“A premonition.” He turned from the table to conceal his face from them. It was here; he could feel it. Not just yet, but soon, quite soon.
“The larger vessel—how big, d’you think?”
Evans nodded to Ozzard and took another tankard of rum. Then he wiped his lips with the back of his rough hand and frowned. It seemed habitual.
“Well, I’m no real judge, but she were a liner right enough.” He glanced professionally around the cabin. “Bigger’n this ’un, see?”
“What?” Bolitho turned back at Keen’s sudden surprise and doubt. “Must be a mistake, sir. I have read every word of those reports from the Admiralty. No ship larger than a seventy-four survived Trafalgar. They were either taken or destroyed in the gale that followed the battle.” He looked almost accusingly towards the wild-haired lieutenant. “No agent has reported the building of any vessel such as the one you describe.”
The lieutenant grinned. The burden was no longer his, and the rum was very good.
“Well, that’s what I saw, Sir Richard, an’ I’ve been at sea for twenty-five year. I were nine when I ran out o’ Cardiff. Never regretted it.” He shot Keen a pitying glance. “Long enough to know which is the sharp end o’ a pike!”
Keen laughed, the strain leaving his face as he retorted, “You are an impudent fellow, but I think I asked for it!”
Bolitho watched him, the news momentarily at arm’s length. Only Keen would be man enough to make such an admission to a subordinate. It would never have occurred to Bolitho that he might have learned it from his own example.
Bolitho said, “I want you to carry a despatch to Portsmouth. It could be urgent.”
Keen said, “The Nore would be a shorter passage, sir.”
Bolitho shook his head, thinking aloud. They have the telegraph at Portsmouth. It will be faster.” He eyed Evans meaningly as he swallowed some more rum. “I take it you have a reliable mate?”
It was not lost on the shaggy Welshman. “I won’t let you down, Sir Richard. My little schooner will be there by Monday.”
“There will be a letter also.” He met Evans’ searching stare. “I would appreciate if you send it by post-horse yourself. I shall pay you directly.”
The man grinned. “God love you, no, Sir Richard. I know them buggers at Portsmouth Point an’ they owe me a favour or two!”
Keen seemed to come out of his thoughts. “I have a letter as well which could perhaps go with it, Sir Richard?”
Bolitho nodded, understanding. If the worst happened he might never know Zenoria’s love. It did not bear even thinking about.
“You are doing the right thing, Val,” he said quietly. “My lady will ensure she receives it.”
By noon the schooner was under way again, watched with envy by those who knew her destination, and wished that their next landfall would be England.
While Bolitho and Keen thought about their respective letters, carried in the schooner’s safe with the despatches, other smaller dramas were being enacted deep in the hull, as is the way with all large men-of-war.
Two seamen who had been working under the direction of Holland, the purser’s clerk, to hoist a fresh cask of salt pork from the store, were squatting in almost total darkness, a bottle of cognac wedged between them. One of the men was Fittock, who had been flogged for insubordination. The other was a Devonian named Duthy, a ropemaker and, like his friend, an experienced seaman.
They were speaking in quiet murmurs, knowing they should not still be here. But like most of the skilled hands they disliked being cooped up with untrained ignorant landsmen who were always bleating about discipline, as Duthy put it.
He said, “I’ll be glad to swallow the anchor when me time’s up, Jim, but I’ll miss some of it, all the same. I’ve learned a trade out of the navy, an’ provided I can stay in one piece . . .”
Fittock swallowed hard and felt the heat of the spirit run through him. No wonder the wardroom drank it.
He nodded. “Provided, yes, mate, there’s always that.”
“Yew think we’m goin’ to fight, Jim?”
Fittock rubbed his back against a cask. The scars of the lash were still sore, even now.
He showed his teeth. “You knows the old proverb, mate? If death rakes the decks, may it be like prize money.”
His friend shook his head. “Don’t understand, Jim.”
Fittock laughed. “So that the officers get the biggest share!”
“Now here’s a fine thing!”
They both lurched to their feet as someone slid the shutter from a lantern, and they saw Midshipman Vincent staring at them, his mouth lifted in a faint smile. Behind him, his cross-belt white in the gloom, was the ship’s corporal.
Vincent said coldly, “Just as well I came to complete the rounds.” The officer-of-the-watch had sent him after seeing the purser’s clerk appear on deck alone, but he made it sound as if it was his own idea. “Scum like you, Fittock, never learn, do you?”
Duthy protested, “We weren’t doin’ nothin’, sir. We was standin’ easy, so to speak!”
“Don’t lie to me, you pig!” Vincent thrust out his hand. “Give me that bottle! I’ll see your backbones for this!”
Anger, resentment, the scars on his back, and of course the cognac were part and parcel of what happened next.
Fittock retorted angrily, “Think you can’t do no wrong ’cause yer uncle’s the vice-admiral, is that it? Why, you little shite, I’ve served with ’im afore, an’ you’re not fit to be in the same ship as ’im!”
Vincent stared at him glassily. It was all going wrong.
“Corporal, seize that man! Take him aft!” He almost screamed. “That’s an order, man!”
The ship’s corporal licked his lips and made as if to unsling his musket. “Come on, Jim Fittock, you knows the rules. Let’s not ’ave any trouble, eh?”
Feet scraped on the gratings between the casks and some white breeches moved into the lantern’s glow.
Midshipman Roger Segrave said calmly, “There’ll be no trouble, Corporal.”
Vincent hissed, “What the hell are you saying? They were drinking unlawfully, and when I discovered them—”
“They were ‘insubordinate,’ I suppose?” Segrave was astonished by his own easy tones. Like a total stranger’s.
He said, “Cut along, you two.” He turned to the corporal, who was staring at him, his sweating face full of gratitude. “And you. I’ll not be needing you.”
Vincent shouted wildly, “What about the cognac?” But of course, like magic, it had vanished.
Fittock paused and looked him in the eyes, and said softly, “I’ll not forget.” Then he was gone.
“One more thing, Corporal.” The leggings and polished boots froze on the ladder. “Close the hatch when you leave.”
Vincent was staring at him with disbelief. “Are you mad?”
Segrave tossed his coat to the deck. “I used to know someone very like you.” He began to roll up his sleeves. “He was a bully too—a petty little tyrant who made my life a misery.”
Vincent forced a laugh. In the damp, cool hold it came back as a mocking echo.
“So it was all too much for you, was it?”
Surprisingly, Segrave found he could answer without emotion.
“Yes. It was. Until one day I met your uncle and a man with only half a face. After that I accepted fear—I can do so again.”
He heard the hatch thud into position. “All this time I’ve watched you using your uncle’s name so that you can torment those who can’t answer back. I’m not surprised you were thrown out of the H.E.I.C.” It was only a guess but he saw it hit home. “So now you’ll know what it feels like!”
Vincent exclaimed, “I’ll call you out—”
The smash of Segrave’s fist into his jaw flung him down onto the deck, blood spurting from a split lip.
Segrave winced from the pain of the blow; all those years of humiliation had been behind it.
“Call me out, so
nny?” He punched him again in the face as he scrambled to his feet, and sent him sprawling. “Duels are for men, not pigmies!”
Four decks above them Lieutenant Flemyng, who was the officer-of-the-watch, took a few paces this way and that before glancing again at the half-hour glass by the compass box.
He beckoned to a boatswain’s mate and snapped, “Go and find that damned snotty, will you, Gregg? Skylarking somewhere, I shouldn’t wonder.”
The man knuckled his forehead and made to hurry away, but was stopped by the harsh voice of Cazalet, the first lieutenant.
“Not just yet, Mr Flemyng!” He came from Tynemouth and had a voice which carried above the strongest gale.
Flemyng, who was the ship’s third lieutenant, stared at him questioningly.
Cazalet smiled to himself and trained his glass on the old Sunderland. “I think he should have a mite longer, don’t you?”
Admiral the Lord Godschale flapped a silk handkerchief before his hawk-like nose and commented, “The damn river is a bit vile this evening.”
He looked powerfully magnificent in his heavy dress coat and shining epaulettes, and as he stood watching the colourful throng of guests which overflowed the broad terrace of his Greenwich house he found time to reflect on his good fortune.
But it was extremely hot, and would remain so until night touched the Thames and brought some cool relief to the officers in their coats of blue and scarlet. Godschale watched the river winding its endless journey up and around the curve into Blackwall Reach, the ant-like movement of wherries and local craft. It was an imposing house and he was constantly grateful that the previous owner had sold so eagerly and reasonably. At the outbreak of war with France, as all the hideous news of the Terror had insinuated its way across the Channel, the former owner had taken his possessions and investments and had fled to America.
Godschale smiled grimly. So much for his faith in his country’s defences at the time.
He saw the slight figure of Sir Charles Inskip threading his way through the laughing, jostling guests, bobbing here, smiling there—the true diplomat. Godschale felt the return of his uneasiness.
Inskip joined him and took a tall glass of wine from one of the many sweating servants.
“Quite a gathering, m’lord.”
Godschale frowned. He had planned the reception with great care. People who mattered in society, evenly mixed with the military and those of his own service. Even the Prime Minister was coming. Grenville had only held office for a year and after Pitt, whatever people had said about him, he had been a disaster. Now they had a Tory again, the Duke of Portland no less, who would probably be even more out of touch with the war than Grenville had been.
He saw his wife deeply engaged in conversation with two of her closest friends. The latest gossip no doubt. It was hard to picture her as the lively girl he had first met when he had been a dashing frigate captain. Plain, and rather dull. He shook his head. Where had that girl gone?
He glanced at the other women nearest to him. The hot weather was a blessing as far as they were concerned. Bare shoulders, plunging dampened gowns which would never have been tolerated a few years ago in the capital.
Inskip saw his hungry expression and asked, “Is it true that you have recalled Sir Richard Bolitho? If so, I think we should have been informed.”
Godschale ignored the careful criticism. “Had to. I sent Tybalt for him. He anchored at the Nore two days ago.”
Inskip was unimpressed. “I don’t see how it will help.”
Godschale tore his eyes from a young woman whose breasts would have been bare if her gown were stitched half an inch lower.
He said in a deep whisper, “You’ve heard the news? Napoleon has signed a treaty with Russia and has had the damned audacity to order, if you please, order Sweden and Denmark to close their ports against us and to sever all trade. In addition France has demanded their fleets to be put at their disposal! God damn it, man, that would be close on two hundred ships! Why did nobody see the nearness of this sorry affair? Your people are supposed to have eyes and ears in Denmark!”
Inskip shrugged. “What shall we do next, I wonder?”
Godschale tugged at his neckcloth as if it was choking him. “Do? I’d have thought it was obvious!”
Inskip recalled Bolitho’s bitterness and contempt when Truculent had sighted the three Frenchmen.
He said, “So that is why Bolitho will be here?”
Godschale did not answer directly. “Admiral Gambier is even now assembling a fleet and all the transports we will need to carry an army across to Denmark.”
“Invade? The Danes will never be willing to capitulate. I think we should wait—”
“Do you indeed?” Godschale studied him hotly. “D’you believe Denmark’s sensibilities are more important than England’s survival? For that is what we are talking about, dammit!” He almost snatched a glass from a servant and drained it in two gulps.
The orchestra had struck up a lively gigue but many of the guests seemed unwilling to leave the great terrace, and Godschale guessed why.
At the Admiralty this morning he had told Bolitho of this reception, how it would prove an ideal setting where deeper matters of state might be discussed without arousing attention. Bolitho had replied calmly enough but left no doubt as to his conditions.
He had said, “There will be many ladies there, my lord. You will have not had time to arrange an ‘official’ invitation for me as I am ordered here.”
Godschale spoke aloud without realising it. “He simply stood there and told me he would not come here unless he could bring that woman!”
Inskip let out a deep breath of relief. He had imagined that Bolitho might have brought even worse news with him.
“Are you surprised?” Inskip smiled at Godschale’s discomfort; Godschale, whom he had heard had a mistress or two in London. “I have seen what Lady Somervell has done for Bolitho. I hear it in his voice, in the fire of the man.”
Godschale saw his secretary making signals from beside a tall pillar and exclaimed, “The Prime Minister!”
The Duke of Portland shook their hands and glanced around at the watching eyes. “Handsome levee, Godschale. All this talk of gloom—rubbish, is what I say!”
Inskip thought of Bolitho’s men, the ordinary sailors he had seen and heard cheering and dying in the blaze of battle. They hardly compared with these people, he thought. His men were real.
The Prime Minister beckoned to a severe-looking man dressed in pearl-grey silk.
“Sir Paul Sillitoe.” The man gave a brief smile. “My trusted adviser in this unforeseen crisis.”
Inskip protested, “Hardly unforeseen—”
Godschale interrupted. “I have had the matter under constant surveillance. There is a new squadron in the North Sea with the sole duty of watching out for some move by the French, any show of force towards Scandinavia.”
Sillitoe’s eyes gleamed. “Sir Richard Bolitho, yes? I am all eagerness to meet him.”
The Prime Minister dabbed his mouth. “Not I, sir!”
Sillitoe regarded him impassively; he had hooded eyes, and his features remained expressionless.
“Then I fear your stay in high office will be as short as Lord Grenville’s.” He watched his superior’s fury without emotion. “The French Admiral Villeneuve said after he was captured that at Trafalgar every English captain was a Nelson.” He shrugged. “I am no sailor, but I know how they are forced to live, in conditions no better than a jail, and I am quite certain that they were inspired more by Nelson—enough to perform miracles.” He looked at them almost indifferently. “Bolitho may not be another Nelson, but he is the best we have.” He turned as a ripple of excitement ran through the guests. “Forget that at your peril, my friends.”
Godschale followed his glance and saw Bolitho’s familiar figure, the black hair marked now by grey streaks in the lock above that savage scar. Then, as he turned to offer her his arm, Godschale saw Lady Catherine Somervel
l beside him. The mourning was gone, and the hair which was piled above her ears shone in the sunshine like glass. Her gown was dark green, but the silk seemed to change colour and depth as she turned and took his arm, a fan hanging loosely from her wrist.
She looked neither right nor left, but as her glance fell on Godschale he swore he could feel the force of her compelling eyes, and a defiance which seemed to silence even the whispers which surrounded her and the tall sea-officer by her side.
Godschale took her proffered hand and bowed over it. “Why, m’lady, indeed a surprise!”
She glanced at the Prime Minister and made a slight curtsy. “Are we to be introduced?”
He began to turn away but Bolitho said quietly, “The Duke of Portland, Catherine.” He gave a small bow. “We are honoured.” His grey eyes were cold, and said the opposite.
Sir Paul Sillitoe stepped forward and introduced himself in the same flat voice. Then he took her hand and held it for several seconds, his gaze locked against hers. “They say you inspire him, m’lady.” He touched her glove with his lips. “But I believe you inspire England, through your love of him.”
She withdrew her hand and watched him, her lips slightly curved, a pulse flickering at her throat in the strong light. But when she had searched his face and found no sarcasm, she answered, “You do me a great kindness, sir.”
Sillitoe seemed able to ignore all those around them, even Bolitho, as he murmured, “The clouds are darkening again, Lady Catherine, and I fear that Sir Richard will be required perhaps more than ever before.”
She said quietly, “Must it always be him?” She felt Bolitho’s warning hand on her arm but gripped it with her own. “I have heard of Collingwood and Duncan.” Her voice shook slightly. “There must be others.”
Godschale was poised to interrupt, his carefully prepared words flying to the wind at her sudden, unexpected insistence. But Sillitoe said, almost gently, “Fine leaders—they have the confidence of the whole fleet.” Then, although he glanced at Bolitho, his voice was still directed to her. “But Sir Richard Bolitho holds their hearts.”
Godschale cleared his throat, uncomfortable at the turn the conversation had taken and especially because of the watching faces around the terrace. Even the orchestra had fallen silent.
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