Inshore Squadron Page 15

  “His best, sir.” It sounded so trite, so far short of what he had meant that Browne expected Herrick to fly at him.

  Instead Herrick said, “I have never cared more for any man, d’you know that? We have seen action together from here to the Great South Sea. I could tell you things which would make you shake with fear and with pride.”

  Herrick was looking at Browne as he spoke but his blue eyes were far-away, reliving moments which Browne knew full well he could never share.

  Herrick said, “Storms, raging gales which threatened to tear the sticks out of the ship, but we saw them through, we managed, d’you understand me?”

  “I—I think so, sir.”

  “I was the one who had to take him the message about his young wife. They said it came better from me, but how can terrible news like that ever be better?”

  Herrick sat on the edge of the cabin table and leaned towards the lieutenant as if to emphasize his words.

  “Down on the orlop, one of our people shouted out to him and called him Dick.” He gave a sad smile. “In his frigate Phalarope they used to call him that. Equality Dick. He cares, you see.”

  Herrick stared past Browne’s head as the cabin door swung open, the other shipboard noises intruding like strangers.

  Allday stood there, filling the entrance, his face like stone.

  Herrick leapt to his feet. “What is it, man?”

  Browne strode across the cabin and gripped Allday’s arm. “For God’s sake!”

  Allday said in a small voice, “I would relish a glass of something strong, sir.” He made a great effort. “The surgeon says he’ll live, sir.”

  He sounded stunned, as if he was only half aware of what was happening to him. The three of them stood together, swaying in time with Benbow’s deep roll, each wanting to speak but only Allday with the words.

  Then Herrick said, “Go on.”

  He backed across the cabin as if by taking his eyes off Allday he would destroy everything. He groped for a bottle and some glasses.

  Allday took the brandy and swallowed it without apparently noticing.

  Herrick said gently, “I thought the surgeon told you to leave?”

  “You know better ’an that, sir.” Allday held out the glass to be refilled. “Hours they were. All that blood. Even old Loveys . . .” He shook himself. “Meaning no disrespect, sir, but he was taken aback by it.”

  Herrick listened, fascinated, reliving it through Allday’s hesitant words.

  Allday continued, “The surgeon said that if he hadn’t fallen from the cot he would have lost the leg. The wound burst, and Mr Loveys found another splinter of metal and some more cloth with his forceps.”

  Herrick sat down heavily. “Thank God.” He had thought until now that Bolitho had lived but had lost his leg.

  Allday looked round the cabin, his face still stricken. “I—I’m sorry, sir, I shouldn’t have burst in here without so much as a by-your-leave.”

  Herrick handed him the bottle. “Go to your quarters and drink what is left. I think you’ve done enough.”

  Allday nodded slowly and walked towards the door. Then he turned and murmured, “He opened his eyes, sir.” Allday rubbed his chin to confirm it. “D’you know the first thing he said to me?”

  Herrick did not speak, unable to watch the tears on Allday’s stubbled cheeks.

  “‘You’ve not shaved, you ruffian!’ That’s what he said, sir!”

  Browne closed the door quietly. Allday had left it swinging to the ship’s motion. He was in a world all of his own.

  Browne sat down and looked at the deck. “Now I understand, sir.”

  When Herrick said nothing he realised the captain had fallen asleep in his chair.

  Very carefully Browne left the cabin and made his way to the companion ladder. He almost collided with the surgeon who was holding to the ladder while he waited for the ship to sway upright again. Browne noticed that Loveys’ hands were like red gloves.

  He said, “Come to the wardroom and I will open a bottle, you more than deserve it.”

  Loveys regarded him suspiciously. “I’m not a wizard, you know. Rear-Admiral Bolitho may have a relapse, and at best he will probably endure pain and a limp for the rest of his life.” He smiled unexpectedly, and for once the strain showed itself to its full extent. “Mind you, Mr Browne, I’m quite pleased myself.”

  Herrick left his chair and groped his way from the cabin. His exhaustion had been a useful excuse. Had he continued to speak with Browne he knew that he, like Allday, would have been unable to hide his emotion.

  He stepped on to the quarterdeck, his eyes distinguishing the darker shapes in the gloom, the guns, the nettings finely etched against the evening sky.

  The master’s mate of the watch was by the poop ladder, while one of the midshipmen was writing something on his slate as he held it against the compass light.

  All around the ship groaned and clattered as she swung heavily to her cable, her decks shining with rain, the sea air like ice.

  Herrick saw the officer of the watch on the far side of the deck and called, “Mr Pascoe!”

  Pascoe hurried towards him, his shoes making little sound on the wet planking.

  He hesitated, his eyes trying to pierce the darkness as he said, “You want me, sir?”

  “It’s over, Adam. He’s going to live, and with two legs.”

  He turned away, adding, “I shall be in my cabin if needed.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  Pascoe waited until he had disappeared and then clapped his hands together.

  The midshipman gasped, “Sir? Is something wrong?”

  Pascoe had to share it, to tell somebody. “Not any more! I’ve never felt better!”

  He strode away, leaving the midshipman as mystified as before. He cared about the admiral, of course, but in a midshipman’s life there were so many things to worry about. These calculations, for instance. Old Grubb, the master, wanted them before morning. He would take no excuses from anyone.

  The slate shook as the youth relived that terrible and splendid moment. The rear-admiral waving his hat and defying the enemy’s blazing guns. Men cheering and dying.

  And he, Mr Midshipman Edward Graham of the County of Hampshire, had survived.

  Unknown to the thirteen-year-old midshipman, Richard Bolitho was thinking very much the same.

  10 THE FANTASY

  AFTER ONE of the stormiest passages Bolitho could recall, Benbow had at last dropped anchor at Spithead. They had been away for nearly three months, a short time to any experienced sea officer, but Bolitho had not expected to see Spithead again, or anywhere else for that matter.

  The tossing waves with curling crests of dirty yellow were almost beautiful, and the clinging damp air of the cabin no longer seemed irksome.

  Bolitho stood back carefully from the stern windows, taking the strain on his wounded leg, trying not to cry aloud as the pain lanced upwards. Each day, supported by Allday or Ozzard, and on the stormiest days by both, he had forced himself to take a few steps.

  Pride, anger—he was still not certain which—had made him start on the road to recovery. He suspected that Commodore Rice of the Downs Squadron had quite unsuspectingly had a lot to do with it.

  Herrick had requested that Rice should take over the charge of the combined squadrons while he sailed Benbow to a dockyard for proper inspection and repair.

  Rice had almost snubbed Herrick, probably eager to get back to his own, less arduous station, and he likely imagined Bolitho already dying and Herrick too junior for his consideration. Whatever it had been, Bolitho had called for Yovell and had dictated a curt despatch for the commodore. Rice would remain in temporary command of the combined squadron until otherwise instructed. If Ropars or other enemy ships attempted to enter the Baltic they would have to face a much larger force and at far greater risk.

  Herrick tapped on the door and entered. “We are anchored, sir.” He watched Bolitho doubtfully and added, “You should rest
.”

  “Would you have me dropped in the boat by bosun’s chair, Thomas? Like that surgeon we once had, or some piece of unwanted cargo?” He winced as the deck tilted steeply. “But I will take care.”

  Herrick smiled. “Aye, sir. As soon as the tide turns I intend to enter Portsmouth Dockyard. I have sent word to the port admiral to that effect.” He added gravely, “The sixth lieutenant has just died. So near to home.”

  Bolitho nodded. It was kinder this way. A young officer with half of his face blown away and his mind equally crippled would be an embarrassment ashore. Now, his memory would be cherished by his family.

  He said, “A lot of good men, Thomas. I hope they did not die in vain.”

  Herrick smiled. “Put it behind you, sir. We’ve had to do that often enough.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “Once docked, I will send the midshipmen and some of the married men to their homes.”

  Bolitho understood. By married men Herrick meant lieutenants and warrant officers. Seamen, no matter how loyal, might soon desert when they found the comfort of their homes again.

  Herrick was saying, “I will remain with the ship, of course. Please God, my wife will join me here.”

  Bolitho sat down with great care. “The best of both worlds, Thomas, and rightly so.”

  “That is true. I am lucky.” He sounded almost unhappy at the thought. “Will you be going to the Admiralty, sir?”

  Bolitho grimaced. “Yes. I would rather do ten crossings in this ship than aboard the London coach!”

  Allday looked through the door. He was smartly dressed in his gilt-buttoned coat and buckled shoes.

  “I have ordered the barge crew to muster, sir.”

  Herrick stared at him, appalled. “You don’t intend to be pulled ashore, sir! We will be in the yard by tonight. You can catch the coach from the George tomorrow forenoon.”

  Bolitho smiled at his concern. “I must learn to walk again, Thomas. And something tells me not to drag my feet here.”

  Herrick sighed. “If you have made up your mind . . .”

  Allday grinned. “We both know about that, eh, sir?”

  Beyond the cabin Bolitho heard the stamp of feet and the squeal of tackles. Benbow was home again, but to watchers on the foreshore she would be just another ship. Safer at a distance, better to read about in the Gazette than to examine at close quarters. To those uninvolved a ship was a ship. Not muscle and bone, blood and fear.

  Bolitho allowed Ozzard to help him into his coat. He kept his face impassive but guessed that neither Herrick nor Allday was fooled. He was sweating with pain, and every effort was like a separate challenge to his resources. Sword and belt, then his hat, while Ozzard rearranged his queue over the gold-laced collar.

  Allday adjusted the sword-belt and muttered, “If you get a mite thinner, sir, this will be no bigger than a hound’s collar!”

  Browne appeared in the doorway, already wearing his boat-cloak.

  “Barge alongside, sir.”

  He ran his eyes over Bolitho’s appearance and nodded with approval.

  With Herrick in the lead they walked out beneath the poop and on to the wet quarterdeck.

  Bolitho stared at the great crowd of seamen in the shrouds and massed along the gangways.

  Herrick said quickly, “I gave no order, sir.”

  Bolitho removed his hat and walked slowly towards the side. The entry port seemed a mile away, and each slow tilt of the deck threatened to hurl him down. He felt light-headed, dazed, by the experience of living. It was his first time on deck since the musket ball had smashed him down. Pain, loss of blood, he needed no reminding at this moment.

  Browne hissed, “Lean on me, sir.” Even he had lost his usual calm. “I beg of you.”

  Quite suddenly a man gave a cheer, to be backed up instantly by a great roar of voices which ran through the ship like a tide-race.

  Pascoe was waving his hat with the rest, his smile telling everything.

  Grubb in his shabby coat, the towering shape of Lieutenant Wolfe, all the faces which had become names. People.

  “Carry on, Mr Browne.” Bolitho held out his hand to Herrick. “I’ll keep you informed, Thomas. My regards to your lady.” He was speaking between his teeth to contain the pain.

  He looked down at the swaying boat below, the bargemen in their neat checkered shirts and tarred hats, the oars very white against the dull sea.

  Now or never. Bolitho stepped outboard and concentrated his full attention on the boat, on Allday, stiff-backed, with his hat in one hand while he watched, ready to aid his descent.

  The squeal of calls, the cheers of the seamen, helped to cover his discomfort, each gasping step, until with a final effort he reached the barge.

  As the boat pulled away Bolitho looked up at the Benbow’s tumblehome, at the makeshift repairs to the shot holes, to the clawing scars of grape and canister along the gangway.

  As the oarsmen found their stroke, Bolitho looked astern towards the pointing figurehead. Vice-Admiral Benbow had lost his leg. Bolitho had almost joined him.

  It was a long hard pull, and yet in some ways it helped to restore Bolitho’s strength. The boat’s liveliness, the darting fingers of spray across his face made a change from the third-rate’s damp confines.

  Some marine pickets forced a way for Bolitho and his companions through the cluster of onlookers come to watch his arrival.

  In Falmouth, even Plymouth, he would have been recognized on sight. Here, they saw far more senior admirals than Bolitho coming and going with the tides.

  A woman held up her small child and shouted, “Is it Nelson?”

  Another said, “He’s been in a battle, whoever he is.”

  Bolitho stared at an elegant carriage which was waiting in the shelter of the wall.

  Browne explained almost apologetically, “I sent word as soon as we anchored, sir. It belongs to a friend of the family, and I am thankful he was able to get it here in time.”

  Bolitho smiled. The carriage was beautifully sprung and would be vastly different from the London coach.

  “You never cease to surprise me.”

  A young lieutenant stepped forward and removed his hat. “I am to give you these despatches, sir.” He was watching Bolitho with an unwinking stare as if to memorize every detail. “From the port admiral, and from Whitehall, sir.”

  Browne took them and handed them to Allday. “Put them in the carriage, then tell your second coxswain to return with the barge to Benbow.” He added dryly, “I assume you are intending to come with us?”

  Allday grinned. “I have packed a small bag, sir.”

  Browne sighed. Allday had expanded like the tropical sun since Bolitho’s recovery.

  “My respects to the port admiral.” Bolitho pictured Herrick dictating his own lengthy reports for the dockyard, a task he hated, as did most captains. “Please give him my greetings.”

  Browne gave the lieutenant, the admiral’s messenger boy, a withering stare as he melted into the crowd.

  Allday returned and climbed up beside the heavily muffled coachman.

  But Bolitho hesitated, and turned to glance through the sally-port gate towards the anchorage. There were many vessels at anchor, but he was looking at the Benbow. In two weeks it would be another year. Eighteen hundred and one. What might it bring for the Benbow and all she carried within her fat hull?

  He climbed up and into the carriage, sinking into the soft cushions with relief.

  “Does it give much pain, sir? We can stay here awhile if you wish. The carriage and horses are yours for as long as you need them.”

  Bolitho eased his legs gingerly back and forth. “He must be a good friend.”

  “He owns half the county, sir.”

  Bolitho forced his limbs to relax a fibre at a time “Drive on. The surgeon’s work appears to be holding together.”

  He lay back and closed his eyes, remembering those first fleeting moments.

  Allday’s face, the
surgeon’s assistants all around him, the pain, his own voice groaning and pleading like a stranger’s.

  And this morning. The sailors cheering him. He had taken them to the verge of death and they could still wish him well.

  The carriage’s motion was like a hull in choppy water, and as the clatter of hoofs and wheels across the cobbled street changed to the duller sound of a muddy road, Bolitho fell asleep.

  “Whoa, Ned! Whoa there, Blazer!”

  Bolitho came out of his sleep with a start, aware of several things all at once. That it was much colder, and there was sleet gathering at the corners of the carriage windows. Also that his seat was rocking violently. More to the point, Browne was trying to lower a window, a cocked pistol in his hand.

  Browne muttered, “Goddammit, it’s jammed!” He realised Bolitho was awake and added unnecessarily, “Trouble, by the sound of it, sir. Footpads, or gentlemen of the road maybe.”

  The window dropped like a guillotine and the freezing air filled the carriage in seconds.

  Bolitho heard the horses coming under control, the slither and stamp of hoofs in mud. It was a fine place for a robbery. It looked like the end of nowhere.

  The carriage stopped, and a man with a set of white eyebrows peered up at them.

  Bolitho pushed Browne’s pistol aside. It was Allday, his face and chest glistening in sleet and snow.

  Allday said, “Carriage, sir! Off the road! Someone’s hurt!”

  Browne climbed down and turned to protest as Bolitho clambered after him.

  There was quite a strong wind, and as the two officers struggled after Allday their boat-cloaks streamed behind them like banners. The coachman stayed where he was, soothing his horses which were stamping nervously, their bodies steaming with heat.

  The other carriage was a small one, and was lying on its side in a ditch beside the road. A horse was standing nearby, seemingly indifferent to what had happened, and there was a patch of blood near the rear wheel, vivid against the sleety mud.

  Allday said, “Down here, sir!” He staggered up the slope, a man in his arms. One of the man’s legs jerked at an unnatural angle, obviously broken.