Beyond the cabin Bolitho heard the stamp of feet and the squeal of tackles. Benbow was home again, but to watchers on the foreshore she would be just another ship. Safer at a distance, better to read about in the Gazette than to examine at close quarters. To those uninvolved a ship was a ship. Not muscle and bone, blood and fear.
Bolitho allowed Ozzard to help him into his coat. He kept his face impassive but guessed that neither Herrick nor Ailday was fooled. He was sweating with pain, and every effort was like a separate challenge to his resources. Sword and belt, then his hat, while Ozzard rearranged his queue over the gold-laced collar.
Ailday adjusted the sword-belt and muttered, 'If you get a mite thinner, sir, this will be no bigger than a hound's collar!'
Browne appeared in the doorway, already wearing his boat cloak.
'Barge alongside, sir.'
He ran his eyes over Bolitho's appearance and nodded with approval.
With Herrick in the lead they walked out beneath the poop and on to the wet quarterdeck.
Bolitho stared at the great crowd of seamen in the shrouds and massed along the gangways.
Herrick said quickly, 'I gave no order, sir.'
Bolitho removed his hat and walked slowly towards the side.
The entry port seemed a mile away, and each slow tilt of the deck threatened to hurl him down. He felt light- headed, dazed by the experience of living. It was his first time on deck since the musket ball had smashed him down. Pain, loss of blood, he needed no reminding at this moment.
Browne hissed, 'Lean on me, sir.' Even he had lost his usual calm. 'I beg of you.'
Quite suddenly a man gave a cheer, to be backed up instantly by a great roar of voices which ran through the ship like a tide-race.
Pascoe was waving his hat with the rest, his smile telling everything.
Grubb in his shabby coat, the towering shape of Lieutenant Wolfe, all the faces which had become names. People.
'Carry on, Mr Browne.' Bolitho held out his hand to Herrick. `I'll keep you informed, Thomas. My regards to your lady.' He was speaking between his teeth to contain the pain.
He looked down at the swaying boat below, the bargemen in their neat checkered shirts and tarred hats, the oars very white against the dull sea.
Now or never. Bolitho stepped outboard and concentrated his full attention on the boat, on Allday, stiff-backed, with his hat in one hand while he watched, ready to aid his descent.
The squeal of calls, the cheers of the seamen, helped to cover his discomfort, each gasping step, until with a final effort he reached the barge.
As the boat pulled away Bolitho looked up at the Benbow's tumblehome, at the makeshift repairs to the shot holes, to the clawing scars of grape and canister along the gangway.
As the oarsmen found their stroke, Bolitho looked astern towards the pointing figurehead. Vice-Admiral Benbow had lost his leg. Bolitho had almost joined him.
It was a long hard pull, and yet in some ways it helped to restore Bolitho's strength. The boat's liveliness, the darting fingers of spray across his face made a change from the thirdrate's damp confines.
Some marine pickets forced a way for Bolitho and his companions through a duster of onlookers who had come to watch his arrival.
In Falmouth, even Plymouth, he would have been recognized on sight. Here, they saw far more senior admirals than Bolitho coming and going with the tides.
A woman held up her small child and shouted, `Is it Nelson?'
Another said, `He's been in a battle, whoever he is.'
Bolitho stared at an elegant carriage which was waiting in the shelter of the wall.
Browne explained almost apologetically, 'I sent word as soon as we anchored, sir. It belongs to a friend of the family, and I am thankful he was able to get it here in time.'
Bolitho smiled. The carriage was beautifully sprung and would be vastly different from the London coach.
`You never cease to surprise me.'
A young lieutenant stepped forward and removed his hat. 'I am to give you these despatches, sir.' He was watching Bolitho with an unwinking stare as if to memorize every detail. 'From the port admiral, and from Whitehall, sir.'
Browne took them and handed them to Allday. 'Put them in the carriage, then tell your second coxswain to return with the barge to Benbow.' He added dryly, 'I assume you are intending to come with us?'
Allday grinned. 'I have packed a small bag, sir.'
Browne sighed. Allday had expanded like the tropical sun since Bolitho's recovery.
'My respects to the port admiral.' Bolitho pictured Herrick dictating his own lengthy reports for the dockyard, a task he hated, as did most captains. `Please give him my greetings.'
Browne gave the lieutenant, the admiral's messenger boy, a withering stare as he melted into the crowd.
Allday returned and climbed up beside the heavily muffled coachman.
But Bolitho hesitated, and turned to glance through the sallyport gate towards the anchorage. There were many vessels at anchor, but he was looking at the Benbow. In two weeks it would be another year. Eighteen hundred and one. What might it bring for the Benbow and all she carried within her fat hull?
He climbed up and into the carriage, sinking into the soft cushions with relief.
'Does it give much pain, sir? We can stay here awhile if you wish. The carriage and horses are yours for as long as you need them.'
Bolitho eased his legs gingerly back and forth. 'He must be a good friend.'
'He owns half the county, sir.'
Bolitho forced his limbs to relax a fibre at a time 'Drive on The surgeon's work appears to be holding together.'
He lay back and closed his eyes, remembering those first fleeting moments.
Allday's face, the surgeon's assistants all around him, the pain, his own voice groaning and pleading like a stranger's.
And this morning. The sailors cheering him. He had taken them to the verge of death and they could still wish him well.
The carriage's motion was like a hull in choppy water, and
14z The Inshore Squadron
as the clatter of hoofs and wheels across the cobbled street changed to the duller sound of a muddy road, Bolitho fell asleep.
‘Whoa, Ned! Whoa there, Blazer!'
Bolitho came out of his sleep with a start, aware of several things all at once. That it was much colder, and there was sleet gathering at the corners of the carriage windows. Also that his seat was rocking violently. More to the point, Browne was trying to lower a window, a cocked pistol in his hand.
Browne muttered, 'Goddammit, it's jammed!' He realized Bolitho was awake and added unnecessarily, 'Trouble, by the sound of it, sir. Footpads, or gentlemen of the road maybe.'
The window dropped like a guillotine and the freezing air filled the carriage in seconds.
Bolitho heard the horses coming under control, the slither and stamp of hoofs in mud. It was a fine place for a robbery. It looked like the end of nowhere.
The carriage stopped, and a man with a set of white eyebrows peered up at them.
Bolitho pushed Browne's pistol aside. It was Allday, his face and chest glistening in sleet and snow.
Allday said, 'Carriage, Sir! Off the road! Someone's hurt!' Browne climbed down and turned to protest as Bolitho clambered after him.
There was quite a strong wind, and as the two officers struggled after Allday their boat-cloaks streamed behind them like banners. The coachman stayed where he was, soothing his horses which were stamping nervously, their bodies steaming with heat.
The other carriage was a small one, and was lying on its side in a ditch beside the road. A horse was standing nearby, seemingly indifferent to what had happened, and there was a patch of blood near the rear wheel, vivid against the sleety mud.
