Colours Aloft!

by Alexander Kent

  The old sword was on its rack above the fine presentation one from Falmouth’s public subscription. He could remember quite clearly his father giving him the old blade in the grey house where he had been born.

  He said gravely, “England needs all her sons now.” He had been grieving for Hugh’s disgrace, his desertion from the Navy. Hugh should have been given the sword. It would be Adam’s one day.

  Bolitho walked into the sleeping compartment and stared at himself in his mirror. Where had the years gone? He would be forty-seven next month. He looked ten years younger but the thought, like the others, disturbed him.

  He thought of Belinda, back in Falmouth. Would there be more changes when he returned? He grimaced at his reflection then turned away. “If, more like.”

  Ozzard started. “Sir?”

  Bolitho smiled. “Nothing. I have been ashore for too many weeks. The next horizon will cure that directly.”

  Ozzard was packing things into drawers and a fine hanging wardrobe. He liked to be busy. He hesitated over one drawer and made to tidy some new shirts. His fingers touched a miniature portrait of a girl with long chestnut hair and green eyes. She was so beautiful, he thought.

  Twigg, his new assistant, peered over his shoulder. “Shall we ’ang it, Tom? I would if I ’ad a wife like ’er!”

  “Get about your work!” Ozzard closed the drawer carefully. It was not Twigg’s fault, the miniature looked very like Lady Belinda. But Ozzard knew differently: he had heard Bolitho call out her name when he had been badly wounded. Cheney.

  Why did she have to die? He picked up a pair of shoes and regarded them unseeingly.

  The deck rolled slightly and Ozzard sighed.

  This was a life he had come to understand. Better than those poor devils in the convict ships. He gave a gentle smile. If fate had been less kind he might have taken the same one-way passage.

  Three days later the small squadron with Argonaute in the van stood down-Channel in a brisk northerly wind.

  They had sailed on the ebb, but there was no letter. Bolitho locked his own in the strongbox and watched the land slipping away into the dusk. My England, when shall I see you again?

  It was like a cry from the heart, but only the sea replied.

  2 IN DISTRESS

  BOLITHO walked across the poop and idly watched the other three ships of the line following astern. It was two long days since they had weighed anchor at Spithead and, apart from sail and gun drill, there had been little to break the monotony.

  Inch’s Helicon was directly astern, with Despatch and Icarus in direct line although not without a few forthright signals from the flagship.

  They had to learn good station-keeping and to respond to every signal without delay. There would be no time later on.

  Far away on the starboard quarter, with only her pale topsails showing above the sea and spray, the solitary frigate Barracouta held carefully to windward, ready to dash down and investigate any sighting or support her heavy consorts if so ordered. Bolitho could picture them all, and their captains whom he had seen just briefly prior to sailing. The brig Rapid and the small, rakish cutter Supreme were sweeping far ahead of their flagship, Bolitho’s eyes and intelligence.

  Bolitho had decided to leave the briefing to Keen when the captains had assembled in Argonaute’s wardroom. He had always hated speeches just for the want of making them. When they reached the Rock he would know better what was expected and would then lay his intentions before the others.

  Inch’s face had been creased with delight when Bolitho had greeted him aboard. He had not changed. Still eager and completely trusting, Bolitho knew he could never share his doubts with one so loyal. Inch would agree with everything he said and did, even to the mouth of Hell.

  He turned to watch the hands at work on the gun deck. He had noticed several faces he knew from the Achates. He had remarked to Keen that it did him credit they had volunteered to serve under him again. He had not seen Keen smile to himself, just as it had never occurred to him that they might have volunteered because of their admiral.

  He had seen the loping, misshapen Crocker, the gun captain who had blown down this ship’s mainmast and so finished the battle, looking no different despite his new uniform. He had gained promotion to gunner’s mate and was rarely far away when the drills were carried out.

  He saw Allday on the larboard gangway with a fresh-faced youth he guessed was his newly discovered son. It did not seem possible, and he wondered when Allday would decide the time was right and proper to bring him aft to the great cabin. Allday would know better than anyone Bolitho’s dislike of showing favours in a crowded man-of-war. He would doubtless judge the moment perfectly.

  Two bells chimed out from the forecastle and Bolitho stirred restlessly. He felt so apart from the ship and those who followed his flag. Keen and his officers dealt with everything, and day by day Argonaute’s company were led, encouraged and driven into a working team. Minutes were knocked off the time for clearing for action, for reefing and making sail, but Bolitho could only share it at a distance.

  The hours dragged heavily and he found himself envying Keen as well as the other captains who had their ships to fill their days.

  He walked to the opposite side and stared at the dull, grey sea with its serried ranks of wave crests. One hundred miles abeam was Lorient. He glanced forward to the figurehead’s pale shoulder. They had passed Brest in the night, where this ship had been built. Did Argonaute feel it, he wondered?

  Curiously enough Inch’s Helicon was also a French prize, but had had her name changed as was the custom when the battle where she had been taken had been badly fought.

  Bolitho touched the nettings. Nobody could say that about this ship. She had fought well from start to finish. Nelson would be hard put to control the Mediterranean if the enemy had more admirals of Jobert’s breed.

  “Deck there! Rapid’s signallin’, sir!”

  Bolitho glanced up at the masthead lookout on his precarious, swooping perch. The wind had backed slightly and was almost directly astern. It would be lively up there.

  He opened his mouth to speak but Keen was already present.

  “Get aloft, Mr Sheaffe, with haste now!”

  Bolitho watched the slim midshipman swarming up the shrouds. He was sixteen but looked older, and rarely skylarked with the other “young gentlemen” off duty, or during the dogwatches.

  He wondered momentarily if Adam would have been so serious had he been his son.

  Eventually Sheaffe was able to level his big signals telescope and shouted down to the deck.

  “From Supreme, repeated Rapid, sir!” All eyes were raised to his foreshortened silhouette. The clouds seemed to be racing directly above the masthead.

  “Sail in sight to the south’rd!”

  Keen exclaimed, “I wonder?” He looked at Bolitho. “Frenchies, sir?”

  Bolitho said, “Doubt it. We saw some of the blockading squadron yesterday. The enemy would have to slip past them first.” He smiled at Keen’s expression. He was disappointed. It was as clear as if he had said it aloud.

  Bolitho said, “Signal Supreme to investigate. She carries only pop-guns, but can outpace anything that floats.”

  The signal dashed up to the yards and broke stiffly to the wind. Rapid would be waiting to repeat it to the cutter which was out of sight from the flagship. He knew Lieutenant Hallowes’ reputation for recklessness and hoped he would take care. Otherwise his new command would be short-lived.

  Bolitho heard a step beside him and saw his flag-lieutenant watching the signal party critically as Sheaffe slid down to the deck again.

  Stayt said, “Slow. You must do better, Mr Sheaffe, or I shall know why.”

  Bolitho said nothing. At least Stayt did not care about reprimanding an admiral’s son.

  Stayt said, “Whoever it is will probably turn and run, sir.”

  Bolitho nodded. If it was a merchantman, no matter what flag she wore, her master would not wish to lose a
ny of his prime seamen to a King’s ship.

  He wondered about Stayt. His father had quit the sea a sick man and owned some land around the little village of Zennor. Stayt’s brothers were both clergymen but it was hard to picture the lieutenant wearing the cloth.

  Stayt had a swarthy complexion and dark restless eyes. Like a gypsy. He was not handsome like Keen, but had the rugged good looks which would appeal to women.

  Bolitho knew that Stayt always carried a small pistol under his coat and wanted to ask him why. A curious habit, as if he was expecting trouble.

  Sheaffe spoke urgently to his assistant midshipman and then climbed swiftly up the mizzen shrouds with his telescope. He was smarting, whereas most midshipmen would have taken Stayt’s comment as part of their lot. A midshipman was neither fish nor fowl, who stood between the lieutenants and the people, and was respected by neither for the most part. It was strange they never remembered that fact when they became lieutenants, Bolitho thought.

  “From Supreme, sir!” Sheaffe’s voice was sharp. “She’s the Orontes!”

  Keen said, “One of the convict ships. But they sailed two days before us.” He eyed Bolitho questioningly. “Strange?”

  “From Supreme, sir. Ship requires assistance.”

  “Make to Supreme.” Keen had seen Bolitho nod. “Heave-to and await the flag.” He waited for the signal to break out. Now a general signal. “Make more sail.”

  Stayt closed his glass with a snap. “The squadron has all acknowledged, sir.”

  Bolitho watched the hands dashing up the shrouds and out along the yards to set more sail. The other ships were doing likewise. There was no obvious danger but the squadron would keep in formation. Bolitho had known traps in the past, his own and the enemy’s. He was taking no chances.

  The deck staggered and spray lifted above the taffrail as Argonaute responded to the extra pressure of canvas.

  “We’ll be up to them by noon, sir.” Keen watched the set of each sail and then shouted, “Another pull on the weather forebrace, Mr Chaytor! Your division is in confusion today!” He lowered his speaking-trumpet and turned aside. There was little wrong with the lieutenant’s division, but it did no harm to drive them a bit more. He saw Bolitho smile and knew that he had seen through his guard.

  Luke Fallowfield, the sailing-master, watched the hardening sails and put another man on the big double-wheel. He had been master in flagships before but had never known one like Bolitho’s. Most admirals stayed away in their great cabins, but not this one. Fallowfield was short, but massively built like a huge cask. He had no neck and his head sat directly on his shoulders like a great red pumpkin. He was a shabby, shambling mass of a man, who usually cast the smell of rum in his wake, but his knowledge of navigation and ship-handling was unsurpassed.

  Bolitho was getting to know their faces, the way they responded to their superiors and subordinates. It kept him in touch. Without this small contact he knew he would be forced into his shielded quarters. In his heart he admitted he did not want to be left alone with his thoughts.

  The Orontes grew and lifted from the grey water with each turn of the glass. Lying-to nearby, the Supreme remained an onlooker, her hull rolling and pitching in the troughs.

  As soon as Argonaute was within signalling distance Keen observed, “Lost their rudder, damn them!”

  Stayt said, “The other ship was an ex-Indiaman and in good condition.” His lip curled. “This one is a hulk. I’m glad for their sakes the Bay is being kind.”

  Bolitho took a glass and watched the slow exchange of signals. Stayt was right about the ship’s appearance. More like a slaver than a government transport.

  He said, “If we take her in tow, Val,” he saw Keen’s dismay, “and assist her back to port, we will reduce our strength and slow our passage. We cannot abandon her.”

  Old Fallowfield mumbled, “Squall gettin’ near, zur.” He stared blankly at the officers. “No doubt in my mind.”

  “That settles it.” Bolitho folded his arms. “Send a boat across and discover what has happened to her consort, the Philomela.” He watched Big Harry Rooke, the boatswain, beckoning a boat’s crew towards the tier. It was bad luck, but they had no choice.

  “We will escort her to Gibraltar.”

  Keen protested, “We’ll take days longer with her in tow, sir.”

  He was eager to get there. More so to become involved against the enemy. He did not alter.

  The first lieutenant clambered down into the waiting boat and was soon speeding across the water towards the drifting vessel.

  What a way for the convicts to begin what was already a terrible voyage, Bolitho thought. He tried to shut it from his mind and concentrate on what he must do. If he left the squadron and went on ahead in Barracouta or Rapid to discover what was required of him, there might be an unexpected attack during his absence. A barely trained squadron without its admiral would certainly attract the French if they learned of it.

  He made up his mind. “Signal Barracouta to close on the flag. Captain to repair on board.” He could already see Lapish’s youthful face, grateful to be released from his ponderous companions, to be free of authority.

  “Then signal Helicon to prepare to tow.” Inch was by far the most experienced captain, but he would not thank him for it. Not even loyal Inch.

  It took the remainder of the day to pass the massive hawser to the rudderless transport, and some hundred sailors from Inch’s command to do it. By the time they had formed up once more in some sort of order Barracouta was already hull down on the horizon and soon out of sight altogether. Lapish would carry despatches from Bolitho to the Governor and commander-in-chief. At least everyone would know they would eventually arrive under the Rock.

  Darkness closed in and when Bolitho went aft to the great cabin he saw that the table was carefully laid, the sides and deckhead glittering to the swinging lanterns and new candles.

  The exercise with the Orontes and the passing of the tow had given Bolitho an appetite. It had helped to pass the time, to see his squadron doing something other than running out guns or shortening sail.

  Ozzard watched him and was satisfied. It was good to see Bolitho in a warmer mood. He would dine with the captain and the new flag-lieutenant. Ozzard was reserving his opinion on the latter. There was something false about Lieutenant Stayt, he decided. Like the lawyer he had once worked for.

  Ozzard said, “The cox’n’s waiting, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho smiled. “Good.”

  Allday was right aft by the big sloping windows. He faced Bolitho and touched his forehead. Even that he did with massive dignity, Bolitho thought. There was neither subservience nor indifference there.

  “How is it coming along?” Bolitho sat on the new chair and stretched his legs. “When do I meet, er, your son?”

  Allday replied, “Tomorrow forenoon if it suits, Sir Richard.”

  Even the title rested easily with Allday. He seemed prouder of it than its recipient.

  Allday continued, “He’s a fine lad, sir.” He sounded anxious. “I was wonderin’—”

  Now to the truth of the matter. Bolitho said encouragingly, “Come on, old friend. There are no admirals or coxswains down here.”

  Allday watched him worriedly. “I knows that, sir. I’ve always known it. You treated me like one of the family in Falmouth. I don’t reckon anyone would forget that.”

  He tried again. “I get a bit o’ pain from time to time, sir.”

  “Yes.” Bolitho poured two glasses of claret. “I fear there is no rum within reach.”

  The memory brought a slow grin to Allday’s bronzed features. Remembering. The rum which had brought him back to life, if only because his reeling mind had recorded that Bolitho was drinking some out of despair. Bolitho never drank rum. In some strange way it had dragged Allday across the margin of survival and death.

  “I wants to do my duty for you, sir. Like always. But somehow—”

  Bolitho said gently, “You think I migh
t need a second cox’n, is that it?”

  Allday stared at him. Awe, astonishment, gratitude, it was all there.

  “God bless you, sir.” Allday nodded. “It would help the lad, an’ I could keep an eye on him like.”

  Keen entered and stopped by the screen door. “I beg your pardon, sir.” It seemed quite natural to find the big coxswain having a quiet drink with his admiral. Keen had cause to know and respect Allday. When he had been a midshipman under Bolitho’s command he had been cut down by a great splinter which had driven into his groin like a bloody lance. The frigate’s surgeon had been a drunkard and Allday had carried the barely conscious midshipman below and cut the splinter away himself. It had saved his life. No, he would never forget, especially as the respect had become mutual.

  Bolitho smiled. “All done. With your permission, I’d like to take, er—” He glanced at Allday. “What name does he use?”

  Allday looked at his feet. “John, like me, sir.” He became serious, “Bankart. That was ’er name.”

  Keen nodded, his handsome features expressionless. His own coxswain, Hogg, had told him about it.

  Bolitho said, “A second cox’n. Good idea, eh?”

  Keen replied gravely, “None better.”

  They watched him leave and Keen said, “God, he even looks like a father now!”

  Bolitho asked, “Do you know this Bankart?”

  Keen took a glass from Ozzard and held it up to a lantern.

  “I saw him sworn in, sir. About twenty or so. Served in the Superb before the Peace. A clean bill.”

  Bolitho looked away. Keen had checked up already. To protect him or Allday, it did not matter which.

  Keen said, “I am in despair over the Orontes, sir. Her master ignores Captain Inch’s instructions and I am fast becoming impatient with the fellow.” He eyed Bolitho thoughtfully. “I’ve a mind to go aboard tomorrow.”

  Bolitho smiled. “Yes. I think my flag-captain will get more done than Inch’s lieutenants.”

  Stayt entered the cabin and handed Ozzard his hat. He too had apparently been considering the Orontes.

  “I think I have discovered why the other transport sailed on without Orontes, sir.” He leaned over to move a chair and for a second or so revealed the bright pistol beneath his coat. “Philomela carries gold as well as human beings. The paymaster for New South Wales is with it.”