Alexander Kent - THE INSHORE SQUADRON

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.

Allday said, `Down here, sir!' He staggered up the slope, a man in his arms. One of the man's legs jerked at an unnatural angle, obviously broken.

'Easy, man!' Browne knelt beside him. `Stunned, poor devil.'

Allday said, 'Looks like he was trying to crawl away. To get help, most probably.'

They all stared at each other, and Bolitho snapped, 'Look in the coach. Here, pull me up!'

With some difficulty they dragged the door open and upwards like a gunport, the other being buried in the mud.

Bolitho said, `It's a woman. On her own.' He gripped the side of the door until the splintered wood pierced his skin.

It had not happened. He was still asleep and this was one more cruel twist to torture him.

He felt Allday beside him. 'You all right, sir?'

'Look inside.' He could barely control his voice.

Allday thrust his leg through the door and gingerly eased himself inside. Out of the bitter wind and wet the interior seemed almost warm.

He reached out and touched the body, then started with alarm as her head lolled slowly towards him.

'Oh, my God!'

Bolitho said, `Help me inside.'

He did not even feel his bandaged thigh jar against the door. All he could see and feel was the woman's body, her velvet cloak flung to her feet by the impact. The same long chestnut hair, almost the same face, feature by feature. She would even be about Cheney's age, he thought despairingly.

Hardly daring to breathe, he cradled her shoulders in his arm, and after another hesitation he thrust his hand under her breast. Nothing. He licked his lips, sensing Allday's strength, willing her to live.

There it was, a slight beat under his fingers.

Allday said hoarsely, 'Nothing broken, I'd say, sir. Nasty bruise on her temple.' With surprising gentleness he brushed some hair from her face. `I'd not believe it if you'd not been here, an' that's no lie.'

Bolitho held her carefully, feeling her low breathing, the warmth of her body growing against his own.

He heard Browne calling from the road. `What is happening, sir?'

Poor Browne, he could probably see nothing from his place beside the injured coachman.

And what was happening? Bolitho wondered helplessly. A girl who looked so like Cheney, but was not. A twist of fate which had brought them together on the empty road, but not for long.

Allday said, `We'd best get her to our carriage, sir.' He was watching Bolitho worriedly. 'Reckon she'd have died in this cold, but for us.'

Bolitho climbed out of the coach, his mind confused. Even the setting was as he had always imagined it. The coach smashed and overturned. Cheney carrying their unborn child, trapped inside. The coachman had been killed, but Ferguson, Bolitho's one-armed steward, had been with her. Ferguson had somehow carried her two miles to find help, but to no avail. Bolitho had gone over it so often. If these strangers,had been actors they could not have recreated it more truly, more savagely.

Browne said, `I've fashioned a splint for his leg. He's a bit stunned.' He looked vaguely through the sleet, his cocked hat shining like glass. 'Lord Swinburne has an estate near here.' He shouted at the coachman, 'Do you know it?'

The coachman nodded, probably unwilling to become further involved. `Yes, sir.'

It was then Browne sensed that something else was happening. He watched Allday carry the limp body to the carriage and turned to ask Bolitho about her. But he was already climbing into the carriage, his face a mask of concentration.

Allday came back again and looked at the injured coachm

Browne whispered fiercely, 'What is it, man?'

Allday regarded him more calmly than he felt. 'Mr Browne, sir, if you want to assist, I suggest you help search the other coach for baggage. There'll be thieves aplenty here soon. Like crows round a gibbet. Then, if you would, you can tie that stray horse on behind us. I'm not much of a hand with horses.'

As Browne obediently started for the coach Allday added, 'He will tell you if he wants to, sir. No disrespect to you, an' none taken, I hope.'

He said it so bluntly that Browne knew he meant that he could go to hell if he chose to.

Then something he had heard seemed to rouse his mind like a voice.

'She's like his dead wife, is that it?'

Allday sighed. 'That's the strength of it, sir. I knew her well. I couldn't believe my eyes just now.' He stared at the other carriage, its outline blurred in the steady sleet. 'As if he doesn't have enough on his mind.'

He said it with such bitterness that Browne decided to leave it there.

Later, as the carriage turned warily on to another road, the freed horse trotting obediently behind, Browne watched Bolitho as he and Allday protected the woman against any sudden lurch.

Pale from shock, and yet her skin held more than a hint of sunlight. She had obviously been abroad, and quite recently, he thought. Browne put her age at about thirty. She was lovely, there was no other description. A gentle mouth, which even the pain and shock could not spoil.

And her hair, he had never known such a fine rich colour.

One of her hands fell from beneath her cloak, and Browne saw Bolitho reach out to lift it back again. Watched him falter in a manner he had not seen before. Perhaps it was the ring on her finger. Someone else's, which was only to be expected, he thought. He saw the sadness in Bolitho's eyes and felt strangely moved. In fantasy such things should never happen. Browne often had dreams of his own. Of the perfect girl riding towards him. Taking so long that the pain was only endurable because of the perfect ending which would some day be his.