Darkening Sea

by Kent, Alexander

  “I do not enjoy seeing a man die, even scum like that one. I simply could not think of a reason for allowing him to live.”

  While Avery held the chart, Bolitho discussed the despatch he had sent with Jenour.

  “Although it depletes our strength still further, it may prevent a greater loss of life.”

  Dawes peered at the chart. “Two frigates, Sir Richard?” His eyes sharpened. He was already seeing fame and prize-money. “We can manage to dish them up!”

  Trevenen said doubtfully, “The renegade, Simon Hannay— what do we know of him?”

  “Commander Tyacke knows him as well as anyone, but stories of his bloody career are legend.”

  Why was Trevenen so unwilling to take Tyacke’s word? He seemed to sift every event as if looking for flaws. Or what he considered to be a waste. Like the rescued mariners and the prisoners, for instance. Bolitho had seen him complaining to the purser about the extra mouths he would have to feed. It was as if it would all come out of his own pocket.

  He said quietly, “The real puzzle remains the role of the American, Unity. Without her interference we can tackle Baratte, and win.”

  Trevenen interrupted, “He’d not risk war, Sir Richard!” He sounded outraged.

  “He might have a plan.” Bolitho studied them, and wished Adam were present. “His government did not send their most experienced captain in their greatest frigate merely to show the flag. In his place I know what I would do. I would provoke an argument. It is nothing new in war, or in peace either, for that matter.”

  Trevenen was unconvinced. “Suppose Baratte has more menof-war than we know of?”

  “I’m sure he has. But the main force sailing from India will be heavily escorted. There will even be some of John Company’s ships taking part. My guess is that Baratte will deploy his strength in their direction.” He looked at Dawes. “Remember, your ship was once his, and I am his most hated enemy. Both good reasons for engaging us, eh?”

  He heard the sentry murmuring outside the screen door and saw Ozzard scurry over to open it.

  Bolitho’s heart sank. It was Minchin, the surgeon. He said, “If you will excuse me, gentlemen. Take some wine before we eat.” He spoke so easily that neither of the captains would have recognised his anxiety.

  Minchin waited for the door to close. “I’d not disturb you, Sir Richard, but . . .”

  “Is it Rear-Admiral Herrick?”

  The surgeon ran his fingers through his untidy grey hair.

  “I’m troubled about him. He’s in great pain. I’m only a ship’s surgeon— butchers they call the likes of us . . .”

  Bolitho touched his arm. “Have you forgotten Hyperion so soon? But for you, many more would have died that day.”

  Minchin shook his head. “Some would have been better off if they had.”

  They walked to the lower companion-way and Bolitho saw Allday sitting on an upturned water cask working on one of his carvings. He glanced across, his eyes full of understanding, as if he had spoken aloud.

  Deeper into Valkyrie ’s great hull to the orlop deck below the waterline. Here all sounds of sea and wind were muted, with only the timbers murmuring like voices in the depths of the ocean itself. Here were stores, cordage, tar and paint, the canvas lockers and the hanging magazine. The very stuff of the ship herself.

  They entered the sickbay, spacious and well-lit in contrast to most of those Bolitho had seen. The surgeon’s mate closed a book he had been reading and glided past.

  Herrick was staring at the door as they entered, as if he had known they were coming.

  Bolitho leaned over the cot. “How are you, Thomas?”

  He was afraid that Herrick might forget what they had shared, that he might turn against him again.

  Herrick studied him, his eyes very blue in the fixed lanterns. “It plagues me, Richard, but I have had a lot of time to think. About you, about us.” He tried to smile but his face was stiff with agony. He said, “You look tired, Richard . . .” He made as if to reach out, then suddenly screwed his eyes tightly shut and said quietly, “I’ll lose my hand, won’t I?”

  Bolitho saw the surgeon nod. It was almost curt, as if he had already decided. He looked at Minchin. “Well?”

  The surgeon sat down on a chest. “It has to be done, sir.” He faltered. “To the elbow.”

  Herrick gasped. “Oh, my God!”

  “Are you certain?” Bolitho glanced at the surgeon’s reddened features.

  Minchin nodded. “As soon as possible, sir. Otherwise . . .” He did not need to continue.

  Bolitho put his hand gently on Herrick’s shoulder. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Herrick opened his eyes and said, “I have failed you.”

  Bolitho tried to smile. “No, Thomas. Think of yourself. Try to hold on.”

  Herrick stared up at him. He had been washed and shaved and to a stranger would appear quite normal. He peered at the blood-stained bandages on his broken hand.

  “Send the telescope to my sister . . . if I can’t fight it, Richard.”

  Bolitho looked back from the door. “You will fight it. And win, too.”

  The walk to the cabin seemed endless. To Allday he said, “I have a favour to ask, old friend.”

  Allday nodded his shaggy head, and rolled up the leather cloth in which he carried his knives and the sailmaker’s twine he used for rigging his ship models.

  “Never fear, Sir Richard, I’ll stay with him.” He watched the pain in Bolitho’s eyes. “I’ll tell you if anything happens.”

  “Thank you.” He touched his powerful arm but was unable to say more.

  Allday watched him approach the door, where the sentry was already as stiff as a rammer in spite of the heavy motion.

  Once through the door, face to face with his assembled captains, he would show nothing of his private despair. Allday was certain of it. What did they know? All they wanted was glory and someone to lead and protect them.

  Ozzard came through the door and Allday said roughly, “You got some brandy, Tom? The best stuff?”

  Ozzard studied him. Not for himself then. This was different.

  “I’ll fetch it for you, John.”

  “I’ll have a wet meself, afterwards.”

  Afterwards. The finality of the word seemed to linger long after Allday had gone below.

  Captain Adam Bolitho glanced at his reflection in the cabin mirror and frowned as he tugged his waistcoat into place and adjusted the sword at his hip. Anemone was plunging badly in the quarter-sea, and the cabin’s heavy humidity warned of rain quite soon. Not rain as over the fields and villages of Cornwall, but heavy, mind-dulling deluges which could often pass away from a ship before any worthwhile drinking water had been saved. But he could leave that to his first lieutenant.

  Adam Bolitho hated the ritual of a flogging, although to most sailors it was something that could never be permanently avoided. Perhaps this one had been the result of the endless patrols, sighting nothing unless it was a courier brig or some trader trying to stay friendly with both sides in a war he did not understand. Boredom, disappointment after losing their prizes to the enemy when before they had cheered, a close company at least until the news had been passed to them by a naval cutter on the antislavery patrol: Anemone ’s people were restless and surly. Sail and gun drills could no longer contain their frustration, and their eager expectation of close combat with the real enemy had given way to a sullen resentment.

  The man in question had struck a petty officer after an argument about a change of duties. At other times Adam would have demanded an enquiry into the incident, but in this case the petty officer was an experienced and unusually patient seaman. Adam had known the reverse many times, when authority was abused even by officers, and the resulting discipline was unjust although administered in the name of duty.

  The sailor was a landman, one of those pressed off Portsmouth Point who, despite several threats, had remained a rebel, a lower-deck lawyer as Adam had heard his un
cle describe such men.

  There was a tap at the door and the first lieutenant looked into the cabin, his expression vaguely surprised, as if he had almost forgotten what his captain looked like in full uniform.

  “Yes, Aubrey, what is it?” He regretted his curtness immediately. “Are you ready?”

  Martin said uncertainly, “I believe this was my fault, sir. As the senior aboard I should have foreseen it. Nipped it in the bud.”

  As if to mock his words they heard the trill of calls, the sudden scamper of bare feet.

  “All hands! All hands lay aft to witness punishment!”

  Adam answered, “In a way I can understand how they feel, but empathy is a luxury in which no captain should indulge for long. We are always at risk, Aubrey, even with those we think we know. I have heard of it many times. When the ship is a tinderbox for whatever reason, even understanding can be mistaken for weakness.”

  Martin nodded, and guessed the captain had learned much of what he said from Richard Bolitho.

  He asked, “Any further orders, sir?”

  Adam looked away. He was showing that same weakness even by discussing it. He said, “Both watches at six bells this afternoon. We will alter course again, the next leg of our patrol.” He tried to smile but the effort was too much. “In two days, maybe three, we should sight the commodore’s convoy. There will be plenty to do for all of us then!” He was conscious that he had not mentioned Keen by name. Was that all part of his guilt?

  They went on deck together, the sun high overhead making each set sail appear transparent against the taut black rigging.

  The Royal Marines were lined up across the quarterdeck with their lieutenant, Montague Baldwin. The curved sabre he favoured was already drawn and resting across his shoulder. Lieutenant Dacre was the officer-of-the-watch and stood beside Partridge the sailing-master, youth and old age together. The midshipmen and other warrant ranks stood by the quarterdeck rail, while on the gun deck, the gangways, and clinging to the shrouds the bulk of Anemone ’s company watched in silence.

  Martin saw the captain nod and give his own signal for the ritual to begin. The prisoner was brought up, a tall erect figure, head upheld like some well-known felon going to the gallows, flanked by Gwynne the boatswain and one of his mates, and followed by McKillop the surgeon and by the master-at-arms. Then there was complete silence, and even the bellying canvas seemed still.

  “Uncover!” The few present wearing hats removed them. Some men watched the prisoner, who had been generally disliked until now; the rest kept their eyes on the slim, dark-haired figure with the gleaming epaulettes, surrounded by his officers, protected by the double rank of marines, and yet completely alone.

  Adam removed his hat and tugged the Articles of War from his coat. As he did so he looked at the prisoner. Of one company, he thought, yet a thousand miles apart.

  His voice was steady and without emotion, so that many of the assembled seamen and marines barely heard him. Not that it mattered: the old Jacks at least knew the relevant articles by heart. Adam even imagined that he saw the carpenter nudge one of his mates when he reached the last line. “ . . . Or shall suffer death as is hereinafter mentioned.” He shut the folder and added, “Given under my hand in His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Anemone. ” He replaced his cocked hat. “Carry out the sentence.”

  The grating had already been rigged against the gangway, and before he could resist the prisoner was stripped to the waist and seized up, arms apart, with further lashings to hold his legs so that he was spreadeagled.

  Adam saw the youngest midshipman closing and opening his fists, but not out of pity. His eyes were fixed on the man’s muscular back with the expression of a stag-hound approaching a kill.

  Adam snapped, “Carry on, Mr Gwynne.”

  Somebody shouted, “You show ’em, Toby!”

  Lieutenant Baldwin said calmly, “Steady, marines.”

  It reminded Adam of Keen when he had served under him. He had used the same tone in moments of great tension, like a groom calming a nervous mount.

  “Take that man’s name!”

  Gwynne the boatswain, who was completely deaf in one ear after close action with a French man-of-war, called, “How many, sir?”

  Adam moved up to the rail and looked at the prisoner, who had twisted his head around so that he could see him.

  “Three dozen!”

  The prisoner yelled, “You bloody bastard, you said two dozen!”

  Adam said, “I changed my mind.”

  The drums rolled, and down came the lash across his shoulders. The master-at-arms called, “One!”

  The first half dozen lashes made a criss-cross of bloody stripes like the claw marks of a savage beast.

  The prisoner began to gasp as the punishment continued, his face almost purple when the boatswain handed the cat-of-nine-tails to his mate.

  The master-at-arms counted hoarsely, “Twenty-six!”

  The surgeon held up his hand. “He has fainted, sir!”

  “Cut him down!” Adam watched as the man fell to the deck into his own blood. He was picked up and carried below to the sickbay. A man of his obvious strength would soon recover after he had had his back cleansed with salt water and his stomach lined with as much rum as he could swallow. But the marks of the cat he would carry to his grave.

  The first lieutenant watched him warily. This was a mood he did not recognise.

  Adam said, “There will be no martyrs in my ship, Mr Martin.” He gave a tired smile as the men dispersed to their duties or their messes. “There is more to command than prize-money, believe me!”

  He had scarcely gone below to change out of his uniform when the rain tore into the ship like a waterfall.

  Adam glanced at himself in that same mirror. What would she think of me now, if she saw me?

  He walked to the stern windows and thrust one open to stare at the horizon. The rain was already passing over: it would leave the decks cool, the sails hardened to receive the next wind. He looked at his coat, lying on a chair with its epaulettes glinting dully. He had been so proud when he had been posted. Now he held out his hands and felt something like sickness in his throat.

  Three dozen lashes. Was that all? As captain I could have run him up to the main-yard for striking a petty officer. The realisation of his power over these men had never failed to shock and awe him. But not now. It was his right.

  He must have come a long, long way . . .

  In the afternoon while he sat at his table with a plate of tasteless salt-beef barely touched nearby, he thought again about the letter, and wondered if she had received it, or even read it if she had.

  If only they might meet as if by accident, on some winding track like the place where he had given her the wild roses. And she had kissed him . . .

  He sat bolt upright as the lookout’s voice pealed down from the masthead.

  “Deck there! Sail on th’ lee bow!”

  Adam jumped to his feet. That was more like it. There was nothing between Anemone and his uncle’s ships. The prospect of action would make all the difference and bring them together again. Cleansing, like the rain that had washed the blood from the grating.

  The quarterdeck was crowded when he reached it.

  Lieutenant Dacre touched his forehead, then pushed the wet hair from his eyes.

  “I’m not yet certain, sir. The lookout says there’s some mist to lee’rd—might be more rain.”

  “We’d not find him if that happened.” He hurried to the chart as the master’s mates uncovered it.

  Partridge said, “Might be a slaver, sir. Can’t think o’ nothing else this far out.”

  “My thoughts, Mr Partridge! Call both watches and get the t’gallants on her. She’ll likely show her heels when she sights us!”

  Men poured on deck to the shrill of calls. Adam assessed their mood as they hurried past and below him. Some would still be thinking of the flogging, but by now others would be accepting it. He had brought it on himself. Or, w
hat can you expect from a bloody officer? They could hate him when they felt like it; or perhaps when he deserved it. But fear him? That must never happen.

  He saw Midshipman Dunwoody staring at him. “Aloft with a glass. I can use your eyes today!” He watched him swarming up the ratlines, a long telescope bouncing across his buttocks with every step.

  Martin had joined him now, his face eager and excited. As I once was, Adam thought.

  “Set the main course, Aubrey. I want her to fly before they can lose us!”

  They grinned at one another, all else forgotten.

  Anemone was riding it well. With the wind across the quarter she was taking each long trough and roller like a thoroughbred horse jumping hedges. Spray was bursting over the figurehead in solid sheets, and as each sail was set and sheeted home it hardened as if being squeezed by giants, with the rain that had soaked the canvas flying over the struggling seamen to rush into the scuppers like small brooks.

  Dunwoody’s voice was practically muffled by the din of canvas and clattering rigging.

  “Deck, there! Two masts, sir! I think she’s seen us!”

  Adam wiped his face with his shirt sleeve and realised he was soaked to the skin.

  “If the rain holds off it will do them no good!”

  He walked across the deck, at times barely able to prevent himself from being flung against the guns as his ship pointed her jib-boom at the sky, catching the returning sunlight like a golden lance. Then down again, the hull crashing into another trough, the timbers jolting as if they had hit a sandbar.

  It was the lookout again. Perhaps Dunwoody was too choked by spray to call out.

  “Deck there! She’s a brig, sir! Can’t make it out!”

  Adam said, “Use your speaking-trumpet, Aubrey. Bring Dun-woody down. None of this is making any sense!”

  Dunwoody arrived on deck, shivering badly in spite of the steam that was rising from his dripping shirt.

  Adam asked, “What ails you, Mr Dunwoody?” He was surprised that he could sound so calm, yet feel only apprehension. Dunwoody stared down at the deck and would have fallen in the next wild plunge but for Bond, a master’s mate, catching his arm. The boy turned his head to gaze across the water as if he could still see it.