Beyond the Reef

by Alexander Kent

  Gun-drill had been out of the question for the latter part of their passage. It was all Keen could do to get his men fed and rested before the Western Ocean again released its ferocity.

  It said much for Keen’s example and that of his more seasoned hands that they had not lost a spar or another man overboard.

  ‘I’ll go up, Stephen.’ He glanced at his unfinished letter, seeing Falmouth as it would be now. Much like the Atlantic: gales, rain and perhaps snow.

  Catherine would be thinking of the ship, wondering where she was, if she had arrived safely. When she might be called to action. So many questions which only time could answer.

  Jenour looked around the great cabin, a place he had come to know so well. During the passage from England he had been able to put the prospect of leaving Bolitho to one side. The gales, the deafening roar of the sea thundering over the hull and upper deck to make every footstep a separate hazard, and the gaunt faces of the people while they were chased and bullied from one task to the next, kept such thoughts at bay. Now it was different. Out there beyond the tapering jib-boom was English Harbour: order and authority, where each day might offer him the challenge of promotion. He thought of the first lieutenant, Sedgemore, some of the others too; they would give their blood for such an opportunity. A small command, with the blessing of a famous flag-officer – who could wish for more? He had heard Bolitho refer to it as the most coveted gift.

  Jenour thought also of his parents at Roxby’s dinner, when Bolitho had made it his business to have them feel at home with such illustrious people.

  He saw him touching his eyelid as he did more and more frequently nowadays. That secret too had been entrusted to him. It was safe until Bolitho required it otherwise. But who else would be able to understand him and his ways when he himself was promoted out of this ship?

  He had even shared in the conspiracy of Bolitho’s reunion with Lady Catherine, that too in Antigua.

  ‘Why so thoughtful, Stephen?’

  Jenour faced him and replied quietly, ‘I think you know, Sir Richard.’

  Bolitho touched his eye again. He had noticed that Jenour rarely flushed when his private thoughts were revealed, not since the Golden Plover’s jolly-boat. A man then. But one who could still feel distress and show compassion for others.

  Bolitho walked to the stern gallery and looked out at the undulating water, bank upon bank of it, as if worn out by all the anger it had expended to prevent their journey from being a fast one.

  He said, ‘It has to be. That does not mean I do not care. It is the opposite, and I think you know that!’

  They went on deck where Keen and some of his officers were studying the approaching island sprawled out on either bow, misty green, the hump of Monk’s Hill all but lost in haze.

  Bolitho appreciated that even that was suspect. From flat calm to a raging storm, every captain worth his salt knew better than to trust these waters at this time of year.

  Keen crossed the deck to join him, his shoes sticking to the tarred seams as he did so.

  ‘Barely making way, sir.’ They both looked up at the great spread of canvas, flapping in the hot breeze but hardly filling enough to move the ship. Buckets of salt water were being hauled up to men on the upper yards so that it could be poured on the sails to harden them, to make use of even a cupful of wind. The watch on deck was flaking down lines and securing halliards again after the last change of tack, their movements slow in the hot sunshine and lacking the brisk response to commands any captain would expect.

  Bolitho took a telescope from the rack by the poop and trained it through the mesh of rigging until he found the nearest spur of land. He had had the crazed Captain Haven on that last visit. One so filled with suspicion and jealousy over his young wife that he had tried to kill the first lieutenant, whom he had believed responsible for his wife’s pregnancy. He had been proved wrong, but he had been held for attempted murder nonetheless.

  An island of so many memories. He had been here in his first command, the little Sparrow, and again in his frigate Phalarope. He saw Allday watching him from the larboard gangway and their quick exchange of glances was like part of an enduring link. The battle of the Saintes; his previous coxswain Stockdale falling dead while trying to protect his back from enemy marksmen. Bryan Ferguson losing an arm, and Allday eventually taking over as his coxswain. Yes, there was plenty to remember here.

  Keen said, ‘We shall be anchored by this afternoon, sir.’ He frowned as the masthead pendant flicked out, the life draining from it. ‘I could lower the boats and take her in tow.’ He was considering the dwindling possibilities.

  Bolitho said, ‘I’d stay your hand with the boats, Val. Another hour more will make little difference now.’ He glanced at the nearest seamen. ‘They look like old men!’

  Keen smiled. ‘They will have to learn. If we are called to battle …’ He shrugged. ‘But the sight of land is sometimes a tonic, sir.’ He excused himself and went to join the sailing-master by the chart table.

  Bolitho raised the glass again. Still too far away to discern any prominent landmarks, and certainly none of the houses beyond the dockyard. He could see her now as if it were today. Dazzled by the lights at the reception, he had almost fallen at her feet. But she had discovered his injury, inevitably, and had insisted that he seek advice and treatment from the best surgeons in London.

  He touched his eyelid again, and felt the painful prick which seemed to come from right inside his eye. And yet sometimes he could see perfectly. At others he had felt utter despair, as Nelson must have done after his own eye had been wounded.

  And this was the time when every experienced officer was needed, as he had explained both to Keen and Jenour. But for the failure of his mission to Cape Town and the resulting delay caused by the loss of the Golden Plover, where might they have been now? Keen a commodore and ready for the next step to flag rank. And but for Black Prince’s unfortunate collision at the completion of her refit, she might well be with the major part of the fleet supporting the army in Portugal or beyond. It was fate. This was where they were destined to be. But would it prove as useful as Godschale and his superiors seemed to think?

  One thing stood out above all else. Bonaparte intended to divide his enemy’s forces at all cost. His failure to seize the Danish fleet had made him even more determined. Small groups of ships had been reported slipping through the English blockade, and many had headed for the Caribbean, perhaps to attack Jamaica or other islands under the English flag. That would certainly force their lordships to withdraw more urgently needed ships from blockade and military convoy duties.

  It was possible that the sighting of the vessel described by the volunteer William Owen as ‘Dutch-built’ was no more than another coincidence. Bolitho thought privately that it was more than that. One modest frigate sailing alone was more likely to be taking despatches to some senior officer. Reinforcements, in the shape of Black Prince, were on their way, but no sign of any other frigates. They would have gone for the stranger like terriers had there been any. And then there was the matter of Thomas Herrick, the man he had always believed his best friend. It was strange that Godschale had made a point of not mentioning him at their last meeting; nor had the admiral displayed any interest at what Bolitho might expect when they next met. For unless some other vessel had sailed ahead of Black Prince, Herrick would still believe him to be dead after the Golden Plover’s reported loss.

  He shaded his eyes against the glare and watched the distant island, which appeared to have drawn no nearer.

  So many ifs and maybes. Suppose the plan to land on and capture the French islands of Martinique and Guadaloupe misfired? Without overwhelming superiority at sea the scheme would certainly fail. To draw the main enemy force together and engage it in battle was their only sane approach. He kept his face impassive, knowing that Jenour was watching him. Seven sail of the line and one frigate was hardly an overwhelming squadron.

  He heard the first lieutenant call, ‘
Permission to carry out punishment, sir? Able Seaman Wiltshire, two dozen lashes.’

  Keen sounded suddenly dispirited. ‘Very well, Mr Sedgemore.’ He looked up at the limply flapping sails and added bitterly, ‘It seems we have nothing better to do!’

  Bolitho turned towards the companionway. He had seen the expressions on the faces of some of the new hands. Resentful, hostile.

  Hardly the faces of men who would rally and fight to the death if so ordered, not by a long stretch of the imagination.

  He said, ‘I’m going aft, Val. Keep me informed.’

  Keen stood beside Jenour as the ritual of rigging a grating on the larboard side was supervised by the boatswain and his mates.

  Jenour said with concern, ‘Sir Richard seems depressed, sir.’

  Keen tore his eyes from the boatswain who was examining his red baize bag, in which he kept the cat-o’-nine-tails.

  ‘He frets for his lady, Stephen. And yet the sailor in him craves the solution to his problem of command here.’ He glanced at the vice-admiral’s flag barely moving at the foremast truck. ‘Sometimes I wonder …’ He looked round as Sedgemore called, ‘Pipe the hands, sir?’

  Keen acknowledged him curtly, but not before noting the first lieutenant’s complete indifference. As one who hungered for promotion, and had already shown his ability under fire, it was surprising he had not become aware of the need to care for the people he might soon have to lead in battle.

  The calls shrilled and twittered from deck to deck. ‘All hands! All hands lay aft to witness punishment!’

  As he walked aft to his quarters Bolitho understood the unpleasantness and necessity as if he were Keen. Holding his ship together, administering punishment with the same equality and fairness as he would reward and promote a promising seaman. He found Yovell waiting with a sheaf of papers requiring his signature but said wearily, ‘Later, my friend. I am at low ebb, and am poor company at the moment.’

  As the portly secretary left the cabin, Allday entered.

  ‘What about me, Sir Richard?’

  Bolitho smiled. ‘Damn your impertinence! But yes – take a seat and join me in a wet.’

  Allday grinned, partly reassured. It would all come right in the end. But this time it would take a bit longer.

  ‘That would suit me well, Sir Richard.’

  The first crack of the lash penetrated the cabin.

  Allday pondered. A beautiful woman, his own flag at the fore, a title from the King. The lash cracked down again. But some things never changed. Ozzard padded into view with his tray: a tall glass of hock and a tankard of rum, as usual.

  When Bolitho leaned over to take the glass Ozzard saw the locket hanging around his neck. He had studied it several times when the vice-admiral had been having a wash or a shave. Her lovely shoulders and the suggestion of her breasts, just as he had seen her that day in the barquentine’s cabin. He heard the lash crack down again, but felt only contempt. The man being punished had asked for it, had drawn a knife on a messmate. In a month he would be boasting about the scars left by the cat across his back.

  My wounds will never heal.

  Towards the close of the afternoon watch, with the reddest sun most of them had ever seen dipping over the island, Black Prince glided slowly towards the anchorage.

  Keen watched as Bolitho took a glass and trained it on the shore and the other ships resting at anchor, their spars and rigging already glowing like copper in the failing light. He was relieved to see that Bolitho appeared outwardly restored, with no hint of anxiety in the face he had come to know so well.

  Bolitho studied the nearest men-of-war, all seventy-fours, and none of them strangers to him. They were part of his squadron, but likely expecting another to command them. Back from the dead.

  He said, ‘I shall pay my respects to Lord Sutcliffe, Val, as soon as we are anchored.’ He turned, surprised as the first crash of a gun-salute echoed and rebounded across the quiet harbour.

  ‘They have fired first, Sir Richard! That will not please Admiral the Lord Sutcliffe.’

  Keen dropped his hand and the first gun of Black Prince’s upper battery fired out in reply, the pale smoke hanging low on the water like something solid.

  ‘Take in the courses! Extra topmen aloft, Mr Sedgemore!’ Keen strode to the compass and watched the sudden bustle of activity which had entirely replaced the torpor during their slow approach.

  Bolitho recognised the seventy-four drawing nearer: the old Glorious, which like most of the others had been with him at Copenhagen, when he had received the news of Herrick’s convoy and its obvious danger. Her captain, John Crowfoot, was no older than Keen, but he was so grey and stooped that he looked more like a country parson than a highly experienced naval officer.

  The guardboat was already here, her flag hanging limp but still bright enough for Keen to mark down their proposed anchorage, where the flagship would have sufficient room to swing around her cable without fear of fouling any of the other vessels moored there.

  The last shot echoed away across the water, thirteen guns in all. Keen was quick to order the gunner to cease firing and commented, ‘It would seem that Lord Sutcliffe is not here, sir. The salute was to you, as the senior officer.’

  Bolitho waited, outwardly calm, but unable to control the old excitement at any landfall.

  ‘Stand by to come about! Ready aft!’ The merest pause, then, ‘Helm a-lee!’ Very slowly and heavily Black Prince came into the remaining breath of wind, her topsails already vanishing as the order was shouted along the upper deck, ‘Let go!’

  The anchor fell with a mighty splash into the clear, coppery water, spray bursting over the beakhead like hail.

  Keen called, ‘Awnings and winds’ls, Mr Sedgemore! All eyes are on us, it seems!’

  At least it might ease the heat and discomfort between decks. He had learned that early in life as Bolitho’s very junior lieutenant.

  Bolitho handed the telescope to a minute midshipman. ‘Take it, Mr Thornborough, and inform your lieutenant if you sight something that might be of interest.’ He saw the boy’s eyes widen at the casual confidence, as if God had just descended to speak to him. He was one of the twelve-year-olds, but it was never too soon to learn that the men who wore the bright epaulettes were human, too.

  ‘Listen!’ Keen swung round, his teeth very white in his tanned face. ‘The old Glorious has manned her yards!’ He could not conceal his emotion as the great wave of cheering broke from the nearest seventy-four. Men were standing in her shrouds and on her yards; the gangways too were lined with waving and cheering sailors and marines. ‘The news preceded us after all, Sir Richard! They know you are among them – listen to them!’

  Bolitho glanced at some of the seamen below the quarterdeck, who were staring from the anchored Glorious and her consorts to the man whose flag flew at the foremast. A man they knew by rumour and reputation, but nothing more.

  Bolitho walked to the nettings and then waved his new hat back and forth above his head, to the obvious delight of the Glorious’s company.

  Keen watched in silence, sharing the gesture. How could he ever doubt the men he had known and led, or his own ability to inspire them? One of the other ships had taken up the onslaught of cheering. Keen saw Bolitho’s profile and was satisfied. He understood now anyway. Until the next time.

  Sedgemore came aft and touched his hat. ‘Ship secured, sir!’

  Keen said, ‘Prepare the sheet-anchor, if you please.’ He saw no comprehension there and added sharply, ‘Remember, Mr Sedgemore, we lie on a lee-shore, and we are in a season of storms.’

  Midshipman Thornborough, his young face enraptured by all the noise of their reception, called, ‘Barge approaching, Mr Daubeny!’

  Bolitho replaced his hat and stood aside as the marines stamped to the entry port for their first visitor. It would soon be dark; sunset came here like a curtain. But when the shore lights were brighter he might be able to recognise that same house where he had dined beside her, thei
r hands almost brushing one another on the table while she had exchanged polite smiles with her husband, Viscount Somervell, at the opposite end.

  The side-party was in position, boatswain’s mates moistening their silver calls on their tongues while the Royal Marines gripped their bayonetted muskets in readiness.

  Keen lowered his glass and said quietly, ‘It’s Rear-Admiral Herrick, Sir Richard.’ He was suddenly drained of the excitement he had felt at their arrival. ‘I will be honest, sir. It will cost me dear to make him welcome.’

  Bolitho stared at the approaching barge, the oars like bare bones in the deepening shadows.

  ‘Never fear, Val, it is doubtless costing him a great deal more.’

  The barge vanished from view and then, after what seemed like an eternity, Herrick’s head and shoulders appeared in the entry port. While the guard presented arms and the calls paid their tribute, he doffed his hat, and stood motionless as if he and Bolitho were quite alone.

  In those seconds Bolitho saw that Herrick’s hair appeared to have gone completely grey, and that he held his body stiffly, as if his wound still troubled him.

  Bolitho stepped forward and reached out with both hands. ‘You are welcome here, Thomas.’

  Herrick grasped his hands and stared at him, his blue eyes catching the last of the sunshine.

  ‘So it was true … you are alive.’ Then he lowered his head and said, loudly enough for Keen and Jenour to hear, ‘Forgive me.’

  As Jenour began to follow the two flag-officers aft, Keen thrust out his arm. ‘Not this time, Stephen. Later perhaps.’ He hesitated. ‘I have just seen something I thought had died. But it’s still there … like a bright flame.’ The words seemed to be printed on his mind. Forgive me.