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Contents
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About the Book
About the Author
Also by Alexander Kent
Title Page
Dedication
1. Band of Brothers
2. Strangers
3. Accused
4. Revenge
5. The Hand of a Lady
6. The Golden Plover
7. Conscience
8. Breakers
9. Abandon
10. Poor Jack
11. A Day to Remember
12. Welcome …
13. … And Farewell
14. Bad Blood
15. From the Dead
16. Power of Command
17. Ships Passing
18. Ghosts
19. We Happy Few
Copyright
About the Book
In March 1808, as Napoleon holds Portugal and threatens his old ally Spain, Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho is dispatched once more to the Cape of Good Hope to establish a permanent naval force there.
Setting aside his bitter memories and the anguish of a friendship betrayed, Bolitho takes passage in the ill-fated Golden Plover. With him sail others commanded by duty and lured by danger – and those who wish only to escape.
But when shipwreck and disaster overtake the Golden Plover off the desolate coast of Africa, neither the innocent nor the damned are spared. Beyond the tortured hell of the reef, Bolitho’s battle begins – to summon the survivors’ last reserves of courage and of hope.
About the Author
Alexander Kent is the author of twenty-seven acclaimed books featuring Richard Bolitho. Under his own name, Douglas Reeman, and in the course of a career spanning forty-five years, he has written over thirty novels and two non-fiction books.
Also by Alexander Kent
To Glory We Steer
Midshipman Bolitho
Stand Into Danger
In Gallant Company
Passage to Mutiny
Command a King’s Ship
Sloop of War
Enemy in Sight!
The Flag Captain
Form Line of Battle!
Success to the Brave
A Tradition of Victory
The Inshore Squadron
Signal – Close Action
Colours Aloft!
The Only Victor
Beyond the Reef
The Darkening Sea
For My Country’s Freedom
Honour This Day
Cross of St George
Relentless Pursuit
Sword of Honour
Second to None
Man of War
Heart of Oak
The stirring story of the life and times of Richard Bolitho is told in Alexander Kent’s bestselling novels.
1756
Born Falmouth, son of James Bolitho
1768
Entered the King’s service as a Midshipman on Manxman
1772
Midshipman, Gorgon (Midshipman Bolitho)
1774
Promoted Lieutenant, Destiny: Rio and the Caribbean (Stand into Danger)
1775–7
Lieutenant, Trojan, during the American Revolution. Later appointed prizemaster (In Gallant Company)
1778
Promoted Commander, Sparrow. Battle of the Chesapeake (Sloop of War)
1780
Birth of Adam, illegitimate son of Hugh Bolitho and Kerenza Pascoe
1782
Promoted Captain, Phalarope; West Indies: Battle of Saints (To Glory We Steer)
1784
Captain, Undine; India and East Indies (Command a King’s Ship)
1787
Captain, Tempest; Great South Sea; Tahiti; suffered serious fever (Passage to Mutiny)
1792
Captain, the Nore; Recruiting (With All Despatch)
1793
Captain, Hyperion; Mediterranean; Bay of Biscay; West Indies. Adam Pascoe, later Bolitho, enters the King’s service as a midshipman aboard Hyperion (Form Line of Battle! And Enemy in Sight)
1795
Promoted Flag Captain, Euryalus; involved in the Great Mutiny; Mediterranean; Promoted Commodore (The Flag Captain)
1798
Battle of the Nile (Signal – Close Action!)
1800
Promoted Rear-Admiral; Baltic; (The Inshore Squadron)
1801
Biscay. Prisoner of war (A Tradition of Victory)
1802
Promoted Vice-Admiral; West Indies (Success to the Brave)
1803
Mediterranean (Colours Aloft!)
1805
Battle of Trafalgar (Honour This Day)
1806–7
Good Hope and the second battle of Copenhagen (The Only Victor)
1808
Shipwrecked off Africa (Beyond the Reef)
1809–10
Mauritius campaign (The Darkening Sea)
1812
Promoted Admiral; Second American War (For My Country’s Freedom)
1814
Defence of Canada (Cross of St. George)
1815
Richard Bolitho killed in action (Sword of Honour) Adam Bolitho, Captain, Unrivalled. Mediterranean (Second to None)
1816
Anti-slavery patrols, Sierra Leone. Battle of Algiers (Relentless Pursuit)
1817
Flag Captain, Athena; Antigua and Caribbean (Man of War)
1818
Captain, Onward; Mediterranean (Heart of Oak)
For Kim, my Tahiti girl – with love
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1
Band of Brothers
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THE NORMALLY SHELTERED waters of Portsmouth Harbour seemed to cringe under the intensity of a biting north-easterly which had been blowing for some twelve hours. The whole anchorage was transformed into an endless mass of cruising whitecaps with lively catspaws to mark its progress around the many black-and-buff hulls of moored men-of-war, making them tug violently at their cables.
It was late March, a time when winter was still reluctant to release its grip and eager to display its latent power.
One of the largest ships, recently warped from the dockyard where she had suffered the indignities of repairs to the lower hull, was the second-rate Black Prince of ninety-four guns, her fresh paintwork and blacked-down rigging shining like glass from blown spray and a brief rainsquall which even now had reached as far out as the Isle of Wight, a dull blur in the poor light.
Black Prince was one of the most powerful of her kind, and to anyone but a true sailor she would appear a symbol of sea-power, the country’s sure shield. The more experienced eye would recognise her empty yards, the canvas not yet sent up to give her life as well as strength. She was surrounded by lighters and dockyard longboats, while small armies of riggers and ropemakers moved busily about her decks, and the clatter of hammers and the squeak of tackles were evidence of the work being carried out in the deep holds and on the gundecks.
Alone by the packed hammock-nettings Black Prince’s captain stood at the quarterdeck rail and watched the comings and goings of seamen and dockyard workers, who in turn were supervised by the ship’s warrant officers, the true backbone of any warship.
Captain Valentine Keen tugged his hat still tighter across his fair hair but was otherwise oblivious, even indifferent, to the biting wind and the fact that his flapping blue coat with its tarnished sea-going epaulettes was soaked through to his skin.
signal tower or the admiral’s flagship nearby, a sodden flag curling and cracking from her main truck.
Many of the men who had served the guns around him when they had fought and all but destroyed the big French three-decker off the coast of Denmark had been taken from his command while the ship had undergone repairs from that short, savage embrace. Some for promotion to other vessels, others because, as the port admiral had put it, ‘My captains need men now, Captain Keen. You will have to wait.’
Keen allowed his mind to stray back over the battle, the terrible sight in the dawn when they had gone to assist Rear-Admiral Herrick’s Benbow in his defence of a twenty-ship convoy destined for the invasion of Copenhagen. Shattered, burning hulks, screaming cavalry horses trapped below in the transports, and Benbow completely dismasted, her only other escort capsized, a total loss.
Mercifully Benbow had been towed to the Nore for docking. It would be too painful to see her here every waking day. A constant reminder, especially for Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho, whose flag would soon break out again from this ship’s foremast. Herrick had been Bolitho’s oldest friend, but Keen had been more angered than saddened by Herrick’s behaviour both before and after Benbow’s last fight. It might well be her last too, he thought grimly. With the many ships they had seized from Copenhagen to bolster their own depleted fleets and squadrons, any dockyard might think twice before committing itself to such a programme of repairs and restoration.
Keen thought of Bolitho, a man he cared for more than any other. He had served him as midshipman and lieutenant, and with him in the same squadron until eventually he had become his flag-captain. Keen imagined him now with his lovely Catherine, as he had done so often since their return to England. He had tried to close his mind to it, not to make comparisons. But he had wanted a love like theirs for himself, the same challenging passion which had captured the hearts of ordinary people everywhere, and had roused the fury of London society because of their open relationship. A scandal, they proclaimed. Keen sighed. He would give his soul to be in the same position.
He walked to the small table beneath the overhang of the dripping poop and opened the log at the place marked with a piece of polished whalebone. He stared at the date on the damp page for several seconds. How could he forget? March 25th 1808, two months exactly since he had put the ring on the hand of his bride in the tiny village church at Zennor, which had given her her name.
Like the battle which had preceded his wedding by four months, it seemed like yesterday.
He still did not know. Did she love him, or was her marriage an act of gratitude? He had rescued her from a convict ship, and from transportation for a crime she had not committed. Or did his uncertainty stem from the fact that he was almost twice her age, when he believed she could have chosen anyone? If he did not contain it, Keen knew it would drive him mad. He was almost afraid to touch her, and when she had given herself to him it had been an act without passion, without desire. She had merely submitted, and later during that first night he had found her by the embers of the fire downstairs, sobbing silently as if her heart had already broken.
Time and time again Keen had reminded himself of Catherine’s advice when he had visited her in London. He had confessed his doubts about Zenoria’s true feelings for him.
Catherine had said quietly, ‘Remember what happened to her. A young girl – taken and used, with no hope, and nothing to live for.’
Keen bit his lip, recalling the day he had first seen her, seized up, almost naked, her back laid open from shoulder to hip while the other prisoners had watched like wild beasts, as if it had been some kind of savage sport. So perhaps it was, after all, gratitude; and he should be satisfied, as many men would be merely to have her.
But he was not.
He saw the first lieutenant, James Sedgemore, striding aft towards him. He at least seemed more than pleased with his lot. Keen had promoted him to senior lieutenant after the tough Tynesider Cazalet had been cut in half on this same quarterdeck on that terrible morning. The enemy ship had been the San Mateo, a powerful Spaniard sailing under French colours, and she had crushed the convoy and its escorts like a tiger dispatching rabbits. Keen had never seen Bolitho so determined to destroy any ship as he had been to put down San Mateo. She had sunk his old Hyperion. He had needed no other reason.
Keen often found himself wondering if Bolitho would have held to his threat to keep pouring broadsides into San Mateo, which had already been crippled in the first embrace at close quarters. Until they strike their Colours. Thank God someone still sane enough to think and act in that hell of iron and screaming splinters had brought the flags tumbling down. But would he have continued, without mercy, otherwise?
I may never know.
Lieutenant Sedgemore touched his hat, his face red in the stinging air. ‘I shall be able to get the sails ready for bending-on tomorrow, sir.’
Keen glanced at the Royal Marine sentries by the hatchways and up on the forecastle. With the land so close there were always the reckless few who would try to run. It would be hard enough to get more hands, especially in a naval port, without allowing men the opportunity to desert.
Keen had much sympathy for his men. They had been kept aboard or sent directly to other ships to fill the gaps, without any chance to see their loved ones or their homes.
Keen had spent more time than was necessary on board, simply to show his depleted company that he was sharing it with them. Even as it crossed his mind, he knew that too was a lie. He had stayed because of his fear that he might make Zenoria openly reject him, unable even to pretend.
‘Something wrong, sir?’
‘No.’ It came out too sharply. ‘Vice-Admiral Bolitho will be coming aboard at noon.’ He looked across the nettings at the shining walls of the dockyard and harbour battery and on to the huddled buildings of Portsmouth Point, beyond which the Channel and the open sea were waiting. Bolitho might be over there already; at the old George Inn, perhaps? Unlikely. Catherine would be with him. He would not risk a snub or anything else which might distress her.
Sedgemore kept his young features impassive. He had never really liked his predecessor, Cazalet. A fine seaman, admittedly, but a man who was so coarse in his speech and behaviour that he had been hard to work with. He watched the bustling figures at the tackles, swaying up more bales and boxes from one of the lighters alongside.
Well, he was the first lieutenant now, in one of the navy’s newest and most powerful three-deckers. And with an admiral like Sir Richard Bolitho and a good captain like Keen, there would be no stopping them once they were at sea again. Promotion, prize money, fame; there was no end to it, in his mind anyway.
It was the navy’s way, Sedgemore thought. If a dead man’s shoes were offered, you never waited for a second chance.
Keen said distinctly, ‘Tell my cox’n to prepare the barge, and have the crew piped at six bells. Inspect them yourself, although I doubt if Tojohns will leave anything to chance.’
He glanced at the open log again where the midshipman-of-the-watch was writing something, his tongue poking from one corner of his mouth with great concentration. Another picture crossed his mind. His coxswain, Tojohns, on his wedding day only two months ago, supervising the garlanded carriage which had been towed by the midshipmen and petty officers of this ship, his ship, with himself and his young bride inside.
He turned aft and stalked away beneath the poop to seek the one place he could be alone.
Sedgemore watched him go and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
A post-captain – what Sedgemore himself would be one day if everything went well for him, and he managed to avoid Cazalet’s fate.
To be captain of a ship like Black Prince … He looked up and around him. There was no higher reward for any man. He would want for nothing.
He saw the midshipman staring at him and rasped, ‘Mr M’Innes, I’ll trouble you not to waste your time, sir!’
It was uncalled for; but it made him feel more like a fi
rst lieutenant.
Lieutenant Stephen Jenour caught his breath as he turned the corner above the shining dockyard stairs which led directly down to the landing stage. After two months ashore either working for Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho or visiting his parents in Southampton, he felt at odds with the sea and the bitter wind.
He thrust open a small door and saw a blazing fire shining a welcome across the room.
A uniformed servant asked coldly, ‘Your name, sir?’
‘Jenour.’ He added sharply, ‘Flag lieutenant to Sir Richard Bolitho.’
The man bowed himself away, muttering something about a warming drink, and Jenour was childishly pleased at his ability to command instant respect.
‘Welcome, Stephen.’ Bolitho was sitting in a high-backed chair, the fire reflecting from his gold lace and epaulettes. ‘We have a while yet.’
Jenour sat down and smiled at him. So many things had changed his young life since joining Bolitho. His parents had laughed at him for vowing that one day he would serve this incredible man who had been, until Nelson’s death at Trafalgar less than three years ago, the youngest vice-admiral on the Navy List. Now he was the youngest.
He never tired of recalling each separate incident, even that stark moment when Black Prince had been about to leave Copenhagen in search of Herrick, and Bolitho had turned on him in pleading desperation and confirmed his worst fears. ‘I am losing my sight, Stephen. Can you keep a secret so precious to me?’ And later when Bolitho had said, ‘They must not know. You are a dear friend, Stephen. Now there are other friends out there who need us.’
Jenour sipped the hot drink. There was brandy in it, and spices too, and his eyes smarted but he knew it was from that memory and nothing else.