There had been news of greater activity by French privateers, encouraged, and with good cause, by the military defeat.
Trojan would soon be ready to rejoin the fight, but Bolitho could see no way of retaining a grasp of a rebellious colony even if Britain commanded the sea-lanes. And with more French involvement, that was no certainty either.
Bolitho moved restlessly to the netting to watch another trading boat passing Trojan's glittering reflection. It was hot, but after the earlier months, and the torrential tropical downpours, it seemed almost cool.
He glanced aft, at the flag which hung so limp and still. It would be even hotter in the great cabin.
He tried to see Quinn as a stranger, someone he had just met. But he kept recalling him as the most junior lieutenant, when he had just come aboard. Eighteen years old and straight from the midshipman's berth, beginning as Libby was now for himself. Then again, gasping in agony from the great slash across his chest. After all his quiet confidence, his determination to be a sea officer when his wealthy father wished otherwise.
These last weeks must have been hell for him. He had been released from his duties, and even if he retained his appointment would now be junior to the new officer, Pointer.
Because of the activity within the local squadrons, and the general air of expectancy of a French intervention in strength, uinn's troubles had taken a low position in priorities.
Now, in this October of 1777, he was being examined by a board of inquiry in Pears' cabin. Just one short step from a court martial.
Bolitho looked at the other ships, so still in the sheltered harbour, each paired above her image in the water, awnings spread, ports open to catch the slightest breeze. Very soon these vessels and more beside would endure what Trojan had suffered under Argonaute's guns. They would not be fighting brave but untrained rebels, but the flower of France. Discipline would be tightened, failure not tolerated. It made Quinn's chances seem very slim.
He turned as Lieutenant Arthur Frowd, officer of the watch, crossed the deck to join him. Like Libby, he had gained his coveted promotion, and now awaited an appointment to a more suitable ship. The most junior lieutenant, he was still the oldest in years. In his bright new uniform, with his hair neatly tied to the nape of his neck, he looked as good as any captain, Bolitho thought admiringly.
Frowd said uneasily, 'What d'you reckon about him?' He did not even mention Quinn by name. Like a lot of other people he was probably afraid of being connected with him in any way.
'I'm not certain.'
Bolitho fidgeted with his sword hilt, wondering why it was taking so long. Cairns had gone aft, as had D'Esterre and Bunce. It was a hateful business, like seeing the court martial Jack on a man-of-war, the ritualistic procession of boats for a flogging around the fleet, or a hanging.
He said, 'I was afraid. So it must have been a lot worse for him. But – '
Frowd said vehemently, 'But, aye, sir, that small word makes a world of difference. Any common seaman would have been run up to the mainyard by now!'
Bolitho said nothing and waited for Frowd to walk away to speak with the guard-boat alongside. Frowd did not understand. How could he? To reach a lieutenant's rank was hard enough for any youth. By way of the lower deck it was much, much
harder. And Frowd had done it with his own sweat and little education. He would see Quinn's failure as a betrayal rather than a weakness.
Sergeant Shears marched across the quarterdeck and touched his hat smartly.
Bolitho looked at him. 'Me?'
'Yessir.' Shears glanced quickly at the men on watch, the sideboys and the sentry. 'Not doin' very well, sir.' He dropped his voice to a whisper. 'My captain give 'is evidence, and one of the board says, all 'aughty-like, 'wot does a marine know about sea officers!' ' Shears sounded outraged. 'Never 'card the like, sir!'
Bolitho walked quickly aft, gripping his sword tightly to prepare himself.
Pears' day cabin had been cleared, the furniture replaced by a bare table, at which were seated three captains.
There were others present too, seated on chairs to either side, mostly strangers to Bolitho, but he saw the earlier witnesses, Cairns, D'Esterre, and alone, with his hands folded in his lap, Captain Pears.
The senior captain looked at him coolly. 'Mr Bolitho?'
Bolitho tucked his hat under his arm and said, 'Aye, sir. Second lieutenant.'
The captain to the right, a sharp-faced man with very thin lips, asked, 'Were you present on deck when the events which led to this investigation took place?'
Bolitho saw the clerk's pen poised above his pile of papers. Then for the first time he looked at Quinn.
He was standing very stiny by the door of the dining cabin. He looked as if he was finding it hard to breathe.
'I was, sir.' How absurd, he thought. They all knew exactly
where everyone was. Probably right down to the ship's cook. 'I
was in charge of the upper gundeck when we engaged the enemy to starboard.'
The president of the court, a captain Bolitho remembered
seeing in New York, said dryly, 'Forget the formality, if you
can. You are not on trial here.' He glanced at the captain with
the thin lips. 'It would do well to remember that.' His level gaze
returned to Bolitho. 'What did you see?'
Bolitho could feel those behind him, watching and waiting. If only he knew what had been said already, especially by the captain.
He cleared his throat. 'We'd not been expecting to fight, sir. But the Argonaute had dismasted Spite without any challenge or warning. We had no option.'
'We?' The question was mild.
Bolitho flushed and felt clumsy under the three pairs of eyes. 'I heard the admiral express the view that we should fight if need be, sir.'
'Ah.' A small smile. 'Continue.'
'It was a bloody battle, sir, and we were sorely short of good hands even before it began.' He sensed the scorn in the thinlipped captain's eyes and added quietly, 'That was not meant as an excuse, sir. Had you seen the way our people fought and died that day, you would have known my meaning.'
He could sense the silence, like the terrible calm before a hurricane. But he could not stop now. What did they know about it? They had probably never had to fight with such inexperienced officers and so few seasoned hands. He thought of the man on the surgeon's table pleading for his leg, the marine who had been the first to die, falling from the top to drift in the sea alone. There were so many of them. Too many.
He said, 'The Frenchman came up to us and drove hard alongside. They boarded, or tried to…' He faltered, seeing the French lieutenant falling between the grinding hulls, his own sword red with blood. 'But we fought them off.' He turned and looked directly at Quinn's stricken face. 'Mr Quinn was assisting me up to that moment, and stood under the enemy's fire until action was broken off.'
The president added, 'Then you were taken below. Correct?'
He looked at Bolitho's terse features and asked, 'How old are you?'
'Twenty-one, sir. This month.' He thought he heard someone snigger behind him.
'And you entered the Navy at the age of twelve, I understand. As did most of us. In addition, you come from a distinguished seafaring family.' His voice hardened suddenly. 'In your experience as a Kings officer, Mr Bolitho, did you at any time during this series of unfortunate events consider that Y.:
Quinn's behaviour was lacking in skill or courage?'
Bolitho replied quietly, 'In my opinion, sir – ' He got no further.
The president persisted, 'In your experience.'
Bolitho felt desperate, trapped. 'I do not know how to answer, sir.'
He expected to be rebuked, even dismissed from the court, but the president merely asked, 'He was your friend, is that it?'
Bolitho looked across at Quinn, suddenly hating the three captains, the gaping spectators, everything.
He said firmly, 'He is my friend, sir.' He heard the murmur of surprise and expectancy but added, 'Maybe he was afraid, but so was I, as were many more. To deny it would be foolish.'
