He said too heartily, “A sailor’s lot, Lady Catherine—it demands much of us all.”
She looked at him, in time to see his eyes lift quickly from her bosom. “Some more than others, it would appear.”
Godschale beckoned to a footman to cover his embarrassment. “Tell the orchestra to strike up, man!” He gave a fierce grin at the Prime Minister. “Are you ready, Your Grace?”
Portland glared at Sillitoe. “You attend to it. I have no stomach for this kind of diplomacy! I will discuss the situation tomorrow, Godschale. There is much I have to do.”
Again he turned to leave but Bolitho said, “Then I may not see you again before I sail?” He waited for Portland’s attention. “There are some ideas I would like to offer—”
The Prime Minister eyed him suspiciously, as if seeking a double meaning. “Perhaps another time.” He turned to Catherine. “I bid you good evening.”
As Godschale hurried after his departing guest Bolitho said in a savage whisper, “I should never have brought you, Kate! They sicken me with their hypocrisy and over-confidence!” Then he said with concern, “What is wrong—have I done something?”
She smiled and touched his face. “One day you are across the sea, and now you are here.” She saw his anxiety and tried to soothe it. “It is far more important than their false words and posturing. When we drove here today, did you not see the people turn and stare—how they cheered when they saw us together? Always remember, Richard, they trust you. They know you will not abandon them without lifting a hand to help.” She thought of the impassive Sillitoe, a strange creature who could be friend or enemy, but who had spoken like a truthful man. “You hold their hearts, he said.”
There was a small stone-flagged passageway which led out on to a quiet garden, with a solitary fountain in its centre. It was deserted; the music, the dancing and the wine were on the far side of the house.
Bolitho took her arm and guided her around some bushes, then held her closely against him.
“I must speak with them, Kate.” He saw her nod, her eyes very bright. “And then we shall leave.”
“And then?”
He lowered his head and kissed her shoulder until she stiffed in his arms, and he felt her heart beating to match his own.
“To the house on the river. Our refuge.”
She whispered, “I want you. I need you.”
When Sir Paul Sillitoe and Inskip returned to the terrace with Godschale they found Bolitho watching a small barge as it was manœuvred downriver past the Isle of Dogs.
Godschale said brightly, “You are alone?”
Bolitho smiled. “My lady is walking in the garden . . . she had no wish to go amongst strangers on her own.”
Sillitoe studied him and said without a trace of humour, “She found it a trifle stuffy, I suspect?”
Godschale turned, irritated, as his wife plucked insistently at his gold-laced coat, and drew him aside.
“What is it?”
“I saw them! Together, just now, in the pine garden. He was fondling her, kissing her naked shoulder!” She stared at him, outraged. “It is all true, what they say, Owen—I was so shocked I could not look!”
Godschale patted her arm to reassure her. She had seen quite a lot for one who would not look, he thought.
“Not for long, my dear!” He beamed at her but could not drag his thoughts from Catherine’s compelling eyes, and the body beneath her dark green gown.
He saw Sillitoe pause to look back for him and said abruptly, “I have to go. Important, vital matters are awaiting my attention.”
She did not hear. “I’ll not have that woman in my house! If she so much as speaks a word to me—”
Godschale gripped her wrist and said harshly, “You will return the smile, or I shall know the reason, my love! You may despise her, but by God’s teeth, she is right for Bolitho—”
She said in a small voice, “Owen, you swore!”
He replied heavily, “Go amongst your friends now. Leave the war to us, eh?”
“If you’re certain, dearest?”
“Society will decide; you cannot flout it as you will. But in time of war—” He turned on his heel and fell in step beside his secretary. “Anything further I should know?”
The secretary was as aware of his good fortune as his master, and wanted it to remain that way. He said softly, “That young woman, the wife of Alderney’s captain.” He saw the memory clear away Godschale’s frown. “She was here again to crave a favour on his behalf.” He paused, counting the seconds. “She is a most attractive lady, my lord.”
Godschale nodded. “Arrange a meeting.” By the time he reached the private study where the others were waiting, he was almost his old self again.
“Now, gentlemen, about this campaign . . .”
Bolitho opened the glass doors and stepped out on to the small iron balcony, watching the lights glittering along the Thames like fireflies. It was so hot and airless that the curtains barely moved. He could still feel the heat of their love, the endless demands they had made on one another.
Her words at Godschale’s great house still lingered in his mind, and he knew they would keep him company when they were parted again. One day you are across the sea, and now you are here. So simply said, and yet so right. Set against it, even the unavoidable separation seemed less cruel. He thought of the people in their fine clothes, pressing forward to see them, to stare at Catherine as she passed through them. Her composure and grace had made their flushed faces empty and meaningless. He watched a tiny lantern moving across the river and thought of their first visit to Vauxhall Gardens . . . they would return when they had more freedom. The house was small but well-proportioned, one in a terrace with a tree-lined square between it and the Thames-side walk.
Tomorrow he would have to leave for the Nore where Tybalt would be waiting. It was merely coincidence that Tybalt should be the frigate ordered to collect him from the squadron, then take him back. She had been the same vessel which had brought him home, still shocked by the loss of his old Hyperion. All else was different, he thought. The rugged Scots captain had gone to a seventy-four, his officers allotted to other ships where their experience, even among the youngest, would be priceless.
Bolitho was glad. Memories could be destructive, when he might need all his resolution.
He thought too of the squadron, which was still out in the North Sea, beating up and down, back and forth, waiting to learn the enemy’s intentions, sifting information as fishermen will search for a good catch.
Whatever lay ahead of them, his experience or intuition must decide how they would all face it. It was like being in the hub of a great wheel. At first he had taught himself to reach out around him from the Black Prince’s poop or quarterdeck, placing names and faces, duties and reactions of the men who control a ship in battle. They would all know him by reputation or hearsay, but he must understand those closest to him in case the worst should happen. The sailing-master, and Cazalet the first lieutenant; the other officers who stood their watches day and night in all conditions; the gun-captains and the Afterguard. Like spokes reaching out and away to every deck and cranny in the ship.
And far beyond, to his individual captains in the line of battle, the others like Adam who roamed beyond the vision of the lookouts to find evidence, clues which their vice-admiral might fit into the pattern, if indeed there was one. One thing was quite evident. If Napoleon did succeed in seizing the fleets of Denmark and Sweden, and some said there were over a hundred and eighty ships between them, the English squadrons, still reeling from the damage and demands made upon them since Trafalgar, would be swamped by numbers alone.
He had asked Godschale about Herrick’s part in the over-all plan. The admiral had tried to shrug it off, but when he had persisted had said, “He will be in command of the escorts for the supply ships. A vital task.”
Vital? An old passed-over commodore like Arthur Warren at Good Hope could have done it.
Godschal
e had tried to smooth things out. “He is lucky—he still has Benbow and his flag.”
Bolitho had heard himself retort angrily, “Luck? Is that what they call it in Admiralty? He’s been a fighter all his life, a brave and loyal officer.”
Godschale had watched him bleakly, “Highly commendable to hear so. Under the present, um—circumstances—I think it surprising you should speak out in this fashion.”
Damn the man! He gave a bitter smile as he remembered Godschale’s confusion when he had told him that Catherine would accompany him to the levee.
The moon slipped out of a long coamer of cloud and brought the river to life, like the shimmering silk of Catherine’s gown. In the little square he saw the tops of the trees touched with moonlight as if they were crowned with powdered snow.
He gripped the iron rail with both hands and stared at the moon, which appeared to be moving independently, leaving the clouds behind. He did not blink, but continued to stare until he saw the misty paleness begin to form around and beside it. He dropped his gaze, his mouth suddenly dry. It was surely no worse. Or was that another delusion?
He felt the curtains swirl against his legs like frail webs, and knew she was with him.
“What is it, Richard?” Her hand moved between his shoulders, persuasive and strong, easing away his tension if not the anxiety.
He half-turned and slipped his arm beneath the long shawl which she had had made from the lace he had brought from Madeira. She shivered as if from a chill breeze as his hand moved across her nakedness, exploring her again, arousing her when she had believed it impossible after the fierceness of their passion.
He said, “Tomorrow, we are separated.” He faltered, already lost. “There is something I must say.”
She pressed her face to his shoulder and moved so that his hand could complete its exploration.
“At the funeral.” He could feel her looking at him, her breath warm on his neck as she waited for him. “Before the coffin was covered, I saw you toss your handkerchief into the grave . . .”
She said huskily, “It was the ring. His ring. I wanted no part of it after what happened.”
Bolitho had thought as much, but had been afraid to mention it. Was it that he could still harbour doubts, or had he not believed it possible that she could love him as she did?
He heard himself ask, “Will you face more scandal and wear my ring, if I can find one beautiful enough?”
She caught her breath, surprised at his request, and deeply moved that the man she loved without reservation, and who would be called to battle and possibly death if it was so decided, could still find it so dear and important.
She allowed him to take her inside the windows and stood looking at him while he removed her shawl, her limbs glowing in the light of two bedside candies.
“I will.” She gasped as he touched her. “For we are one, if only in each other’s eyes.” It had always been rare for her to shed tears, but Bolitho saw the wetness beneath her closed lashes as she whispered, “We will part tomorrow, but I am strong. Now take me as you will. For you, I am not strong.” She threw back her head and cried as he seized her, “I am your slave!”
When dawn broke over London, Bolitho opened his eyes and looked at her head on his shoulder, her hair in disorder and strewn across the pillow beside him. There were red marks on her skin although he could not remember how they had been caused, and her face, when he combed some hair from it with his fingers, was that of a young girl, with no hint of the unspoken anxieties they must always share.
Somewhere a clock chimed, and he heard the grind of iron-shod wheels in the street.
Parting.
18 FIRE AND MIST
BOLITHO stood by the Black Prince’s stern windows and half listened to all the familiar sounds as she made more sail again and got under way. In the quarter gallery he could see the ghost-like reflection of the frigate Tybalt, as she stood off from the flagship and prepared to return to the Nore for orders.
Her new captain was doubtless relieved to have delivered his passenger without mishap or risk of any blame for delays, and that he could now resume his own individual role.
Bolitho thought of that last farewell in the house on the river. Catherine had wanted to drive with him to Chatham, but she had not pleaded when he had said, “Go to Falmouth, Kate. You will be amongst friends there.” They had parted as passionately as they had lived together. But he could still see her. Standing on the stone steps, her eyes filling her face, her high cheekbones holding shadows as the sun reflected from the river.
Bolitho heard Ozzard banging about in the sleeping compartment: he seemed to be the only one of his little band who was actually glad to be back with the squadron.
Even Allday was unusually depressed. He had confided that when he had seen his son aboard Anemone, the younger man had confessed that he wanted to quit the navy after all. It was like a slap in the face for Allday. To discover a son he had known nothing about, to learn of his courage when he had first suspected him a coward, and then to see him made coxswain to Captain Adam Bolitho—it had been more from life than he had ever hoped.
His son, also named John, had explained that he wanted an end to war. He loved the sea, but he had said that there were other ways of serving it.
Allday had demanded to know what they might be, and his son had replied without hesitation, “I want to fish, and one day own my own boat. Settle down with a wife—not like so many.”
Bolitho knew that last remark was what had really hurt him. Not like so many. His father, perhaps?
Allday had described his son’s enthusiasm as he had relived their too-brief encounter after the battle. He had ended by saying, “When he told me that Cap’n Adam agreed with him, I knew I was beaten.”
Maybe Allday had been comparing his own life, and what might become of him one day.
There was a knock at the outer door, and Keen entered and gave his hat to Ozzard.
“Come in, Val.” He watched him curiously. Keen looked more relaxed than for a long time. Even his face was untroubled by the duties which lay heavily on any squadron’s flag captain. Bolitho had carried a letter for him which Catherine had been holding in her care.
Bolitho said, “You can scan these papers at your leisure, Val. But to cut it short, it seems that Admiral Godschale’s prophesies and plans have been put into motion.” They crossed to the table and looked at the chart. “A large fleet, including some of the ships released from Good Hope, has been gathered at North Yarmouth in Norfolk. It’s about the nearest anchorage of any size to Denmark. Admiral Gambier has hoisted his flag in Prince of Wales, and he has some twenty-five sail of the line under his command.”
He smiled at Keen’s alert profile. “I gather the admiral originally intended to take Black Prince as his flagship, but he feared she would not be completed in time.” He became serious, thinking suddenly of Herrick as he said, “There will be many transports and troopships—some will carry all the flat-bottomed boats they will need for landing the army, as well as artillery for laying siege. It will be the biggest combined operation since Wolfe took Quebec in fifty-nine.” He thought of the general at Good Hope and added slowly, “Lord Cathcart commands the army, and I’m told he has some ten major-generals in company, one of whom is Sir Arthur Wellesley. I believe that Cathcart and many others will see this attack as a preparation for the eventual assault on Europe.”
Keen said gravely, “Then God help the Danes.”
Bolitho slipped out of his heavy coat and tossed it onto a chair.
“We will remain on station until Gambier’s fleet is through the Skagerrak, in case the French attempt to pounce on the supply vessels—it would leave the army high and dry if they succeeded! Then we follow in support.”
“As ordered, sir, Captain Crowfoot’s Glorious is still with our second division to the north’rd.”
“I know.” He rubbed his chin vigorously. “Have a signal repeated to Anemone, Val. Recall her to the squadron and I will s
end Adam with my despatches for Crowfoot. I think it best if we stand together until we know what is happening.”
As Keen made for the screen Bolitho asked, “What other news, Val?”
Keen looked at him searchingly and then gave a huge grin. “I have heard from Zenoria, sir.”
Bolitho gave a wry smile. “I rather gathered so!”
“The date is arranged.” The words seemed to flood out of him. “Lady Catherine’s hand was in it, it seems. They talked together, and she has asked her to visit her at Falmouth.”
Bolitho smiled. “I am glad to know it.” He walked around the table and clasped Keen’s hands. “There is nobody who better deserves the love and happiness she will offer.”
When Keen had gone to have the signal made which would eventually be repeated to Anemone beyond the horizon, Bolitho wondered what the two women had spoken of. Catherine had said little about it, but had obviously been very pleased about their meeting. Something in her tone had suggested that Zenoria’s uncle, newly returned from the Indies, might have tried to discourage the marriage. Had he wanted the lovely girl with the moonlit eyes for himself, perhaps?
He went back to the canvas-covered folder, which he had carried in Tybalt in its lead-weighted bag in case they had run into a stronger enemy force again, and turned over the pages. A door opened and closed and he heard Jenour whispering, Yovell’s deeper response. They were gathering around the wheel’s hub again, the spokes waiting to reach out to other ships and different minds from the man who led them.
But Bolitho was seeing reality in the beautiful writing. Twenty thousand soldiers, artillery and mortars, with all the small vessels like bombs and gun brigs to support their landings.
They would batter their way ashore between Elsinore and Copenhagen itself. If the Danes persisted against a long siege, that lovely city of green spires would lay in ruins. It did not seem right. The Danes were good people who wanted only to be left alone.
Bolitho slammed the cover shut. But there was no other way. So be it then.
The Only Victor Page 33
