Godschale did not care much for Somervell’s character and reputation. But he still had friends, some very powerful, at Court, and had been rescued from scandal and far worse by no less than His Majesty himself. But even the King, or more likely his close advisers, had conveniently removed Somervell from London’s melting-pot until the problem of Bolitho’s involvement was solved, or destroyed.
The admiral was sensible enough to accept that no matter how he felt about it, Bolitho was probably as popular in the country as Nelson had once been. His courage was beyond doubt, and in spite of some unorthodox methods and tactics, he did win battles.
In peacetime his affair with Lady Somervell would not be tolerated for an instant: they would both be shunned and barred from society, while Bolitho’s own career would fly to the winds.
But it was not peacetime; and Godschale knew the value of leaders who won, and the inspiration they offered their men and the nation.
He said, “The larger of the two enemy squadrons was under the flag of our old opponent Vice-Admiral Leissègues. He managed to slip through all our patrols—nevertheless Sir John Duckworth, who was cruising off Cadiz, gained some intelligence that a French squadron was at St Domingo. Duckworth had already been chasing Leissègues, but had been about to give up when he had the news. He eventually ran them to ground, and even though the French cut their cables when Duckworth’s squadron was sighted, he brought them to close-action. All the enemy were taken, but the hundred and twenty gun Impérial went aground and was burned. She would have made a formidable addition to our fleet.” He sighed grandly. “But one cannot do everything!”
Bolitho hid a smile. It sounded as if the admiral had won the victory from this very room.
Godschale was saying, “The other French force was brought to battle and lost several ships singly before fleeing back to harbour.”
Bolitho put down his glass and stared at it bitterly. “How I envy Duckworth. A decisive action, well thought out and executed. Napoleon must be feeling savage about it.”
“Your work at Cape Town was no less important, Sir Richard.” Godschale refilled the glasses to give himself time to think. “Valuable ships were released for the fleet by your prompt intervention. It was why I proposed you for the task.” He gave a sly wink. “Although I know you suspected my motives at the time, what?”
Bolitho shrugged. “A post-captain could have done it.”
Godschale wagged an admonitory finger. “Quite the reverse. They needed inspiration by example. Believe me, I know!” He decided to change the subject. “I have further news for you.” He walked to his table and Bolitho noticed for the first time that he was limping. A problem he shared with Lord St Vincent, he thought. Gout—too much port and rich living.
Godschale picked up some papers. “I told you about your new flagship, the Black Prince. A fine vessel to the highest requirements, I understand.”
Bolitho was glad he was looking at his papers and did not see his own rebellious smile. I understand. How like Captain Poland. Just to be on the safe side, in case something was proved to be amiss.
Godschale looked up. “Chosen your flag captain yet, or need I ask?”
Bolitho replied, “Under different circumstances I would have picked Valentine Keen without hesitation. In view of his coming marriage, and the fact that he has been continuously employed under demanding circumstances, I am loath to ask this of him.”
Godschale said, “My subordinate did receive a letter from your last captain, offering his services. I thought it odd. I might have expected him to approach you first.” His eyebrows lifted again. “A good man, is he not?”
“A fine captain, and a firm friend.” It was hard to think clearly with Godschale talking about the new ship. What had happened to Keen? It made no sense.
Godschale was saying, “Of course, in these hard times, the lieutenants may be quite junior, and the more seasoned professionals that much older. But then none of us loses any years, what?” He frowned suddenly. “So I would appreciate a quick decision. There are many captains who would give their lives for the chance to sail Black Prince with your flag at the fore.”
“It would be a great favour to me, m’lord, if you would allow me the time to enquire into this matter.” It sounded as if he were pleading. He intended it to.
Godschale beamed. “Of course. What are friends for, eh?”
Bolitho saw his quick glance at the ornate clock on the wall, an elaborate affair with gilded cherubs supporting it, their cheeks puffed out to represent the four winds.
He said, “I shall be in London for the present, m’lord, at the address I have given to your secretary.”
Godschale’s humour seemed to have faded; his smile was fixed to his mouth. “Er, yes, quite so. Lord Browne’s town house. Used to be your flag lieutenant before he quit the navy?”
“Yes. A good friend.”
“Hmm, you don’t seem to be lacking in those!”
Bolitho waited. Godschale was picturing it all in his mind. Himself and Catherine together, caring nothing for what people thought. He stood up and readjusted the sword at his hip.
Godschale said heavily, “I don’t wish to fan old flames, but is there any chance of your returning . . . er . . . Dammit, man, you know what I mean!”
Bolitho shook his head. “None, my lord. It is better you know now—I am aware that your lady is a friend of my wife. It would be wrong to promote feelings which are not to be returned.”
Godschale stared at him as if trying to think of some crushing retort. When it failed him he said, “We shall meet again soon. When that happens I hope I will have fresh information for you. But until that moment, let me remind you of something. A French ball can maim or kill a man, but ashore, his person can be equally hurt, his reputation punctured in a hundred ways!”
Bolitho walked to the door. “I still believe the former to be the more dangerous, m’lord.”
As the door closed Admiral the Lord Godschale smashed one fist down on his papers. “God damn his insolence!”
Another door opened cautiously and the admiral’s secretary peered around it.
“My lord?”
Godschale glared. “Not a damn thing!”
The man winced. “Your next appointment will be here very shortly, m’lord.”
Godschale sat down carefully and poured himself another glass of madeira. “I shall receive him in half an hour.”
The secretary persisted, “But there is no one else, m’lord, not until . . .”
The admiral exclaimed harshly, “Does nobody in the Admiralty listen to what I say? I know all about it! But with luck, Sir Richard Bolitho will renew his acquaintance with Rear Admiral Herrick in the waiting-room. I wish to give them the opportunity to share old times. Do you see?”
The secretary did not see but knew better than to wait for another tirade.
Godschale sighed at the empty room. “One cannot do everything!”
There were two captains sitting in the outer waiting-room, each avoiding the other’s eyes and trying to remain as separate as possible. Bolitho knew they were here to see some senior officer or Admiralty official; he had shared their apprehension and discomfort on more occasions than he could remember. Advancement or a reprimand? A new command, or the first step to oblivion? It was all in a day’s work at the Admiralty.
Both captains sprang to their feet as Bolitho walked through the long room. He nodded to them, accepting their recognition and curiosity. Wondering why he was here and what it might indirectly imply for them. More likely they were curious about the man and not the vice-admiral; his reputation, if it were true or false.
Bolitho was more concerned with Godschale’s announcement about his flag captain. He could still scarcely believe it. He had known how worried Keen had been about the age difference between himself and the lovely Zenoria. The girl he had rescued from a transport on her way to Botany Bay. Keen was forty-one years old, and she would be nearly twenty-two. But their love for one another
had bloomed so suddenly out of suffering and been visible to everyone who knew them. He must discover what had happened. If Keen had signified his readiness to be his flag captain merely out of friendship or loyalty, Bolitho would have to dissuade him.
He had almost reached the tall double doors at the far end when they swung open, and he saw Thomas Herrick standing stock-still and staring at him as if he had just fallen from the sky.
Herrick was stocky and slightly stooped, as if the weight of his rear-admiral’s responsibilities had made themselves felt. His brown hair was more heavily touched with grey, but he had not changed since he had sailed to support Hyperion in that last terrible battle.
His palm was as hard as at their first meeting, when he had been one of Bolitho’s lieutenants in Phalarope; and the blue eyes were clear and as vulnerable as that very day.
“What are you . . .” They both began at once.
Then Bolitho said warmly, “It is so good to see you, Thomas!”
Herrick glanced warily at the two captains as if to ensure they were well out of earshot. “You too, Sir Richard.” He smiled awkwardly. “Richard.”
“That is better.” Bolitho watched his old friend’s uncertainty. So it was still as before. Because of Catherine. He had refused to come to terms with it, could not bring himself to understand how it had happened between them. Bolitho said, “I have been given Black Prince I shall hoist my flag as soon as she is fitted-out, whenever that might be. You know the dockyards and their strange customs!”
Herrick was not to be drawn. He studied Bolitho’s face and asked quietly, “Your eye—how is it?” He shook his head and Bolitho saw something of the man he had always known and trusted. “No, I have told no one. But I still think—”
Bolitho said, “What are you doing?”
Herrick’s chin was sunk in his neckcloth, something which had become a habit when he was grappling with a problem.
“I still have Benbow .” He forced a smile. “New flag lieutenant though. Got rid of that fellow with the Frenchie name, De Broux . . . too soft for my taste!”
Bolitho felt strangely sad. Just a few years since Benbow had flown his flag and Herrick had been the captain. Ships, if they could think, must wonder sometimes about the men and the fates which controlled them.
Herrick pulled out his watch. “I must present myself to Lord Godschale.” He spoke the name with dislike. Bolitho could well imagine how Herrick felt about the admiral.
As an afterthought Herrick said, “I am to command a squadron in the North Sea patrols.” He gave a genuine smile. “Adam’s new command Anemone is my only frigate! Some things never change, but I am well pleased to have him with me.”
Somewhere a clock chimed and Herrick said quickly, “You know me—I hate not to be punctual.”
Bolitho watched his struggle, but when it burst out it was not what he had been expecting.
“Your new flagship. She is completing at Chatham?” He hurried on as if the thing which troubled him could not be contained. “When you visit the ship, and I have been your subordinate too many times in the past not to know your habits, would you find time to call upon my Dulcie?”
Bolitho asked gently, “What is it, Thomas?”
“I am not sure and that is the God’s truth. But she has been so tired of late. She works too hard with her charities and the like, and will not rest when I am away at sea. I keep telling her, but you know how they are. I suppose she’s lonely. If we had been blessed with children, even the one like you and Lady Belinda—” He broke off, confused by his own revelation. “It is the way of the world, I suppose.”
Bolitho touched his sleeve. “I shall call on her. Catherine keeps trying to drag me to a surgeon, so we may discover someone who might help Dulcie.”
Herrick’s blue eyes seemed to harden. “I am sorry. I was not thinking. Perhaps I was too fouled by my own worries and forgot for a moment.” He looked along the room. “Maybe it would be better if you did not pay Dulcie a visit.”
Bolitho stared at him. “Is this barrier still between us, Thomas?”
Herrick regarded him wretchedly. “It is not of my making.” He was going. “I wish you well, Richard. Nothing can take my admiration away. Not ever.”
“Admiration?” Bolitho looked after him and then called, “Is that all it has become, Thomas? God damn it, man, are we so ordinary?”
The two captains were on their feet as Herrick strode past them, their eyes darting between the flag-officers as if they could scarcely believe what they were witnessing.
Then Bolitho found himself outside the Admiralty’s imposing façade, shivering in spite of the sunshine and strolling people.
“Be off with you, you wretch!”
Bolitho glanced up, still breathing hard, and saw a young man, accompanied by two girls, shaking his fist at a crouching figure by the roadside. The contrast was so vivid it made his head swim . . . the elegantly dressed young blade with his giggling friends, and the stooping figure in a tattered red coat who was holding out a tin cup.
“Belay that!” Bolitho saw them turn with surprise while several passers-by paused to see what would happen. Ignoring them all, Bolitho strode to the man in the shabby red coat.
The beggar said brokenly, “I wasn’t doin’ no ’arm, sir!”
Someone shouted, “Shouldn’t be allowed to hang about here!”
Bolitho asked quietly, “What was your regiment?”
The man peered up at him as if he had misheard. He had only one arm, and his body was badly twisted. He looked ancient, but Bolitho guessed he was younger than himself.
“Thirty-First Foot, sir.” He stared defiantly at the onlookers. “The old Huntingdonshire Regiment. We was doin’ service as marines.” His sudden pride seemed to fade as he added, “I was with Lord Howe when I got this lot.”
Bolitho turned on his heel and looked at the young man for several seconds.
“I will not ask the same of you, sir, for I can see plainly enough what you are!”
The youth had gone pale. “You have no right—”
“Oh, but I do. There is at this very moment a lieutenant of the Tower Hill press gang approaching. A word, just one word from me, and you will learn for yourself what it is like to fight for your King and country!”
He was angry with himself for using such a cheap lie. No press gang ever ventured into an area of quality and wealth. But the young man vanished, leaving even his companions to stare after him with surprise and humiliation at being abandoned.
Bolitho thrust a handful of coins into the cup. “God be with you. Never think that what you did was in vain.” He saw the man staring at the golden guineas with astonishment, and knew what he was saying was really for his own benefit. “Your courage, like your memories, must sustain you.”
He swung away, his eyes smarting, and then saw the carriage pulling towards him. She pushed open the door before the coachman could jump down and said, “I saw what you did.” She touched his mouth with her fingers. “You looked so troubled . . . did something happen in there to harm you?”
He patted her arm as the carriage clattered back into the aimless traffic. “It harms us all, it would appear. I thought I understood people. Now I am not so sure.” He looked at her and smiled. “I am only certain of you!”
Catherine slid her arm through his and looked out of the carriage window. She had seen Herrick stride up the Admiralty steps. The rest, and Bolitho’s angry confrontation with the young dandy, needed no explanation.
She answered softly, “Then let us make the most of it.”
Tom Ozzard paused to lean against a stone balustrade to find his bearings, and was surprised he was not out of breath. The little man had been walking for hours, sometimes barely conscious of his whereabouts but at the back of his mind very aware of his eventual destination.
Along the Thames embankment, then crisscrossing through dingy side-streets where the shabby eaves almost touched overhead as if to shut out the daylight. Around him at every
turn was the London he remembered as if it were yesterday. Teeming with life and street cries, the air rank with horse dung and sewers. On one corner was a man bawling out his wares, fresh oysters in a barrel, where several seamen were trying their taste and washing them down with rough ale. Ozzard had seen the river several times on his walk. From London Bridge to the Isle of Dogs it was crammed with merchantmen, their masts and yards swaying together on the tide like a leafless forest.
In the noisy inns along the river sailors jostled the painted whores and flung away their pay on beer and geneva, not knowing when or if they might ever return once their ships had weighed. None of them seemed at all perturbed by the grisly, rotting remains of some pirates which dangled in chains at Execution Dock.
Ozzard caught his breath; his feet had brought him to the very street as if he had had no part in it.
He found that his breathing was sharper as he hesitated before forcing his legs to carry him along the cobbled roadway. It was like a part of his many nightmares. Even the light, dusky orange as evening closed in on the wharves and warehouses of London’s dockland; it was said that there were more thieves and cut-throats in this part of London than in all the rest of the country. This was or had been a respectable street on Wapping Wall. Small, neat houses owned or rented by shopkeepers and clerks, agents from the victualling yards and honest chandlers.
A shaft of low sunshine reflected from the top window of his old house. He caught his breath. As if it was filled with blood.
Ozzard stared around wildly, his heart thumping as if to tear itself free from his slight body. It was madness; he was mad. He should never have come, there might still be folk here who remembered him. But when Bolitho had come to London he had accompanied him in another carriage. Allday, Yovell and himself. Each so different, and yet each one a part of the other.
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