He said huskily, “We can still close with them, sir! God damn them, they’ll not be able to move before nightfall!”
The sailing master called anxiously, “ Telemachus is standing away, sir!” He hesitated, as if he too shared Bolitho’s mood. “She’s dipped ’er Ensign, sir!”
Bolitho looked across the smoky water to where Telemachus was tacking very slowly away from her crippled adversary.
So Jonas Paice was dead. After all he had suffered, or perhaps because of it, he was now at peace.
Aloud he said firmly, “There’s been enough killing. I’ll not countenance cold-blooded murder and smear our name.” His grey eyes lingered on the other battered cutter. No tall figure at her bulwark. He must have been dying then, even as he had doffed his hat in a last salute. “Or his especially. A worthy and honourable man.”
Queely watched him dully, shoulders heaving from the madness of battle.
Bolitho looked at him and added, “We have saved Brennier and his treasure.” He did not even glance at the drifting corvette which moments earlier had been ready to destroy them all. “Her captain will pay a more terrible price for his failure—so why fire on his men, who cannot defend themselves?”
He saw Allday watching him, his hands crossed over the hilt of his cutlass.
Bolitho said, “I’ll board Telemachus as soon as we can work alongside. I shall take command and pass you a tow.”
“ You in command, sir?”
Bolitho smiled sadly. “Mine is the honour this time, Mr Queely.”
Later, as Wakeful tugged reluctantly at her towing warp, Bolitho stood by Telemachus’s taffrail and looked at the damage, the bloodstains, the hurt of this vessel, where it had all begun for him.
Paice’s body had been carried below and laid in the cabin. Hawkins the boatswain had asked about burying him at sea with the others. Bolitho had seen the boatswain’s rough features soften as he had replied, “No, Mr Hawkins. We’ll lay him with his wife.”
Allday heard and saw all of this, his mind dazed by the impossible shift of events.
The sky was even bluer than when he had looked up and offered his prayer. But his senses refused to accept any of it.
Only when Bolitho drew near him and said gently, “Look yonder, old friend. Tell me what you see.”
Allday slowly raised his eyes, afraid of what might be there. Then in a small voice he murmured, “White cliffs, Cap’n.”
Bolitho nodded, sharing the moment with him, and with Paice.
“I never thought to see them again.”
Allday’s face split into an unexpected grin.
“An’ that’s no error, Cap’n!”
At eight bells that evening, they saw the murky silhouette of Dover Castle.
The two little ships had come home.
EPILOGUE
ALLDAY glanced at the rigid marine sentry posted outside the frigate’s stern cabin and after a brief hesitation thrust open the door.
He had been surprised to discover that leaving England again had been so easy. There was no knowing what lay ahead, or what the war might mean to him and to his captain. But on the nine days’ passage from Spithead aboard this frigate, the thirty-six-gun Harvester, it had felt more like a homecoming than some of the anxious moments they had shared in the past.
For a few seconds he stood by the screen door and saw Bolitho framed against the tall stern windows, with a sunlit panorama of sea and hazy coastline turning very slowly beyond as the frigate was laid on her final tack for the anchorage.
In the vivid light the Rock itself was a hint of land, rather than a solid reality; but just the sight of it made Allday tense with excitement, something else he found difficult to explain. Gibraltar was not merely the gateway to the Mediterranean this time. It opened for them a new life, another chance.
He nodded with slow approval. In his best uniform with the white lapels, and the newly adopted epaulettes gleaming on either shoulder, Bolitho was a far cry from the man in the shabby coat, facing the smugglers’, then the corvette’s, cannon fire with equal determination, and with a defiance which had never left him despite the setbacks, the suffering and the procession of disappointments which had taken them both to the Nore.
Bolitho turned and looked at him. “Well? What do you see?”
Allday had served with him for eleven years. Coxswain, friend, a right arm when need be. But Bolitho could still surprise him. Like now. The post-captain, a man envied not a little by Harvester’s young commanding officer; and yet he was anxious, even afraid, that he would fail, and betray all the hopes he had nursed since his return to duty.
“Like old times, Cap’n.”
Bolitho turned and gazed at the glistening water below the counter. Nine days’ passage. It had given him plenty of time to think and reflect. He thought of the frigate’s young captain—not even posted yet, about his own age when he had been given Phalarope, when his and Allday’s lives had crossed and been spliced together. It could not be easy to have him as a passenger, Bolitho thought. He had spent much of his time in these borrowed quarters, alone, and cherishing that precious moment when the orders had at last arrived for him.
“To proceed with all despatch and upon receipt of these orders, to take upon you the charge and command of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Hyperion.”
He smiled wistfully. The Old Hyperion. Once something of a legend in the fleet. But what now after all those years, so many leagues sailed in the King’s service?
Was he still disappointed that he had not been offered a frigate? He bit his lip and watched some Spanish fishing boats idling above their images on the clear water.
It was not that. For Bolitho it was still too easy to recall the months of illness, then his daily pleading at the Admiralty for a command, any sort of ship they might condescend to provide. No, it was not that. Failure, then? The lurking fear of some weakness, or of the fever which had almost killed him with no less skill than an enemy ball or blade?
A muscle jumped in his cheek as the frigate’s salute crashed across the bay, shaking the hull gun by gun like body blows. He heard the timed response from one of the Rock’s batteries, and wondered why he was not even now on the quarterdeck seeking out his new command from the many vessels moored beneath the Rock’s changeless protection.
He moved to a mirror which hung above one of his sea chests and studied his reflection, dispassionately, as he might a new subordinate. The uniform coat, with its broad white lapels and gilt buttons, the gold lace and epaulettes, should have offered immediate confidence. He knew from hard experience that no matter what kind of ship lay ahead, her company would be far more concerned about their new lord and master than he should be about them. But it failed to repel the uncertainty.
He thought of his last appointment and wondered still if the thankless task of recruiting at the Nore had been the true reason behind it. Had Lord Marcuard known even then that Bolitho was his choice for the other, deeper trust? Using his desperation for an appointment, a chance, no matter what, of returning to the one life he knew, and after losing Viola, needed more than ever. Perhaps he might never learn the complete truth.
He had found himself thinking of Paice very often. That worthy man, as he had described him in his despatch to the Admiralty. Many hundreds would die in this war, thousands, before it was ended in victory or defeat. Names and faces wiped away; and yet there were always the solitary men like Paice, whose memory never died.
He thought too of Vice-Admiral Brennier. He had received barely a mention in the newssheets, and Bolitho guessed that Marcuard’s powerful hand was in that too. Perhaps Brennier would after all be involved in some counter-revolution.
The last gun thundered, and he heard voices calling commands as they were sponged out and prepared for the final cable or so of the frigate’s entrance. Many eyes would be watching her. Letters from home—fresh orders—or simply the sight of a visitor from England to prove that Gibraltar was not entirely alone.
Allday cr
ossed the cabin, the old sword held in his hands. “Ready, Cap’n?” He offered a grin. “They’ll be expecting to see you on deck.”
Bolitho extended his arms and heard Allday muttering to himself as he clipped on the sword.
“You needs a bit o’ fattenin’ up, Cap’n—”
“Damn your impertinence!”
Allday stood back and hid a smile. The fire was still there. It just needed coaxing out.
He ran his eyes over Bolitho’s slim physique. Smart as paint. Only the cheekbones, and the deeper lines at his mouth betrayed the grief and the illness.
Bolitho picked up his hat and stared at it unseeingly.
It was very strange, he had often thought, that at no time since the French treasure had been landed at Dover and put under guard, had it ever been publicly mentioned. Perhaps Marcuard, or even the prime minister, Pitt, had their own ideas as to how it might be used to better advantage?
How things had changed, just as he had known they would; just as Hoblyn had so bitterly prophesied. Especially with Pitt, he thought. The man who had cursed and condemned the smuggling gangs, who had used dragoons and the gibbet to keep their “trade” at bay if not under control, had now been quoted as paying tribute to the very same scum. “These men are my eyes, for without them I am blind to intelligence of the enemy!” It was so incredible that it was all the harder to believe, and to stomach.
As Queely had remarked dourly, “Had Delaval stayed alive he might well have held a letter of marque from the King!”
Queely: another face in memory. He had been appointed to command a sturdy fourteen-gun brig at Plymouth. Bolitho wondered if he would take all his books with him to this different ship and different war.
He turned to Allday. In his blue coat and flapping white trousers, the tarred hat in one big fist, he would stir the heart of any patriotic landsman, or woman. Bolitho thought of the song he had heard when he had boarded Harvester from Portsmouth. “Britons to Arms.” How poor Hoblyn would have laughed at that.
He heard a yell from the quarterdeck, the instant creak of the rudder as the wheel was put over. He could see it in his mind, as clearly as if he had been there on deck. The cluster of figures around the cathead ready to let go one anchor. The marines lined up on the poop in neat scarlet ranks. Captain Leach, anxious that everything should be right on this fair June morning, and justifiably proud of his fast passage from Spithead.
Bolitho shrugged and said quietly, “I can never find words to thank you, old friend.” Their eyes met and he added, “Truly, heart of oak.”
Then he walked through the screen door, nodding to the sentry before moving out into the sunlight, the expectant seamen who were waiting to furl every sail with only seconds between them when the anchor splashed down.
Leach turned to greet him, his expression wary.
Bolitho said, “You have a fine ship, Captain Leach. I envy you.”
Leach watched him cross to the nettings, unable to conceal his astonishment. Surely Bolitho wanted for nothing? A post-captain of distinction who was almost certain to reach flag rank before this war showed signs of ending, unless he fell out of favour or was killed in battle . . .
“Ready, sir!”
Leach held up his arm. “Let go!”
Spray burst over the beakhead as the great anchor splashed down, but Bolitho did not see it.
I am a frigate captain.
And that gentle, remembered correction. Were—a frigate captain.
He ignored the voice in his memory and stared at the large ships-of-war anchored astern of one which wore a vice-admiral’s flag at the fore.
One of them is mine.
He looked at Allday and smiled freely for the first time.
“Not a lively frigate this time, old friend. We’ve much to discover!”
Allday nodded, satisfied. The smile gave light to the grey eyes once more. It was all there, he decided. Hope, determination, and a new strength which her death had once taken away.
He breathed out slowly.
The Old Hyperion. So be it then.
With All Despatch Page 30