Authors: Alexander Kent
“I'm sorry, sir. But I hope the visit was worthwhile.”
“Worthwhile?” The commodore looked at him grimly. “I thought he was going to have a fit!” He wrenched open a hanging wine cooler and took out a bottle and some glasses. “God damn it, Richard, is it true about you and Raymond's lady?” He swung round, wine slopping unnoticed over his shoes. “Because if it is, you are pleading for trouble!”
Bolitho took the proffered glass, giving himself time. It was to be expected. After what had happened, it had to be, so why was it a surprise?
He replied, “I do not know what you were told, sir.”
“Oh, for Christ's sake, Richard, don't play with words! We're both sailors. We know how these things happen. God, with your attack and rescue, I'd think every woman in Sydney would give herself to you tonight!”
Bolitho put down his glass. “Viola Raymond is not a whore, sir. I met her five years back. Then, I thought it was over when in fact it had only begun. She is married to the wrong man. He is vain, arrogant and dangerous.” He could almost listen to the level tone of his voice. Again, like a bystander. “I have no regrets other than the regret for the lost years. When she returns to England, she will leave her London residence and await my return.” He looked up, his voice quiet. “I am deeply in love with her.”
Sayer eyed him gravely. He was shocked by the disclosure, but touched by Bolitho's sincerity and his willingness to share his hopes with him.
He said, “The governor is sending his despatches to England tonight in the
Quail.
In them will be a request for
Tempest'
s transfer to home waters. What you have wanted, if for other reasons. But it will take months before those despatches are delivered and replied to. By then anything may have happened.”
“I know, sir. And thank you for telling me.”
Sayer had shown his concern by disclosing the governor's plans. Bolitho could now, if he so wished, put his own report and letters aboard the same brig. If he lacked influence, he had plenty of friends. He was moved that Sayer had laid himself open for his sake.
Sayer said heavily, “I know little of James Raymond, but what I have seen I regard as unfriendly.”
“We are both firmly set on our course, sir.”
Bolitho could see her eyes in his mind, feel her skin, the touch of her long autumn hair.
“She will wait for my return to England.”
“She is not going to England, Richard.” Sayer felt sickened by his own words. “She is to go with Raymond to his new appointment in the Levu Group.” He stood up quietly. “Believe me, she has no choice. The governor is bound to offer his assistance and support to Raymond, and no amount of pleading or finance on your part can put her aboard the
Quail
for England.”
Bolitho stared at him. “Then she will remain in Sydney until . . .”
“Would you have that?” Sayer looked away. “How they would delight in sneering at her. Scandal is news here, rumour the pathway to jealous and petty minds.”
Bolitho could not believe it, and yet he knew it was exactly what Raymond would do. If he could not break them apart, he would ensure that she was trapped.
He said, “But the Great South Sea, sir. How long can a woman survive in the islands? It is bad enough here, but the conditions are like a palace compared with the primitive islands. She has been through all this before. No man, no
real
man would ask it of anyone, let alone her.”
“I know.” Sayer looked at him sadly. “But Raymond is under stress to make this work successful. There will be some convict labour too, a showing of occupation, which should inspire confidence until proper arrangements have been made.”
Bolitho leaned back in the chair, his eyes seeing nothing.
That third night aboard
Eurotas
he had gone to her in the great cabin. She had shared it only with the girl she had taken under her protection. The wretched girl barely spoke, and was still shocked and terrified whenever a man went near her. For Viola she would do anything.
Raymond had been given a separate cabin, just as before when they had sailed in Bolitho's ship. But this time there had been a difference.
Desperation, desire and an overwhelming relief at finding each other again had broken down all barriers of caution.
He could hear her voice as if she were here, and not Sayer.
“We are in a ghost-ship, darling Richard. We are alone. I want you so badly that I am ashamed. Need you so much that you may be ashamed of me.”
He came out of his despair as Sayer said, “You will be under orders to escort
Eurotas
to the Levu Group.” He watched the pain in Bolitho's eyes, imagined how he would feel under similar circumstances. Forced to watch the woman he loved and be unable to reach her. “The governor has no other forces at his disposal, and Tuke may be intent on another attack.”
Bolitho said quietly, “I will kill him.”
Sayer looked away. Who did he mean? Tuke or Raymond?
When he spoke again Bolitho sounded calm. Too calm.
“How long do we have, sir?”
“A few days. With the seasonal storms becoming more frequent, and the delay caused by all this, things have become more urgent.” He tried to sound matter of fact. “One thing, Richard. You are not to see her in Sydney.” He saw him start. “And as a favour to me, I'd like you to remain aboard until you weigh,
except
on matters pertaining to duty and the ship's affairs.”
Bolitho stood up. “I understand.”
“Good. I have too much respect for you to give you a lecture. But time passes, old pains are forgotten. You are going to need all your wits. Tuke is a vicious pirate and no hero, as some legends would have him. I believe he is here to
sell
his special services to someone, which is why he is arming and storing his vessels at our cost. Maybe he seeks respectability under a letter of marque, to become a mercenary instead of a hunted pirate. It is common enough.” He lowered his voice. “And you will have Raymond watching and waiting for you to make a mistake.”
Bolitho said, “The French and the Dons have long been interested in these waters, but without much success.”
He felt nothing. Could find no excitement at the prospect of a new mission, a chance of running Tuke to earth.
Sayer nodded. “In the last despatches they speak of starvation and riots in France, even in Paris. So the King will be too busy to cast his eyes towards us. But Spain?” He shrugged. “No matter what flag the devil flies, I want him taken and hanged before his fire spreads. One good thing though, the
Bounty
has vanished. Foundered, I shouldn't wonder. One less worry.”
“Sir?” Bolitho looked at him blankly.
Sayer crossed the cabin and gripped his arm. “No matter, you were leagues away. But take heart. Think of Cornwall. Do your work. The rest will unfoul itself.”
Bolitho replied, “Aye, sir.”
He had in fact been thinking of Cornwall. The big grey house in Falmouth. A few moments ago it had begun to come alive again in his thoughts. She would like it there, and they would all love her as they had his mother, and the other captains' ladies who had walked on the sea wall and watched for their husbands' ships, some in vain.
And now, because he had lowered his guard, he had betrayed the one person he really loved. Because of the resulting hatred and envy, Raymond was risking everything, and would do so even if it cost Viola's life.
“I'd like to return to my ship, sir.”
Sayer watched him. “Yes. I'll send word if I hear anything. They're gathering some hands for the
Eurotas,
and you will have to supply an officer to take charge of her.” He added firmly, “An officer, Richard.
You
must remain in your own ship. Once established in the Levu Islands,
Eurotas
will act as accommodation vessel. She can be safely left with someone junior until I can send more replacements. But you will act as you see fit when you have made the place secure.”
Bolitho held out his hand. “Thank you, sir. For doing what you must hate doing. I know plenty who would have made it short and sharp.”
Sayer smiled. “True. But mark what I said. I cannot save you if you cross Raymond. He is the sort of man who looks for scapegoats well in advance of anything he attempts. I do not wish to fit that role. Nor do I wish to see you as one.”
Bolitho went on deck and paid his respects to the quarter-deck and to
Hebrus'
s captain.
A gun boomed dully in the distance, and the other captain said, “There go your two captured pirates. They don't waste time on trials out here for such carrion.”
With the execution gun still echoing over the harbour Bolitho climbed down to the gig where Allday stood to receive him, his face expectant.
“To the jetty, Captain?”
Bolitho looked past him towards the slow-moving crowd of people who had gone to see two men kicking out their lives on a gibbet.
She was there somewhere.
“No, Allday. To the ship.”
Allday barked, “Shove off! Out oars!” Something had gone badly wrong. “Give way all!”
He shaded his eyes to look across at the anchored transport, recalling the screams and frenzy of hand to hand fighting and killing.
What did these poxy dolts know of such things? He looked down at Bolitho's shoulders, the way he was gripping the hilt of that old, tarnished sword.
Once, Allday had been thankful to see Viola Raymond parted from Bolitho. He had known what might happen, as it was happening now. But as in a fight, once committed, Allday believed in seeing it through. He would think about it. Slip in a good word or two when he got the chance.
Bolitho watched the rise and fall of the oars, the carefully blank faces of the pigtailed seamen. They all knew. Some would be glad, others sympathetic. All would be interested in what was to happen next.
He heard the creak of the tiller as Allday steered the boat past the stern of a Dutch trading schooner.
Him most of all, he thought. He could almost feel Allday's mind working. All of his loyalty, courage and cheek could not help him this time.
He saw the side party mustered at
Tempest'
s entry port. The blue and white of the officers, the scarlet of Prideaux's marines.
Stand by to receive the captain.
He straightened his shoulders and looked up at the ship. He was sailing as escort. It was not much of a bridge, but it was better than nothing. There was hope, and his determination, like Allday's, was stronger than ever.
7 THE
N
ARVAL
L
IEUTENANT
Thomas Herrick sipped at a mug of scalding, bitter coffee and watched Bolitho making notes beside his chart.
A week out of port, and Herrick for one was glad to be at sea, doing something he understood. Six days they had lain at anchor, and it had been painful to watch Bolitho's efforts to hide his anxiety, to contain his dismay as he looked at the anchored
Eurotas
and the town beyond.
Even now Herrick was not sure what Bolitho was really thinking. To anyone who did not know him as he did he seemed his usual alert, interested self. He was studying the chart with care, comparing his notes with those of Lakey, the sailing master.
Herrick did not know much about the Levu Islands, except that they were some two hundred miles to the north of where they had recaptured the
Eurotas.
Now they were plodding along, held back by the slower merchantman, while
Tempest
stayed watchfully to windward of her.
Bolitho looked up, his eyes bright. “D'you remember old Mudge, Thomas?”
“Aye.” Herrick smiled. Mudge had been the sailing master in
Undine.
“Must have been the oldest man in the King's service. The oldest afloat maybe. He admitted to sixty, and kept to that. A great lump of a man, but a fine master. Pity he didn't meet Mr Lakey. Maybe they'll have a yarn in heaven one day.”
Bolitho looked wistful. “He knew a lot about these waters. How he rebuked me when I ordered every sail to be set. But how he grumbled when we crawled like this.”
Herrick looked up as Keen's feet moved across the deck. Borlase was in charge of the
Eurotas.
It was a pity in some ways, he thought. Borlase might say too much to Raymond. He was like that. On the other hand, he was glad to be here with Bolitho. If he had gone across to the merchantman instead he might have spoken too forcefully to that scum Raymond.
He asked, “What d'you expect to find in the Levu Islands, sir?”
Bolitho walked to the stern windows and stared at the sloping horizon. There was mist about, and the glittering sea looked as if it was boiling from some great marine cauldron.
“A flag on a pole, Thomas. A few hard-working servants of the country. Much what we're used to.”
Noddall pattered into the cabin, the coffee jug in his paws.
“There's some more 'ere, sir.”
“Good.” Bolitho thrust out his mug. “It makes me sweat, but it is good to taste something which is neither rotten nor rancid for a change.”
He held the mug to his lips, feeling it burning down to his stomach.
Another day.
The same empty sea. He had taken to counting seconds whenever he went on deck to consult the compass and their estimated position.
Seconds
before he had to look towards
Eurotas'
s fat hull. She always seemed to remain in the exact position, held in the frigate's shrouds as if snared in a giant web. In fact, she was well down to leeward, too far to examine without a glass. Those occasions too had to be measured, rationed.
He heard some muffled shots and knew the marines were practising again, firing their muskets from the tops at makeshift targets which Sergeant Quare had hurled overboard. He wondered if one of the marksmen was the ex-gamekeeper, Blissett, and whether or not he was remembering the man he had silently killed on the beach.
Herrick said suddenly, “It's no use, sir. I must speak my mind.”
“Good.” Bolitho turned towards him. “I have been expecting something, so be done with it.”
Herrick put his mug very carefully on the table.
“It's all been said before. But I'm no less concerned. Me, I don't count. I'll never rise above wardroom rank, and I think I'm glad for it, having seen what command can drag out of a man. But you have a family tradition, sir. When I saw your house in Falmouth, those portraits, all that history, I knew I was lucky to serve under you. I've been at sea since I was a lad, like most of us, and I know the measure of a captain. It's
not right
that you should be in jeopardy because of all this!”
Bolitho smiled gravely, despite his inner ache.
“By
all this,
I take it you mean my indiscretion? My discovery that I could fall in love like other men?” He shook his head. “No, Thomas, I'll not let anyone abuse that lady just to hurt me. I'll see Raymond in hell before that!” He turned away. “Now you've made me abandon my self-control.”
Herrick replied heavily, “At the risk of offending you further, I still believe Commodore Sayer was right to,” he shrugged awkwardly, “to keep you occupied aboard ship.”
“Perhaps.” Bolitho sat down again and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “If onlyâ”
He looked up sharply. “What was that?”
“A hail from the masthead.”
Herrick was already on his feet as the call floated down again. “Deck thar! Sail on the lee bow!”
They both hurried from the cabin and collided with Midshipman Romney who was on his way aft.
“Sir! Mr Keen's respects andâ”
Herrick brushed past him. “Aye. We know.”
Bolitho strode past the wheel, feeling the sun across his shoulders as if he were naked. A glance at the compass and to the trim of the sails told him all he needed.
Eurotas
was still on station, her big courses filling and deflating, depriving her of any beauty.
“Anything further?”
Keen looked at him. “Not yet, sir.” He trained his telescope. “Nothing.”
“Hmm.” Bolitho tugged out his watch. “Send another lookout aloft, if you please.” He searched round for Midshipman Swift. “Make a signal to
Eurotas.
Sail in sight to the nor'-east.” He looked at Herrick. “Though in God's name they should have seen it themselves.”
Herrick held his peace. Merchantmen rarely maintained a good lookout, especially when they had a naval escort. But there was no point in mentioning it now. He could tell Bolitho's anxieties were only just below the surface. One spark and . . .
Bolitho snapped, “In heaven's name, what are our people
doing?
”
“Deck there!” It was the new lookout. “She be a man-o-war, zur!”
Bolitho turned to Herrick again. “What can she be about, Thomas?”
“One of ours maybe?”
“Bless you, Thomas!” He clapped him on the shoulder. “We are the only
one of ours
in this whole ocean! Even the Governor of New South Wales is having to plead for ships!”
Herrick watched him, fascinated. The prospect of action was making Bolitho react, no matter what he was enduring privately.
Herrick said, “And we've absolutely no idea what's happening in the world. We may be at war with Spain or France, anybody!”
Bolitho walked aft to the wheel again and examined the compass. East-north-east, and the wind still comfortably across the starboard quarter. The stranger was on a converging tack, but it would take hours to come up with her. What would he do if the newcomer turned and fled at the sight of them? He could not leave
Eurotas.
But as the hour ran out and another began the lookouts' reports showed that the other vessel gave no sign of going about.
“Set the forecourse, Mr Herrick.” Bolitho crossed the quarterdeck and climbed into the mizzen shrouds. “I shall feel happier if we lie closer to our charge.”
The hands hurried to their stations, and a few minutes later the frigate's big foresail filled to the wind and sent a tremor running through the shrouds and rigging like a message.
Bolitho steadied his glass, waiting for the long, undulating swell to lift the other ship long enough for him to examine her. Then he saw the ship with surprising clarity as with a freak of nature she and
Tempest
rose together.
For just a few moments he held her in the lens, then mist and distance distorted the picture, and he lowered himself to the deck.
“Frigate. French by the cut of her.”
He peered up at the masthead pendant. “Be up to her in two hours if this wind holds. Within range of a long shot before that.”
Lakey observed quietly, “We're not at war with France, sir.”
“So I believe, Mr Lakey. But we'll take no chances all the same.”
He glanced along his command, picturing her wreathed in smoke and flying iron.
But not this time.
The Frenchman was taking his time and making no effort to change tack enough to grapple for the wind-gage.
He added, “Send the hands to quarters in good time, and make sure we have some experienced eyes at the masthead to see if the Frenchman does likewise.”
He took the glass again and trained it on the
Eurotas.
He saw the flash of a gown as she walked across the poop, one hand holding the big hat to prevent the wind taking it from her.
Oh God.
He lowered the glass and she dropped into distance, leaving only the ship.
“Deck there! She's run up 'er colours!” A pause. “Frenchie, right enough, zur!”
Even without a glass Bolitho could see the tiny patch of white breaking from the other ship's peak as she tacked heavily to hold the wind, her yards braced round until they were all but fore and aft.
It was a strange feeling. Like many of the men aboard, Bolitho had rarely met a French ship other than across the muzzles of a broadside. He thought of Le Chaumareys and was suddenly sad for him and the waste of his life. Captains were like kings in their own ships, no matter how small. But to the powers which manoeuvred and used them they were expendable pawns.
He made himself leave the deck and return to his cabin, almost blind from staring across the shining blue water.
Allday entered the cabin. “I'll tell Noddall to fetch your coat and hat, Captain.” He grinned. “Those breeches, patched or not, will do for a Frenchman!”
Bolitho nodded. If the French captain was new to these waters he would want to see every other captain he could. Would he come to
Tempest,
or would he go to him?
Noddall scuttled through from the sleeping cabin, carrying the coat over his arm, tutting to himself.
Bolitho had just finished transforming himself into some semblance of a King's officer when he heard the pipe, “All hands! Hands to quarters and clear for action!”
The drums rolled, and he felt the hull quiver as her company rushed to obey.
By the time he had reached the quarterdeck it was done, even to the sanding of the planking around each gun. It would not be needed, he was quite certain, as he watched the other frigate's approach. But sand was plentiful, and every drill gained experience for some.
“Load and run out, sir?”
“No, Mr Herrick.” He was equally formal.
He looked along the black guns and bare-backed men. He found he was wishing it was the pirate Mathias Tuke lifting and plunging across the water towards him.
Midshipman Fitzmaurice came running aft to the quarter-deck ladder and called, “Beg pardon, sir, but Mr Jury sends his respects and says that frigate is the
Narval,
thirty-six, and that he saw her in Bombay.”
Bolitho smiled. “Give my thanks to the boatswain.”
He looked at Herrick. It was always the same in a ship. Always someone who had seen or served in another. No doubt the French captain was receiving similar news about the
Tempest.
Thirty-six guns. The same as his own. Ball for ball, if so ordered.
He watched the other ship shortening sail with professional interest. A lighter, sleeker hull than
Tempest,
well-weathered, as if she had been at sea for a long time. Her sail-handling was excellent, another mark of long usage.
Bolitho shaded his eyes and looked up at the peak. Out here
Tempest
sailed under the white ensign, and he wondered if the French captain was looking at it. Remembering.
“She's hove to!” Keen strode across the gundeck, ducking to peer over a twelve-pounder. “And dropping a boat!”
Herrick grinned. “Just a lieutenant, sir. Probably wants us to put him on the course for Paris!”
But when the young lieutenant eventually clambered aboard from the longboat he seemed anything but lost. He doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and then presented himself to Bolitho.
“I bring the respects of my
capitaine, m'sieu,
and the invitation to visit him.” His dark eyes moved swiftly around the manned guns, the swaying line of armed marines.
“Certainly.”
Bolitho walked to the entry port and glanced down at the French longboat. The seamen were neatly dressed in striped shirts and white trousers. But they had no life in them. They looked afraid.