Alexander Kent - BEYOND THE REEF

"In 'is room, Sir Richard. They'm comin' fer 'im day arter t'morrer, so they says, but they might come earlier."

"I must see him. Nobody should know about it."

Thornborough led him through the door and bolted it. He beamed at the plain black hat and unmarked cloak which Bolitho had donned for the occasion. "Yew'm more like a gentleman of the road, beggin' yer pardon, than any flag officer!"

He felt his stomach contract and realised that, like Allday, he had not eaten since first light.

"See to my people, will you, Jack?"

Thornborough touched his forehead, just for an instant a sailor once again.

"Leave it to me, Sir Richard!" He became serious. "Up them stairs right to the top. You'll not meet a soul, nor will anyone see you."

A very private room then. For highwaymen perhaps, or lovers unaccepted by society. Or a man he had known for over twentyfive years, who was facing disgrace or death.

He was surprised to find that he was not even breathless when he reached the top of the creaking stairs. So many walks with Catherine, along the cliffs at Falmouth or through the fields where she had described what she and Ferguson had planned for the estate. She had, moreover, won the respect of Lewis Roxby, who had always had an eye on the Bolitho land, and had acquired some in the selling-off of property to settle Bolitho's brother's debts. Roxby was after all married to Bolitho's favourite sister Nancy. It was good that she and Catherine were friends. Unlike Felicity, who seemed so full of hate.

He rapped on the dark, stained door: years of smoke from the inn's many grates, from encounters in the night with those who did not wish to be seen. But Jack Thornborough would not let him down. He had been serving in the same frigate as Bolitho's dead brother Hugh, and despite Hugh's treachery had always spoken kindly of him. As others had often remarked, the navy was like a family; sooner or later you met the same ships, the same faces. Even the ones who fell were not forgotten. Bolitho rapped again and for a moment imagined that the room was empty, the journey wasted.

A voice said, "Go away."

Bolitho let out a sigh. It was Herrick.

"Thomas, it's me. Richard."

There was another long pause and then the door opened very slightly. Herrick stood back and waited for Bolitho to enter. The small, poorly-lit room was littered with clothing, an open sea-chest, and incongruously on a table amongst some letters lay Herrick's beautiful telescope, Dulcie's last gift to him.

Herrick dragged a coat from a chair and stared at him. He was stooped, and in the candlelight his hair seemed greyer than before. But his eyes were bright enough, and there was only ginger beer on another table, no sight or smell of brandy.

"What are you doing here, Richard? I told that fool Godschale not to drag you into it… I acted as I thought best. They can all go to hell before I'd say otherwise!" He walked over to get another chair and Bolitho was further saddened to see that he still limped from his wound. He had been cut down by a jagged splinter on Benbow's quarterdeck, with his marines and gun crews strewn about him like bloodied bundles of rag.

"You'll need help, Thomas. Someone must speak for you. You know who the President is to be?"

Herrick gave a tight smile. "I heard. Killed more of his own men than the enemy, I shouldn't wonder!"

Wheels scraped over the cobbles and harness jingled in the inn yard at another arrival. It seemed as if it came from another world; but suppose it was the Admiralty Marshal? There was only one stairway, and not even the impressive Jack Thornborough could hold him off forever.

Herrick said suddenly, "Anyway, you'll be called as a witness." He spoke with savage bitterness. "To describe what you found after the battle. As a witness you'd not be allowed to defend me, even if I wanted it." He paused. "I just thank God my Dulcie is not here to see this happening." He stared at the shining telescope. "I even thought of ending it all, and damn them and their sense of honour."

"Don't talk like that, Thomas. It's not like you."

"Isn't it? I don't come from a long line of sea officers like you." It was almost an accusation. "I started with nothing; my family was poor, and with some help from you I gained the impossible-flag rank. And where has it got me, eh? I'll tell you: probably in front of a firing-squad, as an example to the others. At least it won't be my own marines-they all bloody well died." He waved a hand vaguely, like a man in a dream. "Out there somewhere. And they did it for me-it was my decision."

He stood up stiffly, but instead of the rearadmiral Bolitho could only see the stubborn and caring lieutenant he had first met in Phalarope.

Herrick said, "I know you mean for the best, Richard…"

Bolitho persisted, "We are friends."

"Well, don't throw away all you've achieved for yourself because of me. After this I don't much care what happens, and that's the truth. Now please go." He held out his hand. The grip was just as hard as that lost lieutenant's had been. "You should not have come."

Bolitho did not release his hand. "Don't turn away, Thomas. We have lost so many friends. We Happy Few-remember?"

Herrick's eyes were faraway. "Aye. God bless them."

Bolitho picked up his plain cocked hat from the table and saw a finished letter in the light of two candles. It was addressed to Catherine, in Herrick's familiar schoolboy hand.

Herrick said almost offhandedly, "Take it if you like. I tried to thank her for what she did for my Dulcie. She is a woman of considerable courage, I'll grant her that."

"I wish you might have told her in person, Thomas."

"I have always stood by my beliefs, what is right or wrong. I'll not change now, even if they allow me the opportunity."

Bolitho put the letter in his pocket. He had been unable to help after all; it had all been a waste of time, as Godschale had hinted it would be.

"We shall meet again next week, Thomas." He stepped out on to the dark landing and heard the door close behind him even before he had reached the first stair.

Thornborough was waiting for him by his busy kitchen.

He said quietly, "Some hot pie to warm you, Sir Richard, afore you leaves?"

Bolitho stared out at the darkness and shook his head. "Thank you-but I've no stomach for it, Jack."

The innkeeper watched him gravely. "Bad, was it?"

Bolitho said nothing, unable to find the words. There were none.

They had been strangers.

CAPTAIN Valentine Keen stood by Black Prince's quarterdeck rail and watched two unhappy-looking civilians being swayed up from a boat alongside, their legs dangling from boatswain's chairs.

The court martial was to be held in the great cabin, which had been stripped of everything, the dividing screens removed as if the ship was about to go into action.

The first lieutenant came aft and touched his hat. "That's the last of them, sir." He consulted his list. "The wine bills will probably be enormous."

Keen glanced at the sky. After the longest winter he could recall, it seemed as if April had decided to intervene and drive it away. A clear, bright blue sky and perfect visibility, with only a hint of lingering cold in the sea-breeze. The great ship seemed to tremble as the wind roused itself enough to rattle the rigging and halliards, or to make lively patterns across the harbour like a cat ruffling its fur. In days, perhaps, Keen would be gone from this proud command, something he still found hard to believe when he had time to consider it.

The members of the court, spectators, clerks and witnesses had been coming aboard since morning, and would soon be seated in their allotted places according to rank or status.

"You may dismiss the guard and side-party, Mr Sedgemore." He took out his watch. "Tell the gunner to prepare to fire at four bells." He looked up at the great spars overhead, the sails now in position and neatly furled, Bolitho's flag at the fore. "You know what to do."