COLOURS ALOFT!

2. IN DISTRESS

BOLITHO walked across the poop and idly watched the other three ships of the line following astern. It was two long days since they had weighed anchor at Spithead and, apart from sail and gun drill, there had been little to break the monotony.

Inch's Helicon was directly astern, with Despatch and Icarus in direct line although not without a few forthright signals from the flagship.

They had to learn good station-keeping and to respond to every signal without delay. There would be no time later on.

Far away on the starboard quarter, with only her pale topsails showing above the sea and spray, the solitary frigate Barracouta held carefully to windward, ready to dash down and investigate any sighting or support her heavy consorts if so ordered. Bolitho could picture them all, and their captains whom he had seen just briefly prior to sailing. The brig Rapid and the small, rakish cutter Supreme were sweeping far ahead of their flagship, Bolitho's eyes and intelligence.

Bolitho had decided to leave the briefing to Keen when the captains had assembled in Argonautes wardroom. He had always hated speeches just for the want of making them. When they reached the Rock he would know better what was expected and would then lay his intentions before the others.

Inch's face had been creased with delight when Bolitho had greeted him aboard. He had not changed. Still eager and completely trusting, Bolitho knew he could never share his doubts with one so loyal. Inch would agree with everything he said and did, even to the mouth of Hell.

He turned to watch the hands at work on the gun deck. He had noticed several faces he knew from the Achates. He had remarked to Keen that it did him credit they had volunteered to serve under him again. He had not seen Keen smile to himself, just as it had never occurred to him that they might have volunteered because of their admiral.

He had seen the loping, misshapen Crocker, the gun captain who had blown down this ship's mainmast and so finished the battle, looking no different despite his new uniform. He had gained promotion to gunner's mate and was rarely far away when the drills were carried out.

He saw Allday on the larboard gangway with a fresh-faced youth he guessed was his newly discovered son. It did not seem possible, and he wondered when Allday would decide the time was right and proper to bring him aft to the great cabin. Allday would know better than anyone Bolitho's dislike of showing favours in a crowded man-of-war. He would doubtless judge the moment perfectly.

Two bells chimed out from the forecastle and Bolitho stirred restlessly. He felt so apart from the ship and those who followed his flag. Keen and his officers dealt with everything, and day by day Argonautes company were led, encouraged and driven into a working team. Minutes were knocked off the time for clearing for action, for reefing and making sail, but Bolitho could only share it at a distance.

The hours dragged heavily and he found himself envying Keen as well as the other captains who had their ships to fill their days.

He walked to the opposite side and stared at the dull, grey sea with its serried ranks of wave crests. One hundred miles abeam was Lorient. He glanced forward to the figurehead's pale shoulder. They had passed Brest in the night, where this ship had been built. Did Argonaute feel it, he wondered?

Curiously enough Inch's Helicon was also a French prize, but had had her name changed as was the custom when the battle where she had been taken had been badly fought.

Bolitho touched the nettings. Nobody could say that about this ship. She had fought well from start to finish. Nelson would be hard put to control the Mediterranean if the enemy had more admirals of Jobert's breed.

"Deck there! Rapid's signallin', sir!"

Bolitho glanced up at the masthead lookout on his precarious, swooping perch. The wind had backed slightly and was almost directly astern. It would be lively up there.

He opened his mouth to speak but Keen was already present.

"Get aloft, Mr Sheaffe, with haste now!"

Bolitho watched the slim midshipman swarming up the shrouds. He was sixteen but looked older, and rarely skylarked with the other "young gentlemen" off duty, or during the dogwatches.

He wondered momentarily if Adam would have been so serious had he been his son.

Eventually Sheaffe was able to level his big signals telescope and shouted down to the deck.

"From Supreme, repeated Rapid, sir!" All eyes were raised to his foreshortened silhouette. The clouds seemed to be racing directly above the masthead.

"Sail in sight to the south'rd!"

Keen exclaimed, "I wonder?" He looked at Bolitho. "Frenchies, sir?"

Bolitho said, "Doubt it. We saw some of the blockading squadron yesterday. The enemy would have to slip past them first." He smiled at Keen's expression. He was disappointed. It was as clear as if he had said it aloud.

Bolitho said, "Signal Supreme to investigate. She carries only pop-guns, but can outpace anything that floats."

The signal dashed up to the yards and broke stiffly to the wind. Rapid would be waiting to repeat it to the cutter which was out of sight from the flagship. He knew Lieutenant Hallowes' reputation for recklessness and hoped he would take care.

Otherwise his new command would be short-lived.

Bolitho heard a step beside him and saw his flag-lieutenant watching the signal party critically as Sheaffe slid down to the deck again.

Stayt said, "Slow. You must do better, Mr Sheaffe, or I shall know why."

Bolitho said nothing. At least Stayt did not care about reprimanding an admiral's son.

Stayt said, "Whoever it is will probably turn and run, sir."

Bolitho nodded. If it was a merchantman, no matter what flag she wore, her master would not wish to lose any of his prime seamen to a King's ship.

He wondered about Stayt. His father had quit the sea a sick man and owned some land around the little village of Zennor. Stayt's brothers were both clergymen but it was hard to picture the lieutenant wearing the cloth.

Stayt had a swarthy complexion and dark restless eyes. Like a gypsy. He was not handsome like Keen, but had the rugged good looks which would appeal to women.

Bolitho knew that Stayt always carried a small pistol under his coat and wanted to ask him why. A curious habit, as if he was expecting trouble.

Sheaffe spoke urgently to his assistant midshipman and then climbed swiftly up the mizzen shrouds with his telescope. He was smarting, whereas most midshipmen would have taken Stayt's comment as part of their lot. A midshipman was neither fish nor fowl, who stood between the lieutenants and the people, and was respected by neither for the most part. It was strange they never remembered that fact when they became lieutenants, Bolitho thought.

"From Supreme, sir!" Sheaffe's voice was sharp. "She's the Orontes! "

Keen said, "One of the convict ships. But they sailed two days before us." He eyed Bolitho questioningly. "Strange?"

"From Supreme, sir. Ship requires assistance."

"Make to Supreme." Keen had seen Bolitho nod. "Heave-to and await the flag." He waited for the signal to break out. Now a general signal. "Make more sail."

Stayt closed his glass with a snap. "The squadron has all acknowledged, sir."

Bolitho watched the hands dashing up the shrouds and out along the yards to set more sail. The other ships were doing likewise. There was no obvious danger but the squadron would keep in formation. Bolitho had known traps in the past, his own and the enemy's. He was taking no chances.

The deck staggered and spray lifted above the taffrail as Argonaute responded to the extra pressure of canvas.

"We'll be up to them by noon, sir." Keen watched the set of each sail and then shouted, "Another pull on the weather fore-brace, Mr Chaytor! Your division is in confusion today!" He lowered his speaking-trumpet and turned aside. There was little wrong with the lieutenant's division, but it did no harm to drive them a bit more. He saw Bolitho smile and knew that he had seen through his guard.

Luke Fallowfield, the sailing-master, watched the hardening sails and put another man on the big double-wheel. He had been master in flagships before but had never known one like Bolitho's. Most admirals stayed away in their great cabins, but not this one. Fallowfield was short, but massively built like a huge cask. He had no neck and his head sat directly on his shoulders like a great red pumpkin. He was a shabby, shambling mass of a man, who usually cast the smell of rum in his wake, but his knowledge of navigation and ship-handling was unsurpassed.

Bolitho was getting to know their faces, the way they responded to their superiors and subordinates. It kept him in touch. Without this small contact he knew he would be forced into his shielded quarters. In his heart he admitted he did not want to be left alone with his thoughts.

The Orontes grew and lifted from the grey water with each turn of the glass. Lying-to nearby, the Supreme remained an onlooker, her hull rolling and pitching in the troughs.

As soon as Argonaute was within signalling distance Keen observed, "Lost their rudder, damn them!"

Stayt said, "The other ship was an ex-Indiaman and in good condition." His lip curled. "This one is a hulk. I'm glad for their sakes the Bay is being kind."

Bolitho took a glass and watched the slow exchange of signals. Stayt was right about the ship's appearance. More like a slaver than a government transport.

He said, "If we take her in tow, Val," he saw Keen's dismay, "and assist her back to port, we will reduce our strength and slow our passage. We cannot abandon her."

Old Fallowfield mumbled, "Squall gettin' near, zur." He stared blankly at the officers. "No doubt in my mind."

"That settles it." Bolitho folded his arms. "Send a boat across and discover what has happened to her consort, the Philomela." He watched Big Harry Rooke, the boatswain, beckoning a boat's crew towards the tier. It was bad luck, but they had no choice.

"We will escort her to Gibraltar."

Keen protested, "We'll take days longer with her in tow, sir."

He was eager to get there. More so to become involved against the enemy. He did not alter.

The first lieutenant clambered down into the waiting boat and was soon speeding across the water towards the drifting vessel.

What a way for the convicts to begin what was already a terrible voyage, Bolitho thought. He tried to shut it from his mind and concentrate on what he must do. If he left the squadron and went on ahead in Barracouta or Rapid to discover what was required of him, there might be an unexpected attack during his absence. A barely trained squadron without its admiral would certainly attract the French if they learned of it.

He made up his mind. "Signal Barracouta to close on the flag. Captain to repair on board." He could already see Lapish's youthful face, grateful to be released from his ponderous companions, to be free of authority.

"Then signal Helicon to prepare to tow." Inch was by far the most experienced captain, but he would not thank him for it. Not even loyal Inch.

It took the remainder of the day to pass the massive hawser to the rudderless transport, and some hundred sailors from Inch's command to do it. By the time they had formed up once more in some sort of order Barracouta was already hull down on the horizon and soon out of sight altogether. Lapish would carry despatches from Bolitho to the Governor and commander-in-chief. At least everyone would know they would eventually arrive under the Rock.

Darkness closed in and when Bolitho went aft to the great cabin he saw that the table was carefully laid, the sides and deck-head glittering to the swinging lanterns and new candles.

The exercise with the Orontes and the passing of the tow had given Bolitho an appetite. It had helped to pass the time, to see his squadron doing something other than running out guns or shortening sail.

Ozzard watched him and was satisfied. It was good to see Bolitho in a warmer mood. He would dine with the captain and the new flag-lieutenant. Ozzard was reserving his opinion on the latter. There was something false about Lieutenant Stayt, he decided. Like the lawyer he had once worked for.

Ozzard said, "The cox'n's waiting, Sir Richard."

Bolitho smiled. "Good."

Allday was right aft by the big sloping windows. He faced Bolitho and touched his forehead. Even that he did with massive dignity, Bolitho thought. There was neither subservience nor indifference there.

"How is it coming along?" Bolitho sat on the new chair and stretched his legs. "When do I meet, er, your son?"

Allday replied, "Tomorrow forenoon if it suits, Sir Richard."

Even the title rested easily with Allday. He seemed prouder of it than its recipient.

Allday continued, "He's a fine lad, sir." He sounded anxious. "I was wonderin'-"

Now to the truth of the matter. Bolitho said encouragingly, "Come on, old friend. There are no admirals or coxswains down here."

Allday watched him worriedly. "I knows that, sir. I've always known it. You treated me like one of the family in Falmouth. I don't reckon anyone would forget that!'

He tried again. "I get a bit o' pain from time to time, sir."

"Yes." Bolitho poured two glasses of claret. "I fear there is no rum within reach."

The memory brought a slow grin to Allday's bronzed features. Remembering. The rum which had brought him back to life, if only because his reeling mind had recorded that Bolitho was drinking some out of despair. Bolitho never drank rum. In some strange way it had dragged Allday across the margin of survival and death.

"I wants to do my duty for you, sir. Like always. But somehow-"

Bolitho said gently, "You think I might need a second cox'n, is that it?"

Allday stared at him. Awe, astonishment, gratitude, it was all there.

"God bless you, sir." Allday nodded. "It would help the lad, an' I could keep an eye on him like."

Keen entered and stopped by the screen door. "I beg your pardon, sir." It seemed quite natural to find the big coxswain having a quiet drink with his admiral. Keen had cause to know and respect Allday. When he had been a midshipman under Bolitho's command he had been cut down by a great splinter which had driven into his groin like a bloody lance. The frigate's surgeon had been a drunkard and Allday had carried the barely conscious midshipman below and cut the splinter away himself. It had saved his life. No, he would never forget, especially as the respect had become mutual.

Bolitho smiled. "All done. With your permission, I'd like to take, er-" He glanced at Allday. "What name does he use?"

Allday looked at his feet. "John, like me, sir." He became serious, "Bankart. That was 'er name."

Keen nodded, his handsome features expressionless. His own coxswain, Hogg, had told him about it.

Bolitho said, "A second cox'n. Good idea, eh?"

Keen replied gravely, "None better."

They watched him leave and Keen said, "God, he even looks like a father now!"

Bolitho asked, "Do you know this Bankart?"

Keen took a glass from Ozzard and held it up to a lantern.

"I saw him sworn in, sir. About twenty or so. Served in the Superb before the Peace. A clean bill."

Bolitho looked away. Keen had checked up already. To protect him or Allday, it did not matter which.

Keen said, "I am in despair over the Orontes, sir. Her master ignores Captain Inch's instructions and I am fast becoming impatient with the fellow." He eyed Bolitho thoughtfully. "I've a mind to go aboard tomorrow."

Bolitho smiled. "Yes. I think my flag-captain will get more done than Inch's lieutenants."

Stayt entered the cabin and handed Ozzard his hat. He too had apparently been considering the Orontes.

"I think I have discovered why the other transport sailed on without Orontes, sir." He leaned over to move a chair and for a second or so revealed the bright pistol beneath his coat. "Philomela carries gold as well as human beings. The paymaster for New South Wales is with it."

Bolitho rubbed his chin. That was strange. Nobody had mentioned it before.

Keen said bitterly, "Afraid to put his money in a man-of-war, is he? In case we have to fight for him, damn his eyes!"

Ozzard hovered by the other screen door. He had heard everything but would keep it to himself. He had known all about the gold, as did most of the squadron. It was funny that the officers were always the last to hear such matters, he thought.

"Dinner is served, Sir Richard," he said meekly.

When Bolitho went on deck the following morning he saw the disarray in his ships after a mounting overnight gale. Now, as each captain endeavoured to place his ship on the required station, the wind just as mischievously dropped to a wet breeze, to leave the heavier vessels rolling uncomfortably in the troughs, their sails flapping and banging in confusion.

Keen glared across at the Orontes. Quite rightly Inch had cast off the tow during the night to avoid a collision and now it would have to begin all over again.

Keen sounded exasperated. "Call away the gig. I shall go over to her." He took a glass from the midshipman-of-the-watch and trained it on the drifting transport. Half to himself he said, "I have already had words with my carpenter, Sir Richard. With his aid I intend to coax Orontes' master into rigging a jury rudder."

Bolitho raised his own telescope and studied the other vessel. Her decks seemed to be full of people, crew or convicts it was impossible to tell. No one appeared to be working and he said quietly, "Take some marines with you, Val."

Keen lowered his glass and looked at him. "Aye, sir." He sounded uneasy. "Some of their people are drinking. At this time of the day!"

The gig and then a cutter were lowered alongside while the flagship came into the wind and lay hove-to, her reefed canvas flapping wetly in the spray.

Keen hurried to the entry port and Bolitho said, "Go with him, Mr Stayt. You may learn something less basic then seamanship today."

Keen waited impatiently as a squad of Royal Marines clattered down into the cutter with their junior officer Lieutenant Orde. He was a haughty young man who obviously resented the idea of soaking his immaculate scarlet coat on the crossing Keen touched his hat to the quarterdeck and then hurried down the side where Hogg waited with his gig.

Keen had no doubts in his mind that the next months would be crucial as England and her old enemy circled one another to seek out and exploit a first weakness. He wanted to begin, to use his ship where she was most needed. For Keen it was like a driving force. He had nothing else.

Once he glanced astern and saw his ship riding easily in the swell and Bolitho's straight figure by the quarterdeck rail. Argonaute would serve him well, Keen thought. I owe him that and so much more.

The coxswain swore silently as the gig shuddered alongside and hooked onto the main-chains. The cutter, caught on a sudden crest, was carried past, the marines watching with amusement as the oarsmen fought to regain control.

Stayt stood aside to allow Keen to climb the ladder. After the lively motion and stinging spray the Orontes' broad deck seemed almost sluggish and without wind.

There were figures everywhere, on the deck and gangways, even in the tops overhead. A few carried weapons, guards probably, the rest looked like the sweepings of a jail.

But Keen saw only the drama being enacted below the poop. The rigged grating, a great brute of a boatswain's mate with what looked like a long whip in his hand as he stared at the figure seized up for flogging.

Keen hated the savage ritual of a flogging, more so the occasional need for it. Ever since he had seen his first punishment as a young midshipman, like most sea officers he had fought to conceal his revulsion for the sake of discipline. Others, it seemed, could watch it without turning a hair.

But this was different. He felt his spine go cold as he stared at the spreadeagled form on the grating.

A seaman exclaimed behind him, "Christ A'mighty, sir, it's a girl!"

She was stripped almost to her buttocks, her face and shoulders hidden by her hair, her arms stretched out as if she had been crucified.

Keen stepped forward but before he could speak the boatswain's mate drew back his arm and curled the whip across the girl's back with the sound of a pistol shot.

Keen saw her arch her body, her torn clothing falling still further. But she did not scream for the force of the blow had smashed the breath from her body. Then, after what seemed like several seconds, a bright scarlet line showed itself from one bare shoulder to the opposite hip and then the blood ran down her back, and as the man drew back his arm she began to struggle.

Keen said sharply, "Belay that!" He felt Stayt beside him but did not take his eyes from the scene. Around and above him he could hear a baying chorus of voices. Anger, disappointment- they had wanted to watch her flogged.

In the sudden silence Keen said, "Mr Stayt! If that man so much as lifts his whip I order you to shoot him dead!"

Stayt stepped forward, the pistol already cocked in his hand. He raised his arm, not like a man going into battle, but as a duellist would balance his weapon for that one, vital shot.

A portly figure in a blue coat pushed towards Keen, his jowls jogging with fury.

Keen regarded him calmly although he was feeling cold anger sweeping through him, blinding him to everything but the desire to smash this man, the master, in the face.

"What the hell do you think you're about, blast you!" The man was almost incoherent with rage and drink.

Keen met his angry glare. "I am Sir Richard Bolitho's flag-captain. You abuse your authority, sir." He felt his relief as he heard the marines scrambling up the side. At last. Inch had obviously withdrawn his own men before the squall. In another moment, he, Stayt and the others might have been overwhelmed. Most of the crew looked too drunk to be able to think, let alone take orders.

Lieutenant Orde seemed unable to respond to what he saw, but Blackburn, his big sergeant, rasped, "Fix bayonets, Marines! If they moves, cut 'em down!" Blackburn did not trust anyone who did not wear the scarlet coat of the Corps.

The rasp of steel seemed to shock the vessel's ungainly master.

He said in a conciliatory tone, "She's a damned thief, that's what. No better than a common whore! I must have order and discipline in my ship! If I had my way-"

He broke off as Keen said gently, "Cut her down. Cover her with something."

A seaman called, "She'm fainted, sir!"

Keen made himself cross to the grating. He saw the way her slight figure was dragging on her bound wrists, the blood running down her spine. Her breasts were pressed into the grating, and he could see where her heart pumped against the scrubbed wood.

She had fainted, but the pain would be waiting for her.

Hogg had appeared on deck and Keen heard him sheathe his cutlass. He must have thought the worst to quit his gig and come aboard without an order. A riot, a mutiny, Hogg was ready to save his captain. Like Allday had done for Bolitho.

Hogg strode over and cut the bonds and caught her as she fell, the last of her blood-spattered clothing gathered up in his arms as he hid her body from the silent onlookers. The ship's master said thickly, "I have a surgeon."

Keen eyed him. "I can well imagine." It must have been the way he looked rather than what he said, because the master fell back as if he had seen his own danger in Keen's eyes.

"Take her to the gig, Hogg, and return to the ship. You go with the boat, Mr Stayt. I have work to do here." He saw the barest hint of resentment in the lieutenant's dark eyes. He wanted to shoot, to kill the man with the whip. Anyone. Keen knew that look. Perhaps I have it also?

"Now, Captain Latimer." Keen was surprised he had remembered the man's name, when moments earlier he had wanted to smash him to the deck. "I intend that you shall put your best hands to work on a jury rudder. I will supply more men when required, but you will waste no more time, do you understand?"

"The girl?" The earlier anger showed itself. "I'm responsible for every living soul aboard."

Keen eyed him coldly. "Then God help them. There are women in Captain Inch's ship, wives of the Gibraltar garrison officers. They can take care of the girl for the present, after my surgeon has examined her."

The other man knew his authority was dwindling with each second.

"It must be said, Captain, you've not heard the last o' this."

Keen raised one hand and saw the man flinch. But he tapped his blue lapel and said, "Nor you, I can promise that."

Another boat ground alongside and he heard Argonautes carpenter and his selected crew climbing aboard.

Keen turned away; he was needed aboard the flagship for a dozen things, but some last warning made him turn.

"If you are thinking, Captain Latimer, that it is a long, long way to New South Wales, let me assure you that you will not even see Gibraltar if you abuse your authority again."

He climbed down into the cutter and waited to be pulled back to the ship.

He was breathing hard and thought his hands must be shaking. He saw the cutter's midshipman staring at him. He must have seen most of it.

Keen said, "You are all eyes today, Mr Hext."

Hext, just thirteen years old, nodded and swallowed hard.

"I-I'm sorry, sir. But, but-"

"Go on, Mr Hext."

Hext flushed crimson, knowing that the oarsmen were watching as they pushed and pulled on their looms.

"When I saw it, sir, I-I wanted to stand with you-"

Keen smiled, moved by the boy's sincerity. It was probably hero-worship and nothing deeper, but it did more to steady Keen's mood than he could have believed possible.

He had heard it said that Hext wrote many letters to his parents although there was little time to post any of them.

He said, "Never be afraid to help the helpless, Mr Hext. Think on it."

The midshipman clung to the tiller bar and stared blindly at the towering masts and rigging of the flagship. He would write about it in his next letter. "Toss your oars!" he piped. It was a moment he would never lose.