hoping to see the one-legged marine there.
At the jetty he saw the barge riding motionless in shadow, then the oars swinging into life as she headed towards him.
Herrick gripped his sword tightly and wished his eyes would stop stinging. Tuck would no more let him take a waterman’s boat than spit on the flag.
Between them, Tuck and the beautiful girl with the chestnut hair had given him a new strength, although deep inside him he knew he would probably pay dearly for it. But that was tomorrow. This was now.
He tapped his scabbard on the worn cobbles and said half to himself, “Hold on, Richard! We’re not done yet!”
“You wish to see me, sir?” Lieutenant Adam Pascoe stood in the centre of the cabin, his eyes on a point above the captain’s right epaulette.
Emes sat back in his chair, his fingertips pressed together.
“I do.”
Beyond the screen and the darkened stern windows it was quiet but for the muffled sounds of sea and wind, the regular creak of timbers.
Emes said, “It is five days since Styx foundered. Tomorrow it will be six. I do not intend to go through another hour, let alone a day, with you saying nothing but the briefest words demanded of your duties. You are my first lieutenant, an honoured appointment for one so young. But perhaps you are too young after all?”
Pascoe looked at him squarely. “I can’t understand! How could you do it? How could you leave them to die like that?”
“Keep your voice down, Mr Pascoe, and address me as sir at all times.”
Tap… tap… tap… his fingers touched each other very gently and exactly.
“The attack on those French vessels was pointless, once the presence of larger men-of-war was realized. This is a very old frigate, Mr Pascoe, not a liner!”
Pascoe dropped his gaze, his hands shaking so that he had to press them against his thighs to control himself. He had thought about it, dreamt about it, and never lost it since that terrible moment. If his uncle had died, it would not be death he would have feared. But the sight of the Phalarope, the ship he had once loved, going about to leave him and his men to drown or to perish from their wounds, would have been the worst part for him.
Emes was saying in his usual controlled tones, “If your uncle had not been aboard Styx, you might have felt differently. You are too involved, too close to accept the facts. Styx had no chance. My first responsibility was to this ship, and as senior officer to take control of the remainder of our strength. A brave but pointless gesture would get no thanks from the Admiralty, nor from the widows you would create if you had your way. I am satisfied with your duties up to a point. But if I have cause to admonish you again, I will see you stand before a court martial, do you understand?”
Pascoe blurted out hotly, “Do you think I care about-”
“Then you should!” Both hands came down on the table with a bang. “From what I have heard, your uncle’s family has a proud name, am I right?”
Pascoe nodded jerkily. “He has done everything for me. Everything.”
“Quite so.” Emes relaxed very slowly. “You are of that family, the same blood.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then remember this. You may be the last of the Bolitho family.” He held up one hand as Pascoe made to protest. “You may be. Just as I am the last in mine. When you return home, others will be looking to you. There is more at stake now than your despair. Hate me if you will, but do your duty well-that is all I ask, no, demand!”
“May I go, sir?”
Emes looked down at his hands and waited for the door to close behind the young lieutenant with the unruly black hair. Then he touched his forehead and looked at his palm. It was wet with sweat, and he felt dirty and sick.
It was not over, and he knew that it would take more than time to heal it. Pascoe would not let it lie there, and in his despair might destroy everything.
Emes picked up his pen and stared emptily at his log book. He had been right, he knew he had been right, and he must make the others recognize the fact.
Would the nightmare never end? The accusations and the contempt he had been shown by those who had never heard a shot fired or known the agony of a captain’s worst decision.
Those same unknown inquisitors would condemn him outright. To be given a chance, and then allow his admiral to be lost without some personal sacrifice could have no defence in their eyes.
He glanced round the cabin, remembering Bolitho here, how he must have felt aboard his old command after all this time. If he needed further reminder of that meeting he only had to look at his first lieutenant, it was stark and clear in his eyes.
In his neat hand he began to write. Today’s patrol passed without further incident…
7. The Secret
SINGLY and in groups, defiant, or dazed to the point of collapse, the survivors from Neale’s command staggered up the shelving beach which in the time it had taken to reach it had been ringed by a cordon of armed soldiers.
Almost the worst part of it was the complete silence. The bewildered sailors lay or squatted on the wet sand and stared not at their captors but at the lively water where their ship had once been. Others walked dejectedly in the shallows, peering at the flotsam, searching for a swimmer amongst the drifting corpses while the gulls hovered eagerly overhead.
Further along the beach a few women were tending to some other survivors. A handful of seamen from one of the invasion craft which Styx had sunk before she too had foundered. They glared at the growing crowd of British sailors, showing a hatred which even the distance and the line of soldiers could not hide.
Bolitho watched the boats pulling off shore, fishermen mostly, hastily commandeered by the local military to search for the living, friend and foe alike.
Neale groaned and tried to get to his feet. “How many?”
Allday replied, “Hundred, maybe more. Can’t be sure.”
Neale fell back and stared dazedly at the blue sky. “Less than half, dear God!”
Browne, who had somehow managed to retain his hat during the pull to the beach, asked, “What happens now? I am somewhat unused to this.”
Bolitho held his head back and allowed the sun to penetrate the ache in his eyes and brain. Prisoners. Somewhere on the enemy coast. Because of his own folly.
He said shortly, “Go amongst the others. Call a muster.”
He saw Styx ’s surgeon on his knees beside a spreadeagled seaman. Thank heaven he had survived. Some of the men looked in a bad way.
The three midshipmen had all lived through it, as had the youthful third lieutenant, although he was barely conscious, and delirious with his shattered arm. Bundy, the master, the boatswain too, and one or two marines, although most of the afterguard had been swept away when the mizzen had crashed amongst them. As Neale had said, less than half. In the twinkling of an eye.
Bolitho shaded his face and stared seaward again. The mist seemed thicker, and there was no sign even of the French menof-war. But the flotillas of invasion craft were assembling into some kind of order and would soon be on their way again. This time they would know they had an escort nearby and also be more vigilant against another surprise attack.
Allday whispered, “Here they come, sir.”
The cordon at the top of the beach had parted, and three French officers with a close escort of soldiers strode purposefully towards the scattered groups of sailors.
He recognized the uniform of the leading officer as that of a captain of artillery. Probably from one of the coastal batteries.
The captain reached the three midshipmen and eyed them coldly.
