Relentless Pursuit (32 page)

Adam tried to stretch his body in the chair, testing it, feeling the immediate drag of the bandages. He did not remember even drinking the wine. It was almost cool in the great cabin, but he felt as if his body was burning.

The admiral was observing him calmly. “You did not mention that you were wounded. I am not a mind-reader, Bolitho, nor should I have to remind you.” He did not wait for any reply. “Time is running out. I intend to sail from here at the end of the month. To Gibraltar, where we shall be joined by a Dutch squadron under Baron van de Capellan, an officer who is known to me, and whom I greatly respect.” His eyes crinkled in a smile. “In your report you mention that you did in fact see some Dutch ships at the Rock. Very astute of you—perhaps you had already guessed what their purpose might be?”

“I had good cause to remember one Dutch frigate, my lord.”

“Indeed, indeed. But as Our Nel was given to say,
war makes strange bedfellows
. And peace creates even more!”

He glanced at the skylight as the trill of calls drifted down into this remote cabin. The admiral was a great man, but perhaps still a frigate captain at heart. The sound of running rigging in the middle of the night watches . . . someone calling a command or a warning . . . Like young Cousens, who had seen the danger before anyone. And had paid for it.

“I have a good squadron already, Bolitho. To say that I need a certain captain is too frivolous a term for my taste. You have the experience and the skill for this venture. I want you in the van when I begin the attack on the Dey's defenses and his ships. If your ship is not in fit repair by the time I make that move, then I will find you another!”

Adam caught his breath, astonished and dismayed.

“She
will
be ready, my lord! With some local help, I can . . .”

The admiral held up one hand. “I will arrange that. Shall you be fit enough to follow the flag?”

His whole world was suddenly compressed into this moment, with this famous man, and the threat of losing
Unrivalled.

“I will be ready, my lord. You have my word.”

The admiral frowned and pressed his fingertips together. “Your word may not be enough. I knew your uncle, and I can see something of him in you. You'd not rest and leave the routine to others.”

Adam stared around the cabin, the truth stark and very real. He would lose
Unrivalled
. . .

The admiral stood up and walked aft to the tall windows. The big three-decker had plenty of headroom, even for him. Perhaps he was still with his own frigate, somewhere . . .

He turned swiftly.

“Your first lieutenant, Galbraith. I met him. He seemed competent enough.” It sounded like a question. “I read somewhere that you recommended him for promotion, even though you were short of trained people at the time? So you must have confidence in the fellow's ability.”

“Yes, sir.” Why was it so strange, that he had hesitated? “He is a fine officer.”

“That settles it, Bolitho. You will take a week or so, and spend the time ashore. Cornwall is my home too, y' know.” He smiled, but his eyes never wavered from Adam's face. “I am not giving you an order, Bolitho. I want you in the van. If you do not think you can do it, then tell me now. I would not hold it against you, not after what you've done.”

“I can, my lord. So will
Unrivalled.
”

Discreet voices. It was time.

Adam stood up and gasped involuntarily with pain.

Lord Exmouth held out his hand and took Adam's between both of his own. As Allday had done.

“I will make certain that your ship has all the aid she needs. I may even be able to hurry up the bounty money owed to your people. It will not raise the dead, but it will lift a few spirits, I daresay!”

The flag lieutenant had returned; the door was open and ready.

Then the admiral released his grip and said almost curtly, “You will go to your boat by bosun's chair. This time. Pride is one thing, Bolitho, but conceit is an enemy!”

The servant was already leaving with the tray and the two glasses; the next visitor was to receive other than the admiral's own wine. Lord Exmouth smiled, almost sadly.

“He is a good fellow. Lost his hearing back in '
93
, after we captured the
Cleopatre
when I commanded
Nymphe.
” He glanced around the spacious cabin, and his eyes were momentarily wistful. “Now, she
was
a fine little ship.”

Adam went on deck, past two other captains waiting to see the admiral. Unbelievably, the great man would have been the same age as himself when he had commissioned
Unrivalled.

He turned and raised his hat to the flag, and to the assembled side party.

Then, hardly trusting himself to hesitate, he walked directly to the group of seamen waiting with the bosun's chair.

One, a boatswain's mate, made a quick adjustment and raised his fist to those handling the tackle.

Only for an instant, their eyes met. Then he whispered, “You showed 'em, Cap'n! Now us'll do it together!” He cupped his hands and yelled, “'Andsomely, lads! 'Oist away, there!”

The marines presented their muskets but he barely noticed. The flagship's people were cheering him as he rose above the gangway and then swung easily above the waiting gig.

Jago steadied the tackle until he had freed himself and reached the sternsheets.

Midshipman Martyns was at the tiller, and looked as if he was about to say something, his face full of excitement and pleasure as the cheers echoed over and around them, as if the whole ship was joining in. But Jago silenced him with a scowl.

Adam felt the gig move away from shadow into sunlight, and thought of the unknown seaman who had spoken to him.
Together.

He looked at Jago and shrugged. Like hearing someone else.

“So be it, then,” he said.

The girl sat facing the tall mirror, her hand moving steadily up and down, the brush running through the full length of her dark hair.
Brush . . . brush . . . brush,
unhurriedly, in time with her breathing. She wore a long, loose gown; this was a private moment, and there would be no visitors.

Around and beneath her, the old glebe house was very still. Empty. Montagu had ridden into Falmouth to speak with a carpenter there: some work he wanted carried out while they were away.

Away.
London again, that endless journey in their own coach. It was Sir Gregory's wish.

She studied herself in the glass, meeting her own gaze like a stranger. Outside the house it would be hot, very hot, the shrubs and flowers drooping in the sun's glare. She would have to arrange for the roses, at least, to be cared for.

The brush stopped, and she thought of the deserted studio directly beneath her feet. The portrait was finished, but Sir Gregory would still not be satisfied until he had given it more time “to settle in.” She had looked at it on several occasions. Interest or guilt; she could not describe her feelings. Would not. The brush began to move again, this time the other side, her long hair draped over her shoulder and down to her thigh. Beneath the gown she was naked. Something she shared with no one.

She thought of the portrait again. Anybody who knew Captain Bolitho,
Captain Adam
as she had heard people call him, would recognise it as fine work. Lady Roxby would be pleased with it. But something was missing. She tossed her hair impatiently. How could she know?

The rose was there in the portrait. Sir Gregory had seemed satisfied with that, if a little surprised.

She tried to think of London and the house, which even the Prince Regent had visited several times.

She plucked at the gown; even the thick walls of the glebe house could not hold the heat at bay. Her feet were bare, and she rubbed one on the tiled floor as she recalled the stone house where she had last seen Adam Bolitho, and that tense little group, and the courier with the recall to duty.

She had heard the cook talking about a man-of-war which had entered Plymouth a day or so ago. Damaged, as if in battle, although there had been no news of any such event. She put down the brush and shook her hair out. This place was so isolated. She rubbed her thigh with her hand.
For my sake.

She looked at the window, the creeper tapping against the dusty glass although there was no breeze.

She stood up and stepped back from the mirror, her eyes never leaving her reflection. She might be asked to sit for Sir Gregory in London, or for one of his students. Why did she do it? He had never insisted. She stared at herself and touched her body, the hand in the mirror like that of a stranger.
Because it saved me.

She let the hand fall to her side and turned away from the stranger in the glass. She had heard a horse; Sir Gregory was back, earlier than expected. The house would be alive again. She wondered why he insisted on riding when he could afford any carriage he wanted.
The old cavalier.
He would never change.
What will become of . . .

She swung round, startled. Someone was banging on the door. She hurried to the window and looked down. No one was supposed to be coming today . . .

She saw the horse, tapping one hoof and idly chewing some overgrown grass, then she saw the stable boy, looking straight up at her, his eyes wide with alarm.

“What is it, Joseph?”

“You'd better come, Miss Lowenna! There's bin an accident!”

She almost fell back from the window.
The horse.
The one he had ridden here. But that was impossible ...She dragged a shawl around her shoulders, only half aware of some bottles being knocked from the table. It was suddenly clear, like one of Montagu's quick, rough sketches. There was nobody else. Only the cook, and she was probably asleep at the back of the kitchen.

She flung open the doors and exclaimed, “Where is he?”

The boy gestured towards the gates.

“'E be bleedin' bad, miss!”

She ran from the house, heedless of the loose stones cutting her bare feet.

He was sitting on a large piece of slate, part of the original wall when the Church had ruled here.

One leg was bent under him and he was leaning forward, bowing his head, eyes tightly closed, his hair plastered across his forehead. She saw his hat lying in the lane. It was as if she had been there, seen it happen. Then she saw the blood, so bright in the cruel sunshine, on the leg of his breeches. It was spreading even as she watched.

Go now. Leave it. You do not belong here. Go now.
It was like some insane chorus. As if all the spirits people had spoken of had come to taunt her. To remind her.

But she said, “Help me, Joseph.” She was walking towards him, saw her shadow reaching beyond her, as if the girl from the mirror had taken her place. Then she knelt and put her arms around his shoulders, feeling the sudden, uncontrollable shivering, knowing it was her own.

Joseph was a good, reliable boy. But he was only thirteen.

She heard herself say, “Run to the inn, Joseph, and fetch some men. We must get him into the house.” Her mind was reeling. Suppose there were no men at the inn? They might be back in the fields by now. She could not even remember what time it was.

Somehow she steadied herself, and waited for the understanding to show itself on the boy's freckled face.

“Rouse Cook. I want hot water and some clean sheets.” She tried to smile, if only to restore his confidence. “Go on, now. I'll stay here until help comes.”

She watched him scamper along the pathway. She was alone.

She tried to open his coat, but it was fastened too tightly. There was blood on his shirt also, and it was fresh.

She felt the tremor run through her again. It must have been his ship which had been damaged, the rumour which had eventually reached here all the way from Plymouth. It did not seem possible . . .

She realised that he was staring at her, moving his head slightly as if to discover where he was, what was happening.

He said suddenly, “Blood—it's on your clothing!” He struggled briefly, but she held him.

She wanted to speak, but her mouth seemed dry and stiff. She made another attempt.

“You're safe here.” She held him more tightly as she felt his body clench against the pain. “What happened?”

She looked along the lane, but there was no one. Only his hat, lying where it had fallen. Like a spectator.

He said hoarsely, “There was a fight.” His head rolled against her shoulder and he groaned. “We drove them off.” It seemed to trigger something in his mind.
“Too late. I should have known.”

He was still staring at her with wide eyes, perhaps only just understanding what had happened. She could feel it; he was momentarily without pain. He said, “Lowenna. It
is
you. I was coming . . .” He pressed his face into her shoulder again and gasped, “Oh, dear God!”