“I have been wrong many times, but never, I hope, a hypocrite.”
There was only one really unpleasant incident.
The last visitor was introduced as a Colonel Collyear of the King’s Household guard. A tall, arrogant soldier with a cruel mouth.
“We meet again, Lady Somervell. I find it grotesque to offer my condolences, but duty requires me to pay my respects to your late husband.”
He saw Bolitho for the first time and said in the same affected drawl, “At first, I thought perhaps it might have been you, sir. Had it been—”
Bolitho said calmly, “You will always find me ready enough, and that is a promise. So if you continue to demean an honourable uniform in the presence of a lady, I may forget the solemnity of the occasion.”
Catherine said, “I would have put it less politely. Please go.”
The man backed away, his spurs and accoutrements jingling as he attempted a dignified retreat.
Bolitho thought suddenly of Hyperion’s first lieutenant, Parris, whose mangled body had gone down with the ship after he had shot himself, rather than face the surgeon’s saw.
Catherine had recognised him for what he was; and yet Bolitho had not. Only while Parris lay pinned beneath an upended cannon, when he had confessed his passion for Somervell, had he understood. In this very room she had just recognised another in the arrogant colonel.
Jenour hovered by one of the beautiful pillared doorways. “They are all gone, m’lady.”
Catherine looked at herself in a great gilded mirror. “I see this woman, and yet I feel another.” She seemed to hear what Jenour had said. “Then we shall make ourselves as comfortable as we can. Is his steward still in the house?”
“Yes, m’lady.” He glanced at Bolitho as if for assistance. “I found him weeping in his room.”
She said coldly, “Send him away. I will not have him here. He will be paid, but that is all.”
As Jenour left she said, “This is my house now. It will never be my home.”
She crossed the room and put her arms around his shoulders, and kissed him very slowly and with great tenderness. Then she said, “I want you so much that I should feel ashamed.” She shivered. “But not here, not yet.”
Ozzard padded through yet another door with some fresh coffee. Bolitho noticed the little man was carrying one of the old silver pots from Falmouth. Only he would have thought of that.
Allday glanced in and said, “I think I’ll pipe down early tonight if you don’t need me, m’lady.”
Bolitho smiled. It was easy to forget tomorrow and what the doctor might tell him. He could even forget the corpse which lay upstairs, unloved, and soon forgotten.
She replied, “Please do, Allday. Take something strong to soothe your aches and pains.”
Allday grinned at them. “You always knows, m’lady.” He went off chuckling to himself.
Bolitho said, “An oak indeed.”
“I was thinking.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Your friend Oliver. He could have been speaking for us. We Happy Few.”
When the servants bolted the front doors and laid straw in the roadway to lessen the din of iron-shod wheels, they were still sitting there, close to a dying fire.
Ozzard crept quietly into the room and put some fresh logs on the fire before picking up the cold coffee pot and padding softly away again. Just once he glanced at the couple who slept together, half reclining on one of the great sofas. She was covered with his heavy dress coat, and her hair hung loose and free across his arm, which held her about her waist.
He knew again the sadness and loss that would always stay with him now. At least they had each other; only God knew how long they would be granted such happiness.
He found Allday outside the door and exclaimed, “I thought you’d piped down with a bottle of rum!”
Allday did not rise to it this time. “Don’t feel much like sleep. Thought you might share a wet or two with me.”
Ozzard regarded him warily. “Then what?”
“You’re an educated fellow. You might read somethin’ to me till we feels more like turnin’ in.”
Ozzard hid his surprise. He knows it too. There was a storm brewing. But he remarked, “I’ve found a book about a shepherd— you’d like that one.”
They made for the deserted kitchen, the burly coxswain and the tiny servant who carried his terrible secret like a disease which would eventually destroy him.
But storm or not, they were Bolitho’s men, and they would see it through as they always had. Together.
15 FULL CIRCLE
CAPTAIN Valentine Keen cast a searching glance along the full length of his new command before turning and striding aft where a group of senior officers, Admiralty officials and their ladies, waited beneath the shelter of the poop.
The Black Prince, a powerful second-rate of ninety-four guns, had been completed here in the Royal Dockyard, Chatham, several months ahead of schedule.
For the latter weeks, after his appointment had been confirmed, Keen had stayed aboard for most of the time. On this bitter November forenoon he was very aware of the long days, and the constant demands on his services. He could feel the wind off the River Medway cutting through his limbs and body as if he were naked. Now, all but the formalities were over, and this towering three-decker was to be his.
Lying nearby was an old seventy-four like Hyperion. It was hard to believe that she had been so much smaller than Black Prince, and he found himself wondering if this great ship would ever match her in performance and memory. He had been reminded too that it was in this same dock area that Nelson’s last flagship Victory had had her keel laid, all of forty-seven years ago. And what might the navy become in the same period which lay ahead?
He doffed his hat to the port admiral and then turned to the man he had come to admire and love.
“The ship is prepared, Sir Richard.” He waited, sensing the silence at his back where the ship’s company had been piped to witness the official handing over of the new ship. On nearby walls and slipways the dockyard workers waited in the cold wind to watch. Pride of workmanship; and with the war showing little sign of ending it meant that another great keel would be laid down once Black Prince had been worked out to the Medway, and finally to the open sea.
Not so with most of the ship’s company, he thought. Some had been transferred from other vessels now laid-up for repair or refit without ever being allowed ashore to see their homes or loved ones. The press gangs had gathered the sweepings of the dockside and local harbours. Scum to be made, by example or more brutal methods, into seamen who would, when required, fight this ship with the loyalty of seasoned tars.
The assizes had provided a good sprinkling of poachers and petty thieves, and one or two harder men who chose the King’s service instead of the gallows.
Bolitho looked strained and tired, Keen thought. That last fight aboard the frigate Truculent must have demanded a lot from him. But it had not been difficult to picture Bolitho casting down his flag-officer’s rank to replace Poland as captain when he had fallen. Keen had served with Bolitho in frigates as midshipman and lieutenant, and had seen him in action so many times that he often wondered how they had survived this long.
Bolitho smiled at him. “It is good to be here on this proud day, Captain Keen.”
There was warmth in his voice, and he was probably amused by the formality they must maintain in front of such important visitors.
Keen turned about and walked to the quarterdeck rail, his eyes taking in everything, and marvelling how well his lieutenants and warrant officers had managed to be ready for this day. There had been moments when Keen had believed it would never end. The work, the hull full of carpenters and joiners, sailmakers and painters, while the newly appointed midshipmen were driven from pillar to post by Cazalet, his first lieutenant. Keen knew little of him yet as a man. But as his second-in-command, appointed from another ship of the line, he was beyond value. He never seemed to be without energy or an answ
er to somebody’s problem. Day by day Keen had watched him striding through the piled confusion of rigging and spare cordage, anchors and stores which descended on the dockside like an endless invasion. He looked up at the crossed yards and neatly furled sails, that same tangled cordage now in position, and tarred-down like black glass. On the forecastle he saw the scarlet square of Royal Marines matching their smart lines across the poop behind him.
The lieutenants in blue and white and in strict order of seniority; beyond them the midshipmen and warrant officers. Some of the “young gentlemen” would see this huge ship as the sure step to a lieutenant’s exalted rank, while others, so small they looked as if they should be with their mothers, stared around at the great masts and the double lines of the upper deck twelve-pounders. They would be reminded, no doubt, of the twelve miles of rigging they would have to know by name at first, then by touch if required when called on deck in a raging storm and in pitch darkness.
And there was the company of seamen. Old hands and new, pressed men and vagrants, watching him, knowing that of everyone aboard he could control their lives, while his skill as the captain might well decide if they lived at all.
His voice was clear and steady as he read from the scroll with its round copper-plate writing and the crest of Admiralty at the top. It was like hearing someone else reading it to him, he thought.
“. . . and once satisfied you will go on board and take command of captain in her accordingly . . .”
He heard one of the women give a gentle cough behind him, and recalled how he had seen some of them peering around after Bolitho had stepped aboard. Looking for Catherine, preparing the gossip. But they had been disappointed, for she had remained ashore, although Keen had not yet had time to speak with Bolitho about it.
“. . . all officers and company appointed to said ship shall obey, follow and serve you to this purpose, when His Britannic Majesty King George shall charge to accept the said ship Black Prince into his service . . .”
Keen glanced over the scroll and saw his coxswain Tojohns standing beside the powerful figure of Allday. Their familiar faces gave him strength, a sense of belonging in this teeming world of a ship of the line where every man was a stranger until proved otherwise.
“. . . hereof, not you nor any of you may fail as you will answer the contrary at your peril and according to the Articles of War . . . God Save the KING!”
It was done. Keen replaced his hat and tucked the scroll inside his coat again while the first lieutenant, Cazalet, stepped smartly from the group of officers and shouted, “Three cheers for His Majesty, lads!” The response could have been better, but when Keen glanced round he saw that the port admiral was beaming, and there were a lot of handshakes amongst the men who had planned and supervised for this day, and those who would profit by the end of it.
Keen said, “Dismiss the hands, Mr Cazalet, then come aft to my quarters.”
He thought he saw the other man raise an eyebrow. It was now time to entertain the visitors. By the look of some of them it was going to be difficult to get rid of them. He called after the first lieutenant, “Tell Major Bourchier to double his marine guard.” He had almost forgotten the major’s name. In a few weeks he would know them better than they did each other.
Lieutenant Jenour touched his hat. “I beg your pardon, sir, but Sir Richard is leaving now.”
“Oh, I had hoped . . .” He saw Bolitho standing apart from the others, as they flowed aft on either side of the great double-wheel which was yet to feel the fury of wind and rudder in contest.
Bolitho said, “Pay my respects, Val. But I have to go. Lady Catherine . . .” He looked away as some visitors passed by, one of the women staring at him quite unashamedly.
He added, “She would not come aboard. She thought it best. For me. Later perhaps.”
Keen had heard about Browne’s death and the duel which had preceded it. He said, “She is a wonderful lady, Sir Richard.”
“I cannot thank you enough for standing by her in my absence. My God, Fate soon determines who your true friends are!”
He walked slowly to the quarterdeck to look down at the guns, the neatly-packed hammock nettings.
“You have a fine ship, Val. A floating fortress. There’s no flag captain I’d rather have, and you know it. And have faith, as I did, although to others the odds against my finding Catherine again were a million-fold. Zenoria needs time. But I am certain that she loves you.” He clapped his arm. “So no more melancholy, eh?”
Keen glanced aft where the din of voices and laughter was already growing. “I’ll see you over the side, Sir Richard.”
They went down to the entry port together, and Keen noticed there were already more marines in evidence with their muskets and fixed bayonets and immaculate, pipeclayed, cross-belts. Their major had acted promptly; there were still those who might try to desert before the ship was at sea, and order and discipline took root. Keen was a fair and understanding captain, but he was mindful that he was still fifty men short of his full complement of eight hundred officers, marines and sailors. The sight of the armed sentries might make the foolhardy think twice.
“Man the side!” The gleaming new barge was rolling gently in the sluggish confinement of the dockyard, Allday in the sternsheets, the crew neatly turned out in checkered shirts and tarred hats.
Bolitho hesitated. A ship without history, without memory. A new start. Even the idea seemed to mock him.
He said, “You will receive further orders within the week. Use all the time you can to work the people into a team we can be proud of.”
Keen smiled, although he hated to see him leave after so brief a visit. “I have had the best of teachers, sir!”
Bolitho turned, then felt himself falling. Keen seized his arm, and there was a clatter as one of the marines dropped his musket with surprise. The lieutenant in charge of the side-party snarled something at the luckless marine and gave Bolitho a few seconds to recover his wits.
“Is it the eye, Sir Richard?” Keen was shocked to see the expression of utter despair on Bolitho’s features when he faced him again.
“I’ve not told Catherine yet. They can do naught to help me, it seems.”
Keen stood between him and the guard and boatswain’s mates with their silver calls still poised and ready.
“I will lay odds she knows.” He wanted to offer some kind of help so badly that even his own worries seemed beyond reach.
“If that is the case . . .” Bolitho changed his mind and touched his hat to the guard before lowering himself down the stairs from the entry port, where Allday’s hand was outstretched to guide him the last few steps into the barge.
Keen watched the boat until it was out of sight beyond a moored transport. He had commanded several ships during his service, and this should have been his greatest reward. Older captains than himself would give their blood for such a command. A new ship, soon to fly a vice-admiral’s flag, could only bring honour to the man who controlled her destiny. So why did he feel so little? Was he so affected by the Hyperion, or was it that he had been so near to death on too many occasions?
He frowned at the laughter from his quarters. They neither knew nor cared about the people who would serve this ship.
A lieutenant blocked his way and touched his hat. “I beg pardon, sir, but another lighter is putting off from the victualling pier.”
“Are you the Officer-of-the-Watch, Mister Flemyng?” The young lieutenant seemed to shrink as Keen added sharply, “Then do your work, sir, for if you cannot I will seek out another who can!”
Almost before the lieutenant had made to move away he regretted it.
“That was uncalled for, Mr Flemyng. A captain’s rank has privileges, but abuse of them is beyond contempt.” He saw him staring in astonishment. “Ask as much as you like. Otherwise we may all be the poorer when it concerns something vital. So send for the boatswain and the duty-watch to deal with these stores, eh?”
As the lieutenant almost ran
across the quarterdeck, Keen gave a sad smile. How true had his words been just now to Bolitho.
I have had the best of teachers.
The thought seemed to rally him, and he looked along the deck again to the black, armoured shoulder of the proud figure-head. Then he stared aloft at the curling masthead pendant and some gulls which screamed through the rigging with an eye for scraps from the galley. Almost to himself he said, “My ship.” Then he spoke her name, “Zenoria.” Afterwards he thought it had been like releasing a bird from captivity. Would she ever call him in return?
The light carriage, with mud splashed as high as its windows, reached the top of a rise and reined to a halt, the two horses steaming in the cold air.
Yovell groaned and released his grip on a tasselled handle and exclaimed, “These roads are indeed a disgrace, m’lady.”
But she lowered a window and leaned out regardless of the fine, intermittent drizzle which had followed them all the way from Chatham.
“Where are we, Young Matthew?”
Matthew leaned over from his box and grinned down at her, his face like a polished red apple.
“The house is yonder, m’lady.” He pointed with his whip. “’Tis the only one hereabouts.” He puffed out his cheeks and his breath floated around him like steam. “A lonely spot, in my opinion.”
“You know these parts, Young Matthew?”
He grinned again, but with a certain wistfulness as the memory clouded his eyes. “Aye, m’lady. I was here ’bout fourteen years back—I were just a boy then, working for my grandfather who was head coachman for the Bolitho family.”
Yovell said, “Before my time with Sir Richard, I think.”
“What were you doing in Kent?”
“The master was sent here to hunt down smugglers. I was with him an’ helped a bit. Then he sent me back to Falmouth ’cause he said it were too dangerous, like.”
Catherine withdrew her head. “Drive on, then.” She sat back in the seat as the carriage rolled forward through a succession of muddy ruts. Another part of Bolitho’s life she could not share. Allday had made some mention of it. How Bolitho had still been recovering from the terrible fever he had caught in the Great South Sea, but had desperately tried to obtain a ship, any ship. War with France had still been just a threat, but England had allowed the fleet to rot, her sailors thrown on the beach. There were few ships, and only Bolitho’s persistence, his daily visits to the Admiralty, had found him employment at the Nore. Recruiting, but also hunting smugglers, to stamp out their vicious trade, a far cry from the romantic tales which abounded about their exploits.
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