Sophie, Catherine’s half-Spanish maid, had been sent on a day ahead, and had prepared the place and the housekeeper for their arrival.
Allday helped Catherine down from the carriage and said quietly, ‘Don’t you fret for me, m’lady. I’m just thinking it all out.’
She smiled at him. ‘I never doubted it.’ She turned away. ‘And that’s no error either!’
Bolitho touched his arm. ‘Strike now, old friend, the battle’s already lost!’
Later they stood on the small iron balcony and watched night closing over the city. The glass doors were wide open so that the air from the river was quite cool, but the housekeeper had with the best intentions lit fires in every hearth to drive out the damp in the unused rooms. Catherine shivered as he put his arm around her and kissed one bare shoulder. Together they watched two lurching soldiers, probably officers from the barracks, as they made their way unsteadily back to their quarters. A flowergirl was going past, a huge empty basket on her shoulder. It was likely she would be up and about to gather her wares long before sun-up.
Catherine said quietly, ‘I wish we were at home.’
She spoke in the same steady voice as on that terrible day when they had abandoned Golden Plover. Don’t leave me.
How had she had such faith even then that she had truly believed they would see home again?
‘Soon, Kate.’
They went inside and undressed before lying down together in the darkening room. Wearied by memories and by the uncertainty of the future, they lay unspeaking. Only once Bolitho seemed to come out of his sleep, and imagined her sitting on the bed beside him, her fingers on his skin. He thought he heard her say very softly, ‘Don’t leave me.’ But it was only part of a dream.
Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho stepped down from the smart carriage while Allday held the door for him. Like Matthew the coachman, his burly coxswain was turned out in his best coat and breeches, and Bolitho had already noticed that the carriage was clean and shining although it had been pitch-dark when they had reached Chelsea the previous night. His glance lingered on the family crest on the door, and thought of it carved above the great stone fireplace at Falmouth. Only days ago. He could not recall ever missing it so much, so soon.
He said, ‘I have no way of knowing how long this may take.’ He saw Matthew squinting down at him, his face like a red apple in the fresh morning sunshine. He was still known on the estate as Young Matthew, a constant reminder of the years he had worked with the horses since he was a young lad. ‘Return to Chelsea and drive Lady Catherine anywhere she wishes.’ He looked meaningly at Allday. ‘I’d take it as a favour if you would stay in company with her.’
He thought he saw a small crinkle around the man’s eyes, as if he were saying privately, ‘Told you you couldn’t manage without me!’
Allday grunted. ‘I’ll be there, Sir Richard, an’ that’s no …’ He did not finish it but grinned, obviously remembering how Catherine had teased him with his favourite expression.
Bolitho glanced up at the austere Admiralty building. How many times had he come to this place? To receive orders; to beg for a ship, any ship; to be employed again when the clouds of war had spread once more across the Channel. Where he had met Herrick and where they had shaken hands as friends, but parted as strangers in this same building. Bolitho had sent word here by messenger, and wondered if Godschale’s successor would keep him waiting, or perhaps delay the meeting altogether. It was strange that even in the navy’s private world he should know so little of Sir James Hamett-Parker. He had first heard of him in any depth during the great mutinies throughout the fleet at the Nore and Spithead. All England had been shocked and horrified at that sudden display of defiance, which had incited even the staunchest men into open mutiny, leaving England undefended and at the mercy of the French.
The mutineers had formed themselves into councils with delegates to represent their cause, their plea for better conditions at every level, pay, food, and the harsh routine which had reduced some ships to the level of prison hulks, in which any bad captain could make a seaman’s life a living hell. Some of the officers who had become notorious for their cruel and heartless treatment had been put forcibly ashore and their authority overturned. One of those had been Hamett-Parker.
Someone in the Admiralty must have decided against displaying any sympathy or weakness at Herrick’s court-martial, and it was obvious that a guilty verdict had been taken for granted. But for his flag captain’s change of evidence it was certain that Herrick would have faced disgrace, and very possibly death. Hamett-Parker’s rigid ideas of discipline and duty must have made him the obvious choice for President of the Court.
Bolitho loosened the sword at his hip, not the fine presentation one given to him by the good people of Falmouth for his services in the Mediterranean and at the Battle of the Nile, but the old family blade. Forged for his great-grandfather Captain David in 1702, it was lighter than some of the more modern blades, and as straight and keen as ever. A show of defiance? Conceit, some would say. He smiled to himself. There was little margin in between.
‘Can I ’elp you, sir?’ An Admiralty messenger paused in polishing the big pair of brass dolphins from which a ship’s bell was suspended and peered at him. In seconds his watery eye had taken in the bright epaulettes, each with its pair of silver stars, the lace on the sleeves, and above all the gold medal of the Nile about his neck.
‘Bolitho.’ He knew he had little to add to that. He asked, ‘What happened to Pierce?’
The man was still staring. ‘I’m afraid ’e slipped ’is cable, Sir Richard.’ He shook his head, wondering how this famous officer, beloved by his sailors and all who served him, could even remember the other old porter.
Bolitho said, ‘I am sorry. Is there anything I can do?’
The porter shook his head. ‘Bin ill fer quite a time, Sir Richard. Often spoke of you, ’e did.’
Bolitho said quietly, ‘He taught me many things …’ He broke off, angry with himself, and saw a lieutenant with a fixed smile of anticipation waiting by the staircase. His arrival had already been signalled, apparently. As he followed the young officer up the stairs he was reminded suddenly of Jenour, and wondered how he was settling down to his new role of command. That new maturity gained after the Golden Plover’s loss and his own daring efforts to retake that wretched vessel after the mutiny had convinced him that he was ready to offer his hard-won experience to others. As Keen had said after they had been snatched to safety by Tyacke’s brig Larne, ‘None of us will ever be quite the same again.’
Perhaps Keen was right. Who would have believed it possible that Bolitho himself would have declared his intention of leaving the navy when the war was finally over? He walked along the passageways, past the blank impersonal doors, the line of chairs where captains could sit and wait to see a superior, to be praised, promoted or disciplined. Bolitho was glad to see they were all empty. Every captain, no matter how junior, was beyond price; the war’s harvest had made certain of that. He himself had sat here many times, waiting, hoping, dreading.
They paused at the big double doors behind which Godschale had once held court. He had once been a frigate captain like Bolitho, and they had been posted at the same time. There was no other similarity. Godschale loved the good life: receptions and balls, great banquets and state occasions. He had an eye for a pretty face, and a wife so dull he probably considered it a fair distraction.
He had clumsily tried to make Bolitho return to his wife and their daughter Elizabeth, and his other ideas on strategy had, Bolitho thought, often failed to consider the logistics of available ships, supplies, and the great distances of ocean in which the enemy could choose its victims. But despite Godschale’s annoying way of brushing obstacles aside, Bolitho knew in some strange way that he would miss him, bombast and all.
He turned, aware that the lieutenant had been speaking to him, probably all the way from the entrance hall.
The lieutenant said, ‘We were
all excitement when we heard of your latest victory over Contre Amiral Baratte. I am honoured to be the one to meet you!’
Bolitho smiled. The young man’s French accent was faultless. He would go far.
The doors opened and closed behind him and he saw Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker facing him across a massive marble-topped table. It was as if he had been seated for some time, staring at the doors, waiting for the first seconds of confrontation. The great wine cabinet, the clock with its cherubs, the model of Godschale’s first command had all vanished. Even the air felt different.
Hamett-Parker stood up slowly and shook hands across the vast table.
‘Welcome back, Sir Richard.’ He gestured to a chair. ‘I thought we should meet without further delay. There are many things I wish to discuss.’ He had an incisive voice, but spoke unhurriedly as if each word came under scrutiny before being released. ‘Your nephew made a fast passage, it seems. Where time is concerned I must be a miser. Too much of it has been wasted here.’
Bolitho listened carefully. Did he imply that Godschale was the culprit? Or was he testing him for his own past loyalty?
Hamett-Parker walked slowly to a window and flicked a curtain aside. ‘I observed your entrance, Sir Richard. I see you came alone.’
He had been watching. To see if Catherine had been with him, or if she was waiting now in the carriage.
He said, ‘From Chelsea, Sir James.’
‘Ah.’ He said nothing else, and Bolitho saw the finely cut profile, the slightly hooked nose, the young man still clinging behind the mask. His hair was grey, quite white in some places, so that it looked in the hazy sunshine like a wig; he even wore an old-style queue. He would not have seemed out of place in some fading portrait from a century earlier, although Bolitho knew Hamett-Parker was only about ten years his senior.
‘There is much speculation as to what the enemy intends if, or rather when Sir Arthur Wellesley brings the war in Spain to a victorious conclusion. The despatches from the Peninsula remain encouraging – news is daily expected of some dramatic climax. But the French will not surrender because of Spain. Our forces are fully extended, our yards unable to keep pace with the need for more ships, even if we could find the men to crew them. The enemy is aware of this. With all aggression ended in the Caribbean, we can withdraw certain vessels.’ He looked away and added crisply, ‘But not enough!’
Bolitho said, ‘I believe that the French will intensify their attacks on our supply lines.’
‘Do you?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘That is most interesting. The Duke of Portland said as much to me quite recently.’
The prime minister. Bolitho felt his lips relax into a smile. He had all but forgotten who it was. Moving from one campaign to another, watching men die and ships torn apart, the final authority beneath His Britannic Majesty too often seemed unimportant.
‘It amuses you?’
‘I beg your pardon, Sir James. I am out of touch, it seems.’
‘No matter. I understand he is of a sickly disposition. There will be a new hand on the tiller before too long, I fear.’
Bolitho winced as a sharp line of sunlight passed over the admiral’s shoulder and made him turn his head to one side.
‘The light disturbs you?’
Bolitho tensed. Did he know? How could he?
He shook his head. ‘It is nothing.’
Hamett-Parker returned slowly to the table, his steps, like his words, measured, unwasted.
‘You are wondering why you were withdrawn from your command?’
‘Of course, Sir James.’ He saw the admiral’s eyes for the first time. So pale they were almost colourless.
‘Of course? That is strange. However, we need to discuss possible French interference with our shipping routes. One frigate, a privateer even, could tie down men-of-war we could not spare even if we had them. It is widely believed that more attacks are already being planned – they will be hastened if, as we anticipate, Wellesley drubs the French army on the Peninsula. The prime minister will wish to know your thoughts, as will Sir Paul Sillitoe.’ He saw Bolitho’s surprise and said calmly, ‘Something else you did not know, it would appear. Sillitoe is senior advisor to the prime minister and certain others in high places. Even His Majesty is not unaware of him.’
Bolitho looked for some sign of sardonic humour or even sarcasm. There was none. In his mind he could see the man quite clearly: tall and slender with the quick, sure movements of a duellist. A dark, interesting face with deceptively hooded eyes. He was as quick and as sharp as steel, and he had been both charming and gracious to Catherine at one of Godschale’s ridiculous receptions when she had been deliberately snubbed by the Duke of Portland. A strange, remote man, but not to be underestimated; perhaps not to be trusted. Bolitho had heard that Sillitoe had travelled all the way to Falmouth for the local memorial service after the loss of the Golden Plover and the reported deaths of all those aboard. He did not need to warn Catherine of any other intentions Sillitoe might have.
He thought of her this morning, warm in his arms, holding him, watching him later while Allday shaved him, and sharing a quick breakfast downstairs. In a rough shawl or in gleaming shot-silk like the night they had been reunited at English Harbour, she would never pass unnoticed. No, Catherine would recognise any ploy, subtle or otherwise.
‘You were well known for the energy of your performance when you were a frigate captain, Sir Richard.’ Hamett-Parker continued in the same curt manner. ‘The line of battle has been my lot in life.’ He changed tack again. ‘I seem to recall that you were flag captain to Sir Lucius Broughton in Euryalus?’
‘I was flag captain to Rear-Admiral Thelwall until he was relieved due to ill-health. Broughton hoisted his flag in Euryalus after that.’
‘I deduce from your tone that you disliked him. I always thought him to be an excellent flag officer. Like me, he would never allow sentiment to blur the needs of duty and discipline.’ He clenched his fist as if he had allowed himself to say too much, and continued, ‘You were involved in the Great Mutiny?’
It sounded almost like an accusation.
‘We were lucky in Euryalus.’
‘Luck? What has that to do with it? We were at war with a ruthless enemy as we are now. I commanded Cydnus, a two-decker of ninety guns. Well trained, well drilled, she was the envy of the squadron.’
Bolitho saw the hand clench into a tight fist again. Hamett-Parker’s one weakness: the incident he could never forget.
‘There are always rotten apples in some casks. The plan for mutiny amongst my people was fed to those simpletons and knotheads like poison. They defied me – me, their captain.’ His pale eyes shone like glass in the reflected light. It was as if he could still not believe it. That ordinary, common seamen could demand their rights even at the risk of death by hanging or a flogging around the fleet, which had been the punishment meted out to more than one delegate.
Bolitho said sharply, ‘Admiral Broughton was a fool. If he were one of my officers today I would tell him as much!’
They both became calm again, and Hamett-Parker said, ‘My record is one to be proud of.’ He glanced meaningly around the room. ‘I think others must have appreciated that.’
Bolitho said, ‘What is expected of me, Sir James?’ He was surprised how calm he sounded. Inwardly he was burning like a fireship, angered by this unreachable man, angry with himself.
‘We need a plan, one that can be exercised with simplicity, one that will not antagonise the flags of nations not already drawn into the fight.’
‘You mean the Americans, Sir James?’
‘I did not say that!’ He wagged one finger and gave a stiff smile. Then he said, ‘I am glad we met before we meet the others involved.’ He pulled some papers towards him. ‘My flag lieutenant has the address of your lodgings in London, I assume?’
‘I imagine so, Sir James.’ Probably half of London knew it. ‘May I ask something?’
He tugged out a bright gold watch and
glanced at it. ‘I must not be too long.’
Bolitho thought sadly of Godschale. One cannot do everything. ‘What is intended for my last flag captain, Valentine Keen?’
Hamett-Parker pouted. ‘For an instant I thought you would ask about someone else.’ He shrugged, irritated. ‘He will hoist a broad pendant when all is decided. If he performs adequately I am certain flag rank will be his privilege, as it is ours.’
Bolitho stood up and saw the other man’s glance fall to the old sword. ‘May I take my leave, Sir James?’ It was over; the rapiers were to be laid in their cases again. For the present.
‘Please do.’ He leaned back in his great chair, his fingertips pressed together like a village parson. Then he said, ‘Vice-Admiral Sir Lucius Broughton, the fool you so bluntly described, died doing his duty in the penal settlements of New South Wales.’ His pale eyes did not blink as he added, ‘His position will, I am certain, be ably filled by your friend, Rear-Admiral Herrick.’
Bolitho turned on his heel and flung open the doors, almost colliding with the hovering lieutenant.
Hamett-Parker had got deep under his skin, out of malice or for some other purpose, he did not know or care. What did he want? He had been careful not to mention Catherine, or ‘the scandal’ as he would no doubt call it.
He hurried down the stairs, his mind reeling with ideas and memories. Just the mention of the Euryalus: Thelwall coughing out his life, Broughton watching the terrible flogging unmoved. But most of all, Catherine. He had commanded Euryalus when he had first met her. She had been aboard the merchantman Navarra; her husband had been killed by Barbary pirates, and she had cursed Bolitho for causing his death.
‘Would the nice sea-officer like a ride in comfort?’
He spun round, half-blinded by the sunlight, and saw her watching him from the carriage window. She was smiling, but her fine dark eyes were all concern.
The Darkening Sea Page 5