one she had given him containing a lock of that perfect chestnut hair. He would leave it at the house. Whatever happened this night, he was not going to have someone else pawing over the locket.
He added slowly, “A fine day. It is hard to think of war, and other things.”
Allday said, “Aye, Captain. A tankard and a woman’s voice would not come amiss right at present.”
Bolitho was suddenly impatient. “Well, come along, Allday. When the oven’s hot it is time to bake. No sense in wasting time in dreams.”
Allday followed him readily, his mouth set in a smile. Like the wind across the sea, all the signs were there. Whatever the captain was planning, that which was troubling him enough to make him provoke his own anger, would go hard with someone before another dawn.
He thought suddenly of Bolitho’s words and grimaced. A top-sail yard or a rough backstay, he could manage either. Even a reluctant woman was not too much trouble. But a horse! He rubbed his buttocks. By the time they reached the Drake’s Head he would have need for more than a tankard, he thought gloomily.
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