The Gold Seekers (35 page)

“Then of course you must, my dear fellow,” the Acheron’s captain acknowledged readily. “But it’s early. You’ve the whole forenoon before you. Time enough, surely, to call on Captain Skinner and ascertain what tidings the Huntsman has brought? The breeze is nor’easterly and brisk; your cutter can whisk you back to the hub of things, and the chances are that you’ll find the Huntsman’s commander closeted with the commodore by the time you present yourself. Damme, if our sailing orders have come, I want to know.’ And you can send your cox’un back with a note, if the Huntsman has brought any news of interest to us—you don’t have to come yourself. Come, be a good fellow, Broome. It’s not too much to ask of you, is it?”

“No, sir, of course not,” Red assured him. “A small return for your hospitality and for permitting me to study Mr. Evans’s charts.” He drew himself up. “If Mr. Elliott will be so good as to call away my cutter, I’ll take my leave now. And I hope I’ll be able to send you the news you want.”

The cutter—on loan to him and manned by a crew of veteran seamen from the dockyard establishment—made good use of the lively breeze, and a little more than an hour later Red was admitted to Commodore Skinner’s official residence.

As John Stokes had shrewdly forecast, the newly arrived ship’s captain must have come ashore as soon as his vessel had dropped anchor off Sydney Cove—no doubt in response to an imperious signal from the commodore, who, of late, had shown a marked preference for summoning his subordinates to him by means of the semaphore mounted on his roof, rather than exert himself by going out to meet them when they entered the Heads. For once, however, Red observed, Skinner was in an extremely affable mood, deferring to the tall officer seated facing him across his littered desk and addressing him with exaggerated courtesy as “My dear Sir James.”

The newcomer wore gold epaulets on both shoulders, denoting that he had held post rank for more than three years, but at first glance he appeared too young to be of the same rank and seniority as the Sydney squadron’s commander. About his own age, Red decided, or at most a year or two older. He was dark-haired and of a thin but wiry build, and there was something oddly familiar about him when he turned his head in response to Skinner’s introduction.

“Permit me to present Commander Broome. This is Captain Sir James Willoughby, Broome, who has just brought the Huntsman into port, as doubtless you’ll have observed. You have called at an opportune moment, since—”

Sir James Willoughby cut him short. Rising to his feet, he went to meet Red with both hands eagerly extended.

“Red, my dear chap, how good it is to see you again! It’s been a long time—the Woosung River in ‘42, wasn’t it? You were with that incredibly brave firebrand Captain Henry Keppel, in the Dido, and I was acting first of Inflexible. Your gig took the admiral ashore, and we met in the wreckage of the town. On the anniversary of Waterloo, I seem to recall.”

“Indeed it was,” Red agreed, pleased beyond measure at the unexpected encounter with so old a friend. James Willoughby was the son of Rear Admiral Sir Francis Willoughby and had inherited the baronetcy after the admiral’s death, in place of his elder brother, who … Red stiffened, remembering.

Good Lord, of course—Robert Willoughby had come out to Australia to farm, and had lost his life in an encounter with a party of bushrangers! James had inherited his brother’s land grant and his stock; he had quit the navy with the intention of remaining in the colony to farm and— Red warmly wrung the young post captain’s hands.

“I really regretted giving you my place in the Success’s midshipmen’s berth,” Willoughby said, as if Red had spoken his thoughts aloud. “Lord, it took me only a couple of months to discover that I wasn’t cut out for farming, Red. So I went back to the service and was fortunate enough to be taken as supernumerary by Captain Clement Lowe of the Lapwing. I went home in her, and then …” He talked on, filling in the gaps, which, in the awful carnage of Woosung, there had been neither time nor inclination to fill. Captain Skinner listened with ill-concealed irritation and finally broke in, a distinct edge to his voice.

“Gentlemen, you will have ample leisure to discuss your respective naval achievements at some later date, I feel sure, and no doubt in more, ah, congenial surroundings than my office can provide.”

“So we will,” James Willoughby conceded imperturbably. “I must beg your indulgence, Captain Skinner. I let my tongue run away with me. But it is not very often that I encounter a friend of Commander Broome’s standing in my esteem, and as you’ll have realized, we haven’t met since the China war.” He smiled, seemingly amused by Skinner’s indignation, and the commodore’s color deepened. “But of course, sir,” Willoughby went on smoothly, before his superior could speak, “you will be anxious to acquaint Broome with the news of your new appointment.”

Skinner accepted the proffered olive branch with a bad grace. “I’m to command the Monarch, “he announced coldly. “A line-of-battle ship!” Red exclaimed. “My congratulations, sir.” It was, he was well aware, a considerable step up; the commodore’s last command had been the Havannah frigate, and the Monarch was an eighty-four-gun three-decker of the second rate.

“Thank you,” Skinner acknowledged, his tone a trifle warmer. “It means, of course, that I shall be leaving this station and handing over my responsibilities to Captain Willoughby.” He glanced down at the scattered papers on his desk and released a sigh. “The Acheron is ordered home to pay off. I shall take passage in her as soon as she can be prepared for sea.”

John Stokes would be over the moon, Red thought, but he hid his smile and avoided Skinner’s eye as the commodore went on. “Ah, I shall take my nephew, Lieutenant Frazer Skinner, with me, of course, since he’s under my patronage.” He hesitated, still continuing to avoid meeting Red’s gaze.

“Lieutenant Skinner is presently in Hobart, is he not, sir?” Red prompted with well-simulated innocence. “In acting command of the Galah.”

He had the satisfaction of witnessing Captain Skinner’s obvious discomfiture and added, without heat, “Pending the result of the court of inquiry into my relationship with the widow of the late Captain Lucas?”

“Quite so,” Skinner conceded. “Ah …” He made a show of searching among his papers, his color deepening. James Willoughby, clearly puzzled by this exchange, looked across at Red with raised brows but said nothing, as Skinner cleared his throat and said reluctantly, “Ah, Judge De Lancey has intimated that, in his view, you are blameless, Commander Broome. He, ah—that is, he has approached me with the stated intention of giving evidence to the court on your behalf, whilst admitting his son’s, ah, culpability. In the light of that, I have decided that an inquiry will not be necessary.”

“I’m glad of that, sir,” Red responded evenly. When, he wondered, had the commodore made his decision to forgo the court of inquiry? But aware that to ask as much might well provoke an outburst, he restrained himself and questioned deferentially, “Am I restored to command of my ship, then, sir?”

“Certainly you are,” Skinner answered. “The whole, ah, unfortunate affair is best forgotten, since it is evident that the charges against you were based on a series of untruths, perpetrated by—well, we need not go into that now, I think, in Captain Willoughby’s presence. No.” With a return to his accustomed, blustering tone, the commodore added,

“You’ll accompany me to Hobart on board the Acheron, Commander Broome, where you will relieve Lieutenant Skinner of command of the Galah.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Red acknowledged. Again meeting James Willoughby’s mutely questioning gaze, he shook his head and rose. “If that’s all, sir, I’ll leave you with Captain Willoughby. I imagine you’ll have much to arrange and—”

But Willoughby rose with him, smiling. “Nothing that cannot wait, my dear fellow,” he asserted easily. “You must permit me to offer you luncheon aboard the Huntsman, if you can spare the time. We’ve the gap of years to span, have we not? Then, by your leave, Captain Skinner—” His leave-taking was brisk and unceremonious, and once outside the commodore’s house, he clapped a hand about Red’s shoulders and asked curiously, “What the devil was all that about, Red? A court of inquiry, for the Lord’s sake, charges based on—what did Skinner call them? A series of untruths? And your command given to his precious nephew?”

“It’s quite a long story, sir.” Red flushed, seeking to evade the question. “And past history now.”

“I have all the time in the world to listen. And damme, Red, don’t stand on ceremony, I beg you. I’m Jamie Willoughby, remember, and we were mids together in the old days. I was made post only three years ago, and that by fortunate chance, when an uncle of mine hauled down his flag and wasn’t enamored of any of my seniors.” Willoughby gave vent to an amused and faintly cynical laugh. “It pays to have patronage in the Royal Navy, as doubtless the younger Skinner will have cause to appreciate one of these days. Come on, tell me the story, however long it takes. You can lunch with me, can’t you?”

“I have to attend a wedding this afternoon,” Red told him. He consulted his pocket watch. “It would be cutting it a mite fine, if I came out with you to the ship. But I’m living ashore at present, in my father’s house, which is ten minutes’ walk from here. Why do you not lunch with me and—yes, of course! Attend the wedding with me? It is that of another old friend, whom you may perhaps remember. Claus Van

Buren.” James Willoughby’s brows met in an effort to remember.

“Claus Van—oh, Lord, yes, I do recall that name, and with reason! My brother fought a duel with Major Van Buren soon after he came out here.”

“The late and unlamented Major Van Buren,” Red supplied. “Claus was his son from a marriage with a Javanese woman. He had a wretched childhood, but Van Buren acknowledged him before he died, and Claus inherited a couple of trading vessels. From that beginning he’s built up a very prosperous enterprise. Indeed, he is one of the colony’s leading shipping merchants now. His latest acquisition is a Boston-built clipper schooner, the Dolphin, which you may have noticed at her moorings when you came in.”

James pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “Yes, I did. And it’s his wedding you’re suggesting I should attend?”

“That’s so, Jamie, yes. You will be welcome, I’m sure. He is wedding an American girl, whom he met in San Francisco.” Red waved a hand at the road ahead. “My father’s house is in Elizabeth Bay—a white two-story house, perched on the hill overlooking the bay. As I said, it’s only ten minutes’ walk from here, but if you’ll excuse me, I have a message to give to the cox’un of my cutter.” He gestured to the waiting boat and, after taking a used envelope from his pocket, scribbled a few words on it, smiling as he did so. “For John Stokes of the Acheron. You brought the news he’s been waiting for.”

“His orders to sail for home?”

“Yes—they are long overdue.” Red folded the envelope. “The Acheron’s been out here for well over four years, on survey duties. But we had a recent scare concerning the possibility of war with Russia and a rumored attack by a squadron of the Russian Pacific Fleet. The Governor was advised to put Sydney in a state of defense, and Commodore Skinner would not permit the Acheron to go. She’s under steam, you see, and he’s kept her as guard ship in Watson’s Bay. I—excuse me, if you will.”

James Willoughby waited until Red had entrusted his missive to the cutter’s coxswain, and then, as they fell into step together to breast the slight slope, he said gravely, “The possibility of our being drawn into war with Russia is more than a scare, Red, although I doubt whether you will see any

Russian warships here. The most likely naval confrontations will be in the Black Sea and the Baltic—particularly the Black Sea and the Bosporus. The Tsar is said to be casting acquisitive eyes on Turkey. …”

He went into carefully reasoned detail as they strode briskly through the Government Domain, and Red listened in shocked surprise. The twelve thousand miles that separated Australia from the mother country formed a barrier of both time and distance, he reflected, and news of impending conflict in Europe was always slow in reaching the colony, since the ships that bore it were subject to the vagaries of wind and weather. James Willoughby’s frigate had made a comparatively fast passage, but even so … “Do you believe that war is likely?” he asked.

“It’s on the cards, Red, no doubt of that. Lord Aberdeen’s government will do all in their power to prevent it, that goes without saying. Our fighting forces are overstretched—in India, China, and even New Zealand. But we and the French have treaties with Turkey, and any act of aggression by the Tsar would drag us in, however reluctantly.” Willoughby sighed. “I was in two minds about coming out here, when I was offered the appointment. But it’s for only two years, and I think we’ll have that long before anything drastic happens. I hope so, anyway. I want to pay a visit to New Zealand—I’ve three sisters at the Rangihowa Mission, in the Bay of Islands.”

Again he went into detail, speaking with warm affection of the sisters he had not seen since his midshipman’s days.

“I moved heaven and earth to have myself sent out during the trouble with the Maoris on North Island six years ago,” he confided. “But Their Lordships had other ideas. The Inflexible went there from China, as I expect you know, but I’d been invalided and sent home, and when the surgeons finally released me from their clutches, I had to be thankful that my uncle applied for me to join him in the West Indies. It gave me my step, but—” James shrugged. “Anyway, Red old friend, I’m here. Now, indulge my curiosity, won’t you, and tell me about the court of inquiry that Skinner has decided not to hold.”

Over luncheon, in the house overlooking Elizabeth Bay, Red told him of the events that had led up to his being relieved of his command. James heard him without interruption and, when the brief recital had ended, shook his head in disbelief.

“Somewhat autocratic, our friend the late commodore, is he not?”

“A trifle so. But the evidence against me was conflicting, to say the least, and poor Lucas’s death ill-timed. It placed Skinner in an awkward position,” Red defended, his tone resigned. “I had supposed, though, that when Dora Lucas eloped with young De Lancey, he would at least have given me the benefit of the doubt.”