He heard Jenour's familiar voice, saw his pale breeches as he hurried out to greet him.
"Bravo, Sir Richard! You must have been blessed with wings! "
Bolitho shook his hand. It was cold, like his own, and he was reminded of Catherine's words about the coming winter.
Allday muttered, "That bugger nearly did what the Dons an' the Frogs has failed to do many times! "
The Officer-of-the-Guard joined them and doffed his hat. "Welcome to Dover, Sir Richard."
Bolitho could feel the lieutenant's scrutiny even in the dark. Recognition again, curiosity too.
Bolitho had never really liked Dover. He found it difficult to forget the months before the outbreak of war-what was it? Thirteen years ago? It did not seem possible. He had been unemployed, still weakened by the fever which had struck him down so cruelly in the GreatSouthSea, and which had all but killed him. Too many captains, too few ships. In peacetime the fleet had been cut to the bone, sound vessels laid up to neglect and rot, sailors thrown on the beach unwanted with no jobs to go to.
Bolitho was still very bitter about it. Like the shantyman's song which had ended on that same note, Now we have naught to eat and drink, For you have naught to fear… Would it be the same when this war was finally won, and a part of history?
More than anything he had wanted a ship then. To forget his experiences in the GreatSouthSea, to begin all over again with another fine frigate like his Tempest had been. Instead he had been offered the thankless task of recruiting men at the Nore and the Medway towns, and at the same time seeking out deserters who had fled the navy for the more lucrative and brutal trade of smuggling.
His work had sometimes brought him to Dover. To see a smuggler kick out his life on the gallows, or to pit his wits against the authorities, the men of power who were hand-in-glove with the Brotherhood, as it was called. But the guillotine's blade which had fallen on the neck of France 's king had changed all that overnight. Not a frigate; they had given him the old Hyperion. It was as if she had been destined for him. Now like so many faces, she too had gone to the bottom.
He realised the others were waiting and said, "What ship?"
The lieutenant swallowed apologetically. "My orders are-"
Bolitho snapped, "Don't waste my time, man! "
"She lies out at anchor, Sir Richard. The Truculent, Captain Poland." He sounded crushed.
Bolitho sighed. Like a family You either lost touch completely or faces and ships reappeared again and again. He knew that both Zest and Truculent had joined the North Sea squadron and would eventually serve under his flag once Black Prince was in full commission. He forced himself from going over the mystery of Keen's. silence again and asked, "Is there a boat waiting?"
"Er, yes, Sir Richard."
Jenour hid a smile as the lieutenant led the way with a lantern, half-shuttered as if the dock area was filled with spies and French agents. He watched Bolitho's quick stride and was glad to be with him again. Jenour had enjoyed his freedom, which he had spent with his parents in Southampton, and yet when the messenger had brought his orders he had felt something like elation, without even the hesitation which might have been expected after his recent experiences.
Feet shuffled on cobbles, and as they turned a corner around some victualling sheds the sea-breeze swept amongst them like a boisterous greeting.
Bolitho stood on the edge of the jetty and stared past the other moored vessels, the gaunt shadows of rigging and furled sails, to the riding-lights of ships at anchor. He rarely thought about it at sea, but now, standing here on the wet cobbles which would soon reveal themselves in a grey dawn, it was a strange, unnerving
feeling. Out there in the darkness, no more than twenty sea-miles away was the enemy coast. In a man-of-war you could fight or run as your wisdom dictated. Along these shores, thinly protected by gunboats, the sea fencibles or some local militia, the ordinary people had no such choice. They more than any others probably thanked God for the weather-beaten ships of the blockade which day and night rode out storms and calms alike to keep the enemy bottled up in his harbours.
"Boat's ready, Sir Richard."
Bolitho nodded to the Officer-of-the-Guard. "How sets the tide?"
The man's face looked paler in the gloom, or was it imagination? He replied, "It'll be on the ebb in two hours, Sir Richard."
"Good." It would mean a quick start. But who was the one chosen to give him the information he needed? He relented slightly. "You keep a good watch, Lieutenant. It is just as well in this port! "
Then he was down into the boat with unexpected familiarity; even the lieutenant who had been sent in charge of the gig he recognised instantly.
"I'll wager you never expected to see me again so soon, Mr Munro?"
Jenour watched it all; as he had tried to describe it to his parents. The way Truculent's young second lieutenant responded with such obvious pleasure. Had it been daylight Jenour was certain he would have been blushing. Just small points, but Bolitho never seemed to forget, nor did he overlook the importance which these brief contacts he had with his men might carry for them when they most needed them later on.
Jenour shivered despite his warm cloak. It was exactly like one of his old storybooks. A secret mission. Jenour was not so naive that he did not see past the excitement to the danger and death which might lie in store. He had witnessed plenty of it since he had joined Bolitho; was still surprised that he had not cracked because of it. Perhaps later? He pushed it aside and said, "I see her, Sir Richard! "
Bolitho swung round and turned up the collar of his cloak as the spray from the oars spat over the gunwale and stung the tiredness from his mind.
He could guess what Jenour was thinking. But the mission, whatever it was, could already be common gossip on messdecks and in wardrooms alike.
He saw the frigate's spiralling masts cut across the clouds to tower over them, heard the ship's own noises moving out to receive them. Shouted commands carried away by the breeze which might soon be a strong south-westerly wind, the creak of tackles and the urgent shrill of calls. Men feeling their way about the decks or
high above them on the treacherous yards and ratlines, slippery with spray; no place for the unskilled. But there were some of the latter, Bolitho thought. A man was calling out in fear, his pleas cut short by a blow. Captain Poland must have put a press gang ashore somewhere away from the port, or else the local flag officer had sent him a few landsmen from the guardship. For them the long, hard lesson was about to begin.
He thought again of Catherine, all that they had done together, all that they had given each other, and still there had not been enough time. He had not found the necklace he wanted for her lovely throat, nor had they been to visit the surgeon, Sir Piers Blachford. He had thought several times of his daughter Elizabeth, who would be four years old. The last occasion when he had seen her was when he had had his first confrontation with Belinda-she had passed him by with barely a glance. Not like a child at all. A doll in silks, a possession. But it would all have to wait.
"Boat ahoy?" Figures jostled around the light at the frigate's entry port.
Before the gig's coxswain could reply to the age-old challenge, Allday cupped his big hands and yelled, "Flag! Truculent! "
Bolitho pictured the tension on board. They might have been waiting and wondering for hours. Nobody could have known when his carriage would arrive or even when he had left London. But he had no doubts at all that Captain Poland would have kept every man alert and ready to receive him, if it had taken him another full day!
The gig's bowman managed to hook on to the main chains, while others did their best to control the boat's pitching and swaying as it felt the surge of the current alongside.
Bolitho reached the entry port and saw Poland and his officers waiting to be presented, even at this unearthly hour. As he had expected, they were all smartly dressed for his arrival.