2

REMEMBER NELSON

“MAY I ASSURE YOU, Sir Richard, that no disrespect was intended …”

Bolitho walked to the cabin stern windows, half listening to the clatter of blocks and the surge of water alongside as Truculent rolled, hove-to in the swell. This would need to be quick. As predicted by Poland’s sailing-master, the wind would soon return. He could not see the other frigate, and guessed that she was standing slightly downwind of her smaller consort.

He turned and sat on the bench seat, gesturing to a chair. “Some coffee, Captain Varian?” He heard Ozzard’s quiet footsteps and guessed that the little man was already preparing it. It gave Bolitho time to study his visitor.

Captain Charles Varian was a direct contrast to Poland. Very tall and broad-shouldered, self-confident: probably the landsman’s idea of a frigate captain.

Varian said, “I was eager for news, Sir Richard. And seeing this ship, well—” He spread his big hands and gave what was intended as a disarming smile.

Bolitho watched him steadily. “It did not occur to you that a ship from the Channel Squadron might not have time to waste in idle gossip? You could have closed to hailing distance, surely.”

Ozzard pattered in with his coffee pot and peered unseeingly at the stranger.

Varian nodded. “I was not thinking. And you, Sir Richard —of all people, to be out here when you must be needed elsewhere …” The smile remained, but his eyes were strangely opaque. Not a man to cross, Bolitho decided. By a subordinate, anyway.

“You will need to return to your command directly, Captain. But first I would appreciate your assessment of the situation here.” He sipped the hot coffee. What was the matter with him? He was on edge, as he had been since … After all, he had done it himself as a young commander. So many leagues from home, and then the sight of a friendly ship.

He continued, “I have come with new orders.”

Varian’s inscrutable expression sharpened immediately.

He said, “You will know, Sir Richard, that most of the force intended for retaking Cape Town from the Dutch is already here. They are anchored to the north-west, near SaldanhaBay. Sir David Baird commands the army, and Commodore Popham the escorting squadron and transports. I have been told that the landings will begin very shortly.” He hesitated, suddenly uncertain under Bolitho’s level gaze.

“You are with the supporting squadron.” It was a statement, and Varian shrugged while he moved his cup across the table.

“That is so, Sir Richard. I am still awaiting some additional vessels to rendezvous as planned.” When Bolitho said nothing he hastened on, “I had been patrolling in the vicinity of Good Hope and then your topsails were sighted. I thought a straggler had finally arrived.”

Bolitho asked quietly, “What of your senior officer—Commodore Warren? I am surprised that he would release his biggest fifth-rate at a time when he might need your full support.”

He had a vague picture of Commodore Warren in his mind, like a faded portrait. He had known him briefly during the ill-fated attempt by the French Royalists to land and retake Toulon from the Revolutionary army. Bolitho had been a captain then like Varian, and his ship had been Hyperion. He had not seen Warren since. But the navy was a family and he had heard of him serving on various stations in the West Indies and the Spanish Main.

Varian said abruptly, “The Commodore is unwell, Sir Richard. In my opinion he should never have been given—”

Bolitho said, “As the senior captain you have assumed over-all charge of the supporting squadron; is that it?”

“I have made a full report, Sir Richard.”

“Which I shall read in due course.” Bolitho moved his hand consciously away from his eyelid and added, “It is my intention to hasten the attack on Cape Town. Time is of the essence. Which is why this fast passage was of the utmost importance.” He saw the shot go home but continued, “So we will return to the squadron in company. I intend to see Commodore Warren without delay.”

He stood up and walked to the quarter windows to watch the crests beginning to ruffle like crisp lace in the wind. The ship was rising to it. Eager to move again.

Varian tried to recompose himself. “The other vessels, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho said, “There are none. There will be none. As it is I am authorised to despatch several of the ships here directly to England.”

“Has something happened, sir?”

He said quietly, “Last October our fleet under Lord Nelson defeated the enemy off Cape Trafalgar.”

Varian swallowed hard. “We did not know, Sir Richard!” For once he seemed at a loss. “A victory! By God, that is great news.”

Bolitho shrugged. “Brave Nelson is dead. So the victory is a hollow one.”

There was a tap at the door and Poland stepped into the cabin. The two captains glanced at one another and nodded like old acquaintances, but Bolitho sensed they were completely divided as if by the bars of a smithy’s furnace.

“The wind is freshening from the nor’-west, Sir Richard.” Poland did not look again at the other man. “Zest’s gig is still hooked on to the chains.”

Bolitho held out his hand. “I shall see you again, Captain Varian.” He relented slightly. “The blockade continues around all enemy ports. It is vital. And though heartened by our victory at Trafalgar, our own forces are weakened by it nonetheless.”

The door closed behind them and Bolitho heard the shrill of calls as Varian was piped over the side into his gig.

He moved restlessly about the cabin, remembering one of the meetings he had had with Admiral Sir Owen Godschale at the Admiralty. The last one, in fact, when he had outlined the need for urgency. The Combined Fleets of France and Spain had been thoroughly beaten, but the war was not won. Already it had been reported that at least three small French squadrons had broken through the tightly-stretched blockade, and had seemingly vanished into the Atlantic. Was this to be Napoleon’s new strategy? To raid ports and isolated islands, to prey upon supply ships and trade routes, to give the British squadrons no rest while they, the French, gathered another fleet?

He could almost smile at Godschale’s contemptuous dismissal of the enemy’s strength. One group which had outwitted the blockading squadron off Brest had been under the veteran Vice Amiral Leissegues, and his flagship was the 120-gun first-rate Imperial. Hardly small.

The French might even have their eye on Cape Town. It was impossible to guess at the havoc they could create there. They could sever the routes to India and the East Indies as surely as the blade of an axe.

He remembered the studied coolness between Godschale and himself. The admiral had been a contemporary of his; they had even been posted together on the same date. There was no other similarity.

Bolitho was suddenly conscious of the distance between himself and Catherine. Godschale, like so many others, had tried to keep them apart, may even have plotted with Belinda to have Catherine dishonoured and lost in lies. But Bolitho doubted that. The admiral was too fond of his own power and comfort to risk a scandal. Or was he? It was openly said that Godschale’s next step was to the House of Lords. There might be others there who would wish to destroy them through Godschale.

Catherine’s words rang in his ears. Don’t you see what they are doing to us?

Perhaps this mission to the Cape was merely a beginning. To keep him employed without respite, knowing that he would never resign, no matter what they did.

He crossed to the rack and touched the old family sword, dull by contrast with the fine presentation blade below it. Other Bolithos had worn it, proved it, and sometimes had fallen with it still gripped in a dead hand. He could not see any of them giving up without a fight. The thought gave him comfort, and when Allday came into the cabin he saw him smiling, the first time for a long while.

Allday said, “The whole squadron will know about Lord Nelson by now, Sir Richard. It’ll take the heart out of some.” He gestured towards the nearest gunport as if he could already see the African mainland. “Not worth dyin’ for, they’ll say. Not like standing ‘twixt the mounseers and England, clearin’ the way like we did!”

Bolitho was moved beyond his own anxieties and said, “With old oaks like you about, they’ll soon take heed!”

Allday gave his slow grin. “I’ll wager two o’ the cap’ns will have some grief afore long as well.”

Bolitho eyed him severely. “You damned fox! What do you know of it?”

“At present, not much, Sir Richard. But I does know that Cap’n Poland was once the other gentleman’s first lieutenant.”

Bolitho shook his head. Without Allday he would have nobody to share his feelings or fears. Others looked to him only for leadership—they wanted nothing more.

Allday took down the sword and wrapped it in his special cloth.

“But it’s what I always says, Sir Richard, and every true Jack knows it.” He gave another grin. “It’s aft the most honour may be, but forrard you finds the better men. An’ that’s no error!”

After Allday had gone Bolitho seated himself at the table and opened his personal log. Inside it was the letter he had started when England’s mist and drizzle had faded astern, and the long passage had begun.

When she would read it, or if it even reached her, he would not know until she was in his arms. Her skin against his, her tears and her joy mingled with his own.

He leaned over the letter while he touched the locket through his new shirt.

Another dawn, dearest Kate, and how I long for thee …

He was still writing when the ship changed tack yet again, and from the high masthead came the cry that the assembled ships had been sighted.

Bolitho went on deck at noon, and felt the sun strike his face and shoulders like fire; his shoes stuck to the deckseams as he strode to the hammock-nettings with a telescope from the rack.

Mountains, red and pink in the harsh, misty glare, and over all the sun, which was like burnished silver, strong enough to drain all colour from the sky around it.

He shifted the glass slightly, his legs braced as the lazy offshore swell lifted the keel and rolled noisily down either beam. Table Mountain, a paler wedge, but still shrouded in haze and mystery like some giant’s altar.

There were the ships. His eyes moved professionally across the mixed collection. The elderly sixty-four Themis, which he knew was Commodore Warren’s ship. Warren was ill. How ill? He had not enquired further of Varian. It would show his hand, or display uncertainty when he must soon need these unknown men to trust him without question.

Another frigate, some schooners and two large supply vessels. The cream of the attacking force would be as Varian had described, to the north-west where the ships could anchor well offshore, whereas here there was only one natural bank shallow enough to ride at their cables. Beyond the hundred-fathom line the sea’s bed fell away to infinity, a black oblivion where nothing moved.

He saw sunlight flashing on glass and knew they were watching Truculent’s slow approach, as surprised by his flag at the fore as Varian had been.

Captain Poland joined him by the side.

He said, “Do you think it will be a long campaign, Sir Richard?”

He spoke with elaborate care, and Bolitho guessed he was probably wondering what had passed between himself and Varian in the cabin. Bolitho lowered the telescope and faced him.

“I have had some dealings with the army in the past, Captain. They are more used to campaigns than I care for. A battle is one thing—you win or you strike. But all this drawn-out business of supplies and marching is not for me.”

Poland gave a very rare smile. “Nor me, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho turned to look for Jenour. “You may signal for water lighters when you are anchored, Captain. A word of praise to your people will not come amiss either. It was an admirable passage.”

A shaft of sunlight like the blade of a lance swept down on them as the Afterguard hauled over the great driver-boom.

Bolitho gritted his teeth. Nothing. They had to be wrong. There was nothing. He could see the other ships plainly in spite of the unwavering glare.

Jenour watched him and felt his heart thumping against his ribs. Then he saw Allday coming aft, the old sword protruding from his polishing cloth.

Their exchange of glances was swift but complete. Was it too soon to hope? For all their sakes?

The two frigates rounded-up and anchored in the late afternoon considerably earlier than even the taciturn Mr Hull had predicted. As signals were made and exchanged, boats lowered and awnings spread, Bolitho watched from the quarterdeck, his mind exploring the task which lay ahead.

It was strange how the land never seemed to draw any closer, and because of the difficult anchorage it gave an impression of brooding defiance. The point to the north-west which had been selected for the first assault was a good choice, possibly the only one. Bolitho had examined the charts with great care, as well as the maps supplied to him by the Admiralty. Up there at SaldanhaBay the coastal waters were shallow and protected enough to land soldiers and marines under the cover of men-of-war, which could offer fire. But once ashore the true difficulty would begin. SaldanhaBay was one hundred miles from Cape Town. Foot soldiers, some sick and weary from weeks and weeks at sea in their cramped quarters between decks, would be in no fit state to march and skirmish all the way to Cape Town. The Dutch were excellent fighters and would harry rather than confront them every mile. When they finally reached the Cape, the enemy would be ready and waiting. It seemed unlikely that any large force of Dutch soldiers would be sent to contest the landings. It would leave them in danger of being cut off by this supporting squadron.

Bolitho felt his impatience returning. A campaign then, lengthy and costly. A war of supply-lines, to be fought by soldiers, many of whom had been confined to garrison duties in the Indies. The Islands of Death, as the army called them, where more men died of fever than under the enemy’s fire.

Jenour strode aft and touched his hat. “Your despatch to the general has gone, Sir Richard, taken by the courier schooner Miranda this moment.”

Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the small and graceful schooner tacking away from the other vessels, her commander doubtless grateful to be free of other authority, albeit for only a few days.

Bolitho watched the redness of evening spreading along the glittering horizon, the masts and yards of the small squadron suddenly like bronze. Ashore telescopes would have observed Truculent’s arrival as they had doubtless studied all the others.

He remarked, “You are in irons, Stephen, so why not spit out what you think?”

But for his self-control, Jenour would have blushed. Bolitho always knew. It was pointless to pretend.

“I—I thought—” He licked his dry lips. “I would have thought that the Commodore might have requested to come aboard.” He fell silent under Bolitho’s scrutiny.

Bolitho said, “In his place I would have done just that.” He recalled Captain Varian’s tactless remark. “Call away the gig, Stephen. My compliments to Captain Poland and explain that I am going across to Themis.”

Fifteen minutes later, sweating steadily in his dress coat and hat, he sat in the gig’s sternsheets with Jenour beside him, and a critical Allday crouching with the boat’s coxswain.

As they pulled slowly abeam of the other ships, Bolitho saw officers-of-the-watch doffing their hats, motionless figures in shrouds and rigging staring in silence, their bare arms and shoulders like parts of the bronze around them.

Allday leaned forward, his mouth just inches from Bolitho’s ear.

“Y’see, they knows, Sir Richard. Only here an hour an’ the word has gone through the whole squadron!” He saw one of the oarsmen staring at him and scowled over Bolitho’s epaulette. The man dropped his gaze and almost lost the stroke. He had probably been surprised at seeing a seaman, even an admiral’s personal coxswain, chatting with his master, while the latter even turned his head to listen.

Bolitho nodded. “Lord Nelson will be sadly missed. We’ll not see his like in our lifetime.”

Allday leaned back again and rolled his tongue inside his cheek to restrain a grin. I’m not too sure o’ that, he thought.

Bolitho watched the Themis’s bowsprit and tapering jib-boom sweeping out to greet them. She was an old ship and had been employed on every sort of duty other than the line of battle. Originally a sixty-four, she had been stripped of some of her armament while she was carrying soldiers from one trouble spot to the next; she had even been to the penal colony in New South Wales. Transport, receiving ship, and now with the war demanding everything that would stay afloat, she was here, part of the invading force.

Jenour bit his lip and tried to relax. He had seen the assembled guard at the entry port, the glitter of red sunlight on drawn swords. An air of wariness.

Bolitho waited while the bowman hooked on to the main chains, then pulled himself up to the entry port, immediately deafened by the bark of commands, the chorus of squealing calls, which sailors termed “Spithead Nightingales.” He no longer needed to look for Allday to know he was there, ready to reach out if he lost his footing, or if his eye … No. He would not think about it.

The din faded away and he raised his hat to the poop, where the White Ensign made a lively dance against the hot sky.

The officer who stepped forward to present himself wore the epaulette of commander. He was old for his rank and had possibly been passed over for captain.

“I bid you welcome, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho smiled briefly. Allday was right. There were no secrets.

“Where is the Commodore?” He glanced up at the curling pendant. “Is he unwell?”

The commander, whose name was Maguire, looked uncomfortable. “He sends his apologies, Sir Richard. He awaits you in his cabin.”

Bolitho nodded to the other officers and turned aside to Jenour. “Remain here. Discover what you can.” He patted his arm but did not smile. “I am certain Allday will do likewise!”

Maguire led the way to the companion ladder and almost bowed as Bolitho walked aft, where a Royal Marine sentry drew his heels together with the precision of a bolt snapping shut.

There was nothing slack about the old Themis. It was just as if she did not belong. Maybe too many tasks in far-flung stations, too long away from home. As far as Bolitho could gather, the ship had not returned to England for fifteen years, so God alone knew what state her lower hull was in.

The screen doors were opened by a black servant and Bolitho received another surprise. During her role as accommodation ship they must have removed some of the armament from aft to enlarge the officers’ quarters. Now, with her gunports filled only with wooden “quakers,” the shortened muzzles of which might deceive another vessel at long-range, or even a landsman walking on a dockside, the after accommodation was huge, and contained nothing more war-like than furniture and a stand of muskets.

Commodore Arthur Warren walked from a screened-off cabin and exclaimed, “Sir Richard. What must you think of me?”

Bolitho was shocked by what he saw. He had never really known Warren as a friend, but he guessed him to be about his own age. But the officer in the loose-fitting coat, whose lined face had somehow defied the suns of so many fierce climates, was an old man.

The door closed, and apart from the watchful servant, who wore a red waistcoat above his duck trousers, they were alone. The elderly commander had taken his leave without dismissal. It was no wonder that the confident Captain Varian had seen this squadron as his own future responsibility.

Bolitho said, “Please be seated.” He waited while the other officer beckoned to his servant and some finely-cut Spanish goblets were filled with red wine. Warren then seated himself. One leg was thrust out, as if in pain, his left hand hidden beneath his coat. He was not sick, Bolitho thought. He was dying.

Bolitho raised his goblet. “Your health, sir. Everyone seems to know I am here, even though the news of Trafalgar has not reached them.”

The wine was rough and brackish, but he barely noticed it.

Once he had been a flag captain to RearAdmiral Sir Charles Thelwall in the big three-decker Euryalus. Bolitho had been made to work doubly hard because his admiral’s health had deteriorated over the months at sea. He had admired Thelwall and had been saddened to see him step ashore for the last time with only a short while left to live. Bolitho was only glad that the admiral had been spared what had happened that year, the mutinies throughout the fleet at the Nore and Spithead, Plymouth and Scotland. No captain had ever forgotten. Nor would they, unless they were inviting disaster.

But the admiral had looked and sounded like Warren now. As he swallowed some wine he struggled to contain a deep, tearing cough, and when he took his handkerchief from his lips Bolitho knew the stains on it were not all wine.

“I would not trouble you, sir, but if you wish I could send for another surgeon from Truculent. He seems an excellent man from the talks I had with him.”

Warren’s face stiffened with pathetic determination. “I am well enough, Sir Richard. I know my duty!”

Bolitho looked away. This ship is all he has. The temporary title of commodore the only triumph he has known. He tried to harden his mind, to shut out the pity he could feel and understand.

He said, “I have sent a despatch to the main squadron. I am ordered here to withdraw certain ships for service in home waters.” He thought he saw a small gleam of hope in Warren’s faded eyes and added gently, “Frigates, not this ship. There has to be a strategy for taking and then defending Cape Town, without prolonging it into a siege which only the Dutch can win.”

Warren said huskily, “The army won’t like that, Sir Richard. Sir David Baird is said to be a forceful general.”

Bolitho thought of the letter locked in his strongbox aboard Truculent. Not signed by some senior Secretary or Lord of Admiralty; not this time. It was signed by the King, and even though the uncharitable hinted amongst themselves that His Majesty often did not know what he was putting his signature to these days, it still held the ultimate power and opened all doors.

“I shall cross that bridge in due course. In the meantime I would like to shift to this ship.” He held up his hand as Warren made to protest. “Your broad pendant will still fly. But as someone once said, I need room to bustle in!”

Warren held down another bout of coughing and asked, “What must I do? You have my word that I will serve you well. And if Captain Varian has told you—”

Bolitho retorted calmly, “I have been in the King’s service since I was twelve. Somewhere along the way I learned to form my own opinions.” He stood up and walked to an open port and stared along the false wooden muzzle at the nearest ship, another frigate. “But I have to tell you, Commodore Warren, I’ll not waste anyone’s life because we have not tried to do our best. Throughout the navy, loyal seamen and marines, officers too, will be shocked and disappointed that after Trafalgar, victory is not complete. In my view it will take years before the tyranny of France and her jackals is finally routed!”

He realised that Warren and the silent servant were both staring at him and that he had raised his voice.

He forced a smile. “Now I must ask you to forgive me. It is just that I have seen so many fine ships lost, brave men dying for the wrong reasons, some cursing those who despatched them in the first place. While I direct what is to be done here, those who forget the hard lessons of war will answer to me.” He picked up his hat. “Just as one day I will answer to God, I have no doubt.”

“A moment, Sir Richard!” Warren seized his own hat from the black servant and followed him into the shadows of the halfdeck.

Before they reached the entry port he said in his halting tones, “I am honoured, Sir Richard.” His voice was suddenly firmer than Bolitho had heard before. “I am unused to this sort of work, but I will do all I can. So shall my people!”

Jenour saw Bolitho’s grave smile as he walked out into the strange sunlight. It gave him a twinge of excitement, like those other times, when up to now he had been expecting a dull and undemanding role for the man he had always looked up to, even before he had laid eyes on him.

When he had told his parents in Southampton that he intended one day to personally serve Bolitho in some capacity, they had chuckled at his innocence. The chuckles had gone now. There was only the concern which was the legacy of all those with young sons away at war.

Commodore Warren walked off to seek his commander; his cut-down Themis did not warrant a flag captain apparently. Bolitho took his flag lieutenant aside.

“We are coming aboard, Stephen.” He saw no surprise on Jenour’s open features. “For the present at least. Fetch the others from Truculent … I fear that Mr Yovell will be writing throughout the night. And find a good signals midshipman aboard this ship—it does not look well to employ strangers. Tomorrow I want all captains on board at eight bells, so warn them before nightfall. Send the guardboat if you will.”

Jenour could barely keep up with him. Bolitho seemed tireless, as if his mind were breaking out of a self-made prison.

Bolitho added, “The enemy know we are about—they have all day to watch us. I intend to discover what is happening around the Cape where the other anchorage lies. I feel the remedy may be there, rather than a hundred-mile struggle from SaldanhaBay. I do not know these captains here, and there is little time to do so. As you are aware, Stephen, in my despatch to the army I requested that the attack be delayed.”

Jenour watched the eyes, lighter grey now as he turned towards the open sea. Like the ocean itself, he thought.

He said, “But you do not believe that the general will agree?”

Bolitho clapped him on the arm like a boyish conspirator. “We will act independently.” His face was suddenly introspective. “As this is a day for remembering Nelson, let us use his own words. The boldest measures are usually the safest!”

That night Bolitho sat by the stern windows of the cabin—which had once been used by no less than a governor-general, who had fled on board to escape the plague which had broken out amongst the islands he controlled—and watched the ships’ riding lights with no inclination to sleep.

The air was heavy and humid, and as a guardboat pulled slowly amongst the anchored squadron, he thought instead of Cornwall, of the bitter wind on the night when she had come to him. Just over a month ago, no more; and now he was here in the shadow of Africa, and they were separated again at the whim of others.

Did they need his skills so much that they could overlook his contempt for them? Or, like Nelson, would they prefer a dead hero to a living reminder of their own failings?

The deck quivered as the anchor cable took the sudden strain of a faster current. Allday had not been very optimistic about shifting to the old sixty-four. The company had been aboard too long, pressed from passing merchantmen in the Caribbean, survivors from other vessels, even pardoned prisoners from the courts of Jamaica.

Like Warren, the ship was worn out, and suddenly thrust into a role she no longer recognised. Bolitho had seen the old swivel-gun mountings on either gangway. Not facing a possible enemy but pointing inboard, from the time when she had carried convicts and prisoners-of-war from a campaign already forgotten.

He thought he heard Ozzard pattering about in his newly-occupied pantry. So he could not sleep either. Still remembering Hyperion’s last moments—or was he nursing his secret, which Bolitho had sensed before that final battle?

Bolitho yawned and gently massaged his eye. It was strange, but he could not clearly remember why Ozzard had not been on deck when they had been forced to clear the ship of the survivors and the wounded.

He thought too of his flag captain and firm friend, Valentine Keen, his face full of pain, not at his own injury but for his viceadmiral’s despair.

If only you were here now, Val.

But his words went unspoken, for he had fallen asleep at last.