Darkening Sea

by Kent, Alexander

  “And what of the Englishman, Hannay, sir?”

  “He will fight as never before.”

  “No weakness then?” Avery was fascinated as he watched the inner power of this man, the grey eyes full of intensity and emotions as he spoke of his enemies so lucidly that Avery could almost see them. It was impossible to know from his appearance that the vice-admiral was almost blind in one eye. Another secret.

  “Only that he is unused to taking orders.” Bolitho shrugged. “Especially from a Frenchman!” It seemed to amuse him.

  He looked at Avery’s serious face. “Mr Yovell thought well of you from the start, that day in Falmouth. He was particularly impressed with your knowledge of Latin, although at the time I had no idea it would prove so useful!”

  “A good deal will depend on your nephew tomorrow, sir.”

  “Yes. I am very proud of him. He is like a son to me.”

  Avery did not press the point. “Mr Yovell tells me that he met Nelson, who spoke warmly of him.” He hesitated. “Did you never meet him, sir?”

  Bolitho shook his head, suddenly depressed. The same people who now sang the little admiral’s praises had been the same ones who had tried to destroy him before he had fallen aboard Victory. And what of his dear Emma? What had become of her? How did those who had made promises to Nelson even as he lay dying manage to face themselves, he wondered?

  And Catherine. Who would care for her if the worst happened?

  He said, “Go and speak with the first lieutenant. He needs to be reassured.”

  Avery stood up and felt the ship around him, shivering repeatedly as she thrust the ocean contemptuously from her flanks.

  “Tomorrow then, sir.”

  Bolitho nodded, then said, “What did you want to know about Nelson?”

  Avery rested his hand on the screen door. “Men who never knew or even saw him shed tears like women when they heard of his death.” He opened the door. “I never thought to see it myself until I became your flag lieutenant, sir.” Then he was gone.

  Bolitho smiled. Avery would think very differently if the day went against them.

  After Ozzard had tidied the cabin and had departed thoughtfully to his pantry, Bolitho took a small book from his trunk and turned it over in his hands: not one of Catherine’s gifts of Shakespearean sonnets in their immaculate green leather binding, but a much older book, stained by salt air and much handling, one of his few possessions which had actually been carried by his father. It was Paradise Lost. Like Captain James Bolitho, he had read it beneath the scorching tropical sun, or riding out a storm on blockade duty off Brest and Lorient, and in the calm of some unspoiled anchorage.

  With great care he covered his left eye with his hand and held the page close to a cabin lantern.

  What though the field be lost?

  All is not lost; the unconquerable will,

  And study of revenge, immortal hate,

  And courage never to submit or yield.

  Bolitho closed the book and walked across the cabin to the table where his chart still lay.

  Perhaps it had already been decided, and there was nothing he could do to change what Fate had decreed.

  The ship swayed again and the lantern’s yellow glare touched momentarily on the sword that hung on the bulkhead. It seemed to bring the steel to life.

  Aloud he said, “All is not lost.”

  He stared at the stern windows, but saw only his reflection against the darkness of the sea. Like a ghost, or the portraits on the walls at Falmouth.

  He felt suddenly calm, as if something had been resolved. It had so often been like this in the past when all that had stood between a victory and disaster had been the courage of individuals on either side or beneath different flags.

  He sat down again and took the unfinished letter from a drawer. It would be summer in Cornwall, the air full of farm noises, sheep and cattle, the bustle of bees. The scent of roses. Her roses . . .

  He touched the locket as he read the last lines of this lengthy letter. She might never see it.

  I have some unhappy news to tell you about Stephen Jenour . . .

  He wrote with great care, as if he were talking with her, or she were watching him at this table.

  I feel certain that we shall fight tomorrow. He looked up at the deckhead as feet moved purposefully aft. The middle watch was about to begin. He smiled gravely and crossed out the last word and replaced it with today.

  He pictured his few captains lost out there in the darkness, each as different as one man could be from the others. Young Adam, who might be thinking of the girl who could never be his. Peter Dawes, the admiral’s son, who thought a little too much of taking prizes and making certain that he was never found wanting when it came to a fight: a keen young officer, who was not hampered by either imagination or doubt. James Tyacke, totally alone and yet so much a part of all that had happened. And of course the senior captain, Aaron Trevenen, hostile, resentful and in matters of discipline, completely unbending.

  He heard some of the hands being dismissed to their messes. There would be little sleep for many of them.

  He thought too of Nelson and Avery’s surprising comparison. Nelson had written a letter to his beloved Emma even as the combined enemy fleets had left port.

  He had ended it by saying, “I hope that I shall live to finish my letter after the battle.”

  Bolitho folded the letter but did not seal it. I shall finish it later.

  18 THE MOST DANGEROUS FRENCHMAN

  LIEUTENANT George Avery peered around the confines of his small, hutch-like cabin. Soon now, the cabin would be torn down and the various screens that partitioned many parts of the hull to offer a small privacy would follow to be stowed in the frigate’s hold. Sea-chests, clothing, souvenirs, portraits of loved ones, all would be gathered into Valkyrie ’s belly. This was a ship-of-war, and it would be cleared from bow to stern so that every gun could work unhindered until the fight was won. The alternative was rarely considered.

  Avery dressed with care, knowing that Bolitho would expect it. His stomach had shied away from the thought of food, and the smell of grease from the galley funnel had been enough to make him retch. He looked at his face in the small mirror propped on his chest. He had shaved and put on a clean shirt and stockings. He watched the face smile back at him. The last rites. He never doubted that there would be a battle: Bolitho had convinced him.

  Avery had known other sea officers who had this gift, if it could be called that, but none like him. Avery, still unsure of himself with the vice-admiral, had thought he had gone too far when he had spoken of Nelson. If anything, Bolitho had seemed amused by his sincerity, as if he himself thought it absurd that he should be compared to his hero.

  He tugged out his watch, all that had survived from his father’s possessions after Copenhagen, and held it beside the lantern. He would call the admiral. How quiet the ship was, and there was no light when he walked past the companion ladder that led to the quarterdeck.

  He heard Trevenen’s harsh voice berating somebody up there. A man who had been unable to sleep like most of his crew. Avery smiled wryly. Like me.

  The ship’s corporal was speaking with the marine sentry; both of them looked grim, Avery thought. The sentry would be receiving his orders. If battle was joined, he would prevent any man from running below to hide, on pain of death.

  The screen door opened and Allday came out carrying a jug of used shaving water.

  Avery stared at him. “Is Sir Richard about so soon?”

  Allday eyed him curiously and replied, “We thought you was goin’ to be abed till after the fight, sir!”

  Avery shook his head. The humour was more unnerving than the grim preparations all around him.

  It was very bright in the cabin, with several lanterns swinging from their brackets, and shutters across the sten windows to make it unusually private. He glanced at an eighteen-pounder, still tethered by its breeching rope and covered with canvas to make the cabin seem
less war-like. Even this place would not be spared.

  Bolitho came out of the sleeping compartment, pulling on a clean shirt while Ozzard trotted impatiently behind him to make adjustments to his belt.

  “Good morning, Mr Avery.” Bolitho sat down to look at his chart while Ozzard struggled to arrange his stock. “Wind’s steady enough, but not much strength in it.” He moved away to look in his desk and Avery saw him tuck a letter into his waistcoat. One of hers. To have with him, like the locket which would be resting against his skin.

  Bolitho said, “We will clear for action presently. I am told that the people have been fed, watch by watch.” He seemed to think that amusing too. Perhaps he had had to overrule Trevenen once again. The captain might have wanted to feed his company after the battle: less food to waste, fewer mouths to fill.

  He jabbed at the chart. “We shall continue to steer north’rd. If the wind holds we should be on a converging tack with the enemy. If so, he will have to remain very much close-hauled, while we shall have the wind-gage. For a while.”

  Yovell yawned hugely and continued to write in his folio. He looked so out of place here, Avery thought. An educated man who apparently preferred the dangers of the sea and the risk of sudden death to the easier life more appropriate to someone of his profession ashore.

  Allday came back into the cabin and strode to the bulkhead where Bolitho’s swords were usually displayed. Avery noted that the beautiful presentation blade from the people of Falmouth had already gone below. He watched Allday pull out the other blade, the old one he had seen in the portraits at Falmouth.

  Bolitho looked fresh and calm, and gave no sign of doubt or anxiety. Avery tried to take comfort from the fact.

  Heavy feet sounded across the deck. The captain.

  Bolitho merely glanced up and commented, “I have yet to convince that one.”

  The footsteps faded and then moved on to the ladder. Trevenen looked surprised when he entered the cabin. Perhaps he had expected to find them all in a desperate conference, Avery thought coldly, or finding courage in a bottle of cognac?

  “Galley fire is doused, Sir Richard. Both watches standing-to.”

  His eyes were sunken, and his normally aggressive confidence was lacking. Bolitho looked away. It was a bad sign.

  “You may beat to quarters, Captain Trevenen, then clear for action. In ten minutes, do you propose?”

  Trevenen retorted angrily, “In eight, Sir Richard!”

  Bolitho nodded slowly. “This will be quite a day for many of your people. Do not drive them too far. They are not the enemy.” He let his words sink in, then added softly, “Not yet.”

  Trevenen turned by the door. “May I speak, Sir Richard?”

  “Of course.”

  “I think we are making a mistake. We lack the ships for any running battle . . .”

  Bolitho met his gaze steadily. “We will not run, Captain, while my flag flies from the foremast truck.”

  After Trevenen left he looked at the closed door, feeling the other man’s defiance and anger hanging in the air.

  He said to Avery, “If anything happens . . .” He lifted one hand to silence Avery’s protests. “Do what I asked you to do.”

  Calls shrilled through the ship, and from overhead came the insistent rattle of drums.

  “All hands! All hands! Beat to quarters an’ clear for action!”

  The decks seemed to tremble as the seamen and marines ran to their stations. Screens were already being pulled down. There was not much more time.

  Avery watched as Allday fastened the old sword around his admiral’s waist, and saw Ozzard carrying the dress uniform coat with the gleaming epaulettes, not the faded seagoing coat Bolitho usually wore. It made a chill fasten to his spine like ice. The same uniform that had drawn the French marksmen’s fire to Nelson. To provoke Baratte even at such a terrible risk, or was it to show the people he was amongst them, to give all that he had for them?

  Yovell had picked up his satchel, and said, “I shall be giving a hand on the orlop, Sir Richard.” He offered a shy smile. “Death to the French!”

  Allday muttered, “An’ that’s no error!”

  Ozzard spoke nervously as the crash and scrape of furniture being taken below moved swiftly towards the cabin.

  “Shall you need me, Sir Richard?”

  “Go below. Keep Rear-Admiral Herrick company if you wish.” But Ozzard had already gone.

  Bolitho adjusted his coat and said, “Well, old friend, it gets no easier, does it?”

  Allday grinned. “I sometimes wonders what it’s all for.”

  Bolitho heard men running above and beneath him. “I expect they do also.” He looked at Avery and said firmly, “So they must be told, eh?”

  Then the three of them left the cabin, while another party of men hurried past to remove the last obstacles.

  Lieutenant Urquhart called, “Cleared for action, sir.

  Trevenen glanced at his watch. “Nine minutes. I expected better, Mr Urquhart!”

  Allday saw Bolitho’s face. It was easy to read his thoughts. Trevenen never praised anyone, even in the face of danger. The only thing he could inspire was fear.

  It was dark and remarkably cool on deck after the heat of the day preceding. But dawn came quickly out here, and sunset would arrive with haste to cover the pain and disperse the fury of battle.

  Bolitho glanced around. The master and his mates were near the wheel where extra men stood by the spokes. Chain-slings had been rigged to hold the great yards in place if all the rigging was shot away. And nets, although Bolitho could not yet see them, to protect the gun crews from falling spars and blocks. It was something he knew so well, had known all his life from the age of twelve when he had first gone to sea in the forbidding and unfamiliar world of the old 80 -gun Manxman.

  Herrick would be down there in the comparative safety of the orlop deck below the waterline: fretting over his lost arm and his helplessness, but most of all, remembering.

  He moved towards the tightly-packed hammock nettings and almost slipped on a stretch of spray-soaked planking.

  He said, “This part of the deck is not sanded, Captain.” He kept his tone level but was inwardly angry at somebody’s carelessness. A man or men could slip and fall in the heat of a sea-fight. Just one gun left unfired could make all the difference.

  Trevenen’s answer was even more surprising. “None of the deck is sanded, Sir Richard. If the enemy fails to appear, we would have used good sand to no effect.”

  “Then do it now, if you please. I am sure that in an ocean of this vastness we could find some more sand!”

  He heard a lieutenant passing the order and the immediate response of the ship’s boys, who scuttled amongst the guns like terriers.

  Allday had heard the sharp exchange and was glad Trevenen had felt the edge of Bolitho’s tongue. He stared up at the rigging and said, “I can see the masthead pendant, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho peered up at the dark sky, and imagined he could see the long red and white pendant curling out from the truck.

  “As soon as the sun is up, they will see us. ”

  Avery glanced at the shadows around him. Listening, trying to gauge their own chances of seeing another sunset.

  It was uncanny not to see or know the enemy’s strength. Bolitho said, “Tell your signals party to be ready, Mr Avery. As soon as it is light enough, make Take stations as ordered and tell Larne to Close on Flag. ”

  Avery could now see the white patches on the collars of his two signals midshipmen, but some of the flags already strewn by the halliards were still colourless in the lingering gloom.

  Bolitho spoke as though almost disinterested. “I feel certain that they will already have made it ready, Mr Avery, but the next signal will be Prepare for battle. ”

  He heard Trevenen ask, “Suppose the enemy is not there, Sir Richard?” And Avery could feel the presence of the man he served like a force.

  Bolitho answered coldly, “Then I have
failed, and by tomorrow Baratte will have found Commodore Keen’s convoy. The rest you can imagine for yourself.”

  Trevenen muttered thickly, “Nobody can blame Valkyrie! ”

  “You and I both know where the blame will lie, Captain! So let us all be patient a moment longer!”

  Angry with himself for being so easily drawn, Bolitho said, “I see the masthead.”

  He strained his eyes upwards through the taut rigging, the web of ratlines glistening in the darkness from moisture and spray alike. Men he had not seen earlier stood out against the pale hammock nettings, or crouching like athletes as they waited to run and seize hold of braces and halliards when the next order came.

  Bolitho looked over the weather quarter: there was light, a mere hint of it. It would soon lift above the invisible horizon to lay them bare for all to see.

  Trevenen rasped, “What is that masthead lookout about, Mr

  Urquhart? Does he stand watch asleep?”

  Urquhart was about to raise his speaking-trumpet when Bolitho said, “You go aloft, Mr Avery. You are my eyes this morning.”

  Avery lingered, his mind hanging on to the remark, and wondering if Bolitho had intended him to draw another meaning from it.

  Bolitho smiled. “No head for heights?”

  Avery was strangely moved. “Good enough, sir.” He took a signals telescope from the rack and swung himself out on the shrouds while two seamen opened the protective net for him. Bolitho could see the sailors’ eyes now very white in the gloom as they watched the flag lieutenant swarm up the ratlines, his sword slapping against his thigh.

  Avery climbed steadily, feeling the shrouds vibrating beneath his shoes, the very strength of the ship as she opened up beneath him. The black guns, each with its crew, bare-backed and waiting to load and run out, were clearly visible. He climbed out and around the mizzen top where some marines stared at him with surprise and interest as they tended a swivel-gun on the thick barricade.