Alexander Kent - Bolitho 26

by Man of War [lit]

  He swung round as Tolan said, ”Beg pardon, Sir Graham, but there is a message for the captain.”

  Bethune nodded slowly, in control again.

  ”Very well.”

  It was Evelyn, the sixth and most junior lieutenant, his hat crushed under one arm, trying not to be seen staring at the admiral and the splendid cabin.

  ”I am s-sorry, sir.” He gulped. ”But I was told that you wanted to know immediately when Audacity was shortening her cable.”

  Bethune remarked, ”The old frigate Audacity I thought she was due for the ship breakers!” He chuckled, and added, ”Captain Munro. Friend of yours, is he?” And waved his hand. ”I was forgetting. You sponsored a midshipman for Audacity. Somebody’s favourite son, was he?”

  Adam said, equally casually, ”He served with me in Unrivalled.” Like walking into a trap. Bethune knew all about it, just as he knew about Athena’s last captain.

  Bethune was opening another sheaf of papers.

  ”Carry on, Adam. You will be dining with me tonight, eh?”

  ”Thank you, Sir Graham.”

  Troubridge followed him to the door and out.

  ”I am very sorry for that, sir.”

  Adam touched his arm. ”Rest easy.”

  On deck, it seemed cool after the admiral’s cabin. He loosened his neck cloth and drew several deep breaths. This was a Bethune he did not recognize.

  He glanced at the flag above the foremast and took a telescope from the midshipman of the watch.

  For an instant their eyes met. A young, pouting face with an upturned nose ... it fell into place. He was Blake, an admiral’s grandson, who had been at the centre, if he was not the actual cause, of Hudson’s flogging. And his death.

  / should have known. Prevented it.

  Lieutenant Evelyn called, ”Starboard quarter, sir!” He seemed quite recovered from his attack of nerves in the cabin.

  Adam waited for his breathing to steady, and watched the other ships leap into focus as he trained the glass over and beyond the anchorage. No difference, and then the slightest movement, other masts turning, coming into line, yards and rigging suddenly hidden by clouds of filling canvas as Audacity, of twenty-four guns, broke out her anchor and gathered way. They would all be busy, too busy to stare around at the bigger ships of war as they tacked toward the open sea.

  He said, ”Make to Audacity, good luck.” That would set them guessing. But some one might tell David. It was a small ship. A frigate .. .

  ”From Flag, sir?”

  Adam kept the glass to his eye. ”No. Make it from Athena.”

  He heard the flags flap out from the yard and imagined some one calling Audacity’s captain, and the curiosity it would arouse.

  The frigate had almost completed her manoeuvre when Lieutenant Evelyn shouted, ”Acknowledged, sir!”

  Adam returned the telescope, and walked to the opposite side of the quarterdeck.

  He knew Stirling was observing him from beside the compass box, and said, ”I shall be doing Rounds in the first watch, Mr. Stirling.” He saw the immediate caution. ”Last night in port. Captain’s privilege, or should be.”

  Stirling hesitated. ”I’d like to accompany you, sir.”

  Adam smiled. ”Thank you. That suits me well.” He turned toward the anchorage again, but there was no more movement.

  If I was wrong and he hates his new life, then he will come to hate me. He thought of the silk garter now locked in his cabin. And if I have wronged her, I will never forgive myself.

  He could still feel Stirling watching him as he returned to the companion way.

  A small step. But it was something.

  Luke Jago held the razor up to the light and tested the blade with his thumb before folding it away in its worn case.

  The captain never seemed to need much of a shave. If he left his own face unshaven for more than a day, it felt more like a piece of sword-matting than skin.

  He looked over at him now, knowing him in almost every mood, something he had once thought he would never be able to do again. With an officer.

  He saw all the signs. Only half of John Bowles’ coffee was gone, and the breakfast remained untouched.

  He tuned his ear to all the other sounds, men moving about the hull, wedges being tapped home, loose gear stowed away, all boats secure on their tier, except one which would tow astern once Athena was at sea. A last chance for any one who went overboard. It happened, although not as often as you might expect. Jago’s mouth twisted into a smile. Especially after last night. The hoarded rum, and the unexpected issue of the coarse red wine the lower deck called Black Strap.

  Sailing day.

  He glanced again at the captain, still in a clean shirt and breeches, his coat hanging on the door of his sleeping quarters. Once at sea he would be changing into one of his weather-stained coats and the white trousers favoured by most officers. He thought of the admiral: it was hard to imagine Bethune ever having been other than what he was now. At least he spoke to the men who served him. Unlike some. Unlike most.

  Jago thought of the days, and weeks, ahead. Antigua he knew well enough. A friendly place, but that was when it was threatened with war: the old enemies, France and Spain, even the Dutch. It was a long haul, nearly four thousand miles to all accounts. It would sift out the seamen from the ‘passengers’, the braggarts from those with brains.

  And he thought of Napier. Mister Napier. Make or break, they all said. He would be all right, if little pigs like Midshipman Blake and the haughty Vincent left him alone. There were Blakes and Vincents in every ship Jago had ever known. Napier was a good lad, but it took more than a fancy new uniform or a smart dirk to make an officer.

  He heard voices, and then the sentry’s call. ”Midshipman o’ the watch, sir!”

  Bowles was there, the door half open, as if he too was very aware of the captain’s mood.

  Jago sucked his teeth. Speak of the devil. It was Mister bloody Vincent.

  ”Guardboat alongside, sir. Request for last mail.” He stood very erect, only his eyes moving as he watched the captain, silhouetted now against the stern windows, one hand resting on the tall-backed chair.

  ”On the desk.” Adam turned to look at them, as if undecided. Now that it was too late. ”Just those. Thank you.”

  He had already seen the guard boat pulling around the anchored Athena; even without a glass he had recognized the officer in charge. The same man who had come aboard Unrivalled and had brought his new orders, and told him that he was losing his ship.

  Two letters, one to his Aunt Nancy; a proper epistle this time, he hoped. Usually when he wrote to her a single letter could take weeks to finish, with sea miles covered, interruptions of every kind, and war. But she understood. She had good cause.

  And the other ... He did not have the words. It was not like seeing her again. Holding her. Seeing her emotions, her fears. He was sailing in a few hours’ time, and he would be away for months. Or longer. Who could tell?

  He seemed to hear Bethune’s words. This mission, for that is what it is fast becoming. What did he have to offer her? Why should she wait? She had lost enough of her life already.

  He looked back at the desk. The letters and Vincent had gone.

  He picked up his little book and glanced at the coat on the door; it was no longer still, but swaying slightly. The wind was back. He pictured the different faces he had come to know in so short a time, reacting. Fraser the sailing master watching the masthead pendant, getting the feel of the wind’s power, how it would affect his calculations, and his captain. Stirling, eyes aloft on spars, yards, and rigging, all the possible dangers for the top men making sail, fisting hard canvas, careful of each hand and foothold. Old Sam Fetch, the gunner; he would check each weapon and its breeching rope to make sure nothing would break adrift if the weather worsened in open water.

  He heard Bowles refilling his coffee cup, reading the signs.

  Too much brandy, perhaps? He thought of the contrasts when he had
done Rounds the previous evening. From one end of the ship to the other, with Stirling thudding behind him and a midshipman preceding, without the usual formality of a ship’s corporal or the master-at-arms. He had seen their expressions when he had removed his hat each time he had entered a mess or walked through one of the crowded gun decks Surprise, appreciation, amusement, it was hard to tell. But it was always there, the lesson Richard Bolitho had drummed into his nephew when he had been new and green, as green as David Napier. Show respect. It is their home too, remember that. He had felt Stirling following his example, perhaps for the first time in his service.

  The warrant officers in their own mess had been at ease, even with their captain. Ready to answer a casual question, and to offer one. Do you miss Unrivalled, sir? And without thinking, he had replied, / miss a part of each ship I’ve ever served. Curiously, it was the first time he had put it into words.

  Then the Royal Marines’ mess deck The ‘barracks’. Everything in its place, an air of soldierly camaraderie which marked them out from all those crowded around them.

  The midshipmen’s gunroom, untidy despite their hasty efforts to prepare for his visit. Living day to day like every midshipman, thinking only of reaching the final step in the ladder, the examination for lieutenant, and only then becoming a King’s officer. Few ever considered that the step from gunroom to quarterdeck was merely the beginning.

  Had Luke Jago been with him, he would have seen it with different eyes, the potential tyrants and bullies, the toadies and the failures. And, just occasionally, the one who would listen and learn, and deserve his new authority. He had been more often right than wrong.

  And Rounds had taken him to the sick bay on the orlop deck, below Athena’s waterline, where George Crawford the surgeon and his mates had to deal with every kind of ailment and injury from gunshot to a fall from aloft, fever to the aftermath of a flogging.

  Crawford was a wiry, quietly spoken man, with very clear eyes and a voice which was neither incisive nor callous when he talked of his trade. A far cry from Unrivalled’s big, witty Irishman, Adam thought.

  In an hour’s time he would report to the vice-admiral. They had dined together; Troubridge and Henry S outer, the captain of the Royal Marines detachment, had also been there. The conversation had been light, and untainted by duty, or as much as it could be. And the wine, as Adam had guessed, was predictable. Too many glasses. Only the vice-admiral had seemed unimpaired. Adam had been almost grateful when he had been called away to carry out Captain’s Rounds.

  He wondered if Bethune had remained in his cot since the dinner.

  He smiled. Jago probably had an answer to that, too.

  The sentry shouted, ”Officer o’ the watch, sir!”

  It was Barclay, the second lieutenant.

  ”The officer of the guard has left a package for you, sir. There is no address or superscription. I am not certain I should have accepted it.”

  ”Who gave it to the guard boat Mr. Barclay?”

  The lieutenant might have shrugged, but suppressed it. ”Somebody from a local boatyard .. .”

  Adam saw the house, white against the trees and the Tamar. Empty, but for two people.

  ”Show me.”

  Jago took it from the lieutenant and carried it into the main cabin.

  ”Down here, sir?”

  It was square, and wrapped in pale canvas, like a tray. Adam shook his head. His mouth was dry.

  ”No, Luke. On the chair.”

  Jago stood it upright against the chair back and regarded it suspiciously. Bowles bent as if to unfasten it but Adam said, ”I’ll do it.”

  It was a frame; it must have been freshly made, perhaps only a day or so ago, the wood smooth but unpainted. From the boatyard.

  He did not recall unwrapping it, or how long it took. He stood back and looked at the portrait, hardly daring to breathe or move. He knew that Jago and Bowles had gone, and the screen door was shut.

  It could have been that day. The eyes, arff the arms pinioned to the rock. The hint of the monster about to break surface. He reached out to touch it, and saw that the smoke stains had been cleaned away.

  He had written to her. She would not receive his letter until after Athena had set sail.

  But she had already answered him.

  Andromeda.

  8

  Storm Warning

  Adam Bolitho leaned his hands on the chart table and looked down at the sailing master’s log. Neat and observant, like the man, he thought. A pair of brass dividers began to slide across the uppermost chart and Adam put them in a small drawer. Around him the ship was coming to life again, timbers murmuring, loose gear clattering, while the sails filled and hardened. He had been on deck when both watches were called to make more sail, and had seen the sea break into long patterns of white horses, then into steep-sided crests, the canvas swelling, holding Athena hard over, the top men skipping about the yards like monkeys, glad to be doing something after the periods of perverse breezes and torrential rain.

  He thrust himself away from the table without another glance at Eraser’s calculations; he knew them by heart. It was their ninth day at sea, and they had logged barely one thousand four hundred miles, without sighting another vessel of any kind after leaving the coastal waters of Cornwall. It made the Atlantic seem even vaster, and gave many of the younger hands a sense of loneliness they had never experienced before. The sun, when it appeared, was bright but without warmth; that and wet clothing did little for comfort or discipline.

  He heard some Royal Marines clumping across the deck for another drill or inspection. Captain Souter, their commanding officer, had organized marksmanship contests with his men divided into squads, one competing against the other. They had lined a gangway and fired at pieces of driftwood thrown outboard from the bows. Apart from good training, it had provided a welcome distraction for seamen off watch, some of whom would doubtless have bets riding on the results. Sailors would bet on almost anything, lawful or not.

  But it had not lasted for long. Vice-Admiral Bethune had sent a message requesting that the musketry cease forthwith. It had been disturbing his concentration.

  He was about to look aft and changed his mind. He had no idea what Bethune did for most of the day, but he rarely appeared on deck. Adam made his daily reports on progress, and the ship’s routine. Usually Bethune was reading his confidential papers, or dictating to his secretary. His smart, impassive servant was almost always present, as if Bethune could not bear solitude.

  He walked to the weather side of the quarterdeck, Barclay, the lieutenant who had the watch, moving to the opposite side in the accepted fashion to allow his captain some pretence of privacy.

  He looked along the main deck. It was nearly noon; the galley funnel was giving off its usual greasy plume of smoke. And there would be the customary issue of grog. He watched the shark-blue horizon sloping across the beak head and jib sails: no sharp edge, but another hint of mist. He looked across at Fraser; he would have noted it. Rain again before the dog watches. Wet clothing, damp hammocks.

  The midshipmen were grouped around the sailing master, each with his own sextant, ready to take the noon sights and check the ship’s position. Again. He studied their faces, serious, intent, or anxious, the younger ones at least. Those who were expecting a summons to the examination for lieutenant were more confident, like Vincent, straight-backed, his sextant carelessly held in one hand. Probably very aware of his captain’s presence on deck. And another, Rowley, who came from a long line of sailors, handsome until he smiled. He had lost two front teeth, knocked out by a block in a gale before Adam had assumed command.

  He thought again of Napier; he had all this and much more to overcome.

  Fraser said, ”Ready!” and all the sextants swivelled round as eight bells chimed out from the forecastle. The sun was being helpful today, but you could never be sure. It was not unknown for somebody to turn over the half-hour glass too early during each watch, so that a man’s time o
n deck could be shortened with the sand only partly filtered away. ”Warming the glass’, as it was called, could make a mockery of any calculation.

  Fraser and one of his mates were making notes, and one of the youngest midshipmen was holding his hand up to ask a question, as if he were still at school. The noon gun would crash out at Plymouth, and the gulls would rise from the water, screaming and squawking, as if it had never happened before. Adam walked to the hammock nettings and gripped a lashing as the deck tilted over again.

  And she would hear it. Perhaps she would picture this ship, further and further away. Perhaps she was regretting it. And suppose .. .

  ”Excuse me, sir.”

  Adam turned abruptly, and for a second imagined he had voiced his fears aloud.

  It was Tolan, the admiral’s servant, immaculately turned out as always, his calm features without expression.

  He always had the feeling that Tolan missed nothing. Bethune relied on him completely. Always on call, Tolan even had a little cabin of his own, screened off from the admiral’s pantry.

  ”Sir Graham sends his compliments, sir, and would you consider joining him in the last dog watch?”

  It was not a request. It was an order.

  They both turned as there was a sudden confusion on the main deck. A man Adam vaguely recognized as one of the cook’s assistants was running wildly after a chicken which must have escaped from the pen on the lower gun deck, ‘the farmyard’. It had doubtless been selected for Bethune’s table this evening.

  There were jeers and hoots of laughter as the man ducked around the breech of an eighteen-pounder and sprawled headlong, his feet caught in his apron.

  The luckless bird, unable to fly, seemed to bounce up the quarterdeck ladder in a last attempt to get away.

  One of the Royal Marines in the after guard who had just been dismissed from the drill tossed his musket against the hammock nettings and seized the chicken by its legs. To the cook’s assistant he called, ”Ere, matey, you’ll ‘ave to do better next time!”