him!”
Breathing heavily, and grasping their swords to their sides to avoid being tripped, the stocky captain and his lanky first lieutenant ran for the quarterdeck.
Admiral Sir Cornelius Hoskyn, Knight of the Bath, hauled himself up to and through the entry port, and in spite of his portliness was not even breathless as he doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and waited patiently for the marine fifers to complete a rendering of Heart of Oak for his benefit.
He had a warm, fruity voice and a complexion as pink as a petticoat, Herrick thought. A man who always had time to listen to any visiting captain and do his best for him.
The admiral glanced up at the flapping broad-pendant and remarked, “I was glad to hear about that.” He nodded to the assembled lieutenants and added, “Your ship does you credit. Ready to sail soon, what?”
Herrick was about to say that his readiness report only needed his signature but the admiral had already moved on towards the shade of the poop.
Behind him trooped his flag-lieutenant, secretary, and two servants with what appeared to be a case of wine.
In the great cabin the admiral arranged himself carefully in a chair, while his staff busied themselves, with Herrick’s servant’s guidance, laying out goblets and wine cooler.
“This the report?” The admiral dragged a minute pair of spectacles from his heavy dress coat and peered at it. “Sign it now, if you please.” In the same breath he added, “Good, I hope that glass is cool, man!” as he took some wine from one of his minions.
Herrick sat down as the lieutenant and secretary retreated from the cabin, the latter clutching Herrick’s sealed report like a talisman.
“Now.” Sir Cornelius Hoskyn regarded Herrick searchingly over the top of his spectacles. “You will receive your orders, possibly tonight. When I leave I shall expect you to call your other captains to conference, prepare them for sailing without further dalliance. Short-handed or not, leaking, I don’t care, it is their problem. Some say peace will soon be upon us, pray God it is so, but until I am convinced otherwise, the state of war still exists.” He had not even raised his voice, and yet his words seemed to echo around the sunlit cabin like pistol shots.
“But with all respect, Sir Cornelius,” Herrick was out of his depth but persisted “my ships are still under the command of Rear-Admiral Bolitho, and you will of course be aware that-”
The admiral eyed him gravely and then deliberately refilled their goblets.
“I have the greatest respect for you, Herrick, for that reason I came to do a task I hate more than any other.” His tone softened. “Please, drink some more wine. It is from my own cellar.”
Herrick swallowed the wine without noticing it. It could have been pump water.
“Sir?”
“I have just received news by special courier. I must tell you that ten days ago, whilst apparently attempting to destroy enemy shipping south of the Loire Estuary, His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Styx was wrecked and became a total loss. It happened quickly and in a rising wind.” He paused, watching Herrick’s face. “And due to the arrival of several enemy vessels, including a ship of the line, the attack was discontinued.”
Herrick asked quietly, “Our other vessels withdrew, sir?”
“There was only one of any consequence, and her captain, as senior officer present, made the decision. I am terribly sorry to have to tell you. I have heard what your particular friendship meant.”
Herrick rose as if he had been struck. “Meant? You mean…”
“There could not have been many survivors, but of course we can always hope.”
Herrick clenched his fists and strode blindly to the stern windows.
“He often said it would be like that.” He asked harshly, “Who was the other captain, sir?” In his heart he already knew.
“Emes of the Phalarope.”
Herrick could not face him. Poor Adam must have seen it happen, while that bloody coward Emes took to his heels.
Another thought made him exclaim, “My God, sir, she’s coming here from Falmouth!” The words tumbled out of him. “The girl he was to marry! What shall I tell her?”
The admiral rose to his feet. “I think it best that you go about your duties and try to lose yourself in them. It has been common enough in this everlasting war. But you never get used to it, nor will I try to console you, when I know there is no consolation. If I hear more I shall let you know as soon as possible.”
Herrick followed him to the broad quarterdeck, only partly aware of what was happening.
When his mind eventually cleared, the admiral’s barge had left the side, and Wolfe faced him to ask permission to dismiss the guard and side party.
“Will you tell me, sir?” His hard, flat voice was somehow steadying.
“Richard Bolitho, the Styx, all gone.”
Wolfe swung round, shielding him from the others.
“Right then, you laggards! Move your lazy carcasses or I’ll have the bosun use his rattan on your rumps!”
Herrick returned to the cabin and slumped down in a chair. The ship, his broad-pendant, even his new-found happiness meant nothing.
Wolfe reappeared at the screen door. “Orders, sir?”
“Aye, there are always those, Mr Wolfe. Make a signal to Nicator and Indomitable. Captains repair on board.” He shook his head helplessly. “It can wait. Sit you down and have some of the admiral’s wine. He says it is very good.”
Wolfe replied, “Later I’ll be glad to. But I have certain duties to deal with. I’ll make that signal at eight bells, sir. Time enough then.”
Outside the cabin Wolfe almost fell over the tiny shape of Ozzard. God, the man had been weeping. Everyone must know already. Always the same in the Navy. No damn secrets.
Wolfe paused in the sunlight and took several deep breaths. He had no special duties, but it was more than he could do to sit and watch Herrick’s anguish. The fact he could do nothing for a man he had come to respect so much troubled him deeply, and he could not recall ever feeling so useless.
In the cabin Herrick poured himself another goblet of wine, then another. It did not help, but it was something to do.
His hand paused in mid air as his glance settled on the sword rack and the presentation sword which Bolitho had left behind when he had gone over to Styx.
It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. But not much to show for the man who had earned it a hundred times over.
Herrick climbed out of the Benbow’s green-painted barge and waited for his coxswain to join him on the jetty.
He was later, much later, than he had intended in getting ashore. There was a dusky red glow over the Sound and anchorage, and the ships looked at peace on the flat water.
Herrick had sent a message to his wife, telling her as much as he could. She was a sensible woman and rarely lost her selfcontrol. But Herrick had meant to be with her when the Falmouth coach rolled in.
“Return to the ship, Tuck. I’ll get a wherry when I return. Mr Wolfe knows where I am.”
The coxswain touched his hat. He knew all about it but was thinking more of Allday than Bolitho. As coxswains they had come to know each other well, and got along together.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“And if there is any rumour through the lower deck…”
Tuck nodded. “Aye, sir, I know. I’ll be across ’ere so fast the keel won’t touch the water.”
Herrick strode along the jetty, his shoes clicking on the round, worn cobbles which had felt the tread of a legion of seafaring men as far back as Drake, and further still.
Herrick paused, unnerved, as he saw the Golden Lion, its windows glowing red in the sunset, as if the whole building were ablaze. In the yard a coach stood empty, abandoned by its team of horses, a servant or two loading boxes on its roof for the next leg to Exeter.
It was bad enough as it was, but for the coach to be on time, even early on this particular evening, made it worse.
He saw a one-legged man, balanced on a crude crutch, playing a tin whistle to the amusement of some urchins
