Colours Aloft! Read online

  The hanging magazine and powder stores, where a single spark could bring disaster, shared the deck with them, and below them the great holds carried everything to sustain the ship for many months if need be.

  Right aft at the foot of a companion ladder the sickbay seemed bright by comparison with its white paint and racks of jars and bottles.

  Keen strode towards it, his head automatically lowered to avoid the beams, his epaulettes glittering as he passed from one lantern to the next. Dark shapes and vague faces loomed and faded in the gloom, that other world away from sea and sky.

  He saw James Tuson, the surgeon, speaking with his assistant, a tall, pallid Channel Islander named Carcaud. The latter was more Breton than English, but was intelligent and could both read and write. Keen knew that Tuson, who had been Achates ’ surgeon, took a great interest in his lanky assistant and had taught him as much as he could. They even played chess together.

  Keen liked the silver-haired Tuson, although he knew him no more than in their previous ship. He was a fine surgeon, twenty times better than most of his profession who served the King’s ships. But he kept to himself, not an easy thing in this teeming world between decks, and often went to the wardroom only for meals.

  A marine, his crossbelts very white in the poor light, straightened his back and made Tuson turn towards the captain. It had been a wise precaution to place a sentry at the door, Keen thought. Many of the hands had been aboard one ship or another without a break for many months. Any woman might be at risk. One labelled a felon even more so.

  Tuson murmured something and his assistant, bent almost double, melted into the shadows.

  Keen said, “How is she?”

  Tuson unrolled his shirt sleeves and considered the question.

  “She says nothing, to me anyway. She’s young, under twenty I’d wager, and her skin is fine, and her hands have not worked in a field.” He turned away from the rigid sentry whose leather hat seemed to be wedged against the deckhead, and dropped his voice. “There are several bruises. I fear she may have been raped or savagely molested.” He sighed. “I’d not risk an examination under the circumstances.”

  Keen nodded. The girl had suddenly become a person, someone real and not just a victim.

  The surgeon was watching him thoughtfully; he rarely smiled.

  “She can’t stay here, sir.”

  Keen avoided the issue. “I’ll speak with her.” He hesitated, “Unless you advise to the contrary?”

  The surgeon led the way towards the small, bright place.

  “She knows where she is, but be patient, I beg you.”

  Keen stepped into the sickbay and saw the girl lying face down on a pillow and covered with a sheet. She appeared to be sleeping, but Keen could tell by her quick breathing that she was pretending. The surgeon pulled down the sheet and Keen saw her back tense.

  Tuson said in his soft, matter-of-fact tones, “The scar is healing, but—” He lifted a loose dressing and Keen saw the deep cut left by the whip. If he had not acted promptly, or had not gone over to the ship at all, she would be crippled or dead. In the lantern light the scar looked black.

  Tuson pointed to hair which was long and dark brown; it was matted and tangled and as he touched it Keen saw her stiffen again.

  He said, “She needs a bath and some fresh clothing.”

  Keen said, “I’ll send a lieutenant over to the Orontes as soon as we anchor. She must have some possessions surely.”

  His words seemed to strike her like the whip and she rolled over violently, covering her breasts with the sheet and oblivious to the immediate droplets of blood which broke from her scar.

  “No, not back there! Please, not back to that, that place!”

  Keen was taken aback by the outburst. The girl was almost beautiful, something which bruises and disordered hair could not conceal. She had small, well-shaped hands, and eyes so wide they were almost starting from her face as she pleaded with him.

  He said, “Easy, girl. Easy now.” He reached out to steady her but saw Tuson give a quick shake of his head.

  The surgeon said, “This is the captain. He saved you from the flogging.”

  She looked at Keen’s anxious face and said, “You, sir?” It was little more than a whisper. “It was you?”

  She had a soft, West Country voice. It was impossible to imagine her standing trial and being transported in that filthy vessel with the other prisoners.

  “Yes.” Around him the ship kept up her continuous chorus of creaks and groans with the occasional boom of water beyond the massive timbers as the keel crashed into a trough. But Keen was conscious only of stillness, as if all time had suddenly stopped.

  He heard himself ask, “What’s your name?”

  She glanced quickly at the surgeon, who nodded encouragingly.

  “Carwithen.” She clutched the sheet tighter as Tuson readjusted the dressings on her back.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Dorset, sir, from Lyme.” Her small chin lifted briefly and he saw it tremble. “But I’m Cornish really.”

  Tuson grunted, “Thought so.” He straightened his back. “Now lie still, and don’t open the cut again. I’ll have some food brought down.” He turned to the door and beckoned to his waiting assistant.

  She looked at Keen once more and said in a hoarse whisper, “You really are the captain, sir?”

  Keen knew that her guard was about to break. He had grown up with two younger sisters and knew the first signs. God alone knew, she had suffered enough.

  He moved to the door, pausing as the hull dipped and then reluctantly lifted her eighteen hundred tons for the next challenge. The girl did not take her eyes from his face. “What will you have done with me, sir?”

  Her eyes were shining. He must not be here when the tears broke through.

  Instead he asked bluntly, “What’s your first name?”

  She seemed caught off balance. “Zenoria.”

  He backed away. “Well, Zenoria, do as the surgeon directs. I will ensure that no harm comes to you.”

  He passed the sentry without even seeing him.

  What had he done? How could he promise her anything, and why should he? He did not even know her.

  As he hurried up the first companion ladder he already knew the answers to both questions. It was madness. I must be mad.

  It seemed to mock him and he was suddenly grateful to see the sky once again.

  Lieutenant Hector Stayt leaned over the table and placed another copy of Bolitho’s orders for his signature. They would be passed to all the other captains when they finally anchored at Gibraltar. That would be in two days’ time if the wind remained in their favour. It had been a long, empty week since the incident aboard Orontes, but now, as the small squadron steered to the south-east with the Spanish coastline from Cadiz to Algeciras barely visible to the most keen-eyed lookout, the passage was almost over.

  Bolitho glanced over Yovell’s round handwriting before putting his own signature at the bottom. The same orders but each would be interpreted differently by the captains who read them. Once in the Mediterranean there would be neither time nor opportunity to get to know his officers nor they him.

  He thought of Keen and his visits to their unexpected passenger. The French builders had allowed an extra chart space abaft the master’s cabin, and this had been made as comfortable as possible for the girl Zenoria Carwithen. A cot, a mirror, some clean sheets from the wardroom had somehow transformed it. Ozzard had even managed to discover a spare officer’s commode in the hold and had installed it for her use. They must not get too fond of the idea of having her aboard, he thought. Once at the Rock . . .

  Stayt said, “I did hear something about that girl, Sir Richard.”

  It was not the first time the flag-lieutenant had seemed to read Bolitho’s thoughts. It was unnerving and irritating.

  “And?” Bolitho looked up from the table.

  Stayt sounded almost indifferent now that he had his admiral�
��s attention.

  “Oh, she was mixed up in a riot of some kind, I understand. It was near to my father’s property. Someone was murdered before the military arrived.” He gave a thin smile. “Late as usual.”

  Bolitho looked past him at the swords on their rack. One so bright and gleaming, the other almost shabby by comparison.

  Stayt took his silence for interest. “Her father was hanged.”

  Bolitho dragged out his watch and opened the guard. “Time to exercise the squadron’s signals, Mr Stayt. I’ll be up directly.”

  Stayt left. He had a springy walk; it seemed to show his great self-confidence.

  Bolitho frowned. Conceit anyway.

  Yovell moved to the table and gathered up the papers. He glanced at Bolitho over his small gold spectacles and said, “It wasn’t quite like that, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho looked at him. “Tell me. I’d like to hear it. From you.”

  Yovell smiled sadly. “Carwithen was a printer, sir. A fine one, I’m told. Some of the farmworkers asked him to print some handbills, a sort of protest it was, about two landowners who had been keeping them short of money and chattels. Carwithen was a bit of a firebrand by all accounts, believed in speaking his mind, especially when others were being wronged.” He flushed but Bolitho nodded.

  “Speak as you will, man.”

  It was strange that Yovell should know. He lived at the Bolitho house when he was ashore, but he was a Devonian, a “foreigner” as far as local folk were concerned. Yet he always seemed to know about the people around him.

  “Carwithen’s wife had died previous to that, so they sent the girl out of the county.”

  “To Dorset?”

  “Aye sir, that were it.”

  So something else must have happened since the “riot” as Stayt had described it.

  He heard the trill of calls from the quarterdeck as the signalling party were mustered under Stayt’s eagle eye. Signals, especially in battle, should be few, short and precise.

  Bolitho made up his mind and said, “Fetch Allday.”

  Allday glanced questioningly at the secretary as they entered, but Yovell merely shrugged his sloping shoulders.

  “Sir?”

  “Go with Yovell and fetch that girl aft.” He saw their surprise. “Now, if you please.”

  Keen would be busy on deck watching the other ships as they acknowledged and obeyed the signals from the flag.

  Allday’s jaw looked stubborn.

  “If you thinks it’s wise, sir—”

  Bolitho eyed him firmly. “I do.”

  He saw Ozzard lifting his coat from a chair but shook his head. Any sort of liaison would be destroyed before it had begun if she found herself confronted by a vice-admiral.

  From what Keen and Tuson had said she seemed to be an intelligent girl, and her father’s influence had obviously gained her some education.

  He was interfering, but he had seen Keen’s face whenever he had mentioned the girl. Bolitho had not forgotten what it was like; he must act before the girl was taken from the ship.

  He was totally unprepared for what happened next.

  Yovell opened the screen door and the girl walked hesitantly towards the stern cabin. Against Allday’s powerful figure she looked small, but her head was up, and only her eyes moved as she paused below the skylight.

  She was dressed in a white shirt and breeches of one of the midshipmen, and her long brown hair was pulled back to the nape of her neck with a ribbon, so that she almost looked as if she belonged in the gunroom. But her feet were bare, small like her hands, and Yovell explained hastily, “Even the young gentlemen didn’t have shoes small enough for her.”

  Bolitho said, “Sit down. I wish to talk with you.”

  He saw the stiff way she held her shoulder. Tuson had said her back would be scarred for life. And that had been from just one stroke.

  “I should like to know—” He saw her eyes level on his; they were dark brown, misty. No wonder Keen was under some kind of magic. “—what brought you to these circumstances.”

  Yovell murmured, “Tell, Sir Richard, lass, he’ll not eat you.”

  She started with alarm, her lips parting as she exclaimed, “Sir Richard!”

  Bolitho wanted to glare at Yovell but said, “Just tell me. Please.”

  But she stared at him. “But—but I’ve met the captain?”

  Yovell said patiently, “The admiral here commands all the ships, all the captains, Miss, and some two thousand eight hundred jack tars and marines.” He watched her gravely. “A big job to do, so speak up an’ don’t you waste his time, eh?”

  Bolitho smiled. “He means well, er, Zenoria, isn’t it?”

  She looked at her hands in her lap. Then she said, “They took my father, sir. He was a fine man, a clever man too. He believed in people’s rights.” Her eyes took on a faraway look and Bolitho found he was holding his breath. Just to hear her speak. It was like hearing Cornwall again.

  “I saw him hang, sir.”

  “But why?”

  “It was the squire, sir. He came to the house with some of his men and they tried to smash his press. My father soon showed them.” Her chin lifted with sudden pride so that she looked all the more vulnerable. “He pulled the squire from his horse, and others came from the village to help him. Someone was killed. Then the dragoons came and took him away.”

  “How old were you then?”

  “Seventeen, sir. That was two years ago. They sent me to Dorset, to work in a big household and help teach the children there.”

  It was difficult to speak as he wished with Yovell and Allday listening. But he had to be certain she was not lying, not a whore as stated by Orontes ’ master. It could be dangerous to be alone with her.

  “Tell me about what happened in Lyme.”

  Yovell said severely, “Your warrant will come aboard, my lass, so no use lying about it!”

  “For God’s sake, man, hold your tongue!” Bolitho saw the girl cringe as if his anger was directed partly at her.

  He said, “Fetch her a glass, Allday.” He was trying to cover his own confusion. “I must know.”

  She dropped her eyes. “Everyone knew about my father and what had happened. The master was always touching me, making remarks, telling me how lucky I was to have a roof over my head. Then one day he came to my room.” She was beginning to shake. “He tried to—” She took a glass from Allday but did not drink from it. “He forced me to do things—” She looked up, her eyes wild and pleading. “I’d been making some repairs to the children’s clothing.” She could barely get the words out. “I took the scissors and I stabbed him.”

  Bolitho stood up and walked slowly behind her chair. It was so clear in her voice. He could almost see it happening.

  “And then?”

  “He didn’t die, sir, but I was sent to the Assizes. You know the rest, sir.”

  Transportation for life.

  “You may return to your cabin, Zenoria.” Bolitho looked down at her upturned face. Nineteen years old, but in the midshipman’s shirt with her hair tied back she looked like a child.

  She stood up and handed her glass to Allday. It was still full.

  “That Captain Latimer wanted me too, sir.” It was all she needed to say.

  “Tomorrow my secretary will help you to write all this down. I cannot, must not pretend that I can help in this matter.” He touched her shoulder and this time she did not flinch. “But I promise you, I shall try.”

  He turned aft to the windows and waited to hear the door close.

  When Allday came back he said simply, “That were kindly done, an’ that’s no error, sir. She’s sobbin’ fit to bust now, but it’ll do her good.”

  “You think so?” Bolitho watched the flags soaring up Helicon’s yards, but saw only the girl’s eyes, the pain that was so deeply lodged there. I saw him hang. He thought of the squire who had married his sister Nancy at Falmouth. A rich landowner who had always had his eye on the Bolitho house. Lo
cal people called him the King of Cornwall behind his back. But he was good to Nancy even if he was a braggart who lived too well in peace and war. He was also a magistrate, but even he would have recommended mercy rather than deportation. Or would he?

  More calls trilled and he knew that the drills were ended for another day.

  He watched the door and heard the sentry’s heels bang together. Keen entered and exclaimed, “May I speak, Sir Richard?”

  Allday and Yovell left the cabin and Keen said, “I have just heard, sir. I regret that you did not feel free to ask me when—”

  Bolitho said quietly, “Sit down, Val. We are not going to fight. I saw the girl because of you, not in spite of you.”

  Keen stared at him. “Me?”

  Bolitho gestured to a chair. “She sat there. Now pray do likewise.”

  Bolitho watched the emotions crossing Keen’s features. He had rarely seen Keen angry, but this was different, protective.

  He said, “She will have to be put ashore once we anchor. It is only a temporary solution, but I think I can arrange it. From what she has told me and what was left unsaid, I believe there is some hope, if only—”

  He broke off as Keen exclaimed, “I can write to my cousin in the City of London. I am sure we can—” He turned and looked at Bolitho, his eyes steady. “It was good of you, sir. I should have understood.”

  Bolitho poured two glasses of brandy and guessed that Ozzard was pressed against his pantry shutter.

  “She has been cruelly used, Val.” He let his words drop like shot into a still pool. “Raped, it would seem, and that’s just the half of it.” He watched the pain in Keen’s blue eyes. He had guessed correctly. Bolitho did not know whether it gave him satisfaction or grief.

  Keen said quietly, “I have a great affection for her, sir.” He looked up, his eyes defiant as if he expected Bolitho to explode.

  “I know that, Val. I think I knew that day when you went down to visit her, maybe even earlier.” He nodded. “That’s settled then.”

  Keen put down the empty glass although he had barely noticed what he was drinking.