Bolitho watched him sadly. "I am not removing you from duty."
Herrick exclaimed, "Then why have you agreed that-" Bolitho stood up quickly. "What would you have me do, eh? Give Gilchrist command and send you home? Replace you with Javal perhaps, when we have but one frigate for this whole mission?" He looked away. "I am giving you Osiris. She is a well-found ship, and trained to a high standard." He heard Herrick's intake of breath but went on remorselessly. "You will not have to worry about the affairs of the squadron for the present, but concentrate instead on command. What you make of it is up to you. But I trust you, above all else, to do your duty well." He turned slowly and was shocked to see that Herrick was as before, unnaturally calm. "Farquhar will assume your present duties until… "
Herrick nodded. "If that is your order, sir."
"Order? Bolitho made to move towards him. "Do you think I want you faced day by day with the officers and men you have trained and commanded since you took Lysander! To know that every hour brings a doubt, a fear that you will let them down in some way?" He shook his head. "That I will not do. Nor will I, can I, jeopardise the squadron's strength because of something which is precious to me."
Herrick looked round the cabin. "Very well. I will prepare to leave."
"No slur will fall onyou, Thomas. I will see to that. But I’d rather see you captain of some worn-out brig than breaking your heart on the beach, deprived of the one life you love, and for which you have given so much."
Herrick seemed momentarily confused. He said, "Farquhar. I never liked him. Even as a midshipman, I never really liked him." He turned to the door. "I little thought it would end like this. "
Bolitho crossed the cabin towards him and held out his hands. "Not end, Thomas!"
But Herrick kept his hands at his sides. "We will see, sir." He left without looking back.
Allday entered the cabin, and after a, slight hesitation took the sword from its rack and examined it.
Bolitho sat down on the bench seat again and watched him miserably.
"Cap"n Herrick's off then, sir?" Allday kept his eyes on the sword.
"Don’t you start at me, Allday." But there was no bite to his tone. "I have taken enough for one day. For a thousand days."
Allday looked at him, his eyes very clear in the reflected light. "You did right, sir." He smiled sadly. "I’m just a common seaman, who but for you would be working aloft or being punished for some petty fault or other. But I’m a man, and I’ve notions for those I serve, an"-" he seemed at a loss, "-and feel strong for." He drew the old sword carefully and held the blade in line with the sun, apparently studying its edge. "Cap"n Herrick is a good man. In another ship he will find his feet again." The sword went into its scabbard with a sharp click. "But if-not, then the deck of the flagship is no place for him, sir."
Bolitho stared at him. It had happened often in the past, but never before had he needed Allday's support more. In his ship, indeed the whole of his little squadron, there was no man with whom he could really share his fears, his doubts. When he had crossed from wardroom to cabin, and then been given his own broad pendant, he had left such luxuries behind him for good.
Allday added calmly, "When I was first pressed into your ship, I’d planned to give leg bail at the first opening. I knew the penalty for desertion well enough, but I was that determined. Then at the Saintes, when all God's protection was thrown aside under the cannon's bellow, I looked aft and saw you. And it was then that I knew there were some captains who did care for the likes of us, the poor buggers who were expected to cheer for King and country when we sailed into the enemy line."
Bolitho replied quietly, "I think you’ve said enough."
Allday watched his lowered head with something like despair. "And you never sees it yourself, do you, sir? You fret about Cap" n Herrick, or what chance we have against this foe or that, but you never take a watch to think of yourself." He tensed as Ozzard padded through the other door, Bolitho's coat and hat in his hand. "But it's said and done now." He watched Bolitho stand up, his eyes blind as he held out his arms for the coat. "And I reckon it will be all right."
Bolitho felt the sword-belt around his waist. Allday had understood better than most would do. Had guessed his intention perhaps from the moment of Herrick's admission.
He said, "I will go on deck now and greet the others." And afterwards say goodbye to Herrick. "And thank you for-" He looked at Allday's homely face. "Reminding me." Allday watched him stride from the cabin and then put his arm around Ozzard's shoulders.
"By God, I’d not have his position for a dozen wenches and a whole ocean of rum!"
Ozzard grimaced. "Not likely to get the offer, I’d say."
On deck it was still clear and bright, the afternoon sea choppy with lively cat's-paws and long shallow swells. The three ships of the line, sails in flapping confusion as they hove-to to drop and receive boats, would have gladdened Bolitho's heart at any other time. Now, as he stood on the poop deck and watched the two barges speeding towards Lysander s side, the marines already lined up at the entry port to receive the two other captains, he felt a deep sense of loss.
He saw Herrick at the lee rail, his hat well down over his eyes, and close by his first lieutenant, Gilchrist, arms folded, spindly legs apart to take the staggering motion. Of the action there was little to show. Brighter patches of planking where the carpenter and his mates had done their work well, fresh paint to hide other scars and replacements. Above the busy decks the sails, too, were neatly patched, and it was difficult to picture the smoke, to remember the din of war.
What Herrick was thinking at this moment he could hardly dare imagine. He must be very proud of the way his company had faced up to battle and its backbreaking aftermath. Just months ago most of these hurrying seamen had been working ashore on farms, in towns, with skills or without, life in a King's ship not even a possibility.
They would be sorry to see their captain leave. For the new men especially Herrick would be familiar, in some way a beginner like themselves. If they had displeasure to show it would be turned towards their commodore. If necessary, he would see to it himself, he thought grimly. Herrick's name was too valuable to be damaged because of his actions, right or wrong.
The first boat hooked on to the chains. It was Farquhar.
Naturally. He came through the entry port, as elegant and as smart as if he had just left his London tailor. He doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and ran his eyes calmly along the swaying lines of marines and glittering bayonets. His hair was very fair, gathered at the nape of his neck, and it shone above his collar like pale gold.
Bolitho watched him shake hands with Herrick. How ill-matched they were. Had always been. Farquhar's uncle, Sir Henry Langford, had been Bolitho's first captain. At the age of twelve he had joined the eight-gun Manxman, terrified and filled with awe. Fourteen years later, Langford, then an admiral, had given him command of a frigate. His nephew had been appointed into her as midshipman. Now, Farquhar, in his early thirties and a post-captain, was with him again. If he survived the war he would rise to high rank and position, both at home and in the fleet. Bolitho had never doubted it from the beginning, just as Herrick had never accepted it.