What then for himself? A command of his own? Perhaps a little schooner like the lost Jolie, although that was unlikely. The navy would begin ridding itself of ships and men as soon as the terms for peace were settled amongst the Allies. Countless soldiers and sailors would be paid off, unwanted, left to fend for themselves. It had happened before. It would always be so.
‘If you will come this way, sir.’
Avery left the library, very conscious of the silence; it made him realise how empty the place was. After a noisy, lively ship, it was to be expected. All sailors were like fish out of water when they came ashore. But compared with Bolitho’s house in Cornwall, with its endless comings and goings of people from the farm and the estate, neighbours or well-wishers, this splendid residence echoed like a tomb.
His uncle rose from his desk as he entered, closing a large file which he had apparently been studying, although Avery sensed that he had been sitting facing the door for some while. To compose himself? That seemed unlikely. To get it over quickly, duty done, was that it?
They shook hands, and Sillitoe said, ‘That will be all, Marlow.’ A small man whom Avery had not noticed got up from another desk and scurried away. It must be his uncle’s secretary but, typically, Sillitoe did not introduce him.
He said, ‘I have some claret. I think you will approve of it.’ He faced him again and Avery was very aware of the dark, compelling eyes, the hooded lids, the gaze which took in every detail. He could well imagine people fearing him.
‘I am glad you are here. It becomes ever more difficult to find the time.’ He frowned slightly as another servant entered with the claret and glasses. ‘It is fortunate you were in London, and that you received my note.’ The stare was impassive, no hint of triumph or contempt. He added calmly, ‘How is Lady Mildmay, by the way?’
‘She is well, sir. It seems there are few secrets left in London.’
Sillitoe gave a faint smile. ‘Quite so. But then, you have not exactly taken pains to conceal your … how shall we describe it? Your liaison with this lady, who, I gather, was the wife of your last captain? Of course I knew of it. And I am not certain that I approve, not that I expect you would care.’
Avery sat down. What did it matter? I owe this man nothing.
He thought suddenly of Bolitho. I owe him everything.
‘You will not have heard.’ Sillitoe took a glass and regarded it severely. ‘Sir Richard is recalled to London. He is needed.’
Avery sipped the claret without tasting it. ‘I thought he was to be released from active duty, sir.’
Sillitoe gazed at him over the rim of his glass, a little startled by the force of the words. He liked his nephew, and had felt moved to act on his behalf after he had been released from a French prison, only to face a court-martial. A wretched and unnecessary affair, he had thought. But then, he had little time for the navy and its strictures and traditions. His elder brother had been a captain and had been killed in action; it had been that captain who had inspired the young Avery to enter the navy, and it had been that same man who had sponsored him as a midshipman. But Avery’s outburst had taken him by surprise, and he did not like surprises unless they were his own.
Avery said, as though to himself, ‘Then he will still need me after all.’
Sillitoe frowned. ‘I have a deal of influence. I am also a wealthy man, some might say very wealthy. I have business interests in this country, and in Jamaica and the Indies. I need someone of integrity.’ He smiled briefly. ‘And, if you like, honour.’
Avery put down his empty glass. ‘Are you offering me an appointment, sir?’
Sillitoe paced to the window and back. ‘A new life, would be a fairer description.’
Avery watched him, suddenly aware of Sillitoe’s discomfort. He was ill at ease, and because it was a state unknown to him, he was unable to contain it.
‘Why me, sir?’
Sillitoe turned on him angrily. ‘Because you should have something to show for your sacrifices, and your treatment, which I thought unfair.’ He shook his head as if to silence some hidden voice. ‘And because I intend that you should be my heir.’ He faced him again. ‘My half-brother is dying of fever and a self-indulgence which would have sickened his father, hard man though he was.’
The door opened a few inches.
‘The carriage will be in attendance in fifteen minutes, m’lord!’
Sillitoe said, ‘I must see His Royal Highness. Louis of France is passing through London, en route to claim his throne.’ He grimaced. ‘There will be much to do.’
Avery found himself on his feet and at the door, his hat again in his hand.
Sillitoe shaded his eyes to watch the river. ‘Enjoy your freedom with the beautiful Susanna.’ He reached out and took Avery’s wrist in a grip of steel. ‘Then come back, and tell me your decision.’
Avery heard the horses stamping impatiently.
Surprising that he should be so calm. Like that last day, when Indomitable had fought gun to gun with the enemy and men had died within inches of him. And Bolitho had been with him, depending upon him.
And suppose Sillitoe was wrong about Susanna, and that there might be something deeper than the mere fire of sexual excitement?
He said, ‘I thank you, sir, but I fear I do not deserve your offer.’ He thrust a coin into the groom’s hand. ‘My loyalty is to Sir Richard.’
Sillitoe watched him without expression. ‘Then you are a fool.’
Avery settled in the saddle and gazed down at him. ‘Very likely, sir.’ He would have said more, but as he dragged at the reins he saw his uncle perhaps for the first time. The man of power and influence.
A man completely alone.
Bryan Ferguson vaulted down from his two-wheeled trap and made sure that the pony was within reach of water.
‘You bide here, Poppy.’ He glanced at the feed-bag, but decided against it; the pony was getting plump enough as it was.
Then he turned and looked at the low, white-painted inn, The Old Hyperion. Its sign, with the ship heeling to wind and sea, was barely moving. A warm April evening, but the inn would be empty with all the men working late on the farms. He could see the glint of water through the trees, the Helford river; it was a pleasant place. And being the only inn on the edge of Fallowfield village, it could capture what trade there was.
Earlier in the day he had been in Falmouth, and had been very aware of the changes brought about by the news of Napoleon’s surrender. There had been more young men in the streets than usual, a sure sign that the dreaded press gangs had been stood down. It would take some getting used to. He flexed his one arm grimly. These days he hardly noticed that he was lacking an arm; it was equally hard to believe that he himself had been pressed into the fleet, along with John Allday.
Fate played strange tricks. Now Allday was coxswain and friend to Sir Richard Bolitho, and Ferguson was steward to the Bolitho estate. And Bolitho had been the captain of that ship, which had snatched them from the beach to serve the King.
He sighed. It was better to get it over with. They had doubtless seen or heard the trap rattle into the yard.
Unis, Allday’s wife, was waiting to greet him.
‘Why, Bryan, this is a surprise. You’re allus at the market today!’
Ferguson walked through the doorway and glanced at the scrubbed tables, the flowers and the polished brasses. Welcoming and neat, like the woman who had greeted him.
‘John’s out the back, doing something or other.’ She smiled. ‘My John, that is.’
The other John was Unis’s brother, a one-legged soldier of the line, without whom she could never have managed with Allday at sea much of the time. Then she asked, ‘You want to see him? Nothing wrong up at the house, is there?’
He said, ‘A messenger came today, Unis.’ It was pointless to try and make light of it. ‘From the Admiralty.’
She sat on a bench and stared at her arms, which were dusted with flour. ‘I thought … with the surrender an’ that �
�� it was all behind us. Will Sir Richard be needed again?’ She touched the flour on her skin. ‘My John?’
‘It may be so.’ He thought of Catherine Somervell’s face after the messenger had departed. He had heard her exclaim, ‘It’s so unfair! So wrong!’
Just weeks since his return from the war across the Atlantic. Maybe they wanted to honour him in some way.
He heard Allday scraping his shoes at the parlour door and said, ‘John would not be forced to go, Unis. Sir Richard would not do it.’
She was quite calm again, her breathing steady. ‘I know that, Bryan. But you don’t think like John, not about the sea an’ Sir Richard.’
Allday strode into the room. ‘Kate’s asleep again, I see.’ He shook his friend’s hand. ‘Going to be as smart as paint when she grows up, just like her mother!’
Unis said, ‘I’ll fetch a wet for you, Bryan.’ She touched the big man’s shoulder, and Ferguson saw the pain in her eyes. ‘You too, of course!’
Allday looked steadily at him. ‘She’s left us alone. So what is it, bad news?’
‘Sir Richard’s called to London. The Admiralty.’ He shrugged. ‘Same old story, eh?’
‘They didn’t waste much time. When do we leave?’
Ferguson was both moved and troubled. Like the last time, and all the times before that.
‘He’ll not expect you to go to London, you know that, man. You’ve responsibilities here now, Unis and that bonny little mite sleeping in the parlour. The fighting’s over, with the French anyhow, and the Yankees will never come this far!’ It was no good. What had he expected?
Allday said, ‘My place is with him, you knows that. He needs me more than ever now. That eye of his is no better.’
Ferguson said nothing. Allday trusted him with the secret, knowing he would tell nobody else, not even his wife. Especially not Grace. He loved her with all his heart, but he had to admit that she loved gossip.
Allday looked at his hands, strong hands, with scars to mark the years at sea. ‘Is Sir Richard put aback by the news?’
‘It’s hard to say. I watch him and his lady together – like you, I feel proud to be a part of it, but his thoughts he keeps to himself.’
Unis returned with two sweating tankards. ‘When my brother gets back I must tell him to set up some more ale. I think we shall be busy this evening.’ She looked at Ferguson. ‘You told him, then?’
‘Aye.’
Allday stared at the tankard between his hands, as if he wanted to crush it. ‘Can you see Sir Richard taking on somebody else? It’s hard, but we don’t expect things to change, not overnight.’
She touched his shoulder again. ‘You’ll never change. I’d not want you to. I’d know you were pretending, putting up with it, just for me an’ Kate. She’s taken a real shine to you since you got back.’
She turned away, remembering the surprise and hurt he had shown when the child had gone to her brother John, as if he, her own father, was a stranger. It took time. But now he would be going away again. And she must face it.
She thought of Lady Catherine, that day when she had seen her waiting on the harbour quay at Falmouth, watching the little fleet schooner Pickle picking up her moorings, Bolitho coming home. And her own man had been with him, as always. Catherine, so brave, so defiant in the face of all the scandal and the cruel gossip. She would take it badly.
There were voices in the yard, and she said brightly, ‘The fish man. I asked him to stop by.’ She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I’ll deal with him.’
Alone again with Allday, Ferguson said, ‘She’s a marvel, John.’
‘I knows it.’ He looked around as if he were searching for something. ‘I’ll go and put up some ale. It’ll not take a minute. You sit there and finish your wet. I needs to think awhile.’
Ferguson sighed. Next thing, Allday would be up at the house on some pretext or other, just to speak with Sir Richard, to tell him he would be ready.
He looked round, startled by a thud and something like a cough. He went quickly into the adjoining room, a cool place where the casks were stowed, ready to be tapped and moved to their trestles. One cask, a four-and-a-half-gallon pin, was lying against the wall. Allday sat with his back to it, his hands to his chest, his breathing loud and uneven, like a man dragged from the sea.
Ferguson knelt and put his arm around him.
‘Easy, John! That damned wound again!’ He watched his friend struggle for breath and wondered how long it had been like this. When Allday turned his head, he was shocked to see that his face was quite pale, grey beneath the weathered tan.
He said, ‘I’ll fetch Unis.’
Allday shook his head and gritted his teeth. ‘No! Stay with me!’ He nodded heavily, and took a deep breath. ‘It’s goin’. I’ll be all right.’
Ferguson watched the colour returning to his rugged face, the breathing becoming more even.
Allday allowed him to help him to his feet, and then said thickly, ‘Not a word, mind. It comes an’ goes.’ He tried to grin. ‘See? Bright as a bullock’s bayonet!’
Ferguson shook his head, resigned. He was beaten; he should have known. Allday and Bolitho, like master and faithful dog, someone had once said, each fearful for the other.
Together, they lifted the cask on to its trestle, and Allday said, ‘I needs something stronger than ale, an’ that’s no error!’
Unis found them sitting by the unlit fire, her husband holding a taper for his friend’s clay pipe as if they had not a care in the world. She bit her lip to contain her despair. It was all a show, for her sake. Like the new cask on its trestle. The rest she could guess.
Ferguson said, ‘Must be getting back. I have to look at the books.’ Allday followed him out to the yard, and watched as he swung himself up on to the seat.
He said, simply, ‘Thanks, Bryan.’ He stared across the fields to the glint of the river beyond the trees. ‘You weren’t there, see. Sir Richard, a full admiral, the finest ever, leading our boarders across on to that bloody renegade’s deck like some wild lieutenant! You should have been there. To me, Indoms!’ He shook his shaggy head. ‘I could never leave him now.’
He raised one hand and grinned. It was one of the saddest things Ferguson had ever seen.
And one of the bravest.
Richard Bolitho sat in the corner of the carriage and stared out at the crowds and the horses, vehicles of every size jostling for position with apparent disregard for one another.
Despite the warm evening, he was wearing his boatcloak to conceal his uniform and rank. In the frenzied aftermath of Napoleon’s surrender, any such reminder brought cheers and mobbing from ordinary people who had probably never displayed such emotion for any but Nelson.
A long day; a very long day. First Bethune, and then a meeting with the First Lord and his senior advisers. Napoleon had been sent into exile on the island of Elba; the giant who had raped a continent was to be marooned, forgotten. Even as the First Lord had said it, Bolitho had questioned the wisdom of the decision. It was like trying to cage a lion in an aviary, and it was too close, too close ….
The First Lord had spoken at length of the American war, and of Bolitho’s participation with the squadron under his command. The Americans were being starved of trade due to the activity of the British squadrons, and the chain of command from Halifax to the Caribbean. Little short of a thousand American merchant ships had been captured, and, with France no longer a drain on the navy’s resources, more men-of-war could now be sent to seal the last gaps in the blockade.
The First Lord had finished by saying that no war could be won by stalemate. An example must be made, a ready warning for the future.
Bethune had been watching Bolitho, and had tossed in some comment on the American attack on York.
The First Lord was old but he was no fool, and he had recognised in this Bethune’s attempt to distract him.
‘What do you think, Sir Richard? I know you hold advanced ideas on the war at sea, and I heard yo
u myself say in this very building that the line of battle was, or should be, a thing of the past?’
Bolitho turned his head and saw the Thames, and the lucid glow which would promise a fine sunset.
‘I’ll stand by that, my lord. I also believe that a desire for revenge is no good reason for prolonging a war which neither side can hope to win.’
Even then, he had believed that some kind of attack was being planned. Now, during this slow journey from the Admiralty to Chelsea, with time to go over it again in his mind, he was certain of it. Sir Alexander Cochrane had taken over the station; a man of action in every sense, but hardly a peacemaker.
Alone with Bethune, he had asked about Valentine Keen and about his nephew. Bethune had replied cautiously, ‘Rear-Admiral Keen will return to England this year. His flagship will more than likely be paid off.’ He had looked up from his desk, and for an instant Bolitho had seen the midshipman again. There were only a few years between them, and beneath the charm and the confidence Bethune was much the same. Above all, he was honest. Loyal. ‘I am certain that your nephew will find employment even with the fleet reduced, as it certainly will be.’
‘He is probably the best frigate captain we have. To be put on the beach after what he has done and endured would be intolerable.’
It must have been at that moment that Bethune had come to his decision.
He had said, ‘We are good friends, Richard, and I regret that our paths have crossed only rarely.’ He had shrugged lightly. ‘As is the way of our calling. I have never forgotten that I have owed everything to you, from the moment you took command of Sparrow. And there have been many like me, who gained everything from that contact with you.’
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