Colours Aloft! (23 page)

Allday watched him enter the barge without any show of surprise. Herrick was here. It was only proper they should meet, no matter what some might think. Mates were mates, high or low.

“Give way all!”

The green-painted barge slid through the busy thoroughfare, other boats raising their oars or backing water to allow a flagofficer to have free passage.

Bolitho sat stiffly in the sternsheets, only his eyes moving as he focused them on familiar things, masts and rigging, seabirds and small clouds above the fortress.

Damn Laforey and his drink-sodden indifference, and anyone else who had a part in this. He glanced at the stroke oarsman and quickly along the bronzed faces of the barge crew. They all knew. Probably the whole fleet did too. Well, let them.

Vague thoughts flashed through his mind, of Belinda's letter, of Stayt's cool demeanour as he had mentioned his summons to the inquiry, and of Inch and the squadron who expected him to be above mere human reactions—or did they?

It would certainly not be the first time he had acted against the dictates of authority. He gave a small, bitter smile. It must run in the family. His father, who to his sons had always appeared as the stern, model example of a sea officer, had once fallen out with his army equivalent during a siege in the East Indies. Captain James Bolitho had solved the problem by arresting the soldier for negligence and then going on to win the battle. Had he lost it, Bolitho had no doubt that the family's naval connection would have ended there.

Allday murmured, “She looks proud, Sir Richard.”

It sounded unusually formal. Allday never forgot himself when others were present. Well, hardly.

The seventy-four-gun
Benbow
did indeed make a fine sight. Newly painted, and her rigging like black glass, yards crossed with each sail furled to match its companion. The ports were all open, and Bolitho had no difficulty in hearing their fearful thunder at Copenhagen and later against the French “flying squadron.” It never failed to tear at his memory, of the time he had been a prisoner of France and his subsequent escape. Allday had been with him then. Had carried the dying John Neale after his ship had foundered. Yes, many memories lay stored within her deep hull.

The barge swept round a wide arc and he saw the side party rushing to their station, the Royal Marines dressing into lines. His unexpected arrival would get them on the move. Bolitho smiled again. Wrong, Herrick would have expected it.

Benbow
must be almost ready for sea, he thought. Only a few local boats lay alongside and just one tackle was swaying up cargo nets to the men on the gangway.

Bolitho murmured, “Stand off, Allday, I'll not be long.” He saw Allday's face in the sunlight, caught it for just a moment as he carefully steered the sleek barge towards the main-chains. Bolitho was shocked to see the strain on his strong features, ashamed that he had not thought about his worries over his son.

“Oars—
up!
” The pale oars rose dripping in twin lines, their blades perfectly matched. Allday had done well.

Up the tumblehome to the piercing twitter of calls and then the drums and fifes of the marines. Pipeclay floated like white dust above the guard as they presented arms for his benefit. And here was Thomas Herrick, hastening to meet him, his round face beaming, and letting the formality blow away like the pipeclay.

Herrick exclaimed, “Come aft,
Sir
Richard.” He gave a shy smile. “I'm not yet accustomed to it.”

Nor I, Bolitho thought as they strode beneath the familiar poop. Here, and here, men had locked weapons and died. Up there shot had raked away seamen and marines alike, and where two small midshipmen were listening intently to the sailingmaster he had been struck down.

In the great cabin it was warm although the windows and skylights were all wide open.

Herrick bustled round. “The stench of paint and tar makes this place like Chatham Dockyard!”

A cabin servant was placing goblets on a tray, and Bolitho sat down beneath a skylight, his shirt already clinging to his skin. He watched Herrick affectionately. His hair was tufted with grey and his body was stockier, probably from married life and Dulcie's cooking.

But when he turned he seemed just as before. The same clear blue eyes, the searching curiosity as he looked at his friend, originally his captain in another war when mutiny had been a greater threat than the enemy.

“I saw young Adam when he was here, er, Richard.”

Bolitho took a goblet and placed it beside him. Claret. Herrick's taste had risen with his rank.

Herrick added, “A fine brig. It'll be a frigate next, what he's always dreamed of, the rascal. If he stays out of trouble—” He paused, his eyes suddenly worried. “Well, anyway, here's to you, dear friend, and may Lady Luck stay with you.”

Bolitho reached for his goblet but missed it and caught it with his cuff. The wine spilled over the table like blood, and as Herrick and the servant hurried to help Bolitho said, “No. I can manage!” It came out more sharply than he had intended and he said, “I'm sorry, Thomas.”

Herrick nodded slowly and poured another goblet himself.

“I heard, of course, Richard. It was a shock.” He leaned over and stared at Bolitho for the first time. “Yet I see nothing, no damage, except perhaps—”

Bolitho dropped his gaze. “Aye, Thomas,
except, perhaps,
they sum it up very well.”

He drank the goblet without knowing what he had done.

“About the inquiry, Thomas.”

Herrick leaned back in his chair and regarded him gravely.

“It will be here, in this cabin, tomorrow.”

“It is rubbish, Thomas.” Bolitho needed to get up and move about as he had done so often in this place. “God, you know Valentine Keen. He's a fine man, and is now an excellent captain.”

“Of course I remember everything about him. We've sailed together often enough.” He became serious. “I cannot talk about the inquiry, Richard, but you know that, you have had this filthy job yourself.”

“Yes. My flag-lieutenant warned me that I should not come.”

Herrick watched him worriedly. “He was right. Any sort of discussion would, might be seen as collusion. We are all friends.”

Bolitho stared hotly at the windows. “I was beginning to wonder.” He did not see the hurt in Herrick's eyes. “When I flew my flag here, and you commanded
Benbow,
young Val was captain of
Nicator,
remember?” He did not wait for a reply but hurried on, “Then, when I went to the West Indies and we fought over that damned island San Felipe, Val gave up a larger vessel to come to
Achates,
a little sixty-four, because I asked him to be my flag-captain.”

Herrick gripped the table. “I know. I
know,
Richard, but the fact is that we are all here to conduct an inquiry. I have my orders, otherwise I would say nothing more about it.”

Bolitho tried to relax. Anything and everything seemed to seize him like claws since his injury. He picked up the goblet and knew Herrick was trying not to watch in case he knocked it over again.

He said, “I shall come myself. I had no intention of sending a written statement, as if it were just a secondary matter. My captain's future is in danger, and I'll not stand by and see him slandered by enemies I can only guess at!”

Herrick stood up and gestured to the servant, who immediately withdrew. Another Ozzard.

Herrick said steadily, “Keen behaved wrongly when he removed a prisoner from a ship under a government warrant. The fact that she is a woman could only add meat to the pot.”

Bolitho pictured the filthy convict transport and young Zenoria as he had last seen her. The girl who would carry a scar on her body for the rest of her life. She would have died but for Keen. Nobody could have foreseen what would transpire from that one savage incident. It was a miracle that her mind had not been equally scarred.

Herrick said, “Had she been an ordinary male prisoner—”

“Well, she was not, Thomas. She was wrongly charged and wrongly transported. God, man, they wanted her out of the way because of her father!”

Herrick shifted under Bolitho's angry stare. “But others will say—”

Bolitho stood up. “My warm wishes to Dulcie when next you write.”

Herrick was on his feet too. “Don't leave like this, Richard!”

Bolitho breathed slowly to compose himself before he faced the side party and marine guard.

“Who else will be present? You can at least tell me that, surely?”

He did not hide his bitterness.

Herrick replied, “Admiral Sir Marcus Laforey will be taking part, and the inquiry will be conducted by his flag-captain.” He said abruptly, “The woman, is she still aboard
Argonaute?
”

Bolitho picked up his hat.

“And I cannot answer
that,
Thomas.” He walked through the door. “It might be seen as collusion.”

It was unwarranted and unfair, Bolitho knew it. But there was more at stake now than strong words.

It would not require a bad verdict in the court of inquiry to damage Keen's future. Rumour would soon spread. It had to be stopped, overwhelmed like a forest fire under a cloudburst.

The two flag-officers walked to the entry port together, but Bolitho had never felt so isolated from his friend. He had known him longer even than Allday, who had been pressed aboard that same ship.

He hesitated as the first rank of scarlet coats moved into his vision. The colour-sergeant on the end, his eyes fixed on the nearest buildings along the shore, was strangely stiff, even anxious.

Bolitho hesitated and then the face came back. Helping him on that terrible day, just an ordinary marine then.

He said quietly, “McCall, I remember you well.”

The sergeant remained rigid, his captain watching beyond Bolitho's shoulder. But his eyes moved and he said, “Thank you, sir.” He hesitated as if afraid he was going too far. “It were a fierce battle, that 'un, sir, an' no mistake.”

Bolitho smiled. “Aye, I'm glad you are doing well in the Corps.” His words seemed to have another meaning as he added, “Take good care that others do not spoil your efforts.”

The contact was broken as the calls trilled once more.

Bolitho paused in the entry port and removed his hat to the quarterdeck. After tomorrow this ship might never seem the same again.

He knew Herrick was watching him, his eyes filled with concern. In case he stumbled because of his distorted vision, or because he knew that not for the first time his own honesty had come between them.

Captain Francis Inch leaned across his chart and tugged repeatedly at his left ear as he often did when he was contemplating his next move. Around him the cabin heaved and shuddered as
Helicon
rolled uncomfortably in a rising wind.

It was almost noon, but because of a thickening mist, which even the wind was refusing to disperse, visibility was reduced to a few miles.

He could see the ships in his mind,
Despatch
directly astern, and
Icarus
a blurred outline at the tail-end of the line. Inch hated the uncertainty of the weather. The wind had veered greatly in the two days since Bolitho had left the squadron. It now blew almost directly from the west, from France.

He studied his chart more closely, very aware of the other two captains who remained silent as they sipped their wine.

Two hundred miles south-west of Toulon and already floundering in the rising wind. If it did not back soon or drop in force they might be driven far off their station or, worse, scatter so that they would lose contact altogether.

He pictured the little brig
Rapid,
far ahead of her companions. Inch was working her hard, but he envied her commander Quarrell more than he cared to admit. At least he had freedom of movement, while they blustered along, keeping station, ponderous and slow. He looked up and saw the broken white horses through the stern windows.

Captain Houston said, “I must leave soon, or I'll never find my ship in this.”

Montresor of the
Despatch
said, “Can't do anything unless the wind quietens down.”

Inch looked at them impatiently. Negative. Neither willing to search beyond the obvious. Montresor was proving to be a good captain but always seemed to take a lead from the sour-faced Houston.

The latter remarked, “I still think it's madness to keep our one and only frigate on some wild deception when she could be with us.” Encouraged by Inch's silence he continued in his harsh voice, “We can't possibly seek out local craft with only
Rapid
to do it.”

Inch glanced round his cabin. It looked French still in spite of the paintings he had hung around it. Pictures of country scenes, brooks and meadows, churches and farms. Like his own Dorset home. He thought momentarily of Hannah, his wife. She had already given him a little son, and another child was on the way. How could she imagine what he was doing, he wondered?