As the door closed Keen said, 'I heard all about that lad, and the bullying he received in his other ship. Your Mr Tyacke has become a bit of a hero in his eyes, I think.' He smiled, so that the strain seemed to fall away. 'Next to you, of course, Sir Richard! '
It was good to see him smile again. Perhaps his lovely Zenoria came to him in his dreams and tormented him, as Catherine had done and would do again if they were too long separated.
'Lieutenant Tyacke is a remarkable man. When you meet him there is only pity. Afterwards you can only find admiration, pride, even, at knowing him.'
They went on deck together and walked out on to the broad quarterdeck, where at their approach the watchkeepers and the hands who were working there adopted stances and attitudes as if they were mimers.
Bolitho looked up at the dull sky, the tall masts and rigging dark against it. Under topsails and courses the Black Prince was leaning only slightly to leeward, her sails quivering to the wind's wet pressure.
'Deck there! ' After Truculent, the lookout sounded a mile distant. 'Frigate, zur! '
Keen turned up his collar as the wind probed the rawness of his skin. 'Not a Frog, then. He'd be about and running by now if it was! '
Bolitho tried not to touch his left eye. Many were watching him, some seeing him for the first time. A new ship, a well-known flagofficer; it would be easy to lose their confidence before he had found it.
A tall, dark-haired midshipman whose generally aloof behaviour to the other 'young gentlemen' was obvious even on the busy quarterdeck snapped, 'Aloft, Mr Gough. Take a glass, lively now! ' A minute midshipman scampered to the shrouds and was soon lost from view amongst the dark crisscross of rigging. Bolitho smiled to himself. The tall youth was named Bosanquet, the senior member of the gunroom, and next to go for promotion. It was not hard to see him as a lieutenant, or even a captain for that matter.
'Deck there! ' Several of the seamen exchanged grins at the midshipman's squeaky cry from the crosstrees. 'She's made her number! '
Cazalet, the first lieutenant, a tough-looking man with dark, bushy eyebrows, raised his speaking-trumpet. 'We are all in suspense, Mr Gough! '
The boy squeaked again, although even from that dizzy height he sounded crushed. 'Number Five-Four-Six, sir! '
Bosanquet already had his book open. 'Zest sir, forty-four, Captain Charles Varian! '
Jenour had appeared at his side like a shadow. 'You will need to change the captain's name.' He darted a glance at Bolitho. 'He is no longer in command.'
Keen said. 'Make our reply, if you please.'
Bolitho turned away. Some of the watching faces probably saw him as Varian's executioner, and might judge him accordingly.
He saw the boatswain, whose name was already slotted into his mind as Ben Gilpin, with a small working party supervising the rigging of a grating on the lee side of the deck. Ready for the ritual of punishment. It would seem so much worse for those who had never been to sea in a King's ship before. And for many of the others, it could only brutalise them further.
Bolitho stiffened as he saw Felicity's son standing nearby, watching with fixed attention. Bolitho touched his eye and did not see Jenour glance across at him. He saw only Vincent's face. For one so young he had an expression of cruel anticipation.
Keen called, 'Alter course two points, Mr Cazalet, we will wait for Zest to run down on us! '
Jenour stood apart from the bustling seamen as they manned the braces for retrimming the great yards to hold the wind, immersed in his private thoughts. All of his family were in or connected with the medical profession, and he had mentioned the foreign-sounding doctor Rudolf Braks to his uncle just before leaving to join the flagship.
His uncle, a quiet and much respected physician, had responded instantly.
'Of course-the man who attended Lord Nelson and visits the King because of his failing sight. If he can do nothing to help your admiral, then there is nobody who can.'
The words still hung in his mind like part of a guilty secret.
He heard the first lieutenant ask, 'Pipe the hands aft to witness punishment, sir?' Then Keen's equally taut reply. 'Attend to it, Mr Cazalet, but I want loyalty, not fear! '
Bolitho walked towards the poop and knew Allday was following him. He had sensed the unusual bitterness in Keen's words. Had he perhaps been remembering how he had saved Zenoria from a savage whipping aboard the convict transport, when he had rescued her and helped to confirm her innocence? But not before she had taken one stroke across her naked back from shoulder to hip, something which she would never lose. Was that, too, keeping them apart?
He entered the stern cabin and threw himself onto the bench.
A new ship. No experience, unblooded, a stranger to the line of battle. Bolitho clenched his fist as he heard the staccato roll of the Royal Marines' drums. He could barely hear the crack of the lash across the seaman's body, but he felt it as if it were happening to himself.
He thought of Herrick, how he would be; what he was going through. Bolitho had heard from Admiral Godschale that it had been Anemone, Adam's command, which had carried the news of Dulcie's death. A double twist, he thought. It would have been better if it had been a total stranger.
He tried to think about the squadron he was taking from Herrick. Five ships of the line and only two frigates. There were never enough.
Allday walked across the cabin, his eyes watchful. 'Punishment's over, Sir Richard.'
Bolitho barely heard. He was thinking of Vincent again, of his sister's reproachful coldness towards Catherine.
He said distantly, 'Never hold out your hand too often, old friend.' As he turned away he added, 'You can get badly bitten.'
'Watch your stroke! ' Allday leaned forward, one hand on the tiller bar, as if he were riding across the choppy water instead of steering the Black Prince's barge. Even with all his experience it was going to be a difficult crossing from one flagship to the other. He knew better than to use some of his stronger language in front of his admiral, but later he would have no such qualms. In their turn, the bargemen put all their weight on the painted looms, conscious more of Allday's threatening gaze, perhaps, than their passenger.
Bolitho turned and looked back at his new flagship. It was the first time he had seen her properly in her own element. The light was dull and grey but even so the powerful three-decker seemed to shine like polished glass, her black and buff hull and the chequered pattern of gunports making a splash of welcome colour against the miserable North Sea afternoon. Beyond her, and turning away almost guiltily, the Zest was standing off to resume her proper station.
Bolitho felt Jenour watching him as the green-painted barge lifted and plunged over the water in sickening swoops.
Keen had done well, he thought. He must have been pulled around the ship before and after he had first taken her to sea. He had checked the trim of the great hull, and had ordered some of the ballast to be moved, and many of the stores shifted to different holds to give the ship the right lift at the stem. He saw the figurehead reaching out with his sword from beneath the beakhead. It was one of the most lifelike he'd yet seen, carved and painted more to impress than frighten. The son of Edward III, complete with chain mail, fleur-de-lis and English lions. From the black-crowned helmet to the figure's unflinching stare, it could have been a living being.
The carver had been one of the most famous of his breed, old Aaron Mallow of Sheerness. Sadly, Black Prince's figurehead had been his last; he had died shortly after the ship had been launched for fitting-out.
Bolitho looked instead at Benbow, once his own flagship, when Herrick had been his captain. A seventy-four like Hyperion but much heavier, for she had been built much later when there were still the oak forests to provide for her. Now the forests of Kent and Sussex, Hampshire and the West Country were left bare, raped by the mounting demands of a war which never lessened in its ferocity.
He saw the scarlet of the marines, the dull glint of metal in the fading light, and felt a pang of anxiety Herrick was his oldest friend. Had been until… He thought suddenly of what Keen had told him about the man who had been flogged. Stripped and seized up to the grating by wrists and knees, he had taken a dozen lashes without a protest, only the usual sound of the air being beaten from his lungs with each blow of the cat.
It was while he was being cut down that an unknown voice had yelled out from the silent onlookers, 'We'll make it even for you, Jim! '
