'Fifty, Sir. But my lieutenants are still trying to gather more.'
The admiral did not blink. 'I see. Well, it's up to you. In the meantime I will obtain a warrant for you to take some 'volunteers' from the prison hulks in Portsmouth harbour.'
Bolitho said, 'It's a sad thing that we must rely on convicts.'
'They are men. That is all you require at the moment. As it is, you will probably be doing some of the wretches a favour. Most of 'em were to be transported to the penal colonies in America. Now, with America gone, we will have to look elsewhere for new settlements. There is some talk of Botany Bay, in New Holland, but it may be rumour, of course.'
He stood up and walked to a window. 'I knew your father. I was saddened to hear of his death. While you were in the West Indies, I believe?' He did not wait for a reply. 'This mission would have been well cut for him. Something to get his teeth into. Self-dependence, decisions to be made on the spot which could make or break the man in command. Everything a young frigate captain dreams of, right?'
'Yes, Sir.'
He pictured his father as he had last seen him. The very day he had sailed for the Indies in Phalarope. A tired, broken man. Made bitter by his other son's betrayal. Hugh Bolitho had been the apple of his eye. Four years older than Richard, he had been a born gambler, and had ended in killing a brother officer in a duel. Worse, he had fled to America, to join the Revolutionary forces and later to command a privateer against the British. It had been that knowledge which had really killed Bolitho's father, no matter what the doctor had said.
He tightened his grip on his glass. Much of his prize money had gone into buying back land which his father had sold to pay Hugh's debts. But nothing could buy back his honour. It was fortunate that Hugh had died. If they had ever met again Bolitho imagined he might kill him for what he had done.
'More claret?' Winslade seemed absorbed with his own thoughts. 'I'm sending you to Madras. There you will report to…, well, it will be in your final orders. No sense in idle gossip.' He added, 'Just in case you cannot get your ship manned, eh?'
'I'll get them, sir. If I have to go to Cornwall.'
'I hope that will not be necessary.'
Winslade changed tack again. 'During the American campaign you probably noticed that there was little co- operation between military and civilian government. The forces on the ground fought the battles and confided in neither. That must not happen again. The task I am giving you would be better handled by a squadron, with an admiral's flag for good measure. But it would invite attention, and that Parliament will not tolerate in this uneasy peace.'
He asked suddenly, 'Where are you staying in London?'
'The George at Southwark.'
'I will give you an address. A friend's residence in St. James's Square.' He smiled at Bolitho's grave features. 'Come, don't look so gloomy. It is time you made your way in affairs and put the line of battle behind you. Your mission may bring you to eyes other than those of jaded flag officers. Get to know people. It can do nothing but good. I will send a courier with instructions for your first lieutenant.' He darted him a quick glance. 'Herrick, I gather. From your last ship.'
'Yes, Sir.' It sounded like 'of course'. There had never been any doubt whom he would ask for if he got another ship.
'Well then, Mr. Herrick it is. He can take charge of local matters. I'll need you in London for four days.' He hardened his tone as Bolitho looked about to protest. 'At least!'
The admiral regarded Bolitho for several seconds. Craving to get back to his ship, uncertain of himself in these overwhelming surroundings. It was all there and more besides. As Bolitho had entered the room it had been like seeing his father all those long years ago. Tall, slim, with that black hair tied at the nape of his neck. The loose lock which hung above his right eye told another story. Once as he had raised his glass it had fallen aside to display a livid scar which ran high into the hairline. Winslade was glad about his choice. There was intelligence on Bolitho's grave features, and compassion too, which even his service in seven years of war had not displaced. He could have picked from a hundred captains, but he had wanted one who needed a ship and the sea and not merely the security such things represented. He also required a man who could think and act accordingly. Not one who would rest content on the weight of his broadsides. Bolitho's record had shown plainly enough that he was rarely content to use written orders as a substitute for initiative. Several admirals had growled as much when Winslade had put his name forward for command. But he had got his way, for Winslade had the weight of Parliament behind him, which was another rarity.
He sighed and picked up a small bell from the table.
'You go and arrange to move to the address I will give you. I have much to do, so you may as well enjoy yourself while you can.'
He shook the bell and a servant entered with Bolitho's cocked hat and sword. Winslade watched as the man buckled the sword deftly around his waist.
'Same old blade, eh?' He touched it with his fingers. It was very smooth and worn, and a good deal lighter than more modern swords.
Bolitho smiled. 'Aye, sir. My father gave it to me after…' 'I know. Forget about your brother, Bolitho.' He touched the hilt again. 'Your family have brought too much honour for many generations to be brought down by one man.'
He thrust out his hand. 'Take care. I daresay there are quite a few tongues wagging about your visit here today.'
Bolitho followed the servant into the corridor, his mind moving restlessly from one aspect of his visit to another. Madras, another continent, and that sounded like a mere beginning to whatever it was he was supposed to do.
Every mile sailed would have its separate challenge. He smiled quietly. And reward. He paused in the doorway and. stared at the bustling people and carriages. Open sea instead of noise and dirt. A ship, a living, vital being instead of dull, pretentious buildings.
A hand touched his arm, and he turned to see a young man in a shabby blue coat studying him anxiously.
'What is it?'
The man said quickly, 'I'm Chatterton, Captain. I was once second lieutenant in the Warrior, seventy-four.' He hesitated; watching Bolitho's grave face. 'I heard you were commissioning, sir, I was wondering…'
'I'm sorry, Mr. Chatterton. I have a full wardroom.'
'Yes, sir, I had guessed as much.' He swallowed. 'I could sign as master's mate perhaps?'
Bolitho shook his head. 'It is only seamen I lack, I'm afraid.'
He saw the disappointment clouding the man's face. The old Warrior had been in the thick of it. She was rarely absent from any battle, and men had spoken her name with pride. Now her second lieutenant was waiting like a beggar.
He said quietly, 'If I can help.' He thrust his hand into his pocket. 'Tide you over awhile.'
'Thank you, no, sir.' He forced a grin. 'Not yet anyway.' He pulled up his coat collar. As he walked away he called, 'Good luck, Captain!'
Bolitho watched him until he was out of sight. It might have been Herrick, he thought. Any of us.
His Majesty's frigate Undine tugged resentfully at her cable as a stiffening south-easterly wind ripped the Solent into a mass of vicious whitecaps.
Lieutenant Thomas Herrick turned up the collar of his heavy watchcoat and took another stroll across the quarterdeck, his eyess slitted against a mixture of rain and spray which made the taut rigging shine in the poor light like black glass.
Despite the weather there was still plenty of activity on deck and alongside in the pitching store boats and water lighters. Here and there on the gangways and right forward in the eyes of the ship the red coats of watchful marines made a pleasant change from the mixtures of dull grey elsewhere. The marines were supposed to ensure that the traffic in provisions and lastmoment equipment was one way, and none was escaping through an open port as barter for cheap drink or other favours with friends ashore.
Herrick grinned and stamped his feet on the wet planking. They had done a lot of work in the month since he had joined the ship. Others might curse the weather, the uncertainties offered by a long voyage, the prospect of hardship from sea and wind, but not he. The past year had been far more of a burden for him, and he was glad, no thankful, to be back aboard a King's ship. He had entered the Navy when he was still a few weeks short of twelve
