Allday would know all about her, and might even share some, if not all of his store of memories. Avery smiled. He was still not used to conversing so openly with an ordinary Jack.
He said, "Tell me I am speaking out of place, Sir Richard, and I will ask for your forgiveness, and tolerance of my ignorance."
Bolitho watched him calmly. "I have not yet found you one to ingratiate yourself or to probe. Speak on."
"Your rank, your position alone would be recognised instantly on board the Prince Henry." He faltered under Bolitho's grey stare. They may not know you by name or reputation..." He was floundering.
Bolitho said quietly, "But to them I would represent authority of the highest kind, am I right? In one man they would see every judge, magistrate and law officer who ever ran them to ground."
That is what I was trying to say, Sir Richard."
Bolitho turned and put his hand on his shoulder. "You spoke only the truth."
Avery looked down at the strong, sun-burned hand resting on his coat. It was like being someone else, not himself at all. Even when he replied it was like hearing a stranger's voice.
"A lieutenant would mean very little, Sir Richard. I could go. I could carry a letter to the rear-admiral if you wish it."
He felt Bolitho's fingers tighten on his shoulder as he said quietly, "He will not come. I know it."
Avery waited. There was pain in his voice.
Bolitho said, "But it was well said." The hand was withdrawn.
Avery said tentatively, "Captain Sampson might care to invite him to dine also."
At that moment the captain entered and strode straight to his wine cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of cognac and said huskily, "I beg your pardon, Sir Richard." He downed the glass quickly and refilled it. "Gangrene is a nasty thing. Too late anyway." He looked at them wearily. This is not what I intended for your visit, Sir Richard!"
Avery cleared his throat noisily. "Sir Richard was wondering if you might extend your invitation to Rear-Admiral Herrick, sir?"
Sampson stared at them, like a drowning man who sees the unexpected arrival of aid.
"I would be delighted, Sir Richard! I shall inform my servant immediately and send word to the Prince Henry in my launch."
Bolitho studied his flag lieutenant. "You take many chances, sir." He saw him look down in embarrassment. "But as Our Nel was known to have said, standing orders will never replace a zealous officer's initiative!" He smiled. "He still may not come." A small inner voice seemed to say, You may never see him again. Never. Like Sampson, like the ships that pass and remain only in memory.
Sampson's personal steward bustled in, almost another Ozzard but with the accent of the East London slums. He poured more wine and remarked, "Beggin' yer pardon, Sir Richard, but me old dad served under you in th' frigate Undine. Begs many a tot o' rum from anyone oo'll listen to 'is yarns abaht it!"
He left the cabin and Bolitho looked at the warm wine. The family again. And yet he had not even told him his name.
As dusk closed in across the moored ships and the riding lights twinkled on the water like fireflies, Bolitho heard a boat hooking on to the chains. The handful of available marines stamped to attention, and there were muffled voices as Sampson greeted the second flag officer to visit him in days.
Bolitho found he was watching the screen door, while Avery stood by the stern windows, barely more than a shadow in the flickering candlelight. Why had he doubted that Herrick would come? Not curiosity, or because of friendship, but because he was and always had been a stickler for duty and correct procedures. He would never show disrespect for Captain Sampson's invitation, no matter what he might think.
That was the worse part, Bolitho thought. He knew him so well, too well perhaps.
A marine sentry opened the door and they came into the candlelight.
Bolitho had two immediate surprises. He could not recall ever seeing Herrick out of uniform, even of the more casual order at sea, and he was shocked to see how he seemed to have aged in so short a time.
Herrick wore a dark frock coat; it could have been black, with only his shirt to break the sombreness of his appearance. He was a little more stooped, probably because of the wound taken aboard his flagship Benbow. His face was drawn, with deep lines at the mouth, but as he stepped into the dancing lights his eyes were unaltered, as clear and blue as the day Bolitho had met him as a lieutenant.
They shook hands, Herrick's grip still hard and firm like tanned leather.
Bolitho said, "It is good to see you, Thomas. I never thought we should meet like this."
Herrick glanced at the tray of glasses, which the black servant was holding out for his inspection.
He asked curtly, "Ginger beer?"
Sampson shook his head and began to worry. "I regret, no, sir."
"No matter." Herrick took a glass of red wine and said, "I never thought it either, Sir Richard. But we must do what we must and I have no desire to remain in England," his blue eyes steadied, 'unemployed."
Surprisingly Bolitho recalled the tall marine who had pointed out 'the good stuff at Hamett-Parker's reception in London. How he had said it was wrong that Herrick should be sent to New South Wales.
Herrick glanced at Avery and then at the gold cord on his shoulder. "The other one was appointed elsewhere, I believe?"
"Yes. Stephen Jenour has a command now."
"Another lucky young man."
"He deserved it."
Herrick watched the glass being refilled as if he did not recall drinking from it.
Then he turned to Captain Sampson. "Your health, sir, but I do not envy your task here." To the cabin at large he continued, "It is strange, is it not, that on one hand we are weakening our de fences and deploying men and ships when they are sorely needed elsewhere simply to find and free a lot of savages who sold each other to the slavers in the first place!" He smiled suddenly and for only a second Bolitho saw the stubborn, caring lieutenant he had known. Herrick said, "While on the other hand we ship our own people like animals, nay, less than beasts, in vessels which can only degrade and brutalise every man and woman amongst them!"
He changed tack and asked, "And how is her ladyship, Sir Richard, and the child Elizabeth is she well also?"
"Lady Catherine is in good health, Thomas." Even calling him by his title had been like a slap in the face.
Herrick nodded gravely. "Forgive me. I forgot."
The meal Sampson provided was surprisingly appetising, with some sort of game bird as the main course, and succulent fish which had also been caught by local boats.
Sampson noticed none of the tension between his two principal guests, or pretended not to. By the time they reached the fruit and some excellent cheese left by a visiting Indiaman, he was barely able to speak without slurring his words.
Bolitho looked over at him. Sampson was happy nonetheless.
Herrick asked, "Do you have big matters arising, Sir Richard? They seem to use you hardly. Perhaps I shall be better off in the colony."
A lieutenant peered into the cabin. "Mr. Harrison's respects, sir, and the rear-admiral's boat is alongside."
Herrick stood up abruptly and looked at his watch. "On time anyway." He glanced at the captain but he was fast asleep, snoring gently, with wine on his bulging waistcoat like the work of an enemy marksman.
"Good-bye, Mr. Avery. I wish you well. I am sure your future will be as illustrious as your breeding." Bolitho followed him through the door, but not before he had seen the bitterness in those tawny eyes.
In the comparative coldness of the dark quarterdeck, he said to Herrick, "In his case that is not true. He has had his share of damaging treatment."
"I see." Herrick sounded disinterested. "Well, I am sure you will set the right example for him."
Bolitho said, "Can we not be friends, Thomas?"
"And have you remind me later how I abandoned you, left you to fight against the odds as I once did?" He paused, and then said quite calmly, "And to think of it
, I lost everything I cared about when Dulcie died. While you threw it all away for..."
"For Catherine?"
Herrick stared at him in the light of the gangway lantern.
Bolitho said harshly, "She risked everything for your wife, and last year she endured things which have left her scarred like the sun-burns on her body."
"It changes nothing, Sir Richard." He raised his hat to the side-party. "We have both lost too much to cry salvage!"
Then he was gone, and seconds later the boat was pulling strongly from the chains until only the trailing wake could be seen.
"Just as well I came across, Sir Richard."
Bolitho swung round and saw Allday by the quarterdeck ladder. "What made you come?" He already knew.
"I heard things. "Bout Rear-Admiral Herrick going over to the Marathon. Thought you might need me." He was watching him through the darkness. Bolitho could feel it.
Bolitho touched his arm. "Never more, old friend." He almost stumbled, and a scarlet arm reached out as a marine made to help him.
"Thank you." Bolitho sighed. Probably thinks I'm drunk. His eye blurred painfully and he waited for Allday to lead the way. Herrick had not even asked him about his injury, although he knew of it.
If only there were a letter from Catherine. Short or long: merely to see it, to read and re-read it, to imagine her with her hair hanging down over her shoulders in their room that faced the sea. Her expression as she paused and touched her lips with the pen as he had seen her do when working with Ferguson on the accounts. I am your woman.
He said abruptly, "Come aft. We will take a wet, as you term it!"
"The Cap'n won't welcome that, Sir Richard!"
"He is beyond caring, old friend."
Allday grinned with relief, glad he had come. Just in time by the look of it.
They sat at the littered table, where Avery said uncertainly, "Quite a feast, Sir Richard." He seemed nervous, disquieted.
Bolitho reached for one of the bottles.
He said, "Be easy, Mr. Avery. There are no officers here tonight, only men. Friends."
They solemnly raised their glasses.
Avery said, "To friends then! No matter where they are!"
Bolitho clinked his glass against the others. "So be it!"
He drank, recalling Herrick in his black coat. When he wrote to Catherine again he would not mention the fiasco of their meeting. She would have already known, while he had continued to hope.
It was over.
NINE
Intrigue
Lewis Roxby, squire, landowner and magistrate, nicknamed with some justification the King of Cornwall, stood at the foot of the bell-tower of the Church of King Charles the Martyr, his eyes watering in the chill breeze from Carrick Roads. Beside him the curate of Falmouth's famous church was droning on about the need for further alteration to the interior so that the new Sunday Schools which he had helped to found could be extended to the opening of a day school. But first more work was needed on the roof, and something had to be done to prevent the spread of rot in the bell-chamber.
Roxby was well aware of the importance of helping the church and the community, or rather to be seen doing it. Richard Hawkin Hitchens was a good enough clergyman, he supposed, and he took a great interest in the education of local children under the church's influence. The actual Rector of Falmouth only rarely visited the place, and his last appearance had in fact been at the memorial service for Sir Richard Bolitho, then believed lost at sea in the Golden Plover.
Roxby remembered the wild excitement when two of Adam's lieutenants had galloped into the square with the news that Bolitho was safe. The unfortunate Rector's words had been lost in the bedlam as people had surged outside to the various inns to celebrate.
He realised that the curate had stopped speaking and was looking at him earnestly.
Roxby cleared his throat. "Well, yes, there is some value in it." He saw the man's bewilderment and knew he had got it wrong. "I shall look into it. It does appear necessary, I suppose."
It seemed to work and the curate beamed at him. Roxby turned on his heel, angry with himself, knowing it would cost him more money. He saw his horse waiting beside the groom's and summoned up happier thoughts, of the next hunt ball he would give.
The groom said, "She be comin', zur."
Roxby watched as Lady Catherine Somervell on her big mare cantered round a corner by The King's Head and moved across the square. It was a tasteless name for an inn when you thought about it, Roxby reflected, considering the fate of King Charles.
He doffed his hat and tried not to stare. She was dressed from head to toe in dark green velvet, with a hood partly drawn over her hair, accenting the beauty of her features.
He made to help her down but she withdrew one booted foot from its stirrup and landed beside him without effort. He kissed her hand and could smell the perfume she wore, even through her thick riding glove.
"It is good of you to come, Lewis."
Even her easy use of his name made him shiver. No wonder his brother-in-law had fallen in love with her.
"I can think of nothing more pleasant, my dear." He took her elbow and guided her around the corner of a grocer's shop. He apologised for his haste and added, The curate has a hungry look. I fear he may think of something more he needs!"
She walked easily beside him and barely hesitated when they left the shelter of the houses and the keen air blew the hood down on to her shoulders. Roxby was already short of breath and made every effort to hide it from her as he did from his beloved wife, Nancy. It never occurred to him that as he drank heavily and consumed far too much rich food, it was not surprising.
Roxby said, "I must warn you, my dear, that what you intend could be an expensive failure."
She looked at him, a faint smile on her mouth. "I know.
And I am grateful for your advice and concern. But I want to help the estate. What use are crops if the prices are controlled by the markets? There are plenty of places where they need every kind of grain, where bad harvests have been commonplace to a point of poverty."
Roxby watched her, still baffled by her involvement. He knew she had recovered a lot of money from the estate of her dead husband, but he would have thought it better if she had spent it on clothes, jewels, property and the like. But he knew she was very determined, and said, "I've found the vessel you wanted. She's the Maria Jose and she lies at Fowey. I have had a friend look her over. He is well used to the prize courts."
"Prize?"
Roxby continued to hurry beside her, pacing himself to her stride. "She was taken by the revenue cutters. A smuggler. You could change the name, if you wanted to."
She shook her head so that some of her dark hair tugged free of her combs and whipped out in the wind. "Richard says it is bad luck to change a vessel's name." She looked at him directly. "I suppose I need not ask what happened to her crew?"
He shrugged. "They'll not be smuggling, m'dear, ever again."
"Are we close to Fowey?"
"Bout thirty miles by the main coach roads. But if the weather breaks..." He paused doubtfully. "I would not let you go unguarded. I'd go with you myself but..."
She smiled. "It would do very little for your reputation, I think."
He flushed. "I would be honoured, Catherine, proud to take you. But I am needed here until the winter sets in. You could break the journey at St. Austell - I have friends there. I will arrange it." His tone implied if you must go.
She looked past him at the cruising white cats' paws around the anchored merchantmen, at the boats under oars pitching and tossing while they went about their business. She could feel the cold even through her cloak. There were leaves floating on the water, and the bare trees were shining and black from the night's rain. And yet it was still only October, for a few more days anyway.
She had discussed the proposed purchase of a vessel with a lawyer who had come all the way from London upon confirmation of her plans. He had been as doubtful a
s Roxby. Only Ferguson, the one-armed steward, had shown excitement when she had explained it to him.
"A fine, sound boat, Lady Catherine, one able to take passage to Scottish harbours or across to Ireland if need be. They're no strangers to famine. It will make good sense to them, right enough!"
Alexander Kent - Bolitho 20 Darkening Sea Page 15
