Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef (10 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sophie paused. “Don’t know, me lady.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I shall come down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes—and only he does.”

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

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

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

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

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

Only death would ever come between them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cotgrave prompted, “We decided?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gossage repeated, “She was a relic.”

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

“And then?”

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

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

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