Colours Aloft!

by Alexander Kent

  Allday nodded, the model ship forgotten.

  “Then Mum died. Best thing for ’er, it was. They wore ’er out, the bastards. I wanted somethin’ of me own, so I got a mate to write to you. We was told you were leavin’ the sea.” He looked at the deck. “It was a ’ome I wanted more’n a father.” When he looked up again he exclaimed, “I can’t ’elp bein’ afraid. I’m not like the others! I never seen men killed like that afore!”

  Allday gripped his wrist. “Easy, son. The sawbones’ll be comin’ to see what’s up.” He groped behind the chest and brought up a stone bottle and two mugs. “’Ave a wet.”

  Bankart took a quick swallow and almost choked.

  Allday said, “That’s the real stuff, not the muck that the pusser hands out! Most o’ the others are scared too.” Allday let the rum float across his tongue and smiled as he recalled when Bolitho had drunk some in his despair and his relief. “You must learn not to show it.” He shook his wrist gently. “That takes real courage, believe me, matey.”

  “It’s different for you, I ’spect.” Bankart took a wary swallow.

  “Maybe it is. Our Dick has taken good care o’ me. He’s a fine man. A friend. Not many can say that, an’ I’d lay down me life for him, make no mistake on it!”

  Bankart made to get up, his hair brushing a massive deckhead beam. “I just wanted to tell you, I—”

  Allday pulled him down again. “ ’Old still! I knew anyway, or most of it. I was the one who was wrong, I knows that now.” He took another full measure of rum. “You don’t belong in a King’s ship. It took courage to volunteer, I can tell you that! They ’ad to press me!” He shook with silent laughter until the pain of his wound stopped him. “No, a job ashore, with a good ’ome, an’ I’ll make proper certain you gets one. Until then, do what I tells you and keep out of trouble, see?” There were more voices and he guessed the sailmaker and one of his cronies were coming aft. “We’ll talk again, an’ soon, right?”

  Bankart looked at him, his eyes shining. “Thanks, er—”

  Allday grinned. “Call me John if it’s easier. But call me Cox’n when there’s others about, or I’ll tan your hide for you, an’ that’s no error, son!”

  Bankart hesitated, unwilling to break the contact. He said quietly, “I—I think I might be killed. I wouldn’t want to let you down. I’ve seen the man you are, ’eard what they all say about you. I never bin proud of anyone afore.”

  Allday did not even hear the door close. He sat staring at the unfinished model, at a complete loss.

  The sailmaker banged into the berth with his friend and asked, “All right, ’swain? Good-lookin’ lad that one.”

  Allday looked down. “Aye. He’s my son.”

  15 FATE

  BOLITHO walked up the sloping quarterdeck and allowed the wet wind to drive all tiredness aside. It was early morning, and around and above him the ship’s company prepared for another weary day.

  There had been some overnight rain, but Bolitho walked back and forth too far from any handhold if he should slip on the wet planking. It was a struggle but he was slowly regaining his confidence and blamed his earlier despair on self-pity and worse.

  He heard Keen speaking with the first lieutenant and knew from the tone in his voice that they were discussing the punishment to be awarded to three seamen during the forenoon.

  It was the same throughout the squadron. After Helicon’s departure there had been several outbreaks of disorder. Threats or actual violence used against petty officers or each other, with the usual aftermath of floggings. The flagship was no exception; even Keen’s humanity had failed to prevent the latest flare-up of tempers, and the harsh justice which would follow.

  Bolitho pictured his ships, each living her own life, controlled and led by her individual captain.

  An admiral, even a junior one, was not supposed to concern himself with such abstract matters, Bolitho thought. He also knew that a ship was only as strong as her people.

  When full daylight found them again his ships would be sailing in line abeam, Argonaute in the centre position. Barracouta, still in her rough disguise, was somewhere astern, ready to rush down from windward to wherever a signal dictated. Rapid, completely alone, was far ahead, tacking back and forth in the hope of finding a fishing boat or some trader who might have some valuable information for them.

  They had sighted several such craft but had managed to catch only three. One of the ones which had eluded Rapid’s chase until she had been recalled to her station had been a fast schooner. It was customary for any merchantman to fly from a man-of-war, the flag did not matter. But out here any stranger might be an enemy, worse, a spy who would carry news of their strength and movements to Jobert.

  It could not last. Bolitho knew it; so probably did his officers. He would have to admit failure and send the brig to seek out Nelson and tell him what had happened. It seemed likely that Nelson would scatter Bolitho’s ships amongst his own fleet and wait for the French to fight their way out of Toulon. Jobert would not be considered. Bolitho guessed that the admiral in Malta, maybe even Herrick, imagined that Jobert had become like a crude joke or a figment of Bolitho’s imagination.

  It was the fourth day since they had parted company with Inch’s ship. At any other time it would have been good sailing weather, with a favourable wind and fair visibility for the masthead lookouts along Bolitho’s line of ships.

  Keen crossed the deck and touched his hat. “Any special orders today, Sir Richard?” His formality was for the benefit of the helmsmen and master’s mate nearby. He sounded strained, or was he critical of his superior’s actions and their results?

  Bolitho shook his head. “We will continue the search. The French may have left us alone, but I doubt it.”

  Together they watched the ship taking shape around them, the sails and rigging picking up the sun’s colour. Abeam, Despatch rolled her bilge into a deep swell, so that her shining hull and lower gunports shone like fragments of glass.

  Bolitho looked up at the mainmast, at the lookout’s tiny figure.

  He said, “Change the lookouts every hour, Val. I want no tired eyes today.”

  Keen glanced at him curiously. “Today, sir?”

  Bolitho shrugged. He had not realized what he had said. Had he meant that he would need to break off the search and admit failure? Or was that same, chilling instinct offering him a warning?

  “I feel uneasy, Val.” He thought of breakfast, and the fact he had been pacing the deck for most of the night. To regain his confidence, or was it because he had already lost it completely? “Tell me if you sight anything.” He strode aft to his quarters where Ozzard and Yovell were waiting for him as usual.

  Bolitho sat at the table and watched while Ozzard prepared his breakfast and poured some coffee. He felt in need of a wash from head to toe, and his shirt was crumpled and stale. But, as he had explained to Keen, as the water ration was cut, and if need be would be cut again, it had to be for everyone. Except for Inch, that was. It was painful to see him, sometimes delirious and on other occasions dulled into a state of collapse.

  The amputation was still holding well, according to Tuson. But Inch needed to be ashore, in a hospital with those who could give him proper care. Bolitho knew from bitter experience that each shout from the upper deck, every change of wind and rudder, would stir even a dying sailor with old anxieties. Especially a captain.

  Ozzard said, “Just as you like it, sir.” He laid a pewter plate on the table. “Last of the Maltese bread, I’m afraid, sir.”

  Bolitho looked at the thinly sliced pork, fried pale brown in biscuit crumbs. The bread would be like iron, but Ozzard had managed to stop it going mouldy; anyway the black treacle which Bolitho enjoyed would deaden the taste.

  He thought of the breakfasts at Falmouth, of Belinda sitting and watching his pleasure. Like a schoolboy, she had said. What would she make of this, he wondered? And down in the messes it was a hundred times worse.

  He looked at the o
pen skylight as voices drifted aft from the quarterdeck. Then feet pounded along the passageway and he saw Keen coming into the cabin.

  “I beg your pardon for disturbing you, sir.”

  Bolitho put down his knife. It was not like Keen to leave the deck in a crisis.

  “Rapid is in sight. She has news, sir.”

  Bolitho thrust the plate aside and then spread the uninspiring bread with a thick coating of treacle.

  “Tell me.”

  “She sighted a ship and boarded it. More I cannot say, but Rapid is certainly making all efforts to close with us.”

  Bolitho stood up, his mind busy. “Make more sail and tell our ships to do the same.” With a physical effort he sat down again and bit into the treacled bread. “I want to speak with Quarrell as soon as we are hove-to.”

  Keen hurried away, and soon the deck quivered to the thud of bare feet and then the clatter of blocks and rigging.

  But it was halfway through the forenoon watch before Rapid was able to beat up to the rest of the squadron. The first air of excitement gave way to silent resignation as the gratings were rigged and the hands piped aft to witness punishment. Two dozen lashes a man while the drums rolled and the spray pattered across the prisoners and onlookers alike.

  Paget touched his hat. “Punishment carried out, sir.”

  Keen nodded and watched the hands dismissed, the gratings removed for scrubbing, while the flogged men were taken below to the sickbay. He handed the Articles of War to Paget and said, “God damn this waiting!”

  When eventually Quarrell climbed aboard from his gig he could barely control his excitement and pleasure.

  At dawn Rapid had ordered the vessel to heave-to and await a boarding party. The lieutenant who had gone across in the boat had been thorough. The brigantine was a Greek trader, and her master had been able to speak English and had been more than willing to cooperate. The vessel had been loaded with olive oil and figs, but Quarrell described her as being so filthy that it was a marvel she obtained any cargoes at all.

  Quarrell took a deep breath. “The master was carrying several bottles of wine and brandy, sir. My first lieutenant saw them at once.” He turned and beamed at Keen. “All French, sir.”

  They glanced at Bolitho. He said nothing so Keen remarked, “Your lieutenant had his wits about him, eh?”

  Bolitho unrolled a chart across the table, his mouth suddenly dry. “Continue.” It was Quarrell’s moment—to prod him into haste would only fluster him.

  The young commander said, “When questioned about the bottles, sir, the fellow admitted they had been given to him in exchange for oil three days ago.” He watched Bolitho’s grave features. “It was Rear-Admiral Jobert’s squadron, sir, no doubt about it. The Greek was able to describe them, even the Leopard figurehead on the flagship.”

  “Show me.” Bolitho held down the chart with a ruler and dividers. He could feel Quarrell’s eagerness, sense the pride his discovery had given him.

  Quarrell peered at the chart, at the marks and lines which showed the squadron’s position and progress.

  “They were steering due east, sir.” He placed one finger on it. “That would put them about there.”

  Keen leaned over the table beside him. “Corsica.” He gave a sigh. “I should have guessed.”

  Quarrell glanced from him to Bolitho. “The Greek master said that a French officer came aboard. He told him they were going to take on fresh water.”

  Keen frowned, “Another long passage maybe?”

  Bolitho stood up, his mind working busily. Fresh water. Why did the mention of it always provoke such painful memories?

  “What have you done about the brigantine?”

  Quarrell looked blank. There was no warmth in Bolitho’s voice.

  “I—I knew how much you needed information, sir, so I considered it my duty to—”

  “You let him go? You put no guard aboard?”

  “Well, no, sir.” Quarrell looked helplessly at Keen for support.

  Keen said, “It could be the truth, sir.”

  Bolitho walked aft to the windows and pushed his hand through his hair. He felt the deep scar on his temple, a ready reminder of that other time when collecting water had seemed such a simple mission.

  Quarrell said, “I could chase after him, sir.” He sounded lost. “Too late.” Bolitho watched some fish jump from Argonaute’s shadow. “He would give you the slip after nightfall. Heading for Corsica, you think? To take on water for three sail of the line, and the two fifth-rates, what do you estimate?” He turned and looked at Keen, his eye throbbing painfully. “Three, four days?”

  Keen nodded slowly. “We could still run him to earth, sir!”

  Bolitho sat on the bench seat and clasped his hands together. He did not need a chart; he could see it clearly in his mind. Jobert’s ships—if the wind stayed fair, they could be pinned on a lee shore or trapped until they came out to fight.

  Keen said, “So it was neither Egypt nor Gibraltar after all, sir.”

  “Fetch my flag-lieutenant, Ozzard.” It was strange how he had managed to converse with Stayt without touching on the court of inquiry. Stayt was wary, withdrawn to such a point that they barely spoke except on matters of orders and signals.

  When Stayt arrived his eyes moved swiftly across the group by the table. He asked, “May I get something, Sir Richard?”

  “The reports from the flag-officer in Malta. Bring them.”

  Quarrell said, “My first lieutenant was satisfied that the Greek told him the truth, sir.”

  Bolitho said, “Or maybe what the French wanted him to believe.”

  Stayt laid down a folder on the table and Bolitho strained his eyes to look through it. Convoy arrival, escorts and departure times, passengers and equipment to be disembarked or carried elsewhere.

  Bolitho pulled one paper towards him, the name Benbow standing out from the unknown clerk’s writing.

  Ignoring the others he snatched up the brass dividers and moved them quickly across his chart. It was all he could do to stop himself from cursing aloud as his good eye watered with the strain he was putting on it.

  Three days, four at the most. It had to be. Had to be.

  He looked up. “Benbow sailed from Malta in company with two homebound ships. There is one frigate as additional escort.”

  Keen exclaimed, “All that for just two ships? And we are expected to manage with—”

  Bolitho held up his hand. “I should have seen it, Val. Something that Inch’s first lieutenant said after the battle.” In his mind he could picture the weary lieutenant with the bandaged head. Pity I’ve not got that Frenchie’s extra boom. He could almost hear Savill’s voice. The man who had seen it, yet had not realized what he had discovered.

  Bolitho said, “The ships are carrying a cargo of gold and precious stones. A king’s, or should I say a sultan’s, ransom.” He wanted to shout at them, to bang the table and make them realize the enormity of the discovery, and of Jobert’s confidence. “Jobert intends to attack that convoy and lift off the gold at sea. Corsica, Val? I think not. I believe this is what was intended from the start. Jobert and I got in the way. But now that way is clear.”

  Bolitho looked at Quarrell. “Return to your command and await orders.”

  Quarrell backed away. “I—I am sorry, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho eyed him calmly. “Your lieutenant was convinced, so why not the rest of us?”

  As the door closed Keen said, “We have nothing definite, sir!”

  Stayt added, “If the French are really in Corsican waters, and we fail to seek them out or inform Lord Nelson—”

  Bolitho looked past him. “I know, gentlemen. I shall be held responsible.” He smiled shortly. “And this time I shall have no defence.”

  Once more he crossed to the chart. Keen was trying to warn and protect him. If they carried on as they were nobody would be able to blame him. He lowered his head to study the neat calculations. But if he went against everything but
instinct, and a new, strange sense of destiny, he might still be wrong.

  “In my estimation, we have two days. No more.” He touched the chart with the points of the dividers. “Allowing for the weather, we should make a rendezvous with the convoy about there.” He turned away so that they should not see his expression. While they hunted fruitlessly along the rugged Corsican coast, the gold would be seized and Herrick overwhelmed. He would die fighting alongside his men. But he would certainly die.

  Bolitho raised his voice, “Mr Yovell! Come out, you quillpusher, and I shall dictate my fighting instructions!”

  Yovell padded across the cabin, smiling happily, as if he had just been awarded a title.

  Bolitho looked at Stayt. “Warn the signals midshipman to be ready.” He thought of Sheaffe and wondered how he got along with his father.

  Alone with Keen he said, “It’s a chance I must take.” He added with a wry smile, “It was the wine and the brandy which alerted me. I could never imagine Jobert giving anything to a poor Greek trader unless he wanted us to know about it. Perhaps this time he has been too clever and overconfident.”

  Keen doubted if Quarrell’s information was enough to be certain of anything. Jobert may have laid some more bait, but he was wily enough to know how Bolitho might react.

  Bolitho’s change of mood, this new confidence which left him free to joke with his secretary, was unnerving.

  Keen said simply, “Then it will be a fight.”

  Bolitho took his arm, the tone of Keen’s voice making the vague strategy into stark, brutal reality.

  “We shall face it together, Val,” he said quietly.

  Keen smiled. “Yes. Together.” But all he saw was her face, and for the first time he was afraid.

  Commander Adam Bolitho pushed the unruly hair from his eyes as he stared up at the men working on the fore-topsail yard. The sturdy brig Firefly was heeling hard over on the larboard tack, the sea creaming up to the sealed gunports and cascading along the lee scuppers.