BEYOND THE REEF

17. SHIPS PASSING

BOLITHO went on deck, the taste of coffee lingering on his tongue. Keen was about to exercise the upper gun deck's twelve-pounders and he saw the casual glances as he walked to the quarterdeck rail. They had become used to seeing their vice-admiral dressed so informally in only shirt and breeches, and Bolitho was pleased that Keen had impressed it on all his officers to do likewise. If it did not make them seem more approachable, it might at least show them as human beings.

Keen smiled. "Sail in sight, sir. Hull-up to wind'rd." He tried to make it interesting, a piece of news to break the day-to-day monotony.

Black Prince was steering due south, some 250 miles from Antigua. Abeam, the lookouts could just manage to distinguish the island of St Lucia, the silent volcano of Soufriere a prominent landmark that had saved many seafarers over the years.

Astern of the flagship the two 74s Valkyrie and Relentless kept their snail's pace, their reflections barely moving on a dark blue sea which appeared solid enough to walk on, like crude glass. The remaining ships Bolitho had placed under Crowfoot's command, and sent to patrol the Guadeloupe Passage to the north.

This was frustration at its worst. The ships were too slow, and on several occasions they had sighted unidentified vessels, which had soon headed away rather than face the prospect of being stopped and searched by the powerful men-of-war. They had to have smaller ships in support. Godschale, a frigate captain himself in that other war, should have moved heaven and earth to get them.

Who was the newcomer? Obviously not an enemy. He would have been off like a fox at the sight of hounds if he was.

Sedgemore was shouting to Lieutenant Whyham, "Keep them at it, sir! I want these twelve-pounders cleared for action in ten minutes, less if they have the will for it!"

Bolitho glanced at the gun crews. Bare backs less rawly burned, and more the colour of leather. He had not timed the upper batteries, but he knew by his own standards as a captain that they were a long way from Sedgemore's target.

"Deck there! She's a frigate!"

Bolitho saw Keen watching him. What was it this time, Sutcliffe's death or news of home? Or the war had ended, and they had been the last to know.

"Heave-to, Captain Keen. Let him run down on us." He looked again at the gun crews. "I would suggest you continue the drills, Mr Sedgemore. It has been known for ships to carry on fighting even when adrift."

"Aloft with a glass, Mr Houston!" Keen turned away to escape Sedgemore's sudden deflation. "Mr Julyan, stand by to wear ship, if you please!"

While the big three-decker floundered round into the wind and her two consorts endeavoured to remain on station, their pyramids of sails almost lifeless, the upper deck's twenty-eight guns went through the frantic routine of clearing for action.

"Deck, sir! She's made her number!" The midshipman's voice was shrill when calling from such a height and Bolitho guessed that he hated the fact. "She's the Tybalt, 36, Captain Esse!"

Bolitho tried to contain his sudden hope. The last of his squadron, and a frigate. It was like an answered prayer.

He lifted a glass from the rack and trained it on the approaching ship. Where was Adam now, he wondered? And where had the time gone? It was now mid-January 1809. A new year, without anything to show for it. He thought of England, the bitter wind off the Atlantic seeping around the old house and gardens. What of Catherine? Could she really be happy in that kind of life, alone amongst people who for the most part would always remain strangers? Or might she become bored, impatient, and turn to other distractions?

In two hours Tybalt was almost in gunshot range and Bolitho said, "Captain repair on board as soon as is convenient, Val."

He frowned when one of the gun crews fell about in confusion as the twelve-pounder, released from its breeching-rope, ran momentarily out of control.

Sedgemore yelled, "God damn your eyes, Blake, your people are all cripples today!"

Bolitho touched the locket beneath his damp shirt and smiled. What was he thinking of? They were lovers. Nothing could break that.

He waited until the frigate was hove-to and had lowered her gig and then went below to his cabin. Let there be news this time.

Captain William Esse was tall and thin with a pleasant smile and an old-fashioned manner, which seemed at odds with his 25 years. He laid a canvas bag on the cabin table and seated himself with great care, as if afraid his long legs might become entangled.

"What news, Captain Esse? I must know without delay."

Esse smiled and took a glass from Ozzard. "Jamaica was hot, Sir Richard, and the slave-revolt little more than a skirmish. The extra soldiers were not needed at all." He shrugged. "So we brought them back to Antigua."

"What of Lord Sutcliffe?"

Esse gave him a blank stare. "He is still alive, Sir Richard, although I was not asked to see him." He saw Bolitho's expression and added hastily, "A fast packet visited English Harbour. There are letters for you from England."

Bolitho touched the heavy pouch. Letters from Catherine, one at least. It was like a hunger, a longing. All the rest was disappointment. There was no news of the enemy. Perhaps the threat was only in his mind. Or maybe the journey in the open boat had blunted his reckoning in some way?

Over three months since he had left Spithead. It felt like eternity. And Sutcliffe was still defying death. He wondered how Herrick was managing to stay out of trouble.

Esse exclaimed, "But I almost forgot, Sir Richard! As we weighed anchor, Anemone entered harbour. I was not able to speak much with Captain Bolitho, but I gather he was bringing despatches for Lord Sutcliffe. He shouted across to me that it was something important. But I did not catch the gist of it."

"How strange. My nephew was in my mind just now as I watched Tybalt running down on us. But why here? It must be serious." The unanswered questions hung in the cabin's still air. Despatches for the admiral. But the Admiralty would be in ignorance about Sutcliffe's condition.

He persisted, "Can you remember nothing further of this conversation?"

Esse frowned so that his pale eyes disappeared. "I took little notice, Sir Richard, as it did not concern the squadron."

"What did he say?"

"The French. He said something about enemy ships… I assumed he meant in home waters."

"My God." Bolitho saw Ozzard peering through his hatch. "Fetch the captain and my flag lieutenant!"

To the bemused Esse he said, "I shall give you written orders. You must return to English Harbour with all haste. You will see RearAdmiral Herrick and make certain that copies of my despatches are sent immediately to St Kitts and to London." He turned away so that Esse should not see his despair. London? It could as well be the moon for all the good it would do now.

Keen and Jenour entered. Bolitho said tersely, "Adam has come from England. Despatches from the Admiralty, no doubt-they'd never release a frigate otherwise."

Keen said gently, "But we don't know for certain, sir."

"My responsibility, Val." He tried to smile but it eluded him. It had been reported over the months that the French were secretly reinforcing their squadrons in the Caribbean. Now they were ready. In a matter of weeks a combined naval and military force would attack Martinique. And with some of the English supporting squadrons tied down in Jamaica… He felt a cold touch on his spine. It would be Herrick's massacred convoy all over again.

He said quietly, "Make quite sure that RearAdmiral Herrick understands. Every available ship and garrison must stand-to. For once the enemy has scattered our invasion force, they will surely turn upon Antigua."

Esse nodded, his face very calm. "I shall do my best."

"Leave me now. I have matters to dictate."

Alone with Keen and Jenour, while the ship pitched on a low swell and the upper deck echoed to the squeak and thud of Sedgemore's mock battle, Bolitho said, "You think me mad?"

"Far from that, sir." Keen paused. "But it must be said: it is all surmise."

"Possibly. But we know from the past week that there is no enemy movement down here. So the ships must be elsewhere, correct?"

"If they are coming this way, sir."

Bolitho strode about the cabin. There was no news. So why should he care, with a mad superior who would see any initiative, even by him, as gross insubordination? It would be a bitter twist of fate if Herrick were a witness at his court martial!

Aloud he said harshly, "But I do care. It is what we are here for!"

To Keen he said more evenly, "Bring the ship about, Val, and signal the others to keep station on us. We will pass through the St Lucia Channel tonight. A longer haul, but it will give us more favourable winds. With luck we shall meet with Captain Crowfoot's ships and then we can beat up to wind'rd. Tybalt will have rejoined us by then. If not…" He did not need to say more.

Keen said, "I'm ready, sir."

Bolitho smiled at him. "To the final battle, the gates of hell if need be, eh, Val?"

Keen did not smile in return. "Yes," he said. "Always."

RearAdmiral Thomas Herrick stood by an open window and mopped his face with his handkerchief. The noon heat made it hard to think, and the persistent attacks by mosquitoes and other insects were a constant irritation.

Seated at a table, Captain John Pearse, now his second-in-command because of the admiral's disgusting illness but normally captain of the busy dockyard, watched him guardedly. Pearse was content enough with his appointment even though he knew he would rise no higher in the navy. He had been a long time in the Indies and was used to the extremes of climate; also long enough to avoid the many fevers and diseases which weekly led to sea-burials or funerals in the small garrison cemeteries, with their pathetic regimental crests and the names of towns and villages in the mother-country Pearse could barely remember. He wondered what was so disturbing Herrick. Sutcliffe was dying; he must die, or he would drive his staff as mad as himself. The horror of his appalling condition-sores, black vomit and near-blindness-pervaded the whole building, and Herrick's temper was daily growing more fraught.

There had been one such display of unreasonable anger just now when a messenger had come to inform them that the frigate Tybalt had cleared the entrance and was now on passage to join Bolitho's squadron, and that yet another frigate had been reported standing inshore. "She's the Anemone, sir, 38, commanded by…" He had got no further. Herrick had snarled, "I know who commands her, man-Sir Richard's nephew! Stop wasting my time!"

Pearse said carefully, "I think it would be prudent to recall Tybalt, sir. Anemone may have news which might need attention."

Herrick saw the two frigates passing one another on a converging tack, the red coats moving on the battery to prepare a salute.

"I think not." The two vessels were slowly drawing apart now. Why was Adam here? Surely there was no more news since Black Prince had arrived at English Harbour? He heard feet running by, servants going to assist the admiral no doubt. Diseased of body and diseased of mind. He were better dead.

Pearse fiddled with some papers and looked warily at Herrick. "Perhaps the French have surrendered." He regretted it immediately.

"Surrendered? Never in a million years, man! Damned barbarians, they'll fight to the last ditch."

He winced as the first guns echoed around the harbour. He strode to the sill and watched the frigate gliding towards the guard-boat. The breeze was fresher; it might clear the air. He saw the gunsmoke drifting close to the water and recalled his own service in frigates. But never in command of one.

It had been Adam who had brought the news to him of Dulcie's terrible death. Had it been anyone else he might have been able to contain it, at least for a while, from the curious. But Adam was a Bolitho, even if he held the family name only because of his uncle; he had been born a bastard, and his father had deserted the navy to join the American rebels… and yet that shame never tarnished him, or impeded his promotion.

It was all so unfair. Dulcie had given him everything: stability, pride, and above all, love. But a child had been denied them. He watched the flash of the final gun, the anchor throwing up spray as Anemone came to rest. Even Richard and his wife had been blessed with a daughter. How could he have turned his back on her? He thought suddenly of Catherine. She had stayed with Dulcie to the end, in very real danger to herself. Why can I not come to terms with it?

He said abruptly, "Pass the word to the signal-station, Captain Pearse. I want to see Anemone's captain before anyone else does."

Captain Pearse nodded uneasily. It was unlikely that Lord Sutcliffe would know or care what was happening.

It was another hour before Adam Bolitho arrived, his hat crammed under one arm, his short hanger pressed against his thigh.

Herrick shook his hand. "Do not keep me in suspense, Adam! This is most unexpected. How long have you been at sea?"

Adam glanced around. Although the officer-of-the-guard had shouted to him from his boat that Lord Sutcliffe was sick, he had somehow expected to find him here.

"Eighteen days, sir." He smiled, the recklessness on his tanned face wiping away the shadows of command.

Herrick waved him to a chair and sat down opposite him, frowning.

"Why the urgency?"

"I have important despatches from the Admiralty, sir. It seems that the bad weather in the Atlantic allowed some French ships to avoid our blockading squadrons." He waited, expecting some reaction he could recognise. "I am ordered to acquaint Lord Sutcliffe with the despatches without delay."

"Impossible. He is too ill. I cannot tell him anything."

"But-" Adam grappled with Herrick's blunt reply. "It may be vital. It is said that the enemy ships are on passage here, though I believe that some, if not all, are already arrived. I clashed with a shore-mounted gun a day ago. Heated shot-I was nearly in irons until we worked clear. French soldiers too…"

"You had time to go after the enemy then? Looking for a prize, perhaps?"

Adam regarded him with surprise. "Yes, there was a schooner, sir. She was carrying powder and soldiers and I dished her up as we left."

"Very commendable." Herrick looked at his hands in his lap. "Your uncle is to the south'rd; he has divided his squadron. You see, we had no frigates until Tybalt returned from Port Royal. And now you." He looked up, his blue eyes very bright. "And I gather there is another on passage too. A veritable fleet indeed!"

Adam controlled his disappointment and a growing impatience with effort. "What is it, sir? Is something wrong? Maybe I could help."

"Wrong? Why should there be?" He was on his feet again and standing by the window without realising he had moved. "Your family seems to think it holds the answer to all ills, wouldn't you say?"

Adam stood up slowly. "May I speak plainly, sir?"

"I would expect nothing else."

"I have known you since I was a midshipman. I have always thought of you as a friend, as well as an experienced sailor."

"Has it changed?" Herrick squinted into the light, seeing the distant activity aboard this young man's ship.

"Later I seemed to become someone who came between you and your true friend." He gestured toward the sea. "Who is out there now, and in ignorance of these French reinforcements." His voice was sharper, but he could not help it. "I am no longer that midshipman, sir. I command one of His Majesty's finest frigates, and I believe I am successful at it."

"There is no need to shout." Herrick faced him. "I am not empowered to open Lord Sutcliffe's despatches-even you must realise that. Your uncle commands the squadron, and our other vessels are gathered either at Jamaica or the Barbados. We have only local patrols, which sail out of here and St Kitts, but you must know that, surely." His tone was impatient. "I only wish RearAdmiral Hector Gossage were here to share the rewards of his damned folly!"

Adam watched him uneasily. "That would be difficult. I heard he had died within weeks of taking up his appointment."

Herrick stared at him. "My God! I did not know."

Adam looked away. "Then I shall make sail forthwith and seek out my uncle's squadron. He must be warned." He hesitated, hating to plead. "I beg you, sir, for his love if for nothing else, open the despatches!"

Herrick said coldly, "There is a lot of the rebel in you, did you know that?"

"If you are referring to my late father, sir, remember what they say about casting the first stone."

"Thank you for reminding me. You may return to your ship and prepare for sea. I will order the water-lighters alongside immediately." He saw the cloud lift from the young captain's face and added harshly, "No, not for you to skip about the ocean in search of glory! I am ordering you to Port Royal. The admiral there can decide. He and General Beckwith are to lead the invasion of Martinique."

Adam said with disbelief, "But by then it will be too late!"

"Don't lecture me, my boy-this is war, not the pulpit."

"I will await your pleasure, sir." He was a stranger; there was nothing more to be said or done here. "I can scarce credit what has happened, what has become of something which was so dear to my uncle." He swung away. "But no longer to me, sir!"

It was dusk by the time Anemone had again weighed anchor and was setting her topsails in a glowing copper sunset. Herrick watched from the window, and after some hesitation raised a goblet of cognac to his lips. The first he had taken since Gossage's astounding evidence on the last day of the court martial.

Damn that young tiger for his impertinence. His arrogance. Herrick drained the brandy and almost choked on it. He would take no more risks, no matter how the critics might jabber about it later. They were safe. He would never be that now. In any case, Black Prince was a big ship, far larger than his poor Benbow had been on that terrible day. She was capable of her own defence.

The door opened and Captain Pearse entered the silent room. He looked at the empty goblet and the unopened despatches, which lay by the strongbox.

Herrick said heavily, "I said no interruptions! I want to think! And if it's about Captain Adam Bolitho, I'll trouble you not to interfere!"

The captain replied coldly, "The surgeon has been to see me, sir. Lord Sutcliffe has just died."

His eyes glowed in the candlelight as he watched Herrick take the news, gripping the sill with one hand. "So you command here until relieved, sir."

Herrick felt the blood pounding in his temples like insistent hammers. He had sent Adam away. It was too late now. By dawn, not even a schooner would find him.

Very deliberately he walked to the table, unfastened the canvas envelope and removed the enclosure with its bright Admiralty seal. He still could not bring himself to open it. The contents were likely already out of date and intended only for the man who now lay dead in his own filth. Distance and communications, time and strategy which could only be guesswork, left for the man who had to execute it. He had seen Bolitho in his young nephew's face. Never once had he hesitated, even when he was judged at fault. A charmed life. What had they called it? Charisma. Like Nelson, who had paid for it with his life.

The captain saw his hesitation. "Nobody will blame you, sir."

He stood like a witness as Herrick picked up a knife and slit open the seal. Earlier he had been afraid that Herrick was going to ask him to be his ally in overthrowing Sutcliffe's authority. He had wondered how he was going to refuse. Now it was no longer necessary.

Herrick looked up, as though trying to see him in the poor light.

"It states that five sail of the line were forced through the blockade. RearAdmiral Andre Baratte-" he could not bring himself to use the French title, "escaped out of Brest in a Dutch frigate, the Triton." He paused, as if in silent agreement. "So he was right about that too."

Captain Pearse asked, "You know the French admiral, sir?"

"Of him. His father was a great man, but went to the guillotine with all the rest during the Terror." He did not conceal his disgust. "But his son survived. He has distinguished himself in matters of deceit and secrecy." He looked through Pearse without seeing him. "What they call strategy, in high places."

"What shall we do, sir?"

Herrick ignored him. "Why didn't that poxed-up object over there die before Adam came? I could have done something then. Now it's too damned late."

"Five sail of the line, sir. Plus those already here in the Caribbean… it makes this Baratte a formidable threat."

Herrick took up his hat. "Arrange the burial party for Lord Sutcliffe. And tell the major commanding the main battery that the next time he fires a salute, it will likely be at the French fleet!"

He left Pearse staring at the despatches, his mind in a daze. All so quick. At the stroke of a pen.

Aloud he exclaimed, "But it was nobody's fault!" Only the buzzing insects answered.

Far out to sea, her topsails and upper yards painted silver by the moon, the frigate Anemone heeled over to a freshening north-easterly. Lieutenants Sargeant and Martin picked their way into the small chartroom where they found their captain poring over his charts.

The first lieutenant said, "You wanted us, sir?"

Adam smiled and touched his arm. "I treated you badly when I came aboard."

Sargeant sounded relieved. "I was slow to understand, sir. We felt-all of us who know-saddened by your news, your orders not to go in search of the flagship."

"Thank you." Adam picked up the brass dividers. "Nelson once said that written orders are never any substitute for a captain's initiative."

The two lieutenants watched him in silence, while the third and most junior paced the planks overhead, probably speculating as to what was happening.

Adam said quietly, "There will be some risk, but not to you, if I am proven wrong." He glanced around, seeing the whole of his ship as if she were laid out like a plan. "But chances must be taken."

Sargeant looked at the dividers and the scrawled calculations. "You do not intend to sail for Port Royal, sir. You are going to hunt for Sir Richard's ships." He said it so calmly, and yet, in its implication, it sounded like a thunderclap.

Lieutenant Martin exclaimed, "You might lose everything, sir!"

"Yes. I have thought about it." He studied the chart. "Even my uncle could not help me. Not this time." He looked up, his eyes very bright. "Are you with me? I would not blame you if…"

Sargeant placed his hand over his on the chart and Martin laid his on top. Then he said, "I'll tell Old Partridge. He never liked Jamaica anyway."

They left him alone and for a long while Adam stood loosely in the chartroom, his body swaying with his ship.

He thought of his uncle, out there in the darkness with Keen. His lover's husband. A strange rendezvous.

He tossed down the dividers and smiled. "So be it, then!" There would be no regrets.

Bolitho walked up the tilting deck until he could see the frigate Anemone riding hove-to under Black Prince's lee, her sails and slender hull pale pink in the early morning light.

He turned and stared at his nephew, who was holding an empty coffee cup, his expression that of a young boy who had just been scolded by someone he loves or respects. In this case, both.

Bolitho said, "I can scarcely believe it, Adam. You deliberately disobeyed orders to come and seek me out?" It had been dawn when the masthead lookout had reported Anemone's topgallants, and for an instant longer Bolitho had believed it was Tybalt returning already after taking his letters to Herrick. "You know what this can mean. I knew you were a wild young devil, but I never thought…" He broke off, hating what he was doing to him. "Enough of that. How did you find me and reach me before Tybalt?"

Adam put down his cup. "I know your ways in these waters, sir."

Bolitho walked down the deck and put his hands on his shoulders.

"I am damned pleased to see you nonetheless. If you leave at once, your despatches for Vice-Admiral Sir Alexander Cochrane will not be delayed more than a day. And you did not sight the other half of my squadron? That is strange."

Adam stood up and looked for Ozzard. He was never far away. "Tell them to call my gig alongside." He turned to Bolitho. "I could not simply sail away and leave you without news, Uncle. I tried to pass it to Tybalt, but it was all too quick."

"It was warning enough, Adam. But your own news about the schooner, the shore-mounted gun-that is serious. I cannot think why Thomas Herrick would not go over Lord Sutcliffe's head. He was beyond reason when I saw him; Thomas would be fully justified. I simply do not understand."

Adam bit his lip. "I wish I could remain with you. But for you I would be nothing, but I'd risk it all if the same circumstances offered themselves again."

Bolitho walked with him to the companion ladder. It was stranger still that Herrick had not opened the despatches before Adam had been sent away. French ships, but what kind and how many? And whose was the mind that controlled them?

The decks were crowded as both watches were mustered in readiness to get under way again. The other two 74s were falling off downwind, their captains doubtless fretting to know what had happened.

Keen was watching his men. The sail drill had certainly improved, but there was a long way to go yet. He nodded cordially to Adam and remarked, "You are all surprises!" He had purposefully left them alone together in the great cabin. So much to say in so short a time. And like every sailor, each would know it could be for the last time.

Adam said, "I have given a sketch of the island to the flag lieutenant." He sighed. "Though I doubt if the French will linger there. They will know I carried the news to Antigua." He added with sudden bitterness, "For all the damned good it did!"

Bolitho gripped his arm. "It takes longer than you think to move an army, Adam. My instinct tells me that they will shift from there, and perhaps from other islands, when they know our Martinique attack has begun. They will likely have better intelligence in these waters than I do." He dropped his voice. "We will be together soon, Adam. Cochrane is not the admiral to deprive me of an extra fifth-rate when I need her so badly!"

Adam forced a smile. Just being close to Keen had brought the raw memory back to torment him. Himself with Zenoria. Zenoria giving herself to Keen, as she had to him.

He touched his hat and climbed swiftly down to his bobbing gig.

Bolitho said quietly, "Still a wild one, Val. He risked everything to bring us news."

Keen glanced at his troubled face. "He has his ship, with prospects higher than he ever dreamed." He saw the first lieutenant staring at him intently, like a keeper's hound. "What he needs is a good wife, someone who'll be waiting for him when he has the sea at his back."

He said to Sedgemore, "You seem all eagerness to get under way. So carry on, if you please." He watched the immediate tide of seamen and marines, the small islands of blue authority which were his lieutenants and warrant ranks as the hands were urged to halliards and braces.

Bolitho turned to Jenour. "I shall require Yovell to produce two letters for me, Stephen. We will not waste time by stopping for a captains' conference: we will drop a boat, and send my orders to Valkyrie and Relentless in that fashion."

"Shall we attack the island without Tybalt's support, sir?" He saw that Jenour was watching him anxiously, probably thinking of the time when he would be ordered elsewhere.

"Tybalt will find us. Herrick must have opened his despatches by now. After that it is anybody's guess."

Perhaps, Jenour thought. But it will be your responsibility.

Someone called above the din of billowing canvas and creaking blocks, "Anemone's setting her courses!" Another group of idlers gave the frigate a cheer as she heeled over with the wind in her flapping sails.

Bolitho paused to watch her as she gathered way like the thoroughbred she was.

He said, "God care for you, Adam." But his words were lost in the bustle around him.

Later in the day, when a rising north-easterly had found and filled their canvas and thrust the flagship over until her lower gunports were all but awash, Bolitho sat alone in his cabin, covering his injured eye with one hand while he flattened her letter yet again on the table.

"My darling Richard, dearest of men, how I wonder where you are today, and what you are doing…" With great care Bolitho held up the pressed ivy leaf, crimson with winter, which she had sent in the letter. "From our home…"

Bolitho replaced it in the envelope, and stared with shocked disbelief as a tear splashed on the back of his hand.

It was as if she had sent him one of her own.