17

“YOU HOLD THEIR HEARTS …”

IF THE officers and men of Bolitho’s North Sea squadron had expected a quick relief from the dragging boredom of blockade duty, they were soon to be disappointed. Weeks overlapped into months. Spring drove away the icy winds and constant damp of winter, and still they endured the endless and seemingly pointless patrols. Northward from the Frisian Islands, with the Dutch coast sometimes in view, often as far as the Skagerrak where Poland had fought his last battle.

Better than most Bolitho knew he was driving them hard, more so than they had probably ever endured before. Sail and gun drills, in line ahead or abreast to a minimum of signals. Then he had divided his squadron into two divisions with the clergyman-like Crowfoot’s Glorious as senior ship of the other line. Bolitho had now been reinforced by the two remaining seventy-fours, Valkyrie and Tenacious, and a small but welcome addition of the schooner Radiant, the latter commanded by an elderly lieutenant who had once been with the revenue service.

Small Radiant might be, but she was fast enough to dart close inshore and make off again before an enemy patrol vessel could be roused enough to weigh anchor and come out to discourage her impudence.

Allday was shaving Bolitho one morning and for the first time since they had come aboard, the stern windows were open, and there was real warmth in the air. Bolitho stared up at the deckhead while the razor rasped expertly under his chin.

The blade stilled as he said, “I suppose they hate my insides for all the drills I am forcing on them?”

Allday waited, then continued with his razor. “Better this way, Sir Richard. It’s fair enough in small craft, but in big ships like this ‘un it’s wrong to draw officers and sailors too close together.”

Bolitho looked at him curiously. More wisdom. “How so?”

“‘Tween decks they needs someone to hate. Keeps them on edge, like a cutlass to a grindstone!”

Bolitho smiled and let his mind drift again. Cornwall would be fresh again after the drab weather. Bright yellow gorse, sheets of bluebells along the little paths to the headland. What would Catherine be doing? He had received several letters in the courier brig; once he had three altogether, as often happened with the King’s ships constantly at sea. Catherine always made her letters interesting. She had dispensed with Somervell’s property in London, and after paying off what sounded like a mountain of debts she had purchased a small house near the Thames. It was as if she had felt his sudden anxiety all the miles across the North Sea and had explained, “When you must be in London, we will have our own haven—we shall be beholden to nobody.” She spoke too of Falmouth, of ideas which she and Ferguson had put in motion to clear more land, to make a profit, and not merely sustain its existence. She never mentioned Belinda, nor did she speak of the enormous amount of money Belinda required to live in the only style she had come to accept.

There was a knock at the outer door and Keen entered and said apologetically, “I thought you should know, Sir Richard. Our schooner is in sight to the east’rd and is desiring to close on us.”

Allday dabbed Bolitho’s face and watched the light in his eyes. There was no sign of injury. No change, he thought. So perhaps after all …

Bolitho said, “News, d’you think, Val?”

Keen said impassively, “She comes from the right direction.”

In Catherine’s last letter she had mentioned her meeting with Zenoria. “Tell Val to take heart. The love is as strong as before. It needs a sign.” Keen had taken the news without comment. Resigned, hopeful or desperate; whatever his emotions were, he hid them well.

When Allday had left them alone Bolitho exclaimed, “In God’s name, Val, how much longer must we beat up and down this barren coast waiting for some word? Every morning the horizon is empty but for our own companions, each sunset brings more curses from the people because of all this futility!”

There were more delays, while the schooner tacked this way and that before she could lie under Black Prince’s lee and drop her boat in the water.

Lieutenant Evan Evans had served with the Revenue cutters before joining the King’s navy, but he looked more like a pirate than a law-abiding sailor. A great block of a man with rough grey hair which looked as if he cut it himself with shears, a brick-red face so battered and so ruined by hard drinking that he was a formidable presence even in Bolitho’s great cabin.

Ozzard brought some wine but Evans shook his shaggy head. “None o’ that, beggin’ yer pardon, Sir Richard—it plays hell with my gut!”

But when Ozzard produced some rum Evans drained the tankard in one swallow. “More like it, see?”

Bolitho said, “Tell me what you found.”

Together they walked to the table where Bolitho’s own chart was spread with his personal log open beside it.

Evans put a finger as thick and as hard as a marlin spike on the chart and said, “Three days back, Sir Richard. Makin’ for the Bay o’ Heligoland, she was, leastways ‘twas a fair guess at her direction.”

Bolitho contained his impatience. Evans was reliving it. It would destroy the picture in his mind if he was goaded. It was strange to hear the local landmarks described in his rich Welsh accent.

Keen prompted gently, “She?”

Evans glared at him and continued, “Big as a cathedral, she was. Ship o’ th’ line.” He shrugged heavily. “Then two frigates came from nowhere, out o’ th’ sun to all intents. One was a forty-four.” He frowned, so that his bright eyes seemed to vanish into thick folds of skin.

Bolitho straightened his back and clasped his fingers together behind him. “Did you see her name, Mr Evans?”

“Well, we were proper busy when she let fly with a bowchaser, but my little schooner can show a clean pair o’ heels as anyone will tell you …”

Bolitho remarked, “She was L’Intrepide, was she not?”

The others stared at him and Keen asked, “But how could you know, sir?”

“A premonition.” He turned from the table to conceal his face from them. It was here; he could feel it. Not just yet, but soon, quite soon.

“The larger vessel—how big, d’you think?”

Evans nodded to Ozzard and took another tankard of rum. Then he wiped his lips with the back of his rough hand and frowned. It seemed habitual.

“Well, I’m no real judge, but she were a liner right enough.” He glanced professionally around the cabin. “Bigger’n this ‘un, see?”

“What?” Bolitho turned back at Keen’s sudden surprise and doubt. “Must be a mistake, sir. I have read every word of those reports from the Admiralty. No ship larger than a seventy-four survived Trafalgar. They were either taken or destroyed in the gale that followed the battle.” He looked almost accusingly towards the wild-haired lieutenant. “No agent has reported the building of any vessel such as the one you describe.”

The lieutenant grinned. The burden was no longer his, and the rum was very good.

“Well, that’s what I saw, Sir Richard, an’ I’ve been at sea for twenty-five year. I were nine when I ran out o’ Cardiff. Never regretted it.” He shot Keen a pitying glance. “Long enough to know which is the sharp end o’ a pike!”

Keen laughed, the strain leaving his face as he retorted, “You are an impudent fellow, but I think I asked for it!”

Bolitho watched him, the news momentarily at arm’s length. Only Keen would be man enough to make such an admission to a subordinate. It would never have occurred to Bolitho that he might have learned it from his own example.

Bolitho said, “I want you to carry a despatch to Portsmouth. It could be urgent.”

Keen said, “The Nore would be a shorter passage, sir.”

Bolitho shook his head, thinking aloud. They have the telegraph at Portsmouth. It will be faster.” He eyed Evans meaningly as he swallowed some more rum. “I take it you have a reliable mate? “

It was not lost on the shaggy Welshman. “I won’t let you down, Sir Richard. My little schooner will be there by Monday.”

“There will be a letter also.” He met Evans’ searching stare. “I would appreciate if you send it by post-horse yourself. I shall pay you directly.”

The man grinned. “God love you, no, Sir Richard. I know them buggers at Portsmouth Point an’ they owe me a favour or two!”

Keen seemed to come out of his thoughts. “I have a letter as well which could perhaps go with it, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho nodded, understanding. If the worst happened he might never know Zenoria’s love. It did not bear even thinking about.

“You are doing the right thing, Val,” he said quietly. “My lady will ensure she receives it.”

By noon the schooner was under way again, watched with envy by those who knew her destination, and wished that their next landfall would be England.

While Bolitho and Keen thought about their respective letters, carried in the schooner’s safe with the despatches, other smaller dramas were being enacted deep in the hull, as is the way with all large men-of-war.

Two seamen who had been working under the direction of Holland, the purser’s clerk, to hoist a fresh cask of salt pork from the store, were squatting in almost total darkness, a bottle of cognac wedged between them. One of the men was Fittock, who had been flogged for insubordination. The other was a Devonian named Duthy, a ropemaker and, like his friend, an experienced seaman.

They were speaking in quiet murmurs, knowing they should not still be here. But like most of the skilled hands they disliked being cooped up with untrained ignorant landsmen who were always bleating about discipline, as Duthy put it.

He said, “I’ll be glad to swallow the anchor when me time’s up, Jim, but I’ll miss some of it, all the same. I’ve learned a trade out of the navy, an’ provided I can stay in one piece …”

Fittock swallowed hard and felt the heat of the spirit run through him. No wonder the wardroom drank it.

He nodded. “Provided, yes, mate, there’s always that.”

“Yew think we’m goin’ to fight, Jim?”

Fittock rubbed his back against a cask. The scars of the lash were still sore, even now.

He showed his teeth. “You knows the old proverb, mate? If death rakes the decks, may it be like prize money.”

His friend shook his head. “Don’t understand, Jim.”

Fittock laughed. “So that the officers get the biggest share!”

“Now here’s a fine thing!”

They both lurched to their feet as someone slid the shutter from a lantern, and they saw Midshipman Vincent staring at them, his mouth lifted in a faint smile. Behind him, his crossbelt white in the gloom, was the ship’s corporal.

Vincent said coldly, “Just as well I came to complete the rounds.” The officer-of-the-watch had sent him after seeing the purser’s clerk appear on deck alone, but he made it sound as if it was his own idea. “Scum like you, Fittock, never learn, do you?”

Duthy protested, “We weren’t doin’ nothin’, sir. We was standin’ easy, so to speak!”

“Don’t lie to me, you pig!” Vincent thrust out his hand. “Give me that bottle! I’ll see your backbones for this!”

Anger, resentment, the scars on his back, and of course the cognac were part and parcel of what happened next.

Fittock retorted angrily, “Think you can’t do no wrong ‘cause yer uncle’s the viceadmiral, is that it? Why, you little shite, I’ve served with ‘im afore, an’ you’re not fit to be in the same ship as ‘im!”

Vincent stared at him glassily. It was all going wrong.

“Corporal, seize that man! Take him aft!” He almost screamed. “That’s an order, man!”

The ship’s corporal licked his lips and made as if to unsling his musket. “Come on, Jim Fittock, you knows the rules. Let’s not ‘ave any trouble, eh?”

Feet scraped on the gratings between the casks and some white breeches moved into the lantern’s glow.

Midshipman Roger Segrave said calmly, “There’ll be no trouble, Corporal.”

Vincent hissed, “What the hell are you saying? They were drinking unlawfully, and when I discovered them—”

“They were ‘insubordinate,’ I suppose?” Segrave was astonished by his own easy tones. Like a total stranger’s.

He said, “Cut along, you two.” He turned to the corporal, who was staring at him, his sweating face full of gratitude. “And you. I’ll not be needing you.”

Vincent shouted wildly, “What about the cognac?” But of course, like magic, it had vanished.

Fittock paused and looked him in the eyes, and said softly, “I’ll not forget.” Then he was gone.

“One more thing, Corporal.” The leggings and polished boots froze on the ladder. “Close the hatch when you leave.”

Vincent was staring at him with disbelief. “Are you mad?”

Segrave tossed his coat to the deck. “I used to know someone very like you.” He began to roll up his sleeves. “He was a bully too—a petty little tyrant who made my life a misery.”

Vincent forced a laugh. In the damp, cool hold it came back as a mocking echo.

“So it was all too much for you, was it?”

Surprisingly, Segrave found he could answer without emotion.

“Yes. It was. Until one day I met your uncle and a man with only half a face. After that I accepted fear—I can do so again.”

He heard the hatch thud into position. “All this time I’ve watched you using your uncle’s name so that you can torment those who can’t answer back. I’m not surprised you were thrown out of the H.E.I.C.” It was only a guess but he saw it hit home. “So now you’ll know what it feels like!”

Vincent exclaimed, “I’ll call you out—”

The smash of Segrave’s fist into his jaw flung him down onto the deck, blood spurting from a split lip.

Segrave winced from the pain of the blow; all those years of humiliation had been behind it.

“Call me out, sonny?” He punched him again in the face as he scrambled to his feet, and sent him sprawling. “Duels are for men, not pigmies!”

Four decks above them Lieutenant Flemyng, who was the officer-of-the-watch, took a few paces this way and that before glancing again at the half-hour glass by the compass box.

He beckoned to a boatswain’s mate and snapped, “Go and find that damned snotty, will you, Gregg? Skylarking somewhere, I shouldn’t wonder.”

The man knuckled his forehead and made to hurry away, but was stopped by the harsh voice of Cazalet, the first lieutenant.

“Not just yet, Mr Flemyng!” He came from Tynemouth and had a voice which carried above the strongest gale.

Flemyng, who was the ship’s third lieutenant, stared at him questioningly.

Cazalet smiled to himself and trained his glass on the old Sunderland. “I think he should have a mite longer, don’t you?”

Admiral the Lord Godschale flapped a silk handkerchief before his hawk-like nose and commented, “The damn river is a bit vile this evening.”

He looked powerfully magnificent in his heavy dress coat and shining epaulettes, and as he stood watching the colourful throng of guests which overflowed the broad terrace of his Greenwich house he found time to reflect on his good fortune.

But it was extremely hot, and would remain so until night touched the Thames and brought some cool relief to the officers in their coats of blue and scarlet. Godschale watched the river winding its endless journey up and around the curve into Blackwall Reach, the ant-like movement of wherries and local craft. It was an imposing house and he was constantly grateful that the previous owner had sold so eagerly and reasonably. At the outbreak of war with France, as all the hideous news of the Terror had insinuated its way across the Channel, the former owner had taken his possessions and investments and had fled to America.

Godschale smiled grimly. So much for his faith in his country’s defences at the time.

He saw the slight figure of Sir Charles Inskip threading his way through the laughing, jostling guests, bobbing here, smiling there—the true diplomat. Godschale felt the return of his uneasiness.

Inskip joined him and took a tall glass of wine from one of the many sweating servants.

“Quite a gathering, m’lord.”

Godschale frowned. He had planned the reception with great care. People who mattered in society, evenly mixed with the military and those of his own service. Even the Prime Minister was coming. Grenville had only held office for a year and after Pitt, whatever people had said about him, he had been a disaster. Now they had a Tory again, the Duke of Portland no less, who would probably be even more out of touch with the war than Grenville had been.

He saw his wife deeply engaged in conversation with two of her closest friends. The latest gossip no doubt. It was hard to picture her as the lively girl he had first met when he had been a dashing frigate captain. Plain, and rather dull. He shook his head. Where had that girl gone?

He glanced at the other women nearest to him. The hot weather was a blessing as far as they were concerned. Bare shoulders, plunging dampened gowns which would never have been tolerated a few years ago in the capital.

Inskip saw his hungry expression and asked, “Is it true that you have recalled Sir Richard Bolitho? If so, I think we should have been informed.”

Godschale ignored the careful criticism. “Had to. I sent Tybalt for him. He anchored at the Nore two days ago.”

Inskip was unimpressed. “I don’t see how it will help.”

Godschale tore his eyes from a young woman whose breasts would have been bare if her gown were stitched half an inch lower.

He said in a deep whisper, “You’ve heard the news? Napoleon has signed a treaty with Russia and has had the damned audacity to order, if you please, order Sweden and Denmark to close their ports against us and to sever all trade. In addition France has demanded their fleets to be put at their disposal! God damn it, man, that would be close on two hundred ships! Why did nobody see the nearness of this sorry affair? Your people are supposed to have eyes and ears in Denmark!”

Inskip shrugged. “What shall we do next, I wonder?”

Godschale tugged at his neckcloth as if it was choking him. “Do? I’d have thought it was obvious!”

Inskip recalled Bolitho’s bitterness and contempt when Truculent had sighted the three Frenchmen.

He said, “So that is why Bolitho will be here?”

Godschale did not answer directly. “Admiral Gambier is even now assembling a fleet and all the transports we will need to carry an army across to Denmark.”

“Invade? The Danes will never be willing to capitulate. I think we should wait—”

“Do you indeed?” Godschale studied him hotly. “D’you believe Denmark’s sensibilities are more important than England’s survival? For that is what we are talking about, dammit!” He almost snatched a glass from a servant and drained it in two gulps.

The orchestra had struck up a lively gigue but many of the guests seemed unwilling to leave the great terrace, and Godschale guessed why.

At the Admiralty this morning he had told Bolitho of this reception, how it would prove an ideal setting where deeper matters of state might be discussed without arousing attention. Bolitho had replied calmly enough but left no doubt as to his conditions.

He had said, “There will be many ladies there, my lord. You will have not had time to arrange an ‘official’ invitation for me as I am ordered here.”

Godschale spoke aloud without realising it. “He simply stood there and told me he would not come here unless he could bring that woman!”

Inskip let out a deep breath of relief. He had imagined that Bolitho might have brought even worse news with him.

“Are you surprised?” Inskip smiled at Godschale’s discomfort; Godschale, whom he had heard had a mistress or two in London. “I have seen what Lady Somervell has done for Bolitho. I hear it in his voice, in the fire of the man.”

Godschale saw his secretary making signals from beside a tall pillar and exclaimed, “The Prime Minister!”

The Duke of Portland shook their hands and glanced around at the watching eyes. “Handsome levee, Godschale. All this talk of gloom—rubbish, is what I say!”

Inskip thought of Bolitho’s men, the ordinary sailors he had seen and heard cheering and dying in the blaze of battle. They hardly compared with these people, he thought. His men were real.

The Prime Minister beckoned to a severe-looking man dressed in pearl-grey silk.

“Sir Paul Sillitoe.” The man gave a brief smile. “My trusted adviser in this unforeseen crisis.”

Inskip protested, “Hardly unforeseen—”

Godschale interrupted. “I have had the matter under constant surveillance. There is a new squadron in the North Sea with the sole duty of watching out for some move by the French, any show of force towards Scandinavia.”

Sillitoe’s eyes gleamed. “Sir Richard Bolitho, yes? I am all eagerness to meet him.”

The Prime Minister dabbed his mouth. “Not I, sir!”

Sillitoe regarded him impassively; he had hooded eyes, and his features remained expressionless.

“Then I fear your stay in high office will be as short as Lord Grenville’s.” He watched his superior’s fury without emotion. “The French Admiral Villeneuve said after he was captured that at Trafalgar every English captain was a Nelson.” He shrugged. “I am no sailor, but I know how they are forced to live, in conditions no better than a jail, and I am quite certain that they were inspired more by Nelson—enough to perform miracles.” He looked at them almost indifferently. “Bolitho may not be another Nelson, but he is the best we have.” He turned as a ripple of excitement ran through the guests. “Forget that at your peril, my friends.”

Godschale followed his glance and saw Bolitho’s familiar fig-ure, the black hair marked now by grey streaks in the lock above that savage scar. Then, as he turned to offer her his arm, Godschale saw Lady Catherine Somervell beside him. The mourning was gone, and the hair which was piled above her ears shone in the sunshine like glass. Her gown was dark green, but the silk seemed to change colour and depth as she turned and took his arm, a fan hanging loosely from her wrist.

She looked neither right nor left, but as her glance fell on Godschale he swore he could feel the force of her compelling eyes, and a defiance which seemed to silence even the whispers which surrounded her and the tall seaofficer by her side.

Godschale took her proffered hand and bowed over it. “Why, m’lady, indeed a surprise!”

She glanced at the Prime Minister and made a slight curtsy. “Are we to be introduced?”

He began to turn away but Bolitho said quietly, “The Duke of Portland, Catherine.” He gave a small bow. “We are honoured.” His grey eyes were cold, and said the opposite.

Sir Paul Sillitoe stepped forward and introduced himself in the same flat voice. Then he took her hand and held it for several seconds, his gaze locked against hers. “They say you inspire him, m’lady.” He touched her glove with his lips. “But I believe you inspire England, through your love of him.”

She withdrew her hand and watched him, her lips slightly curved, a pulse flickering at her throat in the strong light. But when she had searched his face and found no sarcasm, she answered, “You do me a great kindness, sir.”

Sillitoe seemed able to ignore all those around them, even Bolitho, as he murmured, “The clouds are darkening again, Lady Catherine, and I fear that Sir Richard will be required perhaps more than ever before.”

She said quietly, “Must it always be him?” She felt Bolitho’s warning hand on her arm but gripped it with her own. “I have heard of Collingwood and Duncan.” Her voice shook slightly. “There must be others.”

Godschale was poised to interrupt, his carefully prepared words flying to the wind at her sudden, unexpected insistence. But Sillitoe said, almost gently, “Fine leaders—they have the confidence of the whole fleet.” Then, although he glanced at Bolitho, his voice was still directed to her. “But Sir Richard Bolitho holds their hearts.”

Godschale cleared his throat, uncomfortable at the turn the conversation had taken and especially because of the watching faces around the terrace. Even the orchestra had fallen silent.

He said too heartily, “A sailor’s lot, Lady Catherine—it demands much of us all.”

She looked at him, in time to see his eyes lift quickly from her bosom. “Some more than others, it would appear.”

Godschale beckoned to a footman to cover his embarrassment. “Tell the orchestra to strike up, man!” He gave a fierce grin at the Prime Minister. “Are you ready, Your Grace?”

Portland glared at Sillitoe. “You attend to it. I have no stomach for this kind of diplomacy! I will discuss the situation tomorrow, Godschale. There is much I have to do.”

Again he turned to leave but Bolitho said, “Then I may not see you again before I sail?” He waited for Portland’s attention. “There are some ideas I would like to offer—”

The Prime Minister eyed him suspiciously, as if seeking a double meaning. “Perhaps another time.” He turned to Catherine. “I bid you good evening.”

As Godschale hurried after his departing guest Bolitho said in a savage whisper, “I should never have brought you, Kate! They sicken me with their hypocrisy and over-confidence!” Then he said with concern, “What is wrong—have I done something?”

She smiled and touched his face. “One day you are across the sea, and now you are here.” She saw his anxiety and tried to soothe it. “It is far more important than their false words and posturing. When we drove here today, did you not see the people turn and stare—how they cheered when they saw us together? Always remember, Richard, they trust you. They know you will not abandon them without lifting a hand to help.” She thought of the impassive Sillitoe, a strange creature who could be friend or enemy, but who had spoken like a truthful man. “You hold their hearts, he said.”

There was a small stone-flagged passageway which led out on to a quiet garden, with a solitary fountain in its centre. It was deserted; the music, the dancing and the wine were on the far side of the house.

Bolitho took her arm and guided her around some bushes, then held her closely against him.

“I must speak with them, Kate.” He saw her nod, her eyes very bright. “And then we shall leave.”

“And then?”

He lowered his head and kissed her shoulder until she stiffed in his arms, and he felt her heart beating to match his own.

“To the house on the river. Our refuge.”

She whispered, “I want you. I need you.”

When Sir Paul Sillitoe and Inskip returned to the terrace with Godschale they found Bolitho watching a small barge as it was manoeuvred downriver past the Isle of Dogs.

Godschale said brightly, “You are alone?”

Bolitho smiled. “My lady is walking in the garden … she had no wish to go amongst strangers on her own.”

Sillitoe studied him and said without a trace of humour, “She found it a trifle stuffy, I suspect?”

Godschale turned, irritated, as his wife plucked insistently at his gold-laced coat, and drew him aside.

“What is it?”

“I saw them! Together, just now, in the pine garden. He was fondling her, kissing her naked shoulder!” She stared at him, outraged. “It is all true, what they say, Owen—I was so shocked I could not look!”

Godschale patted her arm to reassure her. She had seen quite a lot for one who would not look, he thought.

“Not for long, my dear!” He beamed at her but could not drag his thoughts from Catherine’s compelling eyes, and the body beneath her dark green gown.

He saw Sillitoe pause to look back for him and said abruptly, “I have to go. Important, vital matters are awaiting my attention.”

She did not hear. “I’ll not have that woman in my house! If she so much as speaks a word to me—”

Godschale gripped her wrist and said harshly, “You will return the smile, or I shall know the reason, my love! You may despise her, but by God’s teeth, she is right for Bolitho—”

She said in a small voice, “Owen, you swore!”

He replied heavily, “Go amongst your friends now. Leave the war to us, eh?”

“If you’re certain, dearest?”

“Society will decide; you cannot flout it as you will. But in time of war—” He turned on his heel and fell in step beside his secretary. “Anything further I should know?”

The secretary was as aware of his good fortune as his master, and wanted it to remain that way. He said softly, “That young woman, the wife of Alderney’s captain.” He saw the memory clear away Godschale’s frown. “She was here again to crave a favour on his behalf.” He paused, counting the seconds. “She is a most attractive lady, my lord.”

Godschale nodded. “Arrange a meeting.” By the time he reached the private study where the others were waiting, he was almost his old self again.

“Now, gentlemen, about this campaign …”

Bolitho opened the glass doors and stepped out on to the small iron balcony, watching the lights glittering along the Thames like fireflies. It was so hot and airless that the curtains barely moved. He could still feel the heat of their love, the endless demands they had made on one another.

Her words at Godschale’s great house still lingered in his mind, and he knew they would keep him company when they were parted again. One day you are across the sea, and now you are here. So simply said, and yet so right. Set against it, even the unavoidable separation seemed less cruel. He thought of the people in their fine clothes, pressing forward to see them, to stare at Catherine as she passed through them. Her composure and grace had made their flushed faces empty and meaningless. He watched a tiny lantern moving across the river and thought of their first visit to VauxhallGardens … they would return when they had more freedom. The house was small but well-proportioned, one in a terrace with a tree-lined square between it and the Thames-side walk.

Tomorrow he would have to leave for the Nore where Tybalt would be waiting. It was merely coincidence that Tybalt should be the frigate ordered to collect him from the squadron, then take him back. She had been the same vessel which had brought him home, still shocked by the loss of his old Hyperion. All else was different, he thought. The rugged Scots captain had gone to a seventy-four, his officers allotted to other ships where their experience, even among the youngest, would be priceless.

Bolitho was glad. Memories could be destructive, when he might need all his resolution.

He thought too of the squadron, which was still out in the North Sea, beating up and down, back and forth, waiting to learn the enemy’s intentions, sifting information as fishermen will search for a good catch.

Whatever lay ahead of them, his experience or intuition must decide how they would all face it. It was like being in the hub of a great wheel. At first he had taught himself to reach out around him from the Black Prince’s poop or quarterdeck, placing names and faces, duties and reactions of the men who control a ship in battle. They would all know him by reputation or hearsay, but he must understand those closest to him in case the worst should happen. The sailing-master, and Cazalet the first lieutenant; the other officers who stood their watches day and night in all conditions; the gun-captains and the Afterguard. Like spokes reaching out and away to every deck and cranny in the ship.

And far beyond, to his individual captains in the line of battle, the others like Adam who roamed beyond the vision of the lookouts to find evidence, clues which their viceadmiral might fit into the pattern, if indeed there was one. One thing was quite evident. If Napoleon did succeed in seizing the fleets of Denmark and Sweden, and some said there were over a hundred and eighty ships between them, the English squadrons, still reeling from the damage and demands made upon them since Trafalgar, would be swamped by numbers alone.

He had asked Godschale about Herrick’s part in the over-all plan. The admiral had tried to shrug it off, but when he had persisted had said, “He will be in command of the escorts for the supply ships. A vital task.”

Vital? An old passed-over commodore like Arthur Warren at Good Hope could have done it.

Godschale had tried to smooth things out. “He is lucky—he still has Benbow and his flag.”

Bolitho had heard himself retort angrily, “Luck? Is that what they call it in Admiralty? He’s been a fighter all his life, a brave and loyal officer.”

Godschale had watched him bleakly, “Highly commendable to hear so. Under the present, um—circumstances—I think it surprising you should speak out in this fashion.”

Damn the man! He gave a bitter smile as he remembered Godschale’s confusion when he had told him that Catherine would accompany him to the levee.

The moon slipped out of a long coamer of cloud and brought the river to life, like the shimmering silk of Catherine’s gown. In the little square he saw the tops of the trees touched with moonlight as if they were crowned with powdered snow.

He gripped the iron rail with both hands and stared at the moon, which appeared to be moving independently, leaving the clouds behind. He did not blink, but continued to stare until he saw the misty paleness begin to form around and beside it. He dropped his gaze, his mouth suddenly dry. It was surely no worse. Or was that another delusion?

He felt the curtains swirl against his legs like frail webs, and knew she was with him.

“What is it, Richard?” Her hand moved between his shoulders, persuasive and strong, easing away his tension if not the anxiety.

He half-turned and slipped his arm beneath the long shawl which she had had made from the lace he had brought from Madeira. She shivered as if from a chill breeze as his hand moved across her nakedness, exploring her again, arousing her when she had believed it impossible after the fierceness of their passion.

He said, “Tomorrow, we are separated.” He faltered, already lost. “There is something I must say.”

She pressed her face to his shoulder and moved so that his hand could complete its exploration.

“At the funeral.” He could feel her looking at him, her breath warm on his neck as she waited for him. “Before the coffin was covered, I saw you toss your handkerchief into the grave …”

She said huskily, “It was the ring. His ring. I wanted no part of it after what happened.”

Bolitho had thought as much, but had been afraid to mention it. Was it that he could still harbour doubts, or had he not believed it possible that she could love him as she did?

He heard himself ask, “Will you face more scandal and wear my ring, if I can find one beautiful enough?”

She caught her breath, surprised at his request, and deeply moved that the man she loved without reservation, and who would be called to battle and possibly death if it was so decided, could still find it so dear and important.

She allowed him to take her inside the windows and stood looking at him while he removed her shawl, her limbs glowing in the light of two bedside candies.

“I will.” She gasped as he touched her. “For we are one, if only in each other’s eyes.” It had always been rare for her to shed tears, but Bolitho saw the wetness beneath her closed lashes as she whispered, “We will part tomorrow, but I am strong. Now take me as you will. For you, I am not strong.” She threw back her head and cried as he seized her, “I am your slave!”

When dawn broke over London, Bolitho opened his eyes and looked at her head on his shoulder, her hair in disorder and strewn across the pillow beside him. There were red marks on her skin although he could not remember how they had been caused, and her face, when he combed some hair from it with his fingers, was that of a young girl, with no hint of the unspoken anxieties they must always share.

Somewhere a clock chimed, and he heard the grind of iron-shod wheels in the street.

Parting.