When she spoke again her voice was level, calm, only her eyes giving a hint of tension.
“The first time I saw you . . . It was something Sir Gregory taught me, made me put above and before all else. Forced me to find myself, maybe by losing myself in others, in the paintings. I gave myself to the work, and could hold all else at bay. Looks and stares, the thoughts too . . . they meant nothing. He taught me all that, but when you came into that room and looked at me, I felt something . . . very different.” She repeated, “Not the next time, Adam. Otherwise we might wait in vain.” She turned her head slightly, as if she had heard something. “Fate, perhaps?”
Adam said, “I would never hurt you, Lowenna.”
She slipped from his hand and walked to the far corner of the room.
“It has to be now. I must know, for both our sakes.” Then she was gone, and Adam saw a shoe fall as she disappeared up a narrow staircase he had not seen before.
He stared at his hat and cloak, lying where he’d tossed them.
Leave now before you destroy something that was never yours. Another voice persisted, go, and you will never see her again.
He did not remember climbing the unfamiliar staircase, but stooped to recover her other shoe, which had fallen just outside the door.
Perhaps more than anything else the shoe recalled it to him, what Montagu had told him, and the fear and disgust he had seen for himself when he had smashed his way into that room.
He thrust open the door and saw her sitting on the bed, her hair spilling over her shoulders and the sheet which she had drawn across her body, one hand holding it close to her throat as if she were about to pose for another sketch, a new beginning.
The light was poor, but he could see her clothing where she must have thrown it, with the same quiet desperation she had used to kick off her shoes.
He heard himself say again, “I would never hurt you, Lowenna.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes so dark that it was impossible to know her thoughts.
He began to unbutton his coat but she shook her head.
“No. As you are. Not the next time. It has to be now.”
Then she lay back and deliberately raised her hands above her head, crossing one wrist over the other, her hair wrapped around them as if she were tied like a captive.
He leaned down and cupped one shoulder in his hand. She did not flinch, but watched his hand as if unable to move. The captive again.
Then she looked up at him and whispered, “Whatever I do or say, no matter how much I protest, take me. Teach me. I must know, for both our sakes!”
She cried out as he dragged the sheet away from her body, until she was naked, her arms straining as if they were, in truth, tightly held.
He felt himself soothing her, holding, stroking, exploring her until the blood pounded in his brain like a fever.
She gasped and opened her eyes very wide as his hand found her. How it must have been, again and again.
Compassion, love, need, it was all and none of them. He was kissing her, and her arms were free and clasped around his shoulders. There were tears too, like that day; he could taste them.
He felt her body arch beneath his hand, and her voice, small and far away.
“Now, Adam . . . dearest Adam. Take me.”
The same church clock broke the spell, but only partly.
She lay naked across the bed, resting on her elbows, while she watched him struggle into his uniform. It seemed darker but it was an illusion, born of joy and of guilt.
Then she stood and put her arms around him and he held and stroked her, kissed the bruises his buttons had left on her skin.
“You must go.” She tossed the hair from her face. “The sea will always be a rival, but not my enemy.”
The two horses were standing by the gate, their handler no doubt nervous about the time. But he said nothing, and watched Adam climb up into the saddle. He saw the youthful post captain touch his side as he reached down for the reins; he was not to know that it was an old wound, making its presence felt once more.
Adam turned the horse toward the road, and paused to look back at the house. The windows were in shadow now, like eyes at rest, but he knew she was there, in that same quiet room where life, or fate, had changed them. He could still feel her, her fear and doubt giving way to frenzy and then submission. I can still feel you. There would be pain, too. But the fear was gone, perhaps forever.
He felt his crumpled shirt rubbing against the wound, and remembered her lips caressing it as they had lain together.
A woman passed him, carrying a bundle of wood. Without thinking, he raised his hat to her and smiled, felt her staring after them as the horses increased their pace.
He remembered suddenly and vividly a time when he had been a child, and he had been taught to swim in the sea. It had been on the north coast of Cornwall, where the sea is often moody, the breakers pounding the hard sand like thunder. His instructor had been a friend of his mother’s. He allowed himself to confront it: one of her lovers.
Out of his depth, the current dragging at his body with sudden strength, he had heard the man calling to him to return to the beach. Instead, he had fought depth and breakers together. Somehow he had survived, his mind reeling from exhaustion and fright.
But above all, he remembered the sense of triumph and of joy.
He twisted round to look back at the house, but there were only trees, and the river.
He spoke her name aloud. And she would know it, hear it on the wind.
Like destiny. Like fate.
And the next horizon.
7 UNDER THE FLAG
JOHN BOWLES, the cabin servant, walked to the sloping stern windows and opened the dress coat which he had just finished pressing, held it carefully in the harsh glare of reflected sunlight, and made sure that it was perfect. Beyond the screen door and beneath his feet the ship was unusually quiet. Sometimes it was hard to believe that the hull held nearly five hundred human beings. He gave a slow grin. If you could call some of them that. It had been rather different earlier in the day, since dawn when all hands had been piped to work ship, and prepare for the arrival of the great man himself. Extra care with the rigging, standing and running alike, more hands sent aloft to check each lashing, and no loose ends, “Irish pennants,” the Jacks called them, to offend the vice-admiral’s eye. There was still a hint of cooking in the air, the heady aroma of rum, Nelson’s Blood, but the ship was ready.
He had glanced into the spacious cabin beneath this one, and watched it being transformed into something almost palatial. Rich and very costly furniture had appeared as if by magic, even a few paintings in the admiral’s sleeping quarters. If they ever had to clear for action someone would have to keep a close eye on those as everything was dragged below and the screens were torn down to strip Athena to her true identity, a fighting ship. He had seen the vice-admiral’s servant supervising every aspect of the transformation, a smart-looking man, utterly unmoved by the bustle and confusion around him. Bowles had tried to make conversation, but the man, Tolan, had seemed withdrawn, disinterested in anything that might distract him from his purpose.
He gave the dress coat a final examination. First impressions. He almost smiled. It was something the previous captain, Ritchie, had often said. He had served him a long time, but looking back, it was as if he had never really known him. Now awaiting a court martial. That, too, had surprised Bowles. It was said that Adam Bolitho had been court-martialled a year or so ago, after losing his ship to a Yankee and being taken prisoner. He gave the coat a quick shake. There was a lot he had yet to discover about his new master. Who, for instance, would gallop overland in his best uniform, as if he did not have a care in the world?
He peered across the cabin and saw him now at his desk, his chin resting on one hand, still writing. Today, of all days, when Athena was to become flagship to an admiral about whom most of them knew nothing, the captain could still find the time to put pen to paper.
In an opened shirt, dark hair dishevelled as he ran his fingers through it, as if it were an ordinary day. The small book he carried in his coat lay beside him on the desk, and the well-worn letter he always kept folded inside it. A dreamer one moment, restless and alert the next. Quick to intervene when he thought Stirling had overlooked something. Bowles nodded slowly to himself. In battle or a raging storm, Stirling was like a rock. Duty was duty; like the Articles of War, it was enough.
Adam Bolitho had been well known for his exploits as a frigate captain; a few of the ship’s company had served with him in the past, some even under his famous uncle. Perhaps Athena’s next commission was not going to lead them to another backwater after all . . .
“Boat ahoy?”
The challenge was clear and loud, and Bowles could almost feel the panic it would cause the watchkeepers and, more especially, the first lieutenant. The vice-admiral had changed his mind, and was already heading out to his flagship. Catch everyone unprepared. He had heard the flag-lieutenant, Troubridge, discussing it with the captain. Sir Graham Bethune was to dine with the port admiral at his residence ashore; his host would have his own barge collect and bring him to Athena at four bells of the afternoon watch.
He cocked his head to listen as somebody replied to the challenge.
“Aye! Aye!” So, an officer on board, but nobody important. Probably some mail for Athena, the boat coming early to avoid involvement with the admiral.
He realized with a start that the captain had turned in his chair.
“Nervous, Bowles?”
Bowles held out the coat. “I did wonder, sir.” He looked at the desk again. Dark blue silk, shining in the filtered sunshine. He had had little to do with the quality, but he recognized a lady’s garter. So that was where the captain had been, the sudden need for urgency.
Adam stood up. It was almost time. Pipe all hands, band and guard to man the side. The band would consist of small drummers and fifers; they had been drilling when he had returned aboard. He walked aft to the windows and rested his palms on the sill; it was warm from the deceptive sunlight. Yesterday. Was it only that? The ship had swung still further to her anchor, but he could imagine the road, the sloping hillside, the Tamar. He thought of those last minutes. Seconds. The final touch.
And tomorrow, or a few days at the most, this ship would weigh and put to sea, like all those other times. But so different.
“I’d better get ready, Bowles.” He wondered how Bethune was feeling about this day. No regrets? No doubts?
He heard the sentry tap his musket on the grating outside the screen door.
“Captain’s cox’n, sir!”
Jago was exercising his privilege of coming and going as he chose, no doubt to voice his resentment that Athena’s gig, his gig, was not being used today to collect the vice-admiral.
If we ’ad our own barge, I’d have ’em in shape in a week, sir!
It was the closest he would come to pride.
Jago stepped through the door, his hat in one hand, his tanned features unable to contain a grin.
“Visitor, sir.” He stepped briskly to one side. “Special visitor!”
They stood facing one another, the captain in his shirtsleeves, with dishevelled hair, and the young midshipman, very erect, but all confidence gone now that his determination had deserted him.
“Good God, David, it is you! Come over here and let me look at you!”
Napier said, “We anchored this morning, sir.” He gestured to the stern windows. “The lower anchorage. I asked for permission to . . .” His voice trailed away as Adam seized him by the shoulders and exclaimed, “You’ll never know . . .” He saw the gleaming midshipman’s dirk. “It suits you, David.” He shook him gently. “It does indeed suit you!”
Napier nodded, his eyes very serious. “For my fifteenth birthday. You remembered. I had no idea.”
Adam walked with him to the stern windows, his arm around his shoulders.
“Is everything all right, David? The ship? Everything?”
The youth turned and looked up at him. No words, just the look, then he said, “I have settled in,” and forced a smile. “The captain remembers my name now.” He could not keep it up. “I miss looking after you, sir.”
Jago said, “I think the boat is waitin’, sir.”
“I’ll see you over the side, David.”
Napier shook his head. “No, sir. You know what they would say. Favouritism.”
“So my uncle taught me.” They stood by the open door, Jago, Bowles, the ship, another world.
Adam said, “If ever you need anything, write to me. One day we’ll serve together again.”
Napier looked slowly around the great cabin, as if he wanted to forget nothing.
Jago cleared his throat. “I’ll take you on deck, Mister Napier, sir!”
But this time it did not work.
Bowles watched it all in silence. No matter what task they were called upon to perform, and how this unknown captain would deal with it, he knew that this was the man he would always see and hear.
He realized that the door was closed, and that his captain was by the desk again, fastening his shirt.
He said, “A fine young man, sir.”
Adam did not hear him. It had been like seeing himself.
The admiral’s barge pulled purposefully between the anchored ships, the oars rising and falling like polished bones. If any other boats or small craft appeared to be on a converging course, or about to cross her path, the sharp-eyed lieutenant who remained standing beside the coxswain would merely raise one hand in the air, and the tiller would stay where it was.
Seated in the sternsheets, Lieutenant Francis Troubridge felt the excitement running through him, and it was all he could do to contain it, sitting as he was within a few feet of his superior. It was like nothing he had experienced before. Even the barge crew was smartly turned out, matching shirts and tarred hats, lying back on their looms, eyes astern, but never on the admiral.
Occasionally they swept past a boat which had stopped to allow them to pass unimpeded. All oars tossed, an officer standing, hat raised in salute. Some of the local craft carrying passengers or working parties from the docks also showed their respect: cheers echoed across the choppy water, and aboard one harbour boat women waved scarves and aprons, their voices lost in the timed creak of oars.
Troubridge glanced covertly at Bethune. Not to be in an office or visiting some large man-of-war in one port or another, but at sea. What he had always wanted, and this time with the status and privilege of being the admiral’s personal aide.
Bethune was sitting very upright on a cushion, one foot quietly tapping on the bottom boards, his handsome profile completely at ease, a slight smile never far away whenever another boat stood clear to allow the barge to pass.
That was something Troubridge had soon learned about his admiral. Unlike so many he had seen at the Admiralty or on ceremonial occasions, he had never allowed himself to be visibly drunk. He had seen the port admiral stagger as he had waited on the stone stairs, while Bethune stepped almost casually into the waiting barge. Self-discipline, or something even stronger.
“Ah, there she is!” Bethune had pulled out his beautiful watch. “Right on time, eh, Flags?”
Troubridge flushed. He had intended to point out Athena for the admiral’s benefit. Bethune had beaten him to it.
“She looks well, Sir Graham.” He saw the slight smile again. Like a rebuke.
Athena seemed to tower over them, as if they had covered the last cable in seconds. Rigging blacked down, each yard and spar perfectly set, White Ensign curling from her poop and the Union flag in the bows, her new paintwork shining in the sunlight like glass.
Troubridge thought suddenly of his father, how proud he would be of his youngest son, and felt some of the tension draining away. This was what he wanted.
“Boat ahoy?”
He smiled despite the solemnity of the occasion. Everybody in Plymouth would know this b
arge, and its purpose here today. The navy never changed.
The big coxswain looked swiftly at Bethune’s shoulders and cupped his hands.
“Flag! Athena!”
Troubridge watched the scarlet line of Royal Marines, the blues and whites of the assembled officers and lesser ranks, warrant officers and the rest. The mass of the ship’s company was crammed into the main deck and between the gangways, others on the forecastle and aloft on the fighting tops where a man could find space to stand.
He saw faces duck down out of sight at one of the gunports as the barge altered course and headed for the mainchains and the freshly gilded entry port.
The lieutenant in charge gave his orders, but Troubridge heard none of it, staring at the black and white hull rising above him. The bowmen had shipped their oars and were facing ahead, their boathooks held in readiness. Side-boys were already positioned on the bottom stairs, to take the lines, or fend off the barge to avoid an unseamanlike collision.
There was a bosun’s chair just in sight above the nettings. The anchorage was choppy, and it was not unknown for a senior officer to escape falling overboard by that less dignified route.
Another order, and the oars were tossed and held steady in two dripping ranks; the barge had been made fast.
But Troubridge was remembering the tales he had heard as a boy, from his father or some of his friends. Of Nelson, “Our Nel,” leaving England in Victory for the last time; walking the deck of his flagship with his young flag-lieutenant, Pasco, while the enemy had spread and filled the horizon, and together they had composed the signal every true Englishman still knew by heart.
“Are you ready, Mister Troubridge?” Bethune was standing upright, holding out his expensive boatcloak, not even using a seaman’s shoulder to steady himself against the motion. “They are waiting for us, as you see!” He was actually laughing.
Then he reached out, pausing only to add, “You did as I asked?”
Troubridge swallowed. “Aye, Sir Graham.” He should not have been staring aimlessly around. In a moment he would be sick.
Then the air quivered to the bark of commands, the crack and slap of muskets being brought to the present, pipeclay drifting above and around the twin ranks of gleaming bayonets.
Man of War Page 12