Colours Aloft!

by Alexander Kent

  By the bulwark the old man said, “I ’ear you’ve one o’ th’ Stayt boys as yer aide, Dick? From up north?”

  Bolitho smiled. To a Cornishman “up north” meant merely the opposite strip of coastline.

  “Yes.” There were no secrets for long in Cornwall. Except from the revenue officers.

  Tregidgo had gestured in the darkness towards the skylight.

  “She’s best along of me then.”

  “Why d’you say that?”

  “Well, ’er father was mixed up in the trouble near Zennor when a man got killed, an’ the dragoons was called. Stayt was a magistrate, like the one who’s wed to yer sister,” he had wheezed. “The one they calls th’ King o’ Cornwall.”

  The master had leaned closer and had murmured, “It was ’im wot ’anged ’er father. I’m fair surprised young Stayt didn’t mention that?”

  So am I. Bolitho had lowered himself into the boat and had told Allday to head for the jetty. He had to think and he knew that Keen would want to see him as soon as he returned.

  Sentries had barred his way to the repair docks until he had thrown off his cloak and they had stared with astonishment at his epaulettes. Allday had followed him anxiously, watching each step in case he lost his balance and fell into a dock.

  There were some lanterns by the dock where Supreme lay. In the gloom she looked as before, her wounds and state of repair hidden in shadow.

  Allday had whispered, “Goin’ aboard, sir?”

  “No.” Unwilling or unable, he still did not know. But he had walked along the rough stones until he had drawn level with the taffrail where the ball had struck and flung him down.

  Now, standing in the sunlight by the window, Supreme seemed like part of a strange dream. A cruel reminder.

  He thought again of Tregidgo’s words about Stayt. On his way here to present himself to the flag-officer-in-charge, Bolitho had been tempted more than once to ask Stayt directly about it. His flag-lieutenant had said nothing, even though he must have been aware that the girl was no longer on board.

  Bolitho had sent Stayt ashore in the barge to protect his reputation and any suggestion of involvement. Or had he? Was the mistrust already there?

  Two servants threw open the high doors and Bolitho turned to face the man who seemed to fill the entrance.

  Sir Marcus Laforey, Admiral of the Blue, was gross to a point which even his immaculate uniform could not hide. He had heavylidded eyes and a wide mouth, and when he walked with some difficulty to a chair Bolitho saw that one of his legs was bandaged. Gout, the curse of several admirals he knew.

  Admiral Laforey sank carefully into the chair and winced as a servant eased a cushion beneath his foot.

  When seated he looked like an irritable toad, Bolitho thought.

  The admiral waved his handkerchief. “Sit down, Bolitho.” The lids lifted slightly in a quick appraisal. “Bothersome about all this, what?”

  Bolitho sat down and got the impression that his chair had already been carefully positioned so as not to be too close.

  Laforey had been on one land appointment after another, and had not been in command at sea since before the war. He looked dried out, obscene, and Malta would very likely be his last appointment. The next would be in Heaven.

  “Read the report, Bolitho. Good news about the French seventyfour. Make ’em think, what?”

  Bolitho tightened his hold on his sword. With the chair half turned towards the window his vision was blurred. He stared at a point beyond the admiral’s fat shoulder and said, “I believe the French will be out soon, sir. Jobert may be hoping to make a diversion so that the main fleet can slip out of Toulon. Egypt or the Strait of Gibraltar—”

  Laforey grunted. “Don’t speak to me about Gibraltar! That bloody fever, not safe to let anything or anyone land here if they’ve been there en route. This place is like a ship aground, there’s always some sort of sickness amongst the people an’ the military.” He touched his brow with the handkerchief. “Good wine is gettin’ scarce. Spanish muck an’ little else, dammit!”

  He had not listened to a word, Bolitho thought.

  Laforey stirred himself, “Now about this court of inquiry, what?”

  “My captain is accused—”

  Laforey wagged a spatulate finger. “No, no, dear fellow, not accused! Others may have to do that. It is all a mere formality. I have not read the details but my flag-captain and this Mr, er, Pullen from their lordships assure me that it will be a matter of hours rather than days.”

  Bolitho said evenly, “Captain Keen is possibly the best officer I have ever had under me, Sir Marcus. He has shown his courage and excellence on many occasions, from midshipman to command. In my opinion he should rate flag rank.”

  Laforey’s lids lifted again and beneath them the small eyes were cold and without pity.

  “Bit young, I’d have thought. Too many inexperienced popinjays about these days, what?” He glared at his bandaged foot. “If I could hoist my flag above the Channel Fleet instead of this, this—” he stared round resentfully, “I’d soon make the mothers’ boys shed a few tears!”

  He tried to lean forward but his belly prevented him.

  “Now, see here, Bolitho, what really happened, eh?” He searched Bolitho’s face as if for an answer. “Needed a woman, did he?”

  Bolitho stood up, “I will not discuss my officers in this fashion, Sir Marcus.”

  Surprisingly Laforey seemed pleased. “Suit yerself. The court will sit tomorrow. If Captain Keen is sensible I am sure that you will be able to put to sea without further delay. There is a convoy due, and I cannot stand incompetence, anything which might make life here even more unbearable.” He watched as Bolitho stood up. “I hear you were wounded too, Sir Richard?” He did not expand on it. “It is part of our service.”

  “Indeed, sir.” Bolitho could barely conceal the irony in his voice. “There will be many more if the French succeed in joining their fleets together.”

  Laforey shrugged. “I am afraid I cannot entertain you longer, Sir Richard. My day is full. I sometimes wonder if their lordships and Whitehall realize the extent of my responsibility here.”

  The interview was over.

  Bolitho walked down a passageway and saw a servant with a tray carrying two decanters and a single goblet towards the room he had just left. The admiral was about to extend his responsibility, he thought bitterly.

  Stayt was waiting for him in the marble lobby.

  He watched curiously as Bolitho shaded his eyes to stare at the harbour. Then he said, “You asked about the Benbow, sir. She has recently completed an overhaul here.”

  “And whose flag has she hoisted?”

  “I thought you would know, sir. She is Rear-Admiral Herrick’s flagship.”

  Bolitho turned towards the shadows in the lobby to contain his feelings. The last part of the pattern, as he had known there would be. It was not imagination, now he knew it, even before Stayt said, “Rear-Admiral Herrick is to take the chair at the court of inquiry, sir.”

  “I shall see him.”

  “It might be unwise, sir.” Stayt’s deepset eyes watched him calmly. “It could be misconstrued, by some, that is.”

  Thomas Herrick, his best friend, who had nearly died for him more than once.

  In his mind he could see Herrick’s eyes, clear blue, stubborn at times, too easily hurt, above all honest. Now the word “honest” seemed to stand out to mock him.

  Stayt said, “There will be a letter awaiting you aboard Argonaute, I understand, sir. You will not need to attend the court. A written statement will suffice.”

  Bolitho turned towards him, his voice hard. “Will you write one also?”

  Stayt met his gaze without flinching. “I am ordered to attend the court to give evidence, sir.”

  It was like being snared in an invisible net which was being squeezed tighter every hour.

  “I shall be there, be certain of that!”

  Stayt followed him into the d
usty sunshine and waited on the steps which faced the harbour.

  Bolitho said, “Did you imagine I would stand by and say nothing? Well, did you?”

  “If there is anything I can do, sir—”

  Bolitho felt his eye sting and knew it was anger rather than injury.

  “Not for the present. You are dismissed. Return to the ship.”

  He strode down towards the jetty where Allday stood by the barge. There were other Argonaute boats nearby and Stayt would have to use one of them.

  The boat coxswains stood up and touched their hats as they saw him. Their routine did not allow for emotions like his. Stores had to be arranged, and the purser would have been ashore since first light to carry out his bargaining with chandlers and traders alike.

  Bolitho said, “To the Benbow, if you please.”

  Allday watched him enter the barge without any show of surprise. Herrick was here. It was only proper they should meet, no matter what some might think. Mates were mates, high or low.

  “Give way all!”

  The green-painted barge slid through the busy thoroughfare, other boats raising their oars or backing water to allow a flagofficer to have free passage.

  Bolitho sat stiffly in the sternsheets, only his eyes moving as he focused them on familiar things, masts and rigging, seabirds and small clouds above the fortress.

  Damn Laforey and his drink-sodden indifference, and anyone else who had a part in this. He glanced at the stroke oarsman and quickly along the bronzed faces of the barge crew. They all knew. Probably the whole fleet did too. Well, let them.

  Vague thoughts flashed through his mind, of Belinda’s letter, of Stayt’s cool demeanour as he had mentioned his summons to the inquiry, and of Inch and the squadron who expected him to be above mere human reactions—or did they?

  It would certainly not be the first time he had acted against the dictates of authority. He gave a small, bitter smile. It must run in the family. His father, who to his sons had always appeared as the stern, model example of a sea officer, had once fallen out with his army equivalent during a siege in the East Indies. Captain James Bolitho had solved the problem by arresting the soldier for negligence and then going on to win the battle. Had he lost it, Bolitho had no doubt that the family’s naval connection would have ended there.

  Allday murmured, “She looks proud, Sir Richard.”

  It sounded unusually formal. Allday never forgot himself when others were present. Well, hardly.

  The seventy-four-gun Benbow did indeed make a fine sight. Newly painted, and her rigging like black glass, yards crossed with each sail furled to match its companion. The ports were all open, and Bolitho had no difficulty in hearing their fearful thunder at Copenhagen and later against the French “flying squadron.” It never failed to tear at his memory, of the time he had been a prisoner of France and his subsequent escape. Allday had been with him then. Had carried the dying John Neale after his ship had foundered. Yes, many memories lay stored within her deep hull.

  The barge swept round a wide arc and he saw the side party rushing to their station, the Royal Marines dressing into lines. His unexpected arrival would get them on the move. Bolitho smiled again. Wrong, Herrick would have expected it.

  Benbow must be almost ready for sea, he thought. Only a few local boats lay alongside and just one tackle was swaying up cargo nets to the men on the gangway.

  Bolitho murmured, “Stand off, Allday, I’ll not be long.” He saw Allday’s face in the sunlight, caught it for just a moment as he carefully steered the sleek barge towards the main-chains. Bolitho was shocked to see the strain on his strong features, ashamed that he had not thought about his worries over his son.

  “Oars— up!” The pale oars rose dripping in twin lines, their blades perfectly matched. Allday had done well.

  Up the tumblehome to the piercing twitter of calls and then the drums and fifes of the marines. Pipeclay floated like white dust above the guard as they presented arms for his benefit. And here was Thomas Herrick, hastening to meet him, his round face beaming, and letting the formality blow away like the pipeclay.

  Herrick exclaimed, “Come aft, Sir Richard.” He gave a shy smile. “I’m not yet accustomed to it.”

  Nor I, Bolitho thought as they strode beneath the familiar poop. Here, and here, men had locked weapons and died. Up there shot had raked away seamen and marines alike, and where two small midshipmen were listening intently to the sailingmaster he had been struck down.

  In the great cabin it was warm although the windows and skylights were all wide open.

  Herrick bustled round. “The stench of paint and tar makes this place like Chatham Dockyard!”

  A cabin servant was placing goblets on a tray, and Bolitho sat down beneath a skylight, his shirt already clinging to his skin. He watched Herrick affectionately. His hair was tufted with grey and his body was stockier, probably from married life and Dulcie’s cooking.

  But when he turned he seemed just as before. The same clear blue eyes, the searching curiosity as he looked at his friend, originally his captain in another war when mutiny had been a greater threat than the enemy.

  “I saw young Adam when he was here, er, Richard.”

  Bolitho took a goblet and placed it beside him. Claret. Herrick’s taste had risen with his rank.

  Herrick added, “A fine brig. It’ll be a frigate next, what he’s always dreamed of, the rascal. If he stays out of trouble—” He paused, his eyes suddenly worried. “Well, anyway, here’s to you, dear friend, and may Lady Luck stay with you.”

  Bolitho reached for his goblet but missed it and caught it with his cuff. The wine spilled over the table like blood, and as Herrick and the servant hurried to help Bolitho said, “No. I can manage!” It came out more sharply than he had intended and he said, “I’m sorry, Thomas.”

  Herrick nodded slowly and poured another goblet himself.

  “I heard, of course, Richard. It was a shock.” He leaned over and stared at Bolitho for the first time. “Yet I see nothing, no damage, except perhaps—”

  Bolitho dropped his gaze. “Aye, Thomas, except, perhaps, they sum it up very well.”

  He drank the goblet without knowing what he had done.

  “About the inquiry, Thomas.”

  Herrick leaned back in his chair and regarded him gravely.

  “It will be here, in this cabin, tomorrow.”

  “It is rubbish, Thomas.” Bolitho needed to get up and move about as he had done so often in this place. “God, you know Valentine Keen. He’s a fine man, and is now an excellent captain.”

  “Of course I remember everything about him. We’ve sailed together often enough.” He became serious. “I cannot talk about the inquiry, Richard, but you know that, you have had this filthy job yourself.”

  “Yes. My flag-lieutenant warned me that I should not come.”

  Herrick watched him worriedly. “He was right. Any sort of discussion would, might be seen as collusion. We are all friends.”

  Bolitho stared hotly at the windows. “I was beginning to wonder.” He did not see the hurt in Herrick’s eyes. “When I flew my flag here, and you commanded Benbow, young Val was captain of Nicator, remember?” He did not wait for a reply but hurried on, “Then, when I went to the West Indies and we fought over that damned island San Felipe, Val gave up a larger vessel to come to Achates, a little sixty-four, because I asked him to be my flag-captain.”

  Herrick gripped the table. “I know. I know, Richard, but the fact is that we are all here to conduct an inquiry. I have my orders, otherwise I would say nothing more about it.”

  Bolitho tried to relax. Anything and everything seemed to seize him like claws since his injury. He picked up the goblet and knew Herrick was trying not to watch in case he knocked it over again.

  He said, “I shall come myself. I had no intention of sending a written statement, as if it were just a secondary matter. My captain’s future is in danger, and I’ll not stand by and see him slandered by enemies I
can only guess at!”

  Herrick stood up and gestured to the servant, who immediately withdrew. Another Ozzard.

  Herrick said steadily, “Keen behaved wrongly when he removed a prisoner from a ship under a government warrant. The fact that she is a woman could only add meat to the pot.”

  Bolitho pictured the filthy convict transport and young Zenoria as he had last seen her. The girl who would carry a scar on her body for the rest of her life. She would have died but for Keen. Nobody could have foreseen what would transpire from that one savage incident. It was a miracle that her mind had not been equally scarred.

  Herrick said, “Had she been an ordinary male prisoner—”

  “Well, she was not, Thomas. She was wrongly charged and wrongly transported. God, man, they wanted her out of the way because of her father!”

  Herrick shifted under Bolitho’s angry stare. “But others will say—”

  Bolitho stood up. “My warm wishes to Dulcie when next you write.”

  Herrick was on his feet too. “Don’t leave like this, Richard!”

  Bolitho breathed slowly to compose himself before he faced the side party and marine guard.

  “Who else will be present? You can at least tell me that, surely?”

  He did not hide his bitterness.

  Herrick replied, “Admiral Sir Marcus Laforey will be taking part, and the inquiry will be conducted by his flag-captain.” He said abruptly, “The woman, is she still aboard Argonaute?”

  Bolitho picked up his hat.

  “And I cannot answer that, Thomas.” He walked through the door. “It might be seen as collusion.”

  It was unwarranted and unfair, Bolitho knew it. But there was more at stake now than strong words.

  It would not require a bad verdict in the court of inquiry to damage Keen’s future. Rumour would soon spread. It had to be stopped, overwhelmed like a forest fire under a cloudburst.

  The two flag-officers walked to the entry port together, but Bolitho had never felt so isolated from his friend. He had known him longer even than Allday, who had been pressed aboard that same ship.

  He hesitated as the first rank of scarlet coats moved into his vision. The colour-sergeant on the end, his eyes fixed on the nearest buildings along the shore, was strangely stiff, even anxious.