Colours Aloft!

by Alexander Kent

  At the captains’ conference Bolitho had first sensed doubt if not disbelief, but although he had been unable to see their faces clearly he had felt his words gaining their attention.

  Spain was still an ally of France whether she liked it or not. On the face of it you could almost feel sympathy for her, for Bonaparte had offered her few alternatives. He had demanded six million francs a month as a subsidy plus other important assistance. To avoid the outrageous ultimatum, Spain had the choice of declaring war on England once again. France had made it clear that a final option was that she would make war on Spain if neither alternative was met.

  It seemed unlikely, if Inch’s report was true, that Jobert would have used Spanish waters without instruction from a much higher authority in Paris. A further move to involve the Dons in the conflict.

  Bolitho felt uneasy when he recalled the conference. It had seemed like an eternity before the captains had returned to their ships. How did they see him now? Undeterred by his injury? Or had they seen through his pathetic attempt to convince them of his ability to lead?

  Lieutenant Stayt stepped through the screen door.

  “Captain Lapish is ready for his orders, sir.”

  “Very well.” Keen glanced at Bolitho and laid down the dividers. He knew how loath Bolitho was to release his only frigate. But if a fight was coming each ship needed to be selfsufficient for as long as possible. You could ration gunpowder. You could not survive without water.

  As the flag-lieutenant withdrew Keen said, “Lapish knows what to do. I spoke with him when he came aboard.” He gave a wry smile. “He is more than eager to make amends, I feel.”

  When Lapish entered Bolitho said, “Return to this station as soon as you can.” He saw him nod, but his eyes were smarting from so much use and he could see little of the young captain’s expression.

  “You know what to do?”

  Lapish said, as if repeating a lesson, “I am to transform my ship into a two-decker before I resume blockade duty, sir.” There was no doubt in his voice, but Bolitho guessed he probably thought his admiral was not only half blind but unhinged as well.

  Bolitho smiled, “Aye. Use all your spare canvas and hammock cloths. It has been done before. Lashed to the gangways and painted buff with black squares for gunports, no one could tell the difference from a third rate at any distance.”

  He added forcefully, “If they come sniffing too close, either board or sink them.”

  Bolitho knew that the lithe frigate would be able to catch up with the two seventy-fours, complete her watering and still return to the French coast ahead of them. Once on station she would be seen as one of his squadron. It would leave Bolitho with a full muster, and Lapish would be able to discard his crude disguise and run down on him should he sight any enemy movements. Lookouts, friends or enemies, usually saw what they expected to see. That would leave Rapid in a role of paramount importance, his only feeler.

  After Lapish had been seen into his gig by Keen, Argonaute made sail and, with Icarus in company, altered course to the southwest. The two ships sailed in line abreast and thus extended the range of their masthead lookouts. Rapid was so far ahead that she was barely visible even from the fighting-tops.

  Keen returned to his chart and explained, “The Frenchmen were sighted around the Cabo Creus, sir. An ideal anchorage, and less than twenty miles from the frontier with France. If they are still there, shall we go for them?”

  Bolitho toyed with the dividers. “It might provoke Spain. On the other hand it would show the Dons we are prepared to discount their one-sided neutrality. For once it will put Jobert on the defensive.” The more he considered it the less could he think of an alternative. Jobert had made all the moves, and had nearly succeeded in crippling Bolitho’s squadron. He must be provoked into coming out into the open. Winter would soon be upon them and, Mediterranean or not, the weather would favour the enemy, not the ships battling up and down on blockade duty.

  A convoy to Malta would be expected within the next few weeks, and the enemy would know it. From the moment the supply ships anchored briefly at Gibraltar their spies would pass on the news of the vessels, and probably their cargoes as well.

  There were not enough men-of-war available. Nelson was right about that too.

  Bolitho massaged his eye. He would probably find the sheltered anchorage empty. Suppose they met with Spanish patrols? Fight or retreat?

  He said grimly, “Landfall tomorrow, Val.”

  “Yes, sir.” If he was anxious about the girl being aboard with a prospect of battle he did not reveal it in his voice.

  Bolitho said, “It would be something to show for our setbacks, Val. Tit for tat. Jobert would be out for revenge. That is a bad incentive for any flag-officer.”

  He turned away and walked to the stern windows. It is what I am seeking.

  After Keen had gone Allday entered and asked, “Is there anything you need, sir?”

  Bolitho immediately sensed the emptiness in his voice.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Allday looked at the deck. “Nothin’, sir.”

  Bolitho slumped down in his new chair. “Out with it, man.”

  Allday said stubbornly, “I’ll keep it battened down, if you don’t mind, sir.”

  There was no point in pushing him further. Allday was like the oak and had deep roots. He might tell him in his own time.

  Allday took down the beautiful presentation sword and tucked it under his arm. He seemed to need something to occupy his mind.

  Tuson was the next visitor. Bolitho had learned to tolerate the surgeon’s regular treatment and to disguise his pain when the dressings were changed.

  How many days had it been? He opened his left eye and stared fixedly at the stern windows. Watery sunshine and a deep blue horizon. He tensed, feeling the hope surge through him. Then clenched his fists as the same shadow returned to curtain off his vision.

  Tuson saw him tighten his fists and said, “Don’t despair, sir.”

  Bolitho waited for the bandage to be retied. It was almost better to see nothing from that eye than to lose hope.

  He asked abruptly, “What is the matter with my cox’n?”

  Tuson looked at him. “Bankart, sir. His son. Pity he’s aboard, if you ask me.”

  Bolitho touched his shirtsleeve. “Come on, man, you can speak with me, you should know that.”

  Tuson shut his black bag. “How would you like it, sir, if your nephew proved to be a coward?”

  Bolitho heard the door close, the tap of a musket as the sentry changed his stance beyond the screen.

  A coward. All the bitter memories surged through him as the word hung in his mind like a stain.

  That moment when Midshipman Sheaffe had been left behind, probably injured. The times on Supreme’s deck when Bankart had been missing. There was not much Tuson did not glean from the men who came to him for aid.

  He remembered Stayt’s voice aboard the cutter; he had known even then.

  How could he waste time on such things when so much was expected of him? He thought of his instructions to Lapish. Board them or sink them. The intruding hardness in his voice. Had blindness done that to him? But he recalled how he had hacked down the French seaman who had been carrying the lookout’s telescope. Without a thought, with no hesitation. No, it was something inside him. Perhaps Belinda had seen it and feared for him because he was being destroyed by war with the same ruthlessness as by a ball or a pike.

  But he did care. About people. About Allday most of all. Tuson had laid his finger right on it. How would he have felt if Adam had been a coward?

  That night, as Argonaute dipped and lifted in an untidy sea of tossing white horses, Bolitho lay in his cot and tried to sleep. When eventually he dozed off he thought of Belinda, or was it Cheney? Of Falmouth and of a sea battle which became a nightmare, for he saw himself dead.

  The next day Rapid stopped a Portuguese fisherman but only after she had put a ball across her bows.

 
; Eventually the news was passed to the flagship. The fisherman had passed Golfo de Rosas below the cape two days earlier. A large French man-of-war lay at anchor there.

  Bolitho paced up and down his stern gallery, oblivious to the wind and the spray which soon soaked him to the skin.

  The French ship would not sail towards Gibraltar. She might remain at anchor, or she could decide to head for Toulon.

  Argonaute would stand between her and any such destination.

  He sent for his flag-lieutenant.

  “Signal to Icarus. Remain on station. Rapid will stay with her.”

  Had he been able to he would have seen Stayt raise one eyebrow. Bolitho groped his way to the table and stared helplessly at the chart.

  Then he faced Stayt and grinned. “Argonaute will sail under her old colours tomorrow.”

  “Suppose it is Jobert, sir? He’ll surely recognize the ship.”

  “It won’t be. He will be with his squadron. When we know where that is—” He left the rest unsaid.

  Minutes later the flags broke brightly from the yards and were acknowledged by Icarus and eventually by the little brig.

  If the wind changed against them he would have to think again. But if not, and the master seemed confident it would remain southerly, they might stand a chance of closing with the enemy.

  The very coastline which the enemy had seen as a refuge might soon become the jaws of a trap.

  In his cabin Captain Valentine Keen took a few moments to ensure he had everything he needed for the next hours. Around and below him the ship seemed quiet except for the regular groan of timbers and the muffled sluice of water against the hull.

  It is always like this, he thought. Uncertainty, doubt, but beneath it all a determination which was without fear. He saw his reflection in the mirror and grimaced. In a short while he would go on deck and give the word to clear for action. He felt the touch of ice at his spine. That too was normal. He checked himself as thoroughly as he would a subordinate. Clean shirt and breeches. Less chance of infection if the worst happened. He touched his side and felt the soreness of his wound. They said lightning never struck twice in the same place. He was still looking at his reflection and saw himself smile. He had put a letter to his mother in his strongbox. How many of those had he written, he wondered?

  There was a light tap at the door. It was Stayt.

  “Sir Richard has gone on deck, sir.” It sounded like a warning.

  Keen nodded. “Thank you.” Stayt vanished in the gloom. An odd bird, he thought.

  It was almost time. He loosened his hanger in its scabbard, and made certain his watch was deep in his pocket in case he should fall.

  He heard low voices outside the door and pulled it open before anyone could knock.

  For a moment he could only see the pale oval of her face; she was covered from chin to toe in his boat-cloak which he had sent to her earlier.

  It looked black outside, but he sensed figures moving about and heard the creak of the helm from the quarterdeck.

  He led her into the cabin. Soon, like the rest of the ship, it would be stripped bare, ready to fight.

  Perhaps the French ship would not be there, but he discarded the thought. The wind was fresh, and no captain would wish to fight it and end up on a lee shore.

  He took her hands. “You will be safe, my dear. Stay with Ozzard in the hold. He will take care of you. Where is your companion?”

  “Millie has already gone down.” She was staring up at him, her eyes very dark in the shaded lantern.

  Keen adjusted the boat-cloak and felt her shoulder tense as he touched it. He said, “It will be cold below. This will help.”

  He was conscious of the need to go, the seconds and the minutes. He said, “Don’t be afraid.”

  She shook her head. “I only fear for you. In case—”

  He touched her mouth. “No. We shall be together soon.”

  A man coughed in the darkness. That would be Hogg, his coxswain.

  He held her against him very gently and imagined he could feel her heart beating and remembered holding her breast in his hand.

  He murmured, “In truth, I do love you, Zenoria.”

  She backed away and turned once to look at him. To remember, to reassure, he did not know.

  He snatched up his hat and strode out towards the quarterdeck. He found Bolitho by the weather nettings, his body angled to the deck as Argonaute blundered her way on an uncomfortable larboard tack, as close-hauled as her yards would bear.

  The quartermaster called, “Nor’-west, sir! Full an’ bye!”

  Keen could see it in his mind. All night the ship had clawed and beaten her way into the wind, to pass the cape well abeam and then turn again towards the land and the small gulf where the Frenchman was said to be lying. All the back-breaking work of resetting sails and changing tack a dozen times would offer them an advantage once they made their final approach. They would hold the wind-gage; even if the enemy managed to elude them there was only one course of escape, and he would find Icarus and Rapid blocking his path.

  Keen thought of the girl in his arms, the crude comment made by Icarus ’ captain. He had made an enemy there, he thought.

  Bolitho turned and asked, “How long?”

  Keen watched the painful way he was holding his head and sensed his hurt like his own.

  “I shall clear for action at dawn, sir.”

  Bolitho clung to the nettings as the ship shuddered into a massive trough; it seemed to shake her from beak-head to taffrail.

  “Will the people be fed?”

  Keen smiled sadly. “Yes, sir. The galley is ready.” He had nearly answered “of course.” He had learned well under Bolitho.

  Bolitho seemed to want to talk. “Are the women below?”

  Keen said, “Yes, sir.” He thought of the Jamaican maid called Millie. He suspected she was having an unlawful liaison with Wenmouth, the ship’s corporal, the very man chosen to protect her from harm.

  He admitted, “I hate the thought of her being down there when we fight.”

  Bolitho touched his bandage. “If we fight. But she is better here for the present, Val, than abandoned in some unknown harbour.” He tried to rouse his enthusiasm. “You are lucky to have her so near.”

  The calls trilled between decks and petty officers bawled at all hands to lash up and stow their hammocks. In minutes the upper deck, which had been deserted but for the duty watch, was overflowing with men as they ran to the nettings to tamp down their pod-like hammocks where they would offer the best protection against splinters and musket balls.

  There was a strong smell of frying pork from the galley funnel, and from one hatchway Bolitho heard the thin note of a fiddle. Time to eat, to change into fresh clothing, to share a tot and a song with a friend. For some it might be the last time.

  Keen had gone forward to speak with the boatswain and Bolitho twisted round to seek the officer-of-the-watch.

  “Mr Griffin!”

  But the shadow was not the lieutenant but Midshipman Sheaffe.

  Bolitho shrugged. “No matter. You can tell me what is happening.”

  Sheaffe stood near him. “Mr Fallowfield says it will be first light in half an hour. It is cloudy, as you can see, sir—” He broke off and said, “I beg your pardon, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho replied, “I am getting used to it. But I shall be glad when the day comes.”

  Eventually it was time. Keen came aft again and touched his hat.

  “The galley fire is doused, sir. It was a hasty breakfast, I’m afraid.”

  Bolitho smiled. “But a bracing one, I gather, from the smell of rum.”

  Shadows moved about, merged and separated, and there was a new greyness in the light.

  “Deck there! Land on the lee bow!”

  Bolitho heard Fallowfield blow his nose. Probably out of relief.

  Keen exclaimed, “A timely landfall, sir. I can wear ship presently, but first—”

  Bolitho turned towards h
im, his hair blowing in the wind.

  “Remember what I told you, Val. Clear your mind of everything but fighting this ship.” The hardness left him and he added, “Otherwise our brave Zenoria will be widowed before she is wed!”

  Keen grinned. It was infectious.

  He cupped his hands and then paused as a thin shaft of frail sunlight ran down the main-topgallant mast like liquid gold. Then he shouted, “Mr Paget! Beat to quarters and clear for action, if you please!”

  Bolitho took a deep breath as the drums rolled and the calls trilled yet again to urge, guide and muster the ship’s company into a single team.

  Bolitho did not have to see it to know what was happening. The crashes and thuds below decks as screens were removed and personal belongings taken below. Powder from the magazine, sand scattered on the decks so that the gun crews would not slip, and to contain the blood if any was to be shed.

  Bolitho felt Allday beside him and raised his arm for him to clip his sword into place.

  Together. Another fight, victory or failure, how much would it count in the end?

  He tried not to think of the ceremony when he had been knighted. All those complacent pink faces. Did they really care about men like these, what it cost in lives to keep landsmen in comfort?

  Paget’s voice. “Cleared for action, sir!”

  Keen said, “Well done, Mr Paget, but next time I want two minutes knocked off the time!”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” It was a game. Captain and first lieutenant. Like me and Thomas Herrick, Bolitho thought.

  He saw the nearest gangway taking shape, the lines of packed hammocks like hooded figures. The breeches of the upper deck’s eighteen-pounders stood out sharply against the holystoned planking; life was returning to the ship.

  Keen shouted, “Alter course, three points to starboard! Steer north by west!”

  Paget raised his speaking-trumpet. “Man the braces there!”

  Keen gripped the quarterdeck rail and watched as the great yards were hauled round while the rudder went over. It was not much, but it took the strain out of the sails and shifted the wind more across the quarter.