THE INSHORE SQUADRON

13. Three Minutes to Live

Bolitho waited hesitantly in the neat London square and looked at the house. He had made himself walk from his temporary residence for several reasons. To exercise his leg and to give himself time to prepare what he was going to say.

He had asked Browne if he had seen Belinda Laidlaw when he had called to deliver the letter, but Browne had shaken his head.

'Just a servant, sir. It was so glum there, it was like a tomb.'

Bolitho could now understand Browne's brief description. The house was a twin of the one alongside it. Tall, elegant and of fine proportions. There was no other similarity. It looked cold and unwelcoming, and yet he had the distinct impression it was watching him, as if the whole square was holding its breath to see what a visitor was doing here.

After his walk, the bustle and noise around the many shops and wine merchants, he felt less sure of himself.

It was ridiculous. He strode up the steps and reached for the bell-pull, but the door opened before him as if by magic.

A miserable-looking footman regarded him curiously.

'Sir?'

Bolitho was in no mood for argument. He released his cloak from his throat and handed it to the footman, then his hat.

'My name is Richard Bolitho. Mrs Laidlaw is expecting me.'

As he examined his appearance in a tall, heavily framed mirror, Bolitho saw the man backing up the hallway, staring from the hat and cloak to the visitor with something like awe. Bolitho guessed that they had few guests here, and certainly not any uncouth junior flag officer.

He straightened his coat and turned to face the interior.

Everything looked old and heavy. Owned once by people now long dead, he thought.

The footman returned empty-handed. Bolitho tried to remain impassive, to hide his relief. He had expected she might refuse to see him, if only to avoid embarrassment.

The man said in a doleful tone, 'This way, sir.'

They reached a pair of fine inlaid doors on the opposite side of the house, and with great care the footman opened them together and closed them soundlessly as Bolitho stepped into the room.

It was vast, and again filled with grand furniture and imposing portraits, mostly, it appeared, of senior judges.

In a gilded chair to one side of the fire was the judge's wife. She had to be, Bolitho thought grimly. She was massive and well upholstered, like one of her chairs, and her pale features were deeply lined with disapproval.

Nearby, an open book on her lap, was Mrs Belinda Laidlaw. She wore a plain, dove-blue gown which was more like some kind of uniform than Bolitho would have expected. She was watching him steadily, as if by showing some sign of pleasure or sudden animation she would shatter the peace of the room.

Bolitho said, 'I am temporarily in London, ma'am.' He looked at the judge's wife but meant his. words for the girl. 'I asked to call, for in my profession we never know when we may touch land again.'

It sounded heavy and pompous, like the room. Perhaps it had that effect on visitors, Bolitho decided.

The old lady's arm came out from her skirt and directed Bolitho to an uncomfortable-looking chair opposite her. She pointed with a thin black stick, very like the one carried by Major Clinton.

There were some windows facing Bolitho, empty of houses or trees, so that the hard light changed the girl into a silhouette without face or expression.

The judge's wife said, 'We shall have tea presently, er…' She peered at Bolitho's epaulettes. `Captain, is it?'

The girl said quickly, 'Rear-admiral, ma'am.'

Bolitho caught the tension in her tone and knew that the judge's wife had been told all about him and probably a lot more beside.

'I am afraid such things are beyond our calling.' She nodded slowly. 'I gather you stayed at Lord Swinburne's Hampshire estate?' It sounded like an accusation.

Bolitho said, 'He was very helpful.' He tried again. 'It seems likely I shall be rejoining the squadron directly.' He turned towards her silhouette. 'I trust you are settled in, as we sailors say?'

'I am comfortable, thank you.'

And that was how it continued. A question from Bolitho which was immediately parried. A mention of some place he had been or the animals, ships or natives he had seen in far-off countries which was politely ended with a nod or a patient smile.

'The judge is so often called away to administer the law that we rarely find the time to travel.'

Bolitho shifted his leg carefully. She always spoke of the judge. Never by name or as a husband. Her remark about travel made Bolitho's descriptions of life at sea seem like idle enjoyment.

She was saying in the same dry voice, 'The war brings so much lawlessness. The judge is hard put to complete his work. But he is dedicated, and duty should be reward enough.'

Bolitho could pity any man appearing before thisparticular judge for sentence. If he was anything like his wife there would be neither mercy nor compassion.

A bell chimed, the sound echoing down the passageways like a funeral lament.

The old lady poked a log on the fire with her stick and said coldly, 'More visitors, Mrs Laidlaw? We are becoming popular.'

The footman crept soundlessly through the door and said, 'I crave pardon for disturbing you, ma'am.' He sounded as if he was used to being cowed. 'There is another naval gentleman here.' He shifted his gaze to Bolitho. 'He is asking to see you, sir.'

Bolitho got up from the chair. He could almost feel the girl watching his efforts to appear relaxed and free of pain.

'I am sorry. It must be urgent."

As he left the room he heard the old lady say, I do not think we will need tea, Simkins."

Browne was standing in the lower hall, his cloak spotted with droplets of rain.

Bolitho asked, 'What is it? The French, are they at sea?'

Browne glanced quickly around him. 'It concerns your nephew, sir.' He reached out as if to reassure him. 'He is safe, but it was a dose-run thing. Captain Herrick sent a fast rider to let you know at once.'

In short, disjointed sentences Browne explained about Pascoe and his meeting with Lieutenant Roche.

Browne said, 'When I read Captain Herrick's message I was appalled, sir. Roche is a bully and a professional duellist. Pascoe met him while he was on some personal mission ashore. Roche made a remark to him and Pascoe struck him.' He shrugged wearily. 'Captain Herrick did not elaborate but bade me tell you that he has dealt with the matter.' He forced a smile. 'Relentless had a vacancy for third lieutenant. It has now been filled.'

Bolitho was looking round for the footman.

'You do not understand. It is not finished, nor will it be until…' He stopped as he saw the girl moving from the shadows towards him. 'I am sorry. But I must leave.'

Browne insisted, 'But he will be safe now, sir.'

'Safe? Have you already forgotten what you discovered about my family? It will never be settled until the truth is out.'

He said in a calmer tone, 'I apologize for all this bother, ma'am. I expected we might talk. I had even hoped…'

He watched her face as if to fix it in his mind. The brown eyes, the perfectly shaped mouth, her lips slightly parted with concern at his anxiety.

She said, 'I am sorry, too. After all you did for me, and you were made to sit there like a tradesman. I felt ashamed.' Impetuously Bolitho reached out and took her hands in his.

'There is never any time!'

She did not remove her hands but said in the same low voice, 'For what? What is it you wish to tell me? That I am so like your dead wife that you wish me to replace her?' She shook her head slowly. 'You know that would be wrong. I would have to be wanted as me, not as a memory of someone else.'

Browne said awkwardly, 'I'll wait outside, sir.'

Bolitho faced him. 'I shall want a.fast horse and a list of post-houses along the Portsmouth Road. Tell Allday to follow with the carriage and our chests.'

Browne stared at him with disbelief. 'Horses, sir?'

'I can ride, Browne!'

Browne stood his ground his face determined. 'With all respect, sir, your wound is barely healed, and then there may be a conference at the Admiralty which would require your presence.'

'Blast the Admiralty, Browne, and damn their politics!' He gave a brief smile which failed to reach his eyes. 'And should you care to arrange for two horses, I'll show you whether or not my injury will prevent my beating you to Portsdown Hill!'

Browne hurried away, leaving the front door open in his confusion.

Bolitho said, 'Excuse the language. I forgot myself.' He regarded her searchingly. 'I'll not lie to you, I was overcome by the likeness. I have been too long with hope, or perhaps too long with none at all. But I needed the time for you to like me. I could not bear the thought of your being here. Now I have seen the place I am even more convinced it is not for you, even as a temporary remedy.'

'I have to stand on my own feet.' She brushed some hair from her face. 'Rupert Seton wished me to take money from him. Other men made varying offers. As my circumstances worsened so their offers became less delicately put.'

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. 'Please remember me. I will never forget you.'

She stood back as the footman appeared with Bolitho's hat and cloak.

'Your aide was anxious about you riding to Portsmouth. Must you go?'

'It is something which has been haunting me for years. And time is running out.'

He looked at her gravely. 'I wish you all the luck in the world. Happiness, too.'

He did not remember leaving the house, but when he looked back the front door was shut. It was just as if he had imagined all of it. That he was still preparing what he would say when he met her.

When Bolitho reached the house in Cavendish Square he saw two powerful looking horses waiting outside. Browne had a lot of friends and no little influence, he thought.

Inside the hallway there was complete confusion. Browne trying to pacify Allday, the cook weeping in the background although she could barely know what it was all about.

Allday turned towards Bolitho, his voice pleading. 'You can't go without me! It's not fair. You know I can't ride, sir.' He looked brokenly at the floor. 'It's not right, Mr Browne here is a good man, sir, but he don't know you!'

Bolitho was deeply moved by Allday's despair.

'I have to ride. It will be much faster. You follow in the carriage.'

Allday had not heard. To Browne he said imploringly, 'You stop him, sir! I know him of old. He's going to fight that bugger.' He looked desperately at Bolitho again. 'With pistols!'

Bolitho said, 'You should not have told him!'

Browne replied quietly, 'It seemed only right, sir.'

Allday stepped between them. 'You're a fine swordsman. One of the best I've ever seen, an' that's no error.' He gripped Bolitho's sleeve. 'But you're no hand with a pistol, sir. You couldn't hit a man at thirty paces, an' you know it!'

'If we're to change horses at Guildford, sir.' Browne looked meaningly at his watch. 'We should leave now.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Wait for me.'

He could not walk away from Allday and leave him like this. They had been together so long, perhaps too long. Like the man and his loyal dog, each worrying for the other, and the one who would eventually be left behind.

He said, 'Listen to me, my friend. If there was another way I'd take it. But Adam is being used to destroy me. If not now in England then elsewhere at some other time. We can't have that, can we?'

'It's not fair, sir. I should be with you.'

Bolitho touched his arm. 'You are. And you will be.'

He walked out into the growing drizzle and climbed up into the saddle.

Browne glanced at him questioningly. 'All done, sir?' 'Aye. How far is it?'

Browne tried not to show his concern. 'Sixty miles and a bit, sir.'

'Let's be about it then.'

Bolitho nodded to the groom who released his grip on the bridle. He thought of Allday's words. No hand with a pistol. So what chance would Adam have stood against a professional killer?

The thought seemed to give him added strength and he snapped, 'At least when you are fighting another ship you know where the shots will come from. It seems it is not so easy when you are among civilized people!'

As the guard-boat pulled lustily across the swirling currents of Portsmouth harbour Bolitho had to grit his teeth to prevent them from chattering with cold. The ride from London had been like part of a nightmare, confused and seemingly unending. Small inns, a few moments to gulp down a hot drink while weary-eyed ostlers led the horses away and saddled fresh mounts for the next stretch of the journey.

Winding coach roads, bushes standing darkly by the side like hunched groups of footpads, cold wind and the stinging cut of rain to keep his mind awake.

Now it was almost dawn, and in the dull grey light even Portsmouth looked like a dream's interpretation, without reality.

The boat's coxswain swung the tiller and headed towards a solitary top-light which Bolitho knew to be his flagship.

Browne had said very little during the hard ride, and was slumped beside him, either too tired to speak or immersed in some plan of his own.

The officer of the guard snapped, 'Show the lantern!'

He was a lieutenant with a terrible facial disfigurement from some sea-fight in the past.

The bowman slid the shutter of his lantern and held it above his head.

Bolitho could imagine Benbow's drowsy watchkeepers, the marine sentries on the forecastle and poop, the pandemonium which would begin as soon as they realized he was returning.

Across the dark water came the age-old challenge. 'Boat ahoy?'

The coxswain cupped his hands, probably enjoying the chaos he was about to cause.

'Flag! Benbow!'

Bolitho said, 'I hope to God Captain Herrick is aboard.'

He despised himself immediately for thinking otherwise. Of course he would be here.

Like a rounded cliff Ben bow's side loomed over the boat, and high above, more starkly etched against the dull sky, her masts and yards made a black pattern all of their own.

`Toss your oars!'

The boat glided the last few yards to the main chains, but when Bolitho made to rise from his seat he almost cried out with pain as his leg buckled beneath him.

Browne whispered urgently, 'Here, sir, let me help!'

Bolitho stared up at the entry port, his vision misting with pain. What had he expected? A ride like that was enough to break any wound. His sense of urgency, his need to get here had made him lie to Browne. He had barely ridden a horse, and certainly not so hard, for several years.

He said, 'No. I must manage. Must.'

The lieutenant raised his hat, and the oarsmen sat in their boat, panting with exertion, as they watched Bolitho climb slowly up the Benbow's side.

Herrick was there, dishevelled and anxious as he hurried forward to meet him.

Bolitho said huskily, 'Later, Thomas. Come aft with me now.'

Startled figures moved from and then retreated to the shadows. Acting Lieutenant Aggett, in charge of the hated morning watch. Perhaps he was already regretting his unexpected promotion after the death of the sixth lieutenant.

Others, too, but Bolitho had thoughts only for his cabin. To reach it and find the peace to think.

The marine sentry outside his cabin stamped to attention, his uniform very bright beneath the solitary lantern.

Bolitho limped past him. 'Good morning, Williams.' He did not see the pleasure on the man's face that he had found time to remember his name.

Ozzard was in the stern cabin, bustling and muttering as he lit the lanterns and brought life to the green leather and the heavy-beamed deckhead.

Herrick stared at Bolitho as he sank into a chair and gasped, 'Get my boots off, Ozzard.'

Browne warned, 'Easy, man.'

Herrick saw the broad patch of blood on Bolitho's thigh.

'God Almighty!'

Bolitho tensed against the pain. 'Tell me, Thomas. About this damned duel.'

Herrick said, 'I passed all I knew to Browne, sir. I was not sure where you might be at that time. But Relentless sails on the morning tide. Pascoe will be out of harm's way.'

He winced as Bolitho gave a sharp cry.

'I'll pass the word for the surgeon.'

'Later.' Bolitho turned to Ozzard. 'A drink, please. Anything. As fast as you like.' To Herrick he said, 'How did Adam take it?'

'Badly, sir. He spoke of honour, of your trust in him, and of causing you trouble because of his dead father.' Herrick frowned, reliving and hating it. 'I had to use my authority in the end. That was almost the worst part.'

Bolitho nodded. 'To think Adam has always dreamed of joining a frigate. To have it spoiled in this way is bad, but you acted well, Thomas. Captain Rowley Peel is young and ambitious, and has proved his skill at arms. More than that, he is a stranger to me, so he has no axe to grind. Dear inch would say black was white if he thought it would please me. Like you in that respect.'

He took a goblet from Ozzard and drank deeply. It was icecold hock which Ozzard had been keeping in his secret store in the bilges.

Bolitho sank back and said, 'Another. And fetch some for Captain Herrick and my flag lieutenant.' He looked at each of them in turn. 'I am indebted to you both for more reasons than I can name.'

Browne blurted out, 'Do you intend to face Roche, sir?'

Herrick almost choked on his wine. 'What?'

Bolitho asked, 'When is the meet?'

'This morning at eight, sir. On the Gosport side. But it is not necessary now. I can inform the port admiral and have Roche charged.'

'Do you think that anyone who would use Adam to get at me would not try again? It is no coincidence.' He saw Herrick's expression. 'You've remembered something?'

Herrick licked his lips. 'Your nephew made a strange remark, sir. This Lieutenant Roche remarked that he had been looking for him. I was going to meet you or something of that sort.'

'That settles it.'

He thought suddenly of her face. But whose, Cheney's, or the girl he had left in London at that sombre house? Browne said, 'He means it.'

Bolitho smiled. 'Now you may fetch the surgeon. I'll need a new dressing, and some fresh breeches and shoes.'

Browne replied, `And shirt.' He hesitated. 'In case of the worst, sir.'

As he left the cabin Herrick said, 'I'll come with you.'

'Major Clinton is probably better used to such matters. You are too close, Thomas.' He thought of Allday. 'It is better this way.'

Browne returned, out of breath. 'Surgeon's coming aft, sir.' 'Good. Arrange for a boat, and a carriage of some kind if it's any distance.'

He closed his eyes as the pain returned. But for Herrick's message he would still be in London. Any delay and the time for the duel would have been past.

If Damerum was behind it, he would be waiting to gloat over j Roche's victory.

He said quietly, `There is a letter in my strongbox, Thomas.' He saw Herrick's eyes widen with alarm. 'I am a coward. I should have told Adam about his father's death. It is all written in the letter. Give it to him if I fall today.'

Herrick exclaimed, 'You could not tell him, sir. By so doing you would have revealed yourself for harbouring a traitor. And then your brother would have been taken and Pascoe would have seen him hang.'

'That is what I told myself, Thomas. Maybe that, too, was a lie. Perhaps I was frightened Adam would hate me for the deceit. I think that is what it was.'

The surgeon entered the cabin and glared at Bolitho like an enraged skull.

'With all respect, sir, do you want to die?'

Herrick said heavily, 'Hold your tongue and do what is required.' As he made for the screen door he added, 'You might as well try to stop a charging bull.'

Major Clinton said, 'I think it best that we should stop now, sir.' He peered through the small window. 'It is reckless to advertise such matters.'

Bolitho climbed down from the small carriage and looked at the sky. It was almost eight o'clock but the light was still poor.

Clinton tucked his case of pistols under his cloak and added, 'I shall see the fellow's second,, sir. I'll not be long.' But still he hesitated. 'If you are really intent on this?'

'I am. Remember, confine your remarks to Roche's second to the minimum.'

Clinton nodded. 'I'll not forget, sir. Just as you told me. Although…' He did not finish it.

Bolitho placed his hat on the carriage seat and tugged his cloak more tightly around him. Small things stood out. Some early sparrows searching for food. The fact that the muffled coachman had got down from his seat to stand by his horses' heads. To pacify them at the first pistol shots. That, his hands were damp with sweat.

What it must be like for a condemned man, he thought vaguely. Trying to hold on to small, ordinary things, as if by so doing he could stop time itself.

Clinton came back, his face grim. 'They're waiting, sir.'

Bolitho walked beside him through the wet grass to a small clearing, beyond which Clinton had said there was a bog.

Clinton said, 'The pistols are examined and accepted, sir.'

'What did he say to annoy you so much, Major?'

'Damned impudence! When I told him Mr Pascoe had been ordered to sea and that another sea officer of the Bolitho family was to take his place, he just laughed! It won't save his honour or his life, he said!'

Bolitho saw two carriages standing discreetly beneath some trees. One for his opponent, the other for some trustworthy doctor, no doubt.

He watched Roche and his second striding purposefully to meet them. Roche was a powerful-looking man, and he was almost swaggering with conceit and confidence.

But there was no humour in his voice, and long after he had gone his words seemed to hang in the air.

They faced each other, and Roche's second said crisply, `You will each take fifteen paces, turn and fire. If neither falls, each of you will advance five paces and fire again.'

Roche bared his teeth in a grin. 'Let's begin. I need a drink.'

Bolitho looked at the two open cases, his mind empty of everything but that by using two pistols it would have been even easier_ for a trained marksman to kill his opponent.

He said, 'Take my cloak, Major.'

He tried not to look at Roche's face as he threw the cloak from his shoulders. In the grey light, and set against the bare, dripping trees, his uniform stood out like a painting. The bright epaulettes, the single gold stripe on his sleeve, the buttons, one of which on another coat had almost cost him his leg.

Eventually he did turn to face Roche. The transformation was complete. Instead of his sneering amusement at the thought of another kill he was staring at Bolitho as if he was having a seizure or that his neckcloth was choking him.

'Well, Mr Roche?'

'But – but I cannot fight with…'

'With a rear-admiral? Does rank decide who will live or die, Mr Roche?'

He nodded to Clinton, thankful that he at least was outwardly in control of his feelings.

'Let us get on with it.'

He heard Roche mutter, 'Tell him, John. I'll stand down.' Bolitho lifted the two long-barrelled pistols from their case

and cocked them. His heart was pounding so hard that he

thought Roche and the others must hear it. Bolitho said, 'But I will not.'

He turned his back and waited, the pistols pointing at the clouds.

If Roche decided to go through with it he would be dead in about three minutes.

The second cleared his throat. There was no other sound now, even the sparrows were silent.

'Fifteen paces. Begin!'

Bolitho fixed his eyes on a straight elm tree and walked carefully towards it, counting each step like the beat of his heart.

Adam would have been doing it at this very moment. If by any chance Roche had failed to kill him with the first ball the second would have finished him. Those extra paces, after being narrowly missed by a professional duellist, or maybe wounded, would have destroyed any remaining confidence.

'Thirteen… fourteen… fifteen!'

Bolitho's shoes squeaked on the grass as he turned and dropped his right arm. He saw Roche's shirt outlined above the smooth barrel and then realized that his arms were at his sides, his pistols pointing to the ground.

Roche called hoarsely, 'I cannot shoot you, sir! Please!'

His second turned to stare at him, more used to hearing a victim pleading before Roche had cut him down.

Bolitho kept his aim steady although the pistol felt like a cannon ball.

He said, 'If you finish me, Mr Roche, do you imagine that whoever paid you to kill my nephew will stand by you? At best you will be transported for life. But my guess is that there are many who would use their influence to see you dance on a gibbet like the common felon you are!'

The pistol was getting so heavy Bolitho wondered how he was keeping it so steady.

He called, 'On the other hand, when I kill you, there will be an end to it, for your patron will hardly be likely to admit that he was party to this!'

The second called shakily, I must insist, gentlemen!' A handkerchief appeared above his head. 'When I drop this, you will fire!'

Bolitho nodded. 'I am ready!'

Roche's shape narrowed as he turned his ri t side towards Bolitho, the pistol coming up firmly to point directly at him.

It had not worked. How long now? he wondered. Three seconds?

The handkerchief moved, and then Roche threw himself on his knees, his pistols hurled away into the grass.

'Please! Please have -mercy!'

Bolitho walked slowly towards him, each step agonizing as his wound tore at the thick dressing. But the pain was more like a spur than a handicap. He did not take his eyes from the kneeling, whimpering lieutenant until he was standing less than a yard away.

Roche stopped pleading and babbling and stared at the black muzzle, afraid even to blink.

Bolitho said coldly, 'I have seen better men than you'll ever be die for less reason than you. My nephew, whom you chose to mock, to humiliate without cause, has done things which your sort do not even bother to read about. You sicken me, and I can think of no valid reason to let you live a moment longer!'

His finger tightened on the trigger and then he heard Clinton say gently, `If you like, sir, I'll put the pieces in their case.' He took the pistol from Bolitho's hand and added, 'Mr Roche's courage today will be all over Portsmouth by noon. By tomorrow, who can say where the tale will be told and heard,' he swung on the terrified Roche, `with relish, damn your bloody eyes!'

Bolitho nodded to the second and then turned towards the waiting carriage.

Clinton strode beside him, his breath like steam in the cold air.

`Scum, sir! I had my heart in my teeth, all the same.'

Bolitho looked down at the blood on his breeches. It was like wet paint in the dull light.

'Yes, Major. Scum. But the really terrible thing was, I wanted to kill him. But for you?' He shook his head… 'Now I'll never know.'

Clinton grinned with relief. 'Neither will he, sir!'