Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef (21 page)

Owen ran towards the only sign of order and discipline, where men clung to broken cordage and bowed down under the great sweeping onslaught of water over the side, and stared dazedly at the tall figure all in white by the wheel before his reeling mind told him it was the admiral’s lady. He saw Bolitho too, one arm pointing at the hold where another seaman was banging on the hatch with a pistol butt.

Bolitho looked at Bezant who was being half-carried to the side, to which the boats had been warped in readiness.

He said, “You tried. We all did. It was not enough.” He had to make this wounded, stricken man understand. Accept it. The deck felt steadier except for the violent surge of undertow. But at any moment she might slide off. There would be no hope for any of them. He rubbed his injured eye and did not hear her call out, in the din of wind and waves, for him to stop.

He watched them lower Bezant over the side and then joined Catherine by the motionless wheel. The ship was already breaking up, and he could hear the sea booming into the forward hold, smashing down anything that barred its way.

Allday shouted, “Here come the rats!”

Some of the mutineers and the released soldiers were pulling themselves on deck, staring around with disbelief or madness. Tojohns pointed his pistols and roared, “You bastards can take the quarter-boat!”

Keen said, “Abandon, sir?” He spoke quietly, his voice almost drowned.

Bolitho gripped Catherine’s arm and dragged her to the side. The boatswain’s cutter had already cast off, the oars thrashing in confusion until some sort of order and timing came into play.

The jolly-boat, a small eighteen-foot cutter, was rising and dipping wildly directly below the bulwark. Bezant had been lashed in the sternsheets, and Jenour was already loosening the oars. Such a small boat, he thought, against such a mighty sea.

She clutched him, hard. “Don’t leave me.”

He held her face against his as he lifted her over the side and down to Allday and Yovell. “Never!”

Then he turned and looked at the rum-crazed fools who were dragging great bags of gold across the deck. They did not even appear to see him. He swung himself over the side and instantly felt the jolly-boat veer away, with a clatter of looms as each man tried to find his rowlock in the confusion.

Allday croaked, “Mainmast’s a-comin’ down, Sir Richard!”

It was difficult to see what happened through the leaping, blinding spray, but they all heard the crash of splintering planking as the maintopmast sliced down and across the quarter-boat.

The lookout, Owen, dug his feet into the wooden stretchers and lay back on his oar with all his strength. He was glad that the women were in the sternsheets and did not see what was happening. The swell eased very slightly so that the spray parted across the passage old Bezant had been heading for. The Golden Plover was now quite mastless and leaning over on her side; the boat which had been smashed by falling spars had vanished, but the frothing water told its own story. Instead of gold from the high sun, it was bright red, and the sea was churning with great, flashing bodies as the sharks tore into the attack.

Bolitho saw Allday grimace as he heaved on his oar, and called, “Lay aft, Allday. We need a good cox’n today!”

He looked at their stricken faces. All sailors hated leaving their ship. The sea was the constant enemy, and their future was unknown.

Bolitho clambered over to take Allday’s oar and called out, “You know what they say, lads? Only one thing more useless in a boat than a harpsichord, and that’s an admiral!”

Nobody laughed, but he saw her watching him while she stooped to bale water from beneath the gratings.

Jenour pulled at his oar, the unaccustomed motion tearing at his cut fingers. They were still together, more than he had dared to hope. He felt his beautiful sword rubbing his hip. All that he had with him. Even his sketches had been in his sea-chest.

Someone gasped, “There she goes, lads!”

Bezant began to struggle. “Help me up, damn you! Must see!”

Allday laid his arm on the tiller bar but reached out with the other to calm the man. “Easy, matey. You can’t help her now.”

With a roar and in a great welter of spray, the Golden Plover slid from the reef and vanished.

The jolly-boat seemed to slide through the turbulent water and then settle again, her oars rising and falling to carry her away.

Bolitho tried to gauge the sun’s position but his eye was too painful.

Two things were uppermost in his aching mind.

They were through the reef and into calmer water. And they were quite alone.

The big grey house below Pendennis Castle seemed cool and refreshing after the heat of late afternoon. The girl loosened the ribbons of her wide straw hat and allowed it to fall on her shoulders, to lie across her long, sun-warmed hair.

How quiet the house was. She guessed that Ferguson and his wife and the servants were probably having a meal before evening church; in the meantime she had enjoyed the peace of her walk along the cliffs and down the steep track to the little curving beach where she liked to look for shells. Ferguson had warned her about the cliff path and she had listened dutifully to his advice, all the while thinking of Zennor, where she had been born. After those cliffs this walk had been easy.

Because it was Sunday she had barely seen anyone except a coastguard who had been peering out across the shimmering bay through his long brass-bound telescope. He was friendly enough, but Zenoria felt they were all watching her whenever she went into town. Curiosity perhaps, or was it the usual suspicion cherished by the Cornish for “strangers,” even those from a different part of the same county?

This house, too. She crossed to a small table, the wood of which was so dark with age and polishing it could have been ebony. She watched her hand as she placed it on the great family Bible, and saw the wedding ring with something like surprise. Would she never get used to it? Might things never change, so that she would never be able to give freely of the love Valentine needed from her?

She opened the massive brass locks and raised the cover. Like the house, so much history. It was somehow awesome—frightening, she thought.

They were all there, written in by hands unknown. A family’s record, like a roll of honour. She gave a small shiver. It was as if the same portraits that matched these names were watching her, resenting her intrusion.

Captain Julius Bolitho who had died a young man of 36. She felt the strange apprehension again. Right here in Falmouth during the Civil War, trying to lift the Roundhead blockade. She had seen the castle this afternoon, hunched on the headland. It was still a place of menace.

Bolitho’s great great grandfather, Captain Daniel, who had fallen fighting the French in Bantry Bay. Captain David, killed fighting pirates in 1724, and Denziel, the only one until Sir Richard to gain flag rank. She smiled at the way she had come to absorb and understand the terms and the traditions of the navy.

And Bolitho’s father, Captain James, who had lost an arm in India. She had studied his portrait closely, seen the family likeness found once more in Bolitho. Her mind seemed to hesitate, like guilt. In Adam too.

And now a separate entry in Sir Richard’s own sweeping hand, on the occasion when Adam’s name had been changed to Bolitho, asserting his right to all that he would one day inherit. On the same page Bolitho had also written, “To the memory of my brother Hugh, Adam’s father, once lieutenant in His Britannic Majesty’s Navy, who died on 7 TH May 1795. The Call of Duty was the Path to Glory.”

Zenoria closed the Bible with great care, as if to keep its memories undisturbed.

And what of the women? Waiting for their men to return, wondering every time, perhaps, if this parting was the last one?

Zenoria thought of her husband and tried to discover her innermost feelings. She had been unable to give him what he truly deserved. She was not even certain that she loved him. Adam had made it clear that he thought she had married Keen out of gratitude for what he had done to save her person and restore her good name. Was that all it had been, then—gratitude? Did Valentine really understand what it had been like for her; why she was incapable of any sexual response after what had happened to her? When he had entered her she had wanted more than anything to please him.

Instead she had felt pain, terror, revulsion; and had expected him to lose patience, to thrust her away in disgust, to behave with brutality. But he had done nothing: he had accepted it, and blamed himself. Perhaps when he came back … How many times had that gone through her mind? It was torture, so that as the weeks had dragged past she had almost come to dread their reunion.

If Catherine had been here, it might have been different. She would have been compassionate; she might have had wisdom to offer. Zenoria turned and stared around the big room. I must keep faith with him. She imagined she could hear the words rebounding from the cool stone.

There was a sound of horses in the stable yard. Matthew perhaps, getting a carriage to take Ferguson and his wife down to church. She stiffened. No, not horses, just the one, and from the clamour of its stamping hooves it was difficult to calm and must have been ridden hard. A visitor then.

Then she heard Ferguson’s voice, hushed, hesitant, so that she could not grasp the sense of his words. Someone came around from the courtyard, and disappeared towards the front of the house; there was no mistaking the gold lace and cocked hat, the jingle of the sword Adam always wore.

She touched her breast and felt herself flush. But he was supposed to be at Plymouth now … She glanced at herself in the mirror and was dismayed to see the sudden pleasure in her eyes.

The outer doors opened and closed and she turned to face him as he came in.

“You surprise me again, Captain Adam, sir!” He ignored her teasing humour. She felt her body chill in spite of the warmth. “What is it, Adam? Are you in trouble?”

He did not speak but threw his hat on to a chair; she saw the dust on his boots, the leather stains on his breeches, evidence of the haste of his journey.

He placed his hands on her shoulders and gazed at her for what seemed like an age.

Then he said quietly, “I am the bearer of bad news, Zenoria. Try to be strong, as I have tried to be since I was told of it.”

She did not resist as he pulled her gently against him. Later she was to remember the exact moment, and knew it had not been out of tenderness but the need to hide from her face while he told her.

“It is reported that the barquentine Golden Plover, while on passage to Cape Town, struck a reef off the west coast of Africa.”

She could hear the hard, fast beating of his heart against her cheek. He continued to speak in the same empty voice. “A small Portuguese trader was stopped by one of our ships. It told them the news.” He paused, counting the seconds as a good gunner will measure the fall of shot. “There were none saved.”

Only then did he release her and walk blindly to one of the portraits. Probably without knowing what he was doing his fin-gers touched the old family sword in the painting. Now it would never be his.

“Is it certain, Adam?”

He turned lightly, as he always did. “My uncle is the best seaman I have ever known. The fairest of men, loved by all who tried to know him. But she was not his ship, you see?”

She tried, but she did not understand. All she knew was that her husband, who had given her everything, was now only another memory. Like all those who haunted this house, and were named in their roll of honour.

Adam said, “I have asked Ferguson to tell the servants. I did not … feel capable. By this time tomorrow, all Falmouth will know.” He thought suddenly of Belinda. “As all London knows now.”

He seemed to reconsider her question. “There is always hope. But it may be unwise to dream too much.” He faced her again, but seemed distant, unreachable.

“I have called for a fresh horse. I must ride to the squire’s house without delay. I would not want Aunt Nancy to hear it on the wind like common gossip.” For the first time he showed his emotion. “God, she worshipped him.”

Zenoria watched his distress with pain. “Adam—what must I do?”

“Do?” He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “You must remain here. He would have wished it.” He hesitated, realising what he had said, and what he had omitted. “So would your husband. I am sorry … I will ask Mrs Ferguson to keep you company.”

A horse was being led into the yard, but there were no voices.

“Please come back, Adam. Neither of us must be alone.”

He looked at her steadily. “I liked your husband very much. I also envied him to an unhealthy degree.” He came to her again and kissed her forehead very gently. “I still do.”

Then he was gone and she caught sight of Bolitho’s one-armed steward standing out in the dusty sunshine, staring at the empty road.

She was suddenly alone, and the pain of bereavement was unbearable.

She cried out, “Are you all satisfied now, damn you? There he rides, the last of the Bolithos!” She stared about her, blinded by hot, unexpected tears. “Is that what you wanted?”

But there was only silence.

She did not know what time it was or how long she had managed to sleep; it was as if someone had spoken her name. She slipped out of bed and moved to the window. The night was warm, and a bright half-moon spilled a glittering silver cloak down from the horizon until it was lost beneath the headland.