Inshore Squadron Page 21

  He said quietly, “There is a letter in my strongbox, Thomas.” He saw Herrick’s eyes widen with alarm. “I am a coward. I should have told Adam about his father’s death. It is all written in the letter. Give it to him if I fall today.”

  Herrick exclaimed, “You could not tell him, sir. By so doing you would have revealed yourself for harbouring a traitor. And then your brother would have been taken and Pascoe would have seen him hang.”

  “That is what I told myself, Thomas. Maybe that, too, was a lie. Perhaps I was frightened Adam would hate me for the deceit. I think that is what it was.”

  The surgeon entered the cabin and glared at Bolitho like an enraged skull.

  “With all respect, sir, do you want to die?”

  Herrick said heavily, “Hold your tongue and do what is required.” As he made for the screen door he added, “You might as well try to stop a charging bull.”

  But there was no humour in his voice, and long after he had gone his words seemed to hang in the air.

  Major Clinton said, “I think it best that we should stop now, sir.” He peered through the small window. “It is reckless to advertise such matters.”

  Bolitho climbed down from the small carriage and looked at the sky. It was almost eight o’clock but the light was still poor.

  Clinton tucked his case of pistols under his cloak and added, “I shall see the fellow’s second, sir. I’ll not be long.” But still he hesitated. “If you are really intent on this?”

  “I am. Remember, confine your remarks to Roche’s second to the minimum.”

  Clinton nodded. “I’ll not forget, sir. Just as you told me. Although . . .” He did not finish it.

  Bolitho placed his hat on the carriage seat and tugged his cloak more tightly around him. Small things stood out. Some early sparrows searching for food. The fact that the muffled coachman had got down from his seat to stand by his horses’ heads. To pacify them at the first pistol shots. That his hands were damp with sweat.

  What it must be like for a condemned man, he thought vaguely. Trying to hold on to small, ordinary things, as if by so doing he could stop time itself.

  Clinton came back, his face grim. “They’re waiting, sir.”

  Bolitho walked beside him through the wet grass to a small clearing, beyond which Clinton had said there was a bog.

  Clinton said, “The pistols are examined and accepted, sir.”

  “What did he say to annoy you so much, Major?”

  “Damned impudence! When I told him Mr Pascoe had been ordered to sea and that another sea officer of the Bolitho family was to take his place, he just laughed! It won’t save his honour or his life, he said!”

  Bolitho saw two carriages standing discreetly beneath some trees. One for his opponent, the other for some trustworthy doctor, no doubt.

  He watched Roche and his second striding purposefully to meet them. Roche was a powerful-looking man, and he was almost swaggering with conceit and confidence.

  They faced each other, and Roche’s second said crisply, “You will each take fifteen paces, turn and fire. If neither falls, each of you will advance five paces and fire again.”

  Roche bared his teeth in a grin. “Let’s begin. I need a drink.”

  Bolitho looked at the two open cases, his mind empty of everything but that by using two pistols it would have been even easier for a trained marksman to kill his opponent.

  He said, “Take my cloak, Major.”

  He tried not to look at Roche’s face as he threw the cloak from his shoulders. In the grey light, and set against the bare, dripping trees, his uniform stood out like a painting. The bright epaulettes, the single gold stripe on his sleeve, the buttons, one of which on another coat had almost cost him his leg.

  Eventually he did turn to face Roche. The transformation was complete. Instead of his sneering amusement at the thought of another kill he was staring at Bolitho as if he was having a seizure or that his neckcloth was choking him.

  “Well, Mr Roche?”

  “But—but I cannot fight with . . .”

  “With a rear-admiral? Does rank decide who will live or die, Mr Roche?”

  He nodded to Clinton, thankful that he at least was outwardly in control of his feelings.

  “Let us get on with it.”

  He heard Roche mutter, “Tell him, John. I’ll stand down.”

  Bolitho lifted the two long-barrelled pistols from their case and cocked them. His heart was pounding so hard that he thought Roche and the others must hear it.

  Bolitho said, “But I will not.”

  He turned his back and waited, the pistols pointing at the clouds.

  If Roche decided to go through with it he would be dead in about three minutes.

  The second cleared his throat. There was no other sound now, even the sparrows were silent.

  “Fifteen paces. Begin!”

  Bolitho fixed his eyes on a straight elm tree and walked carefully towards it, counting each step like the beat of his heart.

  Adam would have been doing it at this very moment. If by any chance Roche had failed to kill him with the first ball the second would have finished him. Those extra paces, after being narrowly missed by a professional duellist, or maybe wounded, would have destroyed any remaining confidence.

  “Thirteen . . . fourteen . . . fifteen!”

  Bolitho’s shoes squeaked on the grass as he turned and dropped his right arm. He saw Roche’s shirt outlined above the smooth barrel and then realised that his arms were at his sides, his pistols pointing to the ground.

  Roche called hoarsely, “I cannot shoot you, sir! Please!”

  His second turned to stare at him, more used to hearing a victim pleading before Roche had cut him down.

  Bolitho kept his aim steady although the pistol felt like a cannon ball.

  He said, “If you finish me, Mr Roche, do you imagine that whoever paid you to kill my nephew will stand by you? At best you will be transported for life. But my guess is that there are many who would use their influence to see you dance on a gibbet like the common felon you are!”

  The pistol was getting so heavy Bolitho wondered how he was keeping it so steady.

  He called, “On the other hand, when I kill you, there will be an end to it, for your patron will hardly be likely to admit that he was party to this!”

  The second called shakily, “I must insist, gentlemen!” A handkerchief appeared above his head. “When I drop this, you will fire!”

  Bolitho nodded. “I am ready!”

  Roche’s shape narrowed as he turned his right side towards Bolitho, the pistol coming up firmly to point directly at him.

  It had not worked. How long now? he wondered. Three seconds?

  The handkerchief moved, and then Roche threw himself on his knees, his pistols hurled away into the grass.

  “Please! Please have mercy!”

  Bolitho walked slowly towards him, each step agonizing as his wound tore at the thick dressing. But the pain was more like a spur than a handicap. He did not take his eyes from the kneeling, whimpering lieutenant until he was standing less than a yard away.

  Roche stopped pleading and babbling and stared at the black muzzle, afraid even to blink.

  Bolitho said coldly, “I have seen better men than you’ll ever be die for less reason than you. My nephew, whom you chose to mock, to humiliate without cause, has done things which your sort do not even bother to read about. You sicken me, and I can think of no valid reason to let you live a moment longer!”

  His finger tightened on the trigger and then he heard Clinton say gently, “If you like, sir, I’ll put the pieces in their case.” He took the pistol from Bolitho’s hand and added, “Mr Roche’s courage today will be all over Portsmouth by noon. By tomorrow, who can say where the tale will be told and heard,” he swung on the terrified Roche, “with relish, damn your bloody eyes!”

  Bolitho nodded to the second and then turned towards the waiting carriage.

  Clinton strode beside
him, his breath like steam in the cold air.

  “Scum, sir! I had my heart in my teeth, all the same.”

  Bolitho looked down at the blood on his breeches. It was like wet paint in the dull light.

  “Yes, Major. Scum. But the really terrible thing was, I wanted to kill him. But for you?” He shook his head. “Now I’ll never know.”

  Clinton grinned with relief. “Neither will he, sir!”

  14 BELINDA

  EDMUND Loveys, Benbow’s surgeon, straightened his narrow shoulders and regarded Bolitho with as much defiance as his profession allowed.

  “You have all but ruined my work, sir.” He reached down and dabbed a swab against the raw wound, barely able to conceal his malice. “It’s a wonder to me you didn’t get gangrene started on the ride south from London, and never mind the duel.”

  Bolitho lay back on the bench seat beneath the stern windows and stared up at the salt-stained glass.

  As his mind regained some of its control he began to see the madness of his actions. He had ridden from London without a word to the Admiralty, where even now they might be convening a meeting to discuss strategy. By challenging Roche to open combat he had gone against his word to Beauchamp, but even that seemed unimportant.

  He said, “I apologize. It was necessary.”

  Loveys pouted. “I have heard little else, sir. It is all over the port about your meet with Lieutenant Roche.”

  Bolitho sat up slowly. It would be. There were no secrets for long in the fleet.

  He looked at his thigh, the livid scars which showed around the thick dressing which Loveys was about to secure once more. It was strange, he thought vaguely, but as a young lieutenant he had never thought of a captain, let alone a flag officer, as a mere mortal. Now, here he sat, as naked as the day he was born, with just a blanket across his shoulders, and that was because of the cold and not modesty.

  Herrick had been to see him more often than necessary, and he guessed that he was trying to keep up his spirits. With Benbow almost ready for sea again, her holds, magazines and water casks filled to full capacity, Herrick had a lot to do. New men were still being gathered and sworn in, a lieutenant named Oughton had arrived to replace Pascoe, all these details which were mainly Herrick’s concern were part of his plan to keep Bolitho from brooding.

  He wondered how Pascoe was settling in aboard the Relentless. The frigate would be standing out into the North Sea by now, another separate world into which Pascoe would soon be as one. It was a pity he had not been able to see him before he had sailed. He had even missed the frigate when she had weighed and spread her canvas in the dawn air. While he had been making plans to bluff Roche or die because of a gesture.

  Loveys said, “Try to rest it, sir. You’ll have a limp otherwise. If nothing worse.”

  “I see. Thank you.”

  Bolitho groaned as he lurched to his feet. Ozzard was ready with some steaming coffee, but had learned not to show any concern as Bolitho took his first steps towards his table. His wound felt like fire, as if he had indeed been shot during a duel.

  He wondered what Allday was doing. He should have arrived in Portsmouth with the borrowed carriage by now. He recalled his stricken, pleading face and knew he needed him here, if only to reassure him, to prove he was still alive.

  Herrick entered the cabin and regarded Bolitho’s nakedness without expression.

  “I’d like to move out to Spithead tomorrow, sir, as soon as we’ve completed provisioning. The wind’s fair, and I’d not wish to wait in harbour.”

  “Inform the port admiral, Thomas. I’ll not be sorry to return to the squadron. There’s nothing for me here.” He relented instantly and said, “Forgive me, I was thinking only of myself.” He shrugged. “Again.”

  Herrick smiled. “I understand. I have never known such happiness as that shared with Dulcie. But I’ll not save it by staying here. This is a new year, perhaps with peace as part of its promise. To all accounts, the enemy is massing along the Channel ports again, but at least your action against Ropars and the Ajax delayed, if not prevented, a full-scale attack from the Baltic. Even those ungrateful dolts at the Admiralty must see that.”

  Bolitho sipped his coffee and marvelled how their friendship had endured everything.

  “It will be blockade and patrol for us, Thomas. At least until the ice melts in the Baltic and Tsar Paul decides which way he will jump.”

  Bolitho crossed to the quarter gallery, his clothes forgotten as he heard someone hailing a boat from the poop.

  It was one of Benbow’s cutters. It contained a few anonymous sacks, same small casks, two frightened looking men who had probably been handed over by the local magistrate rather than deport or hang them, and in the sternsheets, Allday.

  Bolitho sighed. With the memory of the overturned coach still fixed in his thoughts he had been worried about Allday’s safety.

  There was no sign of Browne in the boat, however. He had been in the dockyard all morning to pester the admiral’s staff about possible orders from London.

  Herrick joined him by the windows and said, “Allday knows already. He’s grinning all over his face.” He added more seriously, “I hope there are no more threats against you, sir.”

  “There will be, Thomas. But against me, not Adam.” His hand shook. “When I think what would have happened but for your prompt actions, Thomas, I feel mad with anger. Never mind that killer, Roche, I’d have called out Damerum himself, God help me!”

  Feet pounded along the passageway, and after a hasty knock Allday strode into the cabin, his face reddened by wind and spray.

  “You are safe, sir! I knew you had a trick to play!”

  “You are a liar, Allday, but thank you.” Impetuously he thrust out his hand. “Very much.”

  Herrick smiled, the anxiety slipping from his face. “Did you hand over the carriage in one piece? Mr Browne’s friend will have words to utter if you’ve wrecked it.”

  There was a shout from the marine sentry. “Midshipman of the watch, sir!”

  Midshipman Lyb entered the cabin and said, “First lieutenant’s respects, sir, and may he hoist all but the duty boats in board?” He was careful to keep his eyes averted from Bolitho’s nakedness.

  Bolitho recalled his own time as captain. Two years ago, and yet he could remember well the internal dramas of his various ships. Like poor Lyb, for instance. Equal in seniority and just slightly older than Midshipman Aggett, but the latter had been promoted to replace the dead Lieutenant Courtenay. It was just a fragment, a mere speck when set against the great strategy of a fleet at war. And yet Lyb’s downcast expression revealed so much.

  Herrick said doubtfully, “It’s a mite early, Mr Lyb. I’d better come up and see what Mr Wolfe intends.” He picked up his hat and said, “I’ll leave you in this ruffian’s hands, sir.”

  The door closed and Allday said, “I’m afraid Mr Lyb may have got that message wrong.”

  Bolitho took a clean shirt from Ozzard and slipped it over his head.

  “Why is that?”

  “I, that is,” Allday looked momentarily off balance, “I wanted to speak with you alone.” He glared at Ozzard, who seemed to shrink in size before he left the cabin.

  Bolitho exclaimed, “You did wreck the carriage?”

  “No, sir.” Allday fiddled with his gilt buttons. “Fact is, after you’d ridden from the house with Mr Browne the lady came.” He nodded to Bolitho’s disbelief. “Aye, sir, the lady.”

  Bolitho looked away. “Tell me. What did she say?”

  Allday replied, “I was so bothered by you riding off without me I can’t remember exactly, sir. She was most upset. About you, that you’d think her heartless when you had so much on your mind about your nephew. She fired so many questions at me when she found I’d been with you for so long I could barely get the chests packed.”

  “When she found out? You mean, you told her everything?”

  “I expect so.” Allday looked at him with sudden determination. “I
’d better tell you without further delay, sir. I brought her with me. We met Mr Browne by accident an’ he put her in The George.” He took a deep breath. “She’s waiting there. Now.”

  Bolitho sat down in a chair and looked at his hands. “Does she know about the duel?”

  Allday beamed. “Oh yes, sir. We heard about that before we came through Wymer Parish. I think Mr Roche must have had a lot of enemies!”

  Bolitho did not know what to say. She was waiting to see him, here in Portsmouth. When she had heard he was safe she could have gone about and returned to London without seeing him. If it had been only pity, or common courtesy, she would have sent a brief message perhaps, nothing more.

  He said, “I will go ashore.”

  “Bless you, sir, not like that!” Allday was grinning hugely. “Better put some breeches on!”

  Ozzard answered Bolitho’s call a bit too quickly for one who had been out of earshot. But Bolitho was too confused, too aware of possible disappointment, and barely noticed.

  Allday marched round the cabin issuing instructions. “Best coat, now. Fetch the hat with the black binding, not the gold-laced one.”

  Bolitho paused in his efforts to finish dressing. “Why is that?”

  Allday regarded him calmly. “Ladies need to see the man, sir, not just the uniform.”

  Bolitho shook his head. “You never fail to amaze me, Allday.”

  Allday examined him carefully. “About right, sir. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll muster my bargemen.” He stepped aside as Herrick returned.

  Herrick said, “Lyb got it all wrong, as usual.” He stiffened as he saw Bolitho’s changed appearance. “Hell, sir, you look just fine. If only . . .” He broke off, his blue eyes clearing with understanding. “Allday! He got me away from here! And I think I know why!”

  Bolitho took the hat from Ozzard. As ordered by Allday, it was the plain one with black cockade and simple lace edging.

  “I am to meet her now, Thomas.” He looked up, his eyes searching. “I will probably make a fool of myself.”

  Herrick said, “I think not.” He followed him through the screen door. “I had a feeling about this. And bear in mind I’ve not yet laid eyes on the lady. But I know you, and I almost understand Allday by now, so the rest was easy.” He gripped his hand firmly. “Good luck, sir.”