Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef (3 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keen turned. “Advise me, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keen seemed to search his face for something.

“That I shall never forget.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are we?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They kissed, and he studied her for several seconds.

“Thomas Herrick is to be court-martialled.”

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

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

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

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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