“I must go, Zenoria.”
“Cannot I come to the harbour and see you leave?” She sounded like a child again.
“A harbour is the loneliest place when you are being separated.” He kissed her, with passion and gentleness, on the mouth. “I love you so.”
Then he turned and walked out of the garden.
There was only Allday by the gate, looking at the land. Keen’s own coxswain had gone ahead to the vessel with Ozzard and Yovell. Ferguson came out of the dark doorway and held out his hand. “Good-bye, Captain. We shall take good care of your lady. Don’t stay away too long.”
In his despair Keen thought even that sounded like a warning.
He climbed into the carriage and sat beside the flag lieutenant, his coat sticking to the damp leather seats.
Catherine leaned against the window and whispered, “Farewell, old house! Be patient for us!” Her maid Sophie looked at her curiously: to her this was all a great adventure.
The carriage swayed as Allday clambered up beside Matthew, then, finally, the whip cracked, and the iron-shod wheels clattered across the cobbles.
Amongst the daffodils a young girl watched as the first sunlight touched the back of the carriage.
She wanted to cry, for her heart was breaking. But nothing came.
6
THE GOLDEN PLOVER
“THERE SHE LIES!” Bolitho leaned forward and pointed at the vessel which was to carry them all the way to the Cape, his eyes agleam with professional interest.
Allday grunted. “Barquentine.” He squinted as a shaft of watery sunlight played upon the gilt gingerbread around her poop and her name, also in gold across her raked counter. “What’s she called, Sir Richard? My eyes are playing up again.”
Bolitho glanced at him warmly. He knew that Allday could not read properly, but he could memorise the shape of a ship’s name and never forget it. We are both shamming. “She’s the Golden Plover.” They grinned at one another like conspirators. “At one time with the old Royal Norfolk Packet Company.”
Catherine watched the private exchange between them, and was surprised how such things could move her. And this time they were together. Sharing it; or as she had said to him this morning while they had watched the dawn, and Keen had been walking in the garden, it will be Love in the guise of duty.
It was strange for Bolitho to approach any vessel without some official reception at the entry port. There were several men aloft, and the barquentine’s tan sails were flapping loosely, like a bird preparing for flight. He recognised Ozzard’s small figure beside that of a great hulk of a man whom he guessed was Samuel Bezant, the vessel’s master. Unlike most of Golden Plover’s company he had been in his command even before the vessel had come under Admiralty warrant, in those early days when the Terror and the daily slaughter at the guillotines had made the squares of France run with blood.
The masters of these packet-ships, like those of the famous Falmouth fleet, were truly professional sailors. From England to the Americas, Jamaica and the Caribbean, the Spanish Main, and now on to the Cape of Good Hope. Once in Admiralty service most of them had been fitted out with more cabin space for officials—officers and sometimes their wives—ordered to the far-flung corners of the King’s growing empire.
Bolitho had been told that Golden Plover had begun her life as a barque, but had been cut down to her present, more manageable rig so that she could sail almost into the wind, but with fewer hands needed to trim and reset her sails. Only on the foremast, which still flew the old company pendant, was she square-rigged. On her main and mizzen she carried huge fore-and-aft sails which, for the most part, could be handled from the deck.
Keen twisted round just before the boat pulled past the vessel’s stern, when he would lose sight of the jetty.
Catherine saw it too, the pain in his searching gaze, as if he still expected to see Zenoria there with the others: the idlers, the old sailors and the ones with the precious protection that kept them free of the King’s ships.
She said quietly, “You are everything to her, Val. All she needs is time.”
There was a frigate at anchor nearby, scarlet-coated marines watching suspiciously as the shore-boats crowded around her. Wares for the sailors. Knives, baccy, pipes; anything that might ease the harsh reality of discipline and danger.
She touched her breast but her heart was steady again. She had thought it might be Adam’s Anemone. But it was not. She could understand well enough how easily they might be drawn to one another. Both from the West Country, both with bitter memories to plague them. She looked at Bolitho’s strong profile and wanted to touch him. Their ages were closer too. But love, or more to the point, the danger of love, was something quite different.
She tightened the cord which drew the dark green hood over her hair. People had often remarked on her own age, that she was younger than Richard. She suddenly felt angry. Well, let them, damn them. At least he would be free of all that for a time.
The bowman shipped his oar and hooked on to the chains, while two seamen leaped lightly into the boat to attach tackles to the remaining boxes. The huge figure of the master did not move until Catherine had been assisted up the side, then he said in a thick voice, “Welcome aboard Golden Plover—” He doffed a battered hat from a mass of shaggy grey hair. “Er—my lady!”
She saw Sophie watching with obvious excitement, quite delighted at Samuel Bezant’s discomfort.
She smiled. “She’s a fine-looking ship.” Then, sharing the moment, she tugged the cord free and tossed the hood back over her shoulders. The men working by the mizzen-mast turned to stare; another dropped a belaying pin which brought an instant threat from a boatswain’s mate.
Bezant turned from her to Bolitho. “Y’see, Sir Richard, I was only told the rest of my orders when your lieutenant came aboard.”
Bolitho said, “So everything is now clear?”
The big man turned and frowned at his lovely passenger, her hair now released to the offshore wind.
“Just that most of my men have not been ashore for an eternity, Sir Richard, an’ they’re untried with the likes of a real lady. I’d not trust some of the knotheads further than I could pitch a kedge-anchor!”
She looked across at him, her eyes laughing. “And what of you, Captain? How much can you be trusted?”
Bezant’s rough features were brick-red from a liberal mixture of ocean gales and brandy.
If not, Bolitho thought, he would have been blushing.
The master nodded slowly. “I fair requested that, m’lady. But I thought it right to warn you, their language an’ the like.”
She walked to the unprotected wheel and ran her fingers along one of the spokes.
“We are in your hands, Captain Bezant. I am certain we shall get along famously.”
Bezant wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and said, “If you are ready, Sir Richard? I’d like to up-anchor, for the tide in this port has a nasty way of showing displeasure.”
Bolitho smiled. “I was born here. But I’d still not take the moods of Carrick Road for granted!”
He heard the man give a sigh of relief as his passengers were guided down the companion ladder, where, despite the lack of headroom, the cabin was remarkably spacious and comfortable.
Ozzard said, “I have the use of the pantry and lazaret, Sir Richard—what with all the pots and jars her ladyship brought down from London, I’ll see you don’t starve.” Even he seemed pleased to be leaving. Or was he still running away from something?
Catherine closed the slatted door of the cabin that had been made ready for them and looked around with sudden uncertainty.
Bolitho wondered if she was thinking of that other time at sea, when her husband Luis had been killed. The ship in which they had been taking passage had been attacked by Barbary pirates; Bolitho could still remember the white-hot anger when she had turned on him, cursing him for allowing it to happen. But her love had burned even more brightly when Fate had touche
d them.
She rested her hand on one of the swinging cots and smiled. When she faced him he saw the pulse beating in her throat, the sudden mischief in her dark eyes.
“I long to cross the ocean with you, dearest of men. But sleep in one of these coffins?” She laughed, and someone outside the door stopped to listen. “On certain nights the deck will suffice!”
As he took her in his arms they heard the faint cry, “Anchor’s hove short!”
The regular clink of a windlass, the stamp of bare feet as seamen rushed to braces and halliards, the sudden thump of the tiller-head as the helm was put over in readiness.
She whispered into his hair, “The music of the sea. A ship coming alive … It means so much to you.” When she raised her head her eyes were shining with emotion. “Now, for once I will share them.” Her mood changed again. “Let us go on deck, Richard. A last look.” She paused, as though unwilling to say it. “Just in case …”
“Anchor’s aweigh!”
They staggered to the companion-way, reaching out for support as the lively barquentine broke free of the ground and leaned hard over like a frigate.
Bezant stood with his legs braced apart like trees, his eyes flit-ting from peak to compass, to the flapping jib until like the other canvas it filled out taut to the wind.
Catherine slipped her arm through Bolitho’s and watched the great pile of Pendennis Castle begin to move abeam. The deck was already lifting to the lively water of the Channel.
Men from the foremast slid down the stays and came bustling aft to assist the others at the mizzen, where the great driver swung out over the dancing spray until it, too, was sheeted home.
There would be much gossip between decks when the watch was piped below. The officer who had thrown his reputation in society to the wind, for the love of this lady with the streaming hair, and the laugh on her mouth and in her eyes.
The ship changed tack again, and the sea boiled over the scuppers until the wheel brought her under command once more.
But as Bezant later remarked to his mate, “For all them two cared, they could have been the only souls aboard!”
Richard Bolitho went on deck as the evening sun began to dip, and transform the sea from shark-blue to a shimmering rusty-red. There was no sight of land, but the gulls still lingered hopefully, gliding around the hull or perching sometimes on the foremast yards.
Three days outward bound from Falmouth, and already the Golden Plover had displayed her speed, and the responding pride of her shaggy-haired master.
The two helmsmen stood, bare feet splayed on the deck, their eyes moving occasionally from compass to the driver’s quivering peak. Neither glanced at Bolitho.
Maybe they were getting used to their passengers, he thought, or perhaps it was because like Keen and Jenour he had discarded his uniform coat, and was more recognisable as an ordinary man.
Three days, and already they were well past the hazards of Biscay, where just once the masthead lookout had called down to report a man-of-war’s upper yards on the horizon. Samuel Bezant had immediately altered course away from it, and confided to Bolitho that he cared not whether it was friend or foe. Either could bring the attention of another, and his orders were to stand away from involvement with the blockading squadron.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Sir Richard, but any flagship will call on me to lie-to on some pretext or another.”
Of the enemy he had said almost scornfully, “Many’s the time my Plover’s outsailed even a frigate. She’s broad in the beam, but so too is she deep-keeled, and can come about in most weather better than any other!”
Bezant was here now, in deep discussion with his mate, another wild-looking man by the name of Jeff Lincoln.
Bolitho crossed the deck to join them. “You are making a fair speed.”
Bezant studied him carefully as if it might be taken as a complaint.
“Aye, Sir Richard, I’m well pleased. We should anchor at Gibraltar in two days.”
Like most masters he might have put into Madeira, even Lisbon, to replenish stores at more favourable prices. But it made good sense to keep away. With the French in occupation of Portugal it was possible they might have landed on some of the islands too. Golden Plover was well-stocked and had only a small company to supply rather than the mass of hands required for any King’s ship; she could enjoy the luxury of long passages while keeping away from danger. There was always concern about fresh water, but Bezant had his own sources on lesser-known islands if for any reason the wind and weather turned against them.
The mere mention of Gibraltar seemed to squeeze Bolitho’s heart like an icy hand. Where he had landed after losing Hyperion. How many, many memories linked him still to that old ship.
“I’ll not be sorry to get under way again from the Rock, Sir Richard. It is in our best interest to keep well clear of the land—a thousand eyes watch the comings and goings of every vessel there. Sometimes I feel more like a pirate than a packet-master!”
“Deck there!”
They looked up at the masthead, where only the topsail was still in bright sunshine. The lookout was pointing with one arm, like a bronze figure in a church.
“Sail to the nor’-east!”
Bezant hardly seemed to need to raise his voice. “You keep watching that ‘un, Billy!” To Bolitho he added carelessly, “Probably one o’ your ships, Sir Richard. Either way, I shall lose him after dark.”
“What cargo do you carry?”
Bezant seemed to shy away. “Well, seeing it’s you, I suppose …” He looked at him with sudden determination, as if it was something which had been uppermost in his mind from the moment he had received his orders. “It’s another reason I don’t need to draw attention to Plover’s whereabouts.” He took a deep breath. “It’s gold. Pay for the army at Cape Town. Now, with such an important passenger aboard for good measure I feel the stuff is burning a hole right through the keel.”
He added with sudden bitterness, “I don’t know why they can’t send a man-o’-war, a frigate or the like. Those fellows are used to looking for trouble. I’m paid to stay out of it.”
Bolitho thought of the growing pressure for action against the French in Portugal, Spain eventually as well, if Napoleon continued to mount pressure against his old ally.
He heard himself say, “Because there are not enough such vessels.” He smiled, remembering his father. “There never were.”
There was a light step at the companion-way and Bolitho saw the waif-like figure of Sophie watching him, holding on to a handrail as if her life depended on it. Even though the Bay of Biscay had been kinder than usual, Sophie had taken it badly and had been sick for a whole day. Now she was her lively self again, her eyes, bright with curiosity, reflecting the dying sunlight. She must be finding all this very different from the Jewish tailor’s shop in far-off Whitechapel.
“Supper’s ready, Sir Richard. I was sent to fetch you, like …”
Catherine had been explaining to the girl how she should be careful where she went on board the Golden Plover.
Bolitho had heard her whisper in reply without any sort of shyness, “Oh, I knows about men, me lady. I’ll watch me step right enough!”
The cabin looked welcoming, the deckhead lantern already fit and spiralling with each plunge of the stem. Keen was in quiet conversation with Catherine, and Jenour was apparently writing at a small, beautifully-carved desk. It could have a story to tell, he thought; it had probably been made by a ship’s carpenter, like some of his own furniture at Falmouth.
He paused and glanced over Jenour’s shoulder. But it was not an addition to yet another long letter to his parents; it was a sketch. Men washing down the foredeck, a gull with flapping wings perched on the bulwark screeching for food.
Jenour became aware of his shadow and looked up. He immediately blushed.
“Just a drawing to put in with the letter, Sir Richard.” He attempted to put it away but Bolitho picked it up and studied it with care. “Just a
drawing, Stephen? I think it is quite excellent.”
He felt Catherine slip her hand under his arm as she moved across the gently swaying deck.
She said, “I’ve already told him so—I have asked him to do a portrait of you and me.” Their eyes met and it was as before, as if the cabin were otherwise empty. “Together.”
Bolitho smiled. Her eyes seemed to caress him. “He is far better at it than being a flag lieutenant!”
Ozzard waited for them to be seated, then joined Sophie in the pantry ready to serve them.
Catherine said, “How every woman would envy me. Three handsome sea officers, and nobody else to share them!” She looked at Bolitho and saw his change of expression. “Tell me, Richard, what is wrong?”
Jenour forgot his embarrassment and his inner pleasure, and Keen was suddenly alert and all attention, as if he were himself in command of this vessel.
Bolitho said quietly, “I believe we are being followed. The master says not, but I have a feeling about it.”
Keen remarked, “I have rarely known your feelings to mislead you, sir.”
Catherine watched him from the opposite end of the table, wanting to be close to him, to share the sudden intrusion.
She asked, “Why? Because of us?”
Bolitho glanced at the pantry hatch and said, “We are carrying enough gold to pay the whole of the military at Cape Town.” He heard the clatter of plates and murmured, “Tomorrow, Val, I shall want all your experience. Take a glass and go aloft. Tell me what you see.” He hesitated. “My eye may try to deceive me.” He turned to Catherine and saw her dismay. “I am all right, Catherine.” He looked away as Ozzard entered, the girl with serving dishes behind him. I have to be.
True to his word Samuel Bezant, master of the Golden Plover, dropped anchor beneath the Rock’s towering protection just two days after sighting the strange vessel astern.
Bolitho sent Keen and Jenour ashore to offer his compliments to the port admiral but decided to remain in the comparative privacy of the poop. Catherine stood beside him staring up at the great wedge-shape of Gibraltar and said, “I wish we could walk there together.” She gave a small sigh. “But you are right to stay here. Especially if you still believe that sighting the other vessel was no accident.”
Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef Page 10