Herrick said gently, 'I thought the surgeon told you to leave?'
'You know better than that, sir.' Allday held out the glass to be refilled. 'Hours they were. All that blood. Even old Loveys…' He shook himself. 'Meaning no disrespect, sir, but ' he was taken aback by it.'
Herrick listened, fascinated, reliving it through Allday's hesitant words.
Allday continued, 'The surgeon said that if he hadn't fallen from the cot he would have lost the leg. The wound burst, and Mr Loveys found another splinter of metal and some more cloth with his forceps.'
Herrick sat down heavily. 'Thank God.' He had thought until now that Bolitho had lived but had lost his leg.
Allday looked round the cabin, his face still stricken. 'I – I'm sorry, sir, I shouldn't have burst in here without so much as a by-your-leave.'
Herrick handed him the bottle. 'Go to your quarters and drink what is left. I think you've done enough.'
Allday nodded slowly and walked towards the door. Then he turned and murmured, 'He opened his eyes, sir.' Allday rubbed his chin to confirm it. 'And d'you know the first thing he said to me?'
Herrick did not speak, unable to watch the tears on Allday's stubbled cheeks.
' 'You've not shaved, you ruffian!' That's what he said, sir!'
Browne closed the door quietly. Allday had left it swinging to the ship's motion. He was in a world all of his own.
Browne sat down and looked at the deck. 'Now I understand, sir.'
When Herrick said nothing he realized the captain had fallen asleep in his chair.
Very carefully Browne left the cabin and made his way to the companion ladder. He almost collided with the surgeon who was holding to the ladder while he waited for the ship to sway upright again. Browne noticed that Loveys' hands were like red gloves.
He said, `Come to the wardroom and I will open a bottle, you more than deserve it.'
Loveys regarded him suspiciously. 'I'm not a wizard, you know. Rear-Admiral Bolitho may have a relapse, and at best he will probably endure pain and a limp for the rest of his life.' He smiled unexpectedly, and for once the strain showed itself to its full extent. 'Mind you, Mr Browne, I'm quite pleased myself.'
Herrick left his chair and groped his way from the cabin. His exhaustion had been a useful excuse. Had he continued to speak with Browne he knew that he, like Allday, would have been unable to hide his emotion.
He stepped on to the quarterdeck, his eyes distinguishing the darker shapes in the gloom, the guns, the nettings finely etched against the evening sky.
The master's mate of the watch was by the poop ladder, while one of the midshipmen was writing something on his slate as he held it against the compass light.
All around the ship groaned and clattered as she swung heavily to her cable, her decks shining with rain, the sea air like ice.
Herrick saw the officer of the watch on the far side of the deck and called, 'Mr Pascoe!'
Pascoe hurried towards him, his shoes making little sound
on the wet planking.
He hesitated, his eyes trying to pierce the darkness as he said,
'You want me, sir?'
'It's over, Adam. He's going to live, and with two legs.' He turned away, adding, 'I shall be in my cabin if needed.' 'Aye, aye, sir!'
Pascoe waited until he had disappeared and then clapped his hands together.
The midshipman gasped, 'Sir? Is something wrong?'
Pascoe had to share it, to tell somebody. 'Not any more! – I've never felt better!'
He strode away, leaving the midshipman as mystified as before. He cared about the admiral, of course, but in a midshipman's life there were so many things to worry about. These calculations, for instance. Old Grubb, the master, wanted them before morning. He would take no excuses from anyone.
The slate shook as the youth relived that terrible and splendid moment. The rear-admiral waving his hat and defying the enemy's blazing guns. Men cheering and dying.
And he, Mr Midshipman Edward Graham of the County of Hampshire, had survived.
Unknown to the thirteen-year-old midshipman, Richard Bolitho was thinking very much the same.
10. The Fantasy
After one of the stormiest passages Bolitho could recall, Benbow had at last dropped anchor at Spithead. They had been away for nearly three months, a short time to any experienced sea officer, but Bolitho had not expected to see Spithead again, or anywhere else for that matter.
The tossing waves with curling crests of dirty yellow were almost beautiful, and the clinging damp air of the cabin no longer seemed irksome.
Bolitho stood back carefully from the stern windows, taking the strain on his wounded leg, trying not to cry aloud as the pain lanced upwards. Each day, supported by Allday or Ozzard, and on the stormiest days by both, he had forced himself to take a few steps.
Pride, anger – he was still not certain which – had made him start on the road to recovery. He suspected that Commodore Rice of the Downs Squadron had quite unsuspectingly had a lot to do with it.
Herrick had requested that Rice should take over the charge of the combined squadrons while he sailed Benbow to a dockyard for proper inspection and repair.
Rice had almost snubbed Herrick, probably eager to get back to his own, less arduous station, and he likely imagined Bolitho already dying and Herrick too junior for his consideration. Whatever it had been, Bolitho had called for Yovell and had dictated a curt despatch for the commodore. Rice would remain in temporary command of the combined squadron until otherwise instructed. If Ropars or other enemy ships attempted to enter the Baltic they would have to face a much larger force and at far greater risk.
Herrick tapped on the door and entered. 'We are anchored, sir.' He watched Bolitho doubtfully and added, 'You should rest.'
`Would you have me dropped in the boat by bosun's chair, Thomas? Like that surgeon we once had, or some piece of unwanted cargo?' He winced as the deck tilted steeply. 'But I will take care.'
Herrick smiled. 'Aye, sir. As soon as the tide turns I intend to enter Portsmouth Dockyard. I have sent word to the port admiral to that effect.' He added gravely, 'The sixth lieutenant has just died. So near to home.'
Bolitho nodded. It was kinder this way. A young officer with half of his face blown away and his mind equally crippled would be an embarrassment ashore. Now, his memory would be cherished by his family.
He said, 'A lot of good men, Thomas. I hope they did not die in vain.'
Herrick smiled. 'Put it behind you, sir. We've had to do that often enough.'
'And what will you do?'
'Once docked, I will send the midshipmen and some of the married men to their homes.'
Bolitho understood. By married men Herrick meant lieutenants and warrant officers. Seamen, no matter how loyal, might soon desert when they found the comfort of their homes again.
Herrick was saying, 'I will remain with the ship, of course. Please God, my wife will join me here.'
Bolitho sat down with great care. 'The best of both worlds, Thomas, and rightly so.'
'That is true. I am lucky.' He sounded almost unhappy at the thought. 'Will you be going to the Admiralty, sir?'
Bolitho grimaced. 'Yes. I would rather do ten crossings in this ship than aboard the London coach!'
Ailday looked through the door. He was smartly dressed in his gilt-buttoned coat and buckled shoes.
'I have ordered the barge crew to muster, sir.'
Herrick stared at him, appalled. 'You don't intend to be pulled ashore, sir! We will be in the yard by tonight. You can catch the coach from the George tomorrow forenoon.'
Bolitho smiled at his concern. 'I must learn to walk again, Thomas. And something tells me not to drag my feet here.'
Herrick sighed. 'If you have made up your mind…'
Allday grinned. 'We both know about that, eh, sir?'
