Chapter 18 - GHOSTS

Chapter 19 - WE HAPPY FEW

Is that a sail on the horizon?

Douglas Reeman Modern Naval Library

Selected Historical Fiction Published by McBooks Press

BY ALEXANDER KENT

The Complete

Midshipman Bolitho

Stand Into Danger

In Gallant Company

Sloop of War

To Glory We Steer

Command a King’s Ship

Passage to Mutiny

With All Despatch

Form Line of Battle!

Enemy in Sight!

The Flag Captain

Signal-Close Action!

The Inshore Squadron

A Tradition of Victory

Success to the Brave

Colours Aloft!

Honour This Day

The Only Victor

Beyond the Reef

The Darkening Sea

For My Country’s Freedom

Cross of St George

Sword of Honour

Second to None

Relentless Pursuit

Man of War

Heart of Oak

BY PHILIP MCCUTCHAN

Halfhyde at the Bight

of Benin

Halfhyde’s Island

Halfhyde and the

Guns of Arrest

Halfhyde to the Narrows

Halfhyde for the Queen

Halfhyde Ordered South

Halfhyde on Zanatu

BY R.F. DELDERFIELD

Too Few for Drums

Seven Men of Gascony

BY JAMES L. NELSON

The Only Life That

Mattered

BY DEWEY LAMBDIN

The French Admiral

The Gun Ketch

Jester’s Fortune

What Lies Buried

BY JULIAN STOCKWIN

Mutiny

Quarterdeck

Tenacious

Command

BY JAN NEEDLE

A Fine Boy for Killing

The Wicked Trade

The Spithead Nymph

BY DUDLEY POPE

Ramage

Ramage & The Drumbeat

Ramage & The Freebooters

Governor Ramage R.N.

Ramage’s Prize

Ramage & The Guillotine

Ramage’s Diamond

Ramage’s Mutiny

Ramage & The Rebels

The Ramage Touch

Ramage’s Signal

Ramage & The Renegades

Ramage’s Devil

Ramage’s Trial

Ramage’s Challenge

Ramage at Trafalgar

Ramage & The Saracens

Ramage & The Dido

BY FREDERICK MARRYAT

Frank MildmayOR

The Naval Officer

Mr Midshipman Easy

Newton ForsterOR

The Merchant Service

SnarleyyowOR

The Dog Fiend

The Privateersman

BY V.A. STUART

Victors and Lords

The Sepoy Mutiny

Massacre at Cawnpore

The Cannons of Lucknow

The Heroic Garrison

The Valiant Sailors

The Brave Captains

Hazard’s Command

Hazard of Huntress

Hazard in Circassia

Victory at Sebastopol

Guns to the Far East

Escape from Hell

BY JAMES DUFFY

Sand of the Arena

BY JOHN BIGGINS

A Sailor of Austria

The Emperor’s Coloured Coat

The Two-Headed Eagle

BY ALEXANDER FULLERTON

Storm Force to Narvik

Last Lift from Crete

All the Drowning Seas

A Share of Honour

The Torch Bearers

The Gatecrashers

BY C.N. PARKINSON

The Guernseyman

Devil to Pay

The Fireship

Touch and Go

So Near So Far

Dead Reckoning

The Life and Times of

Horatio Hornblower

BY NICHOLAS NICASTRO

The Eighteenth Captain

Between Two Fires

BY DOUGLAS REEMAN

Badge of Glory

First to Land

The Horizon

Dust on the Sea

Knife Edge

Twelve Seconds to Live

Battlecruiser

The White Guns

A Prayer for the Ship

For Valour

BY DAVID DONACHIE

The Devil’s Own Luck

The Dying Trade

A Hanging Matter

An Element of Chance

The Scent of Betrayal

A Game of Bones

On a Making Tide

Tested by Fate

Breaking the Line

BY BROOS CAMPBELL

No Quarter

The War of Knives

Published by McBooks Press 2000

Copyright (c) 1992 by Highseas Authors Ltd.

First published in the United Kingdom by William Heinemann Ltd. 1992

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any

portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such

permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, ID Booth Building,

520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.

Cover painting by Geoffrey Huband.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kent, Alexander.

Beyond the reef by Alexander Kent.p>

p. cm.—(Richard Bolitho novels ; 19)

ISBN 0-935526-82-X (alk. paper)

eISBN : 97-8-093-55268-2

1. Bolitho, Richard (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History, Naval—19th century—Fiction. 3. Napoleonic Wars, 1800-1815—Fiction I. Title PR6061.E63 B49 2000 823’.914—dc21 00-058621

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Printed in the United States of America

For Kim, my Tahiti girl—

with love

1

BAND OF BROTHERS

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 94 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 gun-decks.

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 seagoing epaulettes was soaked through to his skin.

Without looking, he knew that the men on watch near the deserted double-wheel were very aware of his presence. A quartermaster, a boatswain’s mate and a small midshipman who occasionally raised a telescope to peer at the 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 RearAdmiral 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 despatching 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 first 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 second 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.

A dear friend, and one of the few who knew the extent of the injury to Bolitho’s left eye. To be entrusted with such a secret was a reward greater than anything he had believed possible.

He asked carefully, “What will Captain Keen’s answer be, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho put down his empty goblet and thought of Catherine, imagined he could still feel the warmth of her body in his arms as they had parted this morning. She would be well on her way to London now, to the house she had bought by the river in Chelsea. Their private place as she had called it, where they could be alone together when they were required to be in the capital.

It was strange to be without Allday, but his coxswain—his “oak”—had gone with Yovell, his secretary, and Ozzard his little servant, in the same coach. Catherine was fearless, but Bolitho felt safer on her behalf knowing that she travelled with such a staunch escort.

He thought too of his last interview with Lord Godschale at the Admiralty, and Godschale’s attempts to soothe him whenever he touched on a point which might provoke controversy.

“Their lordships insist that you are the best choice of flag officer to go to Cape Town. You had, after all, a vital part in taking it from the Dutch—our people know you and trust you accordingly. It should not take long, but it needs your handling to establish regular patrols of smaller craft in the area, and perhaps to send more of the major men-of-war back to England. When you have installed a post-captain in overall charge there—acting-commodore if you like—you can return too. I will offer you a fast frigate, and do everything possible for you.” He had given the great sigh of one overburdened with responsibility. “Even while Admiral Gambier and your own squadron were in Copenhagen preparing the prizes for their passage here, Napoleon was already busy elsewhere. God damn the fellow—twice he has attempted to seize the Danish fleet, and he has even provoked Turkey to turn against his old ally the Tsar of Russia. As fast as we seal one door, he explores another.”

It was difficult not to admire Napoleon’s ever-changing strategy, Bolitho had often conceded. Shortly after Herrick’s hopeless fight to save his convoy, the French army had invaded Portugal, and by November was in Lisbon, with the royal family in flight to their possessions in Brazil. It was rumoured in Whitehall that Spain, another ally if an unwilling one, would be Napoleon’s next target. He would then become a ruler of overwhelming strength, a threat once again with all the riches of Spain to support him.

Bolitho had said, “I think that this time he may have overreached himself. He has turned Portugal into an enemy, and will surely incite Spain to rise against him. It will be our one chance. A place to land an army where it will find friendship, and be treated as a liberation force.”

Godschale had looked distant. “Perhaps, perhaps.”

Another secret. Jenour knew; so did Yovell and Allday. Bolitho had refused to take passage in a frigate and had seen Godschale’s heavy features go almost purple as he had exclaimed, “Do you mean to say that you are going to take Lady Catherine Somervell with you on passage to Cape Town?”

Bolitho had been adamant. “A ship of war is no place for a lady, my lord. Although I am sure Lady Catherine would accept without hesitation.”

Godschale had mopped his face. “I will arrange it. A fast packet under Admiralty warrant. You are a damned difficult fellow to deal with, Sir Richard. What people will say when they discover—”

“We shall simply have to ensure they do not, my lord.”

When he had told Catherine she had been surprisingly excited about it.

“To be there with you, dearest of men, instead of reading of your exploits in the Gazette, to be part of it all … I ask for nothing more.”

The door opened and the servant peered in at them. “I beg your pardon, Sir Richard, but it is reported that your barge has just left Black Prince.”

Bolitho nodded and remarked to Jenour, “I’ll wager Captain Keen will be surprised to find that I am not staying aboard.”

Jenour followed him from the snug shelter of the senior officers’ waiting room.

He knew that Keen cared for Bolitho as much as he did himself. Would he leave Black Prince in exchange for some obscure position in Cape Town as captain in command of all local patrols? It would mean a broad-pendant, and the real possibility of promotion to rearadmiral after that, if everything went well. But it would also mean leaving his bride behind so soon after their marriage, as well as severing his close links with the man who was even now standing at the top of the dripping stairs, peering across the tossing array of whitecaps.

I am fortunate that the choice is not mine. Not yet, in any case …

Bolitho pulled his boat-cloak around his body and watched the green-painted barge pulling lustily across the choppy water, the oars rising and falling as one, the bargemen very smart in their checkered shirts and tarred hats. Keen’s coxswain would be in charge today, and Bolitho was suddenly uneasy, knowing that Allday would not be there.

He thought of Catherine’s happiness at the prospect of their journey, when before, when he had told her about Cape Town, there had been only anger and despair. “Is there nobody else they can send, Richard? Must it always be you?”

When Godschale’s acceptance of his request that she accompany him had been delivered to Falmouth, she had thrown her arms about him like a child. Together. The word which had become a symbol to both of them.

Ever since Keen’s wedding they seemed to have spent days on the terrible winter roads: London, Falmouth and London again.

He thought of their last night at a small secluded inn Allday had recommended; as, seated in the waiting room before Jenour had arrived, he had stared into the fire, remembering it. The need of one for the other, until they had lain by the fire in the inn’s private room, unwilling to waste the night in sleep.

The bargemen tossed their oars and sat stiffly facing aft while the bows were made fast to the stairs. The first lieutenant stepped lightly on to the wet stairs and raised his hat, his eyes everywhere, puzzled as he realised there was no chest or luggage to be stowed aboard.

“Good day, Mr Sedgemore.” Bolitho gave a brief smile. “As you see, mine is a short visit this time.”

He and Jenour settled themselves in the sternsheets and the barge cast off, shipping water over the stem as they quit the shelter of the wall.

“Repairs going well, Mr Sedgemore?”

The lieutenant swallowed hard. He was unused to casual conversation with a vice-admiral.

“Aye, Sir Richard. It will be a month or so yet, I’m told.”

Bolitho watched the passing dockyard boats, and a yawl towing a new mast for some ship undergoing refit. If Napoleon did invade Spain, the naval blockade would have to be tighter than ever until they could put an army ashore to meet the French in open battle. He thought sadly of Herrick. Even his poor, battered Benbow might be sent back into the fray.

He heard the distant crack of a musket, and saw figures running on to Black Prince’s forecastle; he guessed that a marine had just fired on a would-be deserter.

Sedgemore said between his teeth, “I think they got him.”

Bolitho looked at him calmly. “Would it not be more useful to put your pickets on the foreshore and catch them if they swim there? A corpse is little use for anything, I’d have thought.” It was mildly said, but Jenour saw the first lieutenant wince as if he had been hit in the face.

The next few moments put all else from his mind. The climb up the slippery side, the trill of calls and the stamp and crash of the Royal Marines’ guard of honour. Then Keen, his handsome features full of welcome as he stepped forward to greet him.

They shook hands, and Keen guided him aft to the great cabin.

“Well, Val?” Bolitho sat down and looked at his friend. “You will not be hampered by me again just yet.”

He watched Keen pouring claret, noting the lines around his mouth. Strain of command. The many, many difficulties of completing a refit and putting right the wounds of battle. Making up a depleted company, storing, taking on powder and shot, preparing new watch-bills to eke out the experienced hands among the volunteers and pressed men. Bolitho had known all these challenges even in his first command, a small sloop-of-war.

“It is good to see you.” Keen offered him a goblet. “Your visit sounds something of a mystery.” He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

“And how is Zenoria? Missing you, no doubt?”

Keen turned away and fumbled with his keys. “There was a despatch delivered on board this morning, sir. It came by post-horse from the Admiralty.” He opened a drawer and took it out. “I forgot, in the excitement of your arrival.”

Bolitho took it and glanced at the seal. Something was wrong. Catherine had hinted as much.

He said, “I am ordered to Cape Town, Val, to ensure there is no further complacency. We need more local patrols than ever now that the anti-slavery bill has been passed in Parliament. Slavers, pirates, privateers—they will all need seeking out.”

Keen stared at him as if he had not heard properly.

Bolitho added quietly, “They require an experienced post-captain to command there. He will have the broad-pendant of commodore for his pains. I will return to Black Prince eventually, but if you accept this appointment, you will not.”

“I, sir?” Keen put down his goblet without seeing it. “Quit Black Prince?” He looked up, his eyes full of dismay. “And leave you, sir?”

Bolitho smiled. “This war is coming to a crisis, Val. We must put an army into Europe. We shall need our best leaders when that time comes. You are an obvious choice—you’ve earned it ten times over, and the fleet will need flag officers like you now that Our Nel is dead.”

He recalled the general he had met just before they had managed to retake Cape Town. Despite all the triumphs at sea, they will be as nought until the English foot-soldier plants his boots on the enemy’s own shores.

Keen walked to the spray-streaked stern windows and stared down at the distorted waves beneath the counter.

“When might this be, sir?” He sounded dazed by the sudden turn of events. Trapped.

“Soon. Black Prince, I am assured, will be in dockyard hands for some while yet.”

Keen turned. “Advise me, sir.”

Bolitho took a knife and slit open the thick envelope. “I know what it means to be parted from a lover. But it is the lot of every sea officer. It is also his duty to seize any opportunity for advancement, to which he is truly suited, and from which his country may benefit.”

Keen looked away. “I would like to accept, sir.” He did not even hesitate.

Bolitho read quickly through the neat lettering and said gravely, “You have a further duty while you hold command here, Val.” He tossed the letter on to the table. “There has been a court of enquiry at the Governor’s house here in Portsmouth. Their lordships have decided that RearAdmiral Herrick must stand trial at a court martial on the prescribed date.”

Keen picked up the letter. “Misconduct and neglect of duty …” He did not continue. “My God, sir.”

“Read on. The court martial will be held here in Black Prince, your command and my flagship.”

Keen nodded, understanding at last. “Then I am eager for the Cape, sir.” He finished with sudden bitterness, “I will not be needed here.”

Bolitho took his hat from the cabin servant. Then he said, “When you are ready, Val, please tell me … tell us. It is what true friends are for.”

Keen seemed to search his face for something.

“That I shall never forget.”

“I am depending on it.” He hesitated, hearing the marine guard stamping into line at the entry port. “Your pain is mine, as mine has too often been yours.”

Ebenezer Julyan, the sailing-master, was loitering by the wheel, and Bolitho guessed he had been waiting purposely to see him. As though it were yesterday, he recalled Julyan’s grin of pleasure as they had sailed to meet the towering San Mateo, when Bolitho had given him his own gold-laced hat to wear to make the enemy believe that Black Prince was a Danish prize.

He called, “Did you give that hat to your boy, Mr Julyan?”

The man laughed. “I did that, sir. It made a rare stir in th’ village! It be good to see ‘ee again, Sir Richard!”

Bolitho looked round at other familiar faces, who had also faced death that day. He thought too of Keen’s bitter comments; then he touched the silver locket through his shirt, the one she had fastened around his neck this morning as she always did when they were to be parted, even for a few hours.

May Fate always guide you. May Love always protect you.

With Keen so downcast, it seemed wrong to think of all the happiness she had given him.

Catherine, Lady Somervell, walked to the window with its small iron balcony and looked out across the swirling Thames. The city had been wide awake by the time her mud-spattered carriage had clattered to a halt outside this small, elegant house in Chelsea, the streets full of traders and carters from the various markets hawking meat, fish, vegetables, all a reminder of the London she had known as a very young girl; the London she had shown in part to Bolitho.

It had been a long hard journey on that appalling road, past leafless trees stark against a cold moon, and splashing through a downpour an hour later. They had stopped every so often to eat and drink, but not until Bolitho’s portly Devonian secretary Yovell had inspected each inn to make certain it was suitable for her to enter. Several times he had climbed back into the carriage, grimly shaking his head to signal Matthew to drive on.

They had looked after her wonderfully, she thought. They had refilled her copper foot-warmer with boiling water at each stop, and ensured that she had been well wrapped in rugs as well as her long velvet cloak, and independent though she was, she had been glad of their company.

The house felt strange after Falmouth, damp and unfamiliar, and she was thankful for the fires blazing in most of the rooms. She thought of the grey Bolitho house below Pendennis Castle, and was still strangely surprised that she could miss it so much when she was away from it. She heard Allday laugh in the kitchen, and somebody, probably the faithful, silent little Ozzard, putting logs on one of the fires.

Once during the journey on a comparatively smooth stretch of road, when Yovell had fallen asleep and Ozzard had been outside on the coachman’s box, she had engaged Allday in conversation, listening intently as he had answered her questions and spoken of his early days with the man she loved. The ships and the battles, although she knew he had skirted around the latter. He never tried to shock or impress her, and he seemed to feel free enough to speak with her on equal terms, almost as a friend.

When she had asked him about Herrick, he had been more wary.

“I first knew him as one of the Cap’n lieutenants in the old Phalarope—back in eighty-two, it was.” He had given his lazy grin. “Course, I didn’t exactly volunteer, so to speak.” It seemed to amuse him. “When the Cap’n finally left Phalarope he took us with him, me an’ Bryan Ferguson. Then I became his cox’n.” He had shaken his head like a big shaggy dog. “Lot of water since them days.”

Then he had looked at her very directly. “RearAdmiral Herrick is a stubborn man, begging your pardon, m’lady. An honest gentleman, an’ that’s rare enough these days, but …”

Catherine had watched his uncertainty. “Sir Richard is deeply concerned about him. His oldest friend, would you say?”

It had given Allday the time he needed. “Next to me, m’lady! But folk don’t change, no matter what their circumstances. Sir Richard never has. A flag officer he may be, a hero to most people he certainly is, but he’s no different to the young cap’n I saw in tears at the death of a friend.”

“You must tell me that too, Allday. There are so many gaps I want … I need to fill.”

The carriage had lurched into a deep rut and Yovell had awakened with a startled grunt.

“Where are we?”

But Allday had looked at her in that same level way, as he had at English Harbour when her husband had been alive, and Bolitho had become her lover again after their stupid separation.

“I’ll tell you, m’lady, don’t you fret. This passage we’re makin’ to the Cape will show you the man we sees, not the one who comes home from the ocean. The King’s officer.”

She heard herself laugh. “I do believe you are filling in your own gaps about me, Allday!”

Now for a few more moments she was alone in the room where they had loved so demandingly, as if they were trying to make up for the lost years.

She thought of Valentine Keen, his troubled face when he had spoken to her of his hopes and fears for his marriage to Zenoria. Another mystery: so close a band of brothers—poor Oliver Browne’s “happy few”—and yet there was a coldness between Herrick and Keen. Because of Bolitho, or because of Zenoria?

She had never mentioned to Richard what she had seen in Adam’s face at Keen’s wedding. She might after all have been mistaken. In the same heartbeat, she knew she was not; she was too experienced not to recognise that Adam, Richard’s nephew and the nearest to a son he would ever know, was in love with Keen’s Zenoria.

But Adam was a captain now, albeit a very young one, and his first frigate, the Anemone, was somewhere at sea with the Channel Fleet. It was just as well, at least until things settled down again.

She tossed away her cloak and gazed at herself critically in a tall mirror. A woman envied, admired and hated. She cared for none of it.

She saw only the woman who was loved by England’s hero. The man. She smiled, remembering Allday’s sage-like confidences. Not the King’s officer.

She was waiting for Bolitho when he reached the house in the late evening, although she had had no forewarning of the time of his arrival. He strode through the doors and gave his hat and cloak to the new maidservant, before taking Catherine in his arms.

They kissed, and he studied her for several seconds.

“Thomas Herrick is to be court-martialled.”

She put her arms around his neck. “My news is not good either.”

He held her away, searching her face anxiously. “You’re not ill, Kate? What has happened?”

She said, “There was a woman here today.”

“Who?”

“She left a card.” Her voice was husky, almost despairing. “It was ‘expected’ that you might be here, she said.” She looked at him directly. “Your daughter is unwell. The person sent as messenger would tell me nothing further.”

Bolitho stared at her, expecting bitterness or resentment. There was neither. It was more an acceptance of something which had always been there, and always would.

Catherine said, “You will have to go, Richard. No matter what you feel for your wife, or for what she connived at with my late husband. It is not in your nature or mine to run away.” She touched the cheek near his damaged eye, her voice a whisper so soft that he could barely hear it.

“Some may call me the vice-admiral’s whore, but such fools are to be pitied rather than scorned. When you look at me as you are doing now I can barely let you go. And every time you enter me it is as the first time, and I am reborn.” She lifted her chin and he saw the pulse beating in her throat. “But stand between us, my darling Richard? Only death will ever do that.”

She turned away and called to Allday, whom she had sensed to be waiting in the hall. “Stay with him—you are his right arm. Under these circumstances I cannot go. It would only harm him.”

The carriage had returned to the door. Bolitho said, “Wait for me, Kate.” He looked strained but alert, his black hair still dishevelled from travel, with the single loose lock above his right eye almost white where it hid the terrible scar on his forehead. A youthful, sensitive face; he might still have been the captain Allday remembered and described so vividly, in tears for a fallen friend. Then she moved against him and touched the old family sword, seen in all those portraits in Falmouth.

“If I had a wish in the world it would be to give you a son to wear this one day. But I cannot.”

He held her closely, knowing that if her reserve broke he could not leave her, now or ever.

“You once said of me, Kate, that I needed love ‘as the desert needs the rain.’ Nothing has changed. It’s you I want. The rest is history.”

As the door closed she faced the stairway. Yovell was standing there, anxiously polishing his small gold-rimmed spectacles.

She said aloud, as if Yovell were not even there, “If she tries to hurt him again, I will surely kill her.”

Yovell watched her pass. Distress and anger could not diminish the beauty which turned so many heads. He thought of all the immediate obstacles. Herrick’s court martial, the rumours he had gleaned about Captain Keen’s marriage, and now this.

Perhaps it was as well they were all sailing for the Cape.

2

STRANGERS

EVEN THOUGH it was dark, the quiet and exclusive square was exactly as Bolitho had remembered. Tall, elegant houses, most of which seemed to have every window ablaze: light even reflected from the wet, bare trees where, within weeks, nursemaids would be wheeling their charges and loitering to gossip about their households.

The carriage pulled up on its brake and Bolitho saw Allday’s features quite clearly as he leaned over in the glare of one of its lamps. Bolitho climbed down and stamped his feet to restore the circulation, giving himself time to compose his thoughts.

There was a mews at the end of the nearest houses where a brazier glowed in the damp air, almost hidden by the various grooms and coachmen who would wait, all night if required, for their lords and ladies to call for them from lavish supper parties or from the gambling rooms across the square. It was the other London, which Bolitho had grown to hate. Arrogant, thoughtless. Without pity. As different from Catherine’s London as these mindless fops were from Bolitho’s sailors.

“Wait nearby, Matthew.” He glanced at Allday’s massive shadow. “Stay with me, old friend.”

Allday did not question him.

The door swung inwards even before the echo of the bell had died. A footman stood outlined against the chandeliers, his features invisible in shadow, like a wooden cut-out in some fashionable shop.

“Sir?”

Allday said harshly, “Sir Richard Bolitho, matey!”

The footman bowed himself into the splendid hallway, which Bolitho noticed had been completely redecorated with new claret-coloured curtains instead of the others he had seen on his last visit. Those had also been new at the time.

He heard the murmur of voices and laughter from the dining-room upstairs—hardly what he had been expecting.

“If you will wait here, Sir Richard?” The footman had recovered his confidence a little. “I will announce your arrival.”

He opened a door and Bolitho remembered this room too, despite more expensive alterations. Here he had confronted Belinda about her connivance with Viscount Somervell, Catherine’s dead husband, how they had planned to hold her under false charges in the notorious Waites prison until she could be deported, disposed of. He would never forget Catherine in that filthy jail, filled with debtors and lunatics. Catherine could never be caged; she would have died first. No, he would not forget.

“Why, Sir Richard!”

Bolitho saw a woman standing in the open doorway and somehow knew she was the “messenger,” Lady Lucinda Manners, presumably one of Belinda’s close friends, who had left the brief note at Catherine’s Chelsea house. Piled fair hair, a gown cut or pulled so low it barely covered her breasts … She was watching him, an amused smile on her lips.

“Lady Manners?” Bolitho gave a curt bow. “I received your letter on my arrival in London. Perhaps—”

“Perhaps, Sir Richard, I will suffice as your companion until Lady Bolitho is free to leave her guests?” She saw Allday behind the door for the first time. “I thought you would be alone.”

Bolitho remained impassive. I can well imagine. The delicious predator: another attempt at compromise.

“This is Mr Allday. My companion. My friend.”

There was a tall-backed porter’s chair in the hallway and Allday sat down in it very carefully. “I’ll be in range whenever you gives the word, Sir Richard.” One of the chandeliers shone briefly on the brass butt-plate of the heavy pistol concealed under his coat.

Lady Manners had seen it also, and she said a little too brightly, “You have nothing to fear in this house, Sir Richard!”

He looked at her calmly. “I am glad to know it, ma’am. Now, if you would hasten this interview I would be equally grateful.”

The murmur of voices overhead stopped, as if the house itself were listening, and Bolitho heard the hiss of her gown against the banisters as she descended the beautiful staircase.

She stood two steps from the bottom and regarded him in slow examination, as if looking for something she had missed.

“So you came, Richard.” She offered her hand, but he remained where he was.

“Let us not pretend. I came because of the child. A matter of—”

“Duty, were you about to say? Certainly not out of affection.”

Bolitho glanced meaningly at the opulent surroundings. “It seems that my protection is rather more than adequate, let alone deserved.”

The chair squeaked and she exclaimed, “I would prefer not to discuss this in front of servants, yours or mine!”

“We speak a different language.” Bolitho found he could look at her without hatred, without any of the feelings he had expected. To think she had even chided him that he had married her for the worst possible reason, because she had looked so much like his first wife, Cheney.

“Allday has shared all the dangers and furies of this damned war—he is one of the men your so-called friends would spurn, even though he daily risks his life to keep you in comfort.” He added with sudden anger, “What about Elizabeth?”

She seemed about to return to the attack, then gave it up.

“Follow me.”

Allday leaned forward to watch until they had disappeared on the curving staircase. He would not worry too much, he decided. Bolitho had a great deal on his mind, but he had shown his steel to her ladyship and the other bitch with the bare shoulders and the glance that would sit fair on a Plymouth trollop.

He reflected on the passage to Cape Town. It would be like no other, he thought. With Lady Catherine, Captain Keen and young Jenour in company, it would be more like a yacht than a voyage on the King’s business. Allday considered Lady Catherine. How different from the sluts he had seen in this house. Tall, beautiful; a real sailor’s woman, who could turn a man’s heart into water or fire just by looking at him. She even cared about the Bolitho estate in Falmouth and had according to Ferguson, the steward and Allday’s good friend, done wonders already with her suggestions and advice on how to make it pay again, to restore the losses incurred when Bolitho’s father Captain James had been forced to sell much of the land to settle his other son’s gambling debts.

Now they were all gone, he thought grimly. Apart from young Adam, to whom Bolitho had given the family name: there would be no more of them. It made him uneasy to imagine the old grey house empty, with none of its sons to come home from the sea.

It was something he shared with Bolitho, and a preoccupation he worried about in private. That one day the enemy’s steel or a blast from the cannon’s jaws would separate them. Like the master and his faithful dog, each fearful that the other would be left alone.

Upstairs conversation was returning to the dining-room. Bolitho barely noticed as they stopped outside an ornate gilded door.

Belinda faced him coldly. “As Elizabeth’s father, I thought you should know. Had you been at sea I might have acted differently. But I knew you would be with … her.”

“You were right.” He returned the cold, steady stare. “Had my lady caught the fever from poor Dulcie Herrick I think I would have ended my life.” He saw the shot go home. “But not before I had done for you!”

He thrust open the door and a woman in a plain black gown, whom he guessed was the governess, scrambled to her feet.

Bolitho nodded to her, then looked at the child who lay fully dressed on the bed, partly covered by a shawl.

The governess said quietly, “She is sleeping now.” But her eyes were on Belinda, not him.

Elizabeth was six years old, or would be in three months’ time. She had been born when Bolitho had been in San Felipe with his little 64-gun flagship, Achates. Keen had been his flag captain in Achates, too, and in that battle Allday had received the terrible sword-thrust in the chest which had almost killed him. Allday rarely complained about it, but it sometimes left him breathless, frozen motionless with its recurring agony.

Belinda said, “She had a fall.”

The child seemed to stir at her voice and Bolitho was reminded of the last time he had seen her. Not a child at all: a miniature person, all frills and silks like the lady she would one day become.

He had often compared it with his own childhood. Games amongst the upended fishing boats at Falmouth, with his brother Hugh and his sisters and the local children. A proper life, without the restrictions of a governess or the remote figure of her mother, who apparently only saw her once a day.

He asked sharply, “What kind of fall?”

Belinda shrugged. “From her pony. Her tutor was watching her closely, but I’m afraid she was showing off. She twisted her back.”

Bolitho realised that the child’s eyes were suddenly wide open, staring at him.

As he leaned over to touch her hand she tried to turn away from him, reaching for the governess.

Belinda said quietly, “To you, she is a stranger.”

Bolitho said, “We are all strangers here.” He had seen the pain on the child’s face. “Have you called a doctor—a good one, I mean?”

“Yes.” It sounded like of course.

“How soon after it happened?” He sensed that the governess was staring from one to the other, like an inexperienced second at a duel.

“I was away at the time. I cannot be expected to do everything.”

“I see.”

“How can you?” She did not conceal the anger and contempt in her voice. “You care nothing for the scandal you have caused with that woman—how could you hope to understand?”

“I will arrange a visit from a well-appointed surgeon.” Belinda’s tone left him quite cold. This was the woman who had left Dulcie Herrick to die after pretending friendship to her, who had used Herrick’s revulsion at Catherine’s liaison with her husband, and who had discredited Catherine and eventually deserted her in that same fever-ridden house. He tried not to think of his old friend Herrick. He, too, would die or live in dishonour if the court martial went against him.

He said, “Just once, think of somebody else before yourself.”

He moved to the open door and realised he had not once called her by her first name.

He was in time to see somebody peering curiously out of the dining-room.

“I think your friends are waiting for you.”

She followed him to the head of the stairs. “One day your famous luck will run out, Richard! I would I could be there to see it!”

Bolitho reached the hallway as Allday lurched up from his porter’s chair.

“Let us go back to Chelsea, Allday. I will send a letter in Matthew’s care to Sir Piers Blachford at the College of Surgeons. I think that would be best.” He paused by the carriage and glanced at the street brazier, the dark figures still hunched around it. “Even the air seems cleaner out here.”

Allday climbed in with him, and said nothing. More squalls ahead. He had seen all the signs.

He had seen the look Belinda had given him on the stairs. She would do anything to get Bolitho back. She would be just as glad to see him dead. He smiled inwardly. She’d have to spike me first, an’ that’s no error!

Admiral the Lord Godschale poured two goblets of brandy and watched Bolitho, who was standing by one of the windows staring down at the street. It irritated the admiral increasingly that he should always feel envy for this man who never seemed to grow any older. Apart from the loose lock over the deep scar on his forehead which had become suddenly almost white, Bolitho’s hair was as dark as ever, his body straight and lean, unlike Godschale’s own. It was strange, for they had served as young frigate captains together in the American war: they had even been posted on the same date. Now Godschale’s once-handsome features had grown heavy like his body, his cheeks florid with the tell-tale patterns of good living. Here at the Admiralty, in his spacious suite of offices, his power reached out to every ship great and small, on every station in His Britannic Majesty’s navy. He gave a wry smile. It was doubtful if the King knew the names of any of them, although Godschale himself would be the very last to say so.

“You look tired, Sir Richard.” He saw Bolitho dragging his mind back into the room.

“A little.” He took the proffered glass after the admiral had warmed it over the crackling fire. It was well before noon, but he felt he needed it.

“I heard you were out late last night. I had hoped …”

Bolitho’s grey eyes flashed. “May I ask who told you I was at my wife’s house?”

Godschale frowned. “When I heard of it I cherished the thought that you might be returning to her.” He felt his confidence ebbing under Bolitho’s angry stare. “But no matter. It was your sister, Mrs Vincent. She wrote to me recently about her son Miles. You dismissed him from your patronage, I believe, while he was a midshipman in Black Prince … a bit hard on the lad, surely? Especially as he had just lost his father.”

Bolitho swallowed the brandy and waited for it to calm him.

“It was a kindness as a matter of fact, my lord.” He saw Godschale’s eyebrows rise doubtfully and added, “He was totally unsuited. Had I not done so I would have ordered my flag captain to court-martial him for cowardice in the face of the enemy. For one who enjoys spreading scandal, my sister appears to have overlooked the true reason!”

“Well!” Godschale was at a rare loss for words. Envy. The word lingered in his mind. He considered it again. He was all-powerful, wealthy, and beyond the risk of losing life or limb like the captains he controlled. He had a dull wife, but was able to find comfort in the arms of others. He thought of the lovely Lady Somervell. God, no wonder I am still envious of this impossible man.

Godschale pressed on grimly. “But you were there?”

Bolitho shrugged. “My daughter is unwell.” Why am I telling him? He is not interested.

Like the mention of the midshipman. It was merely another probe. He knew Godschale well enough by reputation, both past and present, to understand he would hang or flog anyone who put his own comfort in jeopardy, just as he had never shown the slightest concern for the men who month after month rode out storm and calm alike, with the real possibility of an agonising death at the end of it.

“I am sorry to know it. What can be done about it?”

“Lady Catherine is with a surgeon at this moment. She knows him quite well.” He felt his injured eye prick suddenly as if to reveal the lie, the real reason she had gone to consult the heron-like Blachford.

Godschale nodded, wondering why Bolitho’s wife was allowing such interference.

Bolitho could read his thoughts as though he had shouted them aloud; he recalled Catherine’s voice, while she had lain at his side in the darkness. They had talked for much of the night, and as usual she had seen everything more clearly than be.

“You care so much, Richard, because you still feel responsible. But you are not. She made the child what she is. I’ve seen it happen all too often. I shall visit Sir Piers Blachford—he is one of the few I would trust. I am sure he will be able to help Elizabeth, or find someone who can. But I will not see you destroy yourself by going to that house again. I know what she is still trying to do … as if she has not already taken enough from you.”

Bolitho said, “In any case, I am quite certain you did not bring me here merely to discuss my domestic situation, my lord?”

Strangely, Godschale seemed content to leave it at that. Until the next time.

“No, quite right. Quite right. I have completed all the arrangements for your visit to the Cape. My aide will give you the full details.” He cleared his throat noisily. “But first, there is the court martial. The date is set for the end of next week. I have sent word to your flag captain at Portsmouth.” He looked at him challengingly. “I did not choose Black Prince for the court martial out of spite. You will be more private in her. Dockyard work can be held up during this beastly affair.”

Bolitho asked quietly, “Who is the President to be?”

Godschale shuffled some papers on his ornate table as if he could not remember.

He cleared his throat again and answered, “Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker.”

Bolitho felt the room spin. In seconds he had seen the man. Dour, uncompromising features, a thin mouth: a man more feared than respected.

“I shall be there to give evidence, my lord.”

“Only if you are asked—as a witness after the fact, so to speak.”

Bolitho turned from the window as a troop of dragoons clattered past.

“Then he is already condemned.” Then he said sharply, surprised that he could still plead, “I must do something, my lord. He is my friend.”

“Is he?” Godschale refilled the fine goblets. “That brings me to the other matter … The court was prepared to allow you to defend him. It was my idea, in fact. The whole affair can do nothing but harm to the fleet—to all senior officers who are far from support, and who have only their own judgement to sustain them. With our army poised on the threshold of Europe every officer from admiral to captain will need all the confidence in the world if this great venture is to succeed. If we fail, there can be no second chance.”

He had voiced the very opposite view at their last meeting, Bolitho thought, but it no longer mattered.

“Do you mean that RearAdmiral Herrick rejected me as his defence?” He recalled Herrick’s face the last time they had met, the blue eyes stubborn, hurt, bitter. “Whom did he choose?”

Godschale glanced at the clock. It would be better if Bolitho was gone before his sister arrived to add to the general problem.

“That is the point, Sir Richard. He will have nobody.” He studied him, heavily intent. It was not like Godschale to risk anything which might dislodge his position of power. Was it really true what they said about this man, he thought uneasily. Had Bolitho’s charisma touched even him?

“There is something you might do.”

Bolitho saw his inner struggle and was surprised by it. He had never known Godschale in this mood before. “Yes. Anything.”

Godschale was beginning to sweat, and it was neither from brandy nor the heat of the fire.

“RearAdmiral Herrick is at Southwark. He will be met there by the Marshal to take a coach to Portsmouth the day after tomorrow. You will need all your discretion; many sea officers come and go on the Portsmouth Flier and might recognise you. It would embroil you even further … there might even be an attempt to smear you with collusion.”

Bolitho held out his hand. “I thank you for this, my lord—you may never know what it means. But one day I may be in a position to repay you. And have no fear. I heard nothing from you.”

Godschale attempted to give a rueful grin. “Nobody would believe it in any case, not of me, that is!” But the grin would not show itself.

Long after the doors had closed behind Bolitho, Godschale was still staring at the window where his visitor had stood. He thought he would already be feeling regret, but if anything he felt strangely uplifted.

His secretary opened the doors with a flourish as Godschale rang the little bell on his table.

“My lord?”

“Send for my carriage. Now.”

The man stared at the clock, bewildered by his master’s behaviour.

“But Mrs Vincent will be here in an hour, my lord!”

“Do I have to say everything twice, man? Send for the carriage.”

The man fled and Godschale poured another goblet of brandy.

Envy. Aloud to the empty room he said abruptly, “God damn you, Bolitho, you put years on me! The sooner you get back to sea the better, for all our sakes!”

It was already dark again by the time Bolitho’s carriage arrived at the inn at Southwark. After they had rattled over London Bridge to the south bank of the Thames, he imagined he could smell the sea and the many ships lying at anchor, and wondered if Allday had also noticed it, and was thinking about the passage to the Cape.

He heard Matthew curse from his box and felt the wheels jar savagely against fallen stones. He rarely swore, and was the best of coachmen, but this carriage had been borrowed for the journey. Secrecy would be impossible if the Bolitho crest was there for all to see.

They slowed down to pass a big mail coach standing outside the famous George Inn, from which place so many sea officers began their long and uncomfortable journey to Portsmouth. Without horses it looked strangely abandoned, but ostlers and inn servants were already loading chests and boxes on top, while the passengers consumed their last big meal, washed down with madeira or ale as the fancy took them. The George was the one place in London where Bolitho was most likely to be confronted by someone he knew.

A little further along the road was the smaller Swan Inn, a coaching and posting stop with the same high-galleried front as the George. But there the similarity ended. The Swan was used mainly by merchants, somewhere to break their journey or discuss business without fear of interruption.

In the inn yard shadowy figures ran to take the horses’ heads, and a curtain twitched as someone peered out at the new arrival.

Allday’s stomach rumbled loudly. “I smell food, Sir Richard!”

Bolitho touched his arm. “Go and find the innkeeper. Then eat something.”

He climbed down and felt the bitter air sweeping from the river. Upstream in the little Chelsea house Catherine would be looking out at this same river, imagining him here.

A bulky lump of a man appeared in the light from an open side door.

“God swamp me, Sir Richard! This is a surprise!”

Jack Thornborough had begun life as a purser’s clerk during the American Revolution, and later when discharged he had obtained work in the nearby naval victualling yard at Deptford. It was said unkindly of him that he had robbed the yard so successfully with the connivance of ships’ pursers that he had made enough to purchase the old Swan lock, stock and barrel.

“You can guess why I’m here, Jack.” He saw the man’s bald pate shine in the shaft of light as he nodded like a conspirator.

“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.

3

ACCUSED

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.”

Sedgemore lingered, his eyes full of questions. “I wish we were away from here.” He hesitated, trying to judge his captain’s mood. “We shall miss you when you leave with Sir Richard Bolitho … It is rumoured we may be going to Portugal’s aid before much longer.”

“I think it most likely.” Keen looked past him towards the dockyard. The green land beyond, the smells of countryside and new growth. Sedgemore was probably already planning his next step up the ladder, he thought. He took a telescope from the midshipman-of-the-watch and levelled it on a spur of jetty. He had seen the bright colours of women’s clothing but as they leaped out of the distance he saw they were merely a handful of harlots waiting for easy prey.

He thought of Zenoria’s eyes when he had told her of his mission with Bolitho. What had he expected? Opposition, resentment? Instead she had said quietly, “I knew you were a King’s officer when I married you, Val. When we are together we must enjoy our lives, but once apart, I would not stand between you and your duty.”

It was like being lost in thick woodland, not knowing which way to turn or what to do. Perhaps she did not care; perhaps she was even relieved that he was going, to break the tension between them.

He saw a captain of marines passing below him with a sword carried in a cloth: Herrick’s sword, a necessary part of this macabre ceremony. When the court had made its decision the sword on the table would tell Herrick if he was found guilty or innocent. What malicious mind had thrown up Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker as a suitable president? He had been known as a tyrant for much of his service. Just eleven years ago when the fleet had erupted in the great mutiny at the Nore and Spithead, Hamett-Parker had been one of the first senior officers to be ordered ashore by the delegates. He would not forget that; nor would he allow anyone to interfere with his judgement. As flag captain Keen had met most of the others. A vice-admiral, a rearadmiral, and six captains. All of the latter held commands either at Portsmouth or in the Downs squadron. It was hardly likely they would want to annoy Hamett-Parker, with the war about to spread into the enemy’s own territory.

Sedgemore said shortly, “Sir Richard is coming, sir.” Then he was gone, probably still wondering why Keen should exchange this proud ship for some vague huddle of small vessels in Africa.

Bolitho said, “A fine day, Val.” They walked to the side to be away from the watchkeepers. “God, I wish it was all over.”

“Shall you give evidence, sir?”

Bolitho looked at him. There were shadows under Keen’s eyes, tension around his mouth.

“I shall be there to explain our deployment on that morning.” He seemed to hear Herrick’s bitterness. To describe what you found after the battle. “It seems I am barred from asking questions. A witness after the event.”

Keen saw the ship’s gunner standing by as a crew loaded and then began to run out a twelve-pounder. When it was fired, and the Union Flag was run up to the peak, everyone would know that the trial had begun. When the flag flew from there, and only then, did it tell outsiders what was happening. The court-martial Jack would bring memories to some, pity from others, and indifference from the many who did not have to risk their own lives at sea.

“I wanted to speak with you, Val, about your views. You were there also—you saw it, and the aftermath.” Bolitho glanced around the upper deck. “We too lost some good men here that day. But for the enemy swallowing the bait, and our false Danish flag, it might have gone very differently.”

Keen regarded him steadily. “I have known RearAdmiral Herrick for much of my life. As a first lieutenant, a captain and now a flag officer. In those early times I came to appreciate both his courage, and I think, his sincerity.”

Bolitho sensed his uncertainty, his search for an explanation which might not be painful, or worse, come between them.

“You can speak freely to me, Val.”

Keen bit his lip. “I think he has always been surprised at being given flag rank, sir.”

“That is shrewd of you. He has often said as much to me.”

Keen made a decision. “But I cannot forgive or forget that he was about to stand me in the very predicament he now finds himself in. He would listen to no reason; he was guided only by the book. But for your intervention on my behalf—” He stared across at Portsmouth Point, the sea lapping below it as if the land itself were on the move. “So I am afraid I do not see his actions in quite the same light.”

“Thank you for telling me, Val. It meant much to you, and now it means a great deal to me.”

Keen added, “I once said that I thought I knew what you would have done if committed to the same circumstances—” He glanced round sharply as a lieutenant touched his hat from the foot of the ladder. “What is it, Mr Espie?”

The lieutenant looked at Bolitho. “I beg your pardon, Sir Richard. The Judge Advocate sends his respects and wishes you to know that the Court is about to assemble.”

“Very well.” To Keen he remarked, “I understand that your dear Zenoria is meeting with Catherine today while we are thus employed. I am glad they are close by.” He saw Keen’s face suddenly laid bare, the inner anxiety as plain as if he had called out aloud. He touched his sleeve. “We have seen many storms and have weathered them, Val. We are friends.”

The words mocked him. He’d said the same thing to Herrick at the Swan Inn. He turned and walked aft to the companion-way.

Minutes later the air reverberated to the crash of a single charge, while from aft, perfectly timed, the court-martial Jack broke to the breeze. It had begun.

The great cabin was barely recognisable. Even two of the twenty-four-pounders had been hauled and handspiked around to make more room for the many lines of chairs. Bolitho seated himself and handed his hat to Ozzard, who scurried down the narrow aisle between the mass of figures without apparently noticing any of them. The little man’s sense of outrage, perhaps, at seeing his personal domain, where he served and cared for his vice-admiral, demeaned by what was happening.

Bolitho had seen many heads turn to watch his entrance.

Some would know him, may even have shared his exploits. Others would only savour the scandal, his open affair with Lady Somervell. Those who knew him very well would appreciate his feelings today, and his concern for a man who had known the same dangers and shared similar perils.

They all rose respectfully as the members of the Court came along the same narrow aisle and seated themselves in silhouette against the tall stern windows, Hamett-Parker at the centre of the table, with his fellow members paired off on either side of him in strict order of seniority.

He gave a curt nod to the Judge Advocate, a tall, heavy man who had to stoop between the deckhead beams, and who looked more like a farmer than an official of Admiralty.

“Be seated, gentlemen.”

Bolitho saw Herrick’s sword for the first time, glittering faintly in the reflected sunlight, lying before the President. Then he realised that Hamett-Parker was looking straight at him. Recognition, curiosity, perhaps dislike; it was all there.

He said, “You may bring in the accused, Mr Cotgrave.”

The Judge Advocate bowed slightly. “Very well, Sir James.”

Bolitho touched the locket beneath his shirt. Help me, Kate.

He stared hard at the stern windows and concentrated on the shimmering panorama of moored shipping and blue sky. At these windows he had sat and dreamed or planned. Had watched Copenhagen burning under the merciless bombardment of artillery, and the huge fireballs from the Congreve rockets.

He heard Herrick’s limping step and the crisp click of boots from his escort.

Then he saw him, to one side of the table, regarding the men who would judge him with little more than a mild interest.

The President said, “You may be seated. There is no point provoking the pain from your wound.”

Bolitho found that his fists were so tightly clenched that they hurt. With relief he saw Herrick sit down on the proffered chair. He had expected he might refuse, and so set the tone of the whole proceedings.

Herrick’s blue eyes turned and then settled on him. He gave a brief nod of recognition and Bolitho recalled his own anger and hurt when they had met at the Admiralty; it felt like a thousand years ago. Bolitho had shouted after him, stung by Herrick’s rebuff over Catherine. Are we so ordinary? It had been a cry from the heart.

Hamett-Parker spoke again in the same flat tones.

“You may begin, Mr Cotgrave.”

Herrick’s escort, a debonair captain of marines, leaned forward but Herrick was already on his feet again. He had attended enough court martials to know every stage of the procedure.

The Judge Advocate faced him and opened his papers, although Bolitho suspected he knew them as a player knows his lines.

“In accordance with the decision made by their lordships of Admiralty, you, Thomas Herrick Esquire, RearAdmiral of the Red, are hereby charged that on diverse dates last September as stated in the Details of Evidence, you were guilty of misconduct and neglect of duty. This is contrary to the Act of Parliament dated 1749, more commonly called the Articles of War.”

Bolitho was conscious of the great silence that hung over his flagship. Even the footfalls of the watchkeepers and the occasional creak of tackles were faraway and muffled.

Cotgrave glanced at Herrick’s impassive features before continuing, “Contrary to Article Seventeen, whilst you were appointed for the convoy and guard of merchant ships, you did not diligently attend to that charge. Further, you did not faithfully perform that duty, nor did you defend the ships and goods in said convoy without diverting to other parts or occasions, and if proven guilty shall make reparation of the damage to merchants, owners and others. As the Court of Admiralty shall adjudge, you shall also be punished criminally according to the quality of the offences, be it by pains of death or other punishment as shall be adjudged fit by the court martial. God Save the King!”

Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker’s thin mouth opened and closed like a poacher’s trap.

“How plead you?”

“Not guilty.” Herrick’s reply was equally curt.

“Very well. Be seated. You may presently proceed, Mr Cotgrave, but before doing so, I would remind you that there are some persons present who have no experience of sea fights and strategy other than what they … read.” This brought a few smiles despite the seriousness of the moment. “So it may be required from time to time to explain or describe these terms and variations.” He pressed his fingertips together and stared at the assembled people. “So be it.”

Bolitho leaned forward and watched intently as the Judge Advocate described the various positions of Herrick’s convoy, the North Sea Squadron, and the major fleet commanded by Admiral Gambier, who had been in control of operations at and around Copenhagen.

It was the second day of the court martial, the first having been made up mostly of written evidence and sworn statements. There had also been a dying declaration, which had been further testimony to the ferocity of that battle. A junior lieutenant in Herrick’s Benbow had managed to make it under oath after a second amputation of his crushed legs.

Bolitho had sensed the moment, not here in the great cabin, but on that terrible day when the enemy ships had bombarded Benbow until she had run with blood, and her masts had been torn out of her like rotten sticks. The lieutenant had died even as he had been describing how he had run aft from his division of upper-deck guns, where most of his men had been cut down or dragged below to the surgeon. He had called on Herrick to strike in the name of pity. We were all dying to no purpose, he had said. He had claimed that the rearadmiral had clutched a pistol in one hand and had threatened to shoot him if he did not return to his station. Then the maintopmast had fallen and crushed his legs. But he persisted in his claim that Herrick’s answer had stayed with him. We shall all die today.

One of the clerks had peered at Herrick as if to compare the man on trial with what he was writing.

Another sworn statement had come from Benbow’s surgeon, who was also in hospital. He had stated that he had been unable to deal with the great flood of wounded and dying men. He had sent word to the quarterdeck but had received no reply. The Judge Advocate had looked around the court. “We must keep in mind of course that the ship was fighting for her life. The man sent aft with the message, if indeed that was the case, may well have been killed.”

It had been very damning, all the same. There had followed a short pause for a meal and some wine, the senior officers and important guests to Keen’s own quarters, the remainder to the wardroom.

After that, Captain Varian, at one time in command of the frigate Zest in Herrick’s squadron, and himself awaiting the convenience of a court martial, gave evidence on what he had come to expect under the rearadmiral’s flag. Bolitho had listened with contempt. This was the man who had failed to support Truculent in which Bolitho had been taking passage from Copenhagen, having been sent on a secret mission to parley with the Danes in a futile attempt to avoid war. Truculent had been shadowed by French men-of-war, a trap from which there had been no escape. Only the arrival of Adam’s Anemone had saved the day. But not before Truculent’s captain, Poland, had been killed and many of his men with him.

On that occasion, as now, in the great cabin Varian claimed that Herrick never gave any scope or initiative to his captains. He had only been obeying instructions as RearAdmiral Herrick would have demanded.

At length the President turned to Herrick. “You are entitled to question this witness. You refused a defence, so it is your privilege.”

Herrick barely glanced at Varian’s pale features. “I do not care to discuss this matter with a man already facing a charge of cowardice.”

He said it with such disgust that it had brought a gasp from the assembled visitors. “He is a coward and a liar, and but for the intervention of others I would have had him arrested myself.”

It had all been much like that. An old carpenter who described the state of Benbow’s hull, with the pump barely containing the intake of water and only wounded men available to use it.

The last witness to be called, even as dusk made it necessary to light all the lanterns in the cabin, had been Herrick’s servant, Murray. A rather pitiful little figure against so much gold lace and glittering regalia.

Under examination he had admitted that Herrick had been drinking very heavily, which had been more than just unusual.

The Judge Advocate had said, “Just what you know, Murray—opinions have no place here.”

He had glanced at Herrick, who had replied, “I was drinking more than usual, he is quite right.”

As the little servant had hurried gratefully away, John Cotgrave had rustled through his papers, gauging the time to a second.

“Of course, I had overlooked the fact you have only recently lost your wife.”

Herrick had seemed oblivious to everyone else there. “She was everything to me. After that—” He had given a tired shrug.

“So it might be suggested that because of grief and personal distress you threw everything into a fight you could not win against overwhelming odds, with a total disregard for the lives in your care?”

Herrick had stared at him coldly. “That is untrue.”

Today had begun with more professional witnesses. Three masters from merchant ships in the convoy, and written testimonies by others who had managed to survive. Several of them had claimed that they could have outsailed the enemy had they been allowed to quit the convoy.

Herrick denied this. “We had to stand together—the enemy had frigates as well as line-of-battle ships. It was our only chance.”

The President leaned forward. “I understand that Admiral Gambier suggested in his despatches to you that you might release your only frigate to his command for the attack on Copenhagen? Did he not leave it to your discretion?”

Herrick faced him. “It seemed urgent. In any case I thought I would meet up with the North Sea squadron for the final approach.”

The Judge Advocate said, “The squadron commanded by Sir Richard Bolitho?”

Herrick did not even blink. “Just so.”

Cotgrave continued, “Now we reach a vital part of the matter, prior to your meeting with the enemy.”

Hamett-Parker tugged out his watch. “I trust it is not a lengthy business, Mr Cotgrave? Some of us would wish to take refreshment!” Somebody laughed but stopped instantly as Hamett-Parker’s cold eyes sought him out.

Cotgrave was unimpressed. “I will try not to waste the court’s time, Sir James.”

He turned to his clerk. “Summon Commander James Tyacke.” To the great cabin he added, “Commander Tyacke is serving in the brig Larne of fourteen guns. A most gallant officer. I must ask all those present to try and show him respect rather than sympathy. It is a matter of …” He got no further.

Something like a sigh of dismay came from all sides as Tyacke’s tall figure strode aft beneath the deckhead beams. In his early thirties, he had been with Bolitho at the Cape, when he had taken a fireship to destroy anchored enemy supply vessels and so cut short the siege of the town and harbour. In doing so he had seen his beloved command, the little schooner Miranda, sunk by the enemy. Bolitho had personally promoted him and given him the brig.

Tyacke would have been handsome, as his profile suggested, but one complete side of his face had been scored away to leave it like raw flesh; how the right eye had survived was a miracle. He had been at the battle of the Nile as a lieutenant on the lower gun deck of the old Majestic. They had come up to the big French Tonnant and had continued close-action until the enemy had hauled down her colours. Had the French captain known the true state of the English third-rate he might have persisted. The dead had been everywhere; even her captain, Westcott, had been killed. Tyacke had been flung across the deck, his face seared and torn, although he could never remember afterwards precisely what had happened. An exploding charge, an enemy wad through a gunport; he simply did not know, and there had been nobody near him left alive to tell him.

He faced the court now, his terrible wound in shadow, a private man, a man of courage. He had nothing but his ship. Even the girl he had loved had turned away from him when she learned what had happened.

He saw Bolitho, and smiled faintly in recognition. No, he was not quite alone any more. He had come to admire Bolitho more than he could have believed possible.

The Judge Advocate confronted him, angry with the court and perhaps with himself for trying to avoid Tyacke’s impassive stare.

“You were the first to sight the French vessels, Commander Tyacke.”

Tyacke glanced at Herrick. “Yes, sir. We came on the ships quite by accident. One of the big three-deckers was unknown to me. I discovered much later that she was in fact Spanish, taken into the French command, so we had no cause to recognise her.” He hesitated. “Vice-Admiral Bolitho knew her, of course.”

One of the court leaned over to whisper something and Hamett-Parker said, “She was the San Mateo, which destroyed Sir Richard’s flagship Hyperion before Trafalgar.” He nodded irritably. “Continue.”

Tyacke looked at him with dislike. “We beat as close as we could but they were on to us, and gave us a good peppering before we could show them a clean pair of heels. Eventually we found the convoy and I closed to report to the rearadmiral in charge.”

One of the captains asked, “Had the frigate already left the convoy?”

“Aye, sir.” He paused, expecting something further, then he said, “I told RearAdmiral Herrick what I had seen.”

“How did he receive you?”

“I spoke through a speaking-trumpet, sir.” He added with barely concealed sarcasm, “The enemy were too close for comfort, and there seemed some urgency in the air!”

The Judge Advocate smiled. “That was well said, Commander Tyacke.” The mood changed back again. “Now it is very important that you recall exactly what the rearadmiral’s reply was. I imagine it would have been written in Larne’s signal book?”

“Probably.” Tyacke ignored his frown. “As I recall, RearAdmiral Herrick ordered me to find Sir Richard Bolitho’s North Sea squadron. Then he changed his mind and told me to report directly to Admiral Gambier’s flagship Prince of Wales off Copenhagen.”

Cotgrave said quietly, “Even after seven months, during which time you must have had much to occupy your attention, the fact that RearAdmiral Herrick changed his mind still seems to surprise you? Pray tell the court why.”

Tyacke was caught off guard. He replied, “Sir Richard Bolitho was his friend, sir, and in any case …”

“In any case, Commander Tyacke, it would have been sensible, would it not, to find Sir Richard’s squadron first, as it was only in a supporting role against the Danes at that time?”

The President snapped, “You will answer, sir!”

Tyacke said evenly, “That must have been what I was thinking.”

Cotgrave turned to Herrick. “You have a question or two perhaps?”

Herrick regarded him calmly. “None. This officer speaks the truth, as well as being a most gallant fighter.”

One of the captains said, “There is a question from the back, sir.”

“I am sorry to interrupt the proceedings, even delay refreshment, but the President did offer to have matters explained to a mere landsman.”

Bolitho turned round, remembering the voice but unable to identify the speaker. Someone with a great deal of authority to make a joke at Hamett-Parker’s expense without fear of attack. Dressed all in black, it was Sir Paul Sillitoe, once the Prime Minister’s personal adviser, whom Bolitho had first met at a reception at Godschale’s grand house near Blackwall Reach. That had been before the attack on Copenhagen.

Sillitoe was thin-faced and dark, with deep hooded eyes, very self-contained; and a man one would never know, really know. But he had been charming to Catherine on that occasion when the Duke of Portland, the prime minister at the time, had attempted to snub her. Standing amidst so many now, he was still quite alone.

Sillitoe continued, “I would be grateful if you would clarify the difference ‘twixt two seafaring terms which have been mentioned several times already.” He looked directly at Bolitho and gave the briefest of smiles. Bolitho could imagine him doing the very same while peering along the barrel of a duelling pistol.

Sillitoe went on silkily, “One witness will describe the convoy’s possible tactics as being ‘scattered,’ and another will term it ‘dispersed. ‘ I am all confusion.”

Bolitho thought his tone suggested otherwise, and could not help wondering if Sillitoe had interrupted the Judge Advocate for a different purpose.

The latter said patiently, “If it pleases, Sir Paul. To scatter a convoy means that each ship’s master can go his own way, that is to say, move out from the centre like the spokes of a wheel. To disperse would mean to leave each master to sail as he pleases, but all to the original destination. Is that clear, Sir Paul?”

“One further question, if you will bear with me, sir. The ships’ masters who have claimed they could have outsailed the enemy ships—were they all requesting the order to disperse?”

Cotgrave glanced questioningly at the President and then replied, “They did, Sir Paul.”

Sillitoe bowed elegantly. “Thank you.”

Hamett-Parker snapped, “Then if that is all, gentlemen, this hearing is adjourned for refreshments.” He stalked out, followed by the other members of his court.

“You may dismiss, Commander Tyacke.”

Tyacke waited until most of those in the cabin had bustled away and Herrick had left with his escort. Then he shook Bolitho’s hand and said quietly, “I hoped we would meet soon, Sir Richard.” He glanced at the deserted table where the sword was still shining in the April sunlight. “But not like this.”

Together they made their way out to the broad quarterdeck, where many of the visitors had broken into small groups to discuss the trial so far, all to the obvious irritation of watchkeepers and working seamen alike.

“Is everything well with you?” Bolitho stood beside him to stare at a graceful schooner tacking past; he guessed Tyacke was comparing her with his lost Miranda.

“I should have written to you, Sir Richard, after all that you did for me.” He gave a great sigh. “I have been appointed to the new anti-slavery patrol. We sail for the African coast shortly. Most of my men are volunteers—more to escape from the fleet than out of any moral convictions!” His eyes crinkled in a grin. “I never thought they’d get it through Parliament after all these years.”

Bolitho could agree with him. England had been at war with France almost continuously for fifteen years, and all the while the slave traffic had gone on without hindrance: a brutal trade in human beings which ended in death from the lash as often as from fever.

And yet, there were many who had voted against its abolition, describing the traders and plantation owners in the Caribbean as loyal servants of the Crown, men ready to defend their rights against the enemy. Supporters usually added the extra bait for their cause, that a plentiful supply of slaves would continue to mean cheaper sugar for the world’s market, as well as releasing other men for active duty at sea or in the army.

This new patrol might suit Tyacke very well, he thought. The private man with a small company which he could educate to his own standards.

Tyacke said, “I fear I did little good for RearAdmiral Herrick’s cause just now, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho replied, “It was the truth.”

“Will he win the day, do you think, sir?”

“We must.” He wondered afterwards if Tyacke had noticed that he had not said he.

Tyacke remarked, “Ah, here comes your faithful cox’n.”

Allday moved effortlessly through the chattering groups and touched his hat.

“Begging your pardon, Sir Richard, but I thought you might want to take your meal in the Master’s chartroom.” He gave a grim smile. “Mr Julyan was most firm on the matter!”

Bolitho answered readily, “That would suit very well. I have no stomach for this today.” He glanced around at the jostling, apparently carefree people who were waiting to be called to their refreshment, seeing instead this deck as it had been on that dismal September morning. The dead and the wounded, the first lieutenant cut cleanly in half by a massive French ball. “I do not feel I belong here.”

Tyacke held out his hand. “I have to leave, Sir Richard. Please offer my best wishes to Lady Somervell.” He glanced at Keen, who was waiting to see him over the side to his gig. “And to you too, sir.”

Keen had known what it must have cost Tyacke to go all the way to Zennor to see him marry Zenoria, to experience again the shocked stares and brutal curiosity to which he would never become accustomed.

“I thank you, Commander Tyacke. I shall not forget.”

Tyacke raised his hat and the marines’ muskets thumped in salute, a cloud of pipeclay floating from their crossbelts like smoke. The calls shrilled and Bolitho gazed after him until the gig was pulling strongly away from the ship’s great shadow.

“Join me in the Master’s quarters, will you, Val?”

Someone was ringing a bell, and the small tide of visitors began to flow towards the temptation of food, brought on board, it was said, from the George Inn itself.

Ozzard had prepared a meal which seemed to consist mostly of several kinds of cheese, fresh bread from Portsmouth, and some claret. He had learned very well what Bolitho could and could not take when he was under great strain.

Keen asked, “What do you think, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho was still thinking of what he had observed before entering the chartroom. Near the big double-wheel the Judge Advocate had been in close conversation with Sir Paul Sillitoe. They had not seen him, but had separated before continuing up to Keen’s quarters.

“If only he had called someone to defend him. This is all too personal, too cleancut for outsiders to understand.” He toyed with the cheese, his appetite gone. “I think it will be over quite soon. This afternoon Captain Gossage will give evidence. He can say little of the battle because he was wounded almost as soon as Benbow engaged. But it will depend much on his earlier assessment, his guidance as flag captain when the truth of the situation was apparent.”

“And tomorrow?”

“It will be our turn, and Thomas’s.”

Keen stood up. “I had better be seen to welcome the senior officers to my quarters, I suppose.” He did not sound as if he liked the prospect.

“A moment, Val.” Bolitho closed the chartroom door. “I have a suggestion—or rather, Catherine put forward the idea.”

“Sir? I would always be guided by that lady.”

“While we are away on passage to the Cape, we think Zenoria should be offered the use of our house in Cornwall. You have rented one here, I believe, while Black Prince is fitting out, but in Cornwall she would be with people who would care for her. There is another reason.” He could sense Keen’s instant guard; it was so unlike him. Matters were worse than they had feared. “Zenoria once told Catherine she would take it as a great favour if she could make use of the library there. It is extensive … it was built up by my grandfather.”

Keen smiled, his eyes clearing. “Yes, I know she wishes to educate herself more, to learn about the world.” He nodded slowly. “It was kind of Lady Catherine to concern herself with this, sir. Zenoria’s first time alone as a married woman.”

He did not continue. He did not need to.

“That’s settled then.”

Later when the court convened, Bolitho ran his eyes over the seated spectators, for that was what they had become. Like onlookers at a public hanging. There was no trace of Sir Paul Sillitoe.

Herrick looked tired, and showed considerable strain. He too must be thinking of tomorrow.

The Judge Advocate cleared his throat and waited for Hamett-Parker to offer him a curt nod.

“This court is reassembled. Please call Captain Hector Gossage.” He glanced around at the intent faces as if expecting another interruption. “He was flag captain to the accused at the time of the attack.”

Herrick turned and looked directly at his sword on the table. It was as if he expected to see it move, or perhaps he already imagined it pointing towards him.

Gossage’s entrance was almost too pitiful to watch; he seemed to have shrunk from the bluff, competent captain Bolitho had met on several occasions. Now his face was lined, and one cheek was pitted with small splinter scars; one sleeve of his dress coat was empty, pinned up and useless, and he was obviously still in great pain. A chair was brought and Gossage assisted into it by two orderlies who had accompanied him from the hospital here at Haslar Creek.

Hamett-Parker asked not unkindly, “Are you as comfortable as we can make you, Captain?”

Gossage stared around as if he had not properly heard. So many senior officers and guests. “I should be standing, sir!”

Hamett-Parker said quietly, as if daring anyone to so much as cough or move, “You are not on trial here, Captain Gossage. Take your time and speak in your own words. We have studied the Details of Evidence, heard the opinions, for they were little more than that, of many witnesses. But Benbow was the flagship and you were her captain. It is your story we wish to hear.”

It was then that Gossage seemed to see Herrick opposite him for the first time.

He began brokenly, “I—I’m not her captain any more. I’ve lost everything!” He tried to move round so that Herrick could see his empty sleeve. “Look what you’ve done to me!”

Hamett-Parker gestured to the surgeon and snapped, “The court is adjourned until the same time tomorrow.” To the surgeon he added, “Take good care of Captain Gossage.”

As the little group shuffled toward the rear of the cabin, Hamett-Parker spoke to the Judge Advocate, his tone severe. “That must not occur again in this court, Mr Cotgrave!” But when he glanced round Bolitho saw only triumph in his eyes.

4

REVENGE

THE HOUSE, which was of medium size and owned by the Admiralty, was situated just outside the dockyard gates. It had a permanent staff, but was entirely without any kind of personality; it was merely a place where senior officers and Admiralty officials could stay temporarily while conducting their business with the dockyard or the port admiral.

It was not yet dawn but already Bolitho could hear the comings and goings of carts and waggons, and during the long night he heard the occasional tramp of feet and the clink of weapons as the press-gangs returned from yet another search of outlying villages for men who were without any official protection.

The last time, when he had been awakened from a troubled sleep, he had heard a woman’s voice, high-pitched and pleading, although he could not make out the words. She had been calling out long after the gates had clanged shut, her man taken from her side to help fill the depleted ranks in the fleet. Her pleas would fall on deaf ears, especially with the war about to expand still further. Fit men, sometimes any men would suffice. Even those with the written protection, fishermen, sailors of the HEIC, prime hands whom the navy needed more than any, kept out of sight at night when the press were about. It was useless to try and right a wrong if you awoke with a bruised head in some man-of-war already standing out into the Western Approaches.

Very gently he lifted Catherine’s head from his bare shoulder and eased it on to a pillow. As he did so he felt her long, tumbled hair slide from his skin, their bodies still warm from their embrace.

But it had been a night without passion or intimacy, a night when they had shared an even deeper love, knowing their need and support of one another. With great care he climbed from the bed and walked quietly through to the adjoining room. The fire was dead in the grate but already he could hear a servant, or perhaps the loyal Ozzard, re-laying another downstairs.

This room, like the house, felt damp and unlived-in, but it was still a haven compared to the alternative: a local inn, prying eyes and questioning glances. Everyone would know about the court martial. This was a naval port, the greatest in the world, but gossip flourished here like a village.

He stared from a window and after some hesitation thrust it open, admitting the cold air of dawn, the strong tang of the sea, freshly-cut timber, tar and oakum, the stuff of any Royal dockyard.

It was today. He stared hard at the dark shadows of the buildings beyond the wall. Allday and Ozzard would have prepared his best dress coat with its gleaming epaulettes, each with a pair of silver stars to display his rank.

He would not feel the familiar weight of the old family sword against his thigh; he would wear, instead, the lavishly decorated presentation sword given to him by the people of Falmouth in recognition of his service in the Mediterranean and at the Battle of the Nile. For here he was authority, the vice-admiral again; not “Equality Dick” as his sailors had so often called him, not even the hero who brought admiring grins from the ale-houses and coffee establishments because of his liaison with a beautiful woman. It made him feel like a stranger to himself. He could not forget Herrick’s bitterness at Southwark, when he had gone to plead and reason with him. Don’t throw away all you’ve achieved for yourself because of me. He was what his father would have wished, a flag officer like all the others in those portraits which lined the stairway and gallery in the old grey house in Cornwall.

He heard a girl laugh somewhere, probably Catherine’s new maid servant, Sophie, a small, dark creature whom Catherine had said was half-Spanish. She had taken her as a favour to an old friend in London; at a guess the girl was about fifteen. It had happened quite suddenly, and Catherine had not yet had time to relate the full story. She had been concerned only for him, and what might be the outcome of today.

There had been a letter sent from London by post-boy, from Lord Godschale. The packet which was to carry them to the Cape had left the Pool of London and was making her way down-Channel to Falmouth, where she would await Bolitho’s arrival. A strange change of plans, Bolitho had thought, more secrecy, in case there should be fresh scandal about Catherine’s going with him. Godschale had cleared his own yardarm by suggesting that Catherine pay her own fare and expenses for the voyage.

She had given her bubbling laugh when he had told her. “That man is quite impossible, Richard! But he has a roving eye and a reputation to support, I am given to understand!”

They had also discussed Zenoria. She had left in the Bolitho carriage the previous evening with Jenour and Yovell for protection and company. She had seemed eager to go, and when Bolitho had said, “She will be able to say goodbye to Val at Falmouth,” he had not sounded very convincing, even to himself.

The only good news had also been from London, from the heron-like Sir Piers Blachford. Elizabeth’s injury was neither permanent nor serious, now that she was under proper care. Bolitho had not told Catherine that Belinda had sent word that he himself was expected to pay all the necessary costs: she had probably guessed anyway.

He waited for the first hint of daylight, then covered his uninjured eye with his hand and stared for so long that the eye pricked painfully and began to water. But there was no mist, no failing vision this time; perhaps the three months ashore, with occasional trips to Portsmouth and London had worked in his favour.

Without turning he knew she had entered the room, her naked feet soundless on the carpet. She came up behind him and put a coat around his bare shoulders.

“What are you doing? Trying to catch a cold, or worse?”

He put his arm around her body and felt her warmth through the plain white gown, the one with the gold cord around her throat which if released could bare her shoulders or her whole being.

She shivered as he ran his fingers over her hip. “Oh, dear Richard—soon now, and all this will be over.”

“I have been poor company of late.”

Catherine turned in his arm and looked at him, only her eyes shining in the faint light.

“So many thoughts, so many worries. They strike at you from every side.”

She had read Herrick’s letter aloud to him, and he had been moved that she had shown more regret than anger. In it, Herrick had thanked her for staying with his wife to the end. A letter between total strangers. He ran his hand under her long hair and kissed her lightly on the neck.

She covered his hand with hers. “Much more of that, Richard, and I will forget the importance and the formality of this day.”

She looked out at the paling sky and the last weak star. “I love everything we do, all that we have found in one another.” He tried to turn her towards him but felt her strong supple body resist him; she would not, could not face him. “When you are away from me, Richard, I touch myself where you have touched me, and I dream it is you. The climax is matched only by the disappointment when I know it is … just another fantasy.”

Then she did turn, and embraced him so that their faces were almost level, her breath mingling warmly with his, her body pressing against him.

“So when you come back to me, be the navigator and explorer once more. Seek out every mood and every part of me until we are joined again.” She kissed him very gently on the cheek. “… and again.” She stood against the light, so that he saw her body through her pale gown. “Now go and prepare yourself. I will further shock the servants by preparing some breakfast for my man!”

Bolitho stared after her, then sighed as the drums began to rattle to beat up the marines at their barracks.

A glance; a word; a promise. They could not dissolve the immediate problems. He straightened his back and touched the crudely mended wound in his left thigh, a legacy of eight years ago, and his mind lingered on what she had told him. Dissolve, no; but once again she had made him feel restored. He was ready.

John Cotgrave, the Judge Advocate, stood up and faced the seated officers in the great cabin.

“I am ready, Sir James.”

Hamett-Parker grunted. “Proceed.”

Cotgrave said, “Captain Hector Gossage has stated that he wishes to complete his evidence, and the surgeon has assured me that he will be able.” He glanced briefly at Herrick’s set features. “However, with the Court’s indulgence, I would suggest that Captain Gossage’s appearance be made later, when he has been examined again.”

Hamett-Parker asked, “Well sir, how is this to be managed, Mr Cotgrave?” He sounded irritated by the sudden change of tack.

“May I suggest, Sir James, that the last witness for today be called first? I do not intend to summon Captain Keen of this ship; it would merely be to corroborate this important witness’s testimony.”

Bolitho saw the quick exchange of glances. Gossage would be the final witness, so any previous evidence of an indifferent nature, or testimony which might be in Herrick’s favour, would be forgotten. Gossage was hostile—a broken man, but one whose ability to hate was clearly unimpaired.

The officer of the Court next in seniority, Vice-Admiral Cuthbert Nevill, asked mildly, “It is all rather unusual, surely?”

Hamett-Parker did not even turn. “The case itself is more so, what?”

Cotgrave faced the assembled visitors. “The next witness is an officer well known to all of us and to every loyal Englishman. At no time was he consulted on the strategy used to defend the convoy, and only arrived …” He hesitated and allowed his words to sink in “… in this very ship at the scene of the battle, when all was lost. The convoy of twenty ships sunk or captured, the remaining escort, Egret of 60 guns, also destroyed, and overwhelmed by a superior enemy force as we have heard described here.”

Bolitho heard the shuffle of feet and the creak of chairs as the assembled visitors peered around the great cabin. It would be hard for landsmen to visualise this powerful three-decker cleared for action, from these same stern windows to the foremost divisions of guns. Harder still to see death here, or imagine the roar and crash of artillery, the screams of the wounded. The captains present would see it differently, however, and be reminded, if they needed a reminder, that the final responsibility was theirs, or lay with the man who flew his flag above all of them.

Cotgrave continued, “I would ask Sir Richard Bolitho, Vice-Admiral of the Red, to come aft.”

Bolitho stood up, his mind suddenly like ice, recalling Catherine’s words when they had lain awake in the night. Remember, Richard, you are not to blame. And this morning when he had looked from the window over the darkness of the dockyard. Just a man. Was it only this morning?

“Now, Sir Richard, if you would care to be seated?”

Bolitho replied, “I prefer to stand, thank you.”

Hamett-Parker asked, “Are you not satisfied with the way this Court is being conducted, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho gave a short bow. This man is an enemy. “Black Prince is my flagship, Sir James. Had I not been called to give this testimony, something which my own flag captain is well able to offer, I might have been a member of this Court. A more useful and profitable role, surely?”

The vice-admiral named Nevill muttered, “Quite agree.”

Cotgrave said, “Let us continue, Sir Richard, for all our sakes.”

“I am ready.”

“For the benefit of the Court, Sir Richard, tell us what happened when the brig Larne arrived off Copenhagen with the news of the convoy’s predicament. Not too fast for my clerks, if you please, and for the gentlemen from the newspapers.”

Bolitho said, “I was summoned to Admiral Gambier’s flagship Prince of Wales, where, after discussing the ‘predicament’ as you choose to call it, and hearing of it from Commander Tyacke, I pleaded to be allowed to go to RearAdmiral Herrick’s assistance.”

“It was night-time, was it not?” Cotgrave singled out a sheet of notes. “I am given to understand that when the dangers of navigating the Narrows in the dark were pointed out you stated that you had done it before, under Nelson?”

“That is true.”

Cotgrave smiled gently. “Very forceful. You were guided through eventually by the brig Larne and followed by Nicator, an elderly 74 from your own squadron?”

Bolitho said, “We might have been in time.”

“In the event, you were not.” He continued smoothly, “Now please describe the scene when daylight found you on that particular morning.” He wagged a finger like some church schoolmaster and added, “May I remind you, Sir Richard, there are landsmen present—we have not all shared your own wealth of experience, of which we have heard much over the years.”

There was absolute silence in the cabin, so that even the slight patter of rain against the tall stern windows seemed an interruption.

“I had had the ship’s sailmaker create a false Danish flag. It was my intention to lure the largest enemy ship, the San Mateo, into close range, to make her captain believe Black Prince was a Danish prize.” He hesitated over the enemy’s name, and guessed it was not lost on many present. “For we, too, were outnumbered. But for the ruse I fear we might have shared Benbow’s fate.”

“By this time, the Benbow had become a dismasted onlooker, I believe?”

Bolitho saw Herrick lean forward as if to interrupt and answered, “Hardly that. Benbow’s guns were still firing, and even though her steering had carried away and her masts were gone, she did not strike.”

Cotgrave looked at the intent faces of the Court. “After you had forced the enemy to submit, and the prize crews of the surviving ships were ordered to lay down their arms, you then boarded the Benbow. Tell us what you found.”

Bolitho looked steadily at Herrick. “There were more dead than alive in view, and the afterguard, helmsmen, gun crews had all been cut down by chainshot and canister at close range. She was so badly damaged that it was all we could do to rig temporary steering, and eventually take her in tow.”

Hamett-Parker commented without feeling, “It seems likely she will remain a hulk until her final disposal.”

Cotgrave nodded gravely. “Of course, Sir Richard, you and the accused have been friends for years. I imagine he was more than relieved to see your ships and most of all, yourself.”

Bolitho turned towards the rain-dappled windows, a shaft of watery sunlight glinting on the Nile medal, which he always wore with pride.

“It was a scene from hell. We had little time to speak with one another, and the rearadmiral’s wound required immediate attention.”

He looked once again at Herrick, recalling that morning, the bitterness in his voice. It will be another triumph for you. Like an accusation.

“In that case, Sir James?” Cotgrave started as Herrick rose to his feet and gripped the chairback for support.

Hamett-Parker snapped, “You have a question?” He seemed surprised.

Herrick nodded, his eyes still on Bolitho. “I do, Sir James.”

“Very well.” To Bolitho he said, “Remember, Sir Richard, you are still under oath.”

Herrick said quietly, “It is not a point of evidence.” He was speaking to the court, to everyone here, and to those who would never come back to speak of anything. His eyes, his whole being was directed at Bolitho.

“I am ready.”

“I want to make something clear. I would like to know, had you been in my position that day, would you have acted as I did?”

Cotgrave said hastily, “I hardly think—”

Hamett-Parker waved his challenge aside. “I see no wrong in it. Please answer, Sir Richard—we are all attention!”

Bolitho faced the officers but could feel the intensity of Herrick’s eyes. “There are several ways to defend a convoy, Sir James, even if the escort is insufficient, as it surely was that day. Sometimes you can signal the vessels in the convoy to draw together to add their own artillery in the defence of all. It is a well-known tactic of the Honourable East India Company. Likewise you can order the ships to disperse, leaving the slower ones to be sacrificed.”

They all stared at Herrick as he said calmly, “It is not what I asked.”

Cotgrave bit his lip. “That is so, Sir Richard. You must answer.”

Hamett-Parker snapped, “Even if the reply might damage the circumstances of a friend. You are a man of honour, sir. We are waiting!”

He tried to read Herrick’s mind, divine the intention behind this. What are you doing? What are you making me do? There was something else there too. It was almost amusement, a mocking challenge. Another triumph for you, Richard!

Bolitho replied quietly, “I would not.”

Hamett-Parker pressed his fingertips together and put his head on one side like a bird of prey.

“I believe that some here present may not have heard, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho looked at him coldly. “I said: I would not!”

Herrick sat down and said, “Thank you. A man of honour.”

Bolitho stared at him. Herrick had forced him into answering the one question which would surely condemn him. It had been deliberate, brutal in its intensity.

Hamett-Parker nodded very slowly. “If there is nothing further, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho said, “I can only say that the accused is a gallant and loyal officer. I have served alongside him many times and know all his qualities. He has saved my life, and he has given his to the service of his country.”

Cotgrave cleared his throat. “Some might suggest that you are biased, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho turned on him angrily. “And why not? In God’s name, what are true friends for?”

Hamett-Parker interrupted, “We will adjourn until after refreshment, gentlemen.” He looked at Bolitho. “By which time Captain Gossage will be present to continue with his assessment of the rearadmiral’s intentions on that day.”

Bolitho waited for the great cabin to empty, and sat alone, his head in his hands. Where was the vice-admiral now?

Keen joined him and said quietly, “I was at the door, Sir Richard—I heard everything. They will demand the most severe punishment of all.”

He was shocked to see Bolitho’s face when he looked up at him: the tears in his eyes.

“He has just executed himself, Val. And for what?”

For a long, long moment the question seemed to hang in the air like an epitaph.

Lady Catherine Somervell stood beside a window, one hand toying absently with a curtain. The roofs of the nearest dockyard sheds were wet with rain, but already there was a promise of sunshine, and of some warmth. She saw and cared for none of it.

She was thinking of Black Prince, out there somewhere unseen behind the tall buildings. The court martial would have recommenced, and this afternoon Richard would try to defend his friend, even if he could only offer help through personal evidence.

She looked over her shoulder at her new maid Sophie. In the filtered sunshine, with her dark hair hanging down to her eyes as she smoothed out one of her mistress’s gowns ready for packing, she could have been fully Spanish. Her mother had married a trader of that country who had vanished shortly after the Revolution in France; he had never been seen alive again. There had been three children, and Sophie was the youngest. She had gone to work for a tailor in Whitechapel, and within a year had proved herself a quick learner and an excellent seamstress, but her mother had become ill and had asked Catherine to take her into service. She had known she was dying and used her earlier friendship with Catherine as the only escape for her remaining child: London was no place for a girl like Sophie to be left to fend for herself. If Sophie grieved for her mother, she did not show it. Perhaps, Catherine thought, when she knew her better, she might share the rest of the story.

“I wonder if they will fire another gun when the court martial is finally over.” She wished she had asked Richard before he had left this morning. But she had not wanted to distract him, to offer him hope when there might be none.

Sophie paused. “Don’t know, me lady.”

Catherine smiled at her. Sophie’s voice had the accent of the streets, an aspect of London Catherine had known at her age, and earlier. It helped in some way, a reminder.

Catherine thought of the dawn when she had awakened with something like panic when she had found him gone. She turned the beautiful ring on her finger, which Bolitho had put on her left hand after Keen’s wedding at Zennor, and tried to take some reassurance from it. But what of the next time they were parted, when Bolitho was once more at sea with his men and his ships, a target for every enemy sharpshooter as poor Nelson had been?

She shook her head, as if he had just spoken to her. There was the long passage to the Cape and back. It might be uncomfortable, but she would enjoy every second they could still be together.

When Richard returned this evening or later perhaps, whatever the outcome, she would make him forget. She must. Then she turned the ring again to the shaft of sun which had at last penetrated the low clouds over the Solent, and watched the play of light across its diamonds and rubies. She could recall the exact moment, when all the others had left the church for the wedding celebrations. Richard taking her hand. In the eyes of God we are married, dearest Kate. It was something she would never forget.

There was a rap at the door and one of the resident servants entered the room and gave a clumsy curtsy.

“There be a gennelman downstairs, m’lady. He begs an audience with you.”

Catherine waited and then replied, “I can sometimes read your thoughts, my girl, but I need a little help now.”

The girl gave her a cow-like stare, and eventually produced a small envelope from an apron pocket.

Catherine smiled. The Admiralty house did not apparently run to a silver tray for such purposes.

She tore it open and walked to the window again. It was not a note, there was only an engraved card inside. She looked at it for several seconds until a face seemed to form there. Sillitoe. Sir Paul Sillitoe, whom she had met at Admiral Godschale’s reception by the river.

She was still uncertain whether he was a friend or another potential danger to Richard. But he had shown her kindness in his strange, withdrawn manner.

“I shall come down.”

The hall was empty, and the door still partly ajar; she saw a smart phaeton with a pair of matching greys outside in the road. Sillitoe was standing in the small drawing-room, feet apart, hands behind him.

As she appeared he took her proffered hand and touched it with his lips.

“Lady Catherine, you honour me too much, when I have given you so little warning of my arrival.” He waited until she had seated herself and said, “I have urgent business in London, but I thought I must see you before you depart for the Cape of Good Hope.” He grimaced. “An unfortunate name, I think.”

“Is anything wrong, Sir Paul? Are we not to go after all?”

“Wrong?” He was watching her now, his hooded eyes full of curiosity. “Why should there be?” He walked past her and hesitated by the chair; and for an instant she expected him to touch her, place a hand on her shoulder, and she could feel her body stiffen in readiness.

“I was merely thinking that you might find the prospect of a longish voyage, hemmed in by foul-mouthed sailors, unpleasant. It is not what I would choose for you.”

“I am used to ships.” She glanced at him, her eyes flashing. “Sailors too.”

“It was merely a thought, one which disturbed me more than I would admit to anyone else. I experienced a moment of delusion, wherein I imagined your staying behind, with me to guide you around the town, and offer you—if only temporarily—my companionship.”

“Is that what you really came to tell me?” She was astonished at the calmness in her voice, and equally by the man’s cool impudence and declaration. “For if so it is better that you go at once. Sir Richard has enough on his mind without suffering the added burden of unfaithfulness. I should say, how dare you, Sir Paul, but then I already know how men like you dare.”

“Ah, yes, Sir Richard.” He looked away. “How I envy him—”

He seemed to be searching for words without losing her attention and tolerance. “I wanted to know, Lady Catherine—I believe he calls you Kate?”

“Yes—and only he does.”

Sillitoe sighed. “As I was saying before I was again distracted by your lovely presence—I will always be available as a friend, more if you should ever need that. That is what I came to say.” He moved towards her as she made to rise from the chair. “No, please stay, Lady Catherine. I must lose some miles before dark.” He took her hand, forcefully as she did not offer it, and held it, his eyes locked with hers. “I knew your late husband, the Viscount Somervell. He was a fool. He deserved what he got.” Then he kissed her hand and released it. “Bon voyage, Lady Catherine.” He swept his hat from a chair. “Think of me sometimes.”

It was growing dark in the street outside, and long after the phaeton had clattered away, Catherine still sat in the damp, empty room looking at the door.

Like the words she had spoken to Richard this morning. They strike at you from every side. Sillitoe’s visit had put another edge to them.

She stood up, startled, as a dull bang echoed across the harbour. They did fire a gun, after all.

She stared at herself in a mirror with something like defiance. Richard would have to be told about the visit. There were others who would be only too willing. But not all of it. Another duel, as Belinda had once flung in her face? She shook her head very slowly and saw the confidence returning to her reflection.

Only death would ever come between them.

Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker settled himself once more in his chair and glanced briefly at his companions. He was still savouring the taste of fine cheese and the liberal glasses of port, finer than any he had lately enjoyed. It seemed to sustain him in this time of confrontation with his final duty, unpleasant though it would be. His mind lingered on it. But necessary.

He realised that the Judge Advocate was watching him patiently. The stage was set. He glanced at the accused, but the stocky rearadmiral’s face gave nothing away.

The men from the London and Portsmouth newspapers were present; the marine officer was behind Herrick’s chair, as if he had never moved throughout the whole trial.

He said, “Mr Cotgrave, I would like to be assured that Captain Hector Gossage is indeed fit to give his evidence.”

Cotgrave regarded him impassively. “The surgeon is here, Sir James.”

A surgeon from Haslar Hospital bobbed to the table. “I have presently examined Captain Gossage and am confident there has been an improvement, Sir James. He begs me to apologise for his behaviour before this Court, and I agree that he had been given too much to reduce his pain, and was not himself.”

Hamett-Parker gave a rare smile. It reminded Bolitho, who was watching every move with growing despair, of a fox about to pounce on a rabbit.

Hamett-Parker nodded. “Then we shall proceed.”

Captain Gossage walked from the rear of the visitors and barely needed the support of each row of chairs as he passed. He did not even seem to notice the curious stares which came from every side. Pity, understanding from his fellow captains, impatience too from those eager to see it finished one way or the other.

He bowed slightly to the officers of the Court and sat down gingerly in the same chair as before.

Bolitho watched as he shook his head to the offer of help from a hospital orderly.

The Judge Advocate asked, “Are you comfortable, Captain Gossage?”

Gossage moved painfully to hold the stump of his severed arm clear of the chair. “I am, sir.” Then he faced the admiral. “I can only ask the Court’s pardon for yesterday’s behaviour, Sir James. I barely knew what I was doing.”

The vice-admiral named Nevill nodded. “Only time can mend what you have suffered.” Some of the other officers beside him murmured in agreement.

Hamett-Parker said, “Then we will continue?”

Bolitho heard the sharpness in his tone. A man who obviously hated anyone else to offer an opinion.

A messenger came up the aisle between the chairs and placed some books on a table within Gossage’s reach.

He said, “My ship’s log and signal book, Sir James. Each portion of the engagement is recorded until we came to close-action.” His face was like stone. “When there was nobody left on the quarterdeck to attend to it. Even the admiral’s flag lieutenant had fallen by then.” He pouted, as Bolitho had seen him do in the past. “And I had been carried below to the orlop.”

Bolitho saw his remaining hand clutch his chair, reliving the nightmare, the agony, the sounds of hell itself.

Cotgrave said gently, “In your own words, Captain Gossage. The details of the log are already recorded.”

Gossage leaned back and closed his eyes. “I am able, thank you.” There was a bluntness in his tone. For these moments anyway, he was no longer a cripple; he was the flag captain again.

“After making contact with the brig Larne, and knowing the approximate position and bearing of the enemy, we decided to make all sail possible.”

Cotgrave prompted, “We decided?”

Gossage nodded and winced. “As flag captain I was always consulted, naturally, and you will already know that the same wind which brought Sir Richard Bolitho’s ships to our eventual relief, was opposing us and our convoy.”

Cotgrave darted a glance at his clerks; their quills were dashing back and forth across their papers. “And then, on the day when the enemy made its appearance, what was happening?”

Gossage replied, “There was a mist, and the convoy had become scattered overnight. But we had made good progress, and I knew that Larne was fast enough to pass word to the admiral.”

“Were you as surprised as Larne’s commander that it should be passed to Admiral Gambier, rather than to Sir Richard, the accused’s friend?”

Gossage considered it. “Admiral Gambier was in overall command. I can see no other alternative.”

Cotgrave turned over another paper. “Was there any discussion as to whether the convoy should scatter or disperse at this point?”

Gossage dabbed his face with his handkerchief; the pain was making him sweat badly.

“Yes, we discussed it. We had no frigate, the wind was against us; if the convoy had been broken up I believe it would have been destroyed piecemeal. Most of them were slow, deep-laden—an ill-matched collection if ever I saw one.” He did not conceal his bitterness. “Even the poor old Egret, our remaining escort, was a floating relic.”

Hamett-Parker snapped, “You cannot say that!”

Cotgrave gave a mild grin. “I am afraid he can, Sir James. Egret was a hulk even before the war began. She was refitted for less demanding duties.”

Gossage repeated, “She was a relic.”

Bolitho watched Herrick’s expression. He was staring at Gossage as if he could not believe what he had heard.

“And then?”

Gossage frowned. “RearAdmiral Herrick ordered a gun to be fired to hasten the convoy into a manageable line again, to keep station on one another. Then he insisted that I should order the signal to be spelled out, word by word, so that each master would know and understand the nearness of danger.”

“And what of your superior’s demeanour at that time?”

Gossage glanced at Herrick, his features completely empty of expression. “He was calm enough. There was no other alternative but to stand together and fight.” He lifted his chin slightly. “The Benbow has never run away. Nor would she.”

Bolitho watched Herrick’s face working with sudden emotion. Once he shook his head, but when asked if he wished to put a question to his past captain he wiped his eyes and remained silent.

Bolitho felt the tension rising around him like steam. Gossage’s simple, almost resigned words had changed everything. He was the man of the moment, the only man who had known what had really happened. Bolitho’s own description of what he had found when he had boarded the shattered flagship had acted like an introduction. Gossage had ended it.

Cotgrave folded his papers and cleared his throat. “I believe it is time for the Court to adjourn, Sir James.”

Bolitho looked over and saw Hamett-Parker staring at him, like that first time. There was no hint of justice being done. If anything, there was only fury.

“Remove the accused!”

Then the Court filed out.

Keen entered and found a seat beside him. “I still cannot understand! I am not deceived, am I, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho was glad he was with him. “You were not, Val. Gossage made no prior statement, he was too ill at the time. Perhaps this is his way.”

Keen still watched him with surprise. “But he owes RearAdmiral Herrick nothing, Sir Richard!”

“Have you never heard of revenge, Val?”

Someone whispered hoarsely, “They’re coming back.”

Gossage was standing in the shadows, drinking from a goblet which someone had brought for him. He looked tired and sick, yet unable to leave.

Hamett-Parker said flatly, “Marshal, do your duty.”

The Royal Marine officer picked up Herrick’s sword and after a small hesitation, laid it down again. It brought a great roar of gasps and excitement from the craning visitors. “The sword’s hilt was toward Herrick’s chair.”

“Bring in the accused.”

The footsteps halted abruptly beside Bolitho’s seat, and when he glanced round he saw Herrick, as white as a sheet, staring at the table as if he had been stricken by some terrible disease.

Cotgrave said, “RearAdmiral Herrick, you are discharged. The charges brought against you are dropped. They cannot be recommitted.”

Herrick stared round until he saw Gossage, then he said tonelessly, “Damn you to hell, Gossage. God rot you.”

Gossage raised the goblet in salute and leaning on the orderly’s arm, allowed himself to be guided to another door.

Keen said, “I must see the members of the Court to their boats, Sir Richard.” He turned anxiously. “Wait for me, please.”

But Allday was here, massive and frowning, his hat beneath his arm.

Bolitho touched Keen’s sleeve and shook his head.

To Allday he said, “Take me ashore, old friend. It’s all over.” He looked back at Herrick and saw some officers around him, their faces beaming with congratulations.

He could not see Herrick’s expression. He was still holding the sword in his hands like a man who had been cheated, and betrayed.

5

THE HAND OF A LADY

BRYAN FERGUSON opened the doors of the big grey house and beamed with pleasure.

“Captain Adam, of all people! When I saw you ride in just now I thought, well, for a moment …” He shook his head admiringly. “What a pity John Allday is not here to see you!”

Captain Adam Bolitho walked into the great room, his eyes taking in everything, noticing small changes. The hand of a lady.

He said, “I hear he has been in Portsmouth, Bryan.”

“You know of the court martial, sir?”

Adam walked to the great fireplace and touched the family crest above it. Remembering. Remembering so many things. How, when only fourteen years old, he had walked all the way from Penzance where his mother had died, with a scrap of paper and the name of the one man who would take care of him. This home was like his own. Sir Richard Bolitho had made certain it would be his one day, just as he had given him the family name.

He remembered what Ferguson had asked him. “Aye, the whole fleet must know by now.” He changed the subject. “I saw my uncle’s carriage in the stable yard. Is he here yet?”

Ferguson shook his head. “He will be sailing from Falmouth soon, so he sent his flag lieutenant on ahead to attend to things. Yovell came with him.”

He watched Adam as he moved restlessly about the room. He had looked so like Bolitho when he had ridden in. But the young man with hair as black as his uncle’s was only 27 with the single epaulette of captain on his right shoulder.

Adam saw the look and smiled. “It will be a pair this year, Bryan, if all goes well. I shall be posted in the autumn.”

Ferguson approved. So like his beloved uncle, he had gained his first command at the age of twenty-two or three. Now he captained a fine new frigate named Anemone.

Adam said, “I am ordered to the Irish Sea. There is privateer activity in those waters. We might call a few of them to action.”

Ferguson asked, “Can you stay until tomorrow? Sir Richard should be here by then—he sent word by post-boy this morning. I can tell Mrs Ferguson to prepare one of your favourites if …” He saw Adam’s eyes widen suddenly with surprise, or even shock.

Zenoria stood in the curve of the stairway and looked at him for several seconds. “Why, Captain Bolitho!” She laughed; she had seemed a young girl again when she had been frowning at the sound of voices. “What a family for surprises!” She offered her hand and he kissed it.

He said awkwardly, “I did not know, Mrs Keen …”

She smiled. “Please call me Zenoria. Lady Catherine has taught me the informality within this family.” She threw back her hair and laughed at his intent features. “Does command make that difficult?”

Adam had recovered a little. “Captain Keen must be thanking God every day for his good fortune.”