He walked quickly to the quarterdeck and heard the door slam behind him, the slap of a musket as the sentry returned to a more relaxed stance.
By the gangway he found the first lieutenant waiting for him. Across the heaving water, its crests and troughs already painted with shadows, he saw Sparrow swaying unsteadily against the first pale stars. A lantern gleamed from her taffrail, and he thought he saw the splash of oars to mark where Stockdale held the gig in readiness. He could have waited in vain. Colquhoun might have made one last gesture by throwing him under arrest for his outburst. That he had not was proof enough of his true guilt.
More, that Colquhoun was well aware of what he had done.
He said, “We are to rejoin the Flag at New York.”
The lieutenant watched the gig bobbing towards the side and replied sadly, “I’ll not be sorry to quit this place.”
Bolitho sighed. “Aye. A defeat is a bad business. But a victory can often bring the greater pain.”
The lieutenant watched him climb into the gig and pull clear.
So young, yet with so much responsibility. Not for me. Even as the thought crossed his mind he knew it was a lie, and upon looking round the darkening deck he wondered if Colquhoun’s error had brought him any nearer to his own promotion.
13 NO BETTER EPITAPH
ALMOST immediately after dropping anchor at Sandy Hook, Sparrow and her company were thrown into the urgent work of a short but well-deserved overhaul. Under the wintry eye of a senior dockyard officer the ship was careened and the thick growth of weed cut and cleaned from her hull. Bolitho was able to send Lock ashore, and with more careful bribes obtained fresh provisions as well as replacements for some of the fouler casks of beef and pork.
In the midst of all this activity, which continued from dawn to dusk, he was occasionally visited by a scholarly lieutenant of the Commander-in-Chief ’s staff. He took statements from Bolitho and Tyrrell and compared them with notations in the log at the time of Fawn’s destruction, as well as those leading up to the actual attack. Buckle was required to display and explain each section of the charts used, and was instantly reduced to mumbling confusion under the lieutenant’s skilful examination. But as one day followed the next, and Sparrow regained her original trim appearance, the bitter memories of Fawn’s loss, even the display of hot anger in Colquhoun’s cabin, became blurred, if riot erased from Bolitho’s mind.
He had been kept continuously busy with the affairs of his ship, never knowing for sure when his next orders would arrive, and had spent any spare moments studying the wider aspects of the war on land. When the summons to appear at a court martial was delivered to him, it came as something like a shock.
Three weeks had gone by since he had confronted Colquhoun in Bacchante’s cabin and almost every day had been occupied with incident and activity.
Only certain details still stood out with stark clarity in his mind. The picture of slaughter and desolation on Fawn’s shattered deck. Maulby’s face, the flies crawling over his contorted features. Young Heyward’s obvious pride at being given the task of receiving the Frenchman’s surrender, and the Fawn’s one surviving officer who had gone to take charge of the enemy until the marines arrived. Maulby’s lieutenant had been like a man coming out of the shadow of death itself. His movements disjointed, his face stricken from the sights and sounds he had endured.
On the morning of the court martial Bolitho stood on Sparrow’s quarterdeck with Tyrrell and Buckle, aware of the many watching eyes, of his men, and those on nearby ships at anchor.
Tyrrell shifted his leg and muttered, “I may be called as witness, but by God I feel like a guilty man!”
Bolitho watched the gig moving towards the entry port, and noticed that Stockdale and the oarsmen were dressed in their best clothes. Conscious, too, of this moment perhaps.
As well they might, he thought grimly. It was Colquhoun’s day, but it was not unknown for a drowning man to drag others down with him.
He shifted his gaze to the old seventy-four which lay some three cables distant. The Parthian, where he had been given his instructions for rescuing the soldiers and General Blundell’s bullion from the Delaware. How long ago it seemed now. An eternity.
The gig made fast and Tyrrell said abruptly, “That bastard deserves to hang!”
Bolitho followed the others to the entry port, trying once again to find his true feelings. It was difficult to go on hating Colquhoun. His weakness had perhaps been too human, which made it harder to condemn after the first anger had passed.
As eight o’clock came and the bells chimed from each anchored ship-of-war, a solitary gun crashed out from the Parthian’s side, and the court martial Jack broke simultaneously from her gaff. It was time.
Graves stood with the rigid side party, his face expressionless as they climbed into the gig. He was not implicated, and Bolitho wondered if he saw his chances of promotion reflected in the court martial flag.
Once through Parthian’s gilded entry port and past the marine guard and assembled band, Bolitho felt a rising sense of disgust. The two-decker’s quarterdeck was thronged with visitors. Senior officers, some of them military, several prosperous-looking civilians and a solitary artist gave the impression of a carefree outing rather than a trial. The artist, a bearded, intent little man, busied himself from every angle, making quick sketches, dotting in detail of uniform or title, hardly pausing between each capture.
He saw Bolitho and hurried between the chattering throng, his pad already poised in readiness.
“Ah, good sir! Captain Bolitho?” The pencil hovered and then darted down. “I am so glad to see you at last. I have heard much of your exploits.” He paused and smiled shyly. “I wish I could have been aboard your ship to take sketches. The people at home need to be told . . .”
Tyrrell murmured, “For Christ’s sake!”
A master-at-arms opened a door and the visitors began to filter aft towards the great cabin. Left isolated and ill at ease in their best uniforms, the witnesses remained on the quarterdeck.
Bolitho said quietly, “At some other time maybe.”
He turned his head to watch a marine captain with drawn sword marching aft to the cabin. Just the sight of it made him feel sick. The grim array. Like the crowds at Tyburn, or the jeering fools who stood for hours to watch some wretch choking out his life on a village gibbet.
The artist’s smile faded. “I understand. I thought . . . ”
Bolitho replied, “I know what you thought. That I’d be pleased to see a man fall from office!” He did not hide his contempt.
“That, too.” The artist’s eyes flickered in the sunlight as he made a quick alteration to his sketch. “I also imagined you might see your future made stronger by this man’s disgrace.” He shrugged as Bolitho turned on him angrily. “That I am wrong on both counts makes me a fool, and you an even better man than they say you are.”
Bolitho looked at him sadly. “What they say will count for little today.”
A lieutenant called, “This way, gentlemen.”
They followed him in order of seniority and filed into the ship’s wardroom.
The artist passed quickly and vanished towards the great cabin as Tyrrell growled, “God, what is happening to us? Will they make pictures of th’ Day of Judgement, too?”
All morning the wearing business went on. Witnesses were called and evidence mounted. Factual and hearsay, technical or just plain imagination, it seemed to take an eternity to get it down in writing. There were occasional pauses for refreshment and to allow the visitors to stretch their legs on the quarterdeck.
Throughout the whole morning Bolitho hardly spoke. Around him, their faces displaying either confidence or uncertainty, the rest of the witnesses waited their turn. Odell off the schooner Lucifer, his quick, agitated movements only adding to the tension. Bacchante’s first lieutenant and sailing master. Fawn’s surviving lieutenant and a blinded seaman who had stood beside Maulby when he had been struck down.
/> In seniority, or as their value directed, the witnesses dwindled until only Bolitho and Tyrrell remained. Through the open ports Bolitho saw boats plying between the ships and the shore, the haze of smoke from a nearby spit of sand where a man was burning driftwood.
It was stiflingly hot. The first day of May. He pictured what it would be like at home. In Falmouth. Sometimes he thought he would never see it again. Tiny pale dots of sheep on the hills and headland. Noisy cows in the lane below the house, always inquisitive as they passed the gates, as if they had never seen them before. And in the town square, where the coaches loaded up for Plymouth or the horses were changed for another route to the west, there would be plenty of laughter and good cheer. For if the war was a threat, so, too, was winter, and that was well behind them until the next time. Now, the fishermen could put to sea in safety, and the fields and markets would show the evidence of their labours and rewards.
“Mr. Tyrrell.” The lieutenant held the door open. “This way.”
Tyrrell picked up his hat and looked at him. “Soon now, sir.” Then Bolitho was alone.
It did not take very long. Tyrrell’s evidence was purely factual and concerned the times of crossing the bar and commencing the attack. In all events, he was obeying orders. He was safe.
When his call came Bolitho followed the lieutenant into the cabin without remembering hearing his name announced.
It was packed with seated figures, and right aft, behind a table which reached almost from side to side, he saw the officers of the court. In the centre, as President, was Sir Evelyn Christie, flanked by ten captains of varying status and seniority, none of whom was known to Bolitho.
Rear-Admiral Christie eyed him bleakly. “Your sworn statement has been read and submitted in evidence.”
He sounded clipped and formal, so that Bolitho was suddenly reminded of their last meeting. The difference almost amounted to hostility.
“We have heard of the plan to take the flute, of the events leading to her discovery, including evidence given by Lucifer’s captain and that of your own officers.” He paused and ruffled through some papers. “In your statement you said that you had advised your senior officer against a cutting-out expedition of the kind which was eventually employed?”
Bolitho cleared his throat. “I thought that under the circumstances . . .”
The nearest captain snapped, “Yes or no!”
“Yes.” Bolitho kept his eyes on the admiral. “I gave my opinion.”
The admiral leaned back slowly. “The accused has already stated that is not the case. He gave you your orders only after you had insisted that your ship would be better placed to the north of the Bank.”
In the sudden silence Bolitho could feel his heart pounding like a hammer. He wanted to turn his head and look at Colquhoun, but knew that any such attempt would be immediately seen as guilt.
The senior captain at the table said abruptly, “Were there any witnesses as to what occurred when these decisions were reached?”
Bolitho faced him. “Only Commander Maulby, sir,”
“I see.”
Bolitho felt the cabin closing in around him, saw the nearest faces watching him like a row of greedy birds.
The admiral sighed. “I will continue. After leaving the other vessels you proceeded towards your allotted station.”
“Yes, sir.”
The admiral looked up with a jerk. “Then why did you cross the bar?” He slapped one hand on the papers, bringing a mingled gasp from the spectators. “Was it guilt? Did you at last realise that Captain Colquhoun was right and that he needed your support in the south?”
“No, sir.” He could feel his hands shaking, the sweat like ice-rime between his shoulders. “I have stated my reasons. We lost the wind, I had no option but to tack when I did.” Pictures flashed through his mind like parts of a nightmare. Heyward, ashamed at losing control of the ship. Buckle, doubtful and anxious for her safety as he had told him his intentions. He heard himself add quietly, “Commander Maulby was my friend.”
The senior member of the court regarded him flatly. “Really?”
Bolitho turned his head and saw Colquhoun for the first time. He was shocked to see the change in him. He was very pale, and in the reflected light his skin was the texture of wax. He was standing with his arms limp at his sides, his body moving only slightly to the gentle tilt of the deck. But his eyes were the worst part. They were fixed on Bolitho’s face, on his mouth when he spoke, and shone with such incredible hatred that Bolitho exclaimed, “Tell them the truth!”
Colquhoun made as if to step forward, but his escort, the marine captain, touched his arm and he relaxed again.
The admiral snapped, “That will do, Captain Bolitho! I’ll have no exchanges in this court!”
The senior captain coughed discreetly and continued, “The rest we know. The French deception, and your destruction of their flute, all of which is above criticism. Despite obvious dangers you managed to rescue some of Fawn’s company, and several of her wounded are now alive and recovering, thanks to your efforts.”
Bolitho watched him emptily. He had done his duty, but the lies already told by Colquhoun about his character, and his statement which only Maulby could confirm, made a mockery of it. He looked down at Colquhoun’s sword on the table. His own might he there soon. He found he cared little about that, but the slur on his name he could not bear.
The admiral looked around the crowded cabin. “I think we have heard enough before we withdraw, gentlemen?”
Bolitho swayed. A long lunch. More delays. It was torture.
Like most of those present he jerked round as a chair at the rear of the court went over with a loud clatter.
A husky voice shouted, “No, dammee, I won’t keep still! In God’s name, I’ve given me eyes for the King! Ain’t I allowed to speak the truth?”
The admiral rasped, “Keep silent there! Or I will call the officer of the guard!”
But it was no use. Most of the visitors were on their feet, all talking and shouting at once. Bolitho saw that some had even climbed on to their chairs to see what was happening behind them.
The admiral sat speechless, while the rest of the court waited for him to carry out his threat.
The voices died away, and the crowded figures parted to allow the small artist to come aft to the table. He was leading the seaman who had been blinded aboard Fawn and who had already stated briefly what he knew of the preparations to cut the cable and escape the French artillery.
Now, in his ragged trousers and borrowed blue coat, with his head tilted as if to sniff out those nearest him, he approached the table.
The admiral said gravely, “Very well, Richards.” He waited for the people to sit down again. “What is this you wish to say?”
The seaman reached out and gripped the edge of the table, his bandaged eyes trained above the admiral’s head.
“I were there, sir. Right there on th’ quarterdeck with Cap’n Maulby!”
Nobody moved or spoke except the blind seaman named Richards.
Bolitho watched his hand as it moved vaguely in the air, saw his chest heaving as he relived those last terrible moments.
He said huskily, “The Frogs had our measure, sir. We was all but dismasted an’ with more’n half our brave lads cut down.”
The senior captain made as if to interrupt but the admiral’s gold-laced cuff froze him to stillness.
“Th’ sweeps was shot away, but all th’ time Cap’n Maulby was shoutin’ and cussin’ in his same old style.” Beneath the stiff bandage the man’s mouth twisted in a smile. “An’ he could cuss when given occasion, sir.” The smile faded. “I were quartermaster an’ alone at th’ wheel. The master was down an’ so was my mate, both killed. The first lieutenant were below havin’ his arm off, an’ it was then that th’ cap’n turns to me an’ cries, ‘God damn that Colquhoun, Richards! He’s done for us this day!’” His head drooped and his fingers slipped from the table as he repeated brokenly, “Tha
t’s what he said . He’s done for us this day.”
The admiral asked quietly, “And then what happened?”
Richards waited for a few moments to compose himself. Still nobody moved or even whispered. Beyond the stern windows the wheeling gulls seemed too loud to be real.
Then he said, “Mr. Fox, th’ second lieutenant, had just gone forrard, I think to seek some men for th’ pumps. Several balls from th’ Frog guns ashore came inboard an’ killed Mr. Midshipman Vasey. He were only fourteen but a good lad when he put his mind to it. When he fell, th’ cap’n shouts to me, ‘If Richard Bolitho was with us today as he wanted to be, then by God we’d show ’em, artillery or no!’”
The admiral snapped. “Are you absolutely certain? He said those very words?”
Richards nodded his head. “Aye, sir. I’m not likely to forget ’em. For it was then that we was hit again and th’ cro’jack yard came down to th’ deck. It took Cap’n Maulby with it. He never even cried out.” He nodded again, very slowly. “He were a good cap’n, even if he did cuss more’n most.”
“I see.” The admiral glanced at his senior captain. Then he asked, “Do you recall anything more?”
“We struck th’ reef, sir. Th’ mizzen come down an’ a bloody swivel, beggin’ your pardon, sir, exploded on th’ rail and took away me sight. I don’t remember much else till I come-to aboard th’ Sparrow.”
“Thank you.” The admiral gestured to a marine orderly. “I will see that you are taken care of.”
Richards groped up to knuckle his forehead and then said, “Thankee, sir. I hopes you’ll forgive me, but I had to speak me piece.”
Sloop of War Page 24