Colours Aloft!

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho had wanted to go, needed to see and speak with people he understood. He tossed the cloak from his shoulders to reveal the gleaming epaulettes, each with its two silver stars. Vice-Admiral of the Red, apart from Nelson the youngest on the Navy list. Even that he could not get used to. Like the title which had made everyone so pleased but which left him feeling awkward, embarrassed.

  More pictures flashed through his mind as he watched the ship and gripped the old family sword between his knees.

  London, the bright liveries and bowing footmen. The hush as he knelt before His Britannic Majesty, the lightest tap of the sword on his shoulder. Sir Richard Bolitho of Falmouth. It had been a proud moment surely? Belinda had looked so radiantly happy. Adam and Allday beaming like schoolchildren. And yet—

  He saw a cluster of figures around the entry port, the blues and whites of the officers, the scarlet of the marines. His world. They would be watching his every move. Usually Allday would have been on hand to make sure he did not lose his balance or trip over his sword.

  The thought of ever being without Allday was beyond belief after what they had seen and endured together. He would be aboard before the ship weighed. He must. I need him more than ever.

  He saw the lieutenant staring at him and for a terrible moment imagined he had spoken aloud.

  But Valancey was merely anxious and stood aside as Bolitho waited for the barge to sway heavily against Argonaute’s fat flank.

  Then he was swarming up the side and through the entry port, his ears cringing to the slap and click of bayoneted muskets presenting arms, and the fifes and drums breaking into Heart of Oak.

  There was Keen, his fair hair visible as he doffed his hat and strode to meet him, even as Bolitho’s flag broke smartly from the foremast truck.

  “Welcome, Sir Richard.”

  Keen smiled, not realizing that the greeting had caught Bolitho unawares. It sounded like somebody else.

  “I am glad to be here.” Bolitho nodded to the assembled officers and the watch on deck. If he had still expected to see some sign of the battle he was disappointed. Newly paid deck seams and blacked-down rigging. Neatly furled sails and every upper deck eighteen-pounder with all its tackles and gear perfectly in line as if on parade.

  He looked along the deck and through the criss-cross of standing and running rigging. He could see the white shoulder of the figurehead, depicting the handsome youth who had been one of Jason’s crew in the mythical Argo. Less than three years old from the day she had slid into the water at Brest. A new ship by any standard, with a full complement of six hundred and twenty souls, officers, seamen and Royal Marines, although he doubted if even the resourceful Keen had gathered anywhere near that total.

  They walked aft beneath the poop deck. By making it longer than in English third-rates, the builders had given better and more spacious accommodation to the officers. In battle, however, as in any man-of-war, the deck would be completely cleared from bow to stern so that every gun, large or small, could be worked without obstruction.

  They ducked beneath the deckhead beams and Bolitho saw a marine sentry marking the screen doors of his quarters right aft.

  “When Allday comes aboard, Val, I want—”

  Keen glanced at him curiously. “He preceded you, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho felt a great sense of relief, as he had of fear when Allday had been hacked down on that terrible day.

  It was quite dark between decks and Bolitho allowed his feet to guide him by instinct. The smells were like old friends. Tar, oakum, paint, damp canvas. Like the ship’s fabric itself.

  He nodded to the marine sentry and entered the stern cabin. A spacious dining table brought from Falmouth, the wine cabinet which followed him from ship to ship, and aft in the broad day cabin a fine carpet laid upon the black and white check canvas covering of the deck.

  Keen watched his reactions as little mole-like Ozzard, who had been aboard for several days, hurried from the sleeping space. He too watched as Bolitho walked slowly to The Chair.

  Bolitho had had it made in Falmouth. Belinda had disagreed about it and thought he should have something more elegant, as suited his position.

  Bolitho touched the high back, which, like the rest of the chair, was covered with dark green leather. It was soft as a woman’s skin under his hand.

  He handed his sword to Ozzard and sat down in the chair which would become so important when he could share none of his doubts and worries with his subordinates. Strong arms to rest on, a high back to shut out things or people when needed.

  Keen grinned. “Came aboard an hour before we quit Plymouth Sound.” Feet pattered overhead and Keen moved towards the door.

  Bolitho smiled, “Be off with you, Val. You’ve much to do. We shall speak later.”

  The door closed and he watched his cabin servant padding about with a tray and some glasses. Was Ozzard sorry to be leaving the security and safety of Falmouth? If so, he did not show it. Bolitho waited for Ozzard to place a glass of claret by his side and then withdraw to his pantry. A fine servant, dedicated even beyond his unfailing terror whenever a ship cleared for action. He was well read and full of surprises for one so small and mild. He had once been a lawyer’s clerk. It was said he had gone to sea to escape jail or worse. Like Allday, he was totally dependable.

  He glanced around the great cabin. Contre-Amiral Jobert must have sat here often enough in those other days. Must have cocked his head when he heard the lookouts cry out that they had sighted Achates.

  The other door opened and Yovell entered with the usual pack of letters under one arm.

  “Good day, Mr Yovell.”

  “Good morning, Sir Richard.”

  They smiled at one another like conspirators. For if Bolitho had gained a title, Yovell’s status had been raised from mere clerk to secretary. With his sloping, fat shoulders and small goldrimmed spectacles he looked like a prosperous merchant.

  Yovell had found a new clerk to assist him, a fresh-faced youth named John Pinkney, whose family had lived in Falmouth for many generations. Ozzard too had gained an assistant; his name was Twigg, but Bolitho had only seen him once when he had called at the house in Falmouth.

  He found he was on his feet and was pacing the cabin as if he was trapped.

  There was so much he had wanted to say to Belinda. There had been a strangeness between them since their visit to London. She loved him, but because of the difficult time she had had during Elizabeth’s birth there had been a barrier. A coolness. He could not be certain if—

  He looked up, angry without knowing why, as the sentry tapped his musket on the deck and called, “Admiral’s cox’n, sir!”

  That marine would soon get to know that Allday came and went as he pleased.

  Allday came in and stood in the middle of the carpet, his head just beneath the skylight.

  He looked little changed, Bolitho thought, in his blue jacket with the special gilt buttons, and his nankeen trousers to mark him out as the admiral’s coxswain.

  “All done, Allday?” Perhaps he would shake him out of his gloom.

  Allday stared around the cabin and then back to Bolitho and the new chair.

  “Fact is, sir.” He fidgeted with his coat. “I had a bit o’ news.”

  Bolitho sat down. “Well, what is it, man?”

  “I’ve got a son, sir.”

  Bolitho exclaimed, “You what?”

  Allday grinned sheepishly. “Somebody wrote a letter, sir. Ferguson read it to me, me not bein’ able—”

  Bolitho nodded. Ferguson, his steward in Falmouth, could always keep a secret. He and Allday were as thick as thieves.

  Allday continued, “There was a girl I used to know. On the farm, it was. Pretty little thing, smart as paint. Seems she died, just a few weeks back.” He looked at Bolitho with sudden desperation. “Well, I mean, sir, I couldn’t just do nothin’, could I?”

  Bolitho sat back in the chair and watched the emotions hurrying across Allday’s homely face.r />
  “Are you certain about this?”

  “Aye, sir. I—I’d like you to speak with him, if it’s not too much to ask?”

  Feet moved overhead and somewhere a boatswain’s call trilled to summon more hands to hoist some stores inboard. In the cabin it seemed apart, remote from that other shipboard life.

  “You brought him aboard then?”

  “He volunteered, sir. He’s worn the King’s coat afore.” There was pride in his voice now. “I just need—” He broke off and looked at his shoes. “I shouldn’t have asked—”

  Bolitho walked over to him and touched his arm. “Bring him aft when you’re ready. Blast your eyes man, you have the right to ask what you will!”

  They stared at each other, then Allday said simply, “I’ll do that, sir.”

  The door opened and Keen looked in at them. He said, “I thought you should know, Sir Richard, Firefly has just weighed and is setting her tops’ls.”

  Bolitho smiled. “Thank you.” He looked at Allday. “Come, we’ll watch him leave, eh?”

  Allday took the old sword down from its rack and waited to clip it to Bolitho’s belt.

  He said quietly, “He’ll need a good cox’n of his own afore long, an’ that’s no error.”

  They looked at each other and understood.

  Keen watched them and forgot all the demands, the signals which awaited attention and which he must discuss with his admiral. Bolitho and Allday were the rock which would stand when all else fell. He was surprised to discover that this realization still moved him deeply.

  Several of the hands working about the quarterdeck withdrew as Bolitho and their captain walked to the nettings. Bolitho could feel their eyes even though his back was turned. They would be pondering on his reputation both as their leader and as a man.

  The little brig was heeling over to the wind, showing her copper as she tacked between two anchored seventy-fours.

  Bolitho took a glass from the signals midshipman. The youth seemed vaguely familiar. He trained the glass across the nettings and for a few moments saw Firefly’s commander staring across at him, near enough to touch. He was waving his hat slowly from side to side, then one of the ships shut him from view. Bolitho lowered the glass and the scene fell away into the distance.

  He handed the telescope to the midshipman. “Thank you, Mr— ”

  “Sheaffe, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho eyed him curiously. Of course. He should have remembered that Admiral Sir Hayward Sheaffe had made a point of putting one of his sons in Argonaute. It was unlike him to forget such things. Even Keen’s comment, “Lose the brat overboard and I’ll lose my command to boot!”

  He had visited Sheaffe at the Admiralty several times since his return to England. One rank only separated them. It could have been an ocean.

  Keen was watching him and as they walked to the opposite side said, “There was no real urgency to come aboard just yet, sir. It may be another week before the full squadron is assembled here.”

  He thinks I need to leave the land, Bolitho thought.

  He said, “A small enough squadron it will be too, Val. Four sail of the line, Barracouta and the little brig Rapid.”

  Keen grinned. “There is also Supreme, sir.”

  Bolitho smiled ruefully. “Tops’l cutter. She hardly ranks with her name, eh?”

  He considered the three other seventy-fours. One familiar face amongst them. Captain Francis Inch was in command. Bolitho swung round, his voice almost pleading as he asked, “What has become of us, Val? We happy few, remember?”

  Keen said, “I think of it often.” Bolitho’s mood disturbed him. He had heard the reason, or some of it, the rest he could guess. Bolitho’s beautiful wife was concerned about his career, although to most sailors a vice-admiral, with or without a knighthood, was about level with the Almighty.

  She wanted him to leave Falmouth, to purchase a fine residence in London where his name would be noted and acted upon.

  Leave Falmouth? Keen had been at their wedding there, and knew the Bolitho house below Pendennis Castle better than most. Bolithos had always lived there; it was as much a part of them as the sea itself.

  Bolitho was looking across at his one frigate Barracouta. Lapish, her young captain, had less than three years’ seniority, not even posted. The sight of the anchored frigate, her yards and decks alive with working seamen, jabbed at another memory. The first time he had spoken sharply to Belinda. She had been talking about Nelson. Practically everyone did in London, but not of his courage and his victories, but about his outrageous and unacceptable behaviour with that woman.

  Belinda had said, “You rank the same as Nelson, but he has a fleet whereas you are being given a squadron!”

  Bolitho had said, “A fleet is not built on favours!” Curiously enough, despite his fame and his position, Nelson had only two frigates for his whole command, but Bolitho had been too upset to mention the point at the time.

  The little admiral had hoisted his flag in Victory, that old and respected first-rate, and had sailed for the Mediterranean to seek out the French at Toulon or make sure they stayed bottled up like those in the Channel Ports.

  He had seen Belinda recoil at his tone and they had stared at each other like strangers.

  She had said quietly, “I say and do things because I care.”

  Bolitho had retorted, “Because you think you know best! This is our home, not London!”

  Now, watching the ships, remembering lost faces, he wondered what had really provoked him. Enough to bring him here, no matter what it was.

  He said softly, “All those men, little more than boys some of them. Farquhar, Keverne, Veitch,” he looked away, “young John Neale, remember? And the rest, where are they? Dead, maimed, ekeing out their lives in one poxy hospital or another, and for what?”

  Keen had never seen him like this before. “We’ll beat the Frogs, sir.”

  Bolitho gripped his arm. “I daresay. But a lot of good men will have to pay for others’ complacency and stupidity.”

  He controlled his voice and said calmly, “I will go aft and read my despatches. Dine with me tonight, eh, Val?”

  Keen touched his hat and watched him leave the quarterdeck. He saw Stayt, the new flag-lieutenant, strolling towards the poop and wondered if he could replace Bolitho’s nephew or the previous aide Browne. He smiled sadly. With an “e.”

  Keen walked to the quarterdeck rail and rested his hand on it. Soon the ship would be alive again, a working creature, driven by her pyramids of canvas, expected to deal with anything, anywhere. He glanced up to Bolitho’s flag at the fore. There was no man he would rather serve, none he respected more. Loved. From the moment he had joined Bolitho’s ship as a midshipman he had found his affection growing. Amidst death and danger in the Great South Sea, when Bolitho had almost died of fever, he had still found the strength to support him in his own loss. Keen still thought of the lovely Malua, who had died of the same terrible fever. Unlike most sea officers, he had never married, had never really recovered from losing her.

  He looked along his command and felt vaguely pleased with all they had achieved in so short a time. He recalled the neverending broadsides, the carnage above and below decks in that last battle. He touched his left shoulder where a splinter had smashed him down. It still ached on occasions. But he was alive. He looked at the men high above the decks working at their endless splicing and other ropework.

  It had been his good fortune to retain some of the older, seasoned men from Achates. Big Harry Rooke, the boatswain; Grace, the carpenter, who had been worth his weight in gold during the refit at Plymouth. Even Black Joe Langtry, the fearsome looking master-at-arms, had come aboard Argonaute. But they were still well short of seamen. He rubbed his chin as he had seen Bolitho do when he was considering a problem. The port-admiral and a local magistrate were doing their best, but Keen wanted prime seamen, not felons. The thought made him glance across at the two big transports, one an ex-Indiaman by the look of h
er. They were to carry convicts to the new colony. Was it the right way to expand a place, he wondered? A felon was a felon and the gallows a fitter end for his kind.

  Paget, the first lieutenant, crossed the deck and touched his hat. “Permission to exercise the lower battery during the afternoon watch, sir?”

  Keen saw him glance aft to the poop and smiled. “Have no fear, Mr Paget, our admiral greatly approves of efficient gunnery! So do I!”

  Paget walked away. A good lieutenant, slightly older than the others, he had been in the merchant service for a time during the Peace of Amiens. He should have a command, albeit a small one. The little Supreme’s new commander, Hallowes, had been Keen’s fourth lieutenant until the battle. Keen could see it now. Adam Bolitho and Hallowes in a madcap attack on Argonaute’s stern. With a handful of men they had placed charges around the mainmast and brought it down like a gigantic tree. The enemy had struck almost immediately. So why not Paget? His report was good and he seemed competent enough.

  Keen began to pace up and down, his chin in his neckcloth, momentarily oblivious to the rattle of blocks and the hoarse cries of his petty officers as more stores were hauled aboard. Time would tell. One thing was certain, it would be a harder war this time. The feeling of being cheated, even betrayed, after so shortlived a peace would put an edge on every temper.

  It would be good to see Inch again, to watch his long horseface light up when he met Bolitho. It was a sobering thought to realize that Inch and himself were the only post-captains in the squadron. Inch’s two-decker Helicon would arrive from the Nore at any time. Then, under orders once more, they would put out to sea where every sighting would likely be hostile. To Gibraltar, and then?

  While Keen paced the deck immersed in his thoughts, Bolitho wandered about his unfamiliar quarters as Ozzard and some extra hands moved his possessions into their new places.