Farr sprawled untidily on the stern bench and raised his glass to the sunlight.
“Bloody fine stuff! Though give me a tankard of English ale an’ you can spit this against a wall!” He laughed and allowed Bolitho to pour another glass.
Bolitho smiled. How things had changed for all of them. Looking back to that moment at Antigua when he had gone to meet Colquhoun it was hard to recall just how the years and weeks had affected them as individuals. Then, as he had looked from Colquhoun’s window in the headquarters building, he had seen the flotilla as a whole, had wondered what his new command would be like. So many other doubts and fears had plagued him on that morning.
Now, Fawn was gone, and Bacchante had sailed only the previous day to rejoin the fleet under Rodney. Her captain had been appointed from the flagship, and Bolitho wondered if Colquhoun had been able to watch her clear the anchorage from wherever he was being held in custody.
Only Sparrow and Heron remained now. Apart from the little schooner Lucifer of course, and she was almost a rule unto herself. She would stay on her stop-and-search patrols of small coasting craft, or continue probing into coves and creeks in search for enemy blockade-runners.
Farr watched him comfortably and remarked, “Well, you are doing famously, I hear. Reception with the mighty, wine with the admiral! By the living Jesus, there’ll be no saying where you’ll end up. Probably on some ambassador’s staff, with a dozen little girls to dance to your tune, eh?” He laughed loudly.
Bolitho shrugged. “Not for me, I have seen enough.”
He thought quickly of the girl. She had not written to him. Nor had he seen her, although he had made it his business to pass by way of her residence when he had been ashore on ship’s affairs.
It was a fine house, not much smaller than where he had attended the reception. There had been soldiers at the gates, and he guessed that its owner held some sort of government appointment. He had tried to tell himself not to be foolish, so naive as to expect someone of her background to remember him beyond a momentary meeting. In Falmouth the Bolitho family was much respected, its land and property giving work and substance to many. Bolitho’s own recent gains in prize money had made him feel independent for the first time in his life, so that he had lost sight of reality when it came to people like Susannah Hardwicke. Her family probably spent more in a week than he had earned since taking command of Sparrow . She was accustomed to travel, even when others were held still by war or lack of means. She would know the best people, and her name would be accepted in any of the great houses from London to Scotland. He sighed. He could not see her as the lady of the house in Falmouth. Entertaining ruddy-faced farmers and their wives, attending local fairs and the rough and tumble of a community which lived so close to nature.
Farr seemed to sense his mood and asked, “What about the war, Bolitho? Where is it getting us?” He waved his glass. “Sometimes I get to thinking we will go on patrolling an’ running after bloody smugglers till we die of old age.”
Bolitho stood up and moved restlessly to the windows. There was plenty of evidence of power nearby. Ships-of-the-line, frigates and all the rest. And yet they gave an appearance of waiting. But for what?
He said. “Cornwallis seems intent on retaking Virginia. His soldiers are doing well, I hear.”
“You don’t sound too damn confident!”
Bolitho looked at him. “The army is pinched back to its lines. They can no longer rely on supplies or support by land. Everything must move by sea. It is no way for an army to fight.”
Farr grunted. “Not our concern. You worry too much. Anyway, I think we should leave ’em all to their own games. We should go home an’ smash hell out of the Frogs. The bloody Dons would soon call for peace, an’ the Dutch have no liking for their so-called allies anyway. Then we can come back to America an’ have another go at ’em.”
Bolitho smiled. “I fear we would die of old age if we followed that course.”
He heard a shouted challenge, the scrape of a boat alongside. He realized that his mind had recorded it but that he felt at ease, even remote. When he had first come aboard there had been neither sound nor event which had not caught his immediate attention. Perhaps at last he was accepting his true role.
Graves appeared in the cabin door with a familiar sealed envelope.
“Guardboat, sir.” He darted a glance at Heron’s commander. “Sailing orders, I expect.”
Bolitho nodded. “Carry on, Mr. Graves. I will inform you directly.”
The lieutenant hesitated. “This letter was delivered also, sir.”
It was small, and the handwriting was almost hidden by a seal. Office of the Military Government.
As the door closed Farr asked thickly, “Graves? No bloody relative of our admiral, I trust!”
Bolitho grinned. With Rodney in the West Indies, and further restricted by bad health, the command of American waters came under the flag of Rear-Admiral Thomas Graves. Lacking the wisdom of Rodney, the hard-won respect of Hood, he was looked upon by most of the fleet’s officers as a fair but cautious commander. He believed utterly in the rigid rules of fighting, and had never been known to change one jot of their interpretation. Several senior captains had put down suggestions for improving the system of signalling between ships engaged in close action. Graves had said icily, according to the many stories circulating amongst the fleet, “My captains know their function. That should be enough for any man.”
Bolitho replied, “No. Perhaps it would be better if he were. We might know more of what is happening.”
Farr stood up and belched. “Good wine. Better company. I’ll leave you to yer sealed orders. If all the written despatches from all the admirals in the world was laced together we’d have enough to cover the Equator, an’ that’s a fact! God’s teeth, I sometimes think we choke on paper!”
He shambled out of the cabin, refusing Bolitho’s offer to see him over the side by saying, “If I can’t manage on me own by now, then it’s time I was weighted with a pair of round-shot and dropped overboard!”
Bolitho settled down at the table and slit open the canvas envelope, although his eyes rested mainly on the smaller one.
The orders were briefer than usual. Being in all respects ready for sea, His Britannic Majesty’s Sloop-of-War Sparrow would weigh and proceed at the earliest convenience the following day. She would carry out an independent patrol, eastward to Montauk Point at the top of Long Island and thence via Block Island to the approaches of Newport itself.
He contained his rising excitement with some difficulty and made himself concentrate on the sparse requirements of the patrol. He was not to become involved with enemy forces other than at his own discretion. His eye rested on the last words. How they reminded him of Colquhoun. So brief, yet concealing the very precariousness of his own position should he act wrongly.
But here at last was something direct to carry out. Not merely harrying blockade-runners or seeking some sly privateer. This was French territory. The fringe of the second greatest sea-power on earth. Beneath the flag captain’s scrawling signature he saw that Rear-Admiral Christie had added his own. How typical of the man. A sign of his trust, and the extent of his arm.
He stood up and rapped on the skylight. “Midshipman of the watch!”
He saw Bethune’s face above him and called, “My compliments to the first lieutenant. I would like to see him at once.” He paused. “I thought you were on watch earlier?”
Bethune dropped his eyes. “Aye, sir. That is true. But . . .”
Bolitho said quietly, “In future you will take your watches as laid down. I suppose Mr. Fowler should have been on duty?”
“I promised him, sir.” Bethune looked uneasy. “I owed him a relief.”
“Very well. But remember my orders. I’ll have no retired officers in this ship!”
He sat down again. He should have noticed what was happening. Poor Bethune was no match for the Fowlers of this world. He smiled in spite of his concern. He
was a fine one to talk.
He slit open the second envelope and came up with a jerk against the table.
My dear Captain. I would be so pleased if you could dine with us this evening. I feel wretched at this inexcusable delay and hope for instant forgiveness. As you read this letter I am watching your ship through my uncle’s telescope. So that I shall not be held in suspense, please show yourself.
It was signed, Susannah Hardwicke.
Bolitho stood up and winced as his skull collided with a deck beam. Pausing only to lock his orders in the cabin strongbox, he hurried out of the door and up the companion ladder. Her uncle’s telescope. So General Blundell was here, too. It would explain the sentries at the gates.
But even this fact did not depress him. He almost collided with Tyrrell as he came limping aft, his arms spattered with grease.
“Sorry I was adrift when you called for me, sir. I was in th’ cable tier.”
Bolitho smiled. “Taking the opportunity of an empty tier to look for rot, eh?”
Tyrrell rubbed his thigh. “Aye. But she’s fine. Sound as a bell.”
Bolitho walked to the nettings and shaded his eyes against the fierce glare. The distant houses were almost lost in haze, their outlines quivering and intermingling as it they were melting in the heat.
Tyrrell watched him questioningly. “Something wrong, sir?”
Bolitho beckoned to Bethune and took his telescope. It was no better. The one trained upon Sparrow was probably a huge affair. Very slowly he raised his arm and waved it from side to side.
Behind him Tyrrell and Bethune stood stockstill, each as puzzled as the other by the captain’s strange behaviour.
Bolitho turned and saw Tyrrell’s face. “Er, I was just waving to someone.”
Tyrrell looked past him at the anchored ships and busy harbour craft.
“I see, sir.”
“No you don’t, Jethro, but no matter.” He clapped his shoulder. “Come below and I will tell you what we are about. You will be in charge of the ship this evening, for I am dining ashore.”
A slow grin spread across the lieutenant’s face. “Oh, I see, sir!”
They were examining a chart and discussing the sailing orders when they heard Bethune yell, “Avast there! Stand still, that man!” Then there was a splash and more shouts along the gun deck.
Bolitho and Tyrrell hurried to the quarterdeck again to find Bethune and most of the unemployed hands lining the larboard gangway or clinging to the shrouds.
A man was in the water, arms striking out strongly, his dark hair glossy in the spray and sunlight.
Bethune panted, “It was Lockhart, sir! He dived overboard before I could stop him!”
Tyrrell murmured, “A good seaman. Never any trouble. I know him well.”
Bolitho kept his eyes on the swimmer. “A colonist?”
“Aye. Came from New Haven some years back. He’s done it now, poor devil.” There was no anger in Tyrrell’s voice. If anything it was pity.
Bolitho heard the men near him exchanging guesses at the swimmer’s success of getting ashore. It was a long way to go.
He had known many deserters during his life at sea. Often he had found room for sympathy, although he had thought their actions to be wrong. Few men would volunteer for the harsh demands of service in a King’s ship, especially as nobody ever knew for sure if he would regain his home in safety. Seaports were full of those who had returned. Cripples and men made old before their time in many cases. But as yet, no one had found a better way of crewing the fleet. Once pressed, most men accepted it, could even be relied upon to take others by similar methods. The sailor’s old rule, “If I’m here, why not him?” carried a lot of weight in ships-of-war.
But this was different. The seaman, Lockhart, had seemed nothing out of the ordinary. A good worker and rarely adrift for his watch or station. Yet all the while he must have been brooding over his proper homeland, and the stay in New York had done the rest. Even now, as he thrashed steadily past an anchored two-decker, he was no doubt thinking only of his goal. Some vague mental picture of house and family, or parents who had almost forgotten what he looked like.
A faint crack came from the two-decker’s beakhead, and Bolitho saw a red-coated marine already ramming another ball into his musket for a further shot at the lone swimmer.
A growl of anger came from Sparrow’s seamen. Whatever they thought of the man’s desertion, or of the man himself, had nothing to do with their reaction. He was one of their own, and the marine sentry was momentarily an enemy.
Yule, the gunner, muttered, “That damn bullock should be shot down hisself, the bloody bastard!”
The marine did not fire again, but sauntered to the end of his little platform to watch the swimmer, like a wildfowler who has given his quarry best for the time being. Or so it appeared. Then as a guardboat swept round the stern of another two-decker, Bolitho knew why he had not bothered to shoot.
The longboat was moving swiftly, the oars sending it through the glittering water like a blue fish. In the sternsheets he saw several marines, a midshipman with a raised telescope trained on the seaman.
Yule observed dourly, “’E’ll not escape now.”
Tyrrell said, “It’s out of our hands.”
“Aye.”
Bolitho felt suddenly heavy, the pleasure of the letter spoiled by this man’s despair. Nobody who had run from a King’s ship could expect mercy. It was to be hoped he was hanged rather than face the horror of flogging round the fleet. He chilled. If he was to be hanged . . . He stared up at Sparrow’s mainyard, his eyes desperate. There was no doubt where the execution would be carried out. Even Christie would make sure of that. An example. A warning clear to all aboard and throughout the nearby ships. He tried not to watch the guardboat as it swept down on the tiny, bobbing head.
His own friends, Sparrow’s loyal seamen, would be forced to witness the halter being set around his neck before they, and they alone, were ordered to run him up to the yard. After all they had endured together, this sickening act might drive a wedge between officers and men and destroy what they had achieved.
Tyrrell gasped, “Look, sir!”
Bolitho snatched a glass and trained it beyond the guardboat. He was just in time to see the man, Lockhart, treading water, turning to stare either at the boat or perhaps at Sparrow herself. Then, even as the boat’s oars backed water and a marine groped over the stemhead for the man’s hair, he threw up his hands and disappeared beneath the surface.
Nobody spoke, and Bolitho found himself holding his breath, perhaps like the man who had vanished so suddenly. Sailors were usually poor swimmers. Perhaps he had got cramp. In a moment he would break surface nearby and the guardboat would haul him on board. Seconds, minutes passed, and then at a shouted command the guardboat resumed its leisurely patrol between the anchored ships.
Bolitho said quietly, “I thank God for that. If he had to suffer, I am glad it was gently done.”
Tyrrell watched him dully. “That’s true.” He turned with sudden anger on the gunner. “Mr. Yule! Clear these idlers off th’ gangway or I’ll find ’em some harder work for their wits to dwell on!”
He was unusually disturbed, and Bolitho wondered if he was comparing his own fate with that of the drowned seaman.
He said, “Make an entry in the log, Mr. Tyrrell.”
“Sir?” Tyrrell faced him grimly. “As a deserter?”
Bolitho looked past him at the seamen as they wandered towards the gun deck again.
“We do not know for certain he was deserting. Mark him as Discharged—Dead.” He walked to the hatch. “His relatives will have enough to bear without the weight of shame also.”
Tyrrell watched him go, his breathing returning slowly to normal. It would not help Lockhart. He was beyond reach. But Bolitho’s order would ensure that his name carried no stigma, and his loss would be recorded with those who had fallen in battle, in fights which he had also suffered without complaint. It was a small dis
tinction. But even so, he knew that only Bolitho would have thought of it.
When Bolitho climbed from his gig he was astonished to find a smartly painted carriage waiting for him on the jetty. A liveried Negro doffed his tricorn hat and beamed hugely.
“Good evenin’, Sah.” He opened the carriage door with a flourish while Stockdale and the gig’s crew watched in silent admiration.
Bolitho paused. “Er, do not wait, Stockdale. I will return to the ship in a local boat.”
He was strangely elated, and conscious of watching townsfolk on the road above the jetty, an envious glance from a passing marine major.
Stockdale touched his hat. “If you says so, sir. I could come along with you . . .”
“No. I’ll have full need of you tomorrow.” He felt suddenly reckless and pulled a coin from his pocket. “Here, buy some grog for the gig’s crew. But not too much for safety’s sake, eh?”
He climbed into the coach and sank back against the blue cushions as with a jerk the horses took the first strain at their harness.
With his hat on his knees he watched the passing houses and people, Stockdale, even the ship, temporarily forgotten. Once, when the coach reined to a halt to allow a heavy wagon to cross ahead of it, he heard a faraway murmur of cannon fire. It was a fine evening, and the steady westerly wind was dry and warm. Sounds carried easily in such conditions. Even so, it was hard to connect the distant gunfire with the brightly lit houses, the occasional snatches of music and song from taverns along the road. Some army battery testing its guns perhaps. But more likely a nervous duel between opposing pickets where the two armies lay in watchful readiness.
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