He turned away as the eye smarted again. "I cannot bear to think on it."
The lieutenant came in and stared at them. He had obviously travelled by a series of coaches, and looked crumpled and dusty.
Bolitho saw his surprise as he said, "I am Richard Bolitho. This is Lady Catherine Somervell." It must be rather a shock, he thought, they were probably far from what Avery was used to. The much-talked of flag officer dressed in an old shirt and breeches, looking more like a gardener than a vice-admiral, and a Knight of the Bath at that. "Please be seated, Mr. Avery. I will see that you are given refreshment." He did not even glance at her but heard her go to the door.
"I will arrange it," she said.
"Sit down." He turned slightly so that the bars of the afternoon sunlight should not irritate his eye.
Avery was not quite what he had expected, either. Tall, with thick dark hair which was touched with grey, he seemed old for his rank, older than Adam certainly. Sillitoe had sent the promised letter of introduction, but as was his custom
Bolitho had left it to read after this interview. He would draw his own conclusions first.
"Tell me something of yourself." He watched the lieutenant's eyes move around the room, absorbing the history of the place, the portraits, the old books through the library door. His face was deeply lined, like that of a man who had suffered and not been able to forget.
"I have been serving as second lieutenant of the Canopus, Sir Richard." He had a low resonant voice with only a faint accent. West Country, probably Dorset.
He was trying to relax, muscle by muscle, but could not restrain his curiosity, as if he were still surprised to be here.
"Canopus needs a good deal of refitting, Sir Richard. Rot and blockade have taken a toll of the old lady."
"And before that?"
Bolitho recognised the pain, the sudden look of hopelessness as Avery answered, "I was in the schooner Jolie, a prize taken from the French two years earlier. We were serving off Biscay when we came upon a Dutch trader working right inshore. We had often used those tactics because she was French-built and usually roused no suspicion." He said bitterly, "With our little pop-guns what could we do anyway?" He seemed to recall where he was, and went on quietly, "I was second-in-command, and the captain was another lieutenant. I liked him but..."
"But?"
Avery looked directly at him and Bolitho saw that his eyes were tawny, very clear like a wild cat's.
"I thought him reckless, Sir Richard."
Bolitho touched his eye without noticing it. Jolie. It did not mean anything. Perhaps he should have read Sillitoe's letter after all.
Avery had paused, expecting an interruption, a rebuke even, for criticising his commanding officer no matter how junior at the time.
He said, "We put two shots across the Dutchman and he came up into the wind. The master probably imagined that there was more than one of us." His face stiffened. There was. The other one was a French corvette. She came around a headland under full sail. We had no chance. We were already close-hauled and on a lee shore, but all my captain said was, "Two for the price of one." They were the last words he uttered on this earth. A ball cut him in half even as he waved defiance to the enemy." He was silent for a moment, then he continued. "The corvette raked us from bow to stern. Men were falling and dying. I still hear the screams, the pleas for mercy. Then I was hit. As I lay on the deck I could see our people pulling down the flag. If they had fought on, they would all have been killed."
Bolitho said, "If you had not been wounded, would you have ordered them to fight on?" Again he watched the pain. It was probably a question Avery had asked himself many times.
Avery said, "It was about the time of the Peace of Amiens, Sir Richard, when I was taken prisoner. As I was wounded I think the French were glad to release me." He paused. "Then I had to face a court-martial."
Bolitho could see it as if he had been there. The Peace of Amiens had been an excuse for the old enemies to re-arm and lick their wounds. Nobody had expected it to last. So, to prepare the fleet for whatever lay ahead, a scapegoat, no matter how lowly, had to be found.
Avery said, "I was found not guilty of cowardice or hazarding the ship. But Jolle had struck her colours, so wounded or not, I was reprimanded." He began to rise from his seat. "I knew it would be hopeless. I am only sorry that I had to waste your time."
Not guilty, but condemned to be a lieutenant until he was discharged or killed.
Bolitho asked quietly, "Do you have any family?"
He did not seem to hear for a moment. Then he said, "There is nobody. Apart from my uncle, whom I barely know."
Bolitho saw Catherine's shadow beyond the open door.
He said, "Falmouth is not London, but there is a highly respected tailor here, Joshua Miller, who has served my family through several generations. See to it that you obtain the necessary clothing as befits a flag lieutenant." He could not bear to see Avery's expression. Astonishment, gratitude, disbelief: it was all and none of them.
He added, "My own nephew was once in the same demanding role. It will not be an easy one for you. You will see my secretary, Mr. Yovell, and he will drill you in your duties. Where is your gear?"
Avery tried to control his thoughts. "In the inn yard, Sir Richard. I would have taken a room there, but I never thought '
Bolitho said, "Have someone bring it to the house. It will be easier for you to find your feet here, and to know the little crew who work with me."
"I do not know what to say, Sir Richard! I can only promise..."
"Promise nothing! It is wiser in the long run." He hesitated and said, "If it helps, I once threw down my sword to save the life of one very dear to me." He thought of Allday falling to the Spanish blade, the terrible wound which still rendered him helpless if he was unprepared for it. "I hope I would be strong enough to do it again."
When he turned again the tall, gaunt lieutenant with the streaks of prematurely greying hair had gone, as if he had been the spirit of someone past.
Catherine was in the room, her arms outstretched until she had thrown them around his shoulders.
He kissed her neck. "Did I do right, Kate?"
She could barely speak for a few moments. "He is a good man. I will never forget his face when he left you."
He hugged her, wanting to make light of it. But all the time the lieutenant had been blurting out his story he had seen only himself. It might have been me.
Later in the evening light, with a faint mist coming in from the sea, they walked together along the track to the stile, beyond which was the cliff path. They watched the sea as it hissed among the rocks where a few gulls bobbed up and down on the swell, but they could have had the world to themselves.
She said suddenly, "I want to come with you to Plymouth, and be at your side. Until the last moment."
He held her against him, her loose hair blowing into his eyes. That day when Anemone had sighted the shores of Cornwall their time together had seemed infinite, reaching out ahead of them with so much promise. Now, in days perhaps,
they would be parted, and her letters and his memories would have to sustain him.
"If you wish it, Kate. I am as greedy as you are persuasive."
They returned to the old house, and Bolitho was surprised to see his secretary Yovell working on some books in the library.
She frowned at him. "I'll not have you overtaxing yourself, Mr. Yovell!" Then she laughed. "I shall go up." Her gaze lingered on Bolitho as he watched her mount the stairs. "There will be no regrets, Richard."
Bolitho was not certain what she meant. To Yovell he said, "How did you get along with Mr. Avery?"
Yovell breathed on his little gold-rimmed spectacles and polished them vigorously with his handkerchief.
"A man of many parts, Sir Richard. Understands Latin too. He will suit."
There could be no higher praise from him.
Bolitho went upstairs, past each watching portrait with its background of so
me forgotten battle or campaign. The house was still hot from the day: there might even be thunder in the air.
He went into the room and saw her standing by a window, which was opened wide. It was airless and even the candles shone unmoving, the shadows around the room quite still.
As he put his arms around her she turned towards the tall cheval glass, which was surrounded by hundreds of carved thistles. It had belonged to Bolitho's Scottish mother, a gift from Captain James. She watched his face as he looked at her reflection in the mirror. She wore the favourite robe with its fine gold cord, her body clearly etched against his own shadow.
"Remember, no regrets. Do with me as you will. Use me, take me, for I am yours and always have been, although we did not know it."
He saw her body move against him as he played with the cord about her throat. It was like watching her being taken by someone else, a stranger.
"Slowly." Her eyes were watching the mirror, her mouth moist as he pulled the cord and began to lower the gown until her breasts were revealed, his hand dark around them until she was suddenly completely naked, her hair falling across her bare shoulders as if to protect her.
He took her to the bed and lay with her, touching her, kissing her breasts, her body, her legs, until delay was unbearable.
Only a moment more while he threw off his clothes, and she pretended to hold him away, then she murmured, "But I surrender..." The rest was stifled as he came down and entered her, holding her wrists, taking her like the stranger in the mirror.
There was thunder, lightning too. But in the room there was only peace.
SIX
The "Valkyrie'
The long stretch of water named The Hamoaze which separated Plymouth. Dockyard from the neighbouring county of Cornwall shone. like burnished pewter in the forenoon sunlight. The last day of August, and yet there was already a chill in the air, a hint of misty rain across the Devon countryside.
The waterway was alive with shipping of every kind and size, from two lordly ships-of-the-line tugging at their cables in a brisk off-shore breeze to collier brigs, deep in the water with their cargoes for the towns on the River Tamar and the dockyard itself. A ma sting vessel towing a great tangle of spars was following them, using the tide to make a safe passage from the Sound through the narrow strait that guarded the final approach.
To any ignorant land man one man-of-war was much the same as another, size being the only comparison, but in any true sailor the frigate anchored closest to the dockyard would rouse an immediate interest. From her tapering jib-boom to her finely-raked counter with her name, Valkyrie, below the stern cabin windows, she was obviously much larger than any other ship classed as a fifth-rate, and but for her long main gun-deck she might have passed for a ship-of-the-line.
Men moved quietly about her gangways and high above the decks on rigging and yards. A last full inspection: who could tell for how long? She was a new ship, built at the famous Bucklers Yard to an advanced design, and she had been with the fleet for less than two months. The strain on officers and seamen alike had been considerable.
Extra officers and experienced hands had been poached from other vessels in Plymouth with the aid of the port admiral, who was better aware than most of Valkyrie's importance. Properly used, she could out-fight any other man-of-war below the line of battle, and had been so designed that she could be used as a squadron commander of almost any number of vessels.
Right aft in the great cabin, Captain Aaron Trevenen was considering this very possibility as he glanced into the adjoining quarters, which were already prepared for Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho's use for as long as the situation dictated.
The quarters were spacious by any standard, he thought, for Valkyrie boasted a beam of just over forty feet with headroom, aft at least, to make every movement comfortable. Trevenen had spent almost all of his life at sea in frigates or similar vessels. This would probably be the last, he thought. A fine ship, and as a senior post-captain he had every chance of promotion to flag rank when Valkyrie had completed her commission. It had not been a definite promise, but Trevenen had been in the navy long enough to recognise the unwritten parts of his orders.
He was thickset rather than heavily-built, with a strong jaw and crows' feet to mark the years of standing watch under all conditions. His hair was a gingery chestnut colour, cut short, but not short enough to conceal the streaks of grey. He was forty but looked much older. He stood now, hands clasped behind him as if he could penetrate the full length of his command. Valkyrie was a true reward, when properly handled, for any captain. One hundred and eighty tons displacement, she could still respond like a four-in-hand. The sailing master had been astonished when the ship had logged over eighteen knots, despite her size and her forty-two guns and carronades.
Trevenen closed the door as if to shut the coming vice-admiral from his thoughts. He could not allow him to intrude. It was too dangerous. He heard the marine sentry tap his musket on the deck outside the screen door and prepared himself for his visitor.
It was Lieutenant Urquhart, his senior, an alert, quietly spoken man who had already been a first lieutenant in another frigate. Trevenen knew that, like some of the others, Urquhart had not yet got his captain's measure on so short an acquaintance.
Nor would he, he thought. He almost smiled. Almost.
He heard the tap at the door and said, "Come!"
Urquhart glanced round the day cabin as he strode aft, his cocked hat pressed under one arm. It was as if he expected to discover some identity here, a clue to the man who next to God would hold the lives of two hundred and twenty souls in his hands.
Trevenen did not miss it. "You are early, Mr. Urquhart. Is something amiss?"
The lieutenant said, "It is the surgeon, sir. He wishes to have an interview with you." He flushed as Trevenen's eyes came to rest on him. They were dark and deepset, yet managed to dominate even his strong features. Urquhart added awkwardly, "About the punishment, sir."
"I see. Tell him I do not wish to discuss it. I want it over and done with before the admiral comes aboard." He turned to the great stern windows as a yawl, tilting deeply as she tacked, passed dangerously close to the frigate's counter, then he snapped his fingers even as the first lieutenant turned to leave. "No! Belay that, Mr. Urquhart! I shall see him!"
Urquhart closed the screen door and found that his hand was snaking. In his previous ship the captain had called him by his first name when it was an informal occasion. If Trevenen ever did it to him, he would likely die of shock.
He found the surgeon waiting by the wardroom, his battered hat gripped in both hands. An untidy man, with sprouting grey hair and a face ruined by an excess of drinking. But they said he was a good surgeon; it was to be hoped they would not discover otherwise.
"It's no use. The punishment goes ahead." He shrugged helplessly. "But he will see you."
The surgeon stood his ground, his eyes angry. "The cap'n insists on the bosun's mates using the lash with the heavier knots! No man can stand up to that!"
Urquhart said, "I can do nothing." Secretly he agreed with him, but to show what amounted to disloyalty at the beginning of a commission was nothing short of madness. This ship was luckier than many, and the captain must know it. She had fewer pressed men than most, and had been fortunate in collecting some twenty new hands who, although not seamen, were tough and fearless Cornish tin miners who had been thrown out of work by a pit collapse.
The sentry brought his heels together and called, "Surgeon, sir!"
The door was opened by the cabin servant and closed instantly.
"You wish to see me?" Trevenen was standing with his broad shoulders towards the windows and the glistening panorama of water and shipping beyond.
"Aye, sir. About the land man Jacobs. I'll not vouch for his surviving punishment. It's his second flogging in two weeks, sir."
"I am aware of it. The man is an ignorant lout. I'll not tolerate insubordination nor will I see my subordinates' authority un
dermined." The servant padded over the black and white checkered deck covering and placed a tall glass of wine within reach of his captain.
The surgeon said, "He is an ignorant lout, sir, I'm not defending his..."
The captain held up one hand. "I have something to ask you." He saw the surgeon's raddled face watching the tall glass and added, "You were surgeon at one time in the Hyperion, Sir Richard Bolitho's flagship, I believe?"
George Minchin stared at him, caught completely off balance by the question.
"Well, yes, sir. I was in Hyperion when she went down." Some of his weary despair seemed to vanish as he said with a certain pride, "I was one of the last to leave the old lady."
"It is confidential, of course, but we shall weigh anchor once our passengers are on board. To suit the purpose of admiralty this will no longer be a private ship. Your Sir Richard Bolitho is hoisting his flag over us."
Alexander Kent - Bolitho 20 Darkening Sea Page 9