Inshore Squadron (19 page)

Bolitho nodded and made his way slowly down the stairs, feeling vaguely unsure of himself without hat or sword.

He barely recognized the hall as the same place. It was packed with brightly coloured gowns, half-bared bosoms, the red coats of the military, and such a mixed array of people he wondered where they all came from.

A footman saw him coming and called, “Rear-Admiral Richard Bolitho.”

A few heads turned towards him, but most of the guests had not even heard the announcement above the din.

Swinburne bounced from the crowd. “Ah, Bolitho, good fellow!” He steered him through the less important fringe of the gathering and muttered, “Want you to meet me friends. Most of 'em have never set eyes on a fightin' man before.” He lowered his voice as they passed a scarlet-faced major who looked old enough to have been in two previous wars and added, “Him, for instance. Supposed to be recruitin' for the Colours. God, the country lads take one look at him and run off to join the French, I shouldn't wonder!”

A glass appeared in his hand, while a footman hovered nearby with a tray of replenishments, and within seconds Bolitho found himself hemmed in a corner by smiling, curious faces.

Questions came from every angle, and perhaps for the first time Bolitho sensed the unease and anxiety which even the Christmas cheer could not disperse.

Sometimes during his service Bolitho had felt irritation, even contempt for such outwardly privileged people. At sea, men died every day from one cause or another, while on land the military fared little better. In spite of her enemies and difficulties, Britain's trade and influence abroad was growing, but it took the whole navy and endless outposts and garrisons of redcoats to maintain it.

Hearing their questions, feeling their uncertainty as they tried to form a picture of the country's defences or the weaknesses which might allow a French invasion, Bolitho was closer to understanding the war's other face than he could recall.

Lady Swinburne swept through the crowd and said, “Time to dine.” She offered her arm to Bolitho. “We will lead.”

As they passed through the beaming faces and curtseying ladies she remarked, “An ordeal for you, I expect. But you are among friends. They want to understand, to know their fate by looking at you. This may be a temporary refuge for you, but it is escape for them.”

They reached the long, glittering table when there was a small disturbance in the outer hall.

Bolitho heard Swinburne barking at one of his footmen. “Arthur! Lay another place for the lieutenant!” Browne had returned.

While the guests moved slowly to their allotted places at the heavily laden table, Browne managed to cross the room and say, “The despatches are delivered, sir. Sir George Beauchamp is most eager to see you when you are able to travel.” He lowered his voice, aware that several people were craning their necks to listen, still surprised at his unexpected entrance. Like a scene from a play. The dishevelled young officer riding from the lines to report to his general.
The French are out. The cavalry are coming.
“Things are warming up in the Baltic as you feared, sir.”

There was a great rustle of gowns and scraping of chairs as the guests sank down to admire the mountains of food which all but hid one line of heads from those opposite them.

Bolitho turned to find himself looking directly into the eyes of a young, attractive woman. Her gown was cut so low that he wondered how it was staying in position, and even so it left little to the imagination.

She met his eyes boldly. “You are staring, sir!” She smiled, her tongue running along her lower lip as she asked, “Do you like what you see?”

A heavy-jowled face thrust round her bare shoulder and said thickly, “Watch this one, m'dear fellow. A wildcat, an' worse!”

She did not even flinch but kept her gaze on Bolitho. “My husband. A lout.”

Bolitho was almost grateful when the meal eventually began. And what a feast it was. It would have fed every midshipman in the squadron for a week and still left enough to pass around.

The courses were presented by a well-trained line of footmen, and the plates and bowls removed with equal precision. Bolitho was amazed to see that most were wiped clean, whereas he was already feeling uncomfortably full.

There were various kinds of fish. One Bolitho recognized as turbot, and another, although almost swamped in a rich sauce, he thought was baked whiting.

On and on, each course larger and more lavishly decorated than the one before.

A massive baron of beef, roasted on a slow fire, baked ham and boiled turkey, all washed down by Lord Swinburne's rich selection of wines.

Bolitho felt the girl's knee against his, and when he moved slightly she pressed harder, the sensation insistent and sensuous. But when he looked at her she was eating busily, her hands reaching out for various portions with the trained performance of a musician.

He saw Browne watching him from the other end of the table. He appeared to be clearing his dishes with the best of them. His life in London had been an obvious advantage.

The girl beside him said, “Are you on a secret mission?”

Her eyes looked less steady now and had the far-away stare of someone who had gone beyond caution.

He smiled. “No. I have been resting for a few days.”

“Ah yes.”

One hand disappeared beneath the table and he felt her fingers moving caressingly up his thigh.

“You were wounded. I heard it somewhere.”

Bolitho saw the footman on the opposite side of the table. His face was expressionless but his eyes spoke volumes.

“Easy, ma'am, d'you wish your husband to call me out?”

She threw back her head and laughed. “Him? He will be dead drunk before the ladies retire, unconscious soon afterwards!” Her tone changed, pleading but direct. “That is why I am seated here beside you. Our host thinks me to be a bitch. To him I am just a necessary animal, to be used, or mated.”

“And now . . . ” Swinburne was on his feet, a full goblet in his hand. “Before the ladies retire I will give you the loyal toast!”

Chairs scraped back again and footmen darted in to shield silk gowns from fallen scraps of food and upturned glasses.

Bolitho was caught off guard, being used to remaining seated as was the naval custom.

“To His Britannic Majesty, King George!”

How solemn they all suddenly appeared, Bolitho thought. Then the mood passed again and the ladies made their departure. Bolitho's companion paused and patted his arm with her fan.

“Later.”

She had been right about one thing, Bolitho thought. Her husband was lying with his head on his arms, his hair daubed with a mixture of trifle and Dutch flummery.

Long pipes were brought and the port was passed slowly around the table. The air was soon heavy with tobacco smoke which, mingled with that from the log fire, made the eyes smart and sting.

Bolitho pretended to drowse like the others, to let the conversation wash around him. It was mostly talk of farming and shortage, of prices and poor labour. It was their war, the one which was alien to Bolitho as a gundeck would be to them.

He tried to think of his coming visit to the Admiralty. How long would Herrick take to complete repairs? What were the French doing? The Danes, the Russians?

But he kept seeing her face between him and his conclusions. The way she had looked at him before she had gone to her bed. Had gone to escape from his ridiculous fantasies.

She was probably already settled in some fine London house, her mind too full with beginning her new life to remember him for long.

Browne dropped into the empty chair beside him.

“That was a fine dinner, sir.”

“Tell me about London. How did the journey go?”

“Quite well, sir. The nearer we got to London the better the road became. We stopped several times, of course, and we were fortunate with our choice of inns.”

The “we” and the “our” made Bolitho helplessly jealous.

Browne was saying, “Sir George was his usual crusty self, sir. I think Admiral Damerum had been with him. Something Sir George said made me wonder.”

“What did he
say?
”

“Nothing much.” Browne fidgeted under his stare. “But the talk in the Admiralty is that the Tsar of Russia has continued to harass our merchantmen in the Baltic. I believe those which you cut out from the French frigate will be the last until this affair is settled.”

Bolitho nodded. “I hoped for the best, but in my heart I suspected it would end like this. Denmark will have no choice. Neither shall we.”

Browne reached out and grasped an abandoned goblet of brandy. He hesitated and then downed it with a fierce gulp, his eyes misting over as the fire surged through him.

Then he said stiffly, “May I speak out, sir?”

“I have always told you . . .” He stopped, seeing the lieutenant's uncertainty. “Whatever it is. Tell me.”

“I have never had much to do with sea-going officers, sir. My father insisted I should don the King's coat and used his influence to arrange the appointment.” Browne smiled sadly. “I have always
carried
the uniform but have never earned it. My life became that of a courier, a messenger-boy, a privileged onlooker, or whatever my admiral demanded of me. Only since I have been serving you, and I mean this, sir, have I found any real pride in myself.” He gave a wry grin. “But for the matter of a certain lady, I doubt if I would ever have left Sir George's service!”

He had been using his words and the brandy as a barricade. When he spoke again it was like someone entirely different.

“I was troubled about your appointment, sir, and more so at the way Admiral Damerum quit the inshore station without giving you all the intelligence he must have gathered from his patrols.” He stared at Bolitho as if expecting to be silenced for abusing their new friendship. “Your late brother, sir.” He licked his lips. “I—I am not sure I can continue.”

Bolitho looked at the floor. So it was back again, not buried after all. Nor would it be.

He said quietly, “My brother was a renegade, a traitor if you like.” He saw his words hit home. “He was a terrible gambler, and always had a nasty temper, even as a boy. He fought a duel with a brother officer aboard his ship and the man died. My brother fled to America and eventually rose to command a privateer during the Revolution. He was killed after the war by a runaway horse in Boston.” That final part was a lie, but he had become so used to it, it no longer mattered. He looked at Browne calmly. “Is that what you were going to say?”

Browne stared at his goblet but it was empty.

“Thank you for sharing it with me, sir.” He fixed his eyes on a point above Bolitho's shoulder. “Did you know the other officer, the one who was killed?”

“No. I was in the Caribbean. When I got home my father told me. The shock nearly killed him.” Something in Browne's tone made him ask sharply, “Why?”

“His name was Damerum, sir. Sir Samuel's brother.”

Bolitho recalled the first meeting with the admiral aboard his flagship
Tantalus.
No hint. Not a single sign of memory or connection with the past.

In just a few minutes Browne seemed to have become very drunk.

In a slurred, confidential tone he murmured, “An' if you think he wouldn't let his personal feelings come before duty, then, shir, you are mishtaken!”

Bolitho stood up. “I think it might be wise to retire.” He nodded to Swinburne, but he, too, seemed barely aware what was happening.

Up the stairway once more, Browne becoming looser and more unsteady with each step.

By the door of his room Bolitho saw Allday sitting on a dainty gilt stool which looked as if it might collapse under him at any moment.

He saw Browne and grinned. “Bit too much for a poor luff, eh, sir?”

“Put him on my bed, Allday.” He straightened his coat as Allday thrust one arm round the lieutenant's waist. Another moment and Browne would have fallen on his face. “I will return to the hall.” He forced a smile for Allday's benefit. “As the only representative of the King's Navy in attendance, I must not let us down.”

Allday pushed open the door and dragged the limp figure towards the bed.

“Is he to sleep here, sir?”

Bolitho glanced at the clock. “Yes. But I suspect he will not be alone for long. There may be a young lady arriving directly, so do not stand in her way.”

Allday stared at him. “An' she'll be thinking it's your room?”

Bolitho turned towards the stairs. “I suspect that neither of them will care, nor will they remember a thing about it tomorrow, I'm sure of that also!”

Allday watched him until he had vanished down the stairs and then sighed with envy. He toyed with the idea of carrying the lieutenant to another room and taking his place in the bed.