Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef (39 page)

Sargeant drew his sword and stared aft as if still expecting the order to stand-down, then he shouted, “On the uproll, gun by gun, fire!”

The crews were very experienced, and knew their drill by heart. Down along the frigate’s tilting side each gun belched orange fire and hurled itself inboard on its tackles. At one hundred yards’ range they could not miss. Holes appeared in the schooner’s hull and a ricochet burst through the side and brought down a mass of writhing rigging and blocks.

At the fourth gun the sea seemed to split apart in one terrible explosion. Men covered their ears, and others ducked down as splinters and whole lengths of timber and snapped spars cascaded over the sea, changing the clear water into a mass of splashes and pieces of charred wood. When the smoke finally drifted clear there was no piece of the schooner afloat.

Adam closed the glass with a snap. “Put it in the log, Mr Martin. Vessel carried soldiers, powder and shot. There were no survivors.” He handed the glass to the signals midshipman and said tonelessly, “What did you expect, Mr Dunwoody? War can be a bloody business.”

Sargeant came aft and touched his hat. “I didn’t realise, sir. Nor did I know why you recalled my boat.”

“Well, remember in future.” He laid his hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder. It was shaking badly. “I should have known—realised what was happening. It will not happen again.”

He watched the seamen throwing themselves back on the braces until their half-naked bodies were angled to the deck. Beyond them he could see the darting shapes of gulls as they overcame their fear of the explosion and circled above the grisly flotsam in search of food.

“I nearly lost her!” Only when he looked at his friend’s tense features did he realise he had said it aloud.

He shrugged heavily. “So let us go and inform Lord Sutcliffe that he has the French army camping on his back doorstep.”

Four days after Black Prince had dropped anchor Bolitho was lying back in a chair, while Allday shaved him with his usual panache. It was early morning: a good time for a shave, to sip some of Catherine’s fine coffee, and to think. The stern windows and quarter galleries were open to the breeze and he could hear men moving about, washing down decks, preparing the flagship for another day. Visitors and visits: it had been endless, and Bolitho knew he had done little to spare either Jenour or Yovell in his search for information.

He had received every captain, even Herrick’s new enemy, Captain the Lord Rathcullen of the Matchless, a languid, disdainful man, but one with a fiery reputation. That and the ancient family title would be enough to enrage Herrick at any time.

But he was amazed by the change in his old friend since that last terrible day of his court martial. Herrick drove himself without respite, and his inspections of ships and docking resources had left several officials and sea officers cringing from his anger if there were any faults discovered.

It was like being in a sealed room, despite the lush surroundings and the brilliant colours of sea and sky. Until the frigate Tybalt returned from Jamaica or the other reinforcement from England, the Ipswich, arrived, he was without frigates. The other squadrons were scattered, some in Jamaica or St Kitts, others as far away as Bermuda. Every ship under a foreign flag was suspect; without fresh intelligence he knew nothing of greater affairs in Europe. A Spanish or Dutch flag might now be an ally, a Portuguese perhaps hostile. All of his captains, great or lowly, were governed by the old law of admiralty: if you were right, others took the credit. If you were wrong, you carried the blame.

Yovell let out a sigh. “I shall have these orders copied and ready for signature before noon, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho glanced at his red, perspiring face. “Sooner, Mr Yovell. I would appreciate it.”

Jenour finished his coffee and sat pensively gazing across the great cabin. One of the best moments of the day, he thought. This, he shared with no one. Soon the procession would begin: the squadron’s captains, traders wanting favours or escorts for their vessels until they were out in open water, senior officials from the dockyard or the victualling yards. They usually wanted to discuss money, and how much Sir Richard might be persuaded to authorise.

Ozzard opened the door. “The Captain, sir.”

Keen came into the cabin. “I apologise for disturbing you, sir.” He glanced at the razor in Allday’s hand which was suddenly motionless. How a man with fists so large could shave so precisely was beyond understanding. Like his ship models, he thought, not a spar or a block out of scale. Perfect … It sparked off another memory: Allday flinging his knife at the man in the jolly-boat while he dragged poor Sophie aft to the sternsheets.

“What is it, Val?”

“Rear-Admiral Herrick’s boat has just left the jetty, sir.”

Bolitho noted the hostility, and was saddened by it. This was one rift which would never heal, particularly as it had been a court of enquiry under Herrick which had questioned Keen’s right to remove Zenoria from the transport ship. It had nearly happened to Catherine, so Bolitho did not blame Keen for so bitter a resentment.

“He is up and abroad early, Val.” He waited, knowing there was more.

“The master’s mate-of-the-watch reported that the admiral’s flag has been rehoisted above the battery, sir.”

“Lord Sutcliffe?” He could hear Allday’s painful breathing. After what Herrick had told him he had not expected Sutcliffe to return to duty.

“Inform the squadron, Val. I’d not wish the admiral to imagine he is being snubbed.”

By the time Herrick reached the flagship Bolitho had changed into a fresh shirt and some new stockings which Catherine had bought for him. They greeted one another informally in the great cabin, where Herrick wasted no time in explaining.

“Came down from St John’s overnight, it appears.” He waved Ozzard’s coffee aside. “He insists on seeing you.” The blue eyes hardened. “It seems that I may not be considered competent enough to control matters here!”

“Easy, Thomas. Perhaps I should speak with the senior surgeon?” He glanced round for Jenour. “The barge, if you please, Stephen.” It gave him time to consider this limited news. It was true that Lord Sutcliffe was still in overall command. He could not be unseated because a subordinate did not agree with his strategy.

Herrick stood, feet apart, staring at the open stern windows.

“Look out for squalls, that’s what I say!”

Bolitho heard the faint squeal of tackles as his barge was hoisted up and outboard of the ship’s side. Perhaps Sutcliffe had some private information he wanted to offer? Or did he know something of the enemy’s movements? That seemed unlikely. If the French did have ships of any consequence in the Caribbean they must have been well concealed.

Herrick added wearily, “I am to accompany you.”

Bolitho saw Jenour signalling through the other door.

He said, “That at least is good news, Thomas.”

Herrick picked up his hat and followed him. As he did so, his coat brushed against the wine cooler which Catherine had had made, with its beautiful carved inlay on the top: the Bolitho coat of arms in three kinds of wood.

He hesitated, then laid one hand on the top. “I had forgotten.” He did not explain.

With the shrill of calls lingering in their ears, they remained silent as the barge pulled smartly from the flagship’s tall shadow and into the first real heat of the day.

Every captain in the squadron would know that Bolitho was going ashore for some official reason; he could see the sunlight flashing on several trained telescopes. The Sunderland and the Glorious, the old Tenacious which had been launched when Bolitho had first entered the navy at the age of twelve. He smiled grimly. And we are both still here.

Allday moved the tiller-bar very slightly and watched the land pivot round, obedient to his hand at the helm. He tensed as the sunshine reflected on fixed bayonets and a squad of marines which was moving up a slope towards the big house with the white-painted walls. The guard to receive Sir Richard Bolitho, but it was not that. Allday glanced at Bolitho’s squared shoulders, his hair so dark against his companion’s greyness. Bolitho had not noticed. Not yet anyway. Lord Sutcliffe could not have chosen a worse place for his stay at English Harbour.

Allday could remember it like yesterday. Where Sir Richard had found his lady again after the years had forced them apart. Where he himself had waited out the night on another occasion, smoking his pipe and enjoying his rum under the stars, knowing that all the while Sir Richard had been with her. With her, in the fullest sense of the word. Another man’s wife. A lot of water had gone through the mill since then, but the scandal was greater than ever.

He saw Bolitho reach up to his eye, and Jenour’s quick, worried glance.

Always the pain.

It seemed as if they could never leave him alone. Their lives were in his hands, and not some poxy admirals who seemed to have done nothing.

He barked, “Bows! Toss your oars!”

He narrowed his eyes to watch the small reception party on the jetty. Bolitho had sensed the edge in his tone and turned slightly to look up at him.

“I know, old friend. I know. There is no defence against memory.”

The barge came alongside the jetty so expertly that you could have cracked an egg between the piles and her hull.

Bolitho stepped down from the boat and paused just long enough to look up at the house. I am here, Kate. And you are with me.

Once Bolitho had realised where he was to meet the admiral-commanding he had prepared himself as if for a confrontation with a person from his past. The trouble was that it was exactly as he had remembered it, with the same wide, paved terrace that overlooked the anchorage, from which Catherine had watched Hyperion standing into harbour, and where she had heard his name mentioned as the man whose flag flew above the old ship.

A few black gardeners loitered around the luxuriant shrubbery, but Bolitho had already formed an impression that the house, like the squad of Royal Marines, was to discourage visitors and not the reverse.

Herrick had introduced him briefly to the senior surgeon, a sad-eyed little man named Ruel. Now as they approached the house Ruel was walking beside him, slowly, Bolitho noticed, as if he were reluctant to visit his charge again.

Bolitho asked quietly, “How is the admiral? I understood he was too ill to return here.”

Ruel glanced around at the others: Jenour and Herrick, two of the admiral’s staff and a captain of marines.

He answered cautiously, “He is dying, Sir Richard. I am surprised he has survived so long.” He saw Bolitho’s questioning gaze and added, “I have been a surgeon in the islands for ten years. I have become accustomed to Death’s various guises.”

“Fever then.” He heard Herrick speaking to Jenour and wondered if he was thinking of his wife Dulcie, who had died so cruelly of typhus in Kent. And if he realised at long last that Catherine might easily have died too by refusing to abandon her in her last hours on earth.

“I think you should know, Sir Richard.” Ruel was finding it hard to be confidential in the bright sunshine with people around him discussing England, the war and the weather as if nothing at all were unusual.

“Tell me. I am no innocent, and no stranger to death, either.”

He saw the surgeon raise one hand to his lips. “It is not fever, Sir Richard. Lord Sutcliffe is diseased, beyond medical aid. Spiritual too, I would imagine.”

“I see.” Bolitho looked up at the elegant house, the best in English Harbour. Where they had found one another, where they had loved so fiercely, ignoring the challenge to honour and reputation, and the harm their liaison might provoke.

He said shortly, “Syphilis.” He saw the quick nod. “I had heard something of the admiral’s reputation, but I had no idea …” He broke off. What was the point of involving the surgeon? Common seamen became diseased from their rare contacts with women of the town; senior officers were never discussed in the same breath.

The surgeon hesitated. “I fear you may get little sense from his lordship. His mind is failing, and he has iritis, and cannot bear the pain of daylight.” He shrugged ruefully. “I am sorry, Sir Richard. I know of your care for the ordinary sailor, and the assistance you gave to Sir Piers Blachford, under whom I had the honour to prepare myself for this sickening profession.”

Blachford. He never seemed to be far away. Bolitho said, “I thank you for your frankness, Doctor Ruel. Your calling is not so sickening as you proclaim—I am all the more confident now that I have met you.” He nodded to the others. “I shall go in now. Stephen, come with me.”

Herrick sounded surprised. “What about me?”

Bolitho said calmly, “Trust me.”

Two marines opened the doors and they stepped into the great hallway. Like yesterday. Like now. The smiling, insincere faces, the women in their daring gowns and jewels, the sudden brightness of the light. Then stumbling on an unseen step. Catherine stepping away from the others to assist him. A contact which, after so long, had seemed to burn like a fuse.

Although it was morning and the harbour outside gleaming with sunlit reflections and deep colours, it was like that night again.

A nervous black servant bowed to them and gestured to the nearest doorway.