Catherine brushed some wet hair from her face and gazed at him searchingly.
“You will take care, dearest of men?”
He held her. “You know I will. I have everything to live for— now.” He had begged her not to wait, but to go straight on to Falmouth. But he had known it would not happen.
She said, “When we were in that boat . . .” She hesitated, wanting to be anywhere but on this windswept street. “I knew I could face death with you beside me. Without you . . .” Again he heard the difficult pause. “You see, I am not so brave.”
On their way here, with Matthew guiding the carriage through the deep ruts, which would become a bog as soon as winter closed in, he had told her about his squadron: six sail of the line instead of fourteen, one frigate instead of three. Even with the addition of Black Prince, arguably one of the most powerful ships in the world, it was not much of a force for finally stamping out French power and possessions in the Caribbean. And all because Bonaparte had wanted to take Portugal and put his own son on the throne of Spain. The action had divided their forces yet again, so that the Danish ships seized to complement the fleet were still not enough.
He said, “I shall miss you with all my heart.” She said nothing and he knew she was finding it equally hard. Release her shoulders, step out on to the stairs and into the barge. It will be over.
He recalled how she had shown immediate dismay when he had told her that his solitary frigate was to be the old Tybalt, a ship he knew well, with a captain who would be worth his weight in gold when sniffing out the enemy’s strength in the Indies.
“Not Adam, then?” Was she so concerned for his safety that she wanted all those dearest around him?
He asked, “What shall you do?”
She was watching him intensely, desperately. “I shall help Ferguson—and maybe Zenoria will ask my advice in seeking a house of her own in Cornwall. I know that Valentine’s family still awes her . . .” Bolitho was not surprised. Lavish houses in London and in Hampshire, one brother a wealthy lawyer and the other who described himself simply as a “farmer”: he owned even more land than Roxby.
She turned in his arms and studied him again. “I have sent a few things over to the ship. To keep you well nourished—to remind you of me sometimes.”
He kissed her hair. It was wet from spray and perhaps drizzle. But it could have been tears.
“Take care of your eye.”
It was all she said. There might once have been hope, the surgeon had said yet again. Something might still come about. But he had left little doubt in their minds that it was now only a matter of time.
Bolitho heard the horses stamping on the cobbles, eager to go, as if they knew they were returning this time to their own warm stables in Falmouth.
He said, “I have arranged for some out-riders for the journey, Kate.”
She pulled off her glove and laid her hand on his cheek.
“Have you forgotten your tiger so soon? Have no fears for me, Richard. Just remember the house, waiting for you . . . D’you remember telling me to do that after the Golden Plover was lost, and our chances of survival were so small?”
He looked past her. “I will never forget.” There was silence, then she said, “If only we could have had more time.”
“What all sailors lament, my love.”
“And it will be your birthday in three days. I . . . so wanted to be with you.”
So she felt it too, he thought. Age; time; always the passing of time. It seemed so very precious now.
He walked her to the shelter of the wall. In his mind’s eye he could see his flagship already there in the Western Ocean. A great ship, sailing alone, but a mere speck on that vast expanse of hostile sea.
“I shall raise a glass to thee, Kate.”
Allday did not turn but called, “I think it’s time, Sir Richard. The tide’s on the turn an’ Tojohns is hard put to hold the barge steady.”
“Very well. Signal him alongside.” Then he turned away from the sea and held her tightly against his spray-spotted boat-cloak.
“I love thee so, Kate. My heart is splintered in the pain I feel at parting from you.”
They kissed for a long while, holding on to the moment and all the memories which had triumphed over danger, even death.
When she looked at him again there were real tears in her dark eyes.
“I cannot bear the thought of you being at English Harbour again without me. Where you came, and our love was freed for all time.”
Bolitho had already thought of that, but had hoped she had been spared the reminder.
He heard the oars being tossed and saw her eyes turn towards Allday who was standing beside the pitching barge, in which a youthful lieutenant was sitting, staring about him as if he had never been in charge of a boat before.
She called, “This is not the first time, Allday. But take care of him for me!”
Allday tried to smile. “We both got a lot to come back for, m’lady—leastways, I think I have!”
He watched them kiss, knowing what this parting was costing the man he served and loved beyond all others; then he climbed down into the barge and glared at the gaping lieutenant. “It’s customary for the officer to be ashore when the vice-admiral comes down, sir! ” He saw Tojohns give a quick grin as the lieutenant jumped on to the pier and all but lost his cocked hat to the wind.
Allday said between his teeth, “Bloody hopeless, that’s what!”
Bolitho saw none of it. “Go now. Do not wait. You will catch cold up here.”
She released him very slowly, so that their fingertips were just touching when their arms were outstretched.
He said, “I have the locket.”
She answered as she always did. “I will take it off for you when we lie together again, my dearest man.”
Then, with the old sword swaying against his hip, Bolitho went down the stairs and touched his hat to the lieutenant and coxswain.
“I am ready.” He sat beside Allday, his boat-cloak turned up over his ears, his hat beneath it on his lap.
“Bear off! Give way all!”
The oars rose and fell, and with the tiller hard over the smart barge turned quickly away from the slime-covered, treacherous stairs.
In his aching mind the oars seemed to beat a steady rhythm, up, down, up, down, rising and falling like wings as each pull carried him further away from the shore.
Back to the life he had come to expect since he had gone to sea at the age of twelve. It will be your birthday in three days. He could still hear her voice on the wind. Later on, in the seclusion of his cabin, he would remember every hour of their time together. Their walks, the happiness of silence and understanding, the sudden and demanding love and hunger for one another which had left them breathless, and sometimes shy.
He shifted round to watch the land drifting away, the anchored black and buff hulls of several men-of-war swaying heavily to their cables. My world. But try as he might, he could not accept that there was nothing else. Perhaps in the privations of the Golden Plover’s jolly-boat there had been something to learn, even for him. The suffering which had brought a strange comradeship beyond rank and title, the loyalty which had kept Catherine and her maid safe in spite of the very real danger all around them.
Don’t leave me.
The master, Samuel Bezant, cursing those who had betrayed him; Tasker the mate, who had been a part of the plot. He wondered if she ever allowed her mind to return to her Spanish comb, and how she had used it on the traitor Jeff Lincoln. She must have been planning what she must do to save Jenour from being discovered even as Lincoln had been pawing at her body. And Tyacke, his horribly scarred face so full of pleasure and pride that it should be his own ship which had finally found and saved them.
He glanced around, imagining her voice across the frothing choppy water, almost expecting to see her. But the walls were nearly out of sight in the spray that hung like mist on a low shore.
Don’t leave me.
Keen would be relieved to be sailing without any other consorts or responsibilities. It would give him time to train his people, to work them at sail and gun until they were a match for any ship which had been in commission far longer. It had been like seeing the old devil-may-care Keen again; it must have been a wonderful reunion for him with his girl with the moonlit eyes. The sailor and his mermaid.
He felt Allday stir. “There she is, Sir Richard.” He displayed neither enthusiasm nor regret. She was his ship. This was his lot.
Bolitho shaded his eyes and saw Allday give him a quick, worried glance. Black Prince seemed to tower above the nearest 74 . There were tiny figures working on the yards and in the topmasts’ rigging; others moved along the gangways or waited in groups, no doubt being given more instructions by their lieutenants and warrant officers.
A ship to be proud of, but one without memory or tradition.
To settle his troubled thoughts Bolitho said quietly, “I am glad you have found your lady. I hope that all is well for the future.”
It was pointless to remind Allday that he was free to quit the sea whenever he chose. He had earned it as much as many, and more than most. And now with the recurring pains in his chest from the Spanish sword thrust, he ought to be given a chance to enjoy something of his life. But it was no use. He had tried before. Allday only got angry, or hurt, which was much worse in so big a man in every other way.
Allday replied, “She’s a fine little craft, Sir Richard. Can’t imagine what she ever saw in poor Jonas Polin!” He chuckled, “God rest his soul!” Neither saw the curious stares from some of the bargemen. A coxswain chatting with his flag officer was not an everyday sight in the King’s navy. Allday added, “We has an understanding, so to speak. I must keep my place, but she’ll entertain no other.” He frowned. “Well, summat like that.” He glanced at Bolitho uncertainly. In a few moments there would be too much to do, too many faces for his admiral to recognise and acknowledge. Not many of the former, he thought.
He said, “If anything was to happen, Sir Richard.” He spoke so quietly that his voice was almost drowned by the creak of oars and the surge of tide.
Bolitho laid his hand on the big man’s sleeve. “Speak no more of it, old friend. It is the same for us both.” He tried to smile. “The good die young, so there’s an end to it, eh?”
When he looked again Bolitho saw the jib-boom sweeping past as Tojohns steered the barge as close around the bows as he dared. The fierce-eyed figurehead loomed overhead: Edward, Prince of Wales and son of Edward III, in chain mail and black armour with a splash of colour, the fleur de lys and English lions on the surcoat. Menacing enough to strike at the heart of any enemy, as it had on that terrible morning when they had shattered the French ship that had reduced Herrick’s Benbow to a broken hulk.
Bolitho had the usual tense dryness in his throat as he saw the side-party waiting by the entry port, the blue and white of officers, the scarlet of the marines.
It often amused him when he thought of it at other times. Who would ever guess that he too might be nervous and unsure? It did not amuse him now.
“Bowman!”
Bolitho took out his hat and wedged it on to his head. Remembering her face, when he had rid himself of his queue in favour of the more modern haircut which Allday, who had the longest pigtail he had ever seen, had referred to as “a custom of the younger wardroom bloods!” But Kate had not chided him for it, nor laughed at his apprehension at being older than she.
Allday hissed, “Ready to come about, Sir Richard?” The ship stood high above them, the barge dipping and pitching as if to cast off the bowman’s attempt to hold on to the chains.
Their eyes met. “Ready, it is.” Bolitho moved the sword clear of his leg and reached out for the hand-ropes. It would only need one wrong step. And then, all at once or so it seemed, he was through the entry port and on to the comparative shelter of the gun deck.
The squeal of calls, the slap and bang of bayonetted muskets and the flash of the marine officer’s sword: it never failed to overwhelm him. And here was Keen hurrying to greet him, his youthful features all smiles.
“Welcome aboard, Sir Richard!”
They gripped hands and Bolitho said with a wry smile, “I am sorry you didn’t get your broad-pendant, Val. Fate was against it this time.”
Keen grinned. “It is unimportant, Sir Richard. Like poor Stephen Jenour, I am not eager for that moment!”
Bolitho nodded to the assembled officers, seeing their expressions of curiosity, of hope perhaps. They depended on him for the future; to them, he was their future, for better or worse.
“I shall go aft directly, Val. I know you are eager to weigh anchor.” He broke off and stared at a group of men who were being mustered by one of the lieutenants. “That man, Val—”
“Aye, sir. New hands. But the one you’re looking at is the selfsame William Owen, Golden Plover’s lookout on that unfortunate day.”
Bolitho said, “Put him ashore. He has a protection. And after what he did—”
But for his respect Keen would have laughed. “He volunteered, sir. ‘Thought we should keep together,’ were his words.” He watched Bolitho’s unmasked surprise. You don’t understand, do you? Not even now. Perhaps you never will.
He led the way aft, knowing that Bolitho was probably recalling the court martial, that bitter memory.
Inside the great cabin Ozzard and Jenour were waiting. Bolitho looked around. Her wine cabinet and cooler was already in position. It had been removed from the ship when he had been reported killed.
Ozzard said apologetically, “We’ve not got everything stowed yet, Sir Richard, but I’ve fresh coffee ready.” He glanced around, proud of what he had managed to achieve in so short a time. Bolitho noticed that he showed no regrets about leaving. After the shipwreck he could have been forgiven for remaining on hard, dry land.
There was an open chest on the black and white checkered deck, and inside he saw some neatly parcelled books. They were new, bound in fine green leather and beautifully tooled in gilt so delicate it might have been finished with a gold pen.
“What are these?”
Ozzard wound his hands into his apron. “From her ladyship, Sir Richard. Came out in the guard-boat.”
Keen saw his face and said quickly, “Come with me, Stephen.” To Ozzard he added, “You may bring Sir Richard some coffee.”
The doors closed and Bolitho heard the sentry put down his musket.
He got down on his knees and studied the collection: all the plays he had lost when Golden Plover had gone down. He took out one volume which lay apart from the rest. Shakespeare’s collected sonnets, the printing of which was very clear, obviously chosen with great care to ensure that he could read them easily.
He felt his heart lurch as he saw a ribbon marker closed between the pages: swiftly he opened the book and held it where it would catch the best light on this grey day.
It was her own message, to comfort him when the thought of ageing and separation sought to depress him.
It is the star to every wandering barque,
Whose worth’s unknown, altho’ his height be taken.
Then he seemed to find her reassurance.
Love’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks . . .
He got up, oblivious to the shouted commands from the deck, the squeal of tackles, the shiver of the capstan through every timber.
He went to the stern windows and hoisted one open, his face and chest instantly drenched in rain and spray.
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Just once, he called her name, and across the tumbling water he heard her cry.
Don’t leave me.
14 BAD BLOOD
OZZARD waited for the deck to sway upright again before refilling his vice-admiral’s cup with fresh coffee.
It was the afternoon of the sixth day since leaving Spithead, and it seemed as if every contested mile of their passage so far had been dogged by foul weather and the inevitable stream of accidents. Captain Keen had been forced to up-anchor with the ship’s complement still fifty short, and with so many unskilled landmen aboard it was no wonder there had been injuries, and worse.
One man had vanished during a shrieking gale in the middle of the night, his cries unheard as he was swept over the side by a great white-bearded wave. Others had suffered cracked bones and torn hands, so that Coutts, the surgeon, had pleaded personally with Keen to reduce sail and ride out each storm under reefed canvas.
But day by day, bad weather or not, the drills continued, one mast racing the other to make or shorten sail, the rigging of safety nets over the upper gun deck to become used to doing it even in pitch darkness if required, so that the crews of the thirty-eight 12 -pounders would not be crushed by falling spars and rigging should they be called to action.
Deck by deck, from the massive carronades in the bows to the middle and lower gun deck where the main armament of powerful thirty-two-pounders, or “long nines” as they were nicknamed, the men lived behind sealed ports as great seas boiled along the weather side, and flung solid sheets of water high up over the nettings.
Keen had shown his faith in his warrant officers and those specialists who were the backbone of any ship, and had been quick to display his confidence in them over matters of discipline. With a company so mixed, and with many completely inexperienced, tempers frayed and fists flew on several occasions. It led inevitably to the harsh and degrading spectacle of punishment, the lash laying a man’s back in cruel stripes while the rain spread the blood around the gratings, and the marine drummer boys beat out the time between each stroke.
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