5

“MUST THEY DIE FOR NOTHING?”

“IF YOU WOULD care to follow me, Sir Richard?” The young army captain stared at Bolitho as he strode up the sloping beach, as if he had just dropped from the moon.

Bolitho paused and glanced at the closely anchored vessels in the bay. Between them and the land every sort of boat was pulling back and forth, some disgorging redcoated soldiers into the shallows to wade ashore, others making heavy weather of it. They seemed loaded down with weapons and stores so that one or two looked in some danger of capsizing.

Bolitho saw Miranda’s longboat threading her way back to the schooner to await his next instructions. Tyacke would be only too glad to be out of this place, he thought.

If it was hot aboard ship it was doubly so ashore. The heat seemed to rise from the ground like a separate force, so that within minutes Bolitho’s clothing was clinging to him. For the army’s sake he was fully dressed in the frock coat and gold-laced hat he had collected from Themis during their brief pause to inform Warren what was happening, and to pass his orders to the other captains.

He walked behind the young officer, watching for signs of success or delays in the army’s progress so far. There were plenty of soldiers in evidence, working to haul powder and shot from the beach while others marched steadfastly in squads and platoons towards the hills. A few glanced at him as they passed, but he meant nothing to them. Some of them were very bronzed, as if they had come from garrisons in the Indies; others looked like raw recruits. Weighed down as they were with packs and weapons, their coats were already darkly patched with sweat.

Allday tilted his hat over his eyes and commented, “Bloody shambles, if you asks me, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho heard the far-off bang of light artillery—English or Dutch it was impossible to tell. It seemed impartial and without menace, but the canvas-covered corpses awaiting burial along the rough coastal track told a different story.

The captain paused and pointed at some neat ranks of tents. “My company lines are here, Sir Richard, but the General is not present.” When Bolitho said nothing he added, “I am sure he will be back shortly.”

Somewhere a man screamed out in agony, and Bolitho guessed there was a field hospital here, too, with the headquarters company. Progress was slow. Otherwise the army surgeons would be beyond that forbidding-looking ridge, he decided.

The captain opened a tent flap and Bolitho ducked to enter. The contrast was unnerving. The ground was covered by rugs and Bolitho imagined the challenge it must have been for the orderlies to find somewhere flat enough to lay them, and pitch this large tent so securely.

A grave-faced colonel, who had been seated in a folding campaign chair, rose to his feet and bowed his head.

“I command the Sixty-First, Sir Richard.” He took Bolitho’s proffered hand and smiled. “We knew of your presence here, but not amongst us of course!” He looked tired and strained. “There was no time to receive you with due honours.”

Bolitho looked up and saw a singed hole in the top of the tent.

The colonel followed his glance. “Last evening, Sir Richard. One of their marksmen got right through our pickets. Hoping for an important victim, no doubt.” He nodded to the orderly who had appeared with a tray of glasses. “This may quench your thirst while you are waiting for the General.”

“Are the enemy well-prepared?”

“They are, Sir Richard, and they have all the advantages.” He frowned and added disdainfully, “But they use methods I find unsoldierly. That marksman, for instance, was not in uniform, but dressed in rags to match his surroundings. He shot two of my men before we ran him to earth. Not the kind of ethics I care for.”

Allday remarked, “I think I sees him just now, Sir Richard, hanging from a tree.”

The colonel stared at him as if seeing him for the first time.

“What … ?”

Bolitho said, “Mr Allday is with me, Colonel.”

He watched as Allday took a tall glass of wine from the orderly and winked at him. “Don’t you stray too far, matey.” In his fist, the glass looked like a thimble.

Bolitho sipped the wine. It, like the General, travelled well.

The colonel walked to a folding table where several maps were laid out.

“The enemy falls back when pressed, Sir Richard—there seems no eagerness to stand and fight. It is a slow business all the same.” He shot Bolitho a direct glance. “And if, as you say, we can expect no further support in men and supplies, I fear it will be months rather than weeks before we take Cape Town.”

Bolitho heard horses clattering amongst loose stones, the bark of commands and the slap of muskets from the sentries outside the tent. The horses would be glad to be on dry land again, Bolitho thought, even if nobody else was enjoying it.

The General entered and threw his hat and gloves on to a chair. He was a neat man with piercing blue eyes. A no-nonsense soldier who claimed that he asked nothing from his men that he could or would not do himself.

There were instructions; then the General suggested that the others should leave. Allday, with three glasses of wine under his belt, murmured, “I’ll be in earshot if you needs me, Sir Richard.”

As the flap fell across the entrance the General commented, “Extraordinary fellow.”

“He’s saved my life a few times, Sir David; my sanity a few times more.”

Surprisingly, some of the sternness left the General’s sun-reddened face.

“Then I could use a few thousand more like him, I can tell you!” The smile faded just as quickly. “The landings went well. Commodore Popham worked miracles, and apart from the inevitable casualties it was very satisfactory.” He looked at Bolitho severely. “And now I am told that I shall receive no reinforcements, that you even intend to strip the squadron of some of the frigates.”

Bolitho was reminded vividly of his friend Thomas Herrick. His eyes were that blue. Stubborn, loyal, hurt even. Was Herrick still his friend? Would he never accept his love for Catherine?

He said shortly, “It is not merely my intention, Sir David!” Thinking of Herrick and the gulf which had come between them had put an edge to his voice. “It is the King’s own signature on those orders, not mine.”

“I wonder who guided his hand for him?”

Bolitho replied quietly, “I did not hear that, Sir David.”

The General gave him a wry smile. “Hear what, Sir Richard?”

Like two duellists who had changed their minds, they moved to the maps on the table.

Once, the General looked up and listened as distant gunfire echoed sullenly around the tent. It reminded Bolitho of surf on a reef.

Bolitho laid his own chart on top of the others and said, “You are a soldier, I am not; but I know the importance, the vital necessity of supplies to an army in combat. I believe that the enemy expect to be reinforced. If that happens before you can take Cape Town, Sir David, what chances have you of succeeding?”

The General did not answer for a full minute while he studied Bolitho’s chart, and the notes which he had clipped to it.

Then he said heavily, “Very little.” Some of his earlier sharpness returned. “But the navy’s task is to prevent it! Blockade the port, and fight off any would-be attempt to support the garrison.” It sounded like an accusation.

Bolitho stared at the chart, but saw only Warren’s handful of ships. Each captain had his orders now. The three frigates would watch and patrol the Cape and the approaches, while the remaining two schooners maintained contact between them and the commodore. They might be lucky, but under cover of darkness it would not be too difficult for other vessels to slip past them and under the protection of the shore batteries.

And then the choice would remain as before. Attack into the bay and risk the combined fire of the batteries and the carefully moored ships—at best it would end in stalemate. The worst did not bear contemplating. If the army was forced to withdraw in defeat because of lack of supplies and the enemy’s continued stubborn resistance, the effect would resound right across Europe. The crushing victory over the Combined Fleet at Trafalgar might even be cancelled out by the inability of the army to occupy Cape Town. France’s unwilling allies would take fresh heart from it, and the morale in England would crumble with equal speed.

Bolitho said, “I suspect that neither of us welcomed this mission, Sir David.”

The General turned as the young captain Bolitho had seen before appeared at the entrance. “Yes?”

The captain said, “A message from Major Browning, Sir David. He wishes to re-site his artillery.”

“Send word, will you? Do nothing until I reach there. Then tell an orderly to fetch my horse.”

He turned and said, “The news you have brought me is no small setback, Sir Richard.” He gave him a level stare. “I am relying on you, not because I doubt the ability of my officers and men, but because I have no damned alternative! I know the importance of this campaign—all eyes will be watching it as a foretaste of what lies ahead. For make no mistake, despite all the triumphs at sea, they will be as nought until the English foot-soldier plants his boots on the enemy’s own shores.”

There were hushed voices outside the tent, the dragging steps of a horse being led reluctantly back to duty.

The General tossed back the glass of brandy someone had brought for him and picked up his hat and gloves. They were probably still warm from his last ride.

He gave a wry smile. “A bit like Nelson yourself, y’know. He used to think he was just as able a brigadier ashore as he was a good sailor afloat!”

Bolitho said coldly, “I do recall that he captured Bastia and Calvi with his sailors, and not the army.”

“Touche!” The General led the way from the tent and Bolitho saw more soldiers marching past, their boots churning up clouds of red dust.

The General said, “Look at ‘em. Must they die for nothing?”

Bolitho saw Allday hurrying down the beach to signal for the boat. He answered, “If you knew me, Sir David, you would not ask that.”

The blue eyes flashed like ice as the General lifted one foot to the stirrup. “It is because I know of you, Sir Richard; and I am not asking. For the first time in my career, I am begging!”

The colonel joined Bolitho near the water’s edge, and together they watched the boat pulling strongly around an anchored storeship.

He said, “I have never seen him like that before, Sir Richard.”

Allday was pointing to where he wanted the boat to come in, but his mind was still with Bolitho. What he had not heard, he could guess. Whoever knew the rights and wrongs of all this must have realised the hopeless task they had given him.

He heard the colonel snap his boots together as he said, “I hope we shall meet again, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho turned and looked up the shelving beach. “Be certain of it, Colonel. In Cape Town or in hell, only greater powers will decide which!”

The boat had almost reached the anchored schooner when Bolitho turned and spoke to Allday again.

“You remember Achates, Allday?”

The big coxswain grimaced and touched his chest. “Not likely to forget that little lot, Sir Richard!” He tried to grin, to shrug it off. “But that were four years past.”

Bolitho touched his arm. “I did not mean to bring it back, old friend, but I had an idea concerning it. There was a time when I thought we had lost ‘Old Katie’ just as surely as Hyperion.”

Allday stared at his grave features, his spine suddenly like ice despite the strong sunlight. “A fireship, d’you mean, sir?” He spoke almost in a croak, then glanced at the stroke oarsman to make certain he was not listening as he threw himself back on his loom.

Bolitho seemed to be thinking aloud. “It might prove useless. I realise what I am asking others to do.” He stared abeam as a fish leapt from the water. “But set against the cost in lives and ships …”

Allday twisted round and looked at the boat’s coxswain. But the man’s eyes were fixed on the final approach, his knuckles whitening on the tiller bar. It was unlikely that Miranda would carry a flagofficer again. He would be fully aware of the consequences if he ruined it.

Not one of them in the boat would realise what agony Bolitho was going through, nor understand if they did.

Bolitho said, “I recall what Mr Simcox said about the wind. Little use to us maybe, but it might entice the enemy to cut and run for it.”

He turned as the schooner’s masts swept above them. “They will have to be volunteers.”

Allday bit his lip. These were not Bolitho’s men, but strangers. They had not followed his flag when they had broken the enemy’s line with all hell coming adrift around them. He could remember that other time at San Felipe as clearly as yesterday. Achates at her moorings, and then suddenly the approaching ship bursting into flames, bearing down on them while they stared with horror at the inferno. There was only one thing worse than being snared by a fireship, Allday thought grimly, and that was being the crew of one. Volunteers? They were as likely as a virgin on Portsmouth Hard.

Bolitho reached up for the side as the boat lurched against the hull and the seamen tossed their oars, like white bones in the sunshine.

He looked down at Allday’s troubled face and said calmly, “It is not a question of choice this time. For there is none.” Then he was up and over the bulwark. Allday followed and saw him already talking with Tyacke, who mercifully had his terrible scars turned away.

After what he had suffered, it was unlikely that Tyacke would offer much support.

Commodore Arthur Warren watched with open astonishment, while Bolitho tossed his crumpled shirt to Ozzard before slipping into a clean one. The little servant was fussing round him and almost got knocked over as Bolitho hurried between the table and the stern windows of Themis’s great cabin.

Before Themis began to swing again to her cable, Bolitho had seen the busy activity aboard the nearest transport. The captured slaver was hidden on her seaward side, and he wondered how long it would take to complete the arrangements he had ordered.

Bolitho had never understood his own instincts; how he could sense that time was in short supply. He felt it now, and it was vital that Warren knew what was happening.

He said, “You’ll have the schooner Dove to repeat your signals to the offshore patrol.” In his mind he could see the thirty-sixgun frigate Searcher tacking back and forth somewhere beyond the horizon, Warren’s first line of defence should an enemy approach from the west. The second schooner was retained to keep the same contact with the main squadron at SaldanhaBay. It was up to each captain, from the senior, Varian, to the lieutenants who commanded the schooners, to use their own initiative if the wind changed against them, or they sighted any vessel which was obviously hostile. In his written orders Bolitho had stressed his requirements precisely and finally. There would be no heroics, no ship-to-ship actions without informing the commodore.

The anchorage looked strangely deserted and even more vulnerable, and he wondered if Warren were regretting the removal of his aftermost cannon to replace them with useless “quakers.” It was too late for regrets now.

Warren said, “I don’t like it, Sir Richard. If you fall in this venture, or are taken prisoner, how will I explain?”

Bolitho looked at him impassively. Is that all it means? Perhaps Varian was right after all.

He answered, “I have left some letters.” He saw Jenour turn from an open port. “But have no fear.” He failed to conceal his bitterness. “There are some who would not grieve too much!”

Allday entered through a screen door and handed Bolitho his old sword. He ran his eyes critically over Bolitho’s appearance and nodded.

Bolitho smiled. “Satisfied?”

“Aye. But it don’t signify that I’ve changed my mind!”

Allday too had changed into his fine blue jacket and nankeen breeches. He glanced at Bolitho’s other sword on the rack and remarked to Ozzard, “Take good care o’ that, matey.” He patted the little man’s bony shoulder. “Like the last time, remember?”

Bolitho walked to the table again and stared at the chart.

Captain Poland’s Truculent should be on her station to the west of Table Bay, ready to rendezvous with Miranda and her dangerous consort. Varian’s Zest, the most powerful of the frigates, would be standing to the south-west. If the attack was successful, it would be Varian’s task to chase and take any vessels which tried to put to sea to escape the fireship.

Whether the enemy recognised the Albacora or not made little difference to the attack. Only to those who remained with the fireship until the last moment would it be important.

The marine sentry called from the door, “Surgeon, sir!”

The man who entered was a thin, unsmiling individual whose skin was as pale as Warren’s.

He said abruptly, “I am sorry to intrude, sir but Miranda’s midshipman wishes to return to his ship immediately.”

Warren frowned, irritated by the interruption. “Well, that is for you to say, surely. I am too busy for—”

Bolitho asked, “Is he recovered enough?”

Confused by the presence of the admiral dressed as he was now in his proper uniform, instead of the casual open shirt, the surgeon stammered, “It was a severe wound, sir, but he is young and very determined.” His mouth closed in a thin line, as if he had just decided not to say what he had been about to add. It was not his affair.

“Then he can come over to Miranda with us. See to it, Stephen.” Bolitho saw the undisguised relief on the flag lieutenant’s features and added, “Did you think I would leave you yet again?” He tried to smile. “If Allday is my right arm, you surely must be my left!”

He thought of Jenour’s face when he boarded the flagship only hours ago. A courier brigantine had paused at the anchorage and had sent over a despatch bag without even stopping long enough to anchor. She had been so fast that it was little wonder Miranda had not seen any sign of her.

Jenour had dropped his voice as they had walked aft to the cabin. “Inside your official envelope there is … a letter … for you, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho had turned on him. “Tell me, Stephen—I beg of you!”

Warren had been coming towards them, dragging his feet, trying to control his painful breathing, and Jenour had answered quickly, “It is from your lady, Sir Richard.” He had recognised Bolitho’s remaining uncertainty and clarified, “From Falmouth.”

“Thank God.” At long last. The first letter. He had half expected it might be from Belinda. With distance to give her confidence she might have been demanding more money, or suggesting another reconciliation for the sake of appearances.

The letter was in his pocket now. Somehow, even in Miranda’s crowded world, he would find a private place where he could read it, feel her presence, hear her voice. When this was over he would write to her again, tell her all the longings he had built up since their wretched parting.

He looked towards the glittering water beyond the stern windows. If I should fall … Then there would be the other letter which was locked in his strongbox.

Bolitho raised his arm to allow Allday to clip the old family sword to his belt. So many times; and too many had seemed like the last.

Bolitho left the cabin and paused where Ozzard was waiting with his hat. “When we are finished with this matter we shall return to Falmouth.” He saw the anxiety in Ozzard’s eyes and added gently, “You are better off here.” He looked across his rounded shoulders. “Commodore Warren will see that you are taken care of.”

He hurried to the entry port and glanced at the silent figures who had paused in their work to watch him leave. How different from England, he thought. These men were probably glad to see him go, as if by remaining their own lives would be more at risk.

The sun was dipping very slowly, like a gigantic red ball which quivered above its own reflection and made the horizon glisten like a heated wire.

Commodore Warren doffed his hat and the calls trilled, while the flagship’s reduced section of Royal Marines slapped their muskets in salute.

Then he lowered himself to the longboat and got a brief glimpse of the midshipman, who was sitting crammed beside Jenour and Allday.

“Good day—Mr Segrave, is it not?” The youth stammered something, but at that moment the boat was cast off and with oars pulling and backing, steered away from the side.

Jenour peered astern, glad he was not remaining in Themis with Yovell and Ozzard. He touched the lanyard on his fine sword and lifted his chin as if in defiance.

Allday was watching the fiery sunset. It had taken on a new meaning, a threatening aspect, with Death the winner one way or the other.

To break the silence Bolitho asked, “What else do you have in your important-looking bag, Stephen?”

Jenour tore his mind from the letter he was writing in his mind to his parents in Southampton.

“For Miranda, Sir Richard.” He could guess what Bolitho was thinking and recalled the letter he had given to him. Bolitho had taken it as if it were life itself. It should have surprised him that his admiral could be two such different men: the one who inspired and commanded, and the other who needed that lady’s love so much, but could not hide it as he did his other fears and hopes.

Lieutenant Tyacke waited by the ladder and touched his hat as Bolitho climbed aboard. He even managed an ironic smile as he looked at Jenour and Midshipman Segrave. “Two bad pennies together, eh, Sir Richard?” He took the package from Jenour and said, “The Albacora is all but ready, sir.” They stared across the darkening water to the other, untidy schooner. In the sunset’s glow she looked as if she were already burning from within.

“We did our best, sir. But not being pierced for gunports to draw the flames, we had to cut makeshift ones to the main hold an’ the like.” He nodded grimly. “She’ll burn like a torch when need be.”

He turned away; his men were waiting for his attention. Both schooners would sail at nightfall, slink away from the other ships like assassins. Thinking aloud, Tyacke said, “With God’s help we should rendezvous with Truculent at dawn. Then you’ll have a mite more comfort in her than I can offer you, sir!”

Bolitho looked at him and saw the red glow on the ruined face. Like melted wax. As if it had just happened.

He said simply, “It is not comfort I need. Your ship has offered me what I want most.”

Tyacke asked with a touch of wariness, “And what may that be, sir?”

“An example, Mr Tyacke. How all ships could be, large or small, offered the right trust and leadership.”

“If you will excuse me, sir.” He turned awkwardly. “There is much to do.”

Bolitho gazed at the sun sliding into the horizon and the sea. There should be steam or an explosion, so powerful was its majesty, and menace.

Midshipman Segrave was groping beneath the companion hatch when Simcox found him and said, “You’ll have to sleep rough tonight, my lad. We’re somewhat overfull till I can discover Truculent’s whereabouts.” The lighter mood eluded him and he said, “Bob Jay told me about your other injuries.” He saw the youth staring at him in the gloom. “‘E ‘ad to. It was ‘is duty to me.”

Segrave looked down at his clenched fists. “You had no right …”

“Don’t you lecture me about rights, Mister Segrave! I’ve had a bloody gutful o’ them since I first donned the King’s coat, so let’s ‘ave no more of ‘em, see?” His face was only inches from Segrave’s as he added vehemently, “You was whipped like a dog to have scars like that, Bob Jay said. Bully you, did they? Some poxy scum who thought you was lettin’ them down, was that it?” He saw the youth bow his head and nod. Afterwards Simcox thought he had never witnessed such despair. He said, “Well, it’s in the past now. Bob Jay’ll never forget you saved ‘is skin.” He touched his shoulder and added roughly, “I ‘ad to tell the Cap’n.”

Segrave shivered, wiping his face with his forearm.

“That was your duty too.” But there was no sarcasm or resentment. There was simply nothing at all.

Simcox watched him with concern. “All right then, son?”

Segrave looked at him, his eyes very bright in the lantern’s glow from the cabin.

“You don’t understand. I was told aboard Themis. I am to return to my old ship as soon as we leave the Cape.” He got to his feet and made for the companion ladder. “So you see, it was a lie, like everything else!”

Later, as darkness folded over the anchorage and the stars were still too feeble to separate sea from sky, Bolitho sat at the cabin table, half listening to the muffled commands from the deck, the creak of the windlass as the cable was hove short. Jay, the master’s mate, was across in Albacora with a small prize crew, so all hands would be working doubly hard and standing watch-and-watch until the rendezvous was made.

Tyacke peered through the door. “Ready to proceed, Sir Richard.” He waited questioningly. “Any further orders?”

Something about him was different.

Bolitho asked, “What is troubling you?”

Tyacke said steadily, “I received orders in the despatch bag, sir. Both Mr Simcox and Segrave are leaving my command after this is over and done with.” He tried to smile, but it made him look desperate. “Ben Simcox is a good friend, and I’ve come to feel differently about the midshipman since …” He did not go on.

“I understand.” Bolitho saw the surprise on Tyacke’s maimed face.

“Because I am what I am, is that it?” He shook his head and Tyacke caught a quick glimpse of the terrible scar which was only partly hidden by the lock of hair. “I had another flag lieutenant once. He used to call me and my captains, We Happy Few. By God, Mr Tyacke, there are precious few of us now! Oh yes, I know what it is to find a friend, then lose him in the twinkling of an eye. Sometimes I think it is best to know nobody, and to care for nothing.”

Somebody called from the deck, “Th’ slaver’s under way, sir!”

“I—I am sorry, sir.” Tyacke had to leave, but wanted to remain.

“There’s no need.” Bolitho met his gaze and smiled. “And know this. I do care. And when I call for volunteers tomorrow—”

Tyacke turned to the ladder. “You’ll not lack them, Sir Richard. Not in this ship.” Then he was gone, and moments later came the cry, “Anchor’s aweigh!”

Bolitho sat for several minutes, his ears deaf to the din of rudder and canvas as the schooner curtsied round, free of the land once more.

Why had he spoken to Tyacke like that? He smiled at his own answer. Because he needed him and his men more than they would ever know, or understand.

With great care he opened the letter, then stared with surprise as a dried ivy leaf fell to the table.

Her writing seemed to blur as he held the letter closer to the swaying lantern.

My darling Richard,

This leaf is from your house and my home—

It was enough. The remainder he would read later when he was quite alone.