Colours Aloft! (10 page)

Bolitho said, “They must have seen us after the musket shot. But we're out of sight now. They'll think we're following the others.”

Stayt hissed, “Who are
they,
sir?”

Bolitho drew his sword and gripped it firmly. How many times— He realized what Stayt had asked. “Must be French.”

They seemed to outguess everything they did, where they went, what the ships were doing. It was unlikely that anyone knew he had moved to the cutter, but
Supreme
was one of his strength; even the wind on a lee shore was the same as that which had nearly done for
Barracouta.

Stayt had drawn his hanger and together they moved slowly towards the hillside, avoiding patches of sunlight, anything which might betray them. He wondered if Sheaffe had reached the beach yet. Unlikely, even running at full tilt.

He gritted his teeth to prevent him from despairing aloud.
Why didn't I think? I should have realized it was just the kind of trap Jobert might think of.
The secret was out now, that musket shot would have made sure of that.

“Look!” Stayt dropped on his knees. There were two men, taking their time, their weapons sheathed as they strolled down through the trees. Sailors obviously, and as they drew nearer Bolitho heard that they were speaking French.

They must have left a larger party to go back to the hill for the lookout's telescope. Bolitho could remember the seaman exactly, the glass under one arm, a good reliable hand. Now another carried it, and there was dried blood on the case.

“At them!”

Bolitho bounded over the bushes and charged onto the man with the telescope. He stared with utter astonishment and then made to draw his cutlass. He was hampered by the telescope. Bolitho slashed him across the face and as he toppled sideways drove the blade beneath his armpit. At no time did the man cry out. The other dropped to his knees and reached out imploringly. The lookout must have been popular for one of the seamen swung his musket and smashed him in the skull. The musket rose again but Stayt snapped curtly, “Enough, you fool, he'll not move again.”

The man with the musket picked up the telescope and followed Bolitho down the slope. But for their detour they would have been ambushed and the alarm given before they reached the beach.

He heard the dull bang of a cannon.
Supreme
had at last realized what was happening and had fired a recall.

There was a sudden fusillade of shots and wild shouts, then the brief clash of steel.

Bolitho broke into a run and burst through the last bushes and onto the beach. In seconds he saw it all. The grounded jollyboat, the gig caught halfway between the beach and the anchored cutter. Lieutenant Okes stood by the water's edge, a pistol in either hand. One he had just fired, the other he trained on a zigzagging figure which with several others was running towards his handful of seamen. Bolitho found time to notice that Okes stood quite still despite the yells and occasional musket balls, more like a wildfowler than a sea officer. The pistol cracked and the running man tore into the sand like a plough and lay still.

That seemed to deter the others, especially as Bolitho and his three companions charged towards them. Stayt fired twice, his silver pistol must have two barrels, and each shot found its mark.

Okes mopped his face with his sleeve. “Lor' bless you, sir, I thought the buggers 'ad done for you, beggin' yer pardon!”

Bolitho saw Bankart by the boat and Okes said as he reloaded a pistol. “We'd 'ave bin caught in th' open but for that lad.”

Bolitho looked past him. “Where's Mr Sheaffe?”

Okes dragged out his other pistol. “I thought 'e was with you, sir?”

Bolitho beckoned to Bankart. “Where's the midshipman?”

Bankart said, “He fell, sir. Back there. There was a hole, he rolled down some sort of cliff.”

Bolitho stared at him. “Cliff? There are none here!”

The others were clambering into the boats; there had been no casualties except for the lookout. Four corpses lay in attitudes of abandon, their blood already soaked into the sand.

Stayt tossed his hanger into the air and caught it by the blade before sliding it into its scabbard.

It was a neat trick for the blade had an edge like a razor. But Bolitho was in no mood for games.

“Can't leave him.”

Stayt said, “I'll go.” He eyed Bankart coldly. “Show me where it was, damn you.”

They reached the top of the beach and then saw Sheaffe stagger into the sunlight. His face was cut and bleeding but otherwise he seemed unharmed.

“Into the boats.” Bolitho put his hand on Sheaffe's shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“I fell.” Sheaffe dabbed his lip. “I hit two tree stumps.” He grimaced. “Knocked the wind out of me, sir.” His eyes cleared as he saw Bankart. “Where were you?”

Bankart faced him stubbornly. “I brought the message, like I was ordered.”

Bolitho walked towards the gig. There was more to it than that, but he was grateful they had survived.

He climbed into the boat and stared across at
Supreme.
She was already shortening her cable, and her sails were flapping in disorder as Hallowes made ready to leave.

Bolitho rubbed his chin, unaware of the oarsmen's curious glances. The French must have landed a party to see what they were doing. But for the seabirds and the lookout apparently ignoring the spectacle, they might have been attacked when the French had had time to land more men. So where were they?

Another four-pounder banged out from the cutter and Stayt said harshly, “They're aweigh!”

Hallowes, anchored where he was, had seen what the lookout would have reported had he been alive to cry out.

As if a piece of the headland itself was tearing adrift, Bolitho saw a ship coming around the point, her jib flapping as she tacked sharply to avoid the reefs.

She was a frigate.

Bolitho said, “Pull, lads! With all your might!” They needed no urging.

If they had not realized the lookout was dead, this frigate would have sailed right across the bay and raked
Supreme
into a bloody shambles.

Then the gig ground alongside and men clambered wildly aboard to throw themselves into the business of setting more sail.

The two boats drifted away. Bolitho saw Hallowes, strained and anxious. It was a pity about the boats. They might need them. He clung to a stay and watched the frigate taking up her courses to hold on the present bearing.

Whatever Hallowes did, he could never beat clear of the land in time.

Bolitho said, “Get your leadsmen to work! Mr Okes, do you know these waters well?”

Okes had somehow lost his hat. “Aye, a fair bit, sir.”

He turned as the leadsman began his chant. “The Frenchie won't dare come after us or he'll be in worse trouble.”

“I agree.” The frigate's captain would realize he had lost the bonus of surprise and would lie off and maybe attempt a cuttingout action with her boats at nightfall. That was half a day away.

Bolitho beckoned to Hallowes. “I suggest you anchor.”

Hallowes nodded, suddenly unable to think clearly.

Okes remarked, “The Frenchie's changed tack a piece, sir.”

The frigate was nearly a mile away with the next headland already reaching out to hide her. It would take her captain most of the day to claw offshore, to beat back again and attack at leisure. But first he intended to try to cripple his small quarry.

Bolitho watched the forward division of guns shoot out their long orange tongues and saw the iron making ripples across the sea's face like streaks of light.

It was a poorly aimed attempt. The second one was not.

The sea boiled and shot skywards alongside and Bolitho heard the balls slamming into the lower hull, a terrible scream as someone was cut down by splinters.

Hallowes was staring at the chaos, torn rigging and punctured sails, with blood already trickling down the larboard scuppers.

“Anchor, damn you!” Bolitho shook his arm. “You command here! So
do
it!”

Two balls hit the cutter together. One ploughed a black furrow across the deck and killed a man on the opposite side. The other smashed on to the mackerel-tail-shaped stern and blasted several buckets of sand and planking to fragments.

It was like being punched in the face. Bolitho fell on his side, dazed by the explosion and feeling the ache from his old wound probe through him from the fall. Men were crying out and he felt the deck shiver as something smashed down from aloft.

He clawed at his face and felt droplets of blood. An unknown voice shouted, “ 'Ere, sir! I'll give 'e a 'and!”

Bolitho gasped, “Anchor, now!” His voice suddenly loud as the firing stopped.

He stumbled over an inert body and clung to some dangling ropes.

“Here, sir—” The voice broke off as Bolitho dragged his hands from his face and stared round him.

Except that he could see nothing. It was noon when the frigate had fired, but he was standing in darkness, hands touching him, voices all round him in wild confusion.

“I'm here, sir.” It was Stayt.

Bolitho covered his eyes as the pain increased. “I'm blind. Oh, dear God, I can't see!”

He groped out and found Stayt's arm. “Get me below. Don't let them see me like this.” He gasped as the pain mounted.
I were better killed.

6
S
UPREME

C
APTAIN
Valentine Keen clung to the weather netting, his eyes raw from staring into sea and wind. Even his palms felt torn from gripping the tarred nettings to keep his balance.

All night long the gale had lashed the sea into a fury of leaping crests and great torrents of water which had boiled over the gangways and hurled men from their feet like flotsam. Now, as silver-grey streaked the sky, the motion was easier; dawn had come to mock their puny efforts.

There had been no point in trying to keep station on
Icarus.
Like the little brig
Rapid,
she had been out of sight throughout the onslaught.
Argonaute
had laid into the wind, hove-to under a reefed maintopsail for most of the time. If the ships had attempted to remain under sail they would have been scattered miles apart before dawn.

The first lieutenant staggered towards him. “I can get her under way again, sir.”

Keen glanced at the sailing-master in his sodden tarpaulin coat. Old Fallowfield said nothing, but it looked like a shrug.

“Very well. Pipe all hands. Change the masthead lookouts too. We'll need good eyes today if we are to re-form the squadron.”

Paget had done well, he thought, and his voice had kept the men at it from nightfall until now.

“All hands! All hands aloft to make sail!”

The yells of the petty officers and here and there the slap of a rope's end drove the battered, weary men back to the braces and yards.

Keen tugged at his neckcloth. Like the rest of him, it was sodden from spray and perhaps rain. The ship had responded better than he had expected. She was, as claimed, an excellent sailer.

He was vaguely pleased with his own efforts. He had controlled his ship throughout and the men and discipline which drove her. The deck trembled as the fore-topsail and jib were set and, flapping wetly, brought the helm under control again. Tuson would be busy. Keen had seen several hands injured. Worse, one seaman had been swept overboard, a terrible death for anyone, to watch the wind driving your ship away, your friends unable to help while you drown alone.

“Steady she goes, sir! Nor'-east by east!”

The sky was already clearing; it might even be a fine day after the night's fury. It was a strange sea, Keen thought.

“Take over the watch, Mr Paget.” Keen rubbed his sore eyes. “As soon as the galley fire is alight, send the hands to breakfast by divisions. Tell the purser to break out a tot per man. They've earned it.”

Paget grinned. “That'll rouse them, sir!” He turned away, obviously pleased to be left in charge with a big sea still running. Keen decided to mention him in his report; he needed a good first lieutenant, but the fleet needed those who could command.

Keen walked beneath the poop, his figure swaying in the darkness. He had not realized he was so tired and under so much strain. A scarlet coat loomed through the shadows and he saw Captain Bouteiller of the ship's Royal Marines waiting for him.

“Morning, Major.” Keen never really understood the marines although he admired them. Even the term “major” for the officer-in-charge seemed odd.

Bouteiller said, “I thought I should tell you myself, sir.” He had a clipped way of speaking, like a piece of equipment. “The, er, passenger wishes to speak with you.”

Keen nodded. “I see. When was this?”

The marine considered it. “Two hours back, sir. You were very busy at the time.”

It was too dark to see his face, not that Bouteiller would give anything away. What was he thinking?

“Very well. Thank you.”

Keen groped his way to the small door and could almost hear the sentry holding his breath. For once guard duty would have been most welcome, he thought. Every other man and boy, even the after-guard, had been on deck fighting their natural enemy.

A lantern, shuttered low, swung from the deckhead and he saw the girl lying on the cot, one leg hanging over the side and swaying with the ship, as if it was the only part of her alive. Keen closed the door. Tuson would definitely not approve, he thought.

Very gently he took her ankle and raised her leg towards the cot. She was still wearing her shirt and breeches, and as a beam of light swung across her face Keen thought she looked incredibly young.

Then her eyes were wide open and she stared at him with terror, her fingers gripping the shirt to her throat.

Keen did not move and waited. The fear, like a stormcloud, was slowly departing.

He said, “I am sorry. I only just heard you were asking for me. You were asleep. I would have gone—”

She pulled herself into a sitting position and peered at him.

Then she reached out and touched his coat and shirt.

She whispered, “You are soaking, Captain.”

Even the simple formality tore at Keen's heart.

He replied, “The storm has passed over.” He watched her fingers on his lapels and wanted to seize them, to press them to his lips. Instead he said, “Were you frightened?”

“Not as much as the other thing.” Ozzard had told him how he had found her cowering, hands pressed to her ears, while a seaman had been flogged for insubordination.

She said, “Such a big ship and yet there were times I thought she would break apart.” She played with a lapel, her lashes lowered. “I thought you might be worried for me. I wanted to tell you I was safe.”

Keen said, “Thank you.” Once during the storm he had imagined her beside him in the gale, her hair streaming, her teeth white while she had laughed, had ridden the storm with the ship.

“Yes, I was worried. You are not used to this life.”

Despite his guard he pictured the convict ship, what she would be like in a storm. He knew at once the girl had read the same thought.

She said, “I still cannot believe I am safe.” She looked up, her eyes bright and dark in turns as the lantern pivoted round. “
Am
I safe?”

He saw his hands take hers and hold them. She did not protest or pull away, nor did she take her eyes from his face. “Tell me, please.”

Keen said, “I had hoped to put you ashore at Gibraltar as you know. Now it seems I must wait. I sent word with the courier brig, the one commanded by Sir Richard's nephew. Letters will be sent as soon as mine reaches the City. Maybe you will have to remain aboard until my ship is ordered to Malta. Part of our work here is to protect the convoys. In Malta I have friends too.” He found he was pressing her hands in time with his words. “One thing I do know, Zenoria,” he let his voice linger over her name, “you will not be put aboard any convict vessel. I shall see to that.”

She asked quietly, “All this, you do it for me? You do not know me, sir, only what others have told you. You have seen me stripped and beaten like some whore.” Her chin lifted. “But I am not.”

He said, “I know that.”

She looked past him into the leaping shadows. “Would you care if we were somewhere else? In London maybe, or where your wife might see us?”

Keen shook his head. “I have never married. Once I—”

She responded by holding his fingers in hers. “But you loved somebody?”

Keen nodded. “Aye. She died. It was a long time ago.”

He looked up. “I cannot explain it, but it is real. Call it Fate, God's will, call it luck if you wish, but it is there, and it is not imagination. Some might say that everything is against me—” He tightened his grip as she made to speak. “No, it must be said. I am so much older than you. I am a King's officer and my duty lies with my ship until this damned war is won.” He raised her hands to his mouth, just as he had seen himself in his thoughts of her. “Do not laugh at me but hear me. I love you, Zenoria.” He expected her to pull away or to interrupt but she sat completely still, her eyes wide. He continued, “It is like a great weight hoisted from my mind.” He said it again, slowly, “I love you, Zenoria.”

He made to rise, but she threw her arms round his neck and whispered, “Do not look at me.” Her voice was in his ear. “I am dreaming. It cannot be happening. We are both bewitched.”

Very gently he prised her away and studied her face, the two bright lines of tears on her cheeks.

Then, still holding her, he kissed each cheek, tasting the salt, feeling his elation, the swift, impossible happiness.

He said, “Do not speak. Try to sleep now.” He stood back, her hands still in his. “It is not a dream, and I mean what I said.” His mind rushed on. “You can come aft for breakfast later on. I shall send Ozzard.”

He was speaking quickly, and he knew it was to prevent her from stopping it here and now.

He reached the door but her arms were still outstretched as if she was holding on to him.

Outside the little cabin there were two sentries and a marine corporal who was relieving the guard, hissing out his orders in a fierce whisper.

Keen nodded to them and said, “Good morning, Corporal Wenmouth, I think we have ridden out the storm, eh?”

He strode aft and did not see the astonishment on their faces.

Keen entered the stern cabin and stared around at the shadows and at the tossing water beyond the windows.

He was tingling, almost helpless with an excitement he had never known before. He threw his hat on to the bench seat and said aloud, “I
love
you, Zenoria.”

With a start he realized that Ozzard was watching him from the other screen door, his paws folded over his apron.

Ozzard asked politely, “Breakfast, sir?”

Keen smiled. “Not yet. I am expecting, er, company for that in an hour or so.”

“I see, sir.” Ozzard made to leave. “Oh, I
see,
sir!”

Others might be less pleased, but Keen did not care.

“Is everything satisfactory, Miss?” Ozzard hovered by the table, seizing a dish as it slid dangerously towards the edge.

She turned and looked up at him.

“It was lovely.”

From across the table Keen watched her profile as she spoke with Ozzard. She was beautiful, with her hair loose now across her shoulders; even the midshipman's shirt could not disguise it.

She turned and saw him watching her. “What is it?”

He smiled. “You. I could admire you all day and find something new every minute.”

She looked at her empty plate. “That is nonsense, sir, and you know it!” But she looked flushed. Perhaps even pleased.

Then she said quickly, “Tell me about your Sir Richard. Have you known him long?”

Keen listened to her voice. So alien here in a man's world. Yet so right.

“I have served under him several times. I was with him when he nearly died of fever.”

She studied his features as if to remember them. “Was that when you lost your love?”

He stared at her. “Yes. I did not say so—”

“It was written on your face.” She nodded to Ozzard as he removed the plate, then said, “War, fighting, you have seen so much. Why must you do it?”

Keen glanced round the cabin. “It's what I am. I have been at sea since I was a boy. It is what I am trained to do.”

“And do you never miss your home?” Her eyes were misty again but she seemed quite controlled.

“Sometimes. When I am on land I want to get back to my ship. At sea I think of fields and cattle. My brothers both farm in Hampshire. Sometimes I envy them.” He hesitated; he had never spoken like this to anyone.

She said, “Now I can tell
you
not to be afraid. Your words are safe with me.”

Overhead, feet slapped across the wet planking, and near the skylight a man laughed, another snapped a reprimand.

She said, “You love these men, don't you? Where you lead, they will follow.”

He reached across the table, the one where he had sat with the other captains. “Give me your hand.”

She offered it; they could barely reach one another.

He said, “One day we will walk ashore together. Somewhere, somehow, but we shall.”

She pushed some hair from her eyes and laughed, but her eyes were sad.

“Like this? I would be some companion for one of the King's officers.” She squeezed his hand and whispered. “The King's finest officer.”

Keen said, “I boarded a Genoese trader the other day.”

She looked surprised at his change of subject.

Keen added, “I bought a gown for you. I will have my servant bring it to you.” He felt unsure and clumsy. “You may not like it, or it might not fit, but—”

She said softly, “You are a sweet man, Captain. Even to think of it when you have all this to do. And I
will
like it.”

Keen ended lamely, “I have two sisters, you see—” He broke off, confused as the sentry beyond the screen doors shouted.