Colours Aloft!

by Alexander Kent

They cheered, as he had known they would.

  Here they come. He watched the oncoming sails, writhing and altering their outline as each captain reduced his canvas and prepared to fight. The leading ship made a splendid, terrible sight as she suddenly opened her ports and the black snouts showed themselves deck by deck.

  Inch watched in silence. It was as if his heart had already stopped. He was unable to move or drag his eyes from the enemy. She was a ninety-gun ship at least. She had a bright figurehead beneath her beak-head and when Inch raised his telescope he saw that it was fashioned in the likeness of a springing beast, a leopard, with both its front paws reaching out in anger. It was Jobert. It had to be.

  “Open the ports, Mr Savill. Then run out to larboard.” There was still time. Time to run. Inch hardened his heart. “Have the boats cast adrift, Mr Savill.”

  It was always a bad moment when the boats were cut free to drift on a sea anchor until recovered by the victors. Being left aboard on their tier doubled the risk of flying splinters when the enemy’s iron pounded across the decks. But to any sailor boats represented safety, a chance to survive. Inch began to pace between the quarterdeck guns, his chin in his neckcloth, the bright sword slapping against his thigh. Except, for his men, there would be no survival.

  Bolitho felt the sun across his shoulders, magnified by the thick glass, as Argonaute swung heavily to her cable. He could hear the watch on deck shouting as they hoisted one of the boats inboard. He put down his pen and looked moodily through the windows towards the shore and at the cluster of shipping which lay between it and the flagship.

  It would soon be time to leave for Herrick’s ship. Bolitho thought of yesterday’s meeting, more so of the parting. It had grieved him, and he felt trapped, with few courses left to attempt.

  He watched the craft. Huddled together, as if the great harbour was no longer a haven and they wanted to put to sea. The expected convoy had been sighted at first light. Bolitho had heard the warning gun while he had toyed restlessly with his breakfast. The harbour would be crammed with ships.

  He could not finish the letter to Belinda before he had to leave. Boots tramped across the damp planking and he guessed the marines were preparing to see him over the side. Keen’s gig had already left. Bolitho had spoken with him only briefly. They had shaken hands. It had reminded Bolitho of a highwayman he had seen doing just that with his executioner before the trap had dropped beneath his kicking legs.

  Why had he told Belinda? Because she deserved to know? Or was it merely that he had to confide in her because he needed her? Was that it?

  He sighed and stood up, the pen left beside the letter.

  The ship was swaying quite steeply, and he wondered if the wind would be gone before he sailed. If he sailed.

  He stared at himself in the mirror, much as Herrick had looked at him. His right eye felt almost normal, or perhaps he had become used to it. The left, he sighed again, it was no worse, but the least strain and he felt it, his balance still unsure. Even now, in harbour, he had to consider every move.

  He heard Ozzard in the next cabin brushing his best coat, and thought of Keen in his as he had left the ship. He was youthful and mature all in one. No wonder they loved each other. He thought of the girl with the brown, misty eyes. How far had the packet reached, he wondered?

  There was a light tap on the door, and as the sentry said nothing Bolitho knew it was Allday.

  He too was in his best blue jacket with the gilt buttons which he prized. His nankeen trousers looked newly cleaned and his buckled shoes would do credit to a post-captain.

  Allday watched him grimly. “Barge is alongside, sir.”

  “I’m coming. I want to be on time, not early.”

  Allday nodded and tried to smile. “Keep ’em guessin’, eh, sir?”

  “Something like that.” He saw Allday glance at the unfinished letter. “For the next courier.”

  Allday sounded distant. “I heard that the convoy will unload today an’ tomorrow. Then it’ll sail for England again, or some of it will.”

  Bolitho looked at him. “What else have you heard?” Allday was a better source of information than any signal and usually far more accurate.

  Allday said, “Two of ’em are carryin’ gold, from the Sultan o’ Turkey, whoever he might be when ’e’s at ’ome.”

  For whatever reason or purpose, the Sultan’s wealth would be more than welcome in England. It sounded like Nelson’s hand behind it. He had received several favours from the Sultan after their victory at the Nile.

  Ozzard entered and held out the coat for him.

  Bolitho looked at the mirror. A changed man again. To any outsider he would seem to be and to have everything. Rank, authority, a beautiful wife. Everything.

  He touched the gold Nile medal which hung about his neck.

  Is this what a hero looks like? Hardly as he felt, he decided.

  “Let us go.” Bolitho touched Allday’s sleeve then drew him aside. “I have not forgotten about your son.”

  Allday met his gaze, his eyes steady but sad. “I ’ave, sir. He wants to quit the service, an’ good riddance, I say.”

  Ozzard had gone on ahead and Bolitho heard Captain Bouteiller calling his marines to attention. But he said, “You don’t mean that, Allday.”

  Allday stuck out his jaw. “Don’t you fret about ’im, sir. It’s you I’m fair bothered for. After all you done for King an’ country, an’ now you’re goin’ across to Benbow to smash all of it!”

  Bolitho said, “Don’t be ridiculous, man. You don’t know what the hell you’re saying!”

  Allday took a slow breath; his chest wound bothered him sometimes when he became excited or angry.

  “Yes, I do, sir, an’ you knows it.”

  As they walked towards the screen door Allday added fiercely, “I’ve said me piece. One more thing, sir. I’ll be right there with you.”

  Bolitho swung round, shocked by the distress in his voice. “I know that, old friend. Your loyalty means more to me than—” He did not finish. If anything, Allday’s simple acceptance had decided him. As Allday had known all the time.

  Bolitho barely noticed the swift pull to Benbow. Through the entry port, more salutes, formal greetings and then aft to the great cabin.

  Herrick’s furniture had been removed and there were many chairs, even benches, all of which appeared to be filled with naval uniforms, some civilians, and one or two of the Argonaute’s own company. He saw Stayt, who still managed to stay apart from all the others, Keen with Paget sitting beside him. The latter was not required to attend, but Bolitho was glad he had made the choice.

  Athwartships was a long table, its chairs backing on the stern windows, so that the few officers already seated there were silhouettes against the sunny panorama beyond.

  All heads turned as Bolitho entered, and as he walked down to an empty chair at the front he saw their searching glances. Awe, pity, curiosity. There would be some who would be glad to see a flaw in his record if only because Keen was under his command. Keen looked at him and gave a brief nod. Their glances held and spanned the years, midshipman and captain, now together once more. Fear, love, tragedy, they had both shared it, just as the girl Zenoria had seen and understood. She would, more than most.

  From a vast distance Bolitho heard four bells chime. Ten o’ clock exactly, to coincide with Herrick’s arrival aft.

  Bolitho stood with the others as the court found their seats. Herrick in the centre, grave-faced but very calm. Sir Marcus Laforey took some time to settle down at one end of the table while his servant adjusted a wooden gout-stool beneath his bandaged foot. Bolitho saw a young lieutenant nudge his companion. If Laforey caught them at it they would think the world had toppled on them. Mr Pullen from the Admiralty, still dressed in black, his face severe, two other captains whom Bolitho did not recognize, and lastly Captain the Hon. Sir Hedworth Jerram. Laforey’s flag-captain was tall and thin with a long nose to match his haughty demeanour. As he rose now, he looke
d along his nose like a man who had discovered something unsavoury.

  Herrick said shortly, “This court of inquiry at the direction of their lordships is open. Those advised of the content of the inquiry will be required to answer questions. Some written statements may be used, but the court is gathered mainly to discuss the behaviour of Captain Valentine Keen of His Britannic Majesty’s ship Argonaute, at the times and dates as specified.”

  He looked at Keen for the first time. “Please be seated. You are not on trial here.”

  Bolitho looked at Captain Jerram. His expression clearly said, Not yet.

  The captain stood facing the cabin, some papers grasped loosely in his bony fingers. In a penetrating tone he described the squadron’s departure from Spithead, and its eventual meeting with the convict transport ship Orontes.

  “At some time during this operation we are to understand that several attempts were made to take this vessel in tow, she having lost steerage-way. For some reason the squadron’s flagship decided to take control of the damaged vessel, although prior to that the Helicon,” he glanced sharply at his papers, “under Captain Inch, had already achieved some success.”

  Keen said, “The reason for that—”

  Herrick tapped the table. “Later, Captain Keen.”

  Bolitho looked at Herrick’s eyes. He was unhappy about this, but there had been no recognition in his voice.

  “Shortly afterwards Captain Keen went in person to the Orontes.” His eyes fixed on Keen as if he expected an argument. He continued, “And this is where the captain’s behaviour becomes a matter for the court and perhaps a more serious one at a later stage.”

  In the cabin you could have heard a pin drop. Even the ship was unusually silent. Just the creak of wood and the lap of water below the counter.

  The Hon. Sir Hedworth Jerram said in his precise voice, “A woman being transported to New South Wales was removed from that ship by the—by Captain Keen.”

  Bolitho clenched his fist. Jerram had all but called him “the accused.”

  “Argonaute’s surgeon is present. Please stand.”

  Tuson rose above the other heads and shoulders, his hair very white against his plain blue coat.

  Jerram said, “The woman in question had been punished?”

  Tuson eyed him bleakly. “Beaten, sir, yes. Whipped, sir, yes.”

  Jerram snapped, “Punished. How bad was the injury?”

  Tuson described the cut on the girl’s back in his usual controlled voice. If they had been expecting the average ship’s surgeon the court was soon made to realize they were mistaken.

  Jerram persisted, “But she was in no danger of dying?”

  Tuson stared at him. “If she had been returned to that ship—”

  “Answer the question, if you please.”

  “Well, no, sir, but—”

  “Stand down.”

  Jerram dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief. Bolitho watched Keen’s profile. He looked pale beneath his bronzed skin. Bitter too.

  Stayt was called next. As it was only an inquiry the court could ask what it liked through Jerram. No sort of cross-examination was permitted.

  Bolitho gripped his sword until his fingers felt numb. A gathering of facts, it said in the book. An exclusion of others.

  “You boarded the Orontes, Lieutenant Stayt. What happened?”

  Stayt began, “The ship’s crew were in disarray and had been drinking.”

  “Who said so?”

  “I assumed that for myself.”

  “I shall overlook your impertinence.” Jerram added, “A punishment was being executed, I believe?” Before Stayt could reply he said sharply, “And you were ordered to shoot the man carrying out the punishment, I understand, shoot him dead if he continued? Am I correct?”

  Stayt said hotly, “It was an ugly situation, Sir Hedworth. We were without support.”

  “Or many reliable witnesses, it would seem?” He nodded. “Sit.”

  Jerram looked at his papers momentarily, although Bolitho had the feeling he knew every detail by heart.

  Bolitho accepted that the procedure was right, but, without any mention of what had happened before and since—the loss of Supreme, of the squadron’s vice-admiral too—and without Keen’s appraisal of what had happened, the evidence was meaningless.

  Jerram continued, “No attempt was made to return the woman to the transport. Orontes ’ captain was treated shamefully in front of his company.” He walked to the opposite side, his feet tapping on the canvased deck. “At Gibraltar, when other women were landed, the prisoner was retained on board in Captain Keen’s care.”

  Someone at the rear of the crowd tittered.

  “In fact a native girl was taken on board to look after this prisoner.”

  His gold-laced sleeve shot out. “Please stand, Captain Keen! Do you deny any of this? That you removed a female prisoner from Orontes for your own purposes, which we can only guess at?”

  Keen said bitterly, “Yes, I took her off that ship. She was being treated like an animal!”

  “And that upset you, a King’s officer!”

  Bolitho stood up; he was on his feet before even Jerram had noticed him.

  Herrick looked at him, seemingly for the first time.

  “Yes, Sir Richard?”

  “How dare this officer sneer at my flag-captain! I will not sit here and tolerate one more insult, do you hear?”

  Keen was looking at him, imploring him to stop. But Bolitho did not, nor did he want to. All the frustration and disappointment had moulded together and he no longer cared what they might do, not even Herrick.

  Jerram said, “This is most unorthodox.” He was looking at Laforey.

  Laforey grunted. “Well, let’s get on with it, what? Say your piece, Sir Richard, if you must. You are known as something of a firebrand, I believe.”

  It was quite unintentional but his remark seemed to take the edge out of the confrontation.

  Bolitho said in a calmer voice, “Captain Keen is a fine and brave officer.” He turned and saw their eyes shift to the gold medal on his chest, the same one that Nelson wore with pride. “I chose him as my flag-captain because of his record, and because I know him.” He sensed Jerram’s restored confidence, as he had known it would return. Jerram would be quick to point out that his choice of a flag-captain, even his record, was irrelevant. If he got the chance. Bolitho was a good swordsman, his father had seen to that. He had never done well with any other weapon. It felt like that right now: letting the opponent test your arm, lead him on, and then take him off balance.

  Laforey said, “All we must do is return the prisoner under escort surely? Then Captain Keen will have to answer for his actions at a later date. We are at war, gentlemen.”

  Bolitho felt the touch of ice at his spine, but it was the same as the thrill of battle, heedless of the outcome.

  “Why not ask me, Sir Hedworth?”

  Jerram glared at him for several seconds. “Very well, Sir Richard, since it seems we are forced to dally here. Where is the prisoner?”

  “Thank you, sir.” Bolitho felt his left eye sting and prayed it would not fail him now. “She has returned to England under my protection. I paid for her passage and will produce the bill for same if you intend to court-martial me. Not before. I ordered Captain Keen to bring her to the flagship. Do you imagine that any captain can act without his flag-officer giving consent or encouragement?” He glanced at Keen’s face. “I did both.” He continued, “That girl was unlawfully transported, something I intend to prove, Sir Hedworth, in a far more convincing court than your charade here today! How could you possibly know what the Orontes ’ master said or did not say? My God, man, he’s almost halfway to New South Wales!” His voice sharpened. “And you will know about it when the proof is published, gentlemen, believe me, you shall know about it, and what greedy, dishonest men will do for revenge!”

  Pullen stood up. “You take all the responsibility, Sir Richard?”

  Boli
tho faced him, calm again. “Yes. Captain Keen is under my command and will remain so until I am ordered otherwise.” He looked as steadily as he could manage at the black-garbed figure.

  “When you explain to your superiors of admiralty, Mr Pullen, and you tell them what I intend, you may be surprised at the outcome, and when that happens I trust you will show the same zeal as you did when you tried to arrest a young girl who has already suffered brutality beyond measure.” He looked again at Keen. “That too is being taken care of.”

  Laforey asked irritably, “Why did we not know about this?”

  Bolitho tried not to blink his damaged eye. “Some were too eager for the kill, Sir Marcus. To hurt or to damage me through another’s reputation.”

  Jerram dabbed his face. “I can proceed no further, sir.” He looked at Herrick. “At this stage.”

  Herrick opened his mouth and then looked towards the screen doors as a lieutenant entered and after some nervous hesitation made his way aft.

  He handed a piece of paper to Laforey, who thrust it across to Herrick.

  Bolitho remained standing. He may have ruined his career, but Keen and his Zenoria were safe.

  Herrick looked up, “I think you should see this, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho took the paper and read it carefully, aware that every face was watching him. He could feel the rising tension, mounting to match his despair and anger.

  He looked around the great cabin, the same one where he had planned each battle, had survived, when so many had not.

  He said quietly, “His Majesty’s armed schooner Columbine has entered harbour.” His voice was so low that many craned forward to hear him better. “My squadron was attacked last week and the Helicon,” he glanced at Jerram without expression, “under that same Captain Inch, was severely damaged with many killed and wounded.” He saw Keen watching him, his handsome features quite stricken. Bolitho continued in spite of the catch in his voice which he could not control. Dear God, not Inch too. “What we anticipated has happened. Jobert is out, and my squadron engaged them. When they needed me, I was here.” He picked up his hat. “As Sir Marcus said, we are at war. It is a pity that some still do not realize the fact.”