Darkening Sea (16 page)

She had felt a dagger of jealousy when Keen had mentioned the likelihood of meeting with Richard, before or after he had led his ships to Cape Town. There would be an invasion of Mauritius, Keen had seemed certain, to stop the attacks on the trade routes once and for all.

“Will it be difficult, Val?”

Keen had seemed almost remote. “It is always easier to defend an island than to capture it. But if enough soldiers can be spared, and with Sir Richard at the helm, it should be possible.”

Catherine had not dared to look at the girl when Keen had exclaimed with sudden enthusiasm, “It will be like a family again with Adam there!”

Perhaps that, too, had blown over. Sailors had to go to sea: even poor Allday had had to make a difficult choice.

She thought of the letter which had been waiting for her upon her return from Fowey. Richard had written it at Gibraltar. She looked suddenly at the window as the rain lessened, and a great shaft of moonlight probed against the house. November, and his first letter. It might mark the arrival of many more.

It was a letter of love and tenderness, which with so many miles between them was all the more moving. He had written little of
Valkyrie
and her captain, not even much about Adam except to say that they would be leaving the Rock without waiting for
Anemone
to catch up.

Every day is an obstacle without you, dear Kate, and if you do not come to me in the night watches my whole being aches for you. Some nights ago when we were weathering Cape Finisterre and the winds sought to put us ashore, you did come to me. The cabin was as black as tar, but you stood by the stern windows, your hair waving in the wind although the place was sealed against it. You smiled at me and I ran to hold you. But when I kissed you, your lips were like ice. Then I was alone, a complete man again because of the strength your visit had given me.

She sat on their bed and opened the letters once more. Shy, sometimes over-sensitive, he was a man who gave so much while others demanded more.
It is easier to defend an island than to capture it.
How strange it had been to hear Keen's opinion. Something he had learned from Richard. Like others she had come to know. Oliver Browne, Jenour, and soon perhaps his new flag lieutenant, George Avery.

Next month they would all be preparing for Christmas. How quickly it had come around again. And all the while she would be craving news, waiting for the post-boy; writing to him and wondering how each letter would reach him.

She stroked the bed with her hand. Where she had given herself, again and again. The bed was turned down, and Sophie had laid out a gown for her as she always did.

How would Zenoria accept this latest parting? She could barely have recovered from the last one, when the devastating news had broken about the shipwreck.

Adam had taken her that news himself. Was that when it had happened?

She got up and walked to the window. Most of the clouds had gone, and those still moving to a wet south-westerly glided from the moon's path like solid things.

Catherine picked up the gown and for a few moments stood naked while she threw her heavy robe on to a chair.

She stared at the tall cheval glass where she had stood with Richard, watching his hand uncover her with exquisite slowness. The strong hand had moved over her body, exploring her as she had heard herself beg him to do.

Then she stood at the window again and flung it open, gasping as the bitter air attacked her nakedness.

“I am here, Richard. Wherever you are, I am with you!”

And in the sudden stillness she thought she heard him call her.

Sir Paul Sillitoe paused beside one of the tall windows in the Admiralty building and watched the carriages shining like polished metal in the persistent drizzle, and wondered how or why he should tolerate such an existence. He had two estates in England and plantations in Jamaica, where he could soon drive the chill from his bones.

He knew exactly why he did it, and even this momentary dissatisfaction was merely a facet of his own impatient nature.

November and barely three o'clock in the afternoon, and already he could not see clearly across the road. London was wet, cold and miserable.

He heard Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker re-enter the room and said, “Is the squadron ready to sail, Sir James?” He turned lightly and saw the weight of worry on the admiral's face. Hamett-Parker was finding this project more difficult than he had believed, perhaps. He thought suddenly of Godschale, who was now in Bombay. Even
he
had been better in some ways; he would certainly have found a woman somewhere to ease his burden. Sillitoe knew that Hamett-Parker's wife had died. He smiled to himself. Of boredom, probably.

“I have sent word today. As soon as Commodore Keen is satisfied, I will tell him to prepare for sea.”

He looked at Sillitoe, barely able to hide his dislike. “And what of the prime minister?”

Sillitoe shrugged. “When the Duke of Portland decided to resign that illustrious position, owing, he claimed, to ill health, we were prepared to accept changes, in strategy at least. Next month we are to be blessed with another Tory, Spencer Perceval, who given time may make a stronger mark than the Duke.”

Hamett-Parker was astonished that Sillitoe found it easy to display his contempt so openly. It was dangerous, even amongst friends. There was worse to come.

“You realise, Sir James, that without proper leadership we have been laid open to all manner of dangers.”

“The French?”

Sillitoe's hooded eyes gleamed as he answered, “For once, the French are not the enemy. This time the rot is from within.” He became impatient again. “I speak of His Majesty. Can nobody see that he is a raving lunatic? Every order of command, at sea or on land, has to be laid out before him.”

Hamett-Parker glanced at the closed doors and replied uneasily, “He is the King. It is everyone's loyal duty to . . .”

Sillitoe seemed to spring at him. “Then you are a fool, sir! If this Mauritius campaign is ruined because of his prevarication, do you imagine that he will shoulder the blame?” He watched the sudden anxiety on the admiral's severe features. “
By the Grace of God,
remember? How can a monarch be held responsible?” He tapped the table with his fingers. “He is mad. But you will be the scapegoat. But then you know all about courts martial. You will not need reminding.”

Hamett-Parker snapped, “I'll have no more of your impertinence, damn it! What you describe is treason!”

Sillitoe looked down at the road again as a troop of dragoons cantered past, their cloaks black with rain.

“His eldest son will be crowned one day. Pray that it is not too late.”

Hamett-Parker forced himself to sit upright in his chair. No matter who had the prime minister's ear, or even the attention of royalty, Sillitoe appeared to be at ease with them. He tried not to think of his grand house, which had been Anson's. Like Godschale, he could lose everything. Even the lords of Admiralty were no longer immune to penalties.

“Are you saying that the people do not like their King?”

Sillitoe did not smile. It had cost the admiral a great deal to ask something so indiscreet.

“It would be fairer to say that the King does not know or care about
them!
”

He waited a moment. “Suppose you were to hold a very splendid reception at your London address?” He knew that Hamett-Parker had no other address, but this was the moment for flattery.

The admiral said, “What good would it do?”

“For you, d'you mean?” He hurried on before Hamett-Parker could rise to his casual insult. “Invite guests who are known, cared about, hated even, but not merely the King's officers and officials who have favours to offer.”

“But next year . . .”

“Next year, Sir James, the King will be beyond help or manipulation. His son will take responsibility.” He waited and saw the doubts and fears of a man who was said to be little short of a tyrant.

“Invite him, is that what you imply?”

Sillitoe shrugged. “It is a suggestion. I am certain that the prime minister would favour it.” He saw the shot go home, like watching a duellist fall when you had believed that your ball had missed the target.

“I will have to give it a good deal of thought.”

Sillitoe smiled. The battle was almost won. He said gently, “You have reached as high a position in the navy as any officer might hope. Others would have thought it impossible from the start.” He counted the seconds. “It would help nobody, least of all yourself, to lose it.”

“I have never sought favours from anybody!”

Sillitoe regarded him impassively.
He sounds just like Thomas Herrick.
But all he said was, “Admirable.”

The same lieutenant entered the room and said, “Sir Paul's carriage is here, Sir James.”

Hamett-Parker waved him away and wondered how long he had been listening outside.

Sillitoe picked up his cloak and turned towards the doors.

“I shall walk. It keeps my head clear.” He gave a slight bow. “I bid you good-day, Sir James.”

He descended the elegant staircase and went briskly out past the porter's chair into the drizzle.

His coachman acknowledged him with his whip. He knew where to find him. He was reliable, otherwise he would not be in Sillitoe's employment.

There were few people in the streets. As he walked, ignoring them, Sillitoe was deep in thought. He was still surprised that Hamett-Parker had not put up any fight.

His thoughts ranged on to Catherine Somervell and what he would say to her. She was not on this earth to be hidden away in Cornwall with fishermen and labourers. Nor was she meant to spend her life conducting a hopeless liaison in a little house in Chelsea. Sometimes she must recall her previous marriage to the Viscount Somervell, the grand occasions, being presented as she should be. She would be aware of Sillitoe's influence at the Admiralty and with Parliament. A few words, spoken or written, could bring Bolitho from his constant campaigning, and its ever-present fear of death. She would also be aware that he could persuade a bigot like Hamett-Parker to prevent Bolitho's return, as they were doing to Nelson's best friend, Lord Collingwood.

The reception he had suggested to the admiral had been the first step.

He thought of the latest piece of news his spies had brought him, that Catherine had purchased an old collier brig from a Cornish prize-court. To impress the man she could never marry, any more than she could reach out and touch him whenever she chose? He doubted if it were only for that reason. Perhaps it was her personal mystery that excited and taunted him like none other.

He stopped at the door of a house in the quiet street, and after a quick glance in either direction dragged the bell-pull.

For a while he would lose himself in a flippant, bawdy world where even the power of politics had no place. He smiled as the door opened slightly. Perhaps whores were the only honest people left after all.

The woman almost curtsied. “Oh, Sir Paul! A real pleasure! She's waitin' for you upstairs!”

He glanced at the gloomy stairway. He would think of Catherine while he was here. Of how it would be.

10 EXCHANGE OF
F
IRE

J
OHN
A
LLDAY
sat as comfortably as he could on an upturned dory and stared at the assembled shipping and sluggishly moving boats. If he turned his head he could see the great spread of Table Mountain that dwarfed Cape Town and all else in sight. But every movement was torture in the relentless heat. He was surprised he was not sweating: it was too hot even for that. There was a steady enough breeze from the sea, but it had no life, and reminded him of a village smithy he had once known.

His stomach rumbled and he knew it was time for something to eat and a wet, but not until Sir Richard and his flag lieutenant had returned from meeting the governor and some of the military commanders.

He stared across the shimmering water to
Valkyrie
and the ex-prize-ship
Laertes.
Quivering like a phantom vessel, Captain Adam Bolitho's
Anemone
swung at her anchor, and Allday wondered what would happen when he met his uncle again. Captain Trevenen had reported that
Anemone,
the third frigate in their small group, had been sighted at dawn, her arrival reported by one of the army's mountain lookout posts. But she had still not entered harbour when Sir Richard had left
Valkyrie,
and Allday knew enough about signals to realise that as senior officer of the flotilla Trevenen had hoisted
Captain repair on board
almost before
Anemone
's anchor had hit the bottom.

Allday turned his attention to the gig that had carried them ashore. It was made fast to a small mooring buoy and the crew was smartly turned out, but they were sitting with their arms folded and straight-backed despite the heat and discomfort, as they had been since Sir Richard had stepped ashore. It was as if the boat must not make contact with the land, he thought. As if one might become infected by the other.

There was a lieutenant in the boat. Even he did not have the authority, or the concern for the crew, to let them find some shade ashore. Then there was the captain. Trevenen was respected by his officers, although it showed in the sailors' eyes as something worse.
Fear.

Some soldiers tramped past, a solitary drum beating out the step. Several were barely sunburned, unsure of themselves, ungainly under full packs and weapons, their red coats adding to the burden of heat. They were only a few of the men gathered here, and there were ships in plenty to carry them when required.

But fighting their way on to a heavily defended cluster of islands? Allday could not see the point of it at all. Why should he care? He had seen enough of it in the Caribbean, on the islands of death as the soldiers called them. Men plucked from the English countryside or the Scottish garrisons, from the Welsh valleys and anywhere else where they could be persuaded to take the King's shilling and go for a soldier.

But he did care. He grinned to himself. It must have rubbed off Sir Richard. Allday had seen many men thrown away, fighting over islands nobody in England had heard of. Like as not they would be handed back to the enemy once the damned war was over and done with.

He tried not to worry about Unis Polin, but to think of their last quiet moments together in the parlour of the Stag's Head at Fallowfield. He had always had an eye for the women, in more ports and harbours than he could remember. But this was very different, and he was almost afraid to touch her until she had looked up at him, with her fresh skin and laughing eyes, and had said, “I'll not break, John Allday! Hold me like you mean it!”

But even her brightness, which he now understood had been for his sake, could not hold out. She had pressed her face against his chest and had whispered, “Just you come back to me! You promise, eh?”

She understood about the sea, and things like loyalty. She must have had enough of that from her dead husband, Jonas Polin, master's mate in the old
Hyperion.

Time moved on, and in his heart, although he knew it was stupid even to make a comparison, he knew Sir Richard had felt the same about leaving.

This time.
Why then? It had troubled him. It still did.

He heard footsteps behind him and got to his feet. It was Lieutenant Avery, looking tired and hot from his walk. Another North Sea officer, Allday thought. Rain, wind and more rain. Even as the thought touched his mind, he realised how much he was missing it.

Avery said, “Call the boat, Allday. Sir Richard will be here presently.”

Allday's bellow made the boat's crew come to life and the oars appear in the rowlocks like magic.

“Everything all right, sir?” He gestured towards the eye-blinding buildings, above which the Union Flag made the only visible movement.

Avery said, “I expect so.” He thought of Bolitho's face when a staff officer had handed him some letters. He plunged his hand into his coat. “There's a letter for
you,
Allday.”

He watched the big coxswain take it, with hands so strong and scarred that he could only imagine the life he had led.

Allday turned it over very carefully as if it might break. He knew it was from her. If he raised it to his nose there would be some of her there too. The sweet smell of the countryside and flowers, of the Helford riverbank and the little parlour.

He recalled her face when he had touched on the gold he had given her for safe-keeping, the “booty” as Ozzard had called it, which he had taken from one of the
Golden Plover
's mutineers.

He had said, “It's yours, Unis. I want you to have it.” He had seen the shock in her eyes and had added, “It'll be yours anyway when we're wed.”

She had answered with the same gravity, “But not until then, John Allday!”

Avery watched him now and wondered if he should risk offending the man.

Allday said suddenly, “I can't read, y'see, sir. Never got down to it.” He was thinking of Ozzard and his barely contained scorn for what he intended with Unis Polin. Sir Richard's secretary Yovell was a good man, but if he read somebody's letter aloud it always came out like a sermon.

“I'll do it . . . if you like, Allday.” They looked at each other warily until Avery said, “I'll get none myself.”

An officer, Allday thought. One he did not really know, yet. But the poignancy of that last remark made him answer, “I'd take it kindly, sir.”

The boat came alongside the jetty and the bowman scrambled ashore with the painter. The lieutenant followed, straightening his hat and pulling his shirt from his skin.

Avery said, “Seems a pleasant place, Mr Finlay.”

He had mixed very little with the ship's officers and they had seemed ready enough to remain isolated from him. Avery knew the reason well enough; he was used to it by now. But one thing he still possessed was an excellent memory for names.

The fourth lieutenant said irritably, “You wouldn't say that if you'd been out there in this damned boat!”

Avery faced him so that his eyes glowed in the fierce light. “I have been in good company.”

The lieutenant glared at Allday. “And what are
you
doing?”

Allday replied calmly, “Listening, sir.”

“Why, you insolent . . .”

Avery took his arm and pulled him aside. “Stow it. Unless you would like a
personal
introduction to Sir Richard Bolitho?”

“Is that a threat, sir?” But the irritation was giving away to caution like sand slipping from an hour-glass.

“Rather, a promise!”

The lieutenant stiffened as Bolitho and two army officers came into sight. Avery saw immediately that there was dirt on the vice-admiral's sleeve.

“Are you well, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho smiled. “Of course. The military provided too much hospitality. I should have watched my step in more ways than one!” The army officers grinned.

Avery turned and saw Allday staring at Bolitho, the anxiety like pain in his eyes. It was like a cold hand on the spine—but why? There was something else here he still knew nothing about.

But he had observed the exchange of glances before. As strong as steel. What bond did they share on top of all else, he wondered?

Bolitho said, “I see that
Anemone
is in her rightful berth.” He looked at Allday. It was like an unasked question.

Allday nodded, and tilted his hat further to cut out the glare. “

Captain repair on board
was hoisted, Sir Richard.”

“Good. I want to see him myself.” He glanced idly at the anchored army transports, the rigging decorated with newly washed shirts and blankets. Almost to himself he said, “I do not think we have an army of professionals. Not yet in any case.” He seemed to change his mind about something. “Two brigs are arriving to complete our little squadron. The
Thruster
and the
Orcadia.
”

Avery stared, as did the lieutenant in charge of the boat, even more as Allday exclaimed, “Can't get rid of Mr Jenour, sir!”

Avery understood: for once he could share it. Jenour had been his predecessor. He had heard that even when promoted to commander and given a ship after that last battle with the French rear-admiral, Baratte, he had not wanted to leave Bolitho. Promotion was something every officer dreamed of, and he had been prepared to throw it all away.

If they fell in with Baratte again out here where one great ocean met another, might he himself be offered the same choice? He looked at the bottom-boards to hide his bitterness. If the chance did come his way, he would take it with both hands.

Allday muttered, “
Anemone
's gig is still alongside, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho's jaw tightened. What had the two captains been finding to discuss throughout the forenoon?

“Watch your stroke, man!”

Bolitho saw the oarsman in question blink, afraid of spoiling the final approach in case the captain was watching.

The fourth lieutenant was probably just as worried, but determined not to be found wanting.

Bolitho touched his waistcoat pocket and felt the two letters there from Catherine. Now she would join him through her words, and the six thousand miles between them might seem like nothing, if only for a while.

He heard the stamp of feet and the clink of weapons as the marines joined the waiting side party.

He glanced up at the tapering masts and furled sails. How different from any other frigate, he thought. With a company of
270
officers, seamen and marines, she would be a formidable weapon if properly used.

In the first frigate he had ever commanded there had been only three lieutenants, as was usually the case today. He frowned. One of them had been Thomas Herrick.

He looked at his coat and wondered if anyone had guessed about his failing vision. He hadn't seen the step, just like the time in Antigua when he had slipped and would have fallen, but for a lady who was waiting with her husband to greet him. Catherine.

Allday whispered, “Ozzard'll soon have that cleaned off, Sir Richard.”

Their eyes met and Bolitho answered simply, “It is nothing.” So he knew.

On the frigate's deck seamen barely paused in their work to look at the vice-admiral who had come amongst them. The marine guard waited to be dismissed, and Bolitho saw some men swabbing the deck below the larboard gangway. Blood, by the look of it. Another flogging then.

Captain Aaron Trevenen wasted no time. “I have logged
Anemone
's time of arrival. Having sent for her captain, I rebuked him for his failure to comply with his orders and make all haste to join us.”

There was more than anger in his voice and eyes. Was it triumph, perhaps?

Trevenen said loudly, “As the senior officer in your absence, Sir Richard . . .”

Bolitho met his stare and said, “A lot seems to happen when I am not present, Captain Trevenen.” He glanced briefly at the seamen with their swabs. “I am all ears to hear my nephew's explanation—perhaps more than you realise.” His tone hardened, and later Avery was to remember it. “We will discuss it in my quarters, not here in the market-place!”

The marine sentry stamped to attention and Ozzard opened the screen door for them. Every window, gunport and skylight was open but with little effect. Adam stood beneath a skylight, his dress coat with its gleaming epaulettes making him look even younger, rather than more mature.

Bolitho gestured to Ozzard. “Some refreshment.” He knew Trevenen would make an excuse to withdraw after he had said his piece. “Be seated, the pair of you. We will fight the Frenchies if need be, but not, I pray, each other.”

They sat down, the one avoiding the other. Bolitho studied his nephew and thought of what Catherine had told him. Sitting here, with an incipient crisis to deal with, he marvelled that he had not seen it for himself.