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 some 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.
* * *
6
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 masting 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 landman 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 Hard 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 shaking. 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 landman, 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 undermined.’ 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.’
He saw the emotions chasing each other across the surgeon’s face. How could a man allow himself to decay like this?
Trevenen asked, ‘How did you find him?’
Minchin looked into the distance, so far now beyond the cabin and the ship. The thundering roar and recoil of the old seventy-four’s artillery, the unending stream of wounded and dying who had been dragged down to him on the orlop deck, the ‘wings and limbs’ tubs as the Jacks termed them overflowing with grisly relics of saw and knife. Arms, legs, pieces of men Minchin had once known, and all the while the deck had shivered to the fury of the battle above and around them.
‘The finest man I ever met. A gentleman, but only in the true sense. I’ve seen him shed a tear when some poor lad lay dying. He was not too proud to stoop and hold his hand for his last minutes.’ He glared at the captain with sudden dislike. ‘Not like some!’
‘Very commendable. But the punishment will be carried out at four bells this forenoon and you will attend it, sir. I have long discovered that authority and severity must often go hand in hand!’
He waited for the door to close after Minchin’s shabby figure. The man was a fool. As soon as possible he would try to have him replaced, although surgeons with experience and the stomach for their butcher’s work were difficult to find.
He touched the wine with his tongue. His hardest task would be to conceal and suppress the old animosity born when his father and Captain James Bolitho had become enemies. Trevenen came from Truro and he resented hearing Bolitho proclaimed Cornwall’s greatest son. He frowned, his mouth setting in a thin line.
We shall see about that.
At exactly four bells the calls trilled between decks and along Valkyrie’s gangways while the marines took up their station across the quarterdeck.
‘All hands! All hands! Hands lay aft to witness punishment!’
The first lieutenant came to the cabin again but Trevenen said calmly, ‘I heard, Mr Urquhart. This is a quiet ship and I intend it should remain so!’
Then he picked up the folder that contained the Articles of War, and after a slow scrutiny of his quarters walked out.
Unmoved? Urquhart sighed. It was not that. There was no sign of feeling at all.
Lady Catherine Somervell stood by the tall windows of the room they had shared for only one night. The windows opened on to a small balcony and faced south across Plymouth Sound. It looked as if it might remain fine for her journey to Falmouth. She felt a shiver run through her. Perhaps she should have returned to London, the city she had once known so well. In the same breath she knew she needed to go to the old grey house below Pendennis Castle. She could keep busy amongst people who, for the most part, kept to themselves and did not stare at her wherever she went. She would always be a foreigner in Cornwall; even Yovell was, and he came from no further than Devon. But they respected her now, and she found that it mattered. Most folk probably thought she was above it, that she was used to the gossip and the lies, but she was not. And the man she loved more than life itself, who was prepared to risk everything for her and because of her, would soon be gone. Back to that other world which she had shared for a while at the mercy of the sea’s cruelty, and the danger which had drawn them even closer, if that were possible.
Allday had gone with Ozzard and Yovell to make sure that nothing was stolen in the dockyard on its way to the ship, as he had bluntly put it. The serious-faced flag lieutenant, Avery, was somewhere downstairs in this inn, The Golden Lion, the best in Plymouth.
She had said good-bye to Bolitho’s little crew as he called them, but Allday had lingered to say his own piece.
‘I’ll take good care o’ Sir Richard, m’lady. Have no fear o’ that.’ He had seemed subdued, even sad.
She had said, ‘Is it harder this time?’
He had given her his steady stare. ‘Aye, it is. When we gets home again, will you come an’ see us wed?’
She had almost broken at his use of the word home.
‘Nothing will keep us away.’ She had hugged him. The true sailor with his special scent of rum, tobacco and tar: the smells of the sea. ‘And take care of yourself, John. You are very dear to me.’
She had seen his surprise at her emotion, the easy use of his name. She could read his thoughts. The woman who had been married to the lowest and the highest, who had stripped naked to don a man’s clothing while the ship had been bearing down on the reef, who had half-killed a mutineer with a Spanish comb: how could she feel like weaker souls?
She heard Bolitho coming in now from the adjoining room, patting his pockets as she had seen him do so many times.
He was watching her gravely, his uniform and gleaming epaulettes like a barrier between them. He was wearing the beautiful presentation sword, and she knew Allday had been entrusted with the old family blade.
When they had arrived they had stood by this same window and he had remarked, ‘They used to have a telescope mounted here so guests could see the shipping in the Sound.’ He had tried to make light of it but there was something in his voice, some indefinable sadness. ‘I expect some rogue stole it.’
The Darkening Sea Page 9