She saw him look towards the stair and said, “He’s not yet here. Perhaps the day after tomorrow. He’s sailing with Sir Richard.”

“Oh, I see.”

Ferguson said, “Mrs Keen will be staying with us, Captain Adam.”

She walked into the adjoining room and gestured towards the tall ranks of leather-bound books. “Unlike you, Adam,” she hesitated over his name, “I had little education but what my father gave me.”

Adam smiled, but his tone was sad as he answered, “I lived in a slum until my mother died. She had nothing but her body, which she gave to her ‘gentlemen’ in order to keep us alive.” He dropped his eyes. “I—I am so sorry, Zenoria, I did not mean to be offensive. I want anything but that.”

She touched his arm and said quietly, “I am the one to apologise. It seems that life was hard for both of us at the beginning.”

He looked at her hand on his cuff, Keen’s ring shining dully in the bars of sunshine.

He said, “I am glad you are to stay here. Perhaps I might call, if my ship is in harbour?”

She walked to the windows and gazed out at the garden and beyond to the hillside.

“How can you ask?” She turned, framed against the trees, her eyes laughing at him. “It is your house, is it not?”

Ferguson left the room and found his wife, the housekeeper here, discussing vegetables with the cook.

“How is he, Bryan? Will he stay awhile?”

The cook made some excuse and went back to her kitchen and Ferguson said, “I think he will stay, Grace.” He turned and heard the girl laughing, for girl was all she was. “I just hope Sir Richard comes soon.” To himself he added, and Lady Catherine. She would know what to do.

His wife smiled. “All together again. A proper home once more. I’ll go and see to things.”

Ferguson stared after her plump figure, remembering how she had nursed and cared for him when he had come home from the war with an arm missing.

If only it could be as Grace believed. But one day, inevitably, the news would come. He glanced up at the nearest portrait by the stairs, Captain David Bolitho, who had died fighting pirates off the African shores. He was wearing the family sword. It had been new then, and made to his own design. Like all the other portraits, he was waiting for the last Bolitho to join them. It saddened Ferguson greatly, but perhaps he would not live to see it. He followed the voices to the library and saw Captain Adam offering Zenoria his arm as a prop while she stood on some small steps to examine books which had probably not been disturbed for years.

My God, he thought, they look so right together. The realisation shocked him more than he had believed possible.

Adam turned and saw him. “I shall be staying awhile, Bryan. My worthy first lieutenant can use the experience!”

Ferguson could say nothing to Grace; and anyway she would not believe him. She saw good in almost everybody.

Allday, then? But he would not be here to offer advice or reassurance once the ship had sailed for the Cape.

Adam did not even see Ferguson leave. “As you are already wearing riding habit, may I take you up to the castle? It will give us both an appetite suitable for Mrs Ferguson’s table!”

Footsteps came through the hallway, and he saw lieutenant Jenour staring at him uncertainly.

Adam shook his hand warmly. “You look weary, Stephen!” He waited for the girl to put a book back on its shelf, his eyes never leaving her. “But you are my uncle’s flag lieutenant so you do not have to explain. I was that too, some years back.”

He called, “Come, Zenoria, I’ll fetch the horses!”

She paused by Jenour. “Is everything settled, Stephen?”

“I think so. It is rumoured that RearAdmiral Herrick has been discharged, cleared of all the accusations. I still do not properly understand.”

She put her hand on his. “I am glad, if it is true—for Sir Richard’s sake especially. I know he was very disturbed about it.” She raised her riding crop and called, “I’m coming, Adam! You are all impatience, sir!”

Jenour watched them leave, his young mind busy on several matters at once. But one thing stood out like a navigation beacon on a cliff. He had not seen Keen’s wife so happy before.

Yovell appeared through a small door, his jaw working on something he had borrowed from the kitchen.

“Ah, there you are, Yovell …” The little vignette of the girl and the young captain vanished from his thoughts. A flag lieutenant never had enough time in any day to keep his admiral’s affairs in motion.

Allday paused on a narrow track and settled down with his back against a slate wall. When he was home from sea and had a spare moment he often came to this quiet place to be alone with his thoughts. He gave a tired grin. And with a good stone bottle of rum. He began to fill his pipe, and waited for the sea breeze to soften before lighting it. He could see the whole span of Falmouth Bay from here; it was not that far from the farm where he had been working as a sheep-minder when the press-gang from Bolitho’s ship Phalarope had eventually caught up with him, and, although he had had no way of knowing it, changed his life forever.

They had been back from Portsmouth for two days, and it was no surprise to find that the news of Herrick’s court martial was already common gossip. He swallowed some rum and wedged the bottle carefully between his legs. Now it was off to sea again. Strange to wake up each day without the squeal of calls, the Spithead Nightingales as the Jacks called them. No gun and sail drills to send the feet stamping and the topmen clambering aloft, one mast racing the next for the best performance. He would be a passenger this time. The thought might have amused him, but for the other sadness which hung heavily upon him. He had told Bryan Ferguson, his oldest friend, about it; but nobody else. It was strange, but he had had the feeling that Ferguson had been about to confide in him in turn about something, but had decided to let the matter drop.

Allday had seen his son John Bankart on his return from Portsmouth. He had once been so proud of the lad, especially as he had not even known of his existence for years. When his son had been appointed as Captain Adam’s coxswain, Allday’s pride had expanded even further.

Now Bankart was out of the navy, and Captain Adam had arranged it; he had said that he had known he would be killed if he remained with the fleet. But there was worse to come. His son had got himself married. They had not waited for Allday to come home. They had not even written to him. He could not read at all well, but Ozzard would have read a letter for him. Allday listened to the breeze as it hissed through the long grass, while some gulls wheeled and screamed against a clear sky. The spirits of dead sailormen, some said.

He had lost his temper when his son had added insult to injury by telling him that he and his bride had been offered work and security across the Western Ocean in America.

“Life’s fresher, different over there.” He had exclaimed angrily, “A new chance—somewhere we can raise a family without a war raging at our gates year in, year out!”

Allday swallowed another wet of rum and swore under his breath. “We had to fight them buggers once, my lad, and by God we’ll be doing it again one o’ these days, you just see!” He had left their cottage with one last shot. “You, a Yankee? An Englishman you was born, an Englishman you dies, an’ that’s no error!”

The rum and the warm air were making him drowsy. He shook himself and began to refill his pipe. Young Adam’s Anemone would be under way by now. She would make a fine sight when she tacked around Pendennis Point. He grinned, impatient with himself. Must be moonstruck or something. How could he still get excited at the sight of a rakish frigate after all the things he had seen?

He thought suddenly of Lady Catherine. He did not know how she had done it but during the long haul from Portsmouth she had brought some light back to Bolitho’s grey eyes again.

It would be strange to be sailing with them … just as well Ozzard and Yovell were going too. All mates together. Who would have thought it could ever happen to him? His head lolled and his pipe fell across the rum bottle and broke in pieces.

His skull grated against the rough wall and he struggled up into a sitting position again.

The sea was still bright and empty, and the gulls as querulous and noisy as before.

Then he was on his feet, his head bent like an old dog as he strained his ears, ready for when it came again.

Not gulls this time. It was a scream. A woman terrified for her life.

Allday loped along the wall, his head down, cursing himself for being unarmed without even a toy dirk.

There was a loose piece of slate, heavy and sharp, like some ancient axe-head; he seized it as he passed.

The scream came again. Allday clambered over the wall and stared down at the narrow lane that wound towards the bay like a little gully.

There were two men, and they did not even hear him. A cart loaded with boxes and personal possessions drawn by a small donkey was stopped in the lane, and the woman was being held by one of the men, a tall, bearded ruffian who was twisting her arms up her back while she struggled. The other one, who had his back to Allday, was equally rough and dirty, but there was no mistaking his intentions as he said harshly, “Now let’s see what else she’s got, Billy!” He began to pull at the front of her clothes while his companion twisted her arms still further, so that she screamed again.

“Not now, matey!” Allday waited until the man swung round, judging the exact moment. The heavy piece of slate hit the man’s forehead just above the eye and Allday heard the bone crack like a rotten nut. He had a vague picture of the other man taking to his heels while the woman tried to cover her breasts, her eyes wide with terror and stunned disbelief.

“S’all right, m’dear.” He bent over the inert shape and hit it again. “Gallows bait.” But it was not all right. The pain thrust through his chest like red-hot iron, so that he could neither breathe nor cry out.

Suddenly she was bending over him, lifting his shaggy head on to her knees while she gasped, “What is it? I must help!”

He wanted to calm her, to make it safe for her. Of all times. His mind cringed as the pain stabbed again, worse than before. He could see it as if he was still there on that bloody island. The Spanish sword, and Bolitho trying to fight off his attackers.

Not here. Not this way.

He looked up at her. A nice face. A real woman. He tried to speak again, but the pain tightened its grip. She repeated, “I must get help!”

He lifted one hand and watched it come to rest on her shoulder. She was trembling. Then he heard himself mutter, “Behind that wall …” To his own ears he sounded quite as usual, but he was not, and she had to bend right over him to hear. She smelled of lilac, he thought stupidly. “Rum.”

She backed away, avoiding the body with the outflung arms.

Allday tried to stare at the sun. The Cap’n must not know. He would make him come ashore, leave him on the beach while he went off somewhere.

She was back, and he felt her bare arm under his head, lifting him. Her eyes were anxious, unsure.

Allday swallowed hard and she dabbed his mouth with the hem of her dress. “Better,” he managed to murmur. “A nice wet. Nelson’s blood, they’re calling it now.”

She gripped his shoulder and whispered, “Horses.”

Allday felt the tall shadows pass over him and saw the gleam of buttons. Authority. Two coastguards making their way to town.

One of them dismounted and bent down on the dirt lane. “John, you old rogue, what’ve you been up to this time?” But his eyes were troubled. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

She knelt beside him, staring at Allday’s face. “He saved me. There were two of them.”

The coastguard observed her torn clothing and the laden cart with professional interest. “Footpads. Deserters most likely.” He loosened a pistol in his belt. “Ride to the squire’s house, Ned, it’s nearer. I’ll stay here in case that vermin comes back.”

His companion watched from his horse as he stooped over the body.

“Dead, is he?”

His friend grinned. “No. The squire will be pleased. Someone else for him to dangle at the roadside!”

The mounted man called, “There goes the Anemone, Tom. What a sight, eh?”

It seemed to rouse Allday, and he gasped, “Must see. Must get up!”

The other coastguard spurred his horse into a trot. “I’ll be off then.” He looked down at Allday as the fight went out of him. “And you, John Allday, behave yourself until someone comes. I’d not dare face Vice-Admiral Bolitho if owt happened to you!”

The woman held up an apron to keep the sun from his eyes.

“John Allday.” She sounded dazed. “I know of you, sir. My late husband served in your ship.”

Allday sensed it was important. “What ship, ma’am? I expect I’d remember him.”

But he already knew. The ship that would not die.

In a small voice she said, “The one they still sing about. The old Hyperion.”

Lady Catherine Somervell watched while Ferguson supervised the loading of chests and boxes into a carriage outside the front porch. By the cold fireplace Bolitho was scanning yet another official letter from the Admiralty, his features giving nothing away. She could watch him for hours, she thought, sharing his concern for so many things, the warmth of his company when they were alone together. His love for her above all else.

She said, “The post-boys must be wearing out every horse between here and Whitehall.” She crossed to his side. “What is it?”

He looked at her but his eyes were distant, absent in thought. “Thomas Herrick. It seems they have offered him an immediate appointment in the West Indies. It does not say exactly where, but they certainly wasted no time.”

She slipped her hand through his arm. “That is good, surely. For him, I mean.”

He smiled. “It is often said that a court martial will either make or break a man.”

She heard Allday laughing in the courtyard. He seemed entirely changed, his earlier gloom dispersed, but as yet she did not know the reason for either of his moods.

“Why did Herrick act as he did? I still cannot understand.”

Bolitho recalled Captain Gossage’s slow, deliberate evidence, his apparent support for everything Herrick had done.

He replied, “I believe it was Gossage’s revenge. To make Thomas live with his guilt, rather than see him destroyed, or allowed the peace only death could bring him.”

He sensed her surprise and said gently, “He is not the man I once knew.” He looked up at the portraits. “Nor would I be, without you.”

She guided him to the window. “I shall miss this place, Richard. But it will be here … waiting for us. We shall not be separated this time.” She thought of her dismay when she had seen Adam walking with Zenoria, when they had finally reached Falmouth. She glanced at Bolitho’s profile and embraced his arm with hers; he still suspected nothing. Adam had left to rejoin his ship almost immediately. Now Keen was here, although she had barely seen him in any attitude of intimacy with his bride.

Bolitho asked, “What is it, Kate? Are you troubled?”

She laughed, letting it break the tension that these last days had given her. “I just want to be gone, my love. Before something else bursts in to disturb you!”

Allday passed the door and saw them embrace by the window. He found Yovell checking one of his lists, making sure that nothing had been overlooked.

“D’you recall a master’s mate named Jonas Polin?”

Yovell peered over his small spectacles. “Yes, I do. I used to pass the time with him. A Devon man like myself.” He frowned. “Why does his name come to mind? He went down with the old ship.”

Allday sat on a chest while Ozzard forced down the lock.

“I met his widow yesterday. A trim little craft, an’ no mistake.”

Yovell eyed him severely. “I heard about you going to someone’s rescue on the cliff lane. Tom the coastguard was full of it. They caught the other man, by the way—the dragoons ran him to earth. He told me something else too, John. About you.”

“If you dare to squeak a breath of it to Sir Richard, I’ll …”

He grinned, knowing that Yovell would say nothing about his collapse on the road.

“Tell me about poor Jonas Polin’s widow.”

Allday said, “She was going to Fallowfield. Don’t know it meself.”

Yovell smiled. “I’m the foreigner here, and I’m the only one who seems to know where places are!” He folded his arms across his rotund body and looked at Allday thoughtfully. This was special. Serious too.

“It’s on this side of the Helford River, near Rosemullion Head. Tiny place, just farm folk and a few fishermen. Why would she be going there? Old Jonas was a Brixham man, good Devon stock.”

Allday said cautiously, “Nice little inn in Fallowfield, the Stag’s Head, to all accounts.”

“Was, more like. The place has been almost derelict for a year or so.”

“It won’t be no more, Daniel. She’s bought it. Going to bring it to life again.” Her words still echoed in his ears. You will always be welcome, Mr Allday.

Yovell folded his list and put it in his pocket. “She could do that. It’s a long, long march to the Royal George in the next village.” He seemed to make up his mind, and to Allday’s surprise he crossed over to him and gripped his hand.

“I wish you luck, John. God knows you’ve been hurt often enough, and I don’t necessarily mean by the Frogs.”

Ozzard looked up from his knees, but he said nothing and could not smile. The thought of a woman’s body brought the memory back instantly, its horror as stark as ever. The room in Wapping. The screams, the blood: hacking and hacking until there was only silence.

Ferguson left them to it and went back into the house, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. He had seen Keen crossing the garden alone, and turned away to avoid him. He kept telling himself it was nothing to do with him, or with anyone else, but the thought only made him feel more guilty.

A little later Tojohns, Keen’s own coxswain, came through the door and touched his hat to Bolitho.

“Beg pardon, Sir Richard.” He avoided glancing at the admiral’s lady and swallowed hard. Being here in the same house, sharing it all with the two people who were the talk of London and most seaports, was like being with royalty. “Word’s come from the town. The ship is about to anchor in Carrick Road.”

Bolitho smiled. He was suddenly excited, sharing it with her, like some midshipman with his heart on his sleeve.

“We shall board her tomorrow. Ask Stephen to deal with it.”

He looked round as Keen climbed the worn stone steps. What was he thinking? Was he already regretting handing over Black Prince to another? Was he measuring the value of promotion against leaving his young bride here in Falmouth?

Bolitho said, “Tomorrow, Val.”

“I’m ready, Sir Richard. A captain without a ship, but still …”

“Did someone say that the ship is here?” Zenoria came in from the library. Her eyes immediately went to her husband.

Bolitho said kindly, “It will not be forever. But I think Val is doing the best for his future, and for yours. A hard choice.” He looked at Catherine. “But it always is. Only the unhappy find no pain in parting.”

Zenoria stared from one to the other. “I am sorry, Sir Richard, but I did not know it was his choice. I thought my husband was under orders to take this appointment upon himself.”

Bolitho said, “It is the navy’s way, Zenoria.” To break the sudden tension he said to Keen, “Will you walk with me a while, Val? I have had more news from the Admiralty.”

When they were alone Catherine put her arm around the girl’s shoulders, and said softly, “Try to love him as he loves you. He needs to know, to be told. All men do. He is a good man, decent and trusting … he must never have that trust tarnished.”

Zenoria said nothing but faced her. There were tears in her eyes. “I am trying, Catherine. I have tried so hard …”

Catherine heard more footsteps as boxes were hoisted in readiness for loading into the carriage.

“Go to him now. Care for your man as I care for mine.” Her fine dark eyes were suddenly blurred. I love him so much I fear for his every move. Those he has tried to help turn their backs on him, and his true friends are fathoms deep in one ocean or another. But it is his life, and so I knew when I gave myself to him. And yet … there are times when I awake and find him gone, and I think my heart will break …

She saw Allday watching them and said brightly, “And what is this I am hearing about you? A secret love, the rescue of a maid in distress?”

Allday grinned. He did not know how he knew, but he realised he had arrived at just the right time.

Valentine Keen walked through the shadows, his shoes slipping on damp grass. There must have been a heavy dew overnight, he thought, but now the garden was alive with birdsong at every level. It would be dawn quite soon, whereas the land beyond this place was still hidden in mystery. He could smell the sea in the soft wind shaking the leaves around them, giving him a sense of urgency, even despair.

He tightened his arm around Zenoria’s slim shoulders and thought of the night here, the last for some time in England. He thrust the other thought from his mind: what every sailor, admiral or common seaman, had to consider each time his ship weighed anchor. It could be the last, forever.

A robin darting through the grass, revealed only by a swaying mass of daffodils, gave its lively, trilling call.

Keen said, “It is almost time.” They paused at the old wall as if by some unspoken agreement. “You will take care while I am away? I leave you in good hands, I know, but …”

She rested her head against his shoulder, and he drew her more closely to him. He said, “I love you so much, Zenoria—and I am so afraid of failing you.”

In her eyes he saw the first faint daylight. “How could you fail me, after all that you did for me? But for you …” She fell silent as he touched her mouth with his fingers.

“Don’t think of then. Think of now. Think of us. I need your love so desperately … and I fear that I might drive you away. I am so … clumsy. I know so little. I find you one moment, and the next you are gone and a gulf yawns between us.”

She took his arm and turned him back along the winding path, her gown brushing against the stones, wet with dew.

“It has been difficult for me also, but not through lack of affection for you. Don’t think of then, you said. But how can I not? It comes back, and I am in terror again.” She hesitated. “I want to give myself, completely. When I see Sir Richard and his Catherine together I can hardly bear to watch them. Their love is something alive, beautiful …”

“You are lovely too, Zenoria.”

He laid his face against hers and felt tears on her cheek.

“I cannot bear to leave you like this.”

As if to mock his words, they heard horses being led unhurriedly from the stables. The carriage would be waiting.

He tightened his hold, caressing her hair. The light was growing; there was a bright smudge out there, like a careless brushstroke. The first view of the sea beyond Pendennis Point.

She whispered, “I want to please you … like the girl you once had in the South Seas.”

Keen said, “I never touched her, but I did love her. When she died I thought I could never … would never be able to love someone again.”

“I know. That is why I despair that I cannot give you my body … as you deserve.”

Keen heard Allday talking with Ferguson. So, if the rumour was true, he had found a woman to love, or one who had treated him with kindness after what he had done.

And I am losing mine.

She said, “Please write to me, Val. I will never stop thinking of you … wondering where you are, what you are doing …”

“Yes. I will.” More movement, the tread on stone steps he knew so well; he could hear him speaking with Catherine. Waiting for himself, perhaps.

“I must go, Zenoria.”

“Cannot I come to the harbour and see you leave?” She sounded like a child again.

“A harbour is the loneliest place when you are being separated.” He kissed her, with passion and gentleness, on the mouth. “I love you so.”

Then he turned and walked out of the garden.

There was only Allday by the gate, looking at the land. Keen’s own coxswain had gone ahead to the vessel with Ozzard and Yovell. Ferguson came out of the dark doorway and held out his hand. “Goodbye, Captain. We shall take good care of your lady. Don’t stay away too long.”

In his despair Keen thought even that sounded like a warning.

He climbed into the carriage and sat beside the flag lieutenant, his coat sticking to the damp leather seats.

Catherine leaned against the window and whispered, “Farewell, old house! Be patient for us!” Her maid Sophie looked at her curiously: to her this was all a great adventure.

The carriage swayed as Allday clambered up beside Matthew, then, finally, the whip cracked, and the iron-shod wheels clattered across the cobbles.

Amongst the daffodils a young girl watched as the first sunlight touched the back of the carriage.

She wanted to cry, for her heart was breaking. But nothing came.

6

THE GOLDEN PLOVER

“THERE SHE LIES!” Bolitho leaned forward and pointed at the vessel which was to carry them all the way to the Cape, his eyes agleam with professional interest.

Allday grunted. “Barquentine.” He squinted as a shaft of watery sunlight played upon the gilt gingerbread around her poop and her name, also in gold across her raked counter. “What’s she called, Sir Richard? My eyes are playing up again.”

Bolitho glanced at him warmly. He knew that Allday could not read properly, but he could memorise the shape of a ship’s name and never forget it. We are both shamming. “She’s the Golden Plover.” They grinned at one another like conspirators. “At one time with the old Royal Norfolk Packet Company.”

Catherine watched the private exchange between them, and was surprised how such things could move her. And this time they were together. Sharing it; or as she had said to him this morning while they had watched the dawn, and Keen had been walking in the garden, it will be Love in the guise of duty.

It was strange for Bolitho to approach any vessel without some official reception at the entry port. There were several men aloft, and the barquentine’s tan sails were flapping loosely, like a bird preparing for flight. He recognised Ozzard’s small figure beside that of a great hulk of a man whom he guessed was Samuel Bezant, the vessel’s master. Unlike most of Golden Plover’s company he had been in his command even before the vessel had come under Admiralty warrant, in those early days when the Terror and the daily slaughter at the guillotines had made the squares of France run with blood.

The masters of these packet-ships, like those of the famous Falmouth fleet, were truly professional sailors. From England to the Americas, Jamaica and the Caribbean, the Spanish Main, and now on to the Cape of Good Hope. Once in Admiralty service most of them had been fitted out with more cabin space for officials—officers and sometimes their wives—ordered to the far-flung corners of the King’s growing empire.

Bolitho had been told that Golden Plover had begun her life as a barque, but had been cut down to her present, more manageable rig so that she could sail almost into the wind, but with fewer hands needed to trim and reset her sails. Only on the foremast, which still flew the old company pendant, was she square-rigged. On her main and mizzen she carried huge fore-and-aft sails which, for the most part, could be handled from the deck.

Keen twisted round just before the boat pulled past the vessel’s stern, when he would lose sight of the jetty.

Catherine saw it too, the pain in his searching gaze, as if he still expected to see Zenoria there with the others: the idlers, the old sailors and the ones with the precious protection that kept them free of the King’s ships.

She said quietly, “You are everything to her, Val. All she needs is time.”

There was a frigate at anchor nearby, scarlet-coated marines watching suspiciously as the shore-boats crowded around her. Wares for the sailors. Knives, baccy, pipes; anything that might ease the harsh reality of discipline and danger.

She touched her breast but her heart was steady again. She had thought it might be Adam’s Anemone. But it was not. She could understand well enough how easily they might be drawn to one another. Both from the West Country, both with bitter memories to plague them. She looked at Bolitho’s strong profile and wanted to touch him. Their ages were closer too. But love, or more to the point, the danger of love, was something quite different.

She tightened the cord which drew the dark green hood over her hair. People had often remarked on her own age, that she was younger than Richard. She suddenly felt angry. Well, let them, damn them. At least he would be free of all that for a time.

The bowman shipped his oar and hooked on to the chains, while two seamen leaped lightly into the boat to attach tackles to the remaining boxes. The huge figure of the master did not move until Catherine had been assisted up the side, then he said in a thick voice, “Welcome aboard Golden Plover—” He doffed a battered hat from a mass of shaggy grey hair. “Er—my lady!”

She saw Sophie watching with obvious excitement, quite delighted at Samuel Bezant’s discomfort.

She smiled. “She’s a fine-looking ship.” Then, sharing the moment, she tugged the cord free and tossed the hood back over her shoulders. The men working by the mizzen-mast turned to stare; another dropped a belaying pin which brought an instant threat from a boatswain’s mate.

Bezant turned from her to Bolitho. “Y’see, Sir Richard, I was only told the rest of my orders when your lieutenant came aboard.”

Bolitho said, “So everything is now clear?”

The big man turned and frowned at his lovely passenger, her hair now released to the offshore wind.

“Just that most of my men have not been ashore for an eternity, Sir Richard, an’ they’re untried with the likes of a real lady. I’d not trust some of the knotheads further than I could pitch a kedge-anchor!”

She looked across at him, her eyes laughing. “And what of you, Captain? How much can you be trusted?”

Bezant’s rough features were brick-red from a liberal mixture of ocean gales and brandy.

If not, Bolitho thought, he would have been blushing.

The master nodded slowly. “I fair requested that, m’lady. But I thought it right to warn you, their language an’ the like.”

She walked to the unprotected wheel and ran her fingers along one of the spokes.

“We are in your hands, Captain Bezant. I am certain we shall get along famously.”

Bezant wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and said, “If you are ready, Sir Richard? I’d like to up-anchor, for the tide in this port has a nasty way of showing displeasure.”

Bolitho smiled. “I was born here. But I’d still not take the moods of Carrick Road for granted!”

He heard the man give a sigh of relief as his passengers were guided down the companion ladder, where, despite the lack of headroom, the cabin was remarkably spacious and comfortable.

Ozzard said, “I have the use of the pantry and lazaret, Sir Richard—what with all the pots and jars her ladyship brought down from London, I’ll see you don’t starve.” Even he seemed pleased to be leaving. Or was he still running away from something?

Catherine closed the slatted door of the cabin that had been made ready for them and looked around with sudden uncertainty.

Bolitho wondered if she was thinking of that other time at sea, when her husband Luis had been killed. The ship in which they had been taking passage had been attacked by Barbary pirates; Bolitho could still remember the white-hot anger when she had turned on him, cursing him for allowing it to happen. But her love had burned even more brightly when Fate had touched them.

She rested her hand on one of the swinging cots and smiled. When she faced him he saw the pulse beating in her throat, the sudden mischief in her dark eyes.

“I long to cross the ocean with you, dearest of men. But sleep in one of these coffins?” She laughed, and someone outside the door stopped to listen. “On certain nights the deck will suffice!”

As he took her in his arms they heard the faint cry, “Anchor’s hove short!”

The regular clink of a windlass, the stamp of bare feet as seamen rushed to braces and halliards, the sudden thump of the tiller-head as the helm was put over in readiness.

She whispered into his hair, “The music of the sea. A ship coming alive … It means so much to you.” When she raised her head her eyes were shining with emotion. “Now, for once I will share them.” Her mood changed again. “Let us go on deck, Richard. A last look.” She paused, as though unwilling to say it. “Just in case …”

“Anchor’s aweigh!”

They staggered to the companion-way, reaching out for support as the lively barquentine broke free of the ground and leaned hard over like a frigate.

Bezant stood with his legs braced apart like trees, his eyes flit-ting from peak to compass, to the flapping jib until like the other canvas it filled out taut to the wind.

Catherine slipped her arm through Bolitho’s and watched the great pile of Pendennis Castle begin to move abeam. The deck was already lifting to the lively water of the Channel.

Men from the foremast slid down the stays and came bustling aft to assist the others at the mizzen, where the great driver swung out over the dancing spray until it, too, was sheeted home.

There would be much gossip between decks when the watch was piped below. The officer who had thrown his reputation in society to the wind, for the love of this lady with the streaming hair, and the laugh on her mouth and in her eyes.

The ship changed tack again, and the sea boiled over the scuppers until the wheel brought her under command once more.

But as Bezant later remarked to his mate, “For all them two cared, they could have been the only souls aboard!”

Richard Bolitho went on deck as the evening sun began to dip, and transform the sea from shark-blue to a shimmering rusty-red. There was no sight of land, but the gulls still lingered hopefully, gliding around the hull or perching sometimes on the foremast yards.

Three days outward bound from Falmouth, and already the Golden Plover had displayed her speed, and the responding pride of her shaggy-haired master.

The two helmsmen stood, bare feet splayed on the deck, their eyes moving occasionally from compass to the driver’s quivering peak. Neither glanced at Bolitho.

Maybe they were getting used to their passengers, he thought, or perhaps it was because like Keen and Jenour he had discarded his uniform coat, and was more recognisable as an ordinary man.

Three days, and already they were well past the hazards of Biscay, where just once the masthead lookout had called down to report a man-of-war’s upper yards on the horizon. Samuel Bezant had immediately altered course away from it, and confided to Bolitho that he cared not whether it was friend or foe. Either could bring the attention of another, and his orders were to stand away from involvement with the blockading squadron.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Sir Richard, but any flagship will call on me to lie-to on some pretext or another.”

Of the enemy he had said almost scornfully, “Many’s the time my Plover’s outsailed even a frigate. She’s broad in the beam, but so too is she deep-keeled, and can come about in most weather better than any other!”

Bezant was here now, in deep discussion with his mate, another wild-looking man by the name of Jeff Lincoln.

Bolitho crossed the deck to join them. “You are making a fair speed.”

Bezant studied him carefully as if it might be taken as a complaint.

“Aye, Sir Richard, I’m well pleased. We should anchor at Gibraltar in two days.”

Like most masters he might have put into Madeira, even Lisbon, to replenish stores at more favourable prices. But it made good sense to keep away. With the French in occupation of Portugal it was possible they might have landed on some of the islands too. Golden Plover was well-stocked and had only a small company to supply rather than the mass of hands required for any King’s ship; she could enjoy the luxury of long passages while keeping away from danger. There was always concern about fresh water, but Bezant had his own sources on lesser-known islands if for any reason the wind and weather turned against them.

The mere mention of Gibraltar seemed to squeeze Bolitho’s heart like an icy hand. Where he had landed after losing Hyperion. How many, many memories linked him still to that old ship.

“I’ll not be sorry to get under way again from the Rock, Sir Richard. It is in our best interest to keep well clear of the land—a thousand eyes watch the comings and goings of every vessel there. Sometimes I feel more like a pirate than a packet-master!”

“Deck there!”

They looked up at the masthead, where only the topsail was still in bright sunshine. The lookout was pointing with one arm, like a bronze figure in a church.

“Sail to the nor’-east!”

Bezant hardly seemed to need to raise his voice. “You keep watching that ‘un, Billy!” To Bolitho he added carelessly, “Probably one o’ your ships, Sir Richard. Either way, I shall lose him after dark.”

“What cargo do you carry?”

Bezant seemed to shy away. “Well, seeing it’s you, I suppose …” He looked at him with sudden determination, as if it was something which had been uppermost in his mind from the moment he had received his orders. “It’s another reason I don’t need to draw attention to Plover’s whereabouts.” He took a deep breath. “It’s gold. Pay for the army at Cape Town. Now, with such an important passenger aboard for good measure I feel the stuff is burning a hole right through the keel.”

He added with sudden bitterness, “I don’t know why they can’t send a man-o’-war, a frigate or the like. Those fellows are used to looking for trouble. I’m paid to stay out of it.”

Bolitho thought of the growing pressure for action against the French in Portugal, Spain eventually as well, if Napoleon continued to mount pressure against his old ally.

He heard himself say, “Because there are not enough such vessels.” He smiled, remembering his father. “There never were.”

There was a light step at the companion-way and Bolitho saw the waif-like figure of Sophie watching him, holding on to a handrail as if her life depended on it. Even though the Bay of Biscay had been kinder than usual, Sophie had taken it badly and had been sick for a whole day. Now she was her lively self again, her eyes, bright with curiosity, reflecting the dying sunlight. She must be finding all this very different from the Jewish tailor’s shop in far-off Whitechapel.

“Supper’s ready, Sir Richard. I was sent to fetch you, like …”

Catherine had been explaining to the girl how she should be careful where she went on board the Golden Plover.

Bolitho had heard her whisper in reply without any sort of shyness, “Oh, I knows about men, me lady. I’ll watch me step right enough!”

The cabin looked welcoming, the deckhead lantern already fit and spiralling with each plunge of the stem. Keen was in quiet conversation with Catherine, and Jenour was apparently writing at a small, beautifully-carved desk. It could have a story to tell, he thought; it had probably been made by a ship’s carpenter, like some of his own furniture at Falmouth.

He paused and glanced over Jenour’s shoulder. But it was not an addition to yet another long letter to his parents; it was a sketch. Men washing down the foredeck, a gull with flapping wings perched on the bulwark screeching for food.

Jenour became aware of his shadow and looked up. He immediately blushed.

“Just a drawing to put in with the letter, Sir Richard.” He attempted to put it away but Bolitho picked it up and studied it with care. “Just a drawing, Stephen? I think it is quite excellent.”

He felt Catherine slip her hand under his arm as she moved across the gently swaying deck.

She said, “I’ve already told him so—I have asked him to do a portrait of you and me.” Their eyes met and it was as before, as if the cabin were otherwise empty. “Together.”

Bolitho smiled. Her eyes seemed to caress him. “He is far better at it than being a flag lieutenant!”

Ozzard waited for them to be seated, then joined Sophie in the pantry ready to serve them.

Catherine said, “How every woman would envy me. Three handsome sea officers, and nobody else to share them!” She looked at Bolitho and saw his change of expression. “Tell me, Richard, what is wrong?”

Jenour forgot his embarrassment and his inner pleasure, and Keen was suddenly alert and all attention, as if he were himself in command of this vessel.

Bolitho said quietly, “I believe we are being followed. The master says not, but I have a feeling about it.”

Keen remarked, “I have rarely known your feelings to mislead you, sir.”

Catherine watched him from the opposite end of the table, wanting to be close to him, to share the sudden intrusion.

She asked, “Why? Because of us?”

Bolitho glanced at the pantry hatch and said, “We are carrying enough gold to pay the whole of the military at Cape Town.” He heard the clatter of plates and murmured, “Tomorrow, Val, I shall want all your experience. Take a glass and go aloft. Tell me what you see.” He hesitated. “My eye may try to deceive me.” He turned to Catherine and saw her dismay. “I am all right, Catherine.” He looked away as Ozzard entered, the girl with serving dishes behind him. I have to be.

True to his word Samuel Bezant, master of the Golden Plover, dropped anchor beneath the Rock’s towering protection just two days after sighting the strange vessel astern.

Bolitho sent Keen and Jenour ashore to offer his compliments to the port admiral but decided to remain in the comparative privacy of the poop. Catherine stood beside him staring up at the great wedge-shape of Gibraltar and said, “I wish we could walk there together.” She gave a small sigh. “But you are right to stay here. Especially if you still believe that sighting the other vessel was no accident.”

Keen had climbed aloft with his telescope and had reported seeing the topmasts and yards of a small, two-masted ship, very likely a brig. But a sea-mist had closed over the horizon and when it cleared the other craft, like a will-o’-the-wisp, had vanished; nor had she been sighted again.

Bolitho ran his hand down her spine and felt her stiffen. He said quietly, “I cannot bear to leave you alone.”

She faced him, her lips slightly parted. “What would they think if they came here and found us … well, found us?” She laughed and moved from his reach. “But I love being here with you. Even at home you are still the King’s officer. Here you are forced to stand aside and allow others to do the planning and sail the ship as they must … and there is time for us. I see you at peace; you reading your Shakespeare aloud to me in the evenings—you make it come alive. And you smoke your pipe, something you rarely do, even at Falmouth. It stirs me with need and desire at the same time.”

“Are they not the same?”

Her chin lifted and she looked at him straight in the eyes. “I will show you the difference when …”

But a boat thudded alongside and shortly afterwards Bezant came aft to report on his visit ashore. He looked troubled, even angry.

“The port admiral would take no refusals and threatened to make his displeasure known to the Admiralty with the next mail-packet.”

He glanced uncomfortably at Catherine who said, “You may speak in front of me, Captain. I am no stranger to bad news.”

Bezant shrugged. “I am ordered to take twelve prisoners to Cape Town. This is no vessel for such miserable work.”

Bolitho asked, “What kind of prisoners?”

Bezant was already rearranging things in his mind. “Oh, just army deserters, Sir Richard, not true felons. They are said to have decided to hide aboard a transport when it left Cape Town. They decided to run, rather than remain out there.”

Bolitho barely remembered the port admiral but knew from his reputation that sending these soldiers back to their regiment would be his idea of justice. It was not his province to imprison them until another ship called, which could better accommodate them.

Catherine asked quietly, “What will happen?”

Bezant sighed. “They’ll be hanged if they’re lucky, m’lady. I once witnessed the army’s idea of field punishment.” He looked at Bolitho and added, “Like a flogging round the fleet, Sir Richard. Few survive it.”

Bolitho walked to the open stern windows and winced as sunlight reflected from the open sea lanced into his injured eye.

“What is it, Sir Richard?” Bezant stared from one to the other.

“It is nothing.” Bolitho tried to soften his tone. “But thank you.” He turned and saw the pain in her expression. She knew. She always knew.

Someone tapped at the door and Bolitho heard the mate, Lincoln, muttering to his captain.

Bezant sent him away and said harshly, “Hell’s teeth! Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady, but I am beset by trouble!”

He calmed himself with considerable effort, and yet seemed strangely glad to be able to share his problems with Bolitho, despite his fame and his rank.

“I sent my second mate ashore to visit the garrison surgeon. He has been in pain since we quit Falmouth. I thought it was caused by too many visits to the taverns or the like. But it seems it may be very serious, something eating at his insides. Jeff Lincoln and me have sailed watch-an’-watch afore when he got sick, but not on long passages like this ‘un.” He dropped his glance to the deck, as if he were seeing the cargo glittering with menace somewhere below.

“Jeff Lincoln has brought off a temporary mate until we can make other changes. His papers seem in order, and the port admiral’s aide doesn’t appear ready to discuss that either.” He suddenly gave a broad grin. “But sailors don’t expect things easy, do they, Sir Richard?”

He lumbered away, calling out instructions to his boatswain as he went.

“It won’t affect us, will it, Richard?” She was still watching him for some sign of pain in his injured eye.

Sophie entered with a pile of clean shirts and announced excitedly, “There’s other land over yonder, me lady! I thought this was all the land over ‘ere!”

Catherine put her arm round the girl’s thin shoulders. “That’s Africa you can see, Sophie.” They watched her astonishment. “You’ve come quite a long way.”

But the girl could only stare and whisper, “Africa.”

Bolitho said, “Go and ask Tojohns to take you where you can see it with a glass.” As the door closed he said, “I’ll not be sorry to get away from this place.” He almost shuddered. “An unlucky landfall.”

The door opened again but it was Allday. “You wanted me, Sir Richard?”

Their eyes met. How did he know? Bolitho said, “I want to issue some pistols. A brace each. Do it when the hands are turned-to for weighing anchor.”

Allday glanced at Catherine’s figure by the open stern windows. He said casually, “Already done, an’ me an’ Tojohns have got a piece each.” He grinned. “No sense in trusting Mr Yovell with one—he’s likely to kill himself!”

Catherine said, “I have my own little toy in the cabin.” Her voice was suddenly husky. “I nearly used it once.” Bolitho looked at her, remembering the drunken army officer who had made a play for her in the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. Bolitho had called him out, but the soldier’s friend had dragged him away, offering frantic apologies as he went. Afterwards Catherine had opened her reticule and had shown him the tiny pistol inside. Barely enough to do more than wound a man. But certainly it would have laid low the drunken soldier if things had gone against her man.

Once during that last night she had said aloud, “If anyone tries to hurt you ever again, they will have me to reckon with. Your pain is mine, just as my love is always yours.”

And now she was here with him, and danger was once more closing in. He heard the plaintive tune of a fiddle, and the steady grate and clatter of the windlass. Men bustled about overhead, and in the Golden Plover’s shadow he could already see her sails being loosened. Ready to make the passage south along the African coast, skirting Tenerife where Spanish men-of-war might be resting until they knew what their feared ally might intend.

A longboat pulled beneath the stern and turned hastily towards the inner harbour. He saw discarded leg-irons in the sternsheets, and some marines, talking and laughing now that they had got rid of the admiral’s unwanted prisoners.

As an example to others. It made Bolitho think of Herrick’s court martial. Where was he now? Had he already left for the West Indies, without even a word? Bolitho often thought of Captain Gossage’s incredible change of evidence and attitude. His was the evidence which could have damned Herrick. But he was also the most important witness, almost the only one, who as flag captain on that terrible day would have known the true state of affairs. But why? The question was still ringing in his mind when Golden Plover’s windlass finally hauled anchor, and her bowsprit swung around to point at the open strait with the great ocean shining beyond.

When most of the vessel was in darkness and the middle watch had taken over the deck, they made love as she had promised him. They took and received one another with deliberate slowness, as if each knew there might be no other time when they could forget the need for vigilance.

7

CONSCIENCE

THE TWO RIDERS came to a halt by a low wall and once again faced the sea which reached away from the foot of the cliffs. They could have been brother and sister. They might have been lovers. The sun blazed down on them from a cloudless sky and the air was filled with the sound of insects, and the ever-present gulls on the ledges far below them.

Adam Bolitho climbed down from his horse and said, “It’s not safe to ride any further.” He held up his hands and slipped them around her small waist to assist her to dismount.

A girl with misty brown eyes, her hair loose in the warm inshore wind, her companion without any sort of uniform, wearing only a shirt and seagoing white breeches tucked into his boots.

“Here, Zenoria, take my hand.” He felt hers in his grasp and tightened his grip without realising it. Together they scrambled and slithered down the wind-ruffled grass until they reached a long flat rock, from which they could look directly down to a small cove. The sound of the sea seemed to embrace them as it hissed through the scattered fragments of fallen cliff to sigh against the small crescent of sand.

They sat on the warm stone side by side. He said, “It is good to be back.”

“Can you tell me what happened? You did not leave me much time to get ready!” She held her hair from her face and studied him: the young man who resembled his uncle so much it was uncanny.

Adam pulled a long strand of grass through his teeth. It tasted of salt. “We were chasing a schooner off Lundy Island. The weather was brisk.” He smiled at some memory, so that he looked like a young boy again. “Maybe I was too eager. Anyway we sprung the fore-topmast and I decided to come to Falmouth for repair. It is better than languishing for weeks in some Royal dockyard, in line behind all the senior captains and the admiral’s favourites!”

She looked at his dark profile, the Bolitho hair and cheekbones. As the spring had given way to summer she had hoped he might call on her, as he had twice before. They rode and walked; they talked, but rarely about one another.

“May I ask you something?”

He rolled on his hip, his face propped in his hand. “You can ask me anything.”

“How old are you, Adam?”

He looked serious. “Twenty-eight.” He could not keep up the pretence. “As of today!”

“Oh, Adam, why did you not say?” She leaned over and kissed his cheek very lightly. “For your birthday.” She put her head on one side. “You don’t look very much like a captain.”

He reached out and took her hand in his. “And you don’t look very much like someone who’s married.”

He released her as she stood up and walked nearer to the edge.

“If I have offended you, I can only beg forgiveness.”

She turned, her back to the sea. “You do not offend me, Adam, you of all people. But I am married as you say—it is as well to be reminded.”

She sat down again, and wrapped her arms around her legs and her long riding skirt.

“Tell me about your father. He was a sailor too?”

He nodded, his eyes very distant. “Sometimes I think I am very like him, as he must have been. Too easily hurt, too quick to consider consequences. My father was a gambler … much of the estate was sold to pay his debts. He fought on the other side during the American Revolution, but he did not die as everyone thought. He lived long enough to learn he had a son, and to save my life. One day I shall tell you the whole story, Zenoria. But not now … not today. My heart is too full.”

He stared out to sea and asked abruptly, “Are you truly happy with Captain Keen? This in return for asking me a question, eh?”

She said gravely, “He has done everything for me. He loves me so much it frightens me. Perhaps I am different from other women … at times I begin to believe that is so. And I am quietly going mad because of it. I have tried so hard to understand …” She broke off as he took her hand again, very gently this time, and covered it with his like someone holding an injured bird.

“He is older than you, Zenoria. His life has always been the navy, as mine will be, if I live long enough.” He watched her hand in his, so brown in the sunlight, and was not aware of the sudden anguish in her dark eyes. “But he will return, and if I am right, he will hoist his own flag as an admiral.” He squeezed her fingers and smiled sadly. “It will be another change for you. The admiral’s lady. And there is no captain who deserves it more. I learned so much from him, but …”

She watched him steadily. “But—I have come between you both?”

“I will not lie, not to you, Zenoria. I cannot bear to see you together.”

She took her hand away very carefully. “You had better stop, Adam. You know how much I enjoy your company. Anything more is a delusion.” She watched her words bring more emotions to his face. “It has to be. If anyone discovered …”

He said, “I have told nobody. I may be a fool, but I am an honourable fool.”

He stood up and helped her to her feet. “Now you will dread the next time Anemone drops her anchor in Carrick Road.”

For a long moment they stood facing each other, their fingertips still touching.

“Just promise me something, Zenoria.”

“If I can.”

He held her hands more tightly and said, “If you need me, for any reason at all, please tell me. When I am able I shall come to you, and God help any man who ever speaks ill of you!”

As they mounted the grassy slope and climbed through the old wall, so that the sounds of the sea amongst the rocks below became muffled and then lost, she saw his sword hanging from his saddle.

“You must never fight on my behalf, Adam. If anything happened to you because of me, I don’t know what I would do.”

“Thank you. For saying that and so much more.”

She twisted round in his arms when he made to lift her to the stirrup. “There can be no more!” Her eyes widened with sudden alarm as he tightened his hold around her. “Please Adam, don’t hurt me!”

He looked into her face, understanding, and suddenly full of pity. For them both.

“I would never hurt you.” He put his mouth to hers. “For my birthday, if for no other reason.”

He felt her lips part, the sudden beat of her heart against his body, and the pain of his need for this strange girl was unbearable. Then he released her very carefully, expecting her to strike him.

Instead she said quietly, “You must not do that again.” When she lifted her head her eyes were wet with tears. “I shall never forget.”

She allowed him to raise her to the stirrup and watched as he walked back to the wall, still overcome with disbelief at what she had just permitted.

He stooped and picked several sprays of wild roses from where they tumbled over the wall, and wrapped them carefully in a clean handkerchief before bringing them to her stirrup.

“I am not proud to admit it, Zenoria. But I would take you from any man, if I could.” He handed her the roses and studied her as she lowered her face to them, her hair blowing in the wind like a dark banner.

She did not look at him. She knew she could not, dared not. And when she tried to find security from the foul memories of what she had once endured, there was nothing. For the first time in her life she had felt herself respond to a man’s embrace, and she was stunned by what might have happened if he had persisted.

They rode on to the old coaching track in silence. Once he reached between them to take her hand, but nothing was said. Perhaps there were no words. When a small carriage approached they reined in to let it pass, but the coachman pulled the horses to a halt and a woman looked out of the window. A gaunt hostile face, whom Adam recognised as his uncle’s sister.

“Well, well, Adam, I didn’t know you were back again.” She stared coldly at the girl in the rough riding skirt and loose white blouse. “Do I know this lady?”

Adam said calmly, “Mrs Keen. We have been taking the air.” He was angry: with her for her arrogance; with himself for troubling to explain anything to her. Never once had she treated him as a nephew. A bastard in the family? It could not be accepted.

The cold eyes moved over Zenoria’s body, missing nothing. The flushed cheeks, the grass on the skirt and riding boots. “I thought Captain Keen was away.”

Adam calmed his horse with one hand. Then he asked evenly, “And what of your son, Miles? I understand he is no longer serving the King.” He saw the shot go home and added, “You can send him to my ship if you wish, Ma’am. I am not my uncle—I’d soon teach him some manners!”

The carriage jerked forward in a cloud of sand and dust and Adam said, “I cannot believe she is of the same blood, damn her eyes!”

Later, as Zenoria stood in the garden, in the same place from which she had watched her husband depart some seven weeks ago, she could feel her heart beating wildly. If only Catherine were here. If only she could tear her mind from the thoughts which still pursued her.

She heard his step on the path and turned to watch him, now changed again into his uniform and even his unruly hair tidied, his gold-laced hat jammed beneath one arm.

She said, “The Captain once more!”

He seemed about to come towards her, but checked himself. “May I call again before we sail?” There was anxiety in his eyes. “Please do not deny me that.”

She raised her hand, as if she were waving to someone a long way off.

“It is your home, Adam. I am the intruder.”

He glanced at the house like a guilty youth. Then he touched his breast. “You intrude only here, in my heart.” He turned and walked from the garden.

Ferguson, who had seen them from an upstairs window, let out a deep sigh. The nagging thought still persisted. They looked so right with each other.

Admiral the Lord Godschale shook the small bell on his table and tugged impatiently at his neckcloth.

“God damn it, it is so hot in this place I wonder I do not fade away!”

Sir Paul Sillitoe sipped a tall glass of hock and wondered how they managed to keep it so cool here in the Admiralty.

The door swung noiselessly inwards and one of the admiral’s clerks peered at them.

“Open these windows, Chivers!” He poured some more wine and said, “Better to have the stench of horse dung and be deafened by all the traffic than sweat like a pig!”

Sillitoe gave a small smile. “As we were saying, my lord …”

“Ah yes. The readiness of the fleet. With the extra vessels taken from the Danes, and the return of others from Cape Town, we shall be as prepared as anyone can expect. The yards are working as hard as they can—there is hardly a decent oak left in the whole of Kent apparently!”

Sillitoe nodded, his hooded eyes revealing nothing. In his mind he saw some great chart: the responsibilities entrusted into his care by the government. His Majesty the King was becoming so irrational these days that Sillitoe seemed to be the only adviser he would listen to.

Where was the Golden Plover now, he wondered? How long before Bolitho and his mistress were back in England? He often thought of his visit to her. The nearness of her, her beautiful throat and high cheekbones. A glance that could burn you.

“There is another matter, my lord.” He saw Godschale’s instant guard. “I am given to understand that RearAdmiral Herrick is still without employment. He was to go to the West Indies, I believe?”

Sillitoe was a man who made even the admiral feel insecure. A cold fish, he thought; one without pity, who stood quite alone.

Godschale muttered, “He is coming here today.” He glanced at the clock. “Soon, in fact.”

Sillitoe smiled. “I know.”

It was also infuriating how he seemed to know everything that happened within the barricades of admiralty.

“He asked for an interview.” He stared at Sillitoe’s impassive features. “Do you wish to be here when he comes?”

Sillitoe shrugged. “I do not care very much either way. However, His Majesty’s ministers have stressed the vital importance of complete confidence in the fleet. An admiral who loses in a fight is soon forgotten. But continued interference by that admiral might be seen as irrational. Some might term it dangerous.”

Godschale mopped his florid face. “God damn it, Sir Paul, I still don’t understand what happened at the court martial. If you ask me, somebody made a fine mess of things. We must be strong and seen to be strong at all times. That was why I selected Sir James Hamett-Parker as president. No nonsense about that one, what?”

Sillitoe looked at the clock, too. “It might have been better to send Herrick to Cape Town instead of Sir Richard Bolitho,” and, briefly, he showed a rare excitement. “By God, he’ll be in his element when we invade the Peninsula.”

Godschale was still pondering on Herrick. “Send him to Cape Town? God, he’d probably give it back to the Dutch!”

The door opened and another clerk said in a hushed tone, “RearAdmiral Thomas Herrick has arrived, m’lord.”

Godschale snorted. “About time. Send him along from the waiting-room.”

He walked heavily to the window and looked across the busy road to where a dainty, unmarked carriage was waiting beneath the trees, the horses nodding in the dusty sunshine.

Sillitoe remarked, “I thought you always made them kick their heels a while before allowing them to see you.”

The admiral said over his shoulder, “I have other business to attend to.”

Sillitoe’s hawkish features were quite empty of expression. He knew about the “other business;” he had already seen her waiting in the unmarked carriage. Doubtless some officer’s wife, looking for excitement without scandal. As a bonus, her absent husband might find himself in some better appointment. Sillitoe was surprised that Godschale’s dull wife had not heard about his affairs. Everyone else seemed to know.

Herrick entered the room, and glared at Sillitoe with obvious surprise. “I beg your pardon. I did not realise I was too soon.”

Sillitoe smiled. “Pray forgive me. Unless you have any objection … ?”

Herrick, realising there was no choice, said abruptly, “In that case,” and stood in silence, waiting.

Godschale led on smoothly, “Please be seated. Some hock perhaps?”

“No thank you, m’lord. I am here to discover satisfaction on the matter of my next appointment.”

Godschale sat down opposite him. He saw the strain, the deep shadows under Herrick’s eyes, the bitterness he had already displayed at the court martial.

“Sometimes it takes longer than usual. Even for flag officers, the powers in the land!” But Herrick showed no reaction and Godschale’s own patience was fast running out. But more than anything, he thought, matters must remain within his grip and control. That was how he had risen to his lofty position, and how he intended to hold on to it.

Herrick leaned forward, his eyes flashing angrily. “If it is because of the court martial, then I demand …”

“Demand, Admiral Herrick?” Sillitoe’s incisive voice cut the sultry air like a rapier. “You had a fair trial, in spite of a lack of reliable witnesses, and your own misguided insistence upon refusing any offer of defence, and circumstances, I believe, were very much against you. Yet still you were found not guilty? I hardly think you are in a position to demand anything!”

Herrick was on his feet. “I do not have to put up with your comments, sir!”

Godschale interrupted, “I am afraid you do. Even I bow to his authority,” hating the admission which he knew to be true.

Herrick said, “Then I shall take my leave, my lord.” He turned and added, “I have my pride.”

Sillitoe said calmly, “Do sit down. We are not enemies—yet. And please do not mistake conceit for pride, for that is what you have.” He inclined his head with approval as Herrick sat down. “That is better. I was at the court martial. I heard the evidence, and I saw what you were trying to do. To have yourself condemned, to absolve yourself of the tragedy—for that was what it was.”

Godschale closed the windows: someone might hear Sillitoe’s words. He returned angrily to the table. The little carriage had gone.

“I was prepared for whatever verdict they might present.”

Sillitoe stared at him pitilessly. “You hold the rank of rearadmiral.”

“I earned it many times, sir!”

“Not without the backing of your captain, who became your admiral, eh?”

“Some.” Herrick was watching like a terrier facing a bull.

“A great deal, as I see it. But you are still only a rearadmiral. You do not have any private means of your own?”

Herrick relaxed a little. This was familiar ground. “That is true. I have never had things given to me, no family tradition to support me.”

Gosdchale said unhappily, “I think what Sir Paul is trying to say …” He fell silent as Sillitoe’s eyes flashed towards him.

“Hear me, if you please. Article Seventeen clearly states that if found guilty, you would not only have faced the very real peril of execution but more to the point, you would have been, in addition, responsible for reparation to all the ship-owners, merchants and others involved with the convoy. On a rearadmiral’s pay—” His voice was suddenly laced with contempt. “What sum would you have been able to afford? Twenty ships, I believe? Fully laden with supplies of war, and the men to wage it? How much could you offer to placate all those who would condemn you?” When Herrick said nothing he added, “Perhaps enough to pay for the horses that died that day.” He got up lightly and crossed to Herrick’s seated figure. “To hang you would have been a stupid gesture of revenge, useless and without value. But the total bill for that whole convoy would have been laid here, at the doors of admiralty.”

Godschale exclaimed thickly. “My God! I had not considered that!”

Sillitoe eyed him. The glance said, No, obviously not.

Then he waited for Herrick’s attention and said in his silky voice, “So you see, sir, you had to be found not guilty. It was … more convenient.”

Herrick’s hands opened and closed as if he were grappling with something physical.

“But the court would not do that!”

“You turned upon Sir Richard Bolitho, the one man who could have saved your neck. If you had allowed him …”

Herrick stared at him, his face pale with disbelief. “I never needed his help!”

The door opened and Godschale shouted, “What the bloody hell do you want? Can’t you see we’re busy?”

The grim-faced secretary was unmoved by his master’s rage. He said, “This has just been received by telegraph from Portsmouth, my lord. I think you should see it.”

Godschale read through the note, and said after a silence, “Of all the damnable things to happen.” He handed it to Sillitoe. “See for yourself.”

Sillitoe felt their scrutiny, Herrick staring without comprehension. Then he looked at the admiral, who gave a despairing nod. He passed the note to Herrick.

Sillitoe said coldly, “Well, you have nothing more to fear. You will have no more help from that quarter.” And he strode out of the room as if escaping from some contagion.

When Herrick finally put the note on the table he realised that he was alone. Quite alone.

Belinda, Lady Bolitho, paused at the entrance of the elegant square, her parasol raised to protect her complexion from the afternoon sun.

She said, “Summer again, Lucinda. It seems no time at all since the last.”

Her confidante, Lady Lucinda Manners, gave a quiet laugh. “Time flies away when one enjoys oneself.”

They walked on, their light gowns floating in the warm breeze.

“Yes, we shall take tea presently. I am quite exhausted by all the shopping.”

They both laughed so that two grooms turned to watch them, and touched their hats as they passed.

Her friend said, “I am so glad that your Elizabeth is fully recovered. Was her father distressed by her injury?”

Belinda shot her a quick glance. Her best friend, yes; but she knew her other side as well. The wife of an elderly financier, Lady Lucinda was one of the first to spread a rumour or some lively tidbit of scandal.

“He paid the fees. It is all I ask.”

Lady Lucinda smiled at her. “He seems to take care of most things for you.”

“Well, I cannot be expected to pay for everything. Elizabeth’s education, her music and dancing lessons, they all mount up.”

“It is such a pity. He is still the talk of London, and she flaunts their relationship like some common trollop!” She gave her a sideways glance. “Would you take him back, if … ?”

Belinda thought of her confrontation with Catherine in that quiet house in Kent, when Dulcie Herrick had been on the threshold of death. She still shivered when she recalled it. She herself might have contracted the fever. Just to think of such a terrible possibility made all else seem unimportant … That thrice-cursed woman, so proud despite her lecherous behaviour. Scornful even when Belinda had lost her own self-control and shouted at her, “I hope you die!” She had never forgotten Catherine’s emotionless response. Even then, he would not come back to you.

“Take him back? I will choose that moment. I shall not make bargains with a whore.”

Lady Lucinda walked on, partly satisfied. Now she had gleaned the truth. Belinda would take him back to her bed no matter what the price. She considered Bolitho when she had last seen him. No wonder the Lady Somervell had dared scandal for him: given a chance, who would not?

“What is he doing now? Do you hear from him?”

Belinda was tiring of her friend’s curiosity. “When he writes to me I burn his letters, without opening them.” But, for once, the lie gave her no satisfaction.

A figure emerged from one of the mews, pushing another on what appeared to be a small trolley. Both wore various oddments of old clothing, but it was obvious that they had once been sailors.

Lady Lucinda put a handkerchief to her face and exclaimed, “These beggars are everywhere! Why is something not done about them?”

Belinda looked at the man on the trolley. He had no legs and was completely blind, his head moving from side to side as his trolley came to a halt. His companion had only one arm, and a scar so deep on the side of his head that it was a marvel he was still alive.

The legless man asked timidly, “Who is it, John?”

Belinda, who had nursed her previous husband until his death, was shocked nevertheless. Even the man’s name. John, like Richard’s faithful coxswain, his “oak,” as he called him.

“Two fine ladies, Jamie.” He put his foot on the trolley to prevent it from rolling away and pulled out a cup from his tattered coat.

“A penny, ma’am? Just a penny, eh?”

“Damn their insolence!” Lady Lucinda took her arm. “Come away. They are not fit to be seen in this place!”

They walked on. The man replaced his cup and patted his friend on the shoulder. He murmured, “God damn them, Jamie.”

The blind man peered round as if to comfort him. “Never mind, John, we’ll get lucky soon, you’ll see!”

On the fashionable side of the square Belinda stopped again, suddenly uncertain.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.” She looked back, but the two crippled sailors had vanished; perhaps they had never been there. She shivered. “He used to tell me about his men. But when you see them, like those two …” She turned again. “I wish now I’d given them something.”

Lady Lucinda laughed and pinched her arm. “You are peculiar sometimes.” Then she gestured at a carriage outside Belinda’s house. “You have visitors. Another reception, and me with nothing new to wear!”

They laughed and Belinda tried to dismiss the man with the out-thrust cup from her mind. He had had a tattoo on the back of his hand. Crossed flags and an anchor; it had been quite clear even through the grime.

The door opened before they had even mounted the steps and one of the maids stared at them with relief.

“There be a gentleman here to see you, m’lady!”

Lady Lucinda tittered. “I told you!”

Belinda silenced her with a quick shake of her head. “What gentleman? Make sense, girl!”

Someone came from the drawing-room at the sound of her voice and Belinda’s heart almost stopped; the stranger wore the uniform of a post-captain, and his face was stern, as if he had been waiting for some time.

“I am sent by Lord Godschale, my lady. I thought it too important to wait for an appointment.”

Belinda walked a few paces to the great staircase and back again. “If you believe so, Captain.”

He cleared his throat. “I have to tell you, my lady, that I am the bearer of sad news. The packet Golden Plover in which your husband Sir Richard Bolitho was taking passage to Cape Town is reported missing.”

Lady Lucinda gasped, “Oh, my God. I pray that he is safe?”

The captain shook his head. “I regret, the vessel was lost with all hands.”

Belinda walked to the stairs and sank down on to them.

“Lord Godschale wishes to offer his sympathy and the condolence of every King’s sailor in the fleet.”

Belinda could barely see through the mist in her eyes. She tried to accept it, to imagine it as it must have been, but instead she could only think of the two men she had just turned away. A penny, ma’am? Just a penny!

Her friend snapped at the maid, “Fetch the doctor for her ladyship!”

Belinda stood up very slowly. “No doctor.” Suddenly she knew; and the shock was overwhelming.

“Was Lady Somervell with him, Captain?”

The man bit his lip. “I believe so, my lady.”

She saw Catherine in the darkness of Herrick’s house, the contempt like fire in her eyes.

Even then, he would not come back to you.

At the end, they had still been together.

8

BREAKERS

BOLITHO sat on the bench below the Golden Plover’s stern windows and stared out at the small, bubbling wake. One day passed very like the one before it, and he felt continually restless at being no part of the vessel’s routine. It was noon, and on deck the heat would be scorching like the wind across an empty desert. At least down here there was some pretence of movement, the hull creaking occasionally to the lift and fall of the stem, the air stirring through the cabin space to help ease the discomfort.

At the opposite end of the bench young Sophie sat with one shoulder bared while Catherine massaged it gently with ointment she had brought with her from London. The girl’s skin was almost red-raw where the sun had done its work during her strolls on deck.

Catherine had told her severely, “This is not Commercial Street, my girl, so try not to lay yourself open to the possibility of being burned alive.”

The girl had given her cheeky grin. “I clean forgot, me lady!”

Jenour was in his cabin, either sketching or adding to the endless letter to his parents. Keen was probably on deck; brooding about Zenoria, wondering if he were taking the right course of action.

Bolitho had had several conversations with Samuel Bezant, Golden Plover’s master. The man came originally from Lowestoft, and had begun life at sea at the age of nine, naturally enough in that port, aboard a fishing lugger. Now that he understood he could speak with Bolitho without fear of instant rebuke or anger he had explained that most of Golden Plover’s troubles had been caused by the navy. To begin with, he had welcomed the offer of an admiralty warrant. But as he had explained, “What use is ‘protection’ if their lordships or some senior officer can take experienced seamen whenever they choose?” Bolitho knew it was useless to try and explain to any master what it was like for the captain of a man-of-war. If the press-gangs were lucky he might get a few good hands; he might even poach some prime seamen from an incoming merchant ship if her master was so mean that he had paid off his company even before the ship had reached her destination. To do so left those unfortunate sailors open to impressment, if the officer in charge of the party was fast enough. But mostly the new hands were either farm workers, “hawbucks” as most seamen contemptuously called them, or those who might otherwise have faced the public hangman.

Bezant had said on one occasion when Bolitho had joined him to watch the vivid sunset off the Canary Islands, as they had crossed the thirtieth parallel, “There’s only the bosun left from the original afterguard, Sir Richard. Now the second mate’s on the Rock I’m expected to run this vessel like a King’s ship with men who have no feel for the sea!”

Bolitho asked, “What about your mate, Mr Lincoln? He seems capable enough.”

Bezant had grinned. “He’s a good seaman. But even he’s only been in the Plover for six months!”

Perhaps by the time the sturdy barquentine had reached Good Hope, Bezant would have led or bullied his mixed collection of sailors into one team, as much a part of the vessel he so obviously loved as the canvas and cordage that drove her.

Bolitho saw a splash as some unknown fish fell back into the sea again, probably trying to escape from hidden predators.

Since leaving Gibraltar there had certainly been a run of misfortunes. A topman had fallen from aloft during a heavy squall and his body had smashed onto the lee bulwark, killing him instantly. He had been buried at sea the following day. Bolitho had never known the man, but as a sailor himself he had felt the same sense of loss as Bezant had rumbled slowly through his well-thumbed prayer book. We commit his body to the deep …

There had only been one sighting of the strange ship’s topmasts, the day after they had weighed anchor in the Rock’s shadow. After that they had seen nothing; and only on rare occasions, usually just after dawn, had they seen the hint of land. A group of islands, like low clouds on the horizon, and another time a solitary islet like a broken tooth, which Bezant had described as an evil place where no man could survive and would in any case go mad with loneliness. Pirates had been known to maroon their prisoners there. Bezant had remarked, “It would have been kinder to cut their throats!”

And all the while there remained the great presence of the African coastline. Invisible out of necessity; and yet each one of them was very aware of it.

Catherine glanced across the girl’s reddened shoulder and saw his expression. Separate incidents stood out clearly as she gently massaged the ointment into Sophie’s skin, and she wondered if he were sharing them.

The seaman who had fallen from an upper yard during the squall. And that other time when they had been sitting here, everyone unwilling to make the first move to turn in for the night, to be tormented again by the fierce, humid air between decks.

It had been very quiet and quite late, during the middle watch, Jenour had recalled.

They had all heard the sound of dragging feet on the poop overhead and then, it seemed an age later, the frantic cry of “man overboard!” The master’s door had banged open and Bezant had been heard bawling out orders. Back the foretops’l! Stand by to come about! Man the quarter-boat! Catherine had accompanied Bolitho on deck, astonished by the eerie quality which a full moon had given to the taut canvas and quivering shrouds. The sea, too, had been like molten silver, unending and unreal.

Needless to say, the boat had returned empty-handed. The crew had been more frightened of losing their ship in that strange, glacial glow than of leaving someone to drown alone.

The mate, Lincoln, had been on watch. He explained to the master that he had been told one of the military prisoners was having some kind of fit, to the despair and anxiety of his companions.

Lincoln had described the scene, how out of pity for the prisoner and the need to quieten the others he had had the man brought on deck, thinking it would calm him. What had happened next was not clear. Without even a cry, the prisoner had broken from his escort and hurled himself over the bulwark. He had still been wearing manacles on his wrists, although this had not been reported until after the quarter-boat had been sent on its fruitless search.

Catherine watched Bolitho’s hand resting on his thigh. The hand that knew her so intimately, that could tease her to the height of passion until neither could wait.

Then there had been the incident of the flogging, a rare occurrence, she had guessed, aboard the Golden Plover. A seaman had been found drunk on watch, and had set about Britton, the boatswain, who had discovered him sprawled in the forecastle when he should have been at his station.

She had seen Keen’s face, like a mask as the sound of the lash had penetrated this sealed cabin. Imagining Zenoria as she must have been, enduring the bestiality of the transport’s captain and the excitement of many of the prisoners who had swarmed to watch her punishment, the whip laid across her naked back.

She said, “There you are, my girl.” She smiled as Sophie modestly refastened her clothing. “Now be off with you and help Ozzard prepare some food.”

Alone with Bolitho, Catherine said, “I love to watch you.”

“Are you bored, Kate?”

“Being with you? Never.”

Bolitho pointed abeam. “In a few days, if the wind is kind, we shall pass the Cape Verde Islands to starboard, and the coast of Senegal over yonder.” He smiled. “I doubt if we shall see either!”

“You have memories of these parts, Richard?”

He looked at the blue water astern. “A few. I was a midshipman at the time in the Gorgon, an old 74 like Hyperion.”

“What age were you?”

She saw the sudden pain in his grey eyes. “Oh, about sixteen, I think.”

“You were with your friend then?”

He faced her. “Aye. Martyn Dancer.” He tried to shake it off. “We were chasing slavers even then. I expect that damnable fortress is still there to this day. Different flag, but the same foul trade.”

The door opened slightly and Ozzard peered in at them. He saw Catherine and was about to withdraw when Bolitho asked, “What is it? Please speak freely.”

Ozzard tiptoed into the cabin and carefully shut the screen door behind him.

Catherine placed her hands on the sill of the stern window and stared out at the empty ocean. “I shall not listen, Ozzard.”

Ozzard looked at her body, framed against the sparkling water. Her long dark hair was piled on her head, held in place by a large Spanish comb, “brailed up” as Allday had called it. He watched her partly-bared shoulder, the fine arch of her neck. It was like being bewitched. Constantly reminded and tortured by that other hideous memory.

He said abruptly, “I’ve been in the after hold, Sir Richard. I was getting some of that hock her ladyship brought from London. It stays cool there.”

Bolitho said, “We shall look forward to it.” He felt the little man’s desperation: it was something almost visible. “And what happened?”

“I heard voices. I found a vent and listened. It was those prisoners. One said, ‘With that gutless fool out of the way, we can stand together, eh, lads?’” He was reliving his discovery, his face screwed up as if afraid of missing something. “Then the other man said, ‘You’ll not be sorry. I’ll see to that!’”

Catherine did not turn from the ocean but asked gently, “Who was it? You know, don’t you?”

Ozzard nodded wretchedly. “It was the mate, Mr Lincoln, Sir Richard.”

“Go and find Captain Keen, if you please.” He held out one hand. “Walk, Ozzard. We do not want to rouse suspicion, eh?”

As the door closed she moved across the deck and sat by him. “Did you know, Richard?”

“No. But I did notice that all the incidents happened during either Lincoln’s watch or Tasker’s.” He was the new mate who had come aboard at Gibraltar.

She felt his hands tighten around her body, pressing the damp skin beneath her gown. She said, “Have no fear for me, Richard. We have been in peril before.”

Bolitho looked over her shoulder, his mind racing from one possibility to the next. Whichever way you considered it, at best it was mutiny, at worst piracy. Neither crime would permit the survival of witnesses. And there was Catherine.

She said very calmly, “It is because of me that you are here and not in some King’s ship with all the power to do your bidding. Tell me what to expect, but never think of defeat for my sake. I am by your side.” She held the flashing ring to the sunlight. “Remember what this means? Then so be it.”

When Keen entered he saw nothing untoward until Bolitho said, “We must talk, Val. I believe there will be an attempt to seize this vessel and then make a rendezvous with our ‘shadow,’ which I am convinced is still somewhere close by.”

Keen glanced at Catherine, trying to put her possible fate out of his mind.

“I am ready, sir.” Whatever lay ahead, he was surprised to discover that he was unmoved by it.

The following day passed without incident until late in the afternoon. Another hard, cloudless sky, with the sea and the vivid horizon too bright to look at. Bolitho stood with Keen abaft the wheel and watched the slow-moving activity of the watch on deck.

Bezant had taken sun-sights with his sextant and now seemed satisfied with his vessel’s progress. The warm north-westerly wind filled every sail, and was strong enough to throw white pellets of spray high over the bowsprit.

“Will you tell him, sir?”

Bolitho glanced toward Catherine and her maid sitting on a makeshift seat beneath a canvas canopy. Sophie knew nothing of their suspicions, and it was better so. And what of Bezant? He had seemed genuinely surprised to discover the status of his passengers when Jenour had gone ahead to inform him at Falmouth. Usually he carried minor officials, garrison officers and sometimes their wives. The vice-admiral and his lady could hardly be classed as ordinary.

“Tell him?” He watched the fish leaping astern. “When you tell your best friend a secret, Val, it is no longer a secret. And Bezant, capable though he must be, is no friend.”

Keen said evenly, “Ozzard might have made a mistake. Or perhaps the mate was genuinely trying to calm the prisoners after what had happened.”

Bolitho smiled and saw Catherine look away. “But you do not think so, eh?”

Keen tried not to stare as a seaman paused near them. Every move seemed suspicious. Who was friend or possible enemy?

Bolitho saw Jenour appear from the companion-way, his sketching book in his hand.

He crossed the slanting deck and joined them.

“What did you discover, Stephen?”

Jenour shaded his eyes as if to search for some new subject for his collection.

“This vessel was originally pierced for some four-pounders. There is a gunport directly beneath the mizzen chains. Allday found it. He says he can force it open if need be. It’s only sealed with tar.”

Keen frowned. “I do not see the point.”

Bolitho turned aside. They should separate soon. They must not appear to be forewarned conspirators.

“There is a swivel-gun mounted on the starboard bulwark, Val. It is always loaded. Not uncommon in small merchantmen sailing alone. It could be trained inboard as well as out.”

Jenour made a few scratches in his book. “Allday says it would need someone thinner than himself to get through.” He gave an uncertain smile. “It seems I am exactly the right size!”

More pictures flashed through Bolitho’s mind. In his frigate Phalarope, where there had once been a mutiny, he could recall a small midshipman named John Neale; Bolitho and some others had covered his naked body with grease to force him through a vent to raise the alarm. John Neale’s face changed in the next picture. A young frigate captain, as Adam was now, but dying of his wounds when he and Bolitho had been taken prisoner in France. We Happy Few. It seemed to strike back and mock him.

Bolitho said abruptly, “It may prove to be smoke without fire this time. By tomorrow …” With the others he peered up as the masthead lookout yelled, “Deck there! Sail to th’ north!”

Bezant strode over to join them. “That damned rascal is back with us again!”

“What are your usual duties, Captain?”

He saw Bezant’s mind grappling with this new complication. “Duties, Sir Richard?” He rubbed his chin noisily. “Gibraltar, then sometimes to Malta with stores and despatches for the fleet there. In better times we used to enter the Baltic, get work from Swedish ports—anything that paid.”

“Could it be that this strange ship waited off Gibraltar to make certain you were not continuing to Malta?”

Bezant stared at him without comprehension. “For what purpose? I can outsail that bugger once we’re clear of Cape Blanco. There’s the reef, y’see.”

Bolitho nodded, his eyes slitted against the glare, the injured one already sore and pricking, “Yes, Captain, the reef. It runs a hundred miles out from Cape Blanco and has torn the guts out of many a fine ship.”

Bezant answered stiffly, “I am well aware of it, Sir Richard. I intend to change tack and run for the shore once we have weathered the reef.”

Bolitho glanced past him at Keen’s intent features. As Bezant stamped resentfully away to examine his chart, he said gently, “I can tell him nothing.” He heard Catherine laugh, the sound churning through him like pain. “We must take no chances, Val. There would be none of us left to tell the tale.” He gazed at Catherine so that their eyes seemed to lock across the sun-bleached planking. “My guess is that Lincoln, and that new mate we took aboard at the Rock—what is his name?”

Keen smiled despite the tension. The admiral asking his flag captain for information again.

“Tasker, sir.”

“Well, I believe he was already known by Mister Lincoln.”

Keen ran his fingers through his fair hair. “They have probably never carried so much coin and gold before, and they may never be ordered to do so again.” He made up his mind. “It will be tomorrow then. For if Lincoln intends to turn thief and worse, he will need the support of that damned brig to wind’rd of us.”

Jenour wandered away with his book. Like the rest of them, he was unarmed, in his shirt and breeches alone. Any sign of a weapon would cause instant bloodshed.

“Perhaps the people will remain loyal to their master?”

Bolitho clapped his arm so that several faces turned to watch their outwardly casual exchange.

“With the promise of a share of the spoils, Val? Greed is the master here!”

As the sun began to dip over the western horizon the wind became stronger, and reefs were set in the forecourse and topsail. The sea’s face broke into long advancing ranks of white horses but as the sun continued to go down, they, too, were painted like molten metal, like the cargo Golden Plover carried in her hold.

In the cabin they tried to do everything as usual. Any sign that something was wrong would be like a spark in a gunner’s store.

In a dark corner Catherine was pushing some things into two bags, watched with alarm by Sophie.

Catherine had told her quietly, “There may be trouble, Sophie, but you will be safe. So stay with me until it is over.”

Keen sat at the table playing cards with Yovell. It could not be an easy game. But anyone on watch could see them through the cabin skylight.

Bolitho found Allday breathing heavily in the spare cabin, which was being used for sea-chests and unwanted belongings.

“Here, Sir Richard!” He hauled on a line and Bolitho felt the salt air sweep into the musty space as the disused gunport opened a few inches. He could see moonlight on the tumbling water, hear the creak and clatter of rigging, an occasional call from the helmsman.

A ship already doomed. Bolitho felt a surge of sudden anger. Keen was right. It was tomorrow or not at all. Even Bezant would quickly recognise any further attempts to slow the Golden Plover’s progress, and after that it would be too late.

Allday’s breathing sounded very loud and unsteady. He said, “Old Tojohns is castin’ a weather eye on the companion ladder, Sir Richard.” He signed and added wistfully, “I wonder what Jonas Polin’s little widow is called? In the heat of things I clean forgot to ask.” He shook his head, “I am gettin’ old, an’ that’s no error!”

Bolitho reached out in the darkness and seized his massive arm. He could find no words, but each understood the other.

There had been no unusual sound, and he never knew what had roused him to a state of instant readiness. One second he had been dozing in a chair beside Catherine’s swinging cot and the next he was wide awake, his ears groping for some clue to the reason.

He moved softly to the door and stared aft through the open screen. The first light of dawn was showing through the stern windows, the bluffed horizon like an unending silk thread.

He saw Keen, who had been keeping watch with Tojohns, on his feet; and although his features were lost in shadow Bolitho could sense the presence of danger like some evil spirit right here amongst them.

A pale shape moved from a corner and almost collided with him. He seized her quickly, one hand across her mouth as he said in a sharp whisper, “Rouse your mistress, Sophie, but not a word!”

Keen took a few paces towards him, keeping well clear of the skylight’s pale rectangle. “What is it, sir?”

“Not sure.” It was hot and clammy in the cabin but the shirt against his spine felt as if it had been drawn across ice.

It was as if the ship had already been abandoned. At some time during the night watches that same evil presence had removed every other living soul, so that the vessel was sailing on with only a phantom to guide her.

The loose flap of canvas and the occasional crack of halliards certainly gave the impression that little heed was being paid to the trim and handling of Golden Plover’s progress.

Bolitho felt her come into the cabin, her perfume touching his face as she brushed against him.

She was fully dressed and had replaced the Spanish comb in her hair. He could see it glinting slightly as the light strengthened through the skylight overhead.

Bolitho took her arm as the deck rolled sluggishly in the swell. He had faced the risk of death and the dread of a surgeon’s knife too often not to recognise the lurking fear that attended it. Two men-of-war approaching one another on a converging tack, the sea otherwise empty. Or other vessels scattered in disarray like yeomen on the field of battle, who pause in the bloody business of war to watch their lords and masters kill each other in single combat.

The waiting: always the waiting. That was the worst part. Like now. The madness would follow, if only to keep that same mortal fear at bay.

He heard Allday’s breathing outside the screen door, where he and Keen’s coxswain Tojohns would be watching the companion ladder, waiting perhaps for the stab of a pistol shot, or the stealthy approach of men with blades.

When it came it was both startling and terrible. It was unreal, out of place in this morning watch off the coast of Africa.

There was a sudden crash of glass, and a great, unearthly yell which broke instantly into a torrent of wild and uncontrollable laughter.

Keen exclaimed, “They’ve broached the rum!”

A door flung open and they heard Bezant’s powerful voice raised in a furious bellow, so loud he could have been here in the cabin.

“You bloody scum! What in hell’s name are you doing?”

Somebody else laughed, high-pitched, the cry of one who had already gone beyond reason.

Something heavy, a belaying pin perhaps, clattered across the deck, and Bezant roared, “Get back, you whore’s bastard!” He must have fired a pistol, and as the echo of the shot rebounded from the bulkhead Bolitho heard the laughter change to a terrible scream.

Bezant again, as if with relief. “Ah, here you are, Jeff!” Then in astonishment, “In God’s name, think what you’re doing!” There was another shot, seemingly from high up, and a body crashed across the deck above like a heavy log.

“Ready?” Bolitho took her wrist. “Don’t provoke anyone.” His eyes flashed in the dimness. “One wrong move …” He did not finish it. Someone drove a musket-butt through the skylight and yelled down, “Come on deck! No trouble, y’hear, or we’ll cut you down!”

Bolitho saw Jenour slithering into the unused cabin where Ozzard was already waiting to cover the gunport with some of the stored cabin goods and chests.

Wild thoughts ran through his mind. Suppose Jenour could not get through it? And even if he did, what were his chances?

He saw Allday and Tojohns at the foot of the ladder, the shadows of other figures who were waiting on deck to confront them.

He took Catherine’s arm and turned her towards him. “Remember, Kate, I love thee.”

Keen passed them. “I shall go first, sir.” He sounded completely calm. Like a man facing a firing squad when all hope is gone, and even fear can find no cause to gloat. “Then we shall know. If I fall, I pray to God that He will protect you both.”

Then he walked to the foot of the ladder and took the handrails without hesitation. He paused just once by the small polished coaming, which was folded back when not in use, but which, in rough weather, was supposed to prevent incoming seas from cascading down the ladder to the deck below. Not even Bolitho saw the deft movement as he touched the butt of the pistol he had lodged there during the night.

On deck, even though it was only dawn, the sight that awaited Keen was as sickening as it was predictable. Bezant the master lying on his side gripping his thigh as blood poured on to the pale planking around him. A corpse sprawled wide-eyed in the starboard scuppers, with a gaping hole in his throat where Bezant’s pistol had found its mark. Small groups of men, some armed and threatening the others, the rest staring around as if still expecting to be rudely awakened from a nightmare.

Up in the weather shrouds a man was casually reloading his musket. He must have marked Bezant down the moment he had burst on deck. The mate, Jeff Lincoln, faced Keen, his beefy hands on his hips; there was blood on one sleeve but it was not his own.

“Well, Captain?” He watched him for any hint of danger. “Are you alone?”

Keen saw the wavering muskets, and more professional handling by men who were obviously the released soldiers. All except one. He sat against the mainmast trunk, crooning to himself and taking long swallows of rum from a stone jug.

Keen said, “My companions are coming up, Mister Lincoln. If you lay a finger …”

Lincoln shook his head. “You give no orders here, sir. I understand you have lately taken a young wife?” He saw Keen flinch. “So let us not make her a widow so soon, eh?”

There was a lot of laughter, a wild sound: men committed without realising yet what they had done.

Keen regarded them. “You could still relent. Any court would show mercy under the circumstances.” He did not look at the big, beetle-browed mate. He wanted to strike out at him. Kill him before he himself was hacked down. He continued, “You know the navy’s ways, Mr Lincoln.” He saw the new mate Tasker staring at him, his eyes shifting quickly between them, and continued relentlessly, “Mutiny is a bad thing, but to seize people as important as my vice-admiral and his lady …”

Tasker said hoarsely, “We didn’t know they were going to be aboard!”

Lincoln swung on him and snarled, “Shut your face, man! Can’t you see what this bloody aristocrat is trying to do?” To Keen he said, “I command here.” He glared at the wounded master. “If you want to save him, and yourself, lend that old bull a hand!”

Keen knelt down beside the groaning master and tied his neckcloth tightly above the wound. The ball was lodged there, small and deep, and from a musket, so that it had probably deflected against bone.

All these things passed through his mind, but his eyes were on the hatch measuring the distance, one last strike at the enemy if all else failed.

He saw the boatswain, Luke Britton, being supported by two of his men, blood running from his forehead where he had been savagely attacked. At least he had stayed loyal, as were the men around him. Frightened maybe, because mutiny was as much feared as yellow jack. But more so, perhaps, of what would happen to them when they were caught.

The released prisoners were the most dangerous. Men who knew harsh discipline were usually the first to run wild if that same control was broken. They had nothing to lose but their lives. They had all known that when they enlisted, or had been coaxed into taking the King’s shilling in exchange for a brief, drunken taste of freedom.

Lincoln’s shadow passed over them. “‘Ere, fetch a cask!” To Keen he added, “Get this bugger to sit up beside the wheel. I can keep an eye on him there.”

An unknown seaman shambled aft and shouted, “He gave me the cat, the bastard! Give him to me, I’ll lay his back in ribbons!”

Lincoln faced him with cold contempt. “Can you navigate these waters, you oaf? You asked for that punishment—if the master hadn’t ordered it, damn your eyes, I’d have laid into you meself!” The sailor staggered back as if he had been punched.

Everyone fell silent as Catherine and Bolitho came on deck, the maid clutching her mistress’s hand while she stared fixedly at the deck. Catherine turned slowly and looked at the watching figures. “Rabble.”

Lincoln glared. “Enough o’ that!” He saw Bolitho’s old sword at his hip and said, “I’ll have that, if you please.” Something in Bolitho’s grey stare must have warned him that his plan might go astray before it had really begun, and he relented. Instead his fist shot out and he seized Sophie’s wrist and dragged her to his side where she began to shake like a puppet.

Catherine said, “Are you so brave?” She gently released herself from Bolitho’s restraining grip and stepped towards him. “If you need a surety, then take a lady, not a child.”

Several of the onlookers laughed, and a soldier yelled, “An’ I’m the next after you, matey!”

Catherine forced herself to show no emotion; nor did she look at Bolitho. The least sign, the smallest action and he would lose his self-control. She said, “Go to Mr Yovell and the others, Sophie. I will remain with this gentleman.”

Bolitho stood beside Keen, his mind held in a vice. He said to the groaning Bezant, “They will kill us—you know that, don’t you?”

“I—I don’t understand.” He seemed more shocked than angry now that it had happened. “I’ve always been a fair man.”

“It’s over.” He tightened his hold around Bezant’s bulky shoulders and stared hard through the spokes of the wheel. “You are the only one who can prevent it.” He felt Keen tense suddenly as Lincoln touched one of Catherine’s earrings, his thick fingers playing on the edge of her gown and against her skin. Any second now and all reason would go. Not even a mutiny, but brutality and murder at its worst.

He heard her say in reply to something Lincoln had asked or implied, “I value my life more than precious things.”

The man called Tasker said urgently, “Tell ‘em what to do! They’re ‘alf-stupid with drink already, God damn them!” He turned on Catherine and said quietly, “I shall give you a time to remember, my bloody ladyship! I was in a slaver afore this, an’ I’ve learned a trick or two on them long passages with our black ivory!”

Lincoln pushed him aside, angry or jealous at his intrusion, it was hard to tell. All Bolitho could think of was her lovely body in their hands, her despair and agony acting only as encouragement to men such as these.

Bezant took a grip on himself. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me. You of all men should know!”

Bolitho stepped away from him and murmured, “Remember what I said.”

Lincoln stood on a hatch cover, his legs braced against the deck’s uneven roll. To one of the soldiers he said, “Watch our master at the wheel. If I order you to shoot him, then do it. I’ll not risk an ounce of gold for a few moments of drunken lechery.” His eyes moved quickly to the woman who stood just below him. He would tame her. She might fight all she could, but he would do it. A creature like her, the kind of woman he had never seen or known in his whole life.

He took a grip on himself. “Begin hoisting the boxes from the hold.” He pointed at the boatswain with the bleeding wound on his head. “Take charge of rigging tackles and see to it that each box is secured and guarded.” Again the casual signal to the soldier. “If he disobeys, kill him!”

Bolitho looked at Allday. “Bear a hand with the tackles, John.” He spoke easily, seeing the instant anxiety in his eyes. “It will give you something to do.”

John. He had called him by name. Allday felt it touch him like a cold hand. In minutes, they could be dead. Or perhaps nothing would happen until rum and the thought of two women in their midst finally broke down the last barricade of Lincoln’s control.

Tasker walked to the scuppers and bent over the corpse. After removing a money-pouch from the dead man’s belt he gestured with his thumb. “Over with him!” He did not even turn as the corpse hit the water alongside and drifted rapidly towards the stern. He was still imagining that proud, arrogant woman, just as he had seen the screaming black slave girls when he had turned his men on to them.

Below his feet, Jenour put his weapons on to the deck and peered out through the open gunport. It was all moving too fast; the sea so bright, and so early.

He gave Ozzard a quick nod. The little man was obviously terrified. It seemed suddenly important that he should not leave him without a word, some crumb of support.

“I’ll do a sketch of you when this is over, eh?” He touched his shoulder as he had seen Bolitho do so often; the contact he always seemed to need, when people who did not know or understand him thought he wanted for nothing.

Ozzard did not seem to hear. “Take care, Mr Jenour, sir. We’re all very fond of you.”

Jenour stared at him and then began to worm his shoulders through the port. It was not going to be easy. He had never imagined it would be. He looked down and saw the hull’s copper sheathing gleam in the frothing water below him, then up to the mizzen chains, and a glimpse of the blocks and tarred cordage beneath the quivering ratlines. The gun was very near there, but as yet out of sight.

He cringed against the warm timbers as a corpse heaved over the bulwark just by the shrouds struck the water beneath him. One flapping hand casually brushed his arm as it dropped past him, and he waited with sick horror for the sound of a shot, or the agonising thrust from one of the boarding pikes he had seen stacked around the mizzen trunk.

He stared down as something glided into the cresting water cut back by the barquentine’s raked stem. For only a few seconds he saw the black, empty eyes watching him before the shark turned deftly and plunged after the drifting corpse.

Jenour gritted his teeth and pulled himself to the chains and then swung himself round and up on to the mizzen channel. He waited for an eternity before he dared to raise his head. The bulwark was only feet away—at any moment a curious face might look down and see him. Perhaps, although he had heard no sound, all of his companions had been butchered. He thought of the letter which was still unfinished, the sketches his family in Southampton would never see. He felt his eyes smarting; his body was shaking, so that he had to force himself to look directly down again into clear water. There were two sharks now. He gave a quick sob. They would not have long to wait. He whispered, “God bless you!” He did not know to whom.

On deck, the first of the heavily-barred boxes was swayed up into the full view of the expectant mutineers. They gave a wild cheer, and more rum was already being broached from the other hold.

Catherine saw some of the men watching her and looked away, her eyes meeting with Bolitho’s as if to some unspoken word.

His eyes moved, just once, and she turned her head very slightly. She felt her heart pounding, and put her hand to her breast. She had seen what Bolitho had intended: Jenour’s grimy, bloodied fingers feeling up for the lower ratlines, while directly beneath the mounted swivel-gun two of the armed seamen were resting in the shade. At any second Jenour might make some sound and bring them down on him.

Lincoln swallowed a mug of rum and gasped noisily, his reddened eyes on the hand against her breast.

“That should be my place, my lady!”

She turned aside and reached up to adjust her piled hair.

She felt his breath, stinking of rum, smelt the dirt and sweat of his body as he gripped her waist and stared wildly at the shadow between her breasts.

It was all she could do to look at him as she felt his hands moving on her body.

Then she said, “I must loosen my hair!”

If she thought of Bolitho now, all would be lost.

Deftly she pulled the long comb from her hair and even as it tumbled over her shoulders, she raised the comb and drove it into Lincoln’s eye.

He fell backwards, screaming, the decorated comb protruding from his eye like an obscene growth.

Someone dropped a musket and it exploded, so that men who had been yelling and running for weapons froze in their tracks and watched with sick disbelief while Lincoln rolled on his back, his heavy seaboots drumming on the deck while his blood encircled his agony.

Tasker, the new mate who had once been a slaver, dragged out his pistol and shouted, “Leave him! Take the others below and shackle them, ‘til we can deal with ‘em properly!”

He looked at the tall, dark-haired woman who, despite the levelled weapons, had walked to Bolitho’s side.

Tasker laughed. “That pig-sticker of a sword won’t help you now, Admiral!”

Bolitho gripped his sword, but felt only her arm against his side. He was even surprised at the unemotional tone of his voice, when just an instant ago he had been about to throw himself to her defence.

He said, “Help is here now.” He saw Tasker’s astonishment as he slipped the old sword back into its scabbard, then watched it change to stunned understanding as the swivel-gun swung inboard and was depressed on to the bulk of the mutineers.

Allday had torn a cutlass from one of the sailors guarding the loyal hands and now ran aft, bending almost double in case Jenour should jerk the lanyard and rake the deck into a bloody shambles with a full charge of canister.

Bolitho shouted, “Throw down your arms! In the King’s name—or I swear to God I will order my lieutenant to fire!”

Keen stood up from the companion-way and cocked his hidden pistol. Tojohns had also produced a pair from another hiding place.

Keen found time to notice Bolitho’s voice, the intensity of his stare, recalling the moment when he had ordered them to continue pouring broadsides into the enemy that had destroyed Hyperion in another sea.

If they do not strike they will die! He was still not sure whether Bolitho would have continued to fire if the French flags had not come down.

He had that same expression now.

The men on deck stared at one another, some probably already planning how they would defend their actions by pleading that they had intended to overthrow the mutineers. A few of the loyal men wondering, perhaps, how their circumstances might have indeed changed had they thrown in their lot with the others. Gold to keep them free of danger and want, the rigours of the common seaman.

There was one man in the ship who had not been consulted or threatened either way, nor even considered when the others had been fanned into an uprising.

He was a seaman from Bristol by the name of William Owen, who had been aloft in the crosstrees, the first masthead lookout at the start of this new and terrible day.

Throughout the fighting on deck, he had witnessed the astounding sight of his messmates turning upon one another after the master had been shot down and the military prisoners released; then, it seemed, in the twinkling of an eye, the roles had been reversed. He had seen the admiral’s lady, her bearing defiant even from this high perch, and had sensed the seething cauldron of mutiny as more and more rum had flung reason to one side. Now, his hands shaking badly, he twisted round and peered across the quarter for the other ship’s topsails. He rubbed his eyes as relief flooded through him. He was safe, and the other vessel was stern-on as she went about on an opposite tack.

Safe. He had taken part in nothing. He had been doing the job he knew best, for Owen was the most experienced lookout in the Golden Plover’s company.

He shaded his eyes again and stared until they watered. He knew all the signs but had never before witnessed it, and he had been at sea for fifteen years.

Stretching away beyond the bows, it made the sea change colour without breaking the surface. Like fast-moving smoke, or steam from a kettle, as if the sea were boiling in its depths …

He leaned over and peered down at the deck, his voice carrying above all else. The cruelty and the greed were forgotten.

“Deck there! Breakers ahead!”

9

ABANDON

BOLITHO seized Catherine’s arm and said, “That was a brave deed, Kate! But for you Stephen would have been seen, and everything lost with him!”

She stared at him, her eyes very wide, as if she too were trying to grapple with the speed of their changing circumstances; the crushing blow from the masthead lookout. Breakers ahead.

She said, “I would kill for you.” She stared across at the place where Lincoln had fallen, his face mercifully hidden as his blood continued to run down the deck and into the scuppers.

Bolitho peered up at the masthead lookout. “Fetch that man down!” There was so much he needed to know and do, and yet he could not leave her. He could feel the pretence through her arm, the taut muscles hardening as she fought to retain control. She said suddenly, “Do as you must. I will be all right … no matter what.”

Bolitho spoke to Keen. “Muster the hands. I want the vessel lightened as much as possible.” He pointed at the two boats on their small tier; each was filled to the thwarts with water to prevent their seams opening in the sun’s glare. “Empty them, and have them lowered immediately. They can be towed with the quarter-boat.” He saw Jenour wrapping a rag around one hand where he had torn it on the corroded metal of the chains in his frantic climb from the gunport. “Stephen! All guns over the side! Either way, we’ll not be needing them now.” He saw Jenour’s eyes move to the swivel, his swivel, and added, “That one too.”

A man slithered down a stay and stood awkwardly before him.

“I’m the lookout, sir.” He knuckled his forehead. “That brig ‘as put about—she’ll be waitin’ for us when we weather the reef.”

Bolitho said, “Owen, isn’t it?”

The seaman stared at him. “Well … aye, Sir Richard, that be m’name!”

“Go with the other loyal men. There is much to do, and few to do it.”

Allday called, “The master wants a word, Sir Richard!”

Bolitho stooped by the wounded man. “What went wrong?”

“I intended to cut it as fine as prudent, Sir Richard.” Bezant’s eyes rolled in pain as he stared at the swaying compass. “But the wind’s backed a piece … unusual hereabouts.”

He looked like death, Bolitho thought desperately. His normally reddened features were ashen, his breathing slow and uneven. And despite all that had happened in so short a time, he had managed to notice the shift of wind; it was rising too, flinging spray over the men who were already draining out the two boats.

Bezant was saying, “There be one way through the reef. I done it afore in the old Plover, a year or so back.” The memory gave him sudden strength and he shouted at the prisoners and mutineers alike who were standing under guard, as shocked, it seemed, as anyone by what had happened. “That was afore you murderin’ scum were aboard! By God, I’ll be there to watch you dance on air, you cowardly bastards!”

He saw Catherine and gasped, “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady!”

Catherine was looking at the dark blood on her gown and shuddered.

“Save your strength, Captain.” But her eyes told Bolitho how near she had been to collapse.

Bolitho saw Allday stand back from one of the hoisting tackles and gasp with pain while he massaged his chest. Not him too …

He called, “Take over the helm, Allday.” He saw the protest. “No arguments this time, old friend!”

Bezant dragged a telescope from the rack, and while two men held him steady he levelled it towards the distant cloud of drifting spray.

“Steer sou’-east-by-south. Close to the wind as she’ll hold.”

Bolitho said, “We must shorten sail.” He tried not to hurry the wounded man, but time was too valuable to waste. “What say you?”

Bezant gasped and nodded gratefully as Ozzard tilted a mug of brandy against his mouth.

Then he said thickly, “Jib an’ foretops’l, driver too. With this wind, I’m not sure of anythin’!”

Bolitho saw Keen watching him, his fair hair rippling in the freshening wind. “You heard that, Val?”

“Leave it to me.” He turned to seek out the boatswain. “The guns are gone—boats as well.” He glanced meaningly at the first crates of gold, which had been hoisted on deck by the jubilant mutineers.

Bolitho said, “That too.” He heard yells of protest from Tasker and shouted back at him, “It all goes, or we’ll end up on the reef!” He gestured with the pistol he had been holding since Jenour’s appearance by the swivel-gun. “One word out of you, and I’ll have you run up to the foreyard, here and now! “

He turned away, sickened by what had happened, by the knowledge that he would shoot the man down himself without waiting for any hangman’s halter.

He said harshly, “Put an armed man in the hold with them. Then start hoisting the gold on deck.” He touched Keen’s arm. “If we can ride this out, Val, we can still shake off that brig and run for the mainland.”

Carrying less canvas, the Golden Plover’s pace slowed considerably. But the motion was more violent, and men fell cursing as water boiled over the gunwale, or flooded amongst them to dislodge their hold.

He saw Catherine by the companion-way speaking urgently to her maid and Ozzard. He called, “Keep away from the bulkheads—there may be some men in hiding. No risks, Kate!”

Their eyes met again; for mere seconds it was as if nobody else were near. Then she was gone.

Keen came aft, pushing his fingers through his dripping hair. “All secured, sir. But she’ll not come closer to the wind. If it dropped—well, that might be different.”

There was a piercing scream, which stopped almost instantly as if shut off by an iron door.

Then there were more shouts from the hold and one of the mutineers appeared on the coaming, his eyes wild with fear as he clawed his way in to the sunlight.

He shouted, “I’m not waitin’ to go down with the ship! I’ll take me chances with …”

He got no further but fell back down the ladder, the sunlight glinting briefly on the knife that had been flung from below, and which protruded between his shoulders.

Bolitho walked to the hold and saw Britton, the boatswain, levelling a musket in case someone tried to rush the ladder.

Bolitho called, “Don’t be fools!” Even in the brisk wind he could smell the heady aroma of rum. They were mad with it. Men without hope who still saw the crated gold as a chance of heaven.

Tasker shouted, “Don’t try to bluff us! That bloody Bezant knows this reef well. He’d not run his precious ship aground to get revenge!”

Bolitho said nothing. It was becoming more futile by the minute, and when he glanced aft he saw Allday, who was clinging to the spokes with another man, give a quick shake of the head. Golden Plover was not responding; the pressure of wind in her scanty canvas and the fierce undertow near anything like the Hundred Mile Reef were too much for her.

The hatch across the hold was slammed shut, and he thought he heard wild laughter as they wedged it from below. It would be the richest coffin of all time, he thought. There was nothing else to jettison that would, or could, make a difference.

He said, “Put that man Owen in the chains and start sounding, Val.”

He covered his right eye with his hand and stared up at the whipping masthead pendant. He almost cried out aloud. His other eye had misted over completely, and felt raw and painful with salt.

In the pitching cabin Catherine stared round at the chaos of scattered chairs and fallen books. She recognised some of Bolitho’s Shakespeare and wanted to gather them up. Through the stern windows she saw the endless array of surging white horses, felt the rudder thudding violently as if to tear itself away. She clenched her fists and closed her eyes tightly against the fear. Now she was needed, needed more than ever before.

Then she looked at Sophie, who was cowering by the screen door, her naked terror barely under control.

She said, “Help Ozzard carry those bags to the companion-way.” She waited for her words to sink in. “No … wait a minute.” She groped in one of the bags and pulled out a clean pair of white breeches and one of Bolitho’s shirts, which Ozzard had been pressing yesterday. Was it only yesterday?

She said, “Go on deck now.”

Sophie gasped in a small voice, “Are we going to die, me lady?”

Catherine smiled, even though her mouth and lips were as dry as dust.

“We are going to be ready, my girl.”

She saw her nod as she replied with an attempt at courage, “I wish we was at ‘ome, me lady!”

Catherine took several deep breaths and turned away, so that Sophie should not see her despair.

Then, very deliberately she unfastened her gown and stepped out of it, letting it fall with her petticoats until she was quite naked, standing in the watery glare like some goddess in a pagan ceremony. She pulled on the white breeches and Bolitho’s shirt and tied her hair back from her face with a piece of dark red ribbon, and gathered up the petticoats, folding them under her arm; she knew enough about wounds to recognise that Bezant was in serious trouble and would need bandages. As she kicked off her thin shoes one fell on to the gown where Lincoln’s blood still shone as if it were alive. It was only then that she felt the knot of vomit in her throat and knew she could contain it no longer.

She found little Ozzard crouching on the companion ladder, with a satchel hung over his shoulder. He knew. He had been with the others in Hyperion when she had finally gone down … who would know better than he?

“Thank you for waiting for me.” She saw him glance at her bare legs and feet and somehow sensed that he had been watching her, had seen her naked against the stern windows. It did not seem to matter now.

She gripped the handrail and paused as someone called from the forechains, “No bottom, sir!” The leadsman’s voice, carried on the wind, made her skin chill. Like a spirit from hell.

“What does it mean?”

Ozzard came out of his thoughts. “Means we’re in plenty of water, m’lady.” He shook his head. “Early days yet.”

Bolitho turned as she climbed on to the wet planking. She waited for the deck to fall again and let it carry her to his side.

“I took these from your bag, Richard. This is no place for gowns and pretty tea-cups!”

Keen watched, and shook his head as Bolitho held her for a few moments. Then he heard her laugh and thought Bolitho used the word entrancing. He saw Jenour staring too, so absorbed that he was probably wishing he had his sketch book.

Bezant groaned, “Not long now. If only I had the feel of her!”

Allday put his weight on the spokes and felt the vessel fighting wind and sea and him all at the same time. He stared hard at the leaping line of breakers, the occasional gaps in between. He heard drunken laughter from the sealed hold and envied them the rum. Just one mug before she strikes. He gritted his teeth and thought of the woman he had rescued on the road. And strike she will.

He glanced at Bolitho and his lady and felt the old despair closing in. Always the pain. Ships gone, old faces wiped away. He had always trained himself to accept it when it eventually found him. But not like this. For nothing …

Keen walked past, his shoes skidding on the streaming deck.

Allday heard him say to Bolitho, “I’ve told the bosun what to expect, sir. He will take the cutter and follow us. We will have the smaller boat. Once clear of the reef, things might be easier.”

Bolitho kept his voice low. “So you think there’s no hope of finding this passage?”

Keen stared back at his level grey eyes, and did not even flinch as the lookout yelled, “By th’ mark seventeen!”

“Do you, sir? It’s shoaling already. Without the gold to weigh us down …” He shrugged. It did not need any words.

Bolitho jerked his head towards the hold. They were still shouting and laughing like lunatics. But surely Tasker or one of the ringleaders would know and understand?

“By th’ mark ten!” God, they were as close as that. He looked at the boatswain and his companions. Staring about, not knowing what to do. Their own master barely able to pass his instructions to Allday, another blinded and probably dead, while the third had locked himself below with the gold. At any second they might panic and rush to the boats.

He shouted, “Mr Britton! If we abandon you must stay near to the jolly-boat. Once away from the reef we can make sail and work clear.” He smiled across at Catherine in her breeches and frilled shirt. “Now that we have an extra sailor amongst us, we should be in safe hands!”

For a few seconds nobody moved or spoke, and Bolitho thought he had failed. Then Britton, his head wound seemingly cleansed by the drenching spray, yelled, “Our Dick’ll do it, lads! Huzza! “

The lookout William Owen, who was also an excellent leadsman, swung the line round and round, up and over his shoulder before allowing the heavy fourteen-pound lead to fly ahead of the bows.

Afterwards, he was certain that he had seen the reef rising to meet them even as the lead struck at just over keel-depth, and he yelled, “By th’ mark three!” But it was all in seconds. The towering wall of spray lifting and bursting over the bowsprit in the cruel sunshine, then the first awful shuddering crash as they struck. Owen fought his way out of his leadsman’s apron and flung himself down even as a great shadow plunged past and hurled splinters and flapping canvas in all directions: the Golden Plover’s fore-topmast, with clattering blocks and rigging, thundering over the side. Someone was crying out but Owen knew it was his own voice he heard, as he ducked and dodged another great mass of falling rigging.

He stared wildly aft and saw that they had managed to free the flapping driver, which had added to their thrust into the reef. But the great swell lifted the hull easily and allowed it to fall again with a second sickening crash.

Owen ran towards the only sign of order and discipline, where men clung to broken cordage and bowed down under the great sweeping onslaught of water over the side, and stared dazedly at the tall figure all in white by the wheel before his reeling mind told him it was the admiral’s lady. He saw Bolitho too, one arm pointing at the hold where another seaman was banging on the hatch with a pistol butt.

Bolitho looked at Bezant who was being half-carried to the side, to which the boats had been warped in readiness.

He said, “You tried. We all did. It was not enough.” He had to make this wounded, stricken man understand. Accept it. The deck felt steadier except for the violent surge of undertow. But at any moment she might slide off. There would be no hope for any of them. He rubbed his injured eye and did not hear her call out, in the din of wind and waves, for him to stop.

He watched them lower Bezant over the side and then joined Catherine by the motionless wheel. The ship was already breaking up, and he could hear the sea booming into the forward hold, smashing down anything that barred its way.

Allday shouted, “Here come the rats!”

Some of the mutineers and the released soldiers were pulling themselves on deck, staring around with disbelief or madness. Tojohns pointed his pistols and roared, “You bastards can take the quarter-boat!”

Keen said, “Abandon, sir?” He spoke quietly, his voice almost drowned.

Bolitho gripped Catherine’s arm and dragged her to the side. The boatswain’s cutter had already cast off, the oars thrashing in confusion until some sort of order and timing came into play.

The jolly-boat, a small eighteen-foot cutter, was rising and dipping wildly directly below the bulwark. Bezant had been lashed in the sternsheets, and Jenour was already loosening the oars. Such a small boat, he thought, against such a mighty sea.

She clutched him, hard. “Don’t leave me.”

He held her face against his as he lifted her over the side and down to Allday and Yovell. “Never!”

Then he turned and looked at the rum-crazed fools who were dragging great bags of gold across the deck. They did not even appear to see him. He swung himself over the side and instantly felt the jolly-boat veer away, with a clatter of looms as each man tried to find his rowlock in the confusion.

Allday croaked, “Mainmast’s a-comin’ down, Sir Richard!”

It was difficult to see what happened through the leaping, blinding spray, but they all heard the crash of splintering planking as the maintopmast sliced down and across the quarter-boat.

The lookout, Owen, dug his feet into the wooden stretchers and lay back on his oar with all his strength. He was glad that the women were in the sternsheets and did not see what was happening. The swell eased very slightly so that the spray parted across the passage old Bezant had been heading for. The Golden Plover was now quite mastless and leaning over on her side; the boat which had been smashed by falling spars had vanished, but the frothing water told its own story. Instead of gold from the high sun, it was bright red, and the sea was churning with great, flashing bodies as the sharks tore into the attack.

Bolitho saw Allday grimace as he heaved on his oar, and called, “Lay aft, Allday. We need a good cox’n today!”

He looked at their stricken faces. All sailors hated leaving their ship. The sea was the constant enemy, and their future was unknown.

Bolitho clambered over to take Allday’s oar and called out, “You know what they say, lads? Only one thing more useless in a boat than a harpsichord, and that’s an admiral!”

Nobody laughed, but he saw her watching him while she stooped to bale water from beneath the gratings.

Jenour pulled at his oar, the unaccustomed motion tearing at his cut fingers. They were still together, more than he had dared to hope. He felt his beautiful sword rubbing his hip. All that he had with him. Even his sketches had been in his sea-chest.

Someone gasped, “There she goes, lads!”

Bezant began to struggle. “Help me up, damn you! Must see!”

Allday laid his arm on the tiller bar but reached out with the other to calm the man. “Easy, matey. You can’t help her now.”

With a roar and in a great welter of spray, the Golden Plover slid from the reef and vanished.

The jolly-boat seemed to slide through the turbulent water and then settle again, her oars rising and falling to carry her away.

Bolitho tried to gauge the sun’s position but his eye was too painful.

Two things were uppermost in his aching mind.

They were through the reef and into calmer water. And they were quite alone.

The big grey house below Pendennis Castle seemed cool and refreshing after the heat of late afternoon. The girl loosened the ribbons of her wide straw hat and allowed it to fall on her shoulders, to lie across her long, sun-warmed hair.

How quiet the house was. She guessed that Ferguson and his wife and the servants were probably having a meal before evening church; in the meantime she had enjoyed the peace of her walk along the cliffs and down the steep track to the little curving beach where she liked to look for shells. Ferguson had warned her about the cliff path and she had listened dutifully to his advice, all the while thinking of Zennor, where she had been born. After those cliffs this walk had been easy.

Because it was Sunday she had barely seen anyone except a coastguard who had been peering out across the shimmering bay through his long brass-bound telescope. He was friendly enough, but Zenoria felt they were all watching her whenever she went into town. Curiosity perhaps, or was it the usual suspicion cherished by the Cornish for “strangers,” even those from a different part of the same county?

This house, too. She crossed to a small table, the wood of which was so dark with age and polishing it could have been ebony. She watched her hand as she placed it on the great family Bible, and saw the wedding ring with something like surprise. Would she never get used to it? Might things never change, so that she would never be able to give freely of the love Valentine needed from her?

She opened the massive brass locks and raised the cover. Like the house, so much history. It was somehow awesome—frightening, she thought.

They were all there, written in by hands unknown. A family’s record, like a roll of honour. She gave a small shiver. It was as if the same portraits that matched these names were watching her, resenting her intrusion.

Captain Julius Bolitho who had died a young man of 36. She felt the strange apprehension again. Right here in Falmouth during the Civil War, trying to lift the Roundhead blockade. She had seen the castle this afternoon, hunched on the headland. It was still a place of menace.

Bolitho’s great great grandfather, Captain Daniel, who had fallen fighting the French in Bantry Bay. Captain David, killed fighting pirates in 1724, and Denziel, the only one until Sir Richard to gain flag rank. She smiled at the way she had come to absorb and understand the terms and the traditions of the navy.

And Bolitho’s father, Captain James, who had lost an arm in India. She had studied his portrait closely, seen the family likeness found once more in Bolitho. Her mind seemed to hesitate, like guilt. In Adam too.

And now a separate entry in Sir Richard’s own sweeping hand, on the occasion when Adam’s name had been changed to Bolitho, asserting his right to all that he would one day inherit. On the same page Bolitho had also written, “To the memory of my brother Hugh, Adam’s father, once lieutenant in His Britannic Majesty’s Navy, who died on 7 TH May 1795. The Call of Duty was the Path to Glory.”

Zenoria closed the Bible with great care, as if to keep its memories undisturbed.

And what of the women? Waiting for their men to return, wondering every time, perhaps, if this parting was the last one?

Zenoria thought of her husband and tried to discover her innermost feelings. She had been unable to give him what he truly deserved. She was not even certain that she loved him. Adam had made it clear that he thought she had married Keen out of gratitude for what he had done to save her person and restore her good name. Was that all it had been, then—gratitude? Did Valentine really understand what it had been like for her; why she was incapable of any sexual response after what had happened to her? When he had entered her she had wanted more than anything to please him.

Instead she had felt pain, terror, revulsion; and had expected him to lose patience, to thrust her away in disgust, to behave with brutality. But he had done nothing: he had accepted it, and blamed himself. Perhaps when he came back … How many times had that gone through her mind? It was torture, so that as the weeks had dragged past she had almost come to dread their reunion.

If Catherine had been here, it might have been different. She would have been compassionate; she might have had wisdom to offer. Zenoria turned and stared around the big room. I must keep faith with him. She imagined she could hear the words rebounding from the cool stone.

There was a sound of horses in the stable yard. Matthew perhaps, getting a carriage to take Ferguson and his wife down to church. She stiffened. No, not horses, just the one, and from the clamour of its stamping hooves it was difficult to calm and must have been ridden hard. A visitor then.

Then she heard Ferguson’s voice, hushed, hesitant, so that she could not grasp the sense of his words. Someone came around from the courtyard, and disappeared towards the front of the house; there was no mistaking the gold lace and cocked hat, the jingle of the sword Adam always wore.

She touched her breast and felt herself flush. But he was supposed to be at Plymouth now … She glanced at herself in the mirror and was dismayed to see the sudden pleasure in her eyes.

The outer doors opened and closed and she turned to face him as he came in.

“You surprise me again, Captain Adam, sir!” He ignored her teasing humour. She felt her body chill in spite of the warmth. “What is it, Adam? Are you in trouble?”

He did not speak but threw his hat on to a chair; she saw the dust on his boots, the leather stains on his breeches, evidence of the haste of his journey.

He placed his hands on her shoulders and gazed at her for what seemed like an age.

Then he said quietly, “I am the bearer of bad news, Zenoria. Try to be strong, as I have tried to be since I was told of it.”

She did not resist as he pulled her gently against him. Later she was to remember the exact moment, and knew it had not been out of tenderness but the need to hide from her face while he told her.

“It is reported that the barquentine Golden Plover, while on passage to Cape Town, struck a reef off the west coast of Africa.”

She could hear the hard, fast beating of his heart against her cheek. He continued to speak in the same empty voice. “A small Portuguese trader was stopped by one of our ships. It told them the news.” He paused, counting the seconds as a good gunner will measure the fall of shot. “There were none saved.”

Only then did he release her and walk blindly to one of the portraits. Probably without knowing what he was doing his fingers touched the old family sword in the painting. Now it would never be his.

“Is it certain, Adam?”

He turned lightly, as he always did. “My uncle is the best seaman I have ever known. The fairest of men, loved by all who tried to know him. But she was not his ship, you see?”

She tried, but she did not understand. All she knew was that her husband, who had given her everything, was now only another memory. Like all those who haunted this house, and were named in their roll of honour.

Adam said, “I have asked Ferguson to tell the servants. I did not … feel capable. By this time tomorrow, all Falmouth will know.” He thought suddenly of Belinda. “As all London knows now.”

He seemed to reconsider her question. “There is always hope. But it may be unwise to dream too much.” He faced her again, but seemed distant, unreachable.

“I have called for a fresh horse. I must ride to the squire’s house without delay. I would not want Aunt Nancy to hear it on the wind like common gossip.” For the first time he showed his emotion. “God, she worshipped him.”

Zenoria watched his distress with pain. “Adam—what must I do?”

“Do?” He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “You must remain here. He would have wished it.” He hesitated, realising what he had said, and what he had omitted. “So would your husband. I am sorry … I will ask Mrs Ferguson to keep you company.”

A horse was being led into the yard, but there were no voices.

“Please come back, Adam. Neither of us must be alone.”

He looked at her steadily. “I liked your husband very much. I also envied him to an unhealthy degree.” He came to her again and kissed her forehead very gently. “I still do.”

Then he was gone and she caught sight of Bolitho’s one-armed steward standing out in the dusty sunshine, staring at the empty road.

She was suddenly alone, and the pain of bereavement was unbearable.

She cried out, “Are you all satisfied now, damn you? There he rides, the last of the Bolithos!” She stared about her, blinded by hot, unexpected tears. “Is that what you wanted?”

But there was only silence.

She did not know what time it was or how long she had managed to sleep; it was as if someone had spoken her name. She slipped out of bed and moved to the window. The night was warm, and a bright half-moon spilled a glittering silver cloak down from the horizon until it was lost beneath the headland.

She leaned further from the window so that her robe slipped from one shoulder, but she did not notice it, nor think of the livid scar which was revealed there. A mark of endurance, but to her it was a mark of shame, of sick humiliation.

She could smell the land, the sheep and cattle, and thought of the ideas Catherine had shared with her, plans which would have brought life back to the estate.

Then she heard it; not words but something else, a soul in pain. She glanced round in the darkness. She had not heard Adam return, and had imagined him to be passing the night at Roxby’s house.

The next moment she was on the big landing, her bare feet soundless on the rugs, her candle lighting up each stern face on the wall: ships burning, men dying, and Bolitho’s own words in the Bible as every portrait slid away into the shadows.

Adam was sitting at the table, his face buried in his arms, sobbing as if his heart were breaking. His hat and sword and the coat with its gleaming lace were flung across a chair, and there was a smell of brandy in the air.

He looked up sharply and saw her with the outstretched candle. “I—I did not mean to wake you!”

Zenoria had never seen a man cry before, and certainly not from such depths.

She whispered, “Had I known I would have come earlier.” She saw his hand hesitate over the brandy and added, “Take some. I think I might quite like a little myself.”

He wiped his face roughly and brought another goblet, and watched her as she placed the candle on the table and curled up on the rug in front of the black, empty grate. As he passed he lightly touched her hair as he might a child’s. He stood looking at the Bolitho crest and fingered the carving, as others had done before him.

“What happened?” Zenoria felt the brandy searing her throat. She had only tasted it once before, more as a dare than for any other reason.

“The squire was very kind to me.” He shook his head, as if still dazed by what had happened. “Poor Aunt Nancy. She kept asking me how it must have been.” He gave a great sigh. “What could I tell her? It is a sailor’s lot. Death can lie on every hand.” He thought suddenly of Allday and his quaint comments. “An’ that’s no error,” as his old friend would have said. Thank God they had been together, even to the end.

He said abruptly, “I am no company, dear Zenoria. I had better leave.”

She leaned over to replace the goblet and heard him exclaim, “What is that? Did they do this to you?”

She covered her bared shoulder as he dropped on his knees behind her; he carefully moved her hair to one side and felt her tremble as light played on the top of the scar.

“I would kill any man who laid a finger on you.”

She tried not to flinch as he lowered his head and kissed the scar. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it would alarm the whole house. But she felt no fear; where there had been disgust, there was only an awareness which seemed to consume her completely. She could not even resist as he kissed her shoulder once again, and touched her neck with his lips. She felt him pulling at the cord around her shoulders, and only then did she attempt to fight it.

“Please, Adam! You must not!”

But the robe fell about her waist and she felt his hands caressing her as he kissed the terrible scar that ran from her right shoulder to her left hip.

With tender strength he laid her down and gazed at her body, pale as marble in the filtered moonlight, and his hands gave persuasion to what they both now realised was unstoppable, as it had been inevitable.

She closed her eyes as he held and imprisoned her wrists above her head, and heard him whisper her name again and again

She waited for the pain, but she returned his kiss even as he entered her and they were joined.

Later he carried her upstairs to her room and sat near her, watching her until the sun began to drive away the shadows.

Only then did he finish his brandy and leave the room.

The candle had long been gutted when the first sunlight touched the big room and lingered on the family Bible, with its memories of dead heroes and the women who had loved them.

They were all ghosts, now.

10

POOR JACK

TO ANYONE unused to the sea’s ways its sudden change of mood, which had followed the jolly-boat’s precarious passage through Hundred Mile Reef, was impossible to believe. The squall had departed and had not returned, and the vastness of this great ocean stretched away on every bearing, unbroken, and in the noon sunshine, like blinding glass.

Bolitho climbed forward into the bows where a small canvas awning had been rigged to provide the barest of privacy for the two women. Catherine was waiting for him there, her borrowed shirt dark with sweat, her forehead showing signs of sunburn as she watched him over the slumped shoulders of the resting oarsmen.

She took his hand and guided him down to the bottom boards so that he could rest his back against the curved side.

“Let me see.” She held his face in her hands and gently prised open his left eyelid. Then she said, “I’m going to put a bandage over it, Richard.” She kept her voice very low so that nobody else could hear. “You must rest it.” She looked aft where Allday sat at the tiller, as if he had never moved. She had to give herself time, so that she would reveal no despair to Richard. Three days since the Golden Plover had slid from the reef. Hours of work on the oars, and rigging the solitary mast and sail to stand away from the reef’s fierce undertow, and set some sort of course for the mainland. For all they had seen or done they might have remained stationary. She tried to picture how this small, eighteen-foot craft would appear to an onlooker, had there been one, while it rode sluggishly to a canvas sea anchor and the men rested. Probably like a crumpled leaf on an immense, motionless lake. But here, in the boat’s overcrowded interior, it was something very different. Apart from the seaman named Owen, who had been the masthead lookout at the time of the mutiny, there were two other hands from the doomed Golden Plover: Elias Tucker, a frightened youth who came originally from Portsmouth, and Bill Cuppage, a hard man in every sense, with a harsh northern accent. Including the wounded Bezant, who hovered between delirium and bouts of agonised groaning, there were thirteen souls in all.

She raised a length of dressing cut from a petticoat and tied it carefully across his forehead to cover his salt-reddened eye.

Bolitho touched it and exclaimed, “Water! You’ve used fresh water, Kate!”

She pulled his hand away. “Rest a little. You cannot do everything.”

He lay back while she slipped her arm beneath his head. Her words had reminded him of Admiral Godschale. What might he be doing now, with Golden Plover probably reported missing? He sighed as she raised some canvas to shade him from the relentless sun. Three days, with no end in sight. And if they reached land, what then? It might be hostile, for this was slave territory where any white sailors would be seen as enemies.

He opened his sound eye and stared along the boat. They were divided into two watches, pulling on the oars after dusk, and waiting to reset the sail at the touch of even the smallest breeze. He saw Allday looking at him, still brooding perhaps about being ordered to take the tiller at all times because of his old wound. Ozzard too, stooping down over a satchel checking the stores that remained: a small man who seemed to have gathered unsuspected strength in his new role of purser. Bolitho’s secretary, the round-shouldered Yovell, was resting across the loom of an oar, his hands bandaged like Jenour’s from the hard, back-breaking work at something he had never trained for. His coat was split down the seams to show the extent of his efforts.

Tojohns, without whose strength at the oars it was unlikely they would have made more than a few miles; and Keen, who was crouched beside Owen, his eyes moving around the boat as if to measure their chances of survival. Bolitho raised his head very slightly and felt her stiffen against him. She knew what he was looking for.

Bolitho saw it: the shadow, their constant companion since the wreck. Usually no more than that, but just occasionally it would show its sharp dorsal fin as it glided to the surface, dispelling any hope that it had tired of the hunt.

He heard her ask, “What do you think happened to the other boat?”

It was hard even to think. “The bosun might have decided against following us through the reef. His was the larger boat, and carried far more people. He may have decided to remain on the other side, and then head for land.” In his heart he knew that the big cutter might have suffered the same fate as the mutineers, and had either capsized in the breakers, or foundered on the reef. The sharks would have left no one to tell the tale.

He said, “There would have been precious little to eat and drink but for your preparations. Cheese and ship’s biscuits, rum and brandy—many have survived on far less.” He tried to focus his eye on the two barricoes which were lashed on the bottom boards between the thwarts. Fresh water, but shared among thirteen, how long would it last?

Catherine smoothed the hair from his face and said, “We will reach help. I know it.” She lifted the locket from his open shirt and looked down at it. “I was younger then …”

Bolitho twisted round. “There is none more beautiful than you now, Kate!”

There was such anguish in his voice that for a few moments she saw the youth he had once been. Unsure, vulnerable, but caring even then.

Bezant gave a great groan and cried out, “In the name o’ God, help me! ” And then in almost the next breath he shouted, “Another turn on the weather forebrace, Mister Lincoln—lively, I say!”

The seaman named Cuppage swore savagely and retorted, “Why don’t you die, you bastard!”

Bolitho stared at the sea. Endless. Pitiless. Cuppage was only voicing what most of the others thought.

Catherine said, “Why, hello, Val—have you come a-visiting?”

Bolitho bit his lip. He had not even seen Keen groping his way over the thwarts and between slumped, exhausted bodies. I am no better than Cuppage.

Keen tried to smile. “Allday says he can smell a breeze.” He shielded his eyes against the blinding glare of reflected sunshine. “But I can see no evidence of it.” He glanced at the others. “I fear Bezant’s wound has gone against him, sir. Ozzard told me he noticed it when he took him some water.”

“The wound has become mortified, Val?” There was little need to ask. Both he and Keen had known it happen often enough. Crude surgery, indifferent medical skills—it was said that more men died of their treatment than from the enemy’s iron.

Catherine watched them, astonished that she could still feel such pride at being here with him. Her clothing was soiled and clung to her skin from spray and perspiration, and left little to imagination. Even the wrap of canvas they had rigged to hide her bodily functions provided only the illusion of privacy.

But she could escape even that when she watched and listened to the two she knew best in this world. The man she loved more and beyond life itself, and his friend, who had seemingly gained extra strength from what he believed he had lost and left forever in England.

She knew what they were discussing but nobody else would even guess. And she was seeing it for herself, even if she never lived to describe it. The other man, the hero of whom they sang and gossiped in the taverns and ale-houses, the man who inspired courage as well as love by his own qualities of leadership, which he would be the first to doubt. He believed that many men envied him because of her. It would never occur to him that it might be the other way round.

She heard him say, “It must be soon then?”

Keen nodded slowly, as if the motion was painful. “We shall need the light. And if Allday is right about the wind …” He looked aft towards Bezant, now lost in merciful oblivion. “I think he knows, sir.”

Catherine said, “I will help.”

Bolitho gripped her and shook his head. “No, Kate, I will speak with Allday.” He glanced with sudden emotion at his flag captain. “He once cut a splinter out of Val the size of a baby’s leg when the ship’s surgeon was too much in the arms of Bacchus to care.”

She looked from one to the other. It was no longer just their private world. She was part of it now.

Bolitho released his hold and whispered, “Think of the house, Kate. Of that small beach where we loved each other until the tide drove us away.” He saw her eyes clearing. “It is all there, just as we left it. Can we allow it to desert us?” Then he was gone, touching a shoulder here, or murmuring a quiet word there, as he lurched his way aft.

Catherine wiped her face with a shirtsleeve and watched him. Filthy and dishevelled; but even a total stranger would know him for what he was.

Bolitho reached the sternsheets and said, “Are you certain about the wind, old friend?”

Allday squinted up at him, his mouth too parched to respond immediately.

“Aye, Sir Richard. It’s shifted a piece too. More westerly, I’d say.”

Bolitho crouched beside him staring at the sea, containing his feelings for this big, invincible man. If only they had a compass, or a sextant … But they had nothing, only the sun by day, the stars by night. Even their progress through the water was no more than a guess.

He murmured, “So be it.” He looked across and saw Jenour studying them.

“Take the tiller, Stephen. Hold her steady.” Then he waited for the others to rouse themselves. It was painful to watch. Those who had been asleep crept from the refuge of their dreams only to see all hope fade as they accepted the reality. Others stared around as if they still expected to hear the squeal of the boatswain’s call, the stamp of feet on Golden Plover’s deck.

Bolitho thought suddenly of England, but not the one he had just described to Catherine. He wondered what they would be thinking and saying. The spiteful would hide their cruel glee as they had over brave Nelson, and there would be others already competing to replace him.

But on the waterfronts, and in the fields of the West Country there would be many more who would remember. Poor Adam, he would soon learn to extend his hand to those, as well as recognising the unworthy.

He began, “Mister Bezant is suffering badly.” He saw Yovell swallow hard and guessed he had realised that the intruding, vile smell was gangrene. “I need one volunteer. Captain Keen and my cox’n know what to do.” He looked round as Ozzard appeared as if by magic at his elbow. “Are you certain?”

Ozzard met his gaze calmly. “I cannot pull an oar, nor can I reef or steer.” He gave a small shrug. “This I understand.”

Bolitho glanced at Allday’s grim features above the little man’s back, and guessed that he more than any knew something about Ozzard which he would share with no one.

Keen said quietly to Owen and Tojohns, “Run out your oars—pull or back water to hold her as steady as you can.” He glanced at the small medical kit Catherine had found in the cabin and tried not to shudder; he had never forgotten Allday’s strength and gentleness that day aboard the frigate Undine. Keen had been a seventeen-year-old midshipman then, and the great splinter had lanced up into his groin. Ignoring the drunken surgeon, Allday had stripped him naked and had cut the splinter out with his own knife. Mercifully he had fainted after that. The terrible scar was still there. And so was he, because of Allday’s courage and care.

He felt a sudden stab of despair. Zenoria had never seen or caressed the ugly, bunched scar. Now, she never would.

Bolitho understood his expression. “Together, Val. Always remember that.” He saw Sophie huddled in the bows, her face hidden in Catherine’s breast.

Ozzard asked, “Ready, Sir Richard?”

They forced open the master’s jaws, and Ozzard poured a large measure of brandy into his mouth before putting a leather strap between his teeth.

Allday took the knife and looked along the bright blade as he might check the edge of a boarding cutlass before an engagement. It had to be swiftly done: knife, then saw. He would likely die anyway, at least before the rest of them. What would happen when only the last one was still alive? A boat full of scarecrows … He dashed the sweat from his eyes and thought of the master’s mate named Jonas Polin, and his trim little widow with the inn at Fallowfield. When the news reached her, what would she think? Might she not even remember him?

He said harshly, “Hold him!” He pointed the knife, his stomach rebelling against the foul stench.

As the knife came down Bezant opened his eyes and stared at the blade. His choking scream seemed to hang over the boat, rendering them all helpless, under a curse.

Once again it was the man called Owen who broke the spell.

“Here comes the wind, lads!” His voice almost broke. “Oh, thank God, the wind!”