Alexander Kent - THE INSHORE SQUADRON Страница 17

Herrick tried not to listen to the movements beyond the closed door.

Then he answered simply, `We met with Vice-Admiral Ropars three days ago. That man you just saw, who may well die before another hour is out, dispersed the enemy and destroyed one of his seventy-fours.' In the silent cabin his words were like pistol shots.

The lieutenant said shakily, 'That was bravely done, sir. Do you have orders for me?'

Herrick looked at the door. 'Presently.'

Lieutenant the Honourable Oliver Browne watched Herrick's stocky shadow sweeping back and forth beyond the cabin lanterns.

The ship's motion had got a good deal worse during the day, and Browne could not even imagine the surgeon's difficulties in such conditions. Now, it was early dark, and it was obvious that Herrick was driving himself to a complete collapse unless he rested from his work. Browne knew why Herrick was keeping himself busy when others could have done some of the tasks needing attention, but he did not know how.

The masthead lookouts had reported a signal from Relentless as she prowled along her patrol line to the north-west of the anchored ships. Commodore Rice's Downs Squadron had been sighted, but even as the signal had been read and repeated to the other captains, dusk, aided by a fast-moving rain-squall, had blotted out everything from view.

Herrick said, 'I shall inform Commodore Rice of our situation. We can fight, but some hull damage needs more careful attention. I will ask permission to leave the area and return to port.'

Browne nodded. The Benbow had certainly taken the worst of the battering, with more than a third of the squadron's total casualties. Two more men had been buried that day, surprisingly, neither had been expected to die at all.

Herrick threw his papers on the table and said desperately, `What is that damned butcher doing?'

`His best, sir.' It sounded so trite, so far short of what he had meant that Browne expected Herrick to fly at him.

Instead Herrick said, `I have never cared more for any man, d'you know that? We have seen action together from here to the Great South Sea. I could tell you things which would make you shake with fear and with pride.'

Herrick was looking at Browne as he spoke but his blue eyes were far-away, reliving moments which Browne knew full well he could never share.

Herrick said, `Storms, raging gales which threatened to tear the sticks out of the ship, but we saw them through, we managed, d'you understand me?'

'I – I think so, sir.'

'I was the one who had to take him the message about his young wife. They said it came better from me, but how can terrible news like that ever be better?'

Herrick sat on the edge of the cabin table and leaned towards the lieutenant as if to emphasize his words.

'Down on the orlop, one of our people shouted out to him and called him Dick.' He gave a sad smile. 'In his frigate Phalarope they used to call him that. Equality Dick. He cares, you see.'

Herrick stared past Browne's head as the cabin door swung

open, the other shipboard noises intruding like strangers. Allday stood there, filling the entrance, his face like stone. Herrick leapt to his feet. 'What is it, man?'

Browne strode across the cabin and gripped Allday's arm.

'For God's sake!'

Allday said in a small voice, 'I would relish a glass of something strong, sir.' He made a great effort. 'The surgeon says he'll live, sir.'

He sounded stunned, as if he was only half aware of what was happening to him. The three of them stood together, swaying in time with Benbow's deep roll, each wanting to speak but only Allday with the words.

Then Herrick said, 'Go on.'

He backed across the cabin as if by taking his eyes off Allday he would destroy everything. He groped for a bottle and some glasses.

Allday took the brandy and swallowed it without apparently noticing.

Herrick said gently, 'I thought the surgeon told you to leave?'

'You know better than that, sir.' Allday held out the glass to be refilled. 'Hours they were. All that blood. Even old Loveys…' He shook himself. 'Meaning no disrespect, sir, but ' he was taken aback by it.'

Herrick listened, fascinated, reliving it through Allday's hesitant words.

Allday continued, 'The surgeon said that if he hadn't fallen from the cot he would have lost the leg. The wound burst, and Mr Loveys found another splinter of metal and some more cloth with his forceps.'

Herrick sat down heavily. 'Thank God.' He had thought until now that Bolitho had lived but had lost his leg.

Allday looked round the cabin, his face still stricken. 'I – I'm sorry, sir, I shouldn't have burst in here without so much as a by-your-leave.'

Herrick handed him the bottle. 'Go to your quarters and drink what is left. I think you've done enough.'

Allday nodded slowly and walked towards the door. Then he turned and murmured, 'He opened his eyes, sir.' Allday rubbed his chin to confirm it. 'And d'you know the first thing he said to me?'

Herrick did not speak, unable to watch the tears on Allday's stubbled cheeks.

' "You've not shaved, you ruffian!" That's what he said, sir!'

Browne closed the door quietly. Allday had left it swinging to the ship's motion. He was in a world all of his own.

Browne sat down and looked at the deck. 'Now I understand, sir.'

When Herrick said nothing he realized the captain had fallen asleep in his chair.

Very carefully Browne left the cabin and made his way to the companion ladder. He almost collided with the surgeon who was holding to the ladder while he waited for the ship to sway upright again. Browne noticed that Loveys' hands were like red gloves.

He said, `Come to the wardroom and I will open a bottle, you more than deserve it.'

Loveys regarded him suspiciously. 'I'm not a wizard, you know. Rear-Admiral Bolitho may have a relapse, and at best he will probably endure pain and a limp for the rest of his life.' He smiled unexpectedly, and for once the strain showed itself to its full extent. 'Mind you, Mr Browne, I'm quite pleased myself.'

Herrick left his chair and groped his way from the cabin. His exhaustion had been a useful excuse. Had he continued to speak with Browne he knew that he, like Allday, would have been unable to hide his emotion.

He stepped on to the quarterdeck, his eyes distinguishing the darker shapes in the gloom, the guns, the nettings finely etched against the evening sky.

The master's mate of the watch was by the poop ladder, while one of the midshipmen was writing something on his slate as he held it against the compass light.

All around the ship groaned and clattered as she swung heavily to her cable, her decks shining with rain, the sea air like ice.

Herrick saw the officer of the watch on the far side of the deck and called, 'Mr Pascoe!'

Pascoe hurried towards him, his shoes making little sound

on the wet planking.

He hesitated, his eyes trying to pierce the darkness as he said,

'You want me, sir?'

'It's over, Adam. He's going to live, and with two legs.' He turned away, adding, 'I shall be in my cabin if needed.' 'Aye, aye, sir!'

Pascoe waited until he had disappeared and then clapped his hands together.

The midshipman gasped, 'Sir? Is something wrong?'

Pascoe had to share it, to tell somebody. 'Not any more! – I've never felt better!'

He strode away, leaving the midshipman as mystified as before. He cared about the admiral, of course, but in a midshipman's life there were so many things to worry about. These calculations, for instance. Old Grubb, the master, wanted them before morning. He would take no excuses from anyone.

The slate shook as the youth relived that terrible and splendid moment. The rear-admiral waving his hat and defying the enemy's blazing guns. Men cheering and dying.

And he, Mr Midshipman Edward Graham of the County of Hampshire, had survived.

Unknown to the thirteen-year-old midshipman, Richard Bolitho was thinking very much the same.

10. The Fantasy

After one of the stormiest passages Bolitho could recall, Benbow had at last dropped anchor at Spithead. They had been away for nearly three months, a short time to any experienced sea officer, but Bolitho had not expected to see Spithead again, or anywhere else for that matter.

The tossing waves with curling crests of dirty yellow were almost beautiful, and the clinging damp air of the cabin no longer seemed irksome.

Bolitho stood back carefully from the stern windows, taking the strain on his wounded leg, trying not to cry aloud as the pain lanced upwards. Each day, supported by Allday or Ozzard, and on the stormiest days by both, he had forced himself to take a few steps.

Pride, anger – he was still not certain which – had made him start on the road to recovery. He suspected that Commodore Rice of the Downs Squadron had quite unsuspectingly had a lot to do with it.

Herrick had requested that Rice should take over the charge of the combined squadrons while he sailed Benbow to a dockyard for proper inspection and repair.

Rice had almost snubbed Herrick, probably eager to get back to his own, less arduous station, and he likely imagined Bolitho already dying and Herrick too junior for his consideration. Whatever it had been, Bolitho had called for Yovell and had dictated a curt despatch for the commodore. Rice would remain in temporary command of the combined squadron until otherwise instructed. If Ropars or other enemy ships attempted to enter the Baltic they would have to face a much larger force and at far greater risk.

Herrick tapped on the door and entered. 'We are anchored, sir.' He watched Bolitho doubtfully and added, 'You should rest.'

`Would you have me dropped in the boat by bosun's chair, Thomas? Like that surgeon we once had, or some piece of unwanted cargo?' He winced as the deck tilted steeply. 'But I will take care.'

Herrick smiled. 'Aye, sir. As soon as the tide turns I intend to enter Portsmouth Dockyard. I have sent word to the port admiral to that effect.' He added gravely, 'The sixth lieutenant has just died. So near to home.'

Bolitho nodded. It was kinder this way. A young officer with half of his face blown away and his mind equally crippled would be an embarrassment ashore. Now, his memory would be cherished by his family.

He said, 'A lot of good men, Thomas. I hope they did not die in vain.'

Herrick smiled. 'Put it behind you, sir. We've had to do that often enough.'

'And what will you do?'

'Once docked, I will send the midshipmen and some of the married men to their homes.'

Bolitho understood. By married men Herrick meant lieutenants and warrant officers. Seamen, no matter how loyal, might soon desert when they found the comfort of their homes again.

Herrick was saying, 'I will remain with the ship, of course. Please God, my wife will join me here.'

Bolitho sat down with great care. 'The best of both worlds, Thomas, and rightly so.'

'That is true. I am lucky.' He sounded almost unhappy at the thought. 'Will you be going to the Admiralty, sir?'

Bolitho grimaced. 'Yes. I would rather do ten crossings in this ship than aboard the London coach!'

Ailday looked through the door. He was smartly dressed in his gilt-buttoned coat and buckled shoes.

'I have ordered the barge crew to muster, sir.'

Herrick stared at him, appalled. 'You don't intend to be pulled ashore, sir! We will be in the yard by tonight. You can catch the coach from the George tomorrow forenoon.'

Bolitho smiled at his concern. 'I must learn to walk again, Thomas. And something tells me not to drag my feet here.'

Herrick sighed. 'If you have made up your mind…'

Allday grinned. 'We both know about that, eh, sir?'

Beyond the cabin Bolitho heard the stamp of feet and the squeal of tackles. Benbow was home again, but to watchers on the foreshore she would be just another ship. Safer at a distance, better to read about in the Gazette than to examine at close quarters. To those uninvolved a ship was a ship. Not muscle and bone, blood and fear.

Bolitho allowed Ozzard to help him into his coat. He kept his face impassive but guessed that neither Herrick nor Ailday was fooled. He was sweating with pain, and every effort was like a separate challenge to his resources. Sword and belt, then his hat, while Ozzard rearranged his queue over the gold-laced collar.

Ailday adjusted the sword-belt and muttered, 'If you get a mite thinner, sir, this will be no bigger than a hound's collar!'

Browne appeared in the doorway, already wearing his boat cloak.

'Barge alongside, sir.'

He ran his eyes over Bolitho's appearance and nodded with approval.

With Herrick in the lead they walked out beneath the poop and on to the wet quarterdeck.

Bolitho stared at the great crowd of seamen in the shrouds and massed along the gangways.

Herrick said quickly, 'I gave no order, sir.'

Bolitho removed his hat and walked slowly towards the side.

The entry port seemed a mile away, and each slow tilt of the deck threatened to hurl him down. He felt light-headed, dazed by the experience of living. It was his first time on deck since the musket ball had smashed him down. Pain, loss of blood, he needed no reminding at this moment.

Browne hissed, 'Lean on me, sir.' Even he had lost his usual calm. 'I beg of you.'

Quite suddenly a man gave a cheer, to be backed up instantly by a great roar of voices which ran through the ship like a tide-race.

Pascoe was waving his hat with the rest, his smile telling everything.

Grubb in his shabby coat, the towering shape of Lieutenant Wolfe, all the faces which had become names. People.

'Carry on, Mr Browne.' Bolitho held out his hand to Herrick. `I'll keep you informed, Thomas. My regards to your lady.' He was speaking between his teeth to contain the pain.

He looked down at the swaying boat below, the bargemen in their neat checkered shirts and tarred hats, the oars very white against the dull sea.

Now or never. Bolitho stepped outboard and concentrated his full attention on the boat, on Allday, stiff-backed, with his hat in one hand while he watched, ready to aid his descent.

The squeal of calls, the cheers of the seamen, helped to cover his discomfort, each gasping step, until with a final effort he reached the barge.

As the boat pulled away Bolitho looked up at the Benbow's tumblehome, at the makeshift repairs to the shot holes, to the clawing scars of grape and canister along the gangway.

As the oarsmen found their stroke, Bolitho looked astern towards the pointing figurehead. Vice-Admiral Benbow had lost his leg. Bolitho had almost joined him.

It was a long hard pull, and yet in some ways it helped to restore Bolitho's strength. The boat's liveliness, the darting fingers of spray across his face made a change from the thirdrate's damp confines.

Some marine pickets forced a way for Bolitho and his companions through a duster of onlookers who had come to watch his arrival.

In Falmouth, even Plymouth, he would have been recognized on sight. Here, they saw far more senior admirals than Bolitho coming and going with the tides.

A woman held up her small child and shouted, `Is it Nelson?'

Another said, `He's been in a battle, whoever he is.'

Bolitho stared at an elegant carriage which was waiting in the shelter of the wall.