Bolitho said, “In any case, I am quite certain you did not bring me here merely to discuss my domestic situation, my lord?”
Strangely, Godschale seemed content to leave it at that. Until the next time.
“No, quite right. Quite right. I have completed all the arrangements for your visit to the Cape. My aide will give you the full details.” He cleared his throat noisily. “But first, there is the court martial. The date is set for the end of next week. I have sent word to your flag captain at Portsmouth.” He looked at him challengingly. “I did not choose Black Prince for the court martial out of spite. You will be more private in her. Dockyard work can be held up during this beastly affair.”
Bolitho asked quietly, “Who is the President to be?”
Godschale shuffled some papers on his ornate table as if he could not remember.
He cleared his throat again and answered, “Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker.”
Bolitho felt the room spin. In seconds he had seen the man. Dour, uncompromising features, a thin mouth: a man more feared than respected.
“I shall be there to give evidence, my lord.”
“Only if you are asked—as a witness after the fact, so to speak.”
Bolitho turned from the window as a troop of dragoons clattered past.
“Then he is already condemned.” Then he said sharply, surprised that he could still plead, “I must do something, my lord. He is my friend.”
“Is he?” Godschale refilled the fine goblets. “That brings me to the other matter . . . The court was prepared to allow you to defend him. It was my idea, in fact. The whole affair can do nothing but harm to the fleet—to all senior officers who are far from support, and who have only their own judgement to sustain them. With our army poised on the threshold of Europe every officer from admiral to captain will need all the confidence in the world if this great venture is to succeed. If we fail, there can be no second chance.”
He had voiced the very opposite view at their last meeting, Bolitho thought, but it no longer mattered.
“Do you mean that Rear-Admiral Herrick rejected me as his defence?” He recalled Herrick’s face the last time they had met, the blue eyes stubborn, hurt, bitter. “Whom did he choose?”
Godschale glanced at the clock. It would be better if Bolitho was gone before his sister arrived to add to the general problem.
“That is the point, Sir Richard. He will have nobody.” He studied him, heavily intent. It was not like Godschale to risk anything which might dislodge his position of power. Was it really true what they said about this man, he thought uneasily. Had Bolitho’s charisma touched even him?
“There is something you might do.”
Bolitho saw his inner struggle and was surprised by it. He had never known Godschale in this mood before. “Yes. Anything.”
Godschale was beginning to sweat, and it was neither from brandy nor the heat of the fire.
“Rear-Admiral Herrick is at Southwark. He will be met there by the Marshal to take a coach to Portsmouth the day after tomorrow. You will need all your discretion; many sea officers come and go on the Portsmouth Flier and might recognise you. It would embroil you even further . . . there might even be an attempt to smear you with collusion.”
Bolitho held out his hand. “I thank you for this, my lord—you may never know what it means. But one day I may be in a position to repay you. And have no fear. I heard nothing from you.”
Godschale attempted to give a rueful grin. “Nobody would believe it in any case, not of me, that is!” But the grin would not show itself.
Long after the doors had closed behind Bolitho, Godschale was still staring at the window where his visitor had stood. He thought he would already be feeling regret, but if anything he felt strangely uplifted.
His secretary opened the doors with a flourish as Godschale rang the little bell on his table.
“My lord?”
“Send for my carriage. Now.”
The man stared at the clock, bewildered by his master’s behaviour.
“But Mrs Vincent will be here in an hour, my lord!”
“Do I have to say everything twice, man? Send for the carriage.”
The man fled and Godschale poured another goblet of brandy.
Envy. Aloud to the empty room he said abruptly, “God damn you, Bolitho, you put years on me! The sooner you get back to sea the better, for all our sakes!”
It was already dark again by the time Bolitho’s carriage arrived at the inn at Southwark. After they had rattled over London Bridge to the south bank of the Thames, he imagined he could smell the sea and the many ships lying at anchor, and wondered if Allday had also noticed it, and was thinking about the passage to the Cape.
He heard Matthew curse from his box and felt the wheels jar savagely against fallen stones. He rarely swore, and was the best of coachmen, but this carriage had been borrowed for the journey. Secrecy would be impossible if the Bolitho crest was there for all to see.
They slowed down to pass a big mail coach standing outside the famous George Inn, from which place so many sea officers began their long and uncomfortable journey to Portsmouth. Without horses it looked strangely abandoned, but ostlers and inn servants were already loading chests and boxes on top, while the passengers consumed their last big meal, washed down with madeira or ale as the fancy took them. The George was the one place in London where Bolitho was most likely to be confronted by someone he knew.
A little further along the road was the smaller Swan Inn, a coaching and posting stop with the same high-galleried front as the George. But there the similarity ended. The Swan was used mainly by merchants, somewhere to break their journey or discuss business without fear of interruption.
In the inn yard shadowy figures ran to take the horses’ heads, and a curtain twitched as someone peered out at the new arrival.
Allday’s stomach rumbled loudly. “I smell food, Sir Richard!”
Bolitho touched his arm. “Go and find the innkeeper. Then eat something.”
He climbed down and felt the bitter air sweeping from the river. Upstream in the little Chelsea house Catherine would be looking out at this same river, imagining him here.
A bulky lump of a man appeared in the light from an open side door.
“God swamp me, Sir Richard! This is a surprise!”
Jack Thornborough had begun life as a purser’s clerk during the American Revolution, and later when discharged he had obtained work in the nearby naval victualling yard at Deptford. It was said unkindly of him that he had robbed the yard so successfully with the connivance of ships’ pursers that he had made enough to purchase the old Swan lock, stock and barrel.
“You can guess why I’m here, Jack.” He saw the man’s bald pate shine in the shaft of light as he nodded like a conspirator.
“In ’is room, Sir Richard. They’m comin’ fer ’im day arter t’morrer, so they says, but they might come earlier.”
“I must see him. Nobody should know about it.”
Thornborough led him through the door and bolted it. He beamed at the plain black hat and unmarked cloak which Bolitho had donned for the occasion. “Yew’m more like a gentleman of the road, beggin’ yer pardon, than any flag officer!”
He felt his stomach contract and realised that, like Allday, he had not eaten since first light.
“See to my people, will you, Jack?”
Thornborough touched his forehead, just for an instant a sailor once again.
“Leave it to me, Sir Richard!” He became serious. “Up them stairs right to the top. You’ll not meet a soul, nor will anyone see you.”
A very private room then. For highwaymen perhaps, or lovers unaccepted by society. Or a man he had known for over twentyfive years, who was facing disgrace or death.
He was surprised to find that he was not even breathless when he reached the top of the creaking stairs. So many walks with Catherine, along the cliffs at Falmouth or through the fields where she had described what she and F
erguson had planned for the estate. She had, moreover, won the respect of Lewis Roxby, who had always had an eye on the Bolitho land, and had acquired some in the selling-off of property to settle Bolitho’s brother’s debts. Roxby was after all married to Bolitho’s favourite sister Nancy. It was good that she and Catherine were friends. Unlike Felicity, who seemed so full of hate.
He rapped on the dark, stained door: years of smoke from the inn’s many grates, from encounters in the night with those who did not wish to be seen. But Jack Thornborough would not let him down. He had been serving in the same frigate as Bolitho’s dead brother Hugh, and despite Hugh’s treachery had always spoken kindly of him. As others had often remarked, the navy was like a family; sooner or later you met the same ships, the same faces. Even the ones who fell were not forgotten. Bolitho rapped again and for a moment imagined that the room was empty, the journey wasted.
A voice said, “Go away.”
Bolitho let out a sigh. It was Herrick.
“Thomas, it’s me. Richard.”
There was another long pause and then the door opened very slightly. Herrick stood back and waited for Bolitho to enter. The small, poorly-lit room was littered with clothing, an open seachest, and incongruously on a table amongst some letters lay Herrick’s beautiful telescope, Dulcie’s last gift to him.
Herrick dragged a coat from a chair and stared at him. He was stooped, and in the candlelight his hair seemed greyer than before. But his eyes were bright enough, and there was only ginger beer on another table, no sight or smell of brandy.
“What are you doing here, Richard? I told that fool Godschale not to drag you into it . . . I acted as I thought best. They can all go to hell before I’d say otherwise!” He walked over to get another chair and Bolitho was further saddened to see that he still limped from his wound. He had been cut down by a jagged splinter on Benbow’s quarterdeck, with his marines and gun crews strewn about him like bloodied bundles of rag.
“You’ll need help, Thomas. Someone must speak for you. You know who the President is to be?”
Herrick gave a tight smile. “I heard. Killed more of his own men than the enemy, I shouldn’t wonder!”
Wheels scraped over the cobbles and harness jingled in the inn yard at another arrival. It seemed as if it came from another world; but suppose it was the Admiralty Marshal? There was only one stairway, and not even the impressive Jack Thornborough could hold him off forever.
Herrick said suddenly, “Anyway, you’ll be called as a witness.” He spoke with savage bitterness. “To describe what you found after the battle. As a witness you’d not be allowed to defend me, even if I wanted it.” He paused. “I just thank God my Dulcie is not here to see this happening.” He stared at the shining telescope. “I even thought of ending it all, and damn them and their sense of honour.”
“Don’t talk like that, Thomas. It’s not like you.”
“Isn’t it? I don’t come from a long line of sea officers like you.” It was almost an accusation. “I started with nothing; my family was poor, and with some help from you I gained the impossible— flag rank. And where has it got me, eh? I’ll tell you: probably in front of a firing-squad, as an example to the others. At least it won’t be my own marines—they all bloody well died.” He waved a hand vaguely, like a man in a dream. “Out there somewhere. And they did it for me— it was my decision.”
He stood up stiffly, but instead of the rear-admiral Bolitho could only see the stubborn and caring lieutenant he had first met in Phalarope.
Herrick said, “I know you mean for the best, Richard . . .”
Bolitho persisted, “We are friends.”
“Well, don’t throw away all you’ve achieved for yourself because of me. After this I don’t much care what happens, and that’s the truth. Now please go.” He held out his hand. The grip was just as hard as that lost lieutenant’s had been. “You should not have come.”
Bolitho did not release his hand. “Don’t turn away, Thomas. We have lost so many friends. We Happy Few—remember?”
Herrick’s eyes were faraway. “Aye. God bless them.”
Bolitho picked up his plain cocked hat from the table and saw a finished letter in the light of two candles. It was addressed to Catherine, in Herrick’s familiar schoolboy hand.
Herrick said almost offhandedly, “Take it if you like. I tried to thank her for what she did for my Dulcie. She is a woman of considerable courage, I’ll grant her that.”
“I wish you might have told her in person, Thomas.”
“I have always stood by my beliefs, what is right or wrong. I’ll not change now, even if they allow me the opportunity.”
Bolitho put the letter in his pocket. He had been unable to help after all; it had all been a waste of time, as Godschale had hinted it would be.
“We shall meet again next week, Thomas.” He stepped out on to the dark landing and heard the door close behind him even before he had reached the first stair.
Thornborough was waiting for him by his busy kitchen.
He said quietly, “Some hot pie to warm you, Sir Richard, afore you leaves?”
Bolitho stared out at the darkness and shook his head. “Thank you—but I’ve no stomach for it, Jack.”
The innkeeper watched him gravely. “Bad, was it?”
Bolitho said nothing, unable to find the words. There were none.
They had been strangers.
3 ACCUSED
CAPTAIN Valentine Keen stood by Black Prince’s quarterdeck rail and watched two unhappy-looking civilians being swayed up from a boat alongside, their legs dangling from boatswain’s chairs.
The court martial was to be held in the great cabin, which had been stripped of everything, the dividing screens removed as if the ship was about to go into action.
The first lieutenant came aft and touched his hat. “That’s the last of them, sir.” He consulted his list. “The wine bills will probably be enormous.”
Keen glanced at the sky. After the longest winter he could recall, it seemed as if April had decided to intervene and drive it away. A clear, bright blue sky and perfect visibility, with only a hint of lingering cold in the sea-breeze. The great ship seemed to tremble as the wind roused itself enough to rattle the rigging and halliards, or to make lively patterns across the harbour like a cat ruffling its fur. In days, perhaps, Keen would be gone from this proud command, something he still found hard to believe when he had time to consider it.
The members of the court, spectators, clerks and witnesses had been coming aboard since morning, and would soon be seated in their allotted places according to rank or status.
“You may dismiss the guard and side-party, Mr Sedgemore.” He took out his watch. “Tell the gunner to prepare to fire at four bells.” He looked up at the great spars overhead, the sails now in position and neatly furled, Bolitho’s flag at the fore. “You know what to do.”
Sedgemore lingered, his eyes full of questions. “I wish we were away from here.” He hesitated, trying to judge his captain’s mood. “We shall miss you when you leave with Sir Richard Bolitho . . . It is rumoured we may be going to Portugal’s aid before much longer.”
“I think it most likely.” Keen looked past him towards the dockyard. The green land beyond, the smells of countryside and new growth. Sedgemore was probably already planning his next step up the ladder, he thought. He took a telescope from the midshipman-of-the-watch and levelled it on a spur of jetty. He had seen the bright colours of women’s clothing but as they leaped out of the distance he saw they were merely a handful of harlots waiting for easy prey.
He thought of Zenoria’s eyes when he had told her of his mission with Bolitho. What had he expected? Opposition, resentment? Instead she had said quietly, “I knew you were a King’s officer when I married you, Val. When we are together we must enjoy our lives, but once apart, I would not stand between you and your duty.”
It was like being lost in thick woodland, not knowing which way to turn or what to do. Perhaps
she did not care; perhaps she was even relieved that he was going, to break the tension between them.
He saw a captain of marines passing below him with a sword carried in a cloth: Herrick’s sword, a necessary part of this macabre ceremony. When the court had made its decision the sword on the table would tell Herrick if he was found guilty or innocent. What malicious mind had thrown up Admiral Sir James HamettParker as a suitable president? He had been known as a tyrant for much of his service. Just eleven years ago when the fleet had erupted in the great mutiny at the Nore and Spithead, HamettParker had been one of the first senior officers to be ordered ashore by the delegates. He would not forget that; nor would he allow anyone to interfere with his judgement. As flag captain Keen had met most of the others. A vice-admiral, a rear-admiral, and six captains. All of the latter held commands either at Portsmouth or in the Downs squadron. It was hardly likely they would want to annoy Hamett-Parker, with the war about to spread into the enemy’s own territory.
Sedgemore said shortly, “Sir Richard is coming, sir.” Then he was gone, probably still wondering why Keen should exchange this proud ship for some vague huddle of small vessels in Africa.
Bolitho said, “A fine day, Val.” They walked to the side to be away from the watchkeepers. “God, I wish it was all over.”
“Shall you give evidence, sir?”
Bolitho looked at him. There were shadows under Keen’s eyes, tension around his mouth.
“I shall be there to explain our deployment on that morning.” He seemed to hear Herrick’s bitterness. To describe what you found after the battle. “It seems I am barred from asking questions. A witness after the event.”
Keen saw the ship’s gunner standing by as a crew loaded and then began to run out a twelve-pounder. When it was fired, and the Union Flag was run up to the peak, everyone would know that the trial had begun. When the flag flew from there, and only then, did it tell outsiders what was happening. The court-martial Jack would bring memories to some, pity from others, and indifference from the many who did not have to risk their own lives at sea.
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