And yet everything was changed, and she could not believe it.
She ran her hand inside her robe, across her shoulder, then down and around her breast. Forcing herself to relive it, confront what she had allowed to happen.
I do not love him. She did not even know if she had spoken aloud. Nor did she care. Perhaps it had been inevitable, and yet she would never have believed it of herself. She had become used to it, the stares, the hints, the lingering grip on her hand. She was stronger than any of it. She believed.
She thought of Adam, out there in the flagship, doubtless fretting over his lost freedom as a frigate captain. As Richard had done, and had shared it with her.
How would Adam take it when he heard about Bethune, and their liaison?
She was on her feet, the tiles cool to her bare soles. It was not like that . . . She picked up the ring from the table, so brilliant even in this shadowed room, rubies and diamonds. She could remember the little church in Cornwall where Richard had slipped it on to her finger. All so clear despite the years, and the pain in between. Where Valentine Keen had married Zenoria. She could still hear his voice. In the eyes of God, we are married. And that other memory, of Adam’s despair as he had watched Zenoria, whom he had loved, become the wife of another man.
Adam’s heart had been broken; he more than anyone would understand what had happened here, within a mile of that other, grander house where she had seen Richard’s ship coming to anchor, when they had been reunited against all odds.
She had even pulled off this ring before Graham Bethune had arrived. Shame? Guilt? I do not love him.
She knew it was impossible. It would ruin Bethune. He was young for his Admiralty appointment, and she knew enough about the navy to realize what envy might create. His wife would do the rest, and destroy him.
She looked at herself in a tall glass. Heard herself say, but I’m not young any more, not just a girl who wanted to love and be loved. Even in the dim light she could see the mark on her shoulder, where he had pressed against her, and she had given in. Her eyes flashed. Willingly . . .
A door opened slightly; it was Marquita.
“You rang the bell, m’ lady?”
Catherine had already forgotten.
“I want you to take this letter to Mr Jacob down by the jetty.” She waited for the girl to hold it. “Give it to nobody else, Marquita. You understand?”
Marquita nodded slowly. “Mister Jacob, m’ lady.” She looked around. “You not eaten?”
Catherine put her arm around the girl’s slender shoulders.
“Tell Cook to go home. I shall not need anything.”
She clasped her shoulder, taken off guard, as the noon gun crashed out across the harbour.
“Big trouble, m’ lady?” The girl’s eyes were studying her anxiously. Both her mother and father had been slaves. It reminded her of Sillitoe, and Bethune’s warning. Sillitoe, the man of power, feared by almost every one, who had cherished and protected her ever since that hideous night in Chelsea. Who had never touched her. She would not desert him now.
Perhaps when they returned to England . . . But the picture refused to form.
All she could see was the door of that Chelsea house, and what someone had carved on it. Whore!
She called out, but the room was empty.
13 THE ONLY ALLY
AFTER THE oppressive heat in the harbour the commodore’s headquarters seemed cool by comparison within its thick, white-painted walls, with commanding views across the anchorage and main channel, and out toward the hazy blue horizon. There were old cannon along the bastion, probably Spanish, a hundred years old or more, with Commodore Swinburne’s broad pendant hanging limply overhead.
As the gig had pulled out from beneath Athena’s great shadow, Adam had felt the sun on his shoulder like something physical. He had seen Stirling on the forecastle, watching while the second anchor was swayed out to its cathead, ready to let go without a moment’s notice if a storm should break over the island.
Fraser the sailing-master had said cautiously, “Glass is steady enough, sir. But out here . . . you know how it is.”
Troubridge had accompanied him, pleased, Adam thought, to get away from Bethune and his mounting impatience.
The gig had passed abeam of the captured barque, and it was hard to believe she had ever been raked by Lotus’s broadside; the dockyard workers had patched and painted over most of the damage. Adam felt there was hardly a piece of the Villa de Bilbao he had not examined. The metal bars to keep the slaves secure, and long planks, like shelves, in the holds, so that more living bodies could be stored in ranks, one above the other, like books in a case with hardly room to breathe or move. A nightmare.
Cousens had said nothing, and was locked in solitary confinement under military guard. He would go to the gallows in silence, perhaps more afraid of his employers than the hangman. And there was always the chance he might escape the fate he justly deserved. He had not been carrying slaves, and he might claim that he fired his guns in self-defense, in the belief that Lotus was a pirate or privateer under false colours. It was not unknown.
He had destroyed his charts minutes before being boarded, or thrown them overboard in a weighted bag with any other evidence close to hand.
Bethune had sent despatches by courier to the Admiralty, insisting on more ships for his command, frigates most of all. Nothing changed. Adam had never forgotten how Lord Exmouth had wanted Unrivalled in the van for his attack on Algiers. There were never enough frigates, peace or war.
They had been ushered into a large room, fans swinging busily overhead, long blinds extended to hold the glare and heat at bay.
There were several other commanding officers present, including Pointer; Lotus was in the dockyard for repairs to her hull. Another captain was from the frigate Hostile, which had been undergoing a complete overhaul and was soon to rejoin the scattered squadron.
And there was Captain Ian Munro, of the frigate Audacity, their newest arrival. Adam had met him when he had come aboard Athena to make his report to Bethune: a young, round face, scorched rather than tanned by the Caribbean sun, with bright ginger hair. Adam remembered Bethune’s sarcastic comment on the little frigate’s age. Thought she was in the breaker’s yard. Munro had obviously become used to such remarks. He had said cheerfully, “She was launched the same year I was born. A perfect match, don’t you think?”
He was twenty-eight years old, and although not yet posted would be confirmed in that rank before the year ended. Provided. But, like any frigate captain, he would not need reminding of the pitfalls always in wait.
Adam saw the quick glances, and the occasional smiles, although after nearly a month at Antigua, with Athena “taking root” as Jago had put it, most of them were still strangers.
A door opened and Commodore Sir Baldwin Swinburne entered the room. Despite the fans he looked hot and uncomfortable, but very sure of himself, a different man without Bethune’s presence.
Adam looked over at Troubridge and wondered how much he knew about the rumours. It was none of any one’s business if Bethune used his rank and authority to visit Catherine. She was a beautiful woman, and she was far more than that. She had helped him beyond belief when Zenoria had killed herself. She had understood, even though Zenoria had not been his to love. And she had comforted him, then, and after Richard had fallen on board Frobisher. He pushed the thoughts away. It was useless going back.
Swinburne said loudly, “Now that we are all assembled.” He glanced at Adam, and beamed. “I can explain the development of our strategy to date.” He was enjoying it.
“When my sloop Lotus stopped and seized the barque now lying under our guns, it was assumed that she was making for Havana. We have had, after all, some experience in the tactics of the Spanish captain-general, have we not?” There were several chuckles. “But we can never assume too much.” Once again, briefly, his eyes settled on Adam and the flag-lieutenant. “The Villa de Bilbao did not in fact intend to e
nter Havana. Her master, Cousens, would have allowed Lotus to make for that port.” He looked around at their faces, like a showman with some secret trick still in hand. “Lotus’s change of tack in the darkness caught Cousens all aback.”
Adam curbed his impatience. The flaw in the picture. Someone had discovered something. Or someone had bartered the missing information, perhaps for his own life.
Troubridge leaned over and whispered, “I hope there are not too many ears listening to this, sir.”
Swinburne said, “San José, so near to that clever encounter some four hundred miles east of Havana. That, gentlemen, is the key!”
Adam tried to picture it in his mind while the room around him buzzed with excitement, and not a little disbelief. All the months, the thankless patrols, and fighting off attacks when every foreign flag was an enemy, and pain, fever, and suffering in the most brutal trade of all; and it had been under their noses. It would not produce a miracle. But it was a beginning.
“My clerk will outline the details, all that we have so far. Tomorrow I shall pass instructions to the rest of the squadron.”
Pointer had moved over to sit beside him. “I find it hard to accept.” He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “San José is avoided when possible. Bad approaches, and a small anchorage. Used to be fortified—some slaves rebelled there years ago, before my time. A slaughter to all accounts.”
“But still large enough to land slaves?”
Somebody tapped a table. “Pay attention now!”
Adam pressed his spine into the chair. A journey in hell.
Rounded up, beaten, and shackled, sold by their own people or rival tribes to daring and unscrupulous men like Cousens. Crammed into small vessels, and eventually transferred to the new craft of the trade. Larger, faster, and often better armed than the ships which searched an ocean for the chance of a prize.
He reached inside his coat and felt the letter folded with the other one in his pocket.
High summer in Cornwall, and Catherine’s roses would still be blooming in the old garden; Lowenna’s, too. Like the house overlooking the Bay, waiting.
The commodore’s clerk was droning on about Spanish authority, civil and military. Population and local trade; further details would be provided for every captain without delay.
Swinburne was mopping his shining face; the showman was almost bowing.
Adam asked abruptly, “Does Sir Graham know about all this?”
Troubridge gave him a keen glance, wise for one so young.
“Sir Baldwin has agreed to take charge of the first part of this campaign, if that is what it will become.” He lowered his voice. “So if anything misfired, he might also carry the blame, surely?”
Captain Munro pushed through the others and held out his hand.
“I’m going to my ship, sir.” He regarded him curiously. “Letter for you. From one of my young gentlemen.”
“How is he? I know I should not ask.”
Munro turned as someone called his name.
“He’s a good lad.” He nodded. “Quiet, but good.” Then he grinned. “Suits me anyway, sir!”
And he was gone.
Adam walked out on to a stone terrace, the heat bathing him like steam. He could still hear the commodore’s voice, his thick laughter.
And suddenly he was sorry for him, and it troubled him. Like a warning.
Seven days out of English Harbour found His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Audacity of 24 guns deep in the Caribbean, rarely in sight of land and only once close enough to another vessel to exchange greetings. She had been a small brigantine, one of the squadron’s widely scattered patrols, and on her way back to Antigua to replenish stores.
Captain Ian Munro was proud of his command and made a point of demonstrating it to his people, wardroom or messdeck. He had served only once before in the Caribbean, and then as a very junior lieutenant. Most of his service had been in home waters and the Mediterranean, and for one commission in the second American war.
When he walked the quarterdeck or found a piece of shade by the nettings he often thought of all the other captains who had preceded him, as varied as the campaigns in which Audacity had taken part. Toulon, St Vincent, the Nile, and Copenhagen were only a few of her exploits.
He had heard the boatswain, one of the oldest men in the ship, giving what sounded like a lecture to the new midshipmen who had been sent aboard at Plymouth.
“Now listen to me and listen good. You’re lucky to be serving in this ship, an’ you’ve a lot to live up to, to ever pass muster in my book! Audacity was built in the days when men knew ’ow to give a ship life! Launched on the Medway, an’ built of the best Kentish oak, when they still ’ad some seasoned trees standin’!” He had used his big red hands to sketch the shape of the hull. “The frames was grown in them days, not cut from loose ends of timber, so she’s got double the strength of some of them high-fliers!” He did not hide his contempt for the newer fifth-rates in the fleet.
Munro loitered by the quarterdeck rail, watching and listening to the early morning shipboard routine.
The decks had been washed down soon after dawn, and were already bone-dry in the hot southeasterly. A fair wind, enough to fill the sails, for most of the time at least; Audacity was leaning over to larboard, close-hauled as she lay on the starboard tack.
The sailing-master was standing with one of his mates near the compass box, outwardly unconcerned, his jaw still working on a piece of pork left over from breakfast.
Munro smiled, feeling the same excitement, which he knew the motion of the man’s jaw did not conceal. A week out of harbour, checking the log, the tide, the compass, using the sextant. All to find one tiny cross on the chart.
He saw the new midshipmen with a boatswain’s mate. More instruction. He watched, trying to remember his own first steps.
In one ear and out the other, had been one summing-up.
The younger of the two, David Napier, seemed quieter than most midshipmen, but even in so short a time he had heard well of him. Keen to learn, and ready to try again if something went wrong. Sponsored by his previous captain, a Bolitho. He had never met him before Antigua, but knew his background almost as well as Audacity’s . Napier had been “volunteered” by his mother, who had remarried and gone to America. Not a unique story, but the one behind it would be much more interesting, he thought. A well-known frigate captain and the nephew of England’s hero; it seemed strange that he should care so much.
The second newcomer had been foisted on him by another captain as an obligation to someone important. Probably glad to be rid of him. And yet Munro could not have explained why, unless he openly interfered with the routine of his officers. Again he smiled to himself. And the boatswain!
Midshipman Boyce was thickset, heavily built for seventeen, which was unusual; most young gentlemen were always hungry, but the rigour of their duties pared away any surplus weight.
Munro had heard no adverse reports of his work or behaviour in the months since he had come aboard. He was never late on watch or relieving others for duty. The Atlantic had put gun and arms drill to one side, but all hands had been busy aloft and on deck, setting and trimming sails, splicing: those running repairs which made a sailor’s lot.
They carried six midshipmen all told. With the fleet cut to the bone and ships being laid up in every major port, they were lucky to get a berth at all.
He glanced at the sea alongside and saw the topgallants reflected on the gently heaving water, the masthead pendant a tiny stab of colour.
He recalled the flag-captain he had met at the conference: the vice-admiral’s right arm, and with every chance of a glowing future ahead of him. A face you would not forget. And yet during their brief conversations, he had gained the impression that the envy was on Bolitho’s side.
He looked at the main deck again and saw Midshipman Boyce coming aft with a master’s mate, probably to do some chart work. He remembered that Boyce had injured his wrist somehow and wa
s ordered to stand clear of general seamanship duties. He frowned, trying to recall the details; he would ask the first lieutenant about it.
“Deck there!”
Every face peered up, and a seaman about to take another turn on a halliard shaded his eyes with one arm to look aloft.
Even the sailing-master’s jaw was motionless.
“Land on th’ weather bow!”
There were cheers from the forecastle, and knowing grins from the older hands.
Munro touched the rail. The cross on the chart. All those miles.
In his mind he could see it. The Windward Passage, or soon would be, that fifty-mile channel which separated Haiti from Cuba. Hated and feared by some, with difficult currents and badly recorded soundings.
Tomorrow or the next day they would be near the place where the sloop Lotus had made her capture.
He felt the same chill of excitement. This was now. A perfect landfall.
“Mister Napier, come over here!”
The youth stood facing him. Open shirt, none too clean, his white trousers already touched with paint or tar. Tanned skin, a legacy of other seas, in Bolitho’s last command.
The surgeon had told Munro about the scar on Napier’s leg.
“A miracle he didn’t lose it, sir. I’ve known many a butcher who would have lopped it off without blinking!”
Another story there, too.
“Sir?”
“Can you go aloft for me?”
“Aye, sir.” His feet were bare and he was rubbing one across the other while he stared at the masthead.
“Tell the lookout there’s a tot waiting for him when he comes down.”
Napier hesitated by the nettings. “They say Haiti is an evil place, sir?”
Munro grinned. “Don’t you listen to all those old women between decks! Away you go!”
Napier gripped the shrouds, testing the unyielding roughness. His hands were still not used to it. He thought he saw the midshipman named Boyce staring at him from the poop. Just for a second, and he was gone.
For now.
Napier began to climb, his gaze fixed on the quivering rat-lines. It was something he took for granted, and even in his first race up the shrouds with other youngsters in Unrivalled, he had never been troubled by heights.
Man of War Page 23