He tried to think about the squadron he was taking from Herrick. Five ships of the line and only two frigates. There were never enough.
Allday walked across the cabin, his eyes watchful. "Punishment's over, Sir Richard."
Bolitho barely heard. He was thinking of Vincent again, of his sister's reproachful coldness towards Catherine.
He said distantly, "Never hold out your hand too often, old friend." As he turned away he added, "You can get badly bitten."
"Watch your stroke! " Allday leaned forward, one hand on the tiller bar, as if he were riding across the choppy water instead of steering the Black Prince's barge. Even with all his experience it was going to be a difficult crossing from one flagship to the other. He knew better than to use some of his stronger language in front of his admiral, but later he would have no such qualms. In their turn, the bargemen put all their weight on the painted looms, conscious more of Allday's threatening gaze, perhaps, than their passenger.
Bolitho turned and looked back at his new flagship. It was the first time he had seen her properly in her own element. The light was dull and grey but even so the powerful three-decker seemed to shine like polished glass, her black and buff hull and the chequered pattern of gunports making a splash of welcome colour against the miserable North Sea afternoon. Beyond her, and turning away almost guiltily, the Zest was standing off to resume her proper station.
Bolitho felt Jenour watching him as the green-painted barge lifted and plunged over the water in sickening swoops.
Keen had done well, he thought. He must have been pulled around the ship before and after he had first taken her to sea. He had checked the trim of the great hull, and had ordered some of the ballast to be moved, and many of the stores shifted to different holds to give the ship the right lift at the stem. He saw the figurehead reaching out with his sword from beneath the beakhead. It was one of the most lifelike he'd yet seen, carved and painted more to impress than frighten. The son of Edward III, complete with chain mail, fleur-de-lis and English lions. From the black-crowned helmet to the figure's unflinching stare, it could have been a living being.
The carver had been one of the most famous of his breed, old Aaron Mallow of Sheerness. Sadly, Black Prince's figurehead had been his last; he had died shortly after the ship had been launched for fitting-out.
Bolitho looked instead at Benbow, once his own flagship, when Herrick had been his captain. A seventy-four like Hyperion but much heavier, for she had been built much later when there were still the oak forests to provide for her. Now the forests of Kent and Sussex, Hampshire and the West Country were left bare, raped by the mounting demands of a war which never lessened in its ferocity.
He saw the scarlet of the marines, the dull glint of metal in the fading light, and felt a pang of anxiety Herrick was his oldest friend. Had been until… He thought suddenly of what Keen had told him about the man who had been flogged. Stripped and seized up to the grating by wrists and knees, he had taken a dozen lashes without a protest, only the usual sound of the air being beaten from his lungs with each blow of the cat.
It was while he was being cut down that an unknown voice had yelled out from the silent onlookers, "We'll make it even for you, Jim! "
Needless to say, the ship's corporal and the master-at-arms had been unable to discover the culprit. In a way, Bolitho was glad, but he had shared Keen's uneasiness that anyone should show defiance in front of his captain and the armed marines.
And so the unknown seaman named Jim Fittock had become something of a martyr because of Felicity's son Miles Vincent. Bolitho tightened his jaw. It must not happen again.
The other flagship loomed over him, and he sensed Allday's seething exasperation as the bowman had to make several attempts to hook on to the main chains.
As he clambered up the salt-caked side he was thankful for the dull light. To trip and fall like the other time would not rouse any confidence either.
The quarterdeck seemed quiet and sheltered after the blustery crossing in an open boat, so that the sudden din of drums and fifes, a Royal Marines captain shouting orders to the guard plus the dwindling echo of the calls which had piped him aboard took him by surprise.
In those few moments he saw several familiar faces, suitably expressionless for the occasion, with the flag captain Hector Gossage standing like a rock in front of his officers. He saw the new flag lieutenant who had replaced De Broux, the one with the damned Frenchie name as Herrick had put it. The newcomer was plump and his face was empty of animation or intelligence.
Then he saw Herrick and felt a cold hand around his heart.
Herrick's hair, once brown and only touched with grey like frost, was almost colourless, and his bronzed features seemed suddenly lined. He could recall their brief meeting in the Admiralty corridor, the two visiting captains gaping at them as Bolitho had called after Herrick, his voice shaking with anger and with hurt. It did not seem possible a man could change so much in so short a time.
Herrick said, "You are welcome, Sir Richard." He shook hands, his palm hard and firm as Bolitho had always remembered. "You will remember Captain Gossage, of course?"
Bolitho nodded, but did not take his eyes from Herrick. "My heart is full for you, Thomas."
Herrick gave what might have been a shrug, perhaps to cover his innermost feelings. He said in a vague tone, "Dismiss the hands, Captain Gossage. Keep station on Black Prince, but call me if the weather goes against us." He gestured aft. "Join me, Sir Richard. We can talk a while." Bolitho ducked beneath the poop and studied his friend as Herrick led the way into the shadows between decks. Had he always been so stooped? He did not recall so. As if he were carrying the pain of his loss like a burden on his back.
In the great cabin where Bolitho had so often paced and fretted over the next action or the enemy's intentions, he looked around as if to see something of himself still lingering here. But there was nothing. It could have been the great cabin of almost any ship of the line, he thought.
A servant he did not recognise brought a chair for him, and Herrick asked in an almost matter-of-fact voice, "A drink perhaps?"
He did not wait for answer. "Bring the brandy Murray Then he faced Bolitho and said, "I received word you were coming. I am relieved so that Benbow can have some repairs carried out. We almost lost the rudder in a gale… but I expect you were in England at the time. It was bad-the sea took a master's mate and two seamen, poor devils. No chance of finding 'em."
Bolitho tried not to interrupt. Herrick was coming around to what he wanted to say. He had always been like that. But brandy, that was something else. Wine, yes, ginger beer more likely; he must have been drinking heavily since Adam had brought him the news.
Herrick said, "I got your letter. It was good of you." He nodded to the servant and then snapped, "Leave it, man, I can manage! " That, too, was not like the old Herrick, the champion of the common seaman more than anyone he had known. Bolitho watched the hand shaking as he slopped two huge measures of brandy into the goblets, some of it spilling unheeded on to the black and white chequered deck covering. "Good stuff this. My patrols took it off a smuggler." Then he turned and stared at him, his eyes still as clear and blue as Bolitho remembered. It was like seeing someone familiar peering out of another's body.
"God damn it, I wasn't with her when she needed me most! " The words were torn out of him. "I'd warned her about working amongst those bloody prisoners-I'd hang the lot of them if I had my way! " He walked to a bulkhead where Bolitho had once hung his swords. Herrick's fighting hanger dangled from it, swaying unevenly to the pitch of the ship as she fought to keep station on Black Prince. But Herrick was touching the finely finished, silver-mounted telescope, the one which Dulcie had bought for him from the best instrument maker in London 's Strand; Bolitho doubted if he knew what he was doing. He probably touched it for comfort rather than to be reminded.