He gazed around the cabin; it was neat but spartan, with nothing to reveal any hint of the character of the man who lived and slept here. Only the big sea-chest was familiar, and he knew it was the one in which Tyacke used to carry the silk gown he had bought for the girl he intended to marry. She had refused him after his terrible injury at the Nile. How long he had carried the gown was unknown, but he had given it to Catherine to wear when he had found them after their ordeal in Golden Plover’s longboat. Bolitho knew she had sent it back to Tyacke when they had reached England, beautifully cleaned and pressed, in case there should be another woman in the future. It was probably in the chest at this moment, a reminder of the rejection he had suffered.
Tyacke said, “I’ve made a full report. The prize is nothing much.” He paused. “Not after we’d finished with her. She had over fifty killed, and twice as many wounded. She was carrying a lot of extra hands, for prize crews, no doubt. If they’d managed to board us …” He shrugged. “A different story, maybe.”
He studied Bolitho curiously, having heard about his visit to the orlop and that he had restrained one of the badly wounded as the surgeon had taken off his leg. He thought with a mental shudder of Beauclerk’s pale eyes. A cold fish, like the rest of his breed.
Bolitho said, “She was the USS Success, formerly the French Dryade.” He looked up at Tyacke, and felt his scrutiny like something physical. “Her captain was killed.”
“Aye. It was like a slaughterhouse. Our gun captains have learned well.” There was the pride again, which even the horror he had described could not diminish.
He held his goblet to the light and said, “When I became your flag captain, it was an even greater challenge than I had expected.” He gave his faint, attractive smile. “And I knew I was going into deep water from the start. It wasn’t just the size of the ship, and my responsibility to all her people, but also my role within the squadron. I had been so used to a small command—a seclusion which, looking back, I know I myself created. And then, under your flag, there were the other ships, and the whims and weaknesses of their captains.”
Bolitho said nothing. It was one of those rare moments of confidence, something he did not wish to interrupt, a mutual trust which had made itself felt between them from the very beginning, when they had first met in Tyacke’s schooner Miranda.
Tyacke said abruptly, “I started keeping my own log book. I discovered that a flag captain should never rely on memory alone. And when your nephew was brought aboard wounded, after his escape from that Yankee prison, I made notes on everything he told me.” He glanced at a sealed gunport as if he could see the American prize riding under Indomitable’s lee. Victors and vanished were working together aboard her to fit a jury-rig, which, with luck and fair sailing, might take her to Halifax.
“There was a lieutenant aboard the Success. A young man, so badly hurt by splinters that I wondered what was keeping him alive.” He cleared his throat, as if embarrassed by the emotion his voice revealed. “I talked with him for a while. He was in great pain. There was nothing anyone could do.”
Bolitho saw it with a poignant clarity, as if he had been there with them. This strong, remote man sitting with an enemy, perhaps the only one truly able to share his suffering.
“In some ways he reminded me of your nephew, sir. I thought it was the battle, being beaten, knowing he was paying with his life. But it wasn’t that. He simply could not believe that their other ship had cut and run—had left them to fight alone.”
There were whispering voices outside the door, officers needing advice or instructions. Tyacke would know of their presence, but nothing would move him until he was ready.
He said, “The lieutenant’s name was Brice, Mark Brice. He had prepared a letter to be despatched should the worst happen.” He was momentarily bitter. “I’ve warned others about that kind of maudlin sentiment. It’s … it’s asking for death.”
“Brice?” Bolitho felt a chill of recognition run through him, as though he were hearing Adam’s own voice as he had described it to him. “It was a Captain Joseph Brice who invited Adam to change sides when he was captured.”
Tyacke said, “Yes. He was that captain’s son. An address in Salem.”
“And the letter?”
“The usual, sir. Duty and love of country, not a lot of value when you’re dead.” He picked up a small book from the table. “Still, I’m glad I wrote it down.”
“And the other ship, James? Is that what’s troubling you?”
Tyacke shrugged heavily. “Well, I learned quite a bit from them. She’s the USS Retribution, another ex-Frenchman, Le Gladiateur. Forty guns, maybe more.” Then he said, “There’s no doubt in my mind that these were the ships that took Reaper.” He glared at the door. “I shall have to go, sir. Please make use of these quarters until yours are ready.”
He hesitated by the door, as though grappling with something. “You were once a flag captain yourself, sir?”
Bolitho smiled. “Yes. A very long time ago, in a three-decker. Euryalus, one hundred guns. I learned a great deal in her.” He waited, knowing there was more.
Tyacke said, “The American lieutenant had heard about it. Your time in Euryalus, I mean.”
“But that was all of seventeen years ago, James. This lieutenant, Brice, would hardly have been old enough …”
Tyacke said bluntly, “Retribution’s captain told him. About you, about Euryalus. But he died before he could tell me anything more.”
He opened the door a few inches. “Wait!” There were a few murmurings from beyond, and then he added sharply, “Well, do it, or I’ll find somebody else better suited.” He turned toward Bolitho again. “Retribution’s captain is named Aherne.” He hesitated. “That’s all I know.”
Bolitho was on his feet, without realizing that he had left the chair. The big three-decker Euryalus had seemed the final step to flag rank, and he had carried even more responsibility than was usual for a flag captain. His admiral, Rear-Admiral Sir Charles Thelwall, had been old for his rank; he was dying, and he knew it. But England was facing heavy odds, with France and Spain confident of an early invasion. It had been in Euryalus that he had first met Catherine …
Tyacke’s coxswain held out the bottle. “Another, Sir Richard?”
Bolitho saw Tyacke’s unconcealed surprise when he accepted. He said slowly, “Dangerous times, James.” He was thinking aloud. “We were ordered to Ireland. A French squadron was reported ready to support an uprising. Had it come about, the balance might have shifted against England there and then. There was even worse to follow … the great mutinies in the fleet at the Nore and Spithead. Dangerous times, indeed.”
“And Ireland, sir?”
“There were a few battles. I think the strain of the responsibility finally killed Sir Charles Thelwall. A fine man, a gentle man. I much admired him.” He faced Tyacke, his eyes suddenly hard. “And of course there was the inevitable aftermath of recrimination and punishment meted out to those who had conspired against the King. It proved nothing, it solved nothing. One of those hanged for treason was a patriot called Daniel Aherne, the scapegoat who became a martyr.” He picked up his glass, and found that it was empty. “So, James, we have found the missing face: Rory Aherne. I knew he had gone to America, but that is all I know. Seventeen years. A long time to nurture hatred.”
Tyacke said, “How can we be sure?”
“I am certain, James. Coincidence, fate, who knows?” He smiled briefly. “Retribution, eh? A good choice.”
He thought suddenly of Catherine’s words to him, when they had first been thrown together. Men are made for war, and you are no exception.
That was then, but can we ever change?
Aloud he said, “Call me when we get under way, James. And thank you.”
Tyacke paused. “Sir?”
“For being a flag captain, James. That, and so much more.”
10 TIME AND DISTANCE
SIR WILFRED LAFARGUE put down the empty cup and
walked to one of the tall windows of his spacious office. For such a heavily-built man he moved with remarkable agility, as if the young, eager lawyer was still there, a prisoner of his own success. Lafargue had once been described as handsome, but now, in his late fifties, he was showing signs of good living and other excesses which even his expensively cut coat and breeches could not disguise.
The coffee was good: eventually, he might send for more. But he was content for the moment to stand looking out of this window, one of his favourites, across the City of London, where, despite more buildings than ever before, there were still many restful parks and ornamental gardens. This was Lincoln’s Inn, one of the centres of English law, and the prestigious address of many legal practices which served a world of both power and money.
This particular house, for instance, had once been the London residence of a famous general, who had met an ignominious death by fever in the West Indies. Now it held the offices of the legal firm which bore his family name, and of which Lafargue was the senior partner.
He idly watched some carriages as they rattled past on their way to Fleet Street. It was a fine day, with clear blue sky above the spires and impressive buildings. From the far window he would be able to see St Paul’s, or at least the dome of the cathedral; it was a sight that always pleased him. Like the centre of things, in his world.
He considered the visitor who was waiting to see him. His staff had been busy on her behalf, but this would be his first meeting with the lady in question, Lady Catherine Somervell. When he had mentioned the appointment to his wife she had been sharp, even angry, as if it offended her personally in some way.
He smiled. But then, how could she understand?
Now he would see for himself what the notorious viscountess was really like. She was certainly one of the most discussed women of the day: if only a tenth of it was true, he would soon discover her strength and her weakness. She had risen above it all, the scandal and the secret slander. The fact that her last husband had died mysteriously in a duel had been conveniently forgotten. He smiled more broadly. Not by me.
He turned with irritation as a door opened slightly, and his senior clerk peered in at him.
“What is it, Spicer?” The offices revolved around the senior clerk, a dedicated man who missed no detail in all the legal papers and documents that passed through his hands. He was also very dull.
Spicer said, “Lady Somervell is about to leave, Sir Wilfred.” He spoke without expression. When the Prime Minister, Spencer Perceval, had been assassinated by some lunatic at the House of Commons the previous year, he had announced it in much the same fashion, as if it was a comment on the weather.
Lafargue snapped, “What do you mean, leaving? That lady has an appointment with me!”
Spicer was unmoved. “That was nearly half an hour ago, Sir Wilfred.”
Lafargue contained himself with an effort. It was his practice to keep clients waiting, no matter how high or low they stood on the social scale.
It was a bad beginning. He said curtly, “Bring her in.”
He sat at his vast desk and watched the other door. Everything was in its place, a chair directly opposite him, an impressive background of leather volumes from floor to ceiling behind. Sound, reliable, like the City itself. Like a bank.
He rose slowly as the doors were opened and Lady Catherine Somervell entered the room. It was far too large for an office but Lafargue liked it for that reason: it often intimidated visitors who had to walk almost its full length to reach the chair by the desk.
For the first time in his experience, the effect was completely reversed.
She was taller than he had expected, and walked without hesitation or uncertainty, her dark eyes never leaving his face. She was dressed all in green, and carrying a broad-brimmed straw hat with a matching ribbon. Lafargue was intelligent enough to appreciate that his clumsy ploy of allowing her to wait could never impress a woman like this.
“Please be seated, Lady Somervell.” He watched the easy way she sat in the straight-backed chair, confident, but wary. Defiant, perhaps. “I regret the delay. Some difficulty arose at the last minute.”
Her dark eyes moved only briefly to the empty coffee cup.
“Of course.”
Lafargue sat down again and touched some papers on his desk. It was hard not to stare at her. She was beautiful: there was no other possible description. Her hair, so dark that it might have been black, was piled above her ears, so that her throat and neck seemed strangely unprotected. Provocative. High cheekbones, and now the merest hint of a smile as she said, “So what news may I expect?”
Catherine had seen the assessing glance. She had seen many such before. This illustrious lawyer, recommended by Sillitoe when she had asked for his advice, was no different, in spite of the grand setting and the air of showmanship. Sillitoe had remarked, “Like most lawyers, his worth and his honesty will be measured by the weight of his bill!”
Lafargue said, “You have seen all the details of your late husband’s affairs.” He coughed politely. “Your pardon. Your previous husband, I mean. His business ventures prospered even during the war between Great Britain and Spain. It was his surviving son’s wish that you receive that which was always intended for your own use.” His eyes flicked down to the papers. “Claudio Luis Pareja was his son by his first marriage.”
She said, “Yes.” She ignored the unspoken question: he would know, in any case. When Luis had asked her to marry him he had been more than twice her age, and even his son, Claudio, had been older than she. She had been afraid, desperate, lost, when the small, amiable Luis had taken her as his bride. It had not been love as she now knew it to be, but the man’s kindness, his need of her, had been like a door opening for her to step through. She had been a mere girl, and he had given her vision and opportunity, and she had learned the manners and graces of the people he knew or did business with.
He had died when Richard Bolitho’s ship had taken control of the vessel in which they had been passengers, on their way to Luis’s estate in Minorca. She had known afterwards that she loved Richard, but she had lost him. Until Antigua, when he had sailed into English Harbour with his flag flying above the old Hyperion.
She could feel the lawyer’s eyes exploring her, although when she looked at him directly he was examining his papers again.
She said, “So I am a very rich woman?”
“At the stroke of a pen, my lady.” He was intrigued that she had shown neither surprise nor triumph, not since they had first exchanged letters. A beautiful widow, envied, wealthy: the temptation would be a great one for many men. He thought of Sir Richard Bolitho, the hero, whom even common sailors seemed to admire. He glanced at her again. Her skin was brown like a country woman’s, like her hands and wrists. He speculated on their life together when they were not separated by the ocean, and the war.
The thought made him remark, “I have heard that things are moving at last in North America.”
“What is that?” She stared at him, one hand moving to her breast. How quickly it could happen. Like a shadow, a threat.
He said, “We received word that the Americans attacked York, crossed the lake in force and burned the government buildings there.”
“When?” One word, like a stone falling into a still pond.
“Oh, some six weeks ago, apparently. News is very slow to reach us.”
She stared at the window, at the fresh leaves visible beyond it. Six weeks. The end of April. Richard might have been there: he would be involved, in any case. She asked quietly, “Anything else?”
He cleared his throat. Her unexpected anxiety had encouraged him: perhaps she was vulnerable after all.
“Some story of a mutiny in one of our ships. Poor devils, one can hardly blame them.” He paused. “But there are limits, and we are at war.”
“What ship?” She knew he was enjoying her concern in some way. It did not matter. Nothing else did. Not the money, unexpected gift though it was from
poor Luis, dead these many years. She asked more sharply, “Can you remember?”
He pursed his lips. “Reaper. Yes, that was it. Do you know her?”
“One of Sir Richard’s squadron. Her captain was killed last year. I do not know her, beyond that.” How could he understand? Mutiny … She had watched Richard’s face when he had described it, and what it cost the guilty and the innocent alike. He had been involved in the great naval mutinies, which had stunned the entire country at a time when the enemy was expected to invade. Some had believed it was the first fire of the same revolution which had brought the Terror to France.
How Richard would hate and loathe such an outbreak in his own command. Would blame himself for not having been there when the seeds were sown.
A total responsibility. And a punishment to him, also.
Lafargue said, “Now, the other matter we discussed. The lease of the property has become available.” He watched her hand at her breast, the glittering pendant moving to betray the heightened pulse. “The owner of the lease, an earl impoverished by bad luck or over-confidence at the tables, was more than willing to exchange deeds. Expensive property, madam. And occupied.”
He knew; of course he knew. She said, “By Lady Bolitho.” She glanced down at the ruby ring on her hand, which he had given her in the church at Zennor on the day Valentine Keen had married Zenoria. It wrenched at her heart. They would all be waiting for her in Falmouth: the admiral’s lady, or whore, as the mood dictated. “It was my decision. I intend to lower the cost of the lease.” She looked up suddenly, and Lafargue saw the other woman in her eyes, the woman who had braved the sea in an open boat after shipwreck, who had captured the hearts of all who knew her. Now, in her face, he could see that everything he had heard of her was true.
She added, “And I intend that she shall know it!”
Lafargue rang a small bell, and his senior clerk, with one other, appeared as if by magic.
He stood up and watched Spicer preparing the documents, a fresh pen already placed by her hand. He looked at the ring, assessing the cost: it was of rubies and diamonds, like the pendant she wore, which was in the shape of a fan. He thought of his wife and wondered how, or even if, he would describe his day to her.
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