Inshore Squadron (25 page)

Without realizing he had moved, Bolitho was at the small window again, staring at the windswept waterfront, the anchored ships beyond.

“But my brother had not died. He had been hiding and running for too long when quite by chance he was rescued from the sea and brought to me, of all people. He was hiding in a dead man's uniform and using his name. Where better to find refuge than in the one life he really knew?”

He felt her staring at him, her fingers clenched in her lap, as if she was afraid to speak and break the spell.

“But it was my ship he found. And his son was serving in her as a midshipman.”

“And your nephew knows nothing of this?”

“Nothing. His father died during a battle. Killed by throwing himself between Adam and a French pistol. I'll never forget it. Never.”

“I guessed part of it.” She stood up lightly and took his arm with her hand. “Please sit down. You must be tired, worn out.”

Bolitho felt her nearness, her warmth against him.

He said, “If I had not come to Portsmouth Adam would be dead. It is all part of one hate. My brother killed a man for cheating at cards. Now that man's brother wishes to harm me, to destroy me by reviving the old memories and, as in this case, by hurting those I hold very dear.”

“Thank you for telling me. It could not have been easy.”

Bolitho smiled. “Surprisingly, it was easier than I would have imagined. Maybe I needed to speak out, to share it.”

She looked at her hands, once more resting in her lap. As she did so, her long hair fell about her shoulders very slowly, as in a dream.

She said quietly, “Will you tell him now?”

“Yes. It is his right. Although . . .”

“You think you will lose his affection? Is that it?”

“It makes me seem selfish. But at the time it was dangerous. If Hugh had been taken he would have hanged. But only when I tell Adam will I know why I really contained the secret.”

There was a quiet tap at the door and a homely looking inn servant entered with a tray.

“Your tea, ma'am.” She shot Bolitho a quick glance and curtsied. “Bless me, sir!” She peered at him closely. “Captain Bolitho, isn't it?”

Bolitho stood up. “Well, yes. What can I do for you?”

“You'll not remember, of course, sir.” But her eyes were pleading. “My name is Mrs Huxley.”

Bolitho knew it was terribly important but could not think why. Then, like the drawing of a curtain, he saw a man's face. Not moving, but like one in a portrait.

Quietly he said, “Of course, I remember. Your husband was a quartermaster in my ship, the old
Hyperion.
”

She clasped her work-reddened hands together and stared at him for several seconds.

“Aye, sir. Tom often spoke of you. You sent me money afterwards. That was so good of you, sir. Not being able to write, I didn't know how to thank you. Then I saw you just now. Just like that day when you brought the
Hyperion
back to Plymouth.”

Bolitho gripped her hands. “He was a brave man. We lost a lot of fine sailors that day. Your husband is in good company.”

It was incredible. Just a word, a name, and there he was, plucked from memory to join them in this room.

“Are you all right here in Portsmouth?”

“Aye, sir.” She looked at the fire, her eyes misty. “I couldn't face Plymouth no more. Watching the sea, waiting for Tom, an' all the while knowing he was dead.”

She made a sudden effort and added, “I just wanted to speak, sir. I've never forgotten what Tom said of you. It makes him seem nearer somehow.”

Bolitho stared at the door as it shut behind her.

“Poor woman.” He turned bitterly towards the fire. “Like all those others. Watching the horizon for the ship which never comes. Will never come.”

He broke off as he saw her face in the firelight, the tears running down her checks.

But she smiled at him and said softly, “As I sat here waiting for you I wondered what you were like,
really
like. Allday told me a lot, but I think that sailor's widow said far more.”

Bolitho crossed to the chair and looked down at her.

“I want you so much. If I speak my inner thoughts I could drive you away. If I remain silent you may leave without a glance.” He took her hands in his, expecting her to draw away, tensing his body as if to control his words. “I am not speaking like this because you are in need, but because
I need you,
Belinda. If you cannot love me, I will find enough love for us both.” He dropped on one knee.
“Please . . .”

But she looked at him with alarm. “Your wound! What are you doing?”

He released one hand and touched her face, feeling the tears on his fingers.

“My injury must wait. Right now I feel more vulnerable and defenceless than on any gundeck.”

He watched her eyes lift and settle on his. Saw the guard dropping away, as if she were stripping herself before him.

She said in a low voice, “I can love you.” She rested her head on his shoulder, hiding her face. “There will be no rivals, no cruel memories.”

She took his hand and opened it in hers. “I am no wanton, and I am disturbed by the way I feel.” Then she pressed his hand around her breast, holding it there while she slowly raised her, eyes to his.

“Can you feel it?
There
is my answer.”

Down in one of the coffee rooms Browne sat with a glass of port by his elbow, a pack of despatches on the bench beside him.

It was growing dark, and some of the servants were moving about, lighting candles and preparing for the inn's visitors from the London coach or the usual throng of officers from the dockyard.

Browne glanced at the tall, dignified clock and smiled to himself.

He had been here for hours. But as far as he was concerned, the despatches, the
Benbow,
even the war could wait a while longer before he disturbed the couple in the little room at the top of the inn.

15
L
AY THE GHOST

H
IS
Britannic Majesty's ship
Benbow
tilted steeply on the swell, her hull and gangways soaked with spray. The Solent was covered with cruising white horses as the wind hissed through the rigging and furled sails.

Bolitho signed one more letter and waited for his clerk to put it with all the others. The ship was groaning and muttering all around him, as if she could sense the meaning of her change of anchorage. From harbour to Spithead.

Yovell said, “I'll have this lot sent across in the duty boat, zur.” He watched Bolitho's profile curiously, as if startled by his change of demeanour.

Yovell was not so simple that he did not understand some of it. At first he had imagined Bolitho had been unable to conceal his relief over the duel's outcome. But for Roche's cowardice he might well be dead and the repercussions from the Admiralty would have affected everyone, even a lowly clerk.

Bolitho said, “Good. If being at sea is a hardship, it also favours those who hate wording despatches, especially as they may never be read.”

There was a tap at the door and Herrick entered, his uniform glittering with spray.

“I am ready to up-anchor, sir. Just as soon as you are ready.”

Bolitho nodded to Yovell who swept the despatches into a canvas bag and hurried from the cabin.

“Very well, Thomas. We shall rejoin the squadron and resume our original duties.” He tapped the drawer of his table. “I received a full set of instructions from Admiral Beauchamp. I think he is so eager to get me to sea he will not spare the time to see me.” He smiled wryly. “But I cannot complain. He has been more than patient.”

Herrick exclaimed, “
Patient,
sir? After all you did? Bless
me,
I should damn well think so!”

Bolitho called for Ozzard and said, “I am glad of your loyalty, Thomas. However, but for our successes and the information I put in my report about the Danish galleys, I fear even Beauchamp's importance would not have protected me.”

“Back to the squadron, eh?” Herrick watched as Ozzard poured two glasses of madeira. “It will be different for you this time, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. “It was good of your wife to assist in this matter.”

“Good?” Herrick grinned. “She loves organizing poor sailor-men! She is even bent on arranging my sister's wedding.” He became serious. “God, your lady is a beautiful one, sir. You will be so right for each other.”

Bolitho let his mind drift away. In just a few days his whole life had changed. Belinda Laidlaw had left her employment as the judge's wife's companion and had accepted Mrs Herrick's offer of accommodation with only the briefest hesitation.

She had said, “Only if I am allowed to help you in return.”

Dulcie Herrick had laughed. “Bless you, my dear, you'll be worn out with my whims and fancies.”

But they had both been pleased at the arrangement.

Bolitho had managed to hold his one real fear at bay. That after he had been at sea for weeks, even months, she might regret her decision and go elsewhere. As Herrick had said, she was beautiful, and desirable.

As the fear re-entered his thoughts he said, “I am grateful as well as proud, Thomas. I tried to write to her, but it took two attempts before I could find the words. Even so, they are empty against what I feel.” He looked at his friend. “I talk like a lovesick midshipman. I cannot help it.”

Herrick downed his drink and said, “It shows, sir. In your manner, on your face. It suits well.” He stood up. “I will be ready to weigh as soon as the boat returns.”

He hesitated by the door. “It will seem better somehow. Knowing they're both keeping company with each other while we're on that damned blockade.”

Bolitho sat for a long time sifting through his thoughts. There was a lot which Herrick did not know. For instance, that Damerum was back in overall command of the station, that he would decide where the Inshore Squadron might best be placed. No, better for Herrick to be left in peace for as long as possible. To have to look over his shoulder at a hostile authority when he should be watching the enemy was asking for an early grave.

Two hours later, as her great anchor broke from the ground, the
Benbow
staggered heavily downwind, her canvas thrashing in apparent confusion until under full rudder and close-reefed top-sails she ploughed contemptuously through the first deep trough.

Bolitho stood at the side of the quarterdeck, oblivious to the wet wind and the bustling seamen at halliards and braces.

He took a telescope from the midshipman of the watch and moved it slowly across the walls of the Portsmouth forts and batteries. They looked like gleaming metal instead of stone, he thought, and already so far away. Beyond reach.

Something moved in the corner of the lens and he trained the glass carefully towards it.

It was too far to see her face, but she was wearing the same blue cloak as she had worn in the overturned coach. Her hair was free and streaming in the wind as she waved a kerchief high above her head.

Bolitho took a few paces further aft as part of a flanking battery wall moved inexorably across the side of his lens, attempting to shut her off like a door.

He hurried up the larboard poop ladder, and with the glass to his eye removed his hat to wave it slowly back and forth, even though it was unlikely she would see him.

Bolitho returned to the quarterdeck and handed the telescope to the midshipman.

When he moved to the nettings the angle from the shore had increased even more, and the small patch of blue with the streaming chestnut hair above was hidden from view.

He remembered her as he had last seen her, the feel of her supple body in his arms.

“Belinda.”

Lieutenant Speke turned towards him anxiously.

“Beg pardon, sir?”

Bolitho had not realised he had spoken her name aloud.

“Er, nothing, Mr Speke.”

Herrick had heard him, too, and turned away to hide a smile and to thank the good fortune which had given Bolitho such unexpected happiness.

Old Ben Grubb did not miss much either. He blew his nose noisily and remarked, “Fair wind, all bein' well. An' 'tis only right an' proper in my book.”

Back on the spray-soaked ramparts Dulcie Herrick called, “Better come down now, my dear. You'll catch your death of cold otherwise.”

She had desperately wanted to share
Benbow
's departure, to wave at the ship as she spread more canvas and heeled ponderously to the wind. But she knew from her own short experience how important this moment was. Too important to share with anyone.

The girl turned and looked down at her, her brown eyes misty as she said, “Did you hear the sailors singing?”

“A shanty, yes. It always moves me. Especially now.”

The girl climbed down the stone steps and slipped her hand through her arm.

“There is so much I want to know about him. About his world.” She squeezed her companion's arm and added huskily, “I was nearly such a fool, Dulcie. I could have lost him.”

The days which followed
Benbow
's return to the squadron were marked only by their emptiness, their dreary similarity. As they dragged into weeks, and Bolitho's weatherbeaten ships beat back and forth on their endless patrol, it seemed to many that they were the only living beings, that the rest of the world had forgotten them.

Even the sloop and lively frigates found little to report. Nothing moved in or from the Baltic, and only by keeping their people busy or otherwise engaged in contests amongst themselves could the captains cling to a disciplined routine.

Bolitho released one ship at a time for a brief call to a home port. As each vessel left the little squadron the remaining ones begin to count the days for her return and their own chance of parole.

Relentless,
being the larger of the two frigates, was employed around the Skaw and down into the Kattegat. Whenever she made contact with the flagship, which was rare, it was through the
Styx
or the sloop
Lookout,
and Bolitho often wondered how his nephew was getting on, and if he was still brooding over the duel and the cause of it.

The last ship to return from her short reprieve in an English harbour was Captain Inch's sixty-four,
Odin.
As Bolitho stood on the quarterdeck and watched the two-decker running down towards the squadron he felt in his bones that she was to be the last, and it was with no surprise that he heard Oughton, the new lieutenant, call, “Signal from
Odin,
sir! Captain requests to come aboard!”

Herrick moved to Bolitho's side. “I wonder what news he has for us, sir?”

Bolitho saw some of the off duty hands on the weather gang-way, so hardened now to the bitter weather that most were bare-armed, some even without shoes. They would also be wondering. The blockade was to be withdrawn. The war was over. The French had invaded.

He said, “Whatever the news, Thomas, Inch is eager to tell it. Much more canvas and he'll dismast his ship!”

They both smiled. Inch had never been renowned for his ship-handling. But his courage and his dogged loyalty, made up for that and much more.

Odin
was already standing into the wind, her sails banging and puffing in torment as Inch took the way off his ship.

Wolfe said, “Boat's in the water, sir.” He glared at a boatswain's mate. “Man the side!”

Herrick muttered, “It had better be something useful. Here we are, in March now, and no nearer a solution than when we left Spithead last September.” He ran his gaze over his command and added, “But we've made our mark, none the less.”

Inch clambered through the entry port, his hat awry, his long horse-face bobbing to the side party and saluting marines.

He saw Bolitho and Herrick and almost ran towards them.

Bolitho smiled. “Easy, you'll have the people thinking we are on the retreat!”

Inch allowed himself to be led aft to the cabin before he burst out with, “We are mustering a great fleet, sir. Admiral Sir Hyde Parker is to command. He will break through the Sound and attack Copenhagen!”

Bolitho nodded slowly. It was much as Beauchamp had hinted. With the respite given to the Navy's scattered resources by the Baltic ice, it would soon be time to act. Before Tsar Paul could combine the strength of Sweden, Prussia and his own forces for an all-out attack, it would be necessary to intimidate the most vulnerable power, and Denmark was the obvious choice.

Bolitho felt no satisfaction in his heart. He remembered the green spires, the pleasant people, the elegant buildings of the city.

Herrick asked, “Who is Hyde Parker's second-in-command?”

Inch looked perplexed. “That is something I did not understand. It is Vice-Admiral Nelson.”

Herrick banged his palms together. “Typical! Nelson, the man who beat the Frenchies at the Nile, somebody who Jack would follow into the teeth of hell itself if need be, is expected to serve under Hyde Parker!”

Bolitho said nothing, but he knew what Herrick meant. It was like condemning Nelson for being a victor, a hero in his country's eyes. Hyde Parker was twenty years older than Nelson and very rich, and that was about all Bolitho knew of him. Except that he had a wife young enough to be his daughter, who was known throughout the fleet somewhat irreverently as Batter-Pudding.

Inch dragged a long envelope from inside his coat and handed it to Bolitho.

“Orders, sir.” He swallowed hard, his eyes trying to pierce the sealed cover. “
Our
part.”

Herrick took the cue. “Come to my cabin, Francis. We will drink a glass and you can tell me the latest scandal.”

Bolitho sat down slowly and slit open the envelope.

It was neatly and precisely laid down, and he could almost hear Beauchamp's dry tones as he read through the list of ships, some famous, many of which he had seen several times throughout his service. Their captains, too. As boys, as lieutenants, then as experienced commanders. It was a formidable fleet, but if the enemy was allowed to combine its forces, Hyde Parker's ships of the line, including Bolitho's, would be outnumbered by more than three to one.

He recalled what he had seen and learned in Copenhagen, the talk of block-ships and moored batteries, of the galleys and gun-brigs, bomb vessels, and knew this was to be no skirmish, no show of force to deter a would-be attacker. This was in deadly earnest, and the Danes would react with equal determination.

He called for Ozzard but Allday entered the cabin instead.

“We are to attack, Allday.” It was strange how simple it was to speak with him. “Would you ask Captain Herrick to come aft again, please?”

Allday nodded grimly. “Aye, sir.” He glanced at the two swords on their rack. “And I thought we might get away with it this time, sir. I reckon we've done our share.”