The Darkening Sea

by Alexander Kent

  Someone took his hat and was lost amongst the crowd. Another, a Royal Marine, reached him with a tray and turned it carefully towards him. Bolitho glanced at him questioningly and the marine said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘That’s the good stuff, Sir Richard.’ He nearly winked. ‘I’m proud to be servin’ you. Wait till I tells the lads!’

  Bolitho sipped the wine. It was good. Cold too, surprisingly enough. ‘Do I know you?’

  The man grinned, as if such things were impossible. ‘Bless you, no, Sir Richard. I was one o’ Benbow’s afterguard when you came for us.’ His face was suddenly grim. ‘I’d bin wounded, y’see, otherwise I’d ’ave bin lyin’ dead with all me mates.’

  Bolitho heard someone snap his fingers, and turned to see a captain he did not know beckoning to the marine.

  This was one of Thomas Herrick’s own marines, a man who thought himself lucky to be alive and recovered from his wound, unlike so many on that terrible day.

  He snapped, ‘Have you no manners, sir?’

  The captain stared at him and at his rank and seemed to sink into the throng like a fish in a pond.

  He said, ‘Rear-Admiral Herrick was my friend.’

  The marine nodded gravely. He had seen the captain flush, then cringe at this man’s sharp rebuke. Something else to tell the lads in the barracks.

  ‘I knows it, Sir Richard. Beggin’ yer pardon, I think it’s wrong to send ’im to New South Wales.’

  Bolitho took another goblet from among the good stuff and nodded. Why had he said, ‘was my friend’? Was there no hope? Was friendship really dead between them? Herrick had always been a stubborn man, sometimes beyond sense or reason. He could still not accept Bolitho’s love for a woman not his wife, even though Catherine had been the only one to stay with Herrick’s own beloved Dulcie when she had been dying so horribly of typhus. It was a miracle that Catherine herself had not fallen to the same fate.

  He looked through a gap in the crowd and saw Hamett-Parker watching him intently, his pale eyes reflecting the hundreds of candles like chips of glass.

  Bolitho walked towards him. The marine had vanished for another tray. Bolitho had smelt brandy on his breath: he had better watch his step if his officer noticed it.

  Hamett-Parker bobbed his head. ‘I was aware of the charisma they say you possess, Sir Richard. That common fellow was obviously an admirer.’

  ‘I always draw comfort from such men, Sir James. I saw what he and his comrades endured. He and others like him make me very aware of what we owe them in leadership.’

  The admiral grunted. ‘I’ll not deny that. But we must all take care that popularity does not win more friends than leadership.’ He glanced around at the noisy crowd. ‘Lord Godschale would have approved, don’t you think?’

  ‘What has become of him?’ He sensed that Hamett-Parker was trying to goad him.

  ‘He should be well on his way to Bombay by now.’ The admiral appeared indifferent, but his voice was sharper. ‘A most important position with the Honourable East India Company. Extremely lucrative, I would surmise.’

  Bolitho could not imagine Godschale willingly exchanging the pleasures of London for the intense heat and fevers of India. Hamett-Parker remarked, ‘I believe it was not unexpected. An indiscretion can often be overlooked. A political scandal cannot.’ He gazed at him coldly. ‘As I said, one must lead by example!’

  ‘Is Captain Keen to be here tonight, Sir James?’

  Hamett-Parker offered a faint smile. ‘No. He is not long married, and I can spare him a while.’

  ‘I had hoped that he would be promoted directly to flag rank.’

  ‘Were you?’

  Bolitho prayed that someone would come and interrupt this verbal fencing match. ‘No, I was not. I was commodore first.’ Hamett-Parker would know that better than anyone. He contained his anger and added, ‘I have known Captain Keen for a long time. He was a midshipman under my command. He is a fine officer and a decent man.’

  ‘And comes from a powerful and influential family, yes? I respect your concern, of course, but you must accept that Captain Keen must be more than a fine officer to hoist his flag as rear-admiral. But we shall see. He will have every chance to prove himself, that I promise you.’

  A footman came towards them, a single goblet in the centre of his tray. The admiral took it and said, ‘Refreshing at times like these.’

  Bolitho noticed that he was drinking lime juice. Perhaps so that he could watch the antics of his subordinates and equals as the hock and madeira flowed freely.

  Hamett-Parker frowned but instantly contained it as Sir Paul Sillitoe, elegantly dressed in dark grey silk and wearing a slender court sword at his hip, strode across the floor.

  ‘My apologies for my late arrival, Sir James.’ Several guests nearby were making a pretence of not listening. They were not to be disappointed. ‘I have been with the prime minister – we saw His Majesty together. The King will not be coming here after all.’

  Hamett-Parker regarded him balefully. ‘What ails him now?’

  Sillitoe smiled at Bolitho for the first time, then said, ‘We have just received word, Sir James, from Talavera. General Wellesley has won a great victory over Marshal Soult. The war on the Peninsula is all but won.’

  There was a stunned silence, then as the word spread across the room and into other parts of the house a great burst of wild cheering made the chandeliers quiver like pieces of ice.

  Hamett-Parker nodded. ‘Earlier than expected.’ He sounded completely unmoved.

  Sillitoe took a glass of wine and smiled again. ‘A perfect way to celebrate your appointment, Sir James. Congratulations!’ He looked at Bolitho. ‘A great moment for you also, sir. Without you and your seamen no soldier could have set foot on enemy soil!’

  Hamett-Parker said, ‘We shall sup very shortly, while some of them can still stand. Pass the word!’

  As the admiral turned away to play the host, however ungraciously, Sillitoe said lightly, ‘You are alone tonight, Sir Richard?’ His hooded eyes gave nothing away.

  ‘I came only because Lady Catherine insisted.’

  He nodded impassively. ‘Very wise. There are times when discretion is worth more than a squadron.’

  Bolitho was suddenly tired of it. ‘I’ll not wait. I shall make my excuses.’

  Sillitoe shrugged. ‘We shall meet again very soon. There is work for both of us now that Arthur Wellesley has dished up his old enemy.’

  ‘What is it to be?’ He wanted to leave, but needed to know.

  Sillitoe took his arm and guided him to an anteroom where the din of cheers and tipsy laughter were muffled, if not quenched completely.

  ‘Advise me, Richard, and I will advise the Duke of Portland. The French intend to strangle our trade – our lifeline, if you like.’

  ‘I read of the latest attacks. If we had not captured the French rear-admiral André Baratte I would see his hand in this.’

  Sillitoe smiled gently. ‘You are very shrewd. But Baratte was released, exchanged for Lord Derwent who was captured in Spain. You see? So soon back in England and already you are proving your worth.’ The smile widened but did not reach his eyes. ‘Especially to me!’

  He pulled out his watch and yawned. ‘My carriage is outside. I will take you to Chelsea, if you like. We can talk in peace.’

  In sight of the Thames again, the street deserted in an unexpected rainfall, Sillitoe lost no time in questioning Bolitho about the threat to merchant shipping.

  ‘I am all ears, Richard, eager for knowledge. I would never make a sailor in five hundred years!’

  Bolitho was still pondering the stupidity of those who had chosen to exchange Baratte for some English aristocrat. Baratte had had a high reputation as a frigate captain and then as commodore of a squadron before being promoted to his rank. Several attempts had been made to capture him in battle, all unsuccessful. It had fallen to Bolitho’s Tybalt to change matters by seizing Baratte’s frigate and the man himself when all the odd
s had decreed otherwise. It was said that Baratte hated the English as much as he loved France; and now he was gone, probably better aware of England’s strength or weakness than before his capture.

  Sillitoe remarked, ‘We hold Good Hope, largely thanks to you. Surely that should be enough?’

  Bolitho saw the straggling trade routes in his mind, from India and the East Indies, as far as New South Wales and the expanding colony there. Baratte would have the pick of any ship or cargo he chose to attack. But he would need a base, somewhere to water and provision his ships and unload his prizes. It could be no half-hearted operation like the haphazard killing and plunder practised by common pirates.

  He said, ‘We would need a small, fast-moving squadron, a flotilla even. Six frigates with a competent captain …’ He sensed Sillitoe’s reaction and said, ‘I know. It is like asking for the moon. But without a planned and practical strategy the losses will become worse and their lordships will be forced to release more men-of-war, no matter how badly they are needed in home waters.’ He glanced out of the window and wished that Sillitoe were sitting on his right. His eye was sore, and he wanted to touch it even though he knew it would not help.

  He said, ‘Like Baratte, I suppose I have always been a frigate captain at heart. I commanded three. It was like nothing else.’

  ‘Oh? What of Sparrow?’

  He tensed. ‘She was a sloop-of-war, not even as big as a sixth-rate.’ Like Hamett-Parker, the mysterious Sillitoe had done his research well.

  ‘I see.’

  Bolitho continued. ‘There are the anti-slavery patrols that run out of Good Hope and Freetown. Their aid could be useful. They would know all the likely anchorages, if only from interrogating the slavers when they catch them.’ He was reminded again of Tyacke. A dedicated seaman, alone because of his terrible disfigurement, and yet able to command respect and a kind of strange affection from the men who served with him. That day when they had been close to death, the sight of Larne had made even the hardest survivor gasp out his thanks to heaven.

  Sillitoe was saying, ‘That is one of the things I like about you. You don’t merely toss away ideas without consideration. You think them through, as only a professional officer can. Our new lord of Admiralty is not yet ready to bend. In time he will have to.’

  ‘Why did Godschale leave?’

  Sillitoe said coolly, ‘You are also very direct. Godschale, as I think you know, was fond of the ladies. But he was neither consistent nor careful. He compromised a lady of quality, then spurned her for another. It was unfortunate that the one he turned his back on was the wife of a certain member of the House of Lords. More I cannot say.’

  ‘He will not like Bombay.’

  Sillitoe watched him from the shadows. ‘That is an understatement.’

  It was very dark when they reached the house but the rain had stopped, and there were stars already showing between the clouds.

  ‘I have a favour to ask you, Richard.’

  Bolitho half-turned, one hand on the carriage door. ‘Well?’

  ‘You will need a good flag-lieutenant when you take up your next appointment, now that young Jenour has become the amateur captain. I think I have the right one for you.’ He sounded as if he were smiling in the darkness. ‘My nephew, to be exact. At present serving as lieutenant in the old Canopus. The ship is undergoing extensive repairs at the Nore.’

  ‘I would have to see him.’

  ‘Naturally. I will arrange it. He is not one of those pompous little upstarts … he is intelligent, better educated than many who wear the King’s coat.’

  ‘I cannot promise anything.’ It was strange to think of Sillitoe having a nephew, or any relations for that matter. Catherine had told him that Sillitoe had known her dead husband, Viscount Somervell. In what role, he wondered. Gambler, duellist, or cheat? One usually led to the others. But not Sillitoe. He was too clever, too secretive.

  He was looking out at the darkened house. ‘My regards to Lady Catherine. A pity she is not at home.’ He rapped the carriage roof. ‘Drive on!’

  Bolitho touched his eye. He always trusted Catherine’s instincts about people. Wait and see, she had said. Where Sillitoe was concerned it was sound advice.

  The housekeeper opened the door and said, ‘I’ve a table laid for you, Sir Richard.’

  ‘Thank you, no, I’ve no appetite. I shall go to our room.’

  Our room. He closed the door behind him and looked around at their other haven. Her perfume was here; the gown she wore so often when she came to bed because he liked it so much, as if she might enter at any moment.

  He hurried to the window as a carriage slowed down at the street corner. But it carried on past the house. They had been separated only because she had feared he could be blamed for snubbing the reception. Hamett-Parker would know he had left early; he would also be told that he and Sillitoe had been together. He tossed his heavy dress coat on to a chair, and smiled when he thought how indignant Ozzard would be about it.

  He lay staring at the dancing shadows cast by a solitary candle and thought of her kneeling over him, or lying with her dark hair spread out in disorder across the pillows while she waited for him, unashamed, even proud of the body which he would explore until they could delay no longer.

  He was soon asleep, and even then she was with him.

  * * *

  5

  No Secrets

  * * *

  BY MID-AUGUST 1809 the general attitude of England’s population was one of apathy and disinterest, except for those who had loved ones at sea or in the army abroad. With Wellesley’s victories in the Peninsular War and his return home to receive the title of Duke of Wellington from the King, the real enemy, France, seemed suddenly remote. Only in the City of London, in the counting houses and the world of insurance, was the true damage to trade and shipping really understood.

  Bolitho had been twice to the Admiralty where he had been welcomed by four of their lordships, two of whom were senior officers and the others civilians. He had come away bemused by the casual fashion in which the Admiralty Board appeared to be run, with hundreds of instructions and orders being despatched every week to squadrons and solitary vessels, many of which were already obsolete by the time they were delivered.

  Reunited with Catherine, he had been troubled by her reluctance to discuss her visit to Zenoria. He had gathered that the girl was still overwhelmed by the Keen family, suffocated by kindness; and when they received an invitation to the christening in Hampshire he had sensed that Catherine’s mood went even deeper.

  He knew she was disturbed by the lack of confirmation of his next appointment: the news of Collingwood’s worsening health made the Mediterranean a possibility for the first time, and yet the Admiralty, and some said the King himself, whose mental state was rumoured to be deteriorating, continued to refuse Collingwood’s plea for a recall to England.

  He discussed the christening with Catherine, and felt even more that something was wrong.

  She had come to nestle at his feet, her hair hiding her face as she had said, ‘Val is so excited about it. He wants to invite all his friends, all those who are in the country at the time.’ He heard the hesitation as she had added, ‘Including Adam.’

  ‘That is unlikely, Kate. Anemone is very short of hands, I gather. He will likely search further afield for replacements. A frigate captain is at his best when at sea with no admiral to trouble him!’

  She had said quietly, ‘Then I thank God for it.’ She had looked up at him. ‘I know you love him like a son, and I feel like a traitor when I tell you these things. But tell you I must. We swore there would be no secrets from the very beginning.’

  Bolitho had listened without interruption: what she had seen in Adam’s face at the wedding in Zennor; how she had heard of his visits to the house and Falmouth, and of an outburst in some coaching inn when Adam had called out a complete stranger for insulting the Bolitho family, but had satisfied his anger by shooting out the flame of a candl
e in a room full of witnesses. Zenoria had told her that Adam had even visited her recently, had ridden all the way from Portsmouth where Anemone was taking on stores.

  Bolitho had stroked her hair to calm her but his mind had been in turmoil. What was the matter with him that he had not noticed something on the long haul back from the Caribbean? Did he see only what he wanted to see? His nephew had always been a restless one, from the very first day he had joined his ship as a skinny midshipman. He had never thought of him as being much like his brother Hugh. And yet … Hugh had always had a quick temper and could not hold down a grudge without showing it. Captain James, their father, had referred to it as bad blood, but surely there was more to it than that.

  Catherine had exclaimed, ‘Zenoria needs to have a house of her own, somewhere she can be herself. She is young, dear Richard, but her experiences have given her an eagerness for life that Keen’s family do not understand.’

  The day of the christening arrived, and as promised they had driven down to the great house, where many friends both local and from London came to pay their respects to the child named Perran Augustus, the latter after Keen’s father. There was not enough room to accommodate everyone in the small village church but there was food and drink in the grounds of the house to serve a regiment.

  Bolitho had promised to give no hint to Zenoria that he knew part of her secret. If Valentine Keen ever discovered the truth, or even some twisted rumour of it, there was no telling where it might end.

  There were several incidents, trivial in their separate ways, but enough to make them glad they had decided to drive back to Chelsea on the same day. The first had occurred at the laying-out of the many presents brought by well-wishers, some of great value or handed down in a family, others notable for their warmth, like the fine carved hobby-horse, its card written in Ozzard’s pinched hand to show it was a gift from Allday, who with Bolitho had been introduced to the gathering by Keen as ‘The two men who saved my life when I thought all was lost.’