Authors: Alexander Kent
It was exhilarating to be with him again, to see how he had changed from the eager lieutenant to a man in command. Who knew the strain of every piece of cordage and canvas, and could give confidence to those who did not. Sometimes he liked to quote Nelson, the hero he so obviously admired. His first lieutenant, quite new to Bolitho, had asked him nervously about reefing when the Biscay gales had sprung up suddenly like some fierce tribe.
Adam had called above the din, “It is time to reef when you
feel
like it!”
Another time he had quoted his uncle when a master's mate had asked about getting the men fed, before or after changing tack?
Adam had glanced across at Bolitho and smiled. “The people come first this time.”
Then into the Western Approaches and up the Channel, exchanging signals with watchful patrols, and then on a glorious spring morning they sighted the Isle of Wight. Five and a half days from Gibraltar. They had flown right enough.
Bolitho and Adam went to a smaller inn, and not the George, to await the
Portsmouth Flier
to London. Perhaps they had both spoken so much about the last time they had left Portsmouth together. Too many memories, maybe? Like being cleansed of something bad.
It had been like a tonic to see Allday with his son throughout the lively passage. Now they too were saying their farewells, while young Bankart remained with his ship and Allday boarded the coach. Bolitho protested that Allday had to be an outsider, because the coach was filled to capacity.
Allday merely grinned and looked scornfully at the plump merchants who were the other passengers.
“I want to see the land, Sir Richard, not listen to th' bleatings o' th' likes o' them! I'll be fine on the upper deck!”
Bolitho settled in a corner, his eyes closed as a defence against conversation. Several people had noticed his rank, and were probably waiting to ask him about
the war.
At least the merchants appeared to be doing well out of it, he thought.
Adam sat opposite him, his eyes distant as he watched the rolling Hampshire countryside, his reflection in the coach window like the portraits at Falmouth.
On and on, stops for fresh horses, tankards of ale from saucy wenches at the various coaching inns. Heavy meals when they halted so that the passengers could ease their aching muscles and test their appetites on anything from rabbit pie to the best beef. The further you went from the sea, the less sign of war you found, Bolitho decided.
The coach ground to a halt at the final inn at Ripley in the county of Surrey.
Bolitho walked along the narrow street, his cloak worn to conceal his uniform although the air was warm and filled with the scent of flowers.
England.
My England.
He watched the steaming horses being led to their stables and sighed. Tomorrow they would alight at the George in Southwark.
London.
Then she would give him back his confidence. Standing there, without a uniform in sight, and the sound of laughter from the inn he found he was able to say it out loud.
“Kate. I love thee.”
12 THE ONE-LEGGED
M
AN
A
DMIRAL
Sir Owen Godschale watched while his servant carried a decanter of claret to a small table and then withdrew. Outside the tall windows the sun was shining, the air hot and dusty, remote like the muffled sounds of countless carriage wheels.
Bolitho took time to sip the claret, surprised that the Admiralty could still make him ill-at-ease and on the defensive. Everything had changed for him; it should be obvious, he thought. He and Adam had been ushered into a small, comfortably furnished library, something quite different from the large reception room he had seen earlier. It had been crowded with sea-officers, mostly captains, or so it had appeared. Restlessly waiting to meet a senior officer or his lackey, to ask favours, to plead for commands, new ships, almost anything.
As I once was,
he had thought. He still could not get used to the immediate respect, the servility of the Admiralty's servants and guardians.
The admiral was a handsome, powerfully built man who had distinguished himself in the American Revolution. A contemporary of Bolitho's, they had in fact been posted on the same day. There was little to show of that youthful and daring frigate captain now, Bolitho thought. Godschale looked comfortably sleek, his hands and features pale as if he had not been at sea for years.
He had not held this high appointment for very long. It seemed likely he would discourage anything controversial which might delay or damage his plans to enter the House of Lords.
Godschale was saying, “It warms the heart to read of your exploits, Sir Richard. We in Admiralty too often feel cut adrift from the actual deeds which we can only plan, and which with God's guidance, can be brought to a victorious fruition.”
Bolitho relaxed slightly. He thought of Nelson's wry comment on wars fought with words and paper. Across the room, his eyes alert, Adam sat with an untouched glass by his side. Was it a courtesy, or part of a plot to include him in this meeting?
Godschale warmed to his theme. “The treasure-ship was one such reward,
although . . .
” his voice dragged over the word. “There are some who might suggest you took too much upon yourself. Your task is to lead and to offer the encouragement of your experience, but that is in the past. We have to think of the future.”
Bolitho asked, “Why was I brought here, Sir Owen?”
The admiral smiled and toyed with his empty glass. “To put you in the position of knowing what is happening in Europe, and to reward you for your gallant action. I believe it is His Majesty's pleasure to offer you the honorary rank of Lieutenant Colonel in the Royal Marines.”
Bolitho looked at his hands. When was Godschale getting to the point? An honorary appointment to the Royal Marines was only useful if you were faced by a confrontation between Army and Navy in some difficult campaign. It was an honour, of course, but it hardly warranted bringing him away from his squadron.
Godschale said, “We believe that the French are gathering their fleet in several different areas. Your transfer to the flag at Malta will enable you to disperse your squadron to best advantage.”
“The French are said to be at Martinique, Sir Owen. Nelson declaresâ”
The admiral showed his teeth like a gentle fox. “Nelson is not above being wrong, Sir Richard. He may be the country's darling; he is not immune to false judgement.”
The admiral included Adam for the first time. “I am able to tell your nephew, and it is my honour so to do, that he is appointed captain from the first of June.” He smiled, pleased with himself. “The
Glorious
First of June, eh, Commander?”
Adam stared at him, then at Bolitho. “Why, I thank you, Sir Owen!”
The admiral wagged his finger. “You have more than earned your promotion. If you continue as you have I see no reason for your advancement to falter, eh?”
Bolitho saw the mixed emotions on Adam's sunburned features. Promotion. Every young officer's hope and dream. Three years more and he could be a post-captain. But was it a just reward, or a bribe? With the rank would come a different command, maybe even a frigate, what he had always talked about; as his uncle had once been, his father too, except that Hugh had fought on the wrong side.
Godschale turned to Bolitho. “It is
good
to be here with you today, Sir Richard. A long, long climb since the Saintes in eighty-two. I wonder if many people realise how hard it is, how easy to fall from grace, sometimes through no fault of ours, eh?”
He must have seen the coldness in Bolitho's eyes and hurried on, “Before you quit London and return to Gibraltar, you must dine with me.” He glanced only briefly at Adam. “You too, of course. Wives, a few friends, that kind of affair. It does no harm at all.”
It was not really a request, Bolitho thought. It was an order.
“I am not certain that Lady Belinda is still in London. I have not had the time yet toâ”
Godschale looked meaningly at a gilded clock. “Quite so. You are a busy man. But never fear, my wife saw her just a day back. They are good company for one another while you and I deal with the dirtier matters of war!” He chuckled. “Settled then.”
Bolitho stood up. He would have to see her anyway, but why no word from or about Catherine? He had gone alone to her house against Adam's wishes, but had got no further than the entrance. An imposing footman had assured him that his visit would be noted, but Viscount Somervell had left the country again on the King's service, and her ladyship was most likely with him.
He knew a lot more than he was saying. And so did Godschale. Even the cheap comment to Adam had an edge to it. The promotion was his right; he had won it without favour and against all prejudice.
Outside the Admiralty building the air seemed cleaner, and Bolitho said, “What did you make of that?”
Adam shrugged. “I am not that much of a fool that I could not recognise a threat, Uncle.” His chin lifted again. “What do you want me to do?”
“You may become involved, Adam.”
He grinned, the strain dropping away like an unwanted mask. “I
am
involved, sir!”
“Very well. I shall go to the house I mentioned.” He smiled at a memory. “Browne, once my flag lieutenant, placed it at my disposal whenever I needed it.”
Browne with an “e.”
Since the death of his father, he had succeeded to the title and had taken his place well ahead of Godschale in the House of Lords.
Adam nodded. “I will put the word about.” He glanced at the imposing buildings and richly dressed passers-by. “Though this is not some seaport. A man could be lost forever here.”
He glanced at him thoughtfully, “Are you quite sure, Uncle? Maybe she
has
gone, thinking it best for you,” he faltered, “as it might well be. She sounds like a most honourable lady.”
“I am sure, Adam, and thank you for that. I know not where Valentine Keen is at present, and there is no time to reach him by letter. I have days, not weeks.”
He must have displayed his anxiety, and Adam said, “Rest easy, Uncle. You have many friends.”
They fell into step and walked into the sunshine. There were some people watching the passing carriages and one turned as the two officers appeared.
He called, “Look, lads, 'tis 'im!” He waved a battered hat. “God bless you, Dick! Give the Frogs another drubbin'!”
Someone gave a cheer and shouted, “Don't you listen to them other buggers!”
Bolitho smiled, although his heart felt like breaking.
Then he said quietly, “Yes, I do have friends after all.”
True to the promise of his one-time flag lieutenant, Bolitho was warmly received at the house in Arlington Street. The master was away in the North of England, the housekeeper explained, but she had her instructions, and conducted them to a suite of pleasant rooms on the first floor. Adam left almost at once to see friends who might be able to shed some light on Catherine's disappearance; for Bolitho was now convinced that she had vanished. He dreaded that Adam might be right, that she had gone away with Somervell for appearance's sake, to save their reputations.
On the first morning Bolitho left the house. He had an immediate clash with Allday, who protested at being left behind.
Bolitho had insisted. “This is not the quarterdeck with some Frenchie about to board us, old friend!”
Allday had glared out at the busy street. “The more I'm in London, the less I trust th' place!”
Bolitho had said, “I need you here. In case someone comes. The housekeeper might turn him away otherwise.”
Or her,
Allday thought darkly.
It was not a long walk to the quiet square of which Belinda had written in her letter.
He paused to look at some children who were playing in the grassy centre of the square, their nursemaids standing nearby; gossiping about their respective families, he thought.
One of the little girls might be Elizabeth. It brought him all aback to realise that she must have changed a lot since he had last seen her. She would be three soon. He saw two of the nurse-maids curtsy to him, and touched his hat in reply.
Another sailor home from the sea.
It seemed ironic now. How would he conduct the next moments in his life?
The house was tall and elegant, like many which had been built in His Majesty's reign. Wide steps flanked by ornate iron railings with three stories above to match the houses on either side. A servant opened the door and stared at him for several seconds. Then she bobbed in a deep curtsy, and, stammering apologies, took his hat and showed him into a pillared hall with a blue and gilt-leafed ceiling.
“This way, sir!”
She opened a pair of doors, and stood aside while he walked into an equally fine drawing-room. The furniture looked foreign to him, and the curtains and matching carpets were, he guessed, newly made. He thought of the rambling grey house in Falmouth. Compared with this it was like a farm.
He caught sight of himself in a tall, gilded mirror, and automatically straightened his shoulders. His face looked deeply tanned above his spotless waistcoat and breeches, but the uniform made him look like someone he did not know.
Bolitho tried to relax, to pitch his ear to the muted sounds above him in the house. Another world.
The doors opened suddenly and she walked quickly into the room. She was dressed in dark blue which almost matched his own coat, and her hair was piled high to show her small ears and the jewellery around her neck. She looked very composed, defiant.
He said, “I sent a note. I hope this is convenient?”
She did not take her eyes from him; she was examining him as if to seek some injury or disfigurement, or that he had changed in another way.
“I think it absurd that you should be staying in somebody else's house.”
Bolitho shrugged. “It seemed best untilâ”
“Until you saw how I would behave to you, is that it?”
They faced each other, more like strangers than husband and wife.
He replied, “I tried to explain in my letterâ”
She waved him down. “My cousin is here. He begged me to forgive your foolishness, for all our sakes. I have been much embarrassed by your reckless affair. You are a senior officer of repute, yet you behave like some foul-mouthed seaman with his doxy on the waterfront!”
Bolitho looked around the room; his heart, like his voice, was heavy.
“Some of those foul-mouthed sailors are dying at this very moment to protect houses like this.”
She smiled briefly, as if she had discovered what she had been seeking. “Tut, Richard! Your share of prize-money from the Spanish galleon will more than cover it, so do not lose the issue in hypocrisy!”
Bolitho said flatly, “It is not an affair.”
“I see.” She moved to a window and touched a long curtain. “Then where is this woman you seem to have lost your mind to?” She swung round, her eyes angry. “I shall tell you! She is with her husband Viscount Somervell, who is apparently more willing to forgive and forget than I!”
“You saw him?”
She tossed her head, her fingers stroking the curtain more quickly to reveal her agitation.
“Of course. We were both very concerned. It was humiliating and degrading.”
“I regret that.”
“But not what you did?”
“That is unfair.” He watched her, amazed that his voice was calm when his whole being was in turmoil. “But not unexpected.”
She looked past him at the room. “This belonged to the Duke of Richmond. It is a fine house. Suitable for us. For you.”
Bolitho heard a sound and saw a small child being led past the doors. He knew it was Elizabeth despite her disguise of frothy lace and pale blue silk.
She turned just once, hanging to the hand of her nursemaid. She stared at him without recognition and then walked on.