“There is another matter, my lord.” He saw Godschale’s instant guard. “I am given to understand that Rear-Admiral Herrick is still without employment. He was to go to the West Indies, I believe?”
Sillitoe was a man who made even the admiral feel insecure. A cold fish, he thought; one without pity, who stood quite alone.
Godschale muttered, “He is coming here today.” He glanced at the clock. “Soon, in fact.”
Sillitoe smiled. “I know.”
It was also infuriating how he seemed to know everything that happened within the barricades of admiralty.
“He asked for an interview.” He stared at Sillitoe’s impassive features. “Do you wish to be here when he comes?”
Sillitoe shrugged. “I do not care very much either way. However, His Majesty’s ministers have stressed the vital importance of complete confidence in the fleet. An admiral who loses in a fight is soon forgotten. But continued interference by that admiral might be seen as irrational. Some might term it dangerous.”
Godschale mopped his florid face. “God damn it, Sir Paul, I still don’t understand what happened at the court martial. If you ask me, somebody made a fine mess of things. We must be strong and seen to be strong at all times. That was why I selected Sir James Hamett-Parker as president. No nonsense about that one, what?”
Sillitoe looked at the clock, too. “It might have been better to send Herrick to Cape Town instead of Sir Richard Bolitho,” and, briefly, he showed a rare excitement. “By God, he’ll be in his element when we invade the Peninsula.”
Godschale was still pondering on Herrick. “Send him to Cape Town? God, he’d probably give it back to the Dutch!”
The door opened and another clerk said in a hushed tone, “Rear-Admiral Thomas Herrick has arrived, m’lord.”
Godschale snorted. “About time. Send him along from the waiting-room.”
He walked heavily to the window and looked across the busy road to where a dainty, unmarked carriage was waiting beneath the trees, the horses nodding in the dusty sunshine.
Sillitoe remarked, “I thought you always made them kick their heels a while before allowing them to see you.”
The admiral said over his shoulder, “I have other business to attend to.”
Sillitoe’s hawkish features were quite empty of expression. He knew about the “other business;” he had already seen her waiting in the unmarked carriage. Doubtless some officer’s wife, looking for excitement without scandal. As a bonus, her absent husband might find himself in some better appointment. Sillitoe was surprised that Godschale’s dull wife had not heard about his affairs. Everyone else seemed to know.
Herrick entered the room, and glared at Sillitoe with obvious surprise. “I beg your pardon. I did not realise I was too soon.”
Sillitoe smiled. “Pray forgive me. Unless you have any objection . . . ?”
Herrick, realising there was no choice, said abruptly, “In that case,” and stood in silence, waiting.
Godschale led on smoothly, “Please be seated. Some hock perhaps?”
“No thank you, m’lord. I am here to discover satisfaction on the matter of my next appointment.”
Godschale sat down opposite him. He saw the strain, the deep shadows under Herrick’s eyes, the bitterness he had already displayed at the court martial.
“Sometimes it takes longer than usual. Even for flag officers, the powers in the land!” But Herrick showed no reaction and Godschale’s own patience was fast running out. But more than anything, he thought, matters must remain within his grip and control. That was how he had risen to his lofty position, and how he intended to hold on to it.
Herrick leaned forward, his eyes flashing angrily. “If it is because of the court martial, then I demand . . .”
“Demand, Admiral Herrick?” Sillitoe’s incisive voice cut the sultry air like a rapier. “You had a fair trial, in spite of a lack of reliable witnesses, and your own misguided insistence upon refusing any offer of defence, and circumstances, I believe, were very much against you. Yet still you were found not guilty? I hardly think you are in a position to demand anything!”
Herrick was on his feet. “I do not have to put up with your comments, sir!”
Godschale interrupted, “I am afraid you do. Even I bow to his authority,” hating the admission which he knew to be true.
Herrick said, “Then I shall take my leave, my lord.” He turned and added, “I have my pride.”
Sillitoe said calmly, “Do sit down. We are not enemies—yet. And please do not mistake conceit for pride, for that is what you have.” He inclined his head with approval as Herrick sat down. “That is better. I was at the court martial. I heard the evidence, and I saw what you were trying to do. To have yourself condemned, to absolve yourself of the tragedy—for that was what it was.”
Godschale closed the windows: someone might hear Sillitoe’s words. He returned angrily to the table. The little carriage had gone.
“I was prepared for whatever verdict they might present.”
Sillitoe stared at him pitilessly. “You hold the rank of rearadmiral.”
“I earned it many times, sir!”
“Not without the backing of your captain, who became your admiral, eh?”
“Some.” Herrick was watching like a terrier facing a bull.
“A great deal, as I see it. But you are still only a rear-admiral. You do not have any private means of your own?”
Herrick relaxed a little. This was familiar ground. “That is true. I have never had things given to me, no family tradition to support me.”
Gosdchale said unhappily, “I think what Sir Paul is trying to say . . .” He fell silent as Sillitoe’s eyes flashed towards him.
“Hear me, if you please. Article Seventeen clearly states that if found guilty, you would not only have faced the very real peril of execution but more to the point, you would have been, in addition, responsible for reparation to all the ship-owners, merchants and others involved with the convoy. On a rear-admiral’s pay—” His voice was suddenly laced with contempt. “What sum would you have been able to afford? Twenty ships, I believe? Fully laden with supplies of war, and the men to wage it? How much could you offer to placate all those who would condemn you?” When Herrick said nothing he added, “Perhaps enough to pay for the horses that died that day.” He got up lightly and crossed to Herrick’s seated figure. “To hang you would have been a stupid gesture of revenge, useless and without value. But the total bill for that whole convoy would have been laid here, at the doors of admiralty.”
Godschale exclaimed thickly. “My God! I had not considered that!”
Sillitoe eyed him. The glance said, No, obviously not.
Then he waited for Herrick’s attention and said in his silky voice, “So you see, sir, you had to be found not guilty. It was . . . more convenient.”
Herrick’s hands opened and closed as if he were grappling with something physical.
“But the court would not do that!”
“You turned upon Sir Richard Bolitho, the one man who could have saved your neck. If you had allowed him . . .”
Herrick stared at him, his face pale with disbelief. “I never needed his help!”
The door opened and Godschale shouted, “What the bloody hell do you want? Can’t you see we’re busy?”
The grim-faced secretary was unmoved by his master’s rage. He said, “This has just been received by telegraph from Portsmouth, my lord. I think you should see it.”
Godschale read through the note, and said after a silence, “Of all the damnable things to happen.” He handed it to Sillitoe. “See for yourself.”
Sillitoe felt their scrutiny, Herrick staring without comprehension. Then he looked at the admiral, who gave a despairing nod. He passed the note to Herrick.
Sillitoe said coldly, “Well, you have nothing more to fear. You will have no more help from that quarter.” And he strode out of the room as if escaping from some contagion.
Wh
en Herrick finally put the note on the table he realised that he was alone. Quite alone.
Belinda, Lady Bolitho, paused at the entrance of the elegant square, her parasol raised to protect her complexion from the afternoon sun.
She said, “Summer again, Lucinda. It seems no time at all since the last.”
Her confidante, Lady Lucinda Manners, gave a quiet laugh. “Time flies away when one enjoys oneself.”
They walked on, their light gowns floating in the warm breeze.
“Yes, we shall take tea presently. I am quite exhausted by all the shopping.”
They both laughed so that two grooms turned to watch them, and touched their hats as they passed.
Her friend said, “I am so glad that your Elizabeth is fully recovered. Was her father distressed by her injury?”
Belinda shot her a quick glance. Her best friend, yes; but she knew her other side as well. The wife of an elderly financier, Lady Lucinda was one of the first to spread a rumour or some lively tidbit of scandal.
“He paid the fees. It is all I ask.”
Lady Lucinda smiled at her. “He seems to take care of most things for you.”
“Well, I cannot be expected to pay for everything. Elizabeth’s education, her music and dancing lessons, they all mount up.”
“It is such a pity. He is still the talk of London, and she flaunts their relationship like some common trollop!” She gave her a sideways glance. “Would you take him back, if . . . ?”
Belinda thought of her confrontation with Catherine in that quiet house in Kent, when Dulcie Herrick had been on the threshold of death. She still shivered when she recalled it. She herself might have contracted the fever. Just to think of such a terrible possibility made all else seem unimportant . . . That thrice-cursed woman, so proud despite her lecherous behaviour. Scornful even when Belinda had lost her own self-control and shouted at her, “I hope you die!” She had never forgotten Catherine’s emotionless response. Even then, he would not come back to you.
“Take him back? I will choose that moment. I shall not make bargains with a whore.”
Lady Lucinda walked on, partly satisfied. Now she had gleaned the truth. Belinda would take him back to her bed no matter what the price. She considered Bolitho when she had last seen him. No wonder the Lady Somervell had dared scandal for him: given a chance, who would not?
“What is he doing now? Do you hear from him?”
Belinda was tiring of her friend’s curiosity. “When he writes to me I burn his letters, without opening them.” But, for once, the lie gave her no satisfaction.
A figure emerged from one of the mews, pushing another on what appeared to be a small trolley. Both wore various oddments of old clothing, but it was obvious that they had once been sailors.
Lady Lucinda put a handkerchief to her face and exclaimed, “These beggars are everywhere! Why is something not done about them?”
Belinda looked at the man on the trolley. He had no legs and was completely blind, his head moving from side to side as his trolley came to a halt. His companion had only one arm, and a scar so deep on the side of his head that it was a marvel he was still alive.
The legless man asked timidly, “Who is it, John?”
Belinda, who had nursed her previous husband until his death, was shocked nevertheless. Even the man’s name. John, like Richard’s faithful coxswain, his “oak,” as he called him.
“Two fine ladies, Jamie.” He put his foot on the trolley to prevent it from rolling away and pulled out a cup from his tattered coat.
“A penny, ma’am? Just a penny, eh?”
“Damn their insolence!” Lady Lucinda took her arm. “Come away. They are not fit to be seen in this place!”
They walked on. The man replaced his cup and patted his friend on the shoulder. He murmured, “God damn them, Jamie.”
The blind man peered round as if to comfort him. “Never mind, John, we’ll get lucky soon, you’ll see!”
On the fashionable side of the square Belinda stopped again, suddenly uncertain.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.” She looked back, but the two crippled sailors had vanished; perhaps they had never been there. She shivered. “He used to tell me about his men. But when you see them, like those two . . .” She turned again. “I wish now I’d given them something.”
Lady Lucinda laughed and pinched her arm. “You are peculiar sometimes.” Then she gestured at a carriage outside Belinda’s house. “You have visitors. Another reception, and me with nothing new to wear!”
They laughed and Belinda tried to dismiss the man with the out-thrust cup from her mind. He had had a tattoo on the back of his hand. Crossed flags and an anchor; it had been quite clear even through the grime.
The door opened before they had even mounted the steps and one of the maids stared at them with relief.
“There be a gentleman here to see you, m’lady!”
Lady Lucinda tittered. “I told you!”
Belinda silenced her with a quick shake of her head. “What gentleman? Make sense, girl!”
Someone came from the drawing-room at the sound of her voice and Belinda’s heart almost stopped; the stranger wore the uniform of a post-captain, and his face was stern, as if he had been waiting for some time.
“I am sent by Lord Godschale, my lady. I thought it too important to wait for an appointment.”
Belinda walked a few paces to the great staircase and back again. “If you believe so, Captain.”
He cleared his throat. “I have to tell you, my lady, that I am the bearer of sad news. The packet Golden Plover in which your husband Sir Richard Bolitho was taking passage to Cape Town is reported missing.”
Lady Lucinda gasped, “Oh, my God. I pray that he is safe?”
The captain shook his head. “I regret, the vessel was lost with all hands.”
Belinda walked to the stairs and sank down on to them.
“Lord Godschale wishes to offer his sympathy and the condolence of every King’s sailor in the fleet.”
Belinda could barely see through the mist in her eyes. She tried to accept it, to imagine it as it must have been, but instead she could only think of the two men she had just turned away. A penny, ma’am? Just a penny!
Her friend snapped at the maid, “Fetch the doctor for her ladyship!”
Belinda stood up very slowly. “No doctor.” Suddenly she knew; and the shock was overwhelming.
“Was Lady Somervell with him, Captain?”
The man bit his lip. “I believe so, my lady.”
She saw Catherine in the darkness of Herrick’s house, the contempt like fire in her eyes.
Even then, he would not come back to you.
At the end, they had still been together.
8 BREAKERS
BOLITHO sat on the bench below the Golden Plover’s stern windows and stared out at the small, bubbling wake. One day passed very like the one before it, and he felt continually restless at being no part of the vessel’s routine. It was noon, and on deck the heat would be scorching like the wind across an empty desert. At least down here there was some pretence of movement, the hull creaking occasionally to the lift and fall of the stem, the air stirring through the cabin space to help ease the discomfort.
At the opposite end of the bench young Sophie sat with one shoulder bared while Catherine massaged it gently with ointment she had brought with her from London. The girl’s skin was almost red-raw where the sun had done its work during her strolls on deck.
Catherine had told her severely, “This is not Commercial Street, my girl, so try not to lay yourself open to the possibility of being burned alive.”
The girl had given her cheeky grin. “I clean forgot, me lady!”
Jenour was in his cabin, either sketching or adding to the endless letter to his parents. Keen was probably on deck; brooding about Zenoria, wondering if he were taking the right course of action.
Bolitho had had several conversations with Samuel Bezant,
Golden Plover’s master. The man came originally from Lowestoft, and had begun life at sea at the age of nine, naturally enough in that port, aboard a fishing lugger. Now that he understood he could speak with Bolitho without fear of instant rebuke or anger he had explained that most of Golden Plover’s troubles had been caused by the navy. To begin with, he had welcomed the offer of an admiralty warrant. But as he had explained, “What use is ‘protection’ if their lordships or some senior officer can take experienced seamen whenever they choose?” Bolitho knew it was useless to try and explain to any master what it was like for the captain of a man-of-war. If the press-gangs were lucky he might get a few good hands; he might even poach some prime seamen from an incoming merchant ship if her master was so mean that he had paid off his company even before the ship had reached her destination. To do so left those unfortunate sailors open to impressment, if the officer in charge of the party was fast enough. But mostly the new hands were either farm workers, “hawbucks” as most seamen contemptuously called them, or those who might otherwise have faced the public hangman.
Bezant had said on one occasion when Bolitho had joined him to watch the vivid sunset off the Canary Islands, as they had crossed the thirtieth parallel, “There’s only the bosun left from the original afterguard, Sir Richard. Now the second mate’s on the Rock I’m expected to run this vessel like a King’s ship with men who have no feel for the sea!”
Bolitho asked, “What about your mate, Mr Lincoln? He seems capable enough.”
Bezant had grinned. “He’s a good seaman. But even he’s only been in the Plover for six months!”
Perhaps by the time the sturdy barquentine had reached Good Hope, Bezant would have led or bullied his mixed collection of sailors into one team, as much a part of the vessel he so obviously loved as the canvas and cordage that drove her.
Bolitho saw a splash as some unknown fish fell back into the sea again, probably trying to escape from hidden predators.
Since leaving Gibraltar there had certainly been a run of misfortunes. A topman had fallen from aloft during a heavy squall and his body had smashed onto the lee bulwark, killing him instantly. He had been buried at sea the following day. Bolitho had never known the man, but as a sailor himself he had felt the same sense of loss as Bezant had rumbled slowly through his wellthumbed prayer book. We commit his body to the deep . . .
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