The Darkening Sea

by Alexander Kent

  He had heard that the new American navy had gone even further, and their larger frigates carried twenty-four-pounders. Less manoeuvrable perhaps, but with a broadside like that they could dismast any enemy before she could get within range.

  The gig turned in a tight arc and Bolitho saw the figures at the entry port, the neatly packed hammocks in the nettings, the fresh black and buff paint, which made the hull reflect the current alongside as if it were glass.

  ‘Boat ahoy!’ The age-old challenge echoed across the water, although the telescopes would have revealed much earlier that their expected flag officer had arrived.

  The lieutenant raised a speaking trumpet and replied, ‘Flag, Valkyrie!’

  Bolitho thought of Allday. He would have used just one hand to make his voice carry.

  Avery saw Bolitho’s fingers adjusting the gleaming presentation sword. It was a steep climb up the frigate’s side, slippery too. No officer, let alone an admiral, would want to pitch headlong into the water after tripping over his sword.

  Bolitho was also thinking as much. Allday had always been there to offer his hand if need be: he was even more protective now that he knew about the damaged eye, and carried the secret like some special award, shared only with the trusted few.

  With oars tossed again the gig hooked on to the main chains and Bolitho reached out to the guide-ropes, waited for the boat to rise on the swell, and then climbed quickly up the ship’s tumblehome. He thought of Catherine, the many walks they had enjoyed, the rides across country at full gallop. It had worked wonders. As he stepped into the entry port he was not even breathless.

  Then, as the Royal Marines presented arms, a cloud of pipeclay lifting above their glinting bayonets, and the calls twittered and shrilled, a small band of boy drummers and fifers struck up Heart of Oak. After the quietness of the gig it was deafening.

  Bolitho doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and the ensign, while from the foremast truck his own flag broke out into the wind.

  He saw Captain Aaron Trevenen stepping forward from his officers, his lined face grave and unsmiling as he said, ‘Welcome aboard, Sir Richard. You honour me by hoisting your flag above my command, no matter how temporarily.’

  Bolitho was equally formal. ‘A fine ship, Captain Trevenen.’ He heard Avery coming aboard behind him, probably wondering how Valkyrie would suit him after a ponderous ship-of-the-line.

  He glanced around at the crowded figures on the gangways and clinging in the shrouds, the mass of blue and white on the quarterdeck where the lieutenants and warrant officers waited in respectful silence.

  Trevenen said, ‘Your quarters are ready, Sir Richard. If there is anything you need, I shall do my best to provide it.’ His deepset eyes flickered across Bolitho’s frocked coat and the Nile medal around his neck. The presentation sword was not missed, either.

  ‘Perhaps you would wish to meet my officers at your convenience?’

  Bolitho looked at him calmly. ‘It is a long passage to Cape Town, Captain Trevenen. I hope I shall meet every man-Jack before that.’ He spoke without raising his voice, but he saw the deepset eyes spark as if he had shouted an insult.

  The captain removed his hat and called, ‘A cheer for Sir Richard Bolitho! Huzza! Huzza!’

  The watching sailors and petty officers responded loudly. But there was no life in it, no warmth, and as the cheers died away he was reminded of the gig’s crew.

  It was then that he saw Allday for the first time. He was standing beside a long eighteen-pounder, somehow managing to look apart from everyone else in his smart gilt-buttoned coat.

  Across the frigate’s wide deck their eyes met and held. Only then did Allday give a barely perceptible shake of the head.

  It was all he needed.

  * * *

  7

  Confrontations

  * * *

  BOLITHO WAS STANDING in the cabin’s quarter gallery, shading his eyes from the reflected glare while he studied the impressive slab of the Rock of Gibraltar. Valkyrie had made a fast passage despite her size, only five days, and could have done it faster but for the need to stay in company with the captured French frigate, now renamed Laertes. He could just make her out through a lazy haze that floated above the busy anchorage like an artist’s impression of gunsmoke. If he had been right about Baratte, would he already know of his old ship’s departure from England under her new name? It seemed quite likely, he thought. Their lordships would probably have retained her original name but there was already a Triton on the Navy List, so that had settled it.

  Bare feet moved about the deck above, and occasionally an authoritative voice called out an order which was always obeyed instantly. It was uncanny after the frigates he had known. Everything was done at the double and in silence. Failure to respond immediately, or walking rather than running to the call even of a lowly midshipman invited a starting at the hands of any boatswain’s mate or petty officer on duty.

  They had been at Gibraltar swinging to their anchor for seven days, the new hands staring longingly at the Rock’s grim outline or at the passing throng of colourful traders, who were never allowed to venture alongside. The water casks had been refilled, the mail bags had gone ashore. He could not order Captain Trevenen to delay any further.

  Bolitho knew him no better than when he had greeted him on board, and he wondered what his flag lieutenant thought of him. Even on the matter of discipline when Bolitho had mentioned the seaman who had died under the lash, he had not been able to read the man.

  Trevenen had answered almost indifferently, ‘I reported his death in my despatches to the Admiralty.’ He had allowed a small hint of triumph into his voice. ‘I am the senior officer of this squadron, and was authorised to act accordingly. You were not here, Sir Richard, and in any case it was hardly a major crisis.’

  ‘A man’s life, for instance?’

  It had been a strange experience to meet Hyperion’s old surgeon, still as defiantly independent, and obviously ill at ease under Trevenen’s command. Bolitho had avoided mentioning the flogging, but had said, ‘I thought you might have quit the sea after we lost Hyperion.’

  ‘I pondered on it, Sir Richard. But they don’t want me at home.’ Minchin had waved one powerful hand around the deck. ‘Besides, the rum’s better in a King’s ship!’

  The man who had lived through the battle, unable to see what was happening while the timbers shook and cracked around him, had even proved a match for Sir Piers Blachford, the great surgeon from London who had been in Hyperion throughout the battle. A more unlikely pair it was hard to imagine.

  Bolitho left the thick windows, their sills hot from the afternoon sun, and crossed to the small desk which had been provided for his and Yovell’s use. Not like a ship-of-the-line but sufficient. In his mind’s eye he could picture their weaving passage, first to Freetown then south again along the coast of Africa to Cape Town and Good Hope, where he had done and seen so much.

  At Freetown there might be more information available, which he could digest before the Cape. If they still intended to invade Mauritius they would need many soldiers, horses, guns and supplies. As in the Caribbean these essentials had to be protected, and if he could not root out the island that was being used as a base for French vessels then their lordships would have to support him with more men-of-war, whether they liked it or not. And every mile of the way, through each change of watch and Trevenen’s continuous drills, he was being carried further and further away from Catherine. In the past he had expected it and had been prepared for parting. It was his life, as it had been for every sea-officer past and present.

  But with Catherine everything had changed. There had once been moments, up until the very day they had been reunited at Antigua, when he had cared very little if he lived or died. Only the reliance of the many men who had depended upon his skills, or lack of them, had held empty recklessness at bay.

  Unlike Jenour, Avery was little help beyond their daily routine and duty. Bolitho had known officers
like him before, able to stay remote even in a crowded man-of-war. He messed in the wardroom but spent most of his time either in his hutch-like cabin, or on deck right aft by the taffrail watching the sea’s change of moods.

  Bolitho had been invited to the wardroom just before they had left Plymouth: a pleasant collection of men, mostly young with the exception of the angry-eyed surgeon, the sailing master and the purser. An average wardroom in any such vessel: only a captain would know the strength and the weakness of these men and all the midshipmen and warrant ranks who supported them. They had been very curious about a vice-admiral being in their midst, but had been too polite to say much. If there were rebels against Trevenen’s severity, apart from Minchin, they did not reveal themselves.

  There had been another flogging this forenoon. The process had seemed so slow and relentless, the rattle of the drums broken only by the crack of the lash across the man’s naked back. Even after Ozzard had closed the cabin skylight he had been unable to shut it out. The defaulter had apparently been found drinking rum in the hold when he should have been painting.

  Two dozen lashes. The man had broken towards the end and had begun to whimper like a beaten animal.

  He is the captain, with all the authority, including mine, to support him. I can do nothing. Trevenen must know exactly what he was doing, how far he could go without criticism from above.

  But also he must surely know that Bolitho could ruin any hope of promotion to flag rank with only a few words in the right place. He must understand me better than I do him.

  Bolitho heard the boats being hoisted up and over the gangway to be swayed down on to their tier. The same would be happening aboard Laertes. The French prize was a command any young officer would cherish. Originally of thirty-six guns and built in the renowned naval dockyard at Toulon, her main armament was reinforced by some heavy bow-chasers, which would prove invaluable if they ever ran the marauders to earth. Her captain was young and had been posted about the same time as Adam. His name was Peter Dawes, and as the son of an admiral he would seize any opportunity to prove his worth.

  The thought of Adam troubled him greatly. Anemone had been due here at Gibraltar just after them, two days at the most, with a complete ship’s company or not. Trevenen had hinted at it, but seemed to be watching and waiting for Bolitho’s final decision. He had made it shortly after the latest flogging. They would sail in company with Laertes and continue on passage to Freetown.

  Calls trilled, feet pattered along gangways and down ladders. Valkyrie stirred herself like an awakening beast.

  He could hear the clink of the capstan pawls, the scrape of a fiddle as the seamen threw themselves on the bars to drag the big frigate slowly towards her anchor.

  So many times. Leaving harbour had always roused him, enlivened his young mind as a midshipman or lieutenant. A ship coming to life, the hands ready to dash to their stations where every yard and mile of cordage had its proper place and use. An equal strain on all parts as one old sailing master had explained to him many times.

  He heard feet in the passageway, heavy, authoritative steps. As expected, it was the captain.

  ‘Ready to proceed, Sir Richard.’ His deepset eyes were questioning, bleak.

  ‘I shall come up.’ It occurred to him that he had hardly been on deck since Valkyrie had weighed at Plymouth.

  He glanced around the cabin and saw Ozzard’s small shadow beyond the pantry door. ‘I hope that Anemone can make up some time along the way.’ It was only a thought spoken aloud as he might have done to Keen or Jenour.

  ‘I expect he will have an explanation of sorts, Sir Richard. Anemone’s captain is your nephew, I believe?’

  ‘That is so.’ He met Trevenen’s cold stare. ‘Just as my flag lieutenant is the nephew of Sir Paul Sillitoe, the prime minister’s adviser. I am constantly surprised by such connections.’

  He brushed past him, feeling stupidly childish that he had used Trevenen’s own tactics against him. A challenge then? So be it.

  ‘Hands aloft! Loose tops’ls!’

  Bolitho saw Allday by the nettings, his face grim as he watched the bare-backed seamen swarming up the ratlines like monkeys. Many of them had scars on their skin, some pale with age, others still livid from the cat.

  ‘Anchor’s hove short, sir!’

  Trevenen said abruptly, ‘Start those laggards on the capstan bars, Mr Urquhart! They are like old women today!’

  As a boatswain’s mate moved towards them with his rope starter, the men at the bars used every ounce of strength, their naked feet digging into the grips like claws.

  ‘Anchor’s aweigh, sir!’

  Bolitho saw the first lieutenant’s obvious relief. The men had been saved further beatings. This time.

  Topsails and jib, then her great forecourse filling out and hardening to the wind, Valkyrie turned her stern towards the Rock, her high lee side comfortably clear of the water.

  Before she was out of the anchorage her pyramid of fair-weather canvas towered above her busy deck as an indication of the power which drove her through the water. Bolitho saw the other frigate tacking round to follow in their wake, a creature of beauty and challenge.

  He stared across the taffrail and made out a low shadow of land. Spain. Some there were at peace under English protection; others would still be too terrified of Napoleon’s regiments to surrender. Bolitho recalled those optimistic words at Hamett-Parker’s reception: ‘The war is all but won.’ How many times had he seen these shores, knowing that many telescopes were trained on the ships leaving this great natural fortress. Fast horses ready to take their messengers at top speed to lookouts and coastal batteries. The English ships are out. He had known the Spanish as reluctant allies and then as enemies. He had felt safer with the latter.

  He said to Allday, ‘Come aft with me.’ He knew that the watchkeepers on the quarterdeck were listening with astonishment and perhaps disbelief. Another part of the legend. The vice-admiral who could at the snap of his fingers sail them all to hell if he wished, a man so well-known in the navy, and yet there were few who had ever seen him, let alone served with him. Now he was going down the companion ladder with his burly coxswain as if they were old friends, shipmates like themselves.

  They reached the comparatively cool air between decks and walked aft to where the marine sentry stood between the two doors of Trevenen’s and his own quarters. A blank, ordinary face, a bayonetted musket at his side, his eyes looking straight past them.

  Inside the cabin Ozzard was ready and waiting. Hock for the vice-admiral, rum for his coxswain.

  Bolitho sat on the bench seat and stared at the creaming water bubbling up from the rudder.

  ‘What is the matter with them, old friend?’

  Allday held up the tankard and blinked in the sunlight. ‘I seen an old dog once, the way it cowered when its drunken master raised a stick to it.’ His voice was faraway, reliving it. ‘Then one day it went for him. That bugger never laid a hand on him again!’ He swallowed a mouthful of rum and added reflectively, ‘An’ there’s more’n one dog in this ship!’

  Captain Adam Bolitho came on deck and glanced first at the compass and then at the set of each individual sail. Anemone was making full use of a fine north-westerly wind that had whipped the blue-grey water into a million cruising white horses, and now filled the sails to the hardness of white metal. The deck was a scene of busy activity, for although it was not long after dawn the hands were washing down the main deck on the lee side where seas occasionally dashed through the open gunports to gurgle around their bare legs before surging into the scuppers. On the quarterdeck other seamen were busy with the heavy holystones, cleaning and smoothing the pale planking before the sun gained height and softened the seams to make such work impossible.

  To the new men Adam probably did not look much like a successful frigate captain. Hatless and without even his faded sea-going coat, his dark hair flying in the wind, he might appear more like a pirate.

  It had taken l
onger than he had anticipated to clear Spithead and put a small press-gang ashore. They returned with only three men, none of whom had ever been to sea. Off Portsmouth Point he had been more fortunate, when quite by chance Anemone had run down on a topsail cutter under the command of a notorious lieutenant who controlled the press-gangs there. The lieutenant had been so resourceful that he often followed home-bound merchant ships making for the Solent or Southampton Water. He had long ago discovered that the meaner ship masters often paid off all but the minimum of hands required, to save themselves money. Once paid off – and the lieutenant usually watched the proceedings through a huge signals telescope – the cutter would swoop alongside and the luckless sailors, some almost within sight of home, were snatched up by the press and taken to the guardship.

  Adam had obtained twelve hands, all seamen: still not enough, but it had eased the lot of his lieutenants and warrant officers. The delay had taken him off course, however, and when he had reached Gibraltar he discovered that his uncle and the other frigate had already sailed.

  The first lieutenant approached him and touched his forehead.

  ‘Sou’ west by south, sir. Steady as she goes.’

  Adam thought of his sealed orders, which he would eventually deliver to his uncle. Over six thousand miles, with a call at Freetown on the west coast of the African continent. It could have been to the moon: one small ship, his ship, free to act as she pleased and without anyone to say otherwise.

  Lieutenant Martin watched him anxiously. The captain had never been an easy one to serve when things went wrong. But his predecessor Sargeant, who had been sent to his own command, had managed very well despite his youth. He had stood between captain and company as any first lieutenant should, and out of it had come a friendship which Martin accepted was not yet his privilege to be offered.