Bolitho swallowed the claret in one gulp.
“A general, sir?”
“No less. Take care, he is well connected, and not given to much tolerance.” He continued evenly, “Your arrival is a godsend. I have only one small brig available, and I was loath to send her.”
Bolitho stayed silent. Lose her, was probably what he really meant.
“Arrangements have been made for some army scouts to accompany you, and a small detachment is already trying to make contact with the missing company.” He paused before saying quietly, “You will be under the instruction of one Colonel Foley. He knows the area well, so you must abide by his experience.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Good. I will have your written orders sent to you without delay.” Another glance at the watch. “I will expect you to be ready to weigh before dusk.”
“May I ask where I am to go, sir?”
“You may not. It will be clear in your orders. I do not want the whole of New York to learn of it yet. General Washington has many friends here, just as we have many who are waiting to change sides if things go badly for us.”
He held out his hand. It was over.
“Take care, Bolitho, England will need all her sons if she is to survive, let alone win this damn war. But if you succeed in this venture you will be more than able to face whatever lies ahead. You can rejoin your own squadron with much more than seniority to your credit.”
In something like a daze Bolitho found his way to the entry port, his mind grappling with the admiral’s words.
This time he was greeted by the flag captain in person who asked quickly, “Has he told you what he wants of you?”
“Yes.”
The captain studied Bolitho thoughtfully. “The general’s brother is a member of the Government. I thought I should tell you.”
Bolitho tugged his hat down on his forehead. “Thank you, sir. I will try to remember.”
The captain grinned at his grave expression. “You youngsters have all the luck!” His laughter was drowned by the trilling pipes as Bolitho climbed once more into his gig.
It was towards the end of the last dog watch when Bolitho’s passenger, Colonel Hector Foley, climbed aboard from the guardboat. In his early thirties, he had the dark, even swarthy good looks of a Spaniard, set off with a hooked nose and deepset brown eyes. The appearance seemed totally at odds with the impeccable scarlet coat and close-fitting white breeches of an infantry officer. He glanced around the stern cabin, and accepted Bolitho’s offer of the sleeping compartment and cot with little more than a nod, before seating himself in one of the chairs. He was tall and straight-backed, and like Bolitho had to be careful when moving between the deckhead beams.
He took out his watch and said calmly, “I suggest you read your orders, Captain. Given luck, your part of the game should be no more than transport.”
He did not smile or show any emotion which Bolitho could recognise. His contained, aloof manner was vaguely disturbing. Irritating. It made Bolitho feel cut off from the more vital aspects of his strange mission.
The orders took little time to read. He was to proceed with as much despatch as possible, some one hundred and fifty miles southward along the coastline of New Jersey. Under cover of darkness, if considered possible and prudent, he would then enter Delaware Bay to such distance and position as would be directed by Colonel Foley. He re-read the orders more slowly, conscious the whole time of Foley’s polished boots tapping gently on the deck beside the table.
If considered possible and prudent. That passage seemed to stand out more than all the rest, and he was again reminded of Colquhoun’s prophecy. It meant simply that it was his responsibility. Foley could suggest what he liked, pick any landing place or rendezvous with equal indifference to the problems of sailing the ship close inshore through badly charted channels where in places the sea-bed was visible even to a man nearly blind.
He looked up. “Can you tell me nothing more, sir?”
Foley shrugged. “I have twenty scouts aboard. They will have to make the first contact.”
The scouts had arrived some time before the colonel. They were Canadians, and in their buckskin clothing and fur caps, their outward appearance of slovenly ease, gave little hint of being soldiers. Bolitho had seen them sprawled around the gun deck, cleaning their assortment of weapons or idly watching the busy seamen with amused contempt.
Foley seemed to read his mind. “They are good soldiers, Captain. Well used to this sort of warfare.”
“I should have thought you could have obtained similar assistance locally, sir?”
Foley regarded him coldly. “An American is an American. I do not choose to trust any of them if I can obtain an alternative.”
“Then there seems little point in continuing the war, sir.”
For the first time Foley smiled. “I need to have perfect trust in my men. Idealists I do not need at present.”
Stockdale opened the door and asked huskily, “Are you ready for the officers, sir?” He glanced at Foley. “Eight bells ’ave just struck.”
“Yes.”
Bolitho pulled at his neckcloth, angry that he could rise so easily to Foley’s arrogance.
Fitch hurried into the cabin and fit two lanterns, for although it was early evening the sky was unusually overcast and the wind veered to the west with a hint of rain in it. It was also hot and stuffy, and when the other officers had somehow crammed themselves into the cabin it was almost unbearable.
He waited, watching Foley’s gently tapping boots as there were more delays while chairs were brought from the wardroom and in awkward, shuffling silence they got themselves sorted out.
Then he said, “We will weigh as soon as this meeting is over. Is everything prepared, Mr. Tyrrell?”
Tyrrell had his eyes fixed on the colonel. “Aye, sir.”
“Mr. Buckle?”
“Ready, sir.”
Bolitho looked at the carefully worded orders, recalling Tyrrell’s astonishment when he had returned from the flagship.
He had blurted out, “But we ain’t had time to take on water, sir.”
The admiral had kept to his word on the matter of secrecy. He was not even going to allow the Sparrow’s boats in contact with the shore, no matter for what purpose.
What he would have said if he had learned that Lock had begged a trip ashore in a passing lighter, Bolitho could not imagine. Lock had returned just as secretly with several large casks of lemons, and a more mournful face than usual as he had told of their cost.
He said, “We will proceed to the south’rd and enter Delaware Bay. There we will act in co-operation with the army and take aboard . . .”
Foley interrupted calmly, “I think that will suffice for the present, Captain.” Without looking at Bolitho he added, “So, gentlemen, your duty is to ensure that this vessel is in the right place at the right time, and ready to fight if necessary to complete the mission.”
The others shifted in their seats, and Bolitho saw the two midshipmen staring at him with surprise. To them, Foley’s obvious control must seem strange.
Buckle muttered, “Bad bit o’ coast down there, sir. Shoals and sandbars a’plenty.” He sucked his teeth noisily. “Bad.”
Foley glanced at Bolitho, his deepset eyes showing annoyance. “We are not here to discuss the competence or otherwise of your officers, surely?”
Bolitho met his gaze steadily, suddenly very calm. “Indeed not, sir. I will vouch for my people.” He paused. “Just as I am sure you will vouch for yours when the time comes.”
In the stiff silence Bolitho heard Tilby’s booming voice along the upper deck, driving some unfortunate man about his work. Again, he had made a bad start, but he was unrepentant.
Foley nodded slowly. “We shall see.”
Graves asked, “May I speak, sir?”
Bolitho nodded.
“Why cannot one of the inshore squadron do this mission, sir?”
Foley stood up, his head
lowered between the beams. “Because your vessel is the more suitable, Lieutenant. Not, I assure you, because you are in any way outstanding in such work.”
Bolitho looked at their faces. Resentment, surprise, even hurt. It was all there.
He said slowly, “Carry on, gentlemen. Call all hands in ten minutes.”
When they had filed out he said, “You have said that my duty is to act as your transport. How I do it is my responsibility, and I am not required to remain quiet while you insult my officers.”
When the soldier stayed silent he continued, “These same men helped to save two transports which are needed so badly for the military. They fought and sank a privateer and helped to drive away another, more powerful ship.”
“For which you will receive the credit, no doubt?”
Bolitho faced him quickly, his voice low with anger. “Thank you, Colonel. I had no doubt you expected me to say that in front of the others, just so you could make such a suggestion.” He picked up his hat. “Had I known that the army was already quitting Philadelphia, I might have spent more time in harrying that privateer than dragging my heels with your transports!”
Foley smiled. “Well said, Captain. I like a man who can still show some feeling.”
Bolitho slammed out of the cabin and strode unseeingly to the companion ladder. He could tell from the way some seamen avoided his eye, the alert manner with which young Bethune was studying the flagship, that they could all recognise his fury.
Had he changed so much? Before he would have laughed or cursed at Foley’s rudeness once his back was turned. Now, at the mention of some criticism, the merest hint of an attack on his subordinates, and therefore his ship, was enough to drive away control and reason.
Tyrrell came aft and said quietly, “I know those waters well enough, sir. Mr. Buckle is a mite bothered, but I can stand by him.”
“I know. Thank you.”
He had seen Tyrrell’s expression when Buckle had voiced his concern at the meeting. He had been about to make the same suggestion. Perhaps that was why he had rushed in to defend the master against Foley’s sarcasm. Foley had already made it clear what he thought of Americans. Rebels, colonists, or those unwillingly caught between the crossfire of different factions and divided families, any of them.
Tyrrell turned to watch the gig being swayed up and over the starboard gangway.
“Bit of a bastard, that one, sir.” He shrugged. “I’ve met ’em before.”
Bolitho bit back the reproof he should have given. But what was the use? Even Bethune must have seen the antagonism between himself and Foley.
“Let us hope he knows what he is doing, Mr. Tyrrell. For all our sakes.”
The boatswain’s mates charged along the gun deck and hovered over hatchways as they bawled, “All hands! All hands! Clear lower deck!”
Bolitho said, “I did not get time to discover any news of your family.”
“Ah well.” Tyrrell tilted his hat to shade his eyes in a shaft of dying sunlight. “Maybe later.”
The hatch casing slid open and Foley appeared at the top of the companion.
Bolitho said evenly, “I must ask you to leave the quarterdeck, sir.” He saw him start angrily and added, “Or cover your red coat. It will not help if we are seen to be carrying even one soldier with us.”
Foley withdrew and Tyrrell said cheerfully, “One to you, sir!”
“It was unintended.” Bolitho took a telescope and trained it beyond the anchored shipping. “Our sailing must be seen as normal. Spies will have reported our arrival and no doubt will think only of our despatches. I don’t intend to have the news abroad that we are going on some special mission. The world may soon know of it, but the later the better.”
He walked to the quarterdeck rail, watching the seamen being mustered at their stations by the petty officers, but wondering at the truth of his words. Could a man like Foley really make him so quick to hit back as Tyrrell believed?
“Man the capstan!” Tilby was clinging to the foremast shrouds, his mottled face shining with sweat as he yelled at the scurrying seamen. “Jump to it, you idle buggers, or I’ll be amongst you with my starter!” Caught off guard by the unexpected sailing orders, he was showing signs of a recent drinking bout.
Bolitho looked at Buckle. “Once we have worked clear of the land we will get the t’gallants on her. The wind seems steady enough, but we’ll have rain before nightfall, I’m thinking.”
Buckle tugged his hat. “Aye, sir.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry I spoke out as I did. I should have known different.”
Bolitho smiled. “Better to speak your doubts before you meet trouble. It is too late when you are hard aground, eh?” He touched his arm lightly. “But before we draw that close to land we will see what Sparrow can do under full canvas.”
He walked away, hoping Buckle felt less worried. It could not be easy for him either. His first ship as master, and about to plunge into dangerous waters he had never seen before.
“Anchor’s hove short, sir!” Graves’s voice was loud on the blustery wind.
Bolitho looked at Tyrrell. “Get the ship under way, if you please.”
He swung round as a chorus of derisive laughter burst from deck below. A seaman had caught his foot on one of the army scout’s muskets and gone sprawling into the scuppers. It seemed to amuse the soldiers greatly.
Bolitho added coldly, “With this fresh wind you’ll need plenty of weight on the capstan bars.” He let his eyes rest on the Canadians.
Tyrrell grinned. “Right away, sir!” He cupped his hands. “Bosun! Put those men on th’ capstan!” He silenced the immediate protests by adding, “Don’t hesitate to start ’em if you find ’em slacking!”
Bolitho thrust his hands beneath his coat tails and walked away from the rail so that he could watch the topmen more easily. He had taken enough insults from Foley. There was no good reason for his own seamen to suffer also.
“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”
He stared up at the thundering pattern of canvas as the ship heeled over, free to the wind.
Once clear of the land’s sheltering arm the motion became more violent, the waves shorter and the colour of straw in the dull light. Spray lifted and dashed over the busy seamen and pattered across the quarterdeck like heavy rain. Bolitho felt it on his lips and wet against his shirt, sensing the released power as the courses and then the topgallant sails filled and bellied to the wind.
He watched the jib-boom rise towards the scudding clouds, stagger and then plunge forward and down over the next line of crests, the stays and shrouds gleaming like wet ebony. He pictured the angry Sparrow beneath the beakhead clutching its oak leaves and acorns, and wondered if the Bonaventure’s captain had seen it when he had broken off the action, and would remember it.
Tyrrell lurched aft, his body angled steeply to the deck. He yelled to the mizzen topmen before pausing to check those working at the weather braces. Fitch scurried past carrying a bucket and Tyrrell called after him.
Bolitho shouted above the thunder of canvas, “What is it?”
Tyrrell laughed. “Th’ colonel’s being sick, sir! A shame, ain’t it?”
“Terrible.” Bolitho turned away to hide a grin. “Especially as it seems to be blowing harder now!”
Buckle clung to the binnacle and yelled, “Steady she goes, sir! Sou’-east by south!”
“Hold her so!” Bolitho removed his hat and let the wind press the hair against his forehead. “We will wear ship soon.” He walked up the deck and rapped the half-hour glass beside the compass. “I am going below to inform the colonel.”
As he swung down the ladder he heard Tyrrell laughing and Buckle’s equally cheerful chuckle. It was a small thing. But it was a beginning.
6 SCARLET AND GOLD
BOLITHO entered his cabin and was surprised to see Foley seated at the table studying a chart. He was fully dressed, and his features had regained most of their colour. After leaving Sandy Hook he had spent most of the passage
sprawled on the bench seat, unable or unwilling to climb into the cot, eyes half closed and his face like a wax mask.
He glanced up and grimaced. “The motion feels easier.”
Bolitho nodded. “We are standing into the bay. Cape May lies about five miles off the starboard beam.”
“I see.” Foley peered at the chart for several seconds, his fingers drumming a little tattoo across Bolitho’s calculations and bearings. “What is your opinion, Captain?”
Bolitho looked at his lowered head. It was the first time he had asked him for his views on anything. Under full canvas the Sparrow had lived up to her name, so that on the passage southward Bolitho had been able to put aside his apprehensions, if not forget them, while he had enjoyed the sloop’s vitality and freedom of movement. Then as they had closed the land to fix their position a great squall had risen, bleating and moaning with such violence that it had taken all hands to reef down and gain more sea room. After the untroubled sailing with even the royals set to catch the wind it was a severe disappointment. They had arrived off Cape May at the entrance to Delaware Bay precisely as Bolitho had planned, one full day after weighing anchor. Yet even as Buckle had been taking his bearings the squall had swept offshore, flattening the wavecrests and cloaking the distant land more effectively than night itself. It had taken another day, beating and clawing round in a great circle, the land hidden to all but the masthead lookout by rainsqualls and low cloud.
He heard himself answer, “The wind has backed again, sir. To the sou’-west, and it is dropping.”
He listened to the groan of yoke lines as the rudder went over beneath the transom, and thought of Tyrrell and Buckle beside the wheel. He could also imagine the chart, the great bay opening up on either beam as the Sparrow, under close-reefed topsails, headed further and further away from the sea. Tyrrell was a tower of strength, and seemed to remember these waters as if every sandbar and current was imprinted on his brain.
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