Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef (36 page)

Midshipman Thornborough, his young face enraptured by all the noise of their reception, called, “Barge approaching, Mr Daubeny!”

Bolitho replaced his hat and stood aside as the marines stamped to the entry port for their first visitor. It would soon be dark; sunset came here like a curtain. But when the shore lights were brighter he might be able to recognise that same house where he had dined beside her, their hands almost brushing one another on the table while she had exchanged polite smiles with her husband, Viscount Somervell, at the opposite end.

The side-party was in position, boatswain’s mates moistening their silver calls on their tongues while the Royal Marines gripped their bayonetted muskets in readiness.

Keen lowered his glass and said quietly, “It’s Rear-Admiral Herrick, Sir Richard.” He was suddenly drained of the excitement he had felt at their arrival. “I will be honest, sir. It will cost me dear to make him welcome.”

Bolitho stared at the approaching barge, the oars like bare bones in the deepening shadows.

“Never fear, Val, it is doubtless costing him a great deal more.”

The barge vanished from view and then, after what seemed like an eternity, Herrick’s head and shoulders appeared in the entry port. While the guard presented arms and the calls paid their tribute, he doffed his hat, and stood motionless as if he and Bolitho were quite alone.

In those seconds Bolitho saw that Herrick’s hair appeared to have gone completely grey, and that he held his body stiffly, as if his wound still troubled him.

Bolitho stepped forward and reached out with both hands. “You are welcome here, Thomas.”

Herrick grasped his hands and stared at him, his blue eyes catching the last of the sunshine.

“So it was true … you are alive.” Then he lowered his head and said, loudly enough for Keen and Jenour to hear, “Forgive me.”

As Jenour began to follow the two flag officers aft, Keen thrust out his arm. “Not this time, Stephen. Later perhaps.” He hesitated. “I have just seen something I thought had died. But it’s still there … like a bright flame.” The words seemed to be printed on his mind. Forgive me.

Jenour did not completely understand, and he had never been intimately acquainted with Herrick. If anything he had felt only jealousy when his name had been mentioned, because of his relationship with Bolitho, and the experiences they had shared. But like Keen, he knew he had witnessed a rare moment, and wondered how he might describe it in his next letter.

Allday was standing in the poop’s shadow when Bolitho led the way to the companion ladder; around him the ship was settling down for the dog-watches and their first night at anchor. He could smell the land, and felt the same restlessness he always knew on these occasions.

But all he thought about was Herrick, and how hard it was to believe that he was the same man. Just for those few seconds when they had passed him, it had all come back: Bolitho as the young captain and Herrick the first lieutenant who had believed so passionately in his sailors’ rights.

Allday shook himself and watched the first squad of marines splitting up into sentry pickets at the ship’s vantage points. Poop and forecastle, and the gangways which joined them to one another, where additional heavy shot would be kept handy if some native trader or bumboat came too close during the night watches. One ball dropped through a boat’s hull would soon discourage the others. The sentries were to prevent those tempted by the island from deserting. But even the fear of a flogging or worse would not put some off, he thought.

He rubbed his chest as the wound came alive again. Like the sea itself, it was always a reminder.

Always the pain.

Thomas Herrick stood by the stern windows and stared across the water towards the lights of the port.

Ozzard waited with a tray, his eyes opaque as he watched the visitor, preparing for the worst or the best, as fortune dictated.

“A drink, Thomas? We are presently well stocked, so you can have what you will.” Bolitho saw the indecision.

Herrick sat down carefully, his body still held at a stiff angle.

“I would relish some ginger beer. I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like.”

Bolitho waited for Ozzard to bustle away and then tossed his heavy coat on to the stern bench seat.

“How long have you known, Thomas?”

Herrick’s eyes moved slowly around the great cabin, remembering other visits perhaps, or the days when his own flag flew above his Benbow.

“Two days—a fast packet from England. I could scarcely believe it, and even when your ship was reported offshore I thought some fool might have made a mistake.” He lowered his head and rested it on his hand. “When I think of all we went through …” His voice almost broke. “I still believe it all part of a nightmare.”

Bolitho walked to his chair and rested one hand on his shoulder, as much to steady Herrick as to conceal his own sudden emotion from the returned Ozzard.

Herrick made another effort, and held the fine goblet critically to the lanterns. “Ginger beer.” He watched the clear bubbles. “No wonder they call these the Islands of Death. They try to pretend this is a part of England, and if they don’t drink themselves into early graves, then they fall to a list of fevers that are more than a match for most of our surgeons.” He drank deeply and did not protest when Ozzard refilled the goblet.

Bolitho sat down and took a glass of the hock Catherine had had sent aboard. Ozzard had a knack of keeping such wines cool in the spacious bilges, but it was still something of a miracle how he managed—the hock tasted as if it had been lying in some icy Highland stream.

“And Lord Sutcliffe?” He spoke with care, and could feel Herrick’s uncertainty and discomfort like a part of himself.

Herrick gave a shrug. “Fever. He has been moved up to St John’s—the air is better, they say, but I fear for his life. He placed me in command here until the new squadron was formed … then I was to be at the disposal of its flag officer.” The blue eyes lifted and fixed on Bolitho, regarding him steadily for the first time since he had stepped aboard. “You, in fact, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho said, “Richard. I’d prefer it.”

It was hard to come to grips with this new, remote Herrick, difficult to see him in either of his past guises: the earnest lieutenant, or the defiant rear-admiral who had been within a hair’s breadth of death at his own court martial. There was something of each still remaining, but nothing of both as a single person.

Herrick gazed through the cabin’s dimness again as from somewhere in the ship they heard the far-off calls and the thud of bare feet as watchkeepers rushed to right a wrong above or below deck.

Herrick said, “I never thought I would miss all this after what happened. I’ve had a bellyful of transports—vessels under warrant with masters I personally would not trust to scrub out the heads!”

“And you have had all this to carry on your shoulders, as well as your other work here?”

Herrick did not seem to have heard. “Your eye, Richard. Is it still as bad?”

“You’ve told nobody, Thomas?”

Herrick shook his head, the gesture so familiar that it turned a knife in Bolitho’s heart.

“It was ‘twixt friends—I’ve said nothing. Nor would I.” He hesitated, turning over another thought which had troubled him since Black Prince’s arrival. “The Golden Plover.” He faltered. “I saw Keen and Jenour just now. Was—your—lady saved? Forgive me—I must ask.”

“Yes.” One wrong word or mistimed memory might break this contact forever. “In truth, Thomas, I think that but for her we would all have been lost.” He forced a smile. “After Golden Plover I take your point about transports under warrant!”

Herrick was on his feet, moving beneath the lanterns to throw his shadow across the tethered guns and leather-covered furniture like some restless dancer.

“I’ve done what I can. Without authority I have commandeered twenty schooners and cutters from here and from St Kitts. Without further authority I have swept the dockyard and barracks of lieutenants and ancient mariners, and packed them off on patrols which we cannot otherwise sustain.”

It was like watching someone coming back to life. Bolitho said quietly, “You have my authority, Thomas.”

Herrick, reassured, reeled off all the things he had introduced to give early warning of enemy men-of-war, blockade runners or any suspicious vessel, be it slaver or genuine neutral trader.

“I’ve told them to stand no nonsense. If any master defies our flag he will not move freely in these waters again!” He smiled, and again his whole being changed. “You will remember, Richard, I was in a merchantman myself between wars. I know a few of their tricks!”

“Is our frigate in harbour?”

“I sent her to Port Royal with some additional soldiers on board—another slave revolt. It was best to act with all haste.”

“So we have the squadron, seven sail of the line. And your flotilla of smaller ‘eyes.’”

Herrick frowned. “Six, for the present anyway. The 74 Matchless is in dock. She was caught in a storm two weeks back and lost her foremast. It’s a marvel she didn’t drive ashore.”

He sounded suddenly angry, and Bolitho asked. “Captain Mackbeath, is it not?”

“No, he was replaced after Copenhagen.” His eyes clouded over. Remembering Benbow again, all those who had died that day. “She has a new captain now, more’s the pity—the Lord Rathcullen, who seems unable to take advice about anything. But you know what they say about Irishmen, peers or otherwise.”

Bolitho smiled. “About we Cornishmen too, on occasions!”

Herrick’s eyes crinkled, and he gave a brief laugh. “Aye, damme, I asked for that!”

“Will you sup with me tonight, Thomas?” He saw Herrick’s immediate caution. “I mean with me alone. I would take it as a favour … the land can bide awhile. We are sailors again.”

Herrick shifted in his chair. “I had it all prepared …” He seemed, again, embarrassed and ill at ease.

“It is done. I cannot say what it means to me. We have each had our own reefs to cross, but others will look to us, and care little enough for our troubles.”

Herrick said after a silence, and rather uncertainly, “I shall tell you my ideas if I may. When I return to my residence …” He smiled at some recollection. “The yard-master’s house in fact—frugal and without pretence—I shall work on the plan I was going to present to our new flag officer.”

Bolitho asked quietly, “Do you ever sleep, Thomas?”

“Enough.”

“Did you receive any other news from the packet?”

Herrick took several seconds to drag himself back to the present.

“We are promised another frigate. She’s the Ipswich, 38. Captain Pym.”

“I don’t know the ship, I’m afraid.”

Herrick’s eyes were distant once more. “No. She’s from my part of the world, the Nore.” He changed tack suddenly. “You heard about Gossage, I suppose.” His mouth tightened. “Rear-Admiral Gossage, indeed. I wonder how many pieces of silver that rated?”

He was driving himself hard in his unexpected and temporary command, giving himself no time to brood on what had gone before, or on the loss of his ship, for Benbow was a hulk, and would never leave the dockyard again. What a way to end, after all they had done together.

“Easy, Thomas. Put it behind you.”

Herrick eyed him curiously, as much as if to ask, “Could you?”

Bolitho persisted, “Life still has much to offer.”

“Maybe.” He sat stolidly, with the empty goblet clasped in his square hands like a talisman. “In truth, I am grateful to be of some use again. When I heard the news about you …” He shook his head. “I thought it was another chance. Lady Luck.” He looked at him, suddenly desperate. “But it’s not been easy.”

“Who knows what we might achieve this time?”

Herrick sounded bitter. “They are fools out here. They don’t understand, nor do they know what to expect. Pink-cheeked soldiers more used to the bogs of Ireland than this godforsaken place, and senior officers who’ve scarcely heard a shot fired!”

Bolitho said quietly, “‘He never set a squadron in the field, Nor the division of a battle knows, More than a spinster.’”

Herrick stared at him. “Our Nel?”

Bolitho smiled as he saw his friend emerging. “No, Shakespeare. But it could easily have been.”

In the pantry Allday nudged Ozzard. “More like it, eh?” But he had been thinking of the little inn in Cornwall, and came awkwardly to the point. “Will you pen a letter for me, Tom?”

Ozzard said darkly, “Be warned, that’s all I ask.” He saw Allday’s expression and sighed. “Course I will. Anything for a bit o’ peace!”

The big three-decker lay to her cable, her open gunports reflected in the calm anchorage like lines of eyes. The sentries paced their sections, and from one of the mess-decks came the plaintive notes of a fiddle. The officer-of-the-watch paused in his discussion with a master’s mate as the captain appeared by the abandoned double-wheel, where men had fought wind and sea only a week ago as they strove to reach calmer waters.

Keen turned away from the shadowy watchkeepers and walked, deep in thought, to the poop ladder.

His ship and all her company, prime sailors, felons, cowards and honest men who would soon depend on him again, from his ambitious first lieutenant to the squeaking midshipmen, from surgeon to purser’s clerk, they were his to command. An honour; but that he could take for granted. He watched the guard-boat pulling slowly between the moored ships, a riding-light gleaming momentarily on a naked bayonet. He tried to imagine Sir Richard Bolitho and his old friend warily coming together in the great cabin. It would be difficult for both of them. The one who had found all he had ever wanted in his woman; the other who had lost everything, and nearly his life as well.