p. cm. — (Richard Bolitho novels ; 24)ISBN 0-935526-94-3 (alk. paper)
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast watersOf the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
—T. S. ELIOT
prologue
It was the anticipation which had sustained him when every-thing else seemed lost. Hope, despair, even fear had been ready companions until this moment.
The shipboard sounds were muffled, distant, voices far off and without meaning or purpose. Someone had warned him that join-ing a ship already in commission was always hard; there would be no friends or familiar faces to ease the jolts and scrapes. And this was to be his first ship.
It was still impossible to accept that he was here. He moved his head slightly and watched the cabin’s other occupant, who was sitting behind a desk, the document the midshipman had carried so carefully inside his coat to avoid spray from the boat’s oars turned towards the light of the sloping stern windows, and their glittering panorama of sea and sky.
The captain. The one man upon whom he had placed so much hope—a man he had never met before. His whole body was as taut as a signal halliard, his mouth like dust. It might be noth-ing. A cruel disappointment, the end of everything.
He realised with a start that the captain was looking at him, had asked him something. His age?
“Fourteen, sir.” It did not even sound like his own voice. He saw the captain’s eyes for the first time, more grey than blue, not unlike the sea beyond the spray-dappled windows.
There were other voices, nearer now. There was no more time.
Almost desperately he thrust his hand into his coat again, and held out the letter which he had guarded and nursed all the way from Falmouth.
“This is for you, sir. I was told to give it to no one else.”
He watched the captain slit open the envelope, his expression suddenly guarded. What was he thinking? He wished he had torn it up without even reading it himself.
He saw the captain’s sun-browned hand tighten suddenly on the letter, so that it shivered in the reflected light. Anger, disap-proval, emotion? He no longer knew what to expect. He thought of his mother, only minutes before she had died, thrusting a crum-pled paper into his hands. How long ago? Weeks, months? It was like yesterday. An address in Falmouth, some twenty miles from Penzance where they had lived. He had walked all the way, his mother’s note his only strength, his guide.
He heard the captain fold the letter and put it in his pocket. Again, the searching look, but there was no hostility. If anything, there was sadness.
“Your father, boy. What do you know of him?”
The midshipman faltered, off guard, but when he answered he sensed the change. “He was a King’s officer, sir. He was killed by a runaway horse in America.” He could see his mother in those final moments, holding out her arms to embrace him and then to push him away, before either of them broke down. He con-tinued in the same quiet tone, “My mother often described him to me. When she was dying she told me to make my way to Fal-mouth and seek your family, sir. I—I know my mother never married him, sir. I have always known, but . . .”
He broke off, unable to continue but very aware that the cap-tain was on his feet, one hand on his arm, his face suddenly close, the face of the man, perhaps as few others ever saw him.
Captain Richard Bolitho said gently, “As you must know, your father was my brother.”
It was becoming blurred. The tap at the door. Someone with a message for the captain.
Adam Bolitho awoke, his body tensed like a spring as he felt the uncertain grip on his arm. It came to him with the stark clar-ity of a pistol shot. The ship’s motion was more unsteady, the sea noises intruding while his practised ear assessed each in turn.
In the dim glow of a shaded lantern he could see the sway-ing figure beside his cot, the white patches of a midshipman. He groaned and tried to thrust the dream from his mind.
He swung his legs to the deck, his feet searching for his Hes-sian boots in this still unfamiliar cabin.
“What is it, Mr Fielding?” He had even managed to remem-ber the young midshipman’s name. He almost smiled. Fielding was fourteen. The same age as the midshipman in the dream which refused to leave him.
“Mr Wynter’s respects, sir, but the wind is freshening and he thought . . .”
Adam Bolitho touched his arm and groped for his faded seagoing coat.
“He did right to call me. I’d rather lose an hour’s sleep than lose my ship. I shall come up directly!” The boy fled.
He stood up and adjusted to the motion of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Unrivalled. My ship. What his beloved uncle had described as “the most coveted gift.”
And it should have been his greatest prize. A ship so new that the paint had been scarcely dry when he had read himself in, a frigate of the finest design, fast and powerful. He glanced at the dark stern windows, as if he were still in the old Hyperion’s great cabin, his life suddenly changed. And by one man.
He touched his pockets without even noticing it, ensuring that he had all he needed. He would go on deck, where the officer-of-the-watch would be anxiously waiting to gauge his mood, more nervous at the prospect of disturbing his captain than at the threat of the wind.
He knew it was mostly his own fault; he had remained apart and aloof from his officers since taking command. It must not, could not continue.
He turned away from the stern windows. The rest was just a dream. His uncle was dead, and only the ship was reality. And he, Captain Adam Bolitho, was quite alone.
Galbraith was tall and powerfully built, and had learned the hard way to accustom himself to low deckhead beams in one of His Britannic Majesty’s ships of war. He was Unrivalled ’s first lieutenant, the one officer who was expected to maintain order and discipline as well as oversee the training of a new ship’s com-pany. To assure his captain that she was in all respects an efficient unit of the fleet, even to assume command at any time should some disaster befall him.
The first lieutenant was twenty-nine years old, and had been in the navy since the tender age of twelve like many of his con-temporaries. It was all he had known, all he had ever wanted, and when he had been promoted to acting commander and given a ship of his own he had thought himself the luckiest man alive. A senior officer had assured him that as soon as convenient he would take the next step, make the impossible leap to full captain, some-thing which had once seemed like a dream.
He paused by an open gunport and leaned on one of the frigate’s thirty eighteen-pounders, and stared at the harbour and the other anchored ships. Carrick Roads, Falmouth, glittering in the May sunshine. He tried to contain the returning bitterness, the anger. He might have had a command like this fine ship. Could. Might. He felt the gun’s barrel warm under his fingers, as if it had been fired. Like all those other times. At Camperdown with Duncan, and at Copenhagen following Nelson’s flag. He had been commended for his coolness under fire, his ability to con-tain a dangerous situation when his ship was locked in battle with an enemy. His last captain had put his name forward for a com-mand. That had been the brig Vixen, one of the fleet’s workhorses, expected with limited resources to perform the deeds of a frigate.
Just before he had been appointed to Unrivalled he had seen his old command lying like a neglected wreck, awaiting disposal or worse. The war with France was over, Napoleon had abdicated and been sent into exile on Elba. The impossible had happened, and with the conflict in North America being brought thankfully to a close by Britain and the United States alike, the prospect of peace was hard to accept. Galbraith was no different; he had never known anything but war. With ships being paid off, and men dis-charged with unseemly haste with neither prospects nor experience of anything but the sea, he was lucky to have this appointment. More than he deserved, some said behind his back.
He had been pulled around the ship an hour earlier in the jolly-boat, to study the trim as she lay motionless above her own reflection. She had been in commission for five months, and with her rigging and shrouds blacked-down, each sail neatly furled to its yard, she was a perfect picture of the shipbuilder’s art. Even her figurehead, the naked body of a beautiful woman arched beneath the beak-head, hands clasped behind her head, breasts thrust out in a daring challenge, was breathtaking. Unrivalled was the first to carry that name on the Navy List, the first of the big-ger frigates which had been hastily laid down to meet the American threat, which had cost them dearly in a war neither side could win. A war which was already becoming a part of history.
Galbraith plucked his uniform coat away from his chest and tried to push the resentment aside. He was lucky. The navy was all he knew, all he wanted. He must remember that at all times.
He heard the Royal Marine sentry’s heels click together as he approached the screen door to the aftermost cabins.
“First lieutenant, sir!”
Galbraith gave him a nod, but the sentry’s eyes did not waver beneath the brim of his leather hat.
A servant opened the door and stood aside as Galbraith entered the captain’s quarters. Any man would be proud, hon-oured to have her. When Galbraith had stood watching with the assembled ship’s company and guests as the ship’s new captain, her first captain, had unrolled his commission to read himself in and so assume command, he had tried to banish all envy and accept the man he was to serve.
After five months, all the training and the drills, the struggle to recruit more landmen to fill the gaps once the pressed hands had been discharged, he realised that Captain Adam Bolitho was still a stranger. In a ship of the line it might be expected, espe-cially with a new company, but in frigates and smaller vessels like his Vixen it was rare.
He watched him warily. Slim, hair so dark it could have been black, and when he turned away from the stern windows and the reflected green of the land, the same restlessness Galbraith had noticed at their first meeting. Like most sea officers, he knew a lot about the Bolitho family, Sir Richard in particular. The whole country did, or seemed to, and had been stunned by the news of his death in the Mediterranean. Killed by a marksman in the enemy’s rigging, the very day Napoleon had stepped ashore in France after escaping from Elba. The day peace had become another memory.
Of this man, Sir Richard Bolitho’s nephew, he had heard only tidbits, although nothing remained secret for long in the fleet. The best frigate captain, some said; brave to a point of reckless-ness, others described him. He had been given his first command, a brig like Galbraith’s, at the age of twenty-three; and later lost his frigate Anemone fighting a vastly superior American force. Taken prisoner, he had escaped, to become flag captain to the man who was now Flag Officer, Plymouth.
Adam was looking at him now, his dark eyes revealing strain, although he was making an effort to smile. A youthful, alert face, one which would be very attractive to women, Galbraith decided. And if some of the gossip was to be believed, that was also true. Galbraith said, “The gig is lowered, sir. The crew will be piped at four bells, unless . . .”
Adam Bolitho moved to the table and touched the sword which was lying there. Old in design, straight-bladed, and lighter than the new regulation blades. It was part of the legend, the Bolitho sword, worn by so many of the family. Worn by Richard Bolitho when he had been marked down by the enemy.
Galbraith glanced around the cabin, the eighteen-pounders intruding even here. When cleared for action from bow to stern Unrivalled could present a formidable broadside. He bit his lip. Even if they were so badly undermanned. There were cases of wine waiting to be unpacked and stowed; he had seen them swayed aboard earlier, and knew they had come from the Bolitho house here in Falmouth, which would be the captain’s property now. Somehow it did not seem to fit this youthful man with the bright epaulettes. He noticed, too, that the cases were marked with a London address, in St James’s Street.
Galbraith clenched his fist. He had been there once. When he had visited London, when his world had started to collapse.
Adam forced his mind into the present. “Thank you, Mr Gal-braith. That will suit well.” He waited, saw the questions forming in the first lieutenant’s eyes. A good man, he thought, firm but not impatient with the new hands, and wary of the old Jacks who might seek favours from an unknown officer.
He could feel the ship moving very gently beneath his feet. Eager to move, to be free of the land. And what of me, her captain?
He had seen Galbraith looking at the wine; it was from Catherine. Despite all that had happened, her despair and sense of loss, she had remembered. Or had she been thinking of one who had gone?
“Is there something else?” He had not meant to sound impa-tient, but he seemed unable to control his tone. Galbraith had not apparently noticed. Or had he simply become accustomed to the moods of his new lord and master?
Galbraith said, “If it is not an imposition, sir, I was wonder-ing . . .” He hesitated as Adam’s eyes settled coldly on him. Like someone watching the fall of shot, he thought.
Then Adam said, “I am sorry. Please tell me.”
“I should like to pay my respects, sir. For the ship.” He did not flinch as a voice on deck yelled obscenely at a passing bum-boat to stand away. “And for myself.”
Adam dragged out the watch from his pocket and knew Gal-braith had noticed it. It was heavy and old, and he could recall exactly the moment when he had seen it in the shop in Halifax. The ticking, chiming clocks all around him, and yet it had seemed a place of peace. Escape, so many times. At the change of duties on deck, reefing or making sail, altering course, or entering har-bour after a successful landfall . . . The old watch which had once belonged to another “seafaring officer.” One thing had made it different, the little mermaid engraved on the case.
He said, “If you think we can both be spared from the ship?” It was not what he had meant to say. It was the mermaid which had distracted him, the girl’s face, so clear, as in the shop. Zenoria.
Then he said, “I would take it kindly, Mr Galbraith.” He looked at him steadily and thought he could see a momentary warmth, something he had tried not to encourage. “Impress on the others, extra vigilance. We are under orders. I don’t want any deserters now. We’d not have enough to work ship, let alone fight.”
“I shall deal with it, sir.” Galbraith moved towards the door. It was not much, but it was the closest they had yet been.
Adam Bolitho waited for the door to close, then walked to an open quarter window and stared down at the water rippling beneath the counter.
A beautiful ship. Working with the local squadron, he had felt the power of her. The fastest he had known. Soon the anonymous faces would become people, individuals, the strength and the weakness of any ship. But not too close. Not again. As if someone had whispered a warning.
He sighed and looked at the cases of wine. How would Catherine manage, what would she do without the man who had become her life?
He heard three bells chime faintly from the forecastle.
It was going to be hard, even harder than he had imagined. People watching him, as they had watched his beloved uncle, with love, hatred, admiration and envy, none of them ever far away.
He knew Galbraith’s background, and what had smashed his chance of promotion to the coveted post rank. It could happen to anybody. To me. He thought of Zenoria again, and of what he had done, but he felt no shame, only a deep sense of loss.
He was about to walk beneath the open skylight when he heard Galbraith’s voice.
“When the Pendennis battery fires one gun, you will dip the flag and ensign, Mr Massie, and all hands will face aft and uncover.”
Adam waited. It was like an intrusion, but he felt unable to move. Massie was the second lieutenant, a serious young man who held the appointment because his father was a vice-admiral. He was, as yet, an unknown quantity.
Massie said, “I wonder if Sir Richard’s lady will be there.”
He heard their feet move away. An innocent remark? And who did he mean? Catherine, or Belinda, Lady Bolitho?
And there would be spite to bring out the worst. Shortly after Unrivalled had commissioned, the news of Emma Hamilton’s death had been released. Nelson’s lover and inspiration and the nation’s darling, but she had been allowed to die alone in Calais, in poverty, abandoned by so-called friends and those who had been entrusted with her care.
The ship moved slightly to her cable and he saw his reflec-tion in the thick glass.
Brokenly he said, “I’ll never forget, Uncle!”
But the ship moved again, and he was alone.
Bryan Ferguson, the Bolitho estate’s one-armed steward, stared at the two ledgers on his table. Both had remained unopened. It was late evening but through the window he could still see tall trees silhouetted against the sky, as if the day was reluctant to end. He stood up and walked to the cupboard, pausing as the creeper out-side the window rustled slightly. A wind, freshening from the south-east at last, as some of the fishermen had said it would. After all that stillness. Ferguson opened the cupboard and took out a stone bottle and one glass. After all that sadness.
There was another glass in there, too, kept especially for the times when John Allday came over on some pretext or other from the little inn at Fallowfield on the Helford River. The Old Hyperion: even the name had a deeper significance this day.
It might be a while yet before John Allday came here. The Frobisher, Sir Richard Bolitho’s flagship, was coming home to be paid off. Or maybe not, now that Napoleon was in France on the rampage again. And it was only last year that the town had gone wild at the news: the allied armies were in Paris, Bonaparte was finished. Exile in Elba had not been enough; he had heard Lady Catherine say that it was like putting an eagle in an aviary. Oth-ers were of the opinion that Boney should have been hanged after all the misery and murder he had caused.
But Allday would not remain on board the ship where Sir Richard had fallen. Only when he was back, perhaps sitting here with a wet between those big hands, would they know the real story. Unis, his wife, who ran the Old Hyperion, often received letters from him, but Allday himself could not write, so his words came through George Avery, Bolitho’s flag lieutenant. Theirs was a rare and strange relationship within the rigid bounds of the navy, and Allday had once remarked that it seemed wrong that while the flag lieutenant read and wrote his letters for him, he never received any himself. And from the moment when the dreadful news had broken in Falmouth, Ferguson had known that Allday would never entrust that moment to anyone, or share it, or com-mit it to paper. He would tell them himself, in person. If he could.
He coughed; he had swallowed a measure of rum without noticing that he had poured it. He sat down again and stared at the unopened ledgers. Above his head he could hear his wife Grace moving about. Unable to rest, unable even to deal with her usual duties as housekeeper, a position of which she was very proud. As he was.
He gripped the glass tightly with the one hand which was now able to do so much. Once he had believed he would be useless, just another piece of human flotsam left behind in this seemingly endless war. But Grace had nursed him through all of it. Now he found himself recalling the moment mostly at times like these, in the shadows, when it was easier to picture the towering pyramids of sails, the lines of French ships, the deafening crash and roar of broadsides as the two fleets had joined in a bloody embrace. It had seemed to take all day for them to draw together, and all the while the sailors, especially the new ones, pressed men like him-self, had been forced to watch the enemy’s topsails rising like banners until they had filled the horizon. One officer had later described the awesome sight as resembling the armoured knights at Agincourt.
And all the while, aboard the frigate Phalarope, so puny she had seemed against that great line of battle, he had seen their young captain, Richard Bolitho, urging and encouraging, and once, before Ferguson himself had been smashed down, he had seen him kneel to hold the hand of a dying sailor. He had never forgotten his face on that terrible day, never would forget it.
And now he was the steward of this estate, its farm and its cottages, and all the characters who made it a good place to work. Many of them were former sailors, men who had served with Bolitho in so many ships and in every part of the world where the flag had been hoisted. He had seen many of them at the church today, for Sir Richard Bolitho was one of them, and Falmouth’s most famous son. Son of a sailor, from generations of sea officers, and this house below Pendennis Castle was a part of their history.
Across the yard he could see lights now in some of the rooms, and imagined the line of portraits, including the painting of Sir Richard as the young captain he had known. His wife Cheney had commissioned it while Bolitho had been away with the fleet. Bolitho had never seen his wife again; she had been killed with their unborn child when her carriage had shed a wheel and over-turned. Ferguson himself had carried her, seeking help when it was already too late. He smiled sadly, reminiscently. And with only one arm.
The Church of King Charles the Martyr, where the lives and deaths of other Bolithos were commemorated, had been filled to capacity, servants from the house, farm workers, strangers and friends pressed close together to pray and to remember.
He allowed his mind to dwell on the family pew near the pul-pit. Richard Bolitho’s younger sister Nancy, who had not yet come to terms with her own husband’s death. Roxby, “the King of Corn-wall,” would not be an easy man to lay aside. Next to her Catherine, Lady Somervell, tall and very erect, all in black, her face covered by a veil, and only the diamond pendant shaped like an opened fan which Bolitho had given her moving on her breast to betray her emotion.
And, beside her, Adam Bolitho, his eyes upon the altar, his chin lifted. Defiant. Determined. And, like the moment when he had come to the house after his uncle’s death, and had read Catherine’s note and clipped on the old family sword, so like the young, vanished sea officer who had grown up here in Falmouth.
There had been another officer with him, a lieutenant, but Ferguson had noticed only Adam Bolitho and the beautiful woman beside him.
It had reminded him painfully of the day in that same church when a memorial service had been conducted following the news that Sir Richard and his mistress had been lost in the wreck of the Golden Plover off the African coast. Many of the same peo-ple had been there, as well as Bolitho’s wife. Ferguson could remember her look of utter disbelief when one of Adam’s officers had burst in with the revelation that Bolitho and his companions were alive, and had been rescued against all odds. And when Lady Catherine’s part had become known, how she had given hope and faith to the survivors in that open boat, she had been taken to their hearts. It had seemed to sweep aside the scandal, and the outrage which had been previously voiced at their liaison.
Together or alone, Ferguson could see them clearly. Cather-ine, her dark hair streaming unchecked in the wind while she walked on the cliff path, or paused by the stile where he had seen them once, as if to watch some approaching ship. Perhaps hoping . . .
Now there was no hope, and her man, her lover and the nation’s hero, was buried at sea. Near his old Hyperion, where so many had died, men Ferguson had never forgotten. The same ship Adam had joined as a fourteen-year-old midshipman. Nancy, Lady Roxby, would be remembering that too, Adam in a captain’s uniform, but to her still the boy who had walked from Penzance when his mother had died. The name “Bolitho” written on a scrap of paper was all he had had. And now he was the last Bolitho.
There were to be other, grander ceremonies in the near future, in Plymouth, and then at Westminster Abbey, and he wondered if Lady Catherine would go to London and risk the prying eyes and the jealous tongues which had dogged her relationship with the nation’s hero.
He heard a step in the yard and guessed it was Young Matthew, the senior coachman, making his rounds, visiting the horses, his dog Bosun puffing slowly behind him. Old now, the dog was partly deaf and had failing eyesight, but no stranger would ever pass him without his croaking bark.
Matthew had been in church also. Still called “young,” but a married man now, he was another part of the family, the little crew as Sir Richard had called them.
Buried at sea. Perhaps it was better. No aftermath, no false display of grief. Or would there be?
He thought of the tablet on the wall of the church beneath the marble bust of Captain Julius Bolitho, who had fallen in bat-tle in 1664.
The spirits of their fathers
Shall start from every wave;
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave.
It said it all, especially to those assembled in the old church in this place of seafarers, the navy and the coastguard, fishermen and sailors from the packets and traders which sailed on every tide throughout the year. The sea was their life. It was also the enemy.
He had sensed it when the church had resounded at the last to The Sailors’ Hymn.
He had heard the bang of a solitary gun, like the one which had preceded the service, and seen Adam turn once to look at his first lieutenant. People had parted to allow the family to leave. Lady Catherine had reached out to touch Ferguson’s sleeve as she had passed; he had seen the veil clinging to her face.
He went to the window again. The lights were still burning. He would send one of the girls to deal with it, if Grace was too stricken to do it.
He thought of the shipwreck again. Adam had come to the house when Vice-Admiral Keen’s young wife had been there; Keen, too, had been aboard the Golden Plover.
Zenoria, from the village of Zennor. He knew Allday had sus-pected something between them, and he himself had wondered what had happened that night. Then the girl lost her only child, her son by Keen, in an accident, and had thrown herself off the cliff at the notorious Trystan’s Leap. He had been with Catherine Somervell when they had brought the small, broken body ashore.
Adam Bolitho had certainly changed in some way. Matured? He considered it. No, it went far deeper than that.
Something Allday had said stood out in his mind, like the epitaph.
They looked so right together.
Captain Adam Bolitho sat in one of the high-backed chairs by the open hearth and half-listened to the occasional moan of the wind. It was freshening, south-easterly; they would have to keep their wits about them tomorrow when Unrivalled weighed anchor.
He shifted slightly in the chair, which with its twin was amongst the oldest furniture in the house. It was turned away from the dark windows, away from the sea.
He stared at the goblet of brandy on the table beside him, catching the candlelight which brought life to this room, the grave portraits, the paintings of unknown ships and forgotten battles.
How many Bolithos had sat here like this, he wondered, not knowing what the next horizon might bring, or if they would ever return?
His uncle must have thought it on that last day when he had left this house to join his flagship. Leaving Catherine outside where there was only darkness now, except for Ferguson’s cottage. His lights would remain until the old house was asleep.
He had been surprised by Lieutenant Galbraith’s request to join him at the church; he had never met Richard Bolitho as far as Adam knew. But even in Unrivalled he had felt it. Something lost. Something shared.
He wondered if Catherine was able to sleep. He had pleaded with her to stay, but she had insisted on accompanying Nancy back to her house on the adjoining estate.
He stood, and looked at the stairway where she had said farewell. Without the veil she had looked strained and tired. And beautiful.
“It would be a bad beginning—for you, Adam. If we stayed here together there would be food for rumour. I would spare you that!” She had spoken so forcefully that he had felt her pain, the anguish which she had tried to contain in the church and afterwards.
She had looked around this same room. Remembering. “You have your new ship, Adam, so this must be your new beginning. I shall watch over matters here in Falmouth. It is yours now. Yours by right.” Again, she had spoken as if to emphasise what she her-self had already foreseen.
He walked abruptly to the big family Bible, on the table where it had always lain. He had gone through it several times; it con-tained the history of a seafaring family, a roll of honour.
He opened it at the page with great care, imagining the faces watching him, the portraits at his back and lining the stairway. A separate entry in the familiar, sweeping handwriting he had come to know, to love, in letters from his uncle, and in various log books and despatches when he had served him as a junior officer.
Perhaps this was what troubled Catherine, the subject of his rights and his inheritance. The date was that upon which his sur-name of Pascoe had been changed to Bolitho. His uncle had written, To the memory of my brother Hugh, Adam’s father, once lieu-tenant in His Britannic Majesty’s Navy, who died on 7TH May 1795.
The Call of Duty was the Path to Glory.
His father, who had brought disgrace to this family, and who had left his son illegitimate.
He closed the Bible and picked up a candlestick. The stair creaked as he passed the portrait of Captain James Bolitho, who had lost an arm in India. My grandfather. Bryan Ferguson had shown him how, if you stood in the right place and the daylight favoured you, you could see where the artist had overpainted the arm with a pinned-up, empty sleeve after his return home.
The stair had protested that night when Zenoria had come down to find him weeping, unable to come to terms with the news that his uncle, Catherine, and Valentine Keen had been reported lost in the Golden Plover. And the madness which had followed; the love which he could not share. It was all contained, so much passion, so much grief, in this old house below Pen-dennis Castle.
He pushed open the door and hesitated as if someone was watching. As if she might still be here.
He strode across the room and opened the heavy curtains. There was a moon now, he could see the streaks of cloud pass-ing swiftly across it like tattered banners.
He turned and looked at the room, the bed, the candlelight playing over the two portraits, one of his uncle as a young cap-tain, in the outdated coat with its white lapels which his wife Cheney had liked so much, and one of Cheney on the same wall, restored by Catherine after Belinda had thrown it aside.
He held the candles closer to the third portrait, which Catherine had given to Richard after the Golden Plover disaster. Of herself, in the seamen’s clothing with which she had covered her body in the boat she had shared with the despairing survivors. “The other Catherine,” she had called it. The woman few had ever seen, he thought, apart from the man she had loved more than life itself. She must have paused here before leaving with Nancy; there was a smell of jasmine, like her skin when she had kissed him, had held him tightly as if unable or unwilling to break away.
He had taken her hand to his lips but she had shaken her head, and had looked into his face, as if afraid to lose something. He could still feel it like a physical force.
“No, dear Adam. Just hold me.” She had lifted her chin. “Kiss me.”
He touched the bed, trying to keep the image at bay. Kiss me. Were they both so alone now that they needed reassurance? Was that the true reason for Catherine’s departure on this terrible day?
He closed the door behind them and walked down the stairs. Some of the candles had gone, or had burned so low as to be useless, but those by the hearth had been replaced. One of the servant girls must have done it. He smiled. No secrets in this old house.
He swallowed some brandy and ran his fingers along the carvings above the fireplace. The family motto, For My Country’s Freedom, worn smooth by many hands. Men leaving home. Men inspired by great deeds. Men in doubt, or afraid.
He sat down again.
The house, the reputation he must follow, the people who relied on him, it would all take time to accept or even understand.
And tomorrow he would be the captain again, all he had ever wanted.
He looked at the darkening stairs and imagined Bolitho com-ing down to face some new challenge, to accept a responsibility which might and did finally destroy him.
I would give everything I have just to hear your voice and take your hand again, Uncle.
But only the wind answered him.
The two riders had dismounted and stood partly sheltered by fallen rock, holding their horses’ heads, staring out at the white-capped waters of Falmouth Bay.
“Reckon she’ll come, Tom?”
The senior coastguard tugged his hat more securely over his forehead. “Mister Ferguson seemed to think so. Wanted us to keep an eye open, just in case.”
The other man wanted to talk. “’Course, you knows her lady-ship, Tom.”
“We’ve had a few words once or twice.” He would have smiled, but his heart was too heavy. His young companion meant well enough, and with a few years of service along these shores he might amount to something. Know Lady Catherine Somervell? How could he describe her? Even if he had wanted to?
He watched the great span of uneasy water, the serried ranks of short waves broken as if by some giant’s comb, while the wind tested its strength.
It was noon, or soon would be. When they had ridden up from town along the cliff path he had seen the small groups of people. It was uncanny, like some part of a Cornish myth, and there were plenty of those to choose from. A town, a port which lived off the sea, and had lost far too many of its sons to have no respect for the dangers.
Describe her? Like the time he had tried to prevent her from seeing the slight, battered corpse of the girl who had committed suicide from Trystan’s Leap. He had watched her hold the girl in her arms, unfasten her torn and soaking clothes to seek a scar, some identifying mark, when all features had been destroyed by the fall and the sea. On that little crescent of beach in the drop-ping tide after they had dragged her through the surf. It was something he would never forget, nor wanted to.
At length he said, “A beautiful lady.” He recalled what one of Ferguson’s friends had said of her. “A sailor’s woman.”
He had been in the church with all the others, had seen her then, so upright, so proud. Describe her?
“Never too busy or too important to pass the time o’ day. Made you feel like you was somebody. Not like a few I could mention!”
His companion looked at him and thought he understood.
Then he said, “You was right, Tom. She’s comin’ now.”
Tom removed his hat and watched the solitary figure approaching.
“Say nothing. Not today.”
She was wearing the faded old boat-cloak she often used for these clifftop walks, and her hair was unfastened and blowing freely in the wind. She turned and faced the sea at the place where she often paused on her walks; the best view of all, the locals said.
The young coastguard said uneasily, “You don’t think she . . .”
Tom turned his head, his eye trained to every movement and mood of the sea and these approaches.
A tight manoeuvre, well executed if Unrivalled was as short-handed as was rumoured. Some might call it reckless. Tom recalled the dark, restless young captain in the church and all those other times. He had seen him grow from midshipman to this moment in his life, which must be the greatest challenge of all.
He saw the woman unfasten her shabby boat-cloak and stand unmoving in the blustery wind. Not in black, but in a dark green robe. Tom had seen her waiting on this same path for the first sign of another ship. So that he would see her, sense her welcome.
He watched the frigate heeling over and imagined the squeal of blocks and the bang of wild canvas as the yards were hauled round. He had seen it all so many times before. He was a sim-ple man who did his duty, peace or war.
What ship did she see, he wondered. What moment was she sharing? Catherine walked past the two horses but did not speak.
Don’t leave me!
2 no longer a Stranger
ADAM BOLITHO rested one hand on the quarterdeck rail and watched the misty horizon tilt as if to dislodge the entire ship. For most of the forenoon they had been engaged in sail drill, an exercise made even more uncomfortable than usual by the blus-tery wind. It was directly from the north, and strong enough to force Unrivalled to lean until the sea spattered against the sealed gunports and drenched the men working aloft and on deck like a tropical storm.
Three days since the rugged Cornish coastline had vanished astern, and each one had been put to good use.
The hands were sliding down to the deck now, the landsmen and others less confident holding tightly to the ratlines when the ship heeled over to leeward, so that the sea appeared to be directly beneath them. There was a smell of rum even in the wind, and he had already noticed a thin trail of greasy smoke from the galley funnel.
He saw the first lieutenant waiting by the starboard ladder, his face giving nothing away.
“That was better, Mr Galbraith.” He thought he saw Gal-braith’s eyes drop to the pocket where he carried the old timepiece and wondered what it must be like to take orders as a lieutenant again, instead of being in command. “Dismiss the watch below.” He heard the seamen running from their stations, glad to be spared further discomfort, and to curse their captain over a tot of rum.
He knew the sailing-master was watching him from his usual position, near his helmsmen whenever the ship was altering course or changing tack.
Adam walked to the weather side and wiped spray from his face, his body angled to the deck as the sails filled out like breast-plates again. The sea was lively with cruising white horses, although it was calmer than when they had been in Biscay. There was too much spray to make out the lie of the land, but it was there, a long, purple hump, as if a bank of cloud had dropped from the sky. Cape St Vincent. And despite all the drills, the alterations of course to test the topmen and new hands alike, this was the exact landfall. He had seen the sailing-master’s calcula-tions and his daily estimates of distance covered.
His name was Joshua Cristie, and he had a face so weathered and creased that he looked like the Old Man of the Sea, although Adam knew he was in his forties. He had served in almost every size and class of vessel from schooner to second-rate, and had been a sailing-master for some ten years. If the senior warrant officers were the backbone of any man-of-war, the sailing-master must surely be her rudder. Unrivalled was lucky to have him.
Adam joined him and said, “Gibraltar tomorrow, eh?”
Cristie regarded him impassively. “I see no problems, sir.” He had a clipped, matter-of-fact manner, and did not waste words.
Adam realised that Galbraith had come aft again, this time with one of the ship’s five midshipmen. He tested his memory. Sandell, that was his name.
Galbraith was saying, “I was observing you, Mr Sandell. Twice, I’ve warned you before. Discipline is one thing, force another!”
The midshipman retorted, “He was doing it on purpose, sir. Hanging back so that my party was delayed.”
It was unusual for Galbraith to reveal such anger, especially with some of the watchkeepers close enough to hear. He seemed to calm himself with an effort.
“I know you must control the men in your charge. If you are to become a King’s officer that is all a part of it. Inspire them, persuade them if you like, but do not abuse them. I’ll not remind you again!”
The midshipman touched his hat and retreated. Adam caught only a glimpse of his profile. Galbraith had made an enemy there, as was the way of first lieutenants everywhere.
Galbraith walked up the sloping deck and said, “Young ruf-fian! Too ready with his starter by far. I know his part of the drill was held up by the man in question, I saw it myself. But with sixty hands short, and some of those aboard little better than bumpkins, it needs more care.”
It was like mist clearing from a telescope. Adam suddenly remembered hearing that a midshipman had been put ashore to await a court martial after a sailor had been accidentally killed at sea. The matter had never come to court martial and the mid-shipman had been sent to another vessel. He had been an admiral’s son. It had been about the time when Galbraith had seen his promised promotion cancelled. Nobody could prove there was a connection; few would even care. Except Galbraith. And he was here, second-in-command of one of the navy’s most powerful frigates. Would he remain content, or would he be too afraid for what was left of his career to show the spirit which had once earned him a command of his own?
“Any orders, sir?”
Adam glanced at the nearest eighteen-pounders. Another dif-ference. Unrivalled ’s armament consisted mainly of such guns, and they made up the bulk of her top-weight. The designers had insisted that these eighteen-pounders, usually nine feet in length, be cast a foot shorter in an effort to reduce some of the weight.
A frigate was only as good as her firepower and her agility, and he had taken careful note of the sea creaming almost as high as the ports on the lee side. In a fierce ship-to-ship action, a cap-tain could no longer rely on supremacy merely by taking and holding the wind-gage.
He said, “We shall exercise the larboard battery this afternoon, Mr Galbraith. I want our people to know their guns like their own minds. As you remarked, we are short-handed, and if required to engage on both sides at once we shall be busy indeed.” He saw the slight frown. “I know we may not be called to fight. The war might be over already for all we know.” He touched his arm and felt him flinch at the contact. “But if we fight, I intend this ship to be the victor!”
Galbraith touched his hat and walked away, no doubt to face the questions and displeasures of the wardroom.
Adam walked to the dripping hammock nettings and stead-ied himself as the deck lurched to another strong gust. The land was almost gone from view. Cape St Vincent, the scene of one of the war’s greatest engagements, where Nelson had scorned the rigidity of Fighting Instructions and attacked the Spanish flag-ship Santissima Trinidad of one hundred and thirty guns, the largest warship in the world. So like his uncle, he thought. Sir Richard Bolitho had never allowed the conventional rules of bat-tle to preclude initiative and personal daring. It seemed wrong that the admirals so admired and so loved by those they had led had never met face to face.
He ran a sodden handkerchief over skin streaming now with spray. Identical to the handkerchief he had given Catherine in the church, knowing she had used it to dry her eyes behind the veil. Galbraith had seen that too . . .
He shook himself angrily and walked to the rail. A few of the hands were splicing and repairing; as in any frigate, the miles of cordage needed constant attention. Some of them raised their eyes and immediately looked away. Men who could make or break any ship. He smiled grimly. Any captain. Some of them were from the assize courts, debtors and thieves, tyrants and cowards. The alternatives were transportation or the rope. He watched spray bursting through the beak-head, making the beautiful figurehead shine like a nymph rising from the sea itself.
Unrivalled would draw them together, as a team, as one company.
And when they reached Gibraltar, what orders would he find waiting? To return to England, or be redirected to some other squadron in a different ocean? If nothing had changed he would continue on to Malta, to join the new squadron under the flag of Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune. He was dismayed by the return of the pain. Bethune had been sent to relieve Sir Richard Bolitho, but Fate had decided otherwise. But for that, it might have been Bethune who had died, and Richard Bolitho would have been reunited with his Catherine. Kate.
Like himself, Bethune had been one of Bolitho’s midshipmen, in his first command, the little Sparrow. As Valentine Keen had been a midshipman when Sir Richard had been captain of a frigate. So many missing faces. We Happy Few. Now there were hardly any.
He saw two of the “young gentlemen” dodging along the slip-pery main deck, calling to one another above the bang of canvas and the sluice of water, apparently without a care in the world.
Here there were only five of them. He would make an effort to get to know each one. Galbraith’s sharp comment about inspi-ration and leadership cut both ways; it always had. In larger ships, which carried broods of midshipmen, there was always the risk of bullying and petty tyranny. He had discovered it soon enough for himself, like so many things which had taught him to defend himself and stand up for those less able to do so.
Today, his reputation with both blade and pistol would end any trouble before it could begin. But it had not been easy. How slow he had been to understand, to come to terms with it. The regular lessons with a local teacher, and later, when he had learned to handle a sword, the intricacies of defence and attack. Slow? Or had he merely decided that he did not want to know how it was all paid for? Until he heard his teacher in the next room, in bed with his mother. And the others.
It was different now. They could think what they liked, but they dared not slander her name in his presence.
But the memory remained, like an unhealed wound.
He saw the midshipman of the watch, Fielding, writing some-thing on his slate, his lip pouting with concentration. The same midshipman who had called him one morning when he had been powerless to break that same dream.
He thought of Catherine again, that last desperate kiss before she had left the house. To protect my reputation. There was no defence against dreams. Just as, in those same dreams, she had never resisted him.
He heard a slight cough behind him. That was Usher, the captain’s clerk, who had once been the purser’s assistant, a small, nervous man who seemed totally out of place in a ship of war. O’Beirne, the ruddy-faced surgeon, had confided that the man was dying, “a day at a time,” as he had put it. His lungs were diseased, only too common in the confines of a ship. He thought of Yovell, the clerk who had become his uncle’s secretary. A scholar who was never without his Bible. He would have been there when . . . He turned away and closed his mind to it.
“Yes, Usher?”
“I’ve done copies of the lists, sir. Three of each.” He always found it necessary to explain every detail of his work.
“Very well. I shall sign them after I have eaten.”
“Deck there! Sail on the larboard quarter!”
Everyone looked up. The voice of the masthead lookout had been heard only rarely on this passage.
The master tugged down his hat and said, “Shall I send another man aloft, sir?”
Adam glanced at him. Cristie was a professional; he would not be here otherwise. It was not an idle comment. And here was Wynter, the third lieutenant and officer-of-the-watch, hurrying from the chartroom, but with biscuit crumbs on his coat to betray his other activities. Young, efficient and keen, when required he could put on such a blank expression that it was impossible to know what he was thinking, which was unusual for a junior lieu-tenant. But his father was a member of Parliament, so perhaps that might explain it.
Adam said, “Your glass, Mr Fielding. I shall go up directly.” He thought he saw Cristie’s deepset eyes sharpen. “I shall not shorten sail. Yet.” He wedged his hat inside the companion-way and felt his hair wet against his forehead. “A trader seeking the company of a frigate?” He shook his head as if someone had answered. “I think not. I know a few King’s officers who would not be slow to press a few prime hands, no matter what the Admiralty directs us to do!”
Cristie gave a rare grin. He would know. Even sailors with the genuine Protection, the document which should have defended them against the demands of a hungry fleet, had been pressed. It would take months for someone to find out and do something about it.
Cristie said, “If she holds up to wind’rd we’ll never be able to reach her.”
Adam looked up at the towering masts. Why? Was it a demon-stration of something? Bravado, perhaps?
He slung the big telescope over his shoulder and strode for-ward to the main chains before gazing up again at the swaying crosstrees, where the lookout would be perched like a sea bird, uncaring, or indifferent to the other world far beneath his dan-gling legs.
The others watched until Lieutenant Wynter exclaimed, “What ails him, Mr Cristie? How can he know anything more than the rest of us?”
“The Cap’n don’t miss much, Mr Wynter.” He gestured to the biscuit crumbs. “Your little pleasures, for instance!”
A seaman murmured, “First lieutenant’s comin’ up, sir!”
“Damn!” Wynter stared at the captain’s slim figure, leaning back and outwards above the creaming water surging from the finely raked stem. Wynter was twenty-two years old and could remember the congratulations and the envy alike when he had been appointed to Unrivalled. The first of her class, the kind of frigate which had been denied them when they had needed them most in the war against the new American navy. With the fleet being cut down and officers as well as seamen being discharged or put on half-pay without any visible prospects, he had been for-tunate. Like Galbraith, the senior, who seemed old for his rank when compared with most lieutenants; he must have seen this appointment as a last chance rather than a new beginning.
A new ship, and commanded by one already proclaimed a brave and resourceful officer. The name alone was enough, part of the legend, and now of the mourning for the admiral who had inspired and shocked the nation.
Wynter had been serving in an elderly third-rate when his appointment had been posted. He still had no idea why he had been selected. His father, a rising member of Parliament and one well known for his outspoken criticism of naval and military affairs, was certainly not behind it. Even when he had first gone to sea as a midshipman, his father had offered little encouragement.
“A good regiment would have been preferable. I could have bought you a comfortable living where you would have served with gentlemen, not uncouth ruffians! Don’t come to me for pity when you lose an arm or a leg through some captain’s hunger for glory!”
And Wynter had never been in a sea-fight, mainly because the old seventy-four had been too slow to chase an enemy, and was often left far behind the rest of the squadron. She would doubt-less be hulked, like so many of the other worn-out ships which had stood between England and her natural enemies for so many years. He saw Bellairs, the senior midshipman, in charge of Unri-valled ’s signals and with any luck the next in line for lieutenant’s examination, talking to the sailing-master, ready to muster his men if something unusual happened. Even he had seen action, several times if he was to be believed, when he had served with the Channel Fleet in a small thirty-two gun frigate.
Wynter stared up at the captain again. He was almost there now, apparently untroubled by the height, and the unnerving shake and quiver of the masts under their great weight of spars and cordage.
He knew something of Captain Adam Bolitho’s past. A com-mand at twenty-three, and a list of successes against the Americans and the French, with prize-money to show for it. Nobody spoke of the other matter, the disgrace to his family when his father had changed sides to command a privateer against his own country during the American War of Independence. But everybody knew about it. How must he feel? He turned away as a shaft of watery sunlight lanced into his eyes. How would I feel?
He heard Cristie telling the first lieutenant about the mast-head’s sighting. He did not hear any reply or comment, but Galbraith was like that. Easy to talk to in the wardroom, on matters relating to shipboard duties or the watch bill. Ready to give advice about the suitability of certain men for the various parts of ship. On a personal level, or when asked to offer an opin-ion about the course of the war or the reliability of the higher command, he would close up like a clam. Unlike some of the others. Captain Louis Bosanquet, the officer in charge of the ship’s Royal Marines, was the complete opposite. Like a steel blade to his men, he was outspoken about almost everything in the mess, especially when he had had too much to drink. His sec-ond-in-command, Lieutenant John Luxmore, on the other hand, went by the book, and seemed to live only for the drilling and betterment of his “bullocks.” O’Beirne, the surgeon from Galway, who knew more jokes than anyone Wynter had ever met, and Tregillis the purser were easy enough to share a mess with, no better or worse than men in any other ship of this size. The exception was Vivian Massie, the swarthy second lieutenant, who had seen plenty of action and did not bother to hide a driving ambition. Beyond that he could be withdrawn, almost secretive, as if any personal revelation might be considered weakness. Good
in a battle, but a bad enemy, Wynter had decided.
He stiffened as Galbraith joined him by the rail.
Captain Bolitho had almost reached the crosstrees. But even he could make a mistake. If he slipped and fell, if he missed hit-ting a spar or the ship herself, the fall would knock him senseless. It would take far too long to heave-to and lower a boat. He glanced at Galbraith’s strong profile. Then he would be in com-mand. Perhaps only temporarily, but it would offer him the recognition he needed and must crave. It happened in battle, just as it had struck down the captain’s uncle. Dead men’s shoes. Nobody mentioned it, but it was on most people’s minds when it came to promotion.
Wynter shaded his eyes and peered up again through the maze of rigging and flapping canvas.
Why should the captain do it? Did he trust no one? He had heard Bosanquet remark once that he knew the captain no bet-ter than when he had stepped aboard. Galbraith had been present, and had answered, “I could say the same about you, sir!” That had ended it. That time.
A figure moved from the gun deck and paused, gazing at the sea. It was Jago, the captain’s coxswain, the only man aboard who had actually served with Adam Bolitho before. He had a lean, darkly tanned face and hair tied in a neat, old-fashioned queue, like the gunner’s mate he had been. A man with a past, he had been flogged in another ship, wrongly it was said, by a sadistic captain, and there was still a certain anger about him, a contained defiance. Wynter had seen him stripped and sluicing his body at the wash deck pump; the scars had been familiar enough, but Jago carried them differently, almost with pride. Bloody arrogance, Massie had called it.
Whatever the truth of it, he would know their captain better than any of them. He had been with him when they had stormed a battery during an attack by the combined forces on the dock-yards and principal buildings in Washington. Some claimed that raid was revenge for the American invasion of Canada and the attack on York; others said it was a final show of strength in a war no one could win.
Luke Jago knew the officers on the quarterdeck were watch-ing him and could make a fair bet as to their thoughts. He, too, was surprised to find himself here, in his new station, when all he had wanted was to quit the navy, with only bitterness in his soul.
He could recall exactly when Captain Bolitho had asked him to be his coxswain; could remember his refusal. Bolitho was one of only a few officers Jago had ever liked or trusted, but his mind had been made up. Determined. Until that last battle, the deck raked by the enemy’s fire, men crying out and falling from aloft. When the commodore had pitched on to his side, already beyond aid. He knew the rumours like all the rest of them, that the commodore had been shot by somebody aboard their own ship, but he had heard no more about it. He gave a quick grin. He couldn’t even remember the bloody man’s name any more.
Unlike the boy John Whitmarsh, the captain’s servant, who had survived when Anemone had gone down. He remembered him well enough. The smile faded. The Yankees had hanged Bolitho’s old coxswain for ensuring that Anemone would not live to become their prize.
Captain Bolitho had taken a liking to the boy; maybe he had seen something of himself in him. He had wanted to sponsor him with his own money, so he could finish his education and wear the King’s coat some day. Jago could remember the boy showing him the dirk the captain had given him, probably the only gift he had ever received. Without a tremor in his voice, he had told Jago that he wanted to stay with his captain. It was all he wanted, he said.
He had watched Adam Bolitho’s face when he had told him Whitmarsh had been killed. A ball had shattered against one of the guns, and the iron splinter had ended his young life instantly; he had died without a trace of pain or terror.
And the exact moment when he had made up his mind, or had it made up for him. He was still uncertain, unwilling to believe it was not his decision alone. They had shaken hands on it with the smoke still hanging in the air, when the enemy frigate had broken off the action. “A victory, sir,” he had heard himself say. “Or as good as.” He had thought himself mad then. Until they had buried their dead, including the boy John Whitmarsh, with the beautiful dirk still strapped to his side.
One hundred and sixty feet above their heads and oblivious to their thoughts, Adam Bolitho eased himself into position and looked down at the ship, which seemed to pivot from side to side as if his perch in the crosstrees was motionless. He had never tired of the sight since he had made his first dash aloft as a mid-shipman in his uncle’s old Hyperion. Even when he had been mastheaded for some prank or indiscretion, he had always man-aged to marvel at what he saw. The ship, far beneath his shoes, the little blue and white shapes of the officers and master’s mates, the clusters of seamen and scarlet-coated marines. His ship, all one hundred and fifty feet of her, over a thousand tons of weapons, masts and spars, and the men to serve and fight her.
His uncle had confided that he had always hated heights, had feared going aloft when his ship had made or reefed sails. Another lesson Adam had learned, that fear could be contained if it seemed more dangerous to reveal it.
He glanced at his companion. A leathery face and a pair of the keenest eyes he had seen, like polished glass.
He hesitated. “Sullivan, isn’t it?”
The seaman showed his uneven teeth. “Thass me, sir.” He smiled slightly as Adam unslung the telescope.
“Where away?” It was strange: despite his attempt to stay at arm’s length, the ship was closing in. A face he could barely recall. A typical Jack, some would say. Hard, rough, and, in their way, simple men.
“Same bearin’, sir.”
He steadied the glass, raising it very carefully as breaking crests leaped into view, magnified into small tidal waves in the powerful lens.
He felt the spar quiver and shake against his body, mast upon mast, down to the ship’s keelson. He could remember the gen-uine pleasure and pride of the men who had built her when he had insisted they come aboard for her commissioning.
And there she was, rising and dipping, her canvas dark against the scudding clouds.
The lookout said, “Square-rigged at the fore, sir.”
Adam nodded and waited for the glass to steady again. A brig-antine, handling well in the offshore wind, almost bows-on. When he lowered the glass she seemed to drop away to a mere sliver of colour and movement. It never failed to surprise him that men like Sullivan, who would scorn a telescope, or trade it for a new knife or fresh clothing, or drink if it was offered, could still see and recognise another vessel when a landsman might not even notice it.
“Local, d’ you think?”
Sullivan watched him with sudden interest. “Spaniard, I’d say, sir. I seen ’em afore, as far to the south’rd as Good Hope. Handy little craft.” He added doubtfully, “Rightly ’andled, ’er course, sir!”
Adam took another look. The master was right. They would never catch her with the wind against them. And why should they care? Lose more time and distance when tomorrow they should lie in the shadow of the Rock?
It was like yesterday. He had been returning to Plymouth and it had been reported that a boat had been heading out to meet them. Not merely a boat: an admiral’s barge, the flag officer him-self coming to tell him, to be the first to prepare him for the news of his uncle’s death. Vice-Admiral Valentine Keen. His uncle’s friend. He felt the same stab of guilt; he would never lose it. Zenoria’s husband. After her death he had married again. But like that moment alone in the silence of the house, he had thought only of Zenoria. What he had done.
Keen had told him what he knew, the circumstances of Bolitho’s death and of his burial at sea. Nothing was definite, except that his flagship had engaged two frigates, manned by renegades and traitors who, with others, had aided Napoleon’s escape from Elba; he had marched on Paris almost before the allies had recovered from the shock.
Bethune would know more of the details by now, where the frigates had taken refuge prior to their unexpected meeting with Frobisher, who was involved, how it had been planned. He found he was gripping the telescope so tightly that his knuckles were almost white. Spain was an ally now. And yet a Spaniard had been involved.
He repeated quietly, “Spaniard, you say?”
The man regarded him thoughtfully. Sir Richard Bolitho’s nephew. A fire-eater, they said. A fighter. Sullivan had been at sea on and off for most of his forty years, and had served several captains, but could not recall ever speaking to one. And this one had even known his name.
“I’d wager a wet on it, sir.”
A wet. What John Allday would say. Where was he now? How would he go on? The old dog without his master.
Adam smiled. “A wager it is then. A wet you shall have!” He seized a stay and began to slide towards the deck, heedless of the tar on his white breeches. Instinct? Or the need to prove some-thing? When he reached the deck the others were waiting for him.
“Sir?” Galbraith, poised and guarded.
“Spanish brigantine. He’s a damned good lookout.”
Galbraith relaxed slowly. “Sullivan? The best, sir.”
Adam did not hear him. “That vessel is following us.” He looked at him directly. It was there. Doubt. Caution. Uncertainty. “I shall not forget that craft, Mr Galbraith.”
Wynter leaned forward and said eagerly, “An enemy, sir?”
“An assassin, I believe, Mr Wynter.”
He swung away; Jago was holding his hat for him. “See that the wardroom mess provides a double tot for Sullivan when he is relieved.”
They watched him walk to the companion-way, as if, like the two midshipmen he had seen earlier, he did not have a care in the world.
Midshipman Fielding stood examining the telescope which the captain had just returned to him. He would put it in the next letter to his parents, when he got round to it. How the captain had spoken to him. No longer a stranger . . . He smiled, pleased at the aptness of the phrase. That was it.
He recalled the time he had gone to waken the captain when Lieutenant Wynter had been concerned about the wind. He had dared to touch his arm. It had been hot, as if the captain had had a fever. And he had called out something. A woman’s name.
He would leave that out of the letter. It was private.
But he wondered who the woman was.
It was like sharing something. He thought of the captain’s easy confidence when he had slithered down to the deck like one of the topmen. Perhaps the others had not noticed it.
He smiled again, pleased with himself. No longer a stranger.
Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune walked to the quarter win-dow of the great cabin and observed the activity of countless small craft in the shadow of the Rock. He had visited Gibraltar many times throughout his career, never thinking that one day his own flagship would be lying here, with himself at the peak of his pro-fession. Although a frigate captain earlier in the war, he had been surprised and not a little dismayed to discover how his post at the Admiralty had softened him.
He glanced at the dress coat with its heavy gold-laced epaulettes which hung on one of the chairs, the measure of the success which had brought him to this. He was one of the youngest flag officers on the Navy List. He had always told him-self that he would not change, that he was no different from that young, untried captain in his first serious encounter with the enemy, with only his own skills and determination to sustain him.
Or from the midshipman. He stared at the shadowed side of the Rock. Aboard the little sloop-of-war Sparrow, Richard Bolitho’s first command.
He still could not come to terms with it. He could remember the signal being brought to his spacious rooms at the Admiralty, the writing blurring as he had read and understood that the impossible had happened: Napoleon had surrendered. Abdicated. It had ended. A release for so many, but for him like a great door being slammed shut.
He stared around the cabin, the rippling reflections of water on the low deckhead. It had seemed so small, so cramped after his life in London. He had changed.
He could hear the movement of the men on the upper deck, the creak of tackles as stores sent across from one of the supply vessels from England were hoisted inboard.
His thoughts returned to Catherine Somervell, from whom they were never far away. That night at the reception at Castlereagh’s home, when Admiral Lord Rhodes had stunned the guests by calling Bolitho’s wife to join him and share the applause for her absent husband. When Bethune had begged to be allowed to escort Catherine to her Chelsea house, she had refused. She had been composed enough to consider him; there was enough scandal. Later he had heard of the attack at her home, a dis-gusting attempt to rape her by a Captain Oliphant, apparently a cousin of Rhodes. After that, things had moved quickly. Rhodes had not become First Lord as he had hoped and expected, and his cousin had not been heard of since.
He looked at the heavy coat again. And I was ordered here. In command of a small group of frigates entrusted with patrol and search operations, too late to relieve Sir Richard Bolitho at Malta, nor even in England when the news of his death had broken. No wonder he had changed. He had once imagined him-self comfortably, if not happily, married to a woman who suited his role and shared his ambitions. Now even their life together had been soured by those events, and he suspected his wife had been a willing partner in Rhodes’ attempt to humiliate and insult Catherine at that reception for Wellington.
He crossed to the opposite quarter and shaded his eyes against the glare to gaze at the mainland. Spain. It was hard not to think of it as the enemy; in Algeciras there had always been eyes watch-ing for the arrival of a new sail, with riders ready to gallop to the next post where the message could be relayed. Another ship from England. Where bound? For what purpose?
And there were many who still believed Spain harboured ene-mies who had already taken advantage of Napoleon’s downfall to settle old scores in these waters, to resume piracy and the run-ning of slaves to a ready market in America and the Indies, despite the laws so piously passed to forbid it. The new allies. Would it last? Could they ever forget?
A cutter pulled strongly past the counter and the crew tossed oars in salute, a midshipman in charge rising to remove his hat within the shadow of the flagship. His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Montrose of forty-two guns was little different from any other frigate to the casual observer, but Bethune knew that his blue command flag at the fore made her unique.
He heard voices beyond the screen door. His flag captain, Vic-tor Forbes, was a brisk, no-nonsense man who was very aware that this was no longer a private ship, and that flag had made all the difference to him in particular; he had even had to vacate these quarters for his admiral. Bethune had seen the seamen and marines glancing at him when he took his regular walks up and down the quarterdeck. A far cry from the Thames Embankment or the London parks, but it was better than nothing. He touched his stomach. He would not let himself go to seed like some of the flag officers he knew. In case . . . In case what?
Tomorrow Montrose would weigh and return to Malta, unless new orders came to direct otherwise. It was becoming ever more difficult to keep a part of his mind in the world of the Admi-ralty, to assess or disregard the next possible strategy, which had once been so clear to him. Even to know the true deployment of the allied armies, or whether Napoleon was indeed fighting a rearguard action.
Today he might receive fresh information. That was the irony of it. The ship which had been sighted just an hour ago was Unrivalled. He had felt a certain involuntary shock when he had seen his flag lieutenant’s report in the log, Unrivalled (46). Cap-tain Bolitho. Not like a step forward; rather, looking back. The names, the faces . . .
And now Adam Bolitho was here. In a new ship. At least I was able to send word of that before he was struck down.
He clenched his fists. He had heard one of the seamen say-ing to his mate when they had been splicing below the quarterdeck:
“I tell ’ee, Ted. We’ll ne’er see his like again, an’ that’s God’s truth!”
The sailor’s simple tribute, shared by so many. And yet, like so many, that unknown sailor had never laid eyes on Richard Bolitho.
The door opened and he saw Captain Forbes looking around the cabin, probably to ensure his admiral had not changed it out
of all recognition.
“What is it, Victor?”
The reflected sunlight was too strong for him to see the cap-tain’s expression, but he sensed it was one of uncertainty, if not actual disapproval.
We are about the same age, and yet he behaves like my superior officer. He tried to smile, but it would not come.
Captain Forbes said, “Unrivalled has anchored, sir.” Then, as an afterthought, “She’s big. We could have done with a few more like her when . . .”
He did not go on. There was no need.
“Yes. A fine ship. I envy her captain.”
That did surprise Forbes, and this time he was unable to con-ceal it. His vice-admiral, who was both liked and respected, and would no doubt rise to some even more exalted post when the Admiralty directed, lacked for nothing. He could use favour or dislike as he chose, and no one would question him. To profess envy was unthinkable.
“I shall make the signal, sir.”
“Very well. Captain repair on board.” How many times he had seen it break out at the yard, for himself and for others. And now for Adam Bolitho. Every new meeting like this one would be an additional strain. For us both.
Forbes was still here, hand on the screen door.
“I was thinking, sir. Perhaps we might entertain Unrivalled ’s captain. I’m sure the wardroom would be honoured.” He hesi-tated under Bethune’s stare. “You know the way of it, sir. Word from home.” He added warily, “You would be our guest too, of course, sir.”
“I am certain Captain Bolitho would be delighted.” He looked away. “I would also be pleased. None of us should ever forget how or why we are here.”
He heard Forbes marching across the quarterdeck, calling for the midshipman of the watch. Bethune had not even seen him leave the cabin.
Unrivalled was joining his squadron. This was the best way. He thought of Bolitho again. No show of favouritism.
But they would have a glass together first, while he read his despatches from that other world. He smiled again, and it was very sad. No looking back.
Adam Bolitho sat in one of the cabin chairs and crossed his legs, as if the action would force him to relax. He had been greeted very correctly when he had climbed up Montrose’s tumblehome, amid the twitter of boatswain’s calls, the slap and crack of mus-kets being brought to the present under a cloud of pipeclay. All due respects to a captain, and he wondered why it surprised him. He had been so received aboard many ships large and small, and in all conditions. When it had been hard to prevent his hat from being blown away, or with a boat-cloak tangling around his legs. He had never forgotten a story his uncle had told him about a captain who had tripped over his own sword and pitched back into his barge, to the delight of the assembled midshipmen.
Perhaps, like the vice-admiral sitting opposite him, turning over the pages of his despatches with practised speed, he too had changed. On his way across to the flagship he had glanced astern at his own command. Above her reflection, sails neatly furled, all boats in the water to seal their seams, she would make any would-be captain jealous. And she is mine. But as of this moment she would be a part of a squadron, and, like her, he would have to belong. He watched Bethune’s bowed head, the lock of hair falling over his brow. More like a lieutenant than a Vice-Admiral of the Blue.
It had been an awkward meeting, which even the din of the reception could not hide or cover. Friends? They were hardly that.
But they had always been a part of something. Of someone.
He had mentioned the brigantine and his suspicions to Bethune. It would be in his report, but he felt he should use it to dispel the lingering stiffness between them. Instead of dis-missing it, the vice-admiral had seemed very interested.
“It is the kind of secret war we are fighting out here, Adam. Algerine pirates, slavers—we are sitting on a powder keg.”
Bethune looked up suddenly. “It seems the lords of the Admi-ralty are as much in the dark as we are!”
Adam said, “You would know better than most, sir.” They both laughed, the tension all but gone.
He liked what he saw. Bethune had an open, intelligent face, a mouth which had not forgotten how to smile. He knew from Catherine’s letters that she had trusted him. He could understand why.
Bethune said, “I almost forgot. When we reach Malta I should have more information to act upon.” He was making up his mind. “There is a Lieutenant George Avery at my headquarters there. You will know him?”
“Sir Richard’s flag lieutenant, sir.” He felt his muscles tense, but made another attempt. “They were very close, I believe. I thought he had returned to England in Frobisher.”
“I did not force him to stay, but his knowledge is very valu-able to me—to us. He was with Sir Richard when he dealt with the Algerines. And with a certain Spanish connection.” He smiled slightly. “I see that interests you?” He turned as muffled thuds came from the direction of the wardroom. Adam knew of the invitation, and that Montrose’s captain would be there also. As a guest, as was the custom, although Adam had never known any captain refused entry to a wardroom in his own ship.
Bethune said, “In any case, I did not have to press Lieutenant Avery. It seems he has nothing for which to return.”
I have a ship. George Avery has nothing.
Bethune picked up his untouched glass of wine.
“I give you a sentiment, Adam: ‘To absent friends.’” He drank deeply and grimaced. “God, what foul stuff!”
They both knew it was to hold at bay something far deeper, but when Captain Forbes and his first lieutenant arrived to escort them to the wardroom, they sensed nothing unusual.
Adam saw Forbes’ eyes rest briefly on the old Bolitho sword, which lay beside Bethune’s.
Why had he not seen it for himself? How could he have doubted it? It was still there, like a hand reaching out.
The lifeline.