“Ready, sir!” Anxiety. Impatience.
Nautilus’s deck was full of people. Not standing by the guns, or crouching along gangways waiting for another attempt to board this ship. There were so many of them, they would crush any resistance by sheer weight of numbers, heedless of the cost. Some of them were moving now, faces toward Onward, but without authority or purpose. Held in check, waiting.
He wanted to look away; his eye was stinging with strain and concentration. But if he did, he would lose this fragile hope, and the world would explode into nightmare.
Some one said, “They’re dropping weapons over the side!” Then more loudly: “They are, for God’s sake!”
Adam said, “Aft, by the mizzen.” He rubbed his eye with his wrist, and thrust the telescope at Jago. “Tell me, Luke, am I wrong?”
Jago took the telescope and lost precious seconds adjusting it. He would not be hurried. He knew, as did his captain.
A little cluster of figures beneath the mast, having climbed up from another deck, staring around now, as if half blinded by the daylight. Their progress had been slow, but the crowd around them had parted to allow them through without any attempt to prevent their passing. It was like a signal, when the swords and muskets had started to splash alongside. Jago watched, not daring to breathe as one group lowered a tall ladder-backed chair and turned it toward Onward. It was a powerful telescope; no wonder Bolitho was so proud of it.
He wanted to clear his throat, but something stopped him. He said, “It’s the Frenchie, Cap’n. A bit knocked about, but still alive.”
Adam could still see it. The tall figure he remembered, stooped over, and supported in a chair. The bandages and the blood on his torn uniform, like tar in the sunlight. He could have been dead. But one of his officers had taken his wrist and raised it carefully, and held the hand up almost in a salute.
And Marchand had smiled.
Adam had thought of Deacon’s dying bird. When Marchand must have cut down his own flag.
Squire said, “They’ll try to bargain, using him and his men.”
Adam looked at Jago. “No bargains.”
There was a sudden burst of cheering, which drowned out every other sound. Men stood away from their guns, and some embraced one another. Even Monteith lifted his face from his hands and stared around, startled, as if he could not recall what had happened.
Some one yelled from the forecastle and Adam saw the drifting cutter nudging against the hull. A voice shouted orders, and a marine ran to pitch a grapnel and haul it alongside. Adam stared at the stains and the scars of gunfire. It should have been Joshua Guthrie’s leather-lunged voice, but it had been silenced forever. The boatswain had fought his last battle.
The cheering had died away, and he could hear the thud of hammers and the regular clank of a pump. Onward had been wounded. But she was the victor.
Julyan called, “We can’t anchor here, sir! No bottom.”
He thought he had heard the leadsman’s chant even as they had approached Nautilus, feeling their way.
“No matter. We will take her in tow until we can make her fit for passage.”
Jago said, “Cutter’s made fast, Cap’n.”
Adam walked to the larboard side, the wind at his back. Just in time. But too late for men who had deserved a longer span of life, to enjoy or to endure.
There was no land in sight, nor would there be until the Strait.
He saw young Walker by the flag locker, dabbing his eyes, which were red-rimmed with smoke or tears. Caught like that, he looked like a child in uniform.
Adam called, “A birthday we’ll all remember, Mr Walker!”
Some of the seamen laughed and raised a cheer, and one patted him on the back. His face would be remembered, too.
He tried to steady his thoughts, but they were swirling and disordered, as if they had been cut free. He heard the cutter, manned and pulling away to recover another boat, maybe Jago’s gig. A boarding party to stand guard while a jury-rig was joisted over Nautilus. Wounded to be treated. He thought of the sailmaker who had saved David Napier’s life. There would be more to bury in the next day or so, no matter what the surgeon and his assistants could do.
He saw Jago’s eyes on his shoulder, and when he reached up his fingers encountered a jagged sliver of gold lace, severed only inches from his neck. He had not felt the ball rip past. The unknown marksman had observed him with care, but had waited too long.
He saw Vincent up forward, heard him calling names while Midshipman Huxley ticked them on a list.
He felt Deacon watching him, still smiling a little, no doubt because of his remark about his helper’s birthday.
“Sir?” Alert and correct. A lieutenant’s commission no longer only a dream.
“We will be making for Gibraltar. As we approach, we will be challenged, as you would expect.”
He saw him frown as he pulled out his pad. “A signal, sir?”
“It will be a long one.” He looked across at the other frigate, a prize now. More weapons were dropping over her side, and he thought he saw a uniform walking unchecked past the abandoned guns. One of Marchand’s officers, surprised to be free and alive.
He shut his mind to it. A higher authority would sift and carry the burden.
The ship comes first.
“When challenged, you will make…”
He paused and looked out over the glistening water.
Ships were all different, with characters of their own. Any old sailor could name a dozen or more without stopping to think.
Maybe ships understood?
He spoke slowly, and knew that Jago was listening. Sharing the moment.
“His Britannic Majesty’s ship Nautilus is rejoining the Fleet. God Save the King.”
EPILOGUE
FRANCIS TROUBRIDGE STOOD on the steps below the church and tugged his dress coat into position. There seemed to be people everywhere, waiting and watching, some even pointing now that he had appeared, as if a signal had been given.
He shivered, although not from the cold. It was November, but the sun had made an appearance, and he was surprised that he could feel so unnerved, and completely alone.
All those hundreds of miles, delivering urgent despatches to the admiral at Plymouth; it was hard to recall every detail, or arrange them in sensible order. One memory never faltered. Gibraltar, watching the two frigates entering harbour, the damaged Nautilus under her jury-rig, and a White Ensign clean and vivid above her scars. Then the cheering, with every ship in the anchorage alive with waving sailors, boats pulling to greet the arrivals, and cannon firing in salute from the Rock itself.
And other vignettes, clear and personal. There had been an Admiralty warrant waiting for Onward, for the immediate arrest and trial of one of her company. A woman had come forward as witness to the murder of Captain Charles Richmond, Adam Bolitho’s predecessor. It was rumoured that both Richmond and his alleged killer, a sailmaker named Lloyd, had been the woman’s lovers.
Troubridge recalled the exact moment when Bolitho had been given the warrant, when the cheers and tumultuous welcome had still been ringing in his ears. Very deliberately, he had torn it into pieces, and said, “He fought for his ship. He will be answering to a far higher command than their lordships!”
He shivered again. Things had moved with such a speed, almost from their arrival at Plymouth. Onward had been taken into the dockyard because of damage on and below her waterline, and most of her company had been put ashore to await developments. And Merlin was to be reassigned to the Channel Fleet.
Another vivid memory, only a few days ago, when he had been granted leave personally by the admiral to come to Falmouth and attend Bolitho’s wedding.
Some one gave a cheer and he saw some more uniforms approaching, and being met by an usher. A good day for smugglers; there were two revenue cutters in harbour, and these were their officers.
He thought of this morning’s short journey in the carriage from the Bolitho house to the Chu
rch of King Charles the Martyr, Adam Bolitho beside him, and, sitting opposite them, his pretty aunt, Nancy, and Sir Richard’s old friend, Thomas Herrick. He had always felt that he would know them, but when the time came, he was still the stranger. Herrick had donned his uniform for the occasion, which had not helped. Looking back, it seemed the retired rear-admiral had been even more uneasy.
Some one exclaimed, “Coming now!”
The crowd was thicker; even those he had thought only casual onlookers had pressed closer to join the others. A smart carriage with a crest he did not recognize on its door was wheeling round to the foot of the steps.
For an instant longer he saw the girl in the untidy studio, when Adam had smashed down the door and he had found himself with a pistol in his hand, ready to shoot. To kill, given the slightest provocation. And Lowenna, the gown ripped from her shoulder, with a brass candlestick in her hand, the man who had tried to rape her sprawling at her feet. I would have killed him, she had said.
So would I.
The carriage stopped and some one ran up to hold the horses. The coachman had jumped down from his box and let down the step before Troubridge could move.
He thought of the coachman who had driven them from the house. Young Matthew, they had called him, although he could have been their father…And he had seen the quick exchange of glances, and the smiles when Young Matthew had been ready to assist the one-armed Herrick from the carriage, but he had declined. No words had been necessary.
He stared, startled, for an instant as a midshipman stepped from the coach and turned to take the bridal bouquet, a spray of golden chrysanthemums tied with ribbon. But the “midshipman” was a girl, in a perfect copy of a uniform jacket, with a white skirt that skimmed her ankles. Her tall, slim figure would never pass unremarked on any gangway.
He moved toward them, his eyes on Lowenna. She was wearing a gown of heavy cream silk, the sleeves long and puffed and the bodice shirred with gold thread that caught the faint sunshine, her dark hair piled up and caught with a cluster of white silk roses and a drift of veil. The single pearl and diamond drops which had been Adam’s gift flashed at her throat and ears as she stood, quite motionless, looking up at the church tower, and then directly at him.
“Francis, it is so good, so right, to see you today.”
He took her hand and kissed it, and there was a murmur of approval from the watching crowd. Neither of them heard it.
She lifted her chin. Pride, a little defiance as she reached out to take his arm.
Troubridge said, “If ever…” He checked himself.
She looked at him and touched his mouth with her fingers, and he caught the faint, cold, autumnal scent of the flowers. “I know. And I thank you, Francis.”
They walked toward the open doors, Elizabeth, the midshipman, close behind them, her arms full of chrysanthemums.
A few steps from the entrance, Lowenna stopped and faced the crowd for the first time.
There was a man standing almost against the door frame, stiffly, propped on a crutch, his foot a wooden stump. He must have been here for hours, Troubridge thought, to have found a place so close. With great dignity he lifted his old hat and smiled. “God bless you an’ Cap’n Adam, an’ fair sailing!”
She waved and smiled back as the crowd broke into another burst of cheering. Perhaps one of the old sailors from the waterfront, where she had walked with Adam, and found hope. But the one-legged figure had gone. A ghost, then…
She looked at her escort and pressed her hand against his arm. She was ready, but the tears had been very near.
Walk with me.
Adam stood below the high altar with his back to the reflected sunlight, glad of the shadows. The church was as crowded as he could ever remember. There were even some additional benches near the nave, which had been occupied when he had arrived. Nancy and Herrick were sitting close by, and young David Napier. He remembered his face, his surprise and obvious delight when he had told him that of course he was invited. One of the family.
He looked around at the carvings and the tablets. So many of Falmouth’s sons were remembered here.
Like the day he had stood in this church, beside Catherine, when the flags had been lowered to half-mast, and Unrivalled had fired a salute to the memory of Sir Richard Bolitho. And years before, when he had escorted his uncle’s bride up to this same altar. Belinda, Elizabeth’s mother, who had died after a riding accident. Had she been trying to prove something even then?
And now there was Elizabeth, no longer a child. She had already proclaimed that she would never marry a sailor, who would put the sea before his wife.
He looked through the church, his eyes accustomed to the cool shadows. Like taking over a watch before dawn…
He thought of Onward, her wounds entrusted to the care of the builders, and of the action and its aftermath, Nautilus now awaiting her fate in Gibraltar. And the Turk, Mustafa Kurt: killed in the whirlwind of his own sowing, or vanished in some new guise to join or ferment further rebellion elsewhere?
He heard the discreet cough, and knew the clergyman had received some message or signal.
Lowenna was arriving now.
He glanced around. All the faces, some so well known, part of himself. Allday and his Unis; Yovell, spectacles balanced on his forehead, as Adam could imagine even if he could not see them. Grace Ferguson, despite all the memories this church would evoke. Perhaps she had nothing now but the Bolitho family.
There were uniforms here in plenty, naval, and red coats from the garrison. But mostly they were local folk. He saw a hand move and raised his own to Jago, standing in his special place for today. He and Allday would have a few yarns to share before the day was over. There were sudden cheers outside, and a few late arrivals hurried across a shaft of sunlight to be guided clear of the aisle.
Then he saw Lowenna, with Troubridge beside her, flowers on her arm, and more following close behind her in Elizabeth’s hands. Every head turned to her, the air quivered as the organ breathed into life, but her eyes were on his, and remained so until their hands joined and together they faced the altar.
At the very back of the church, one of the ushers managed to find a seat in a crowded pew for a latecomer. And that was only because he was limping badly, obviously recovering from an injury or wound. And he was a foreigner, and Cornish folk prided themselves on making strangers welcome.
“Are you a guest of the Bolitho family?”
Capitaine Luc Marchand smiled, and shook his head. “He is my friend.”
It was enough.
CHRONOLOGY OF THE BOLITHO NOVELS:
1756 Richard born in Falmouth, son of James Bolitho
1768 Entered the Kig’s service as a midshipman in Manxman
1772–74 Midshipman, Gorgon and Avenger (The Complete Midshipman Bolitho)
1774 Promoted Lieutenant, Destiny; Rio and the Caribbean (Stand into Danger)
1775–77 Lieutenant, Trojan, during the American Revolution. Later appointed prizemaster (In Gallant Company)
1778 Promoted Commander, Sparrow; Battle of the Chesapeake (Sloop of War)
1780 Birth of Adam, illegitimate son of Hugh Bolitho and Kerenza Pascoe
1782 Promoted Captain, Phalarope; West Indies; Battle of Saintes (To Glory We Steer)
1784 Captain, Undine; India and East Indies (Command a King’s Ship)
1787 Captain, Tempest; Great South Sea; Tahiti; suffered serious fever (Passage to Mutiny)
1792 Captain, the Nore; Recruiting (With All Despatch)
1793 Captain, Hyperion; Mediterranean; Bay of Biscay; West Indies. Adam Pascoe, later Bolitho, enters the King’s service as a midshipman aboard Hyperion (Form Line of Battle! and Enemy in Sight!)
1795 Promoted Flag Captain, Euryalus; involved in the Great Mutiny; Mediterranean; promoted Commodore (The Flag Captain)
1798 Battle of the Nile (Signal–Close Action!)
1800 Promoted Rear-Admiral; Baltic (The Inshore Squadron)
1801 Biscay; Pri
soner of war (A Tradition of Victory)
1802 Promoted Vice-Admiral; West Indies (Success to the Brave)
1803 Mediterranean (Colours Aloft!)
1805 Battle of Trafalgar (Honour This Day)
1806–07 Good Hope and the second battle of Copenhagen (The Only Victor)
1808 Shipwrecked off Africa (Beyond the Reef)
1809–10 Mauritius campaign (The Darkening Sea)
1812 Promoted Admiral; second American war (For My Country’s Freedom)
1814 Defence of Canada (Cross of St George)
1815 Richard Bolitho killed in action (Sword of Honour). Adam Bolitho, Captain, Unrivalled; Mediterranean (Second to None)
1816 Anti-slavery patrols; Sierra Leone; Battle of Algiers (Relentless Pursuit)
1817 Flag Captain, Athena; Antigua and Caribbean (Man of War)
1818 Captain, Onward; Mediterranean (Heart of Oak)
is the pen name of British author Douglas Reeman. Reeman joined the Royal Navy at sixteen, serving on destroyers and small craft during WWII. After the war, he turned to writing, publishing numerous books under his own name, and the Bolitho series under the Kent pseudonym. The immensely popular Bolitho novels have been translated into nearly two dozen languages. Reeman lives with his wife, Kim, in Surrey, England. Among his prize possessions are Horatio Nelson’s armchair from the Victory, and a replica thirty-two-pounder cannon, which he keeps vigilantly pointed toward France.
www.bolithomaritimeproductions.com
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