The other frigate’s captain had been down in the great cabin for more than an hour. Each seeing his own ship’s part in what lay ahead, the selection of men, and who would lead them.
A landing party. A raid, to flush out the corsairs so that the frigates could get amongst them before they could make good their escape.
He heard Lieutenant Massie, who had the watch, speaking sharply to a boatswain’s mate, a man not known for his quick response to anything beyond routine. Massie had little patience with anyone who could not keep up. He was a good gunnery officer, one of the best Galbraith had known, but he was not a man for whom it was possible to feel any affection.
Massie joined him now, breathing hard. ‘A bloody block of wood, that man!’ Galbraith glanced at the open skylight. Soon now. He heard Bolitho laugh. A small thing, but reassuring.
The captain had said to him while they had been waiting for Christie to arrive from Halcyon, ‘I want you to take charge of the landing party. I’ve a few suggestions which we can discuss later, but mostly it will be your initiative, and your decision when you get there.’ His dark eyes had been intense. ‘Not a battle, Leigh. I need you as my senior lieutenant, not as a dead hero. But you are the obvious choice.’ He had smiled. ‘The right choice.’
Massie said, ‘One man to be flogged, so why all the fuss?’
A seaman had been found in his mess, off duty and drunk. It seemed they had only just dropped anchor, and now they were leaving again . . . There will be danger. Aboard ship it was different. Faces and voices to sustain you, the strength of the timbers surrounding you.
Galbraith said, ‘A flogging helps no one at a time like this.’
‘They’d laugh in your face without firm, strong discipline, and you know it!’ Massie sounded triumphant when Galbraith did not respond. ‘They offer us scum to be made into seamen. Well, so be it!’
Galbraith stared at the other ships, their reflections less sharp now in a freshening breeze.
Massie seemed to read his thoughts, and said angrily, ‘I expect half of Malta knows what we are about! When we reach those damned islands the birds will have flown, and good riddance, I say!’
Is that what I was hoping? Galbraith thought suddenly of the gathering in the captain’s cabin when they had entertained Sir Lewis Bazeley and his young wife at supper. The wine, like the endless procession of tempting and distracting adventures with which Bazeley had dominated the conversation, disappearing bottle by bottle. Like most sea officers, Galbraith had little experience of fine wines. You took what was available, in a far different world from that described by Sir Lewis. But once or twice he had received the impression that Bazeley had not always known the luxury of good food and wine, or beautiful women. He was a hard man in more ways than Galbraith had yet fathomed.
Massie waved an arm towards the shore. ‘And a reception, no less! We should be there, after all we’ve achieved since we joined this damned squadron!’
Galbraith remembered most of all how the young woman had looked at the captain whenever he had answered one of Bazeley’s many questions. As if she were learning something. About him, perhaps . . .
He answered wearily, ‘Next time, maybe.’
Midshipman Cousens said, ‘The captain’s coming up, sir.’
Galbraith nodded, glad that the conversation had been interrupted, and that Massie would be quiet for a while.
‘Man the side!’
The two captains stood together by the rail and waited for the gig to grapple alongside.
Christie turned and smiled at Galbraith. ‘My second lieutenant will be supporting you on this venture. Tom Colpoys – he’s an experienced officer, so you’ll have no complaint on that score!’
So easily said. As if neither of these young captains had a care or a doubt in the world.
The muskets slapped to the present, a sword sliced through the dusty air, the calls squealed, and moments later Christie’s gig pulled smartly out from Unrivalled’s shadow.
Adam Bolitho swung on his heel. ‘A man for punishment, I understand?’
Galbraith watched his face as Massie reeled off the offences.
‘Willis, you say?’ Adam paced to the rail and back again. ‘Foretopman, starboard watch, correct?’
Massie seemed surprised. ‘Aye, sir.’
‘First offence?’
Massie was out of his depth. ‘Of this kind, sir.’
Adam pointed towards the shimmering rooftops and battlements.
‘Over yonder, a good many will be too drunk to stand tonight, Mr Massie. Officers, no less, so think on that too! They shall not be flogged and neither shall Willis. Give him a warning, this time.’ He looked keenly at the lieutenant, as if searching for something. ‘And a warning for the one who brought him aft in the first place. Responsibility pulls in two directions. I’ll not have it used for working off old scores.’
Massie strode away, and Galbralth said, ‘I should have dealt with it, sir.’ Massie had probably never been spoken to in that manner in his life. Few captains would have cared, in any case.
Adam said, ‘I shall be going ashore directly.’ And smiled, at something Galbraith did not understand. ‘To sign for my destiny.’ He looked along his command, and Galbraith wondered how he saw her. Only a captain could answer, and Bolitho would share that with nobody. Unless . . . ‘When I return offshore, you will join me in a glass.’ The rare, infectious smile again. ‘Not claret, I think.’
Then the mood was gone, just as quickly, and he said, ‘The man Willis. His wife has died.’ He paused, the memory stirring. ‘In Penzance.’
‘I did not know, sir.’
‘Why should you? But Massie is his lieutenant. He should have known, and cared enough to prevent this unnecessary affront.’
Bellairs was hurrying towards them, but he waited for the captain to leave before he produced a list of items he had been told to muster for the proposed landing party.
Galbraith put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘Later, but not now, my lad.’ He shook the shoulder gently. ‘I wish you had been here just now. You’d have learned something which would have had your promotion board agog with admiration.’ He thought of the captain’s expression, the dignity and the fire in the quiet voice. ‘About the true qualities which make a King’s officer. I certainly did, believe me!’
He knew Bellairs was still gazing after him when he walked away to call the gig’s crew. And he was glad he had shared it with him.
Adam chose the same leisurely approach to Bethune’s house without truly knowing why. The narrow street was in deeper shadow now, and most of the stalls had been closed or abandoned for the night. He looked towards the low-canopied shop where he had spoken with the silversmith, but that, too, was deserted. As if he had imagined it.
He had left the gig at the jetty alone and had sensed Jago’s disapproval; he had even ventured to suggest that he should keep him company. The whole place is probably full of cutthroats an’ thieves. But he had remained with the boat’s crew when Adam had told him that there would not be a man left, hand-picked or not, when he returned.
Like that handshake; Jago had still come only halfway towards sharing his innermost thoughts.
But the old sword at his hip had been loosened in its scabbard all the same.
There had been a couple of small boys begging, and a savage-looking guard dog, but otherwise his walk was undisturbed.
The air was cooler as evening lengthened the shadows, but not much. He thought without pleasure of the reception at Bethune’s headquarters, and imagined the press of sweating bodies, and the wine. Unrivalled would put to sea in the morning. He had to keep a clear head, to deal with any remaining problems before the two frigates were committed.
He turned the corner and saw the pale gates looming out of the dusk. Every window seemed to be ablaze with light. He could smell cooking, and felt his stomach contract. He had eaten nothing since breakfast; Jago probably knew about that, too.
He touched his ha
t to a sentry and strode into the courtyard, aware of vague shapes, murmured instructions, and the continuous clatter of dishes and glassware.
He recalled Bethune’s casual question about the passage from Gibraltar. Did he see his unwanted visitor as a burden, or a possible stepping-stone to some new appointment? He was welcome to it. His was a world Adam had never known, and had repeatedly told himself he would never willingly share.
There was music, hesitant at first, violins, seemingly at odds with one another and then suddenly sweeping through the courtyard in a single chord.
He stopped and listened as the music faded away, and somebody called out for attention. Short notice. Bethune had not approved of that, either.
‘Why, Captain Bolitho, is it not? Standing alone and so thoughtful. You are very early!’
He turned and saw her in a curved entrance he had not noticed on his previous visit. In the deepening shadows her gown looked blue, perhaps chosen to match her eyes. Her dark hair was piled above her ears, Hilda’s work, he thought, and she was wearing earrings, shining like droplets of fire in the last sunlight.
He removed his hat and bowed.
‘My lady, I am a visitor, not a guest. I shall be on my way as soon as I have met with Sir Graham or his aide.’
‘Ah, I see. More duty, then?’ She laughed and flicked open a small fan which had been dangling on a cord at her wrist. ‘I had thought we might see more of you.’
He joined her in the paved entrance and caught her perfume, her warmth. The same woman, and yet so different from the one he had held and restrained in her moment of nausea and despair.
‘It seems you are well cared for, m’ lady.’ He looked past her as the music began again. ‘I hope the reception is a great success.’
She took his arm, suddenly and deliberately, turning him towards the music, towards her, until they were only inches apart.
‘I do not care a fig for the reception, Captain! I have seen so many, too many . . . I am concerned that you choose to blame me because of such . . .’ She seemed angry that she could not find the word to express her displeasure.
‘Necessities, m’ lady?’
‘No, never that!’ She calmed herself; he could feel her fingers gripping his arm, like the night Napier had brought him to her.
She said, ‘Walk with me. There is a view of the harbour on the other side.’ Her fingers tightened as if to drive away his resistance. ‘Nobody will see us. Nobody will care.’
‘I do not think you understand . . .’
She shook his arm again. ‘Oh, but I do, Captain! I am well aware of the rules, the etiquette of King’s officers. No talk of women in the mess. But a knowing nod and a quick wink betrays such chivalry!’ She laughed, and the sound echoed in the curved archway. ‘Listen! D’ you hear that?’
They came out on to a paved parapet, beyond which Adam saw the sea, sunset already bronze on the water, the riding lights and small moving craft making patterns all their own.
The hidden orchestra was playing now, and the other sounds of preparation seemed to pause as if servants and orderlies had stopped to listen.
She said almost in a whisper, ‘It’s beautiful,’ and turned to look at him. ‘Don’t you agree?’
He put his hand on hers and felt her tense. A woman one moment, a child the next. Or was he deluding himself yet again?
‘As you have observed, my lady, I am somewhat aback when it comes to the finer points of etiquette.’
She did not respond, but said a moment later, as if she had not heard him, ‘A waltz. D’ you know that some people still claim it is too risque, too bold, for public performance?’
He smiled. She was teasing him.
‘I am thankful I am spared such hazards!’
She turned towards him again, and removed his hand from hers as if she was about to walk away. Then she took his hands once more, and stood looking at him, her head slightly on one side, deciding perhaps if she had already gone too far.
‘Listen. Hear it now? Let it take charge of you.’
She placed his right hand on her waist, pressing it there, like the night when she had refused to release him.
‘Now hold me, guide with your left hand, so.’
Adam tightened his grip and felt her move against him. Even in the uncertain light he could see the bare shoulders, the darker shadow between her breasts. His heart was pounding to match the madness, the pain of his longing. And madness it was. At any moment somebody would discover them; rumour could run faster than any wind. And jealousy could match and overwhelm any sense or caution.
But she was moving, taking him closer, and his feet were following hers as if they had always been waiting for this moment.
She said, ‘You lead,’ and leaned back on his arm, her eyes wide. ‘Then I shall yield.’
And laughed again. The music had stopped, like the slamming of a single door.
How long they stood in the same position was impossible to know. She did not move, even when he pressed harder against her thighs, until he could feel the heat of her body, her shocked awareness of what was happening.
Then, carefully, firmly, he held her away, gripping the naked shoulders until she was able to look at him again.
He said, ‘Now you know, my lady, this is no game for tricksters. Bones mend, but not hearts. You would do well to remember that!’
She dragged her hand away and raised it as if to strike him, but shook her head when he seized her wrist. ‘It was not a game or a trick, not to me. I cannot explain . . .’ She stared at him, her eyes shining with tears, and he felt her come against him again, without protest or amusement. He wanted to push her away, no matter what it might do to each or both of them.
Think what you are doing, of the consequences. Are you beyond reason because of a loss you could never have prevented, a happiness which was never yours to explore?
But there was no solution. Only the realisation that he wanted this woman, this girl, another man’s wife.
He heard himself say, ‘I must leave you. Now. I have to see the admiral.’
She nodded very slowly, as if the action was painful.
‘I understand.’ He felt her face against his chest, her mouth damp through his shirt. ‘You may despise me now, Captain Bolitho.’
He kissed her shoulder, felt her body tighten, shock, disbelief, it no longer mattered.
There were voices now, and laughter, someone announcing an arrival. She was fading into the shadows, moving away, but with one arm held out.
He followed her through the same low archway, and she said, ‘No, no – it was wrong of me!’ She shook herself as if to free her body of something. ‘Go now, please go!’
He held her, kissing her shoulder again, lingeringly, and with a deep sensuality. There were more voices, closer. Someone looking for him, or for her.
He pressed the small silver sword into her hand and closed her fingers around it, then he walked through the archway and into the courtyard once more, his mind and body fighting every step, almost daring to hope she might run after him and prevent him from leaving. But all he heard was the sound of metal on stone. She had flung the little clasp away from her.
He saw Lieutenant Onslow peering out from the opposite doorway and felt something like relief.
‘Captain Bolitho, sir! Sir Graham sends his compliments, but he is unable to receive you this evening. He is with Sir Lewis Bazeley, and before the guests arrived he thought –’
Adam touched his sleeve. ‘No matter. I will sign for my orders and leave.’
Onslow said lamely, ‘He wishes you every success, sir.’
Adam did not glance up at the balcony. She was there, and she would know that he knew it. Anything more would be insanity.
He followed the flag lieutenant into another room. While Onslow was taking out the written orders, Adam held out his hand and examined it. It should be shaking, but it was quite steady. He picked up the pen, and thought of Jago down there with the gig’s crew.
&nb
sp; There were far more dangerous forces abroad this evening than cutthroats and thieves. Perhaps Jago had realised that also.
I wanted her. And she will know it.
He could hear her voice still. Then I shall yield.
Perhaps they would never meet again. She would know the perils of any liaison. Even as a game.
The gig’s crew sat to attention when he appeared, and the bowman steadied the gunwale for him to step aboard. Jago took the tiller.
‘Cast off!’
Captain Bolitho had said nothing. But he could smell perfume, the same she had been using when they had carried her, almost insensible, below.
‘Bear off forrard! Out oars!’
Jago smiled to himself. Get back to sea. Good thing all round.
‘Give way all!’
Adam saw the riding light of his ship drawing nearer and sighed.
Destiny.
15
Close Action
LIEUTENANT LEIGH GALBRAITH got down on his knees in the cutter’s sternsheets and ducked his head under the canvas canopy to peer at the compass. When he opened the lantern’s small shutter it seemed as bright as a rocket, just as the normal sounds around him were deafening.
He closed the shutter and regained his seat beside the helmsman. By contrast it was even darker than ever now, and he could imagine the man enjoying his lieutenant’s uncertainty. He was Rist, one of Unrivalled’s senior master’s mates, and the most experienced. The stars, which paved the sky from horizon to horizon, were already paler, but Rist navigated with the assurance of one who lived by them.
Galbraith watched the regular rise and fall of oars, not too fast, not enough to sap a man’s strength when he might need it most. Even they sounded particularly loud. He tried to dismiss it from his thoughts and concentrate. The cutter’s rowlocks were clogged with grease, the oar looms muffled with sackcloth; nothing had been left to chance.
He imagined their progress as a sea bird might have seen them, had there been any at this hour. Three cutters, each astern of the other, followed by a smaller boat which had been hoisted aboard Unrivalled under cover of darkness. Was it only two nights ago? It felt like a week since they had made that early morning departure from Malta.
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