It did not take long to reach the house, and as he stepped down from the coach he realised there were other guests arriving, too. Again he called himself a fool for imagining he alone would be entertained this evening.
Servants glided from the shadows, and like magic his hat and boatcloak were spirited away.
A footman opened some doors and announced, “Captain Richard Bolitho of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Sparrow.”
How different from the reception, he thought. As he walked into a fine, high-ceilinged room he was conscious of comfort and luxury mixed with an air of intimacy which had been lacking before.
At the end of the room General Sir James Blundell watched his approach in silence, and then called gruffly, “You are an unexpected guest, Bolitho.” His heavy features yielded slightly. “My niece told me of your arrival.” He thrust out his hand. “You are welcome here.”
The general had changed very little. Heavier perhaps, but otherwise the same man. In one hand he was holding a brandy glass, and Bolitho was reminded of his stay aboard Sparrow, of his obvious contempt for the men who had carried him to safety.
Something of their first meeting must have circulated amongst his friends, for upon Blundell’s show of greeting the room came alive again with laughter and noisy conversation. It was as if they had all been waiting to see how Blundell would react. Bolitho’s own feelings were of course unimportant. He could always be told to leave.
Bolitho felt the girl’s hand on his arm and turned to find her smiling up at him. With a nod to her uncle she steered him towards the other side of the room, the guests moving aside for her as if she were royalty.
She said, “I saw you today. Thank you for coming.” She patted his cuff. “I thought you were splendid just now. Uncle can be rather troublesome.”
Bolitho returned her smile. “I think I can appreciate that. After all, he lost a great deal of bullion because of me.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I have no doubt he will have recovered it by insurance elsewhere.” She gestured to a servant. “Some wine before dinner.”
“Thank you.”
He saw several officers, mostly military, watching him intently. Envy, resentment, curiosity, it was all there.
She said, “Sir James is Adjutant General now. I came out here with him after our return to England.” She watched his face as he sipped the wine. “I am glad I came. England is full of woe because of the war.”
Bolitho tore his mind from what she had just said of her uncle. Christie had already spoken scathingly about the Governor and his assistant. With Blundell involved in controlling the city, there seemed little hope of improvement.
As the girl turned to curtsy to a white-haired man and his lady he let his eyes devour her as if seeing her for the last time. The curve of her neck as she bowed to her guests, the way her hair seemed to float across her bared shoulders. It was beautiful hair. Golden brown, like the wing of a young thrush.
He smiled awkwardly as she looked up at him.
“Really, Captain! You make a girl feel indecent the way you stare so!” She laughed. “I suppose you sailors are so long away from civilisation you cannot control your ways!” She clutched his arm, her mouth quivering with amusement. “Do not fret! There is no need to be so serious about it. I really must teach you to accept what is there, to enjoy what is yours by right.”
“I am sorry. You are most likely right about me.” He looked at the marble floor and grinned. “At sea I can stand upright. Here, I feel as if the deck is moving!”
She stepped back and regarded him searchingly. “Well, I shall have to see what can be done about that.” She tapped her lips with a slim fan. “Everyone is talking about you, what you have done, how you faced that awful court martial and made fools of them.”
“It was not exactly like that . . .”
She ignored him. “Of course they will not mention any of this. Some are probably afraid you will turn into a wild, bloodthirsty sea-dog!” She laughed gaily. “Others see in your success something of their own failure.”
A footman was whispering to the general and she added quickly, “I will have to leave you to your own devices for dinner. I am hostess tonight.”
He said, “Oh, I thought . . .” To cover his confusion he asked, “Is Lady Blundell not here, too?”
“She stays in England. My uncle’s habits are those of a soldier. I think she is content to keep them well away from her.” She held his arm again. “But do not look so sad. I will see you later. We must talk of your future. I know people who can help you. Put you where you deserve, instead of . . .” She did not finish.
A gong boomed and the footman intoned, “My lords, ladies and gentlemen. Dinner is now served.”
They followed the general and his niece into an even greater room, and Bolitho found himself paired off with a dark-haired little woman who was apparently the wife of a staff officer. He was not present, and with something like gloom Bolitho thought he would be saddled with her for the rest of the evening.
The dinner matched the room. Every course larger, more extravagantly prepared than the one before. His stomach had long become used to the sparse fare aboard ship and the varying efforts of many sea-cooks. No one else seemed to find difficulty, however, and he could only marvel at the way the plates emptied without any apparent break in conversation.
There were many toasts, with the wines as varied as their reasons for drinking them.
After the loyal toast to King George there were all the usual ones. Death to the French. Confusion to our enemies. A curse on Washington. As the wine flowed they became as meaningless as they were incoherent.
The lady at Bolitho’s side dropped her fan, but as he bent to collect it she reached below the tablecloth and seized his wrist, holding it against her thigh for several seconds. It seemed like an hour, and he thought every eye at the table must be on him. But she was the only one, and her face was filled with such desire that he could almost feel her control slipping away.
He returned the fan and said, “Easy, ma’am, there are quite a few courses yet.”
She stared at him, open-mouthed, and then gave a secret smile.
“God what it is to find a real man!”
Bolitho forced himself to take another portion of chicken, if only to regain his wits. He could feel her knee pressing into his leg, and was very aware that whenever she required something from the table she seemed to need it from across his arm. Each time she lingered over the motion, letting her shoulder or breast touch for just a few moments more every time.
He glanced desperately along the table and saw the girl watching him. It was hard to understand her expression when she was so far away. Part amused, part watchful.
His companion was saying casually, “My husband is much older than I. He cares more for his damned office than for me.”
She reached for some butter, allowing her breast to touch his sleeve while she kept her eyes on his.
“I expect you have been many places, Captain. How I wish I could take a ship somewhere. Away from this place. And him.”
At last the meal was over, and with a scraping of chairs the men rose to allow their ladies to withdraw. Even at the last moment Bolitho’s companion persisted with her campaign, like a frigate cutting out a ship which was totally outmatched from the start.
She whispered, “I have a room here. I will send a servant to guide you.”
As she moved from the table he saw her stagger but recover instantly. It would take more than wine to break her, he thought anxiously.
The doors closed again and the men moved their seats closer to the head of the table.
More brandy, and some black cheroots which Blundell said had come from some damned rascal who tried to avoid his dues.
“I hear you are now on our local patrols, Bolitho.” Blundell’s harsh voice reduced the other guests to attentive silence.
“Yes, Sir James.”
Bolitho eyed him evenly. Blundell was well informed, consi
dering he had only received his orders that forenoon.
“Good. We need a few captains with the will to guard our life-lines, what!” Blundell’s features were crimson from the extent of his dinner. “These damn Yankees have had too much their own way, I say!”
There was a growl of approval, and someone called tipsily, “Thash th’ bloody truth, shir!” He shrank under Blundell’s withering gaze.
Bolitho asked quickly, “Colonel Foley, sir. Is he still in America?”
“He has a battalion under Cornwallis.” Blundell seemed disinterested. “Best bloody place for him, too.”
Bolitho allowed the conversation to flow around him like a protective cloak. He heard little about the war. Horse breeding, and the cost of keeping house in New York. The affair of some unfortunate artillery captain who had been found in bed with a dragoon’s wife. The growing difficulty of obtaining good brandy, even at smugglers’ prices.
Bolitho thought of Christie’s summing up. Two armies, he had said. How true it now seemed. Colonel Foley, whether he was a likeable man or not, was one of those fighting for his country’s cause, and his life. Around this table sat a goodly proportion of the other sort. Spoiled, cosseted and completely selfish, he wished he could be rid of them.
Blundell heaved himself upright. “We will join the ladies, God help us!”
When Bolitho glanced at the ornate French clock he saw it was almost midnight. It seemed incredible that time could pass so swiftly. But despite the hour there was no lessening in the pace. A small string orchestra struck up a lively dance, and laughing noisily the guests pushed and jostled towards the sound of music.
Bolitho walked slowly through the connecting rooms, watching for Susannah Hardwicke and keeping a wary eye open for his earlier companion.
As he passed a book-lined study he saw Blundell speaking with a group of men, most of whom were prosperous-looking civilians. One, very tall and broad-shouldered, stood partly in shadow, but the side of his face which was visible in the candlelight made Bolitho start with shock, then pity. It had been scoured away, the skin burned almost to the bone from hairline to chin, so that it had the appearance of some grotesque mask. He seemed to feel Bolitho’s eyes on him, and after a quick glance turned his back, hiding himself in shadow.
No wonder he had not joined the others at dinner. It was easy to imagine the agony of that disfigurement, the torment which had left him so scarred.
“Ah, there you are!” She came out of another room and rested her hand on his arm. “Take me into the garden.”
They walked in silence, and he felt her dress swishing against his legs, the warmth of her body.
“You were absolutely splendid, Captain.” She paused and looked at him, her eyes very bright. “That poor woman. I thought for an instant you would fall to her.”
“Oh, you saw.” Bolitho felt uneasy. “She has gone, it seems.”
“Yes.” She led him into the garden. “I sent her off.” She laughed, the sound carrying through the shrubs like an echo. “I cannot have her interfering with my captain, now can I?”
“I hope you were easy with her?”
“Actually, she burst into tears. It was all rather pathetic.”
She turned inside his arm, her full dress spreading out behind her like pale gold.
“I must leave you now, Captain.”
“But . . . but I thought we were going to talk?”
“Later.” She studied him gravely. “I have plans for your future, as I told you earlier, did I not?”
“I weigh anchor tomorrow.” He felt wretched. Helpless.
“I know that, silly!” She reached up and touched his lips. “Do not frown. I cannot allow it. When you come back I will introduce you to some friends of mine. You will not regret it.” Her gloved fingers moved gently to his cheek. “And neither, I trust, shall I.”
A servant appeared through the gloom. “Carriage ready, Missy.”
She nodded. To Bolitho she said, “After you have left I will try and clear these dreary people from the house.” She tilted her head and faced hint calmly. “You may kiss my shoulder, if you wish.”
Her skin was surprisingly cool, and as soft as a peach.
She twisted away from him and called, “Be good, Captain, and take care of yourself. When you return I will be here.” Then she laughed and ran lightly up the terrace into the house.
The coach was waiting for him as he walked dazedly through the shadowed garden and on to the carriageway. His hat and cloak were on the seat, and strapped to the boot was a large wooden box.
The footman’s teeth shone in a white crescent. “Missy Susannah had the kitchen pack some food for you, Sah.” He chuckled. “Nothin’ but the best, she said.”
Bolitho climbed into the coach and sank against the cushions. He could still feel her skin against his mouth, smell the perfume from her hair. A girl who could drive a man mad, even if he was not halfway there already.
At the end of the jetty he found a waterman nodding over his oars, and had to call several times to attract his attention.
“Wot ship, sir?”
“Sparrow.”
Just saying the name helped to steady his racing thoughts. Before he stepped down into the dory he turned to look at the coach, but it had already disappeared. Like one more part of the dream.
The waterman was grumbling to himself as he hauled the heavy box down the steps. Not enough to offend a ship’s captain, but enough to add slightly to his fare.
Bolitho wrapped his cloak around him and felt the seabreeze cold against his face. Still westerly. It would be good to get away again. If only to find time to collect himself and examine his hopes for the future.
15 A GOOD LIKENESS
SPARROW’S mission to investigate the strength of French shipping at Newport proved to be more difficult than Bolitho had expected. The passage from Sandy Hook to the eastern extremes of Long Island showed nothing but promise for a quick completion and an equally swift return. But the weather decided otherwise, and in a savage westerly gale the little sloop was driven and battered continuously, so that Bolitho had to run with it rather than risk damage to spars and canvas.
Even when the wind moderated it took many more days to beat back again, and hardly an hour passed without the need to shorten sail or lay the ship on a tack which would take her away rather than toward her goal.
New York’s entertainment seemed a long way behind, and Bolitho found the reality of driving his ship against wind and tide more than enough to occupy his energy. Even so, he found plenty of time to think about Susannah Hardwicke. Pacing the deck, hair whipping in the wind, his shirt often drenched with spray, he remembered their parting, the hint of an embrace which he could recall as clearly as if it had just occurred.
He suspected that his officers knew or guessed what had happened in New York, if only because of their careful silence.
The drudgery of fighting against the wind, the constant demands on every man aboard, were eased in part by the presence of their passenger. Rupert Majendie, true to his word, had arrived within minutes of weighing, complete with sketching and painting materials, and a repertoire of stories which did more than pay for his keep on board. When the sea and wind calmed he would be seen with his pad, sketching seamen at their daily tasks or catching them at their relaxation off watch, dancing or making small models and scrimshaw work. If the weather was less friendly he would disappear below to find fresh scope for his busy hands with only a swinging lantern to guide his pencil or brush. He and Dalkeith had become firm friends, which was hardly surprising. Each came from another sphere of culture and high intellect, with far more to discuss than the average sailor.
At the end of three long weeks, and with each day adding to his frustration, Bolitho decided to wait no more. He called Tyrrell to the cabin and unrolled his chart.
“We will close with the shore at daylight tomorrow, Jethro. The wind is still strong, but I see no other choice.”
Tyrrell let his eyes move
across the chart. The approaches to Rhode Island were always a problem with a prevailing westerly wind. To be caught in a full gale might mean being driven eastwards again, and once within the jaws of the mainland and Newport itself there would be little room for manoeuvre. Under normal conditions it required patience and understanding. But with the French in control of the area it was something else entirely.
As if reading his thoughts, Bolitho said quietly, “I’d not wish to be caught on a lee shore. But if we stay out here in open water, we might as well admit failure.”
“Aye.” Tyrrell straightened his back. “I doubt th’ Frogs’ll have much in th’ way of ships anyway. They depend on their batteries to defend themselves.”
Bolitho smiled, some of the strain slipping from his face. “Good. Pass the word. I’ll want the very best eyes at the mastheads tomorrow.”
But true to Buckle’s gloomy prediction, the next morning was something of a disappointment. The sky was clouded over and the wind which made the topsails bluster and crack despite their trim, told there was rain nearby. And yet the air felt sultry and oppressive, affecting the hands as they went to their stations for changing tack. The welcome stay in harbour, followed by the nervous uncertainty of thrashing this way and that at the wind’s discretion, had taken their toll. There were plenty of curses and not a few blows from boatswain’s mates before Sparrow laid herself over on the lar-board tack, her plunging beakhead pointing towards the shore once again.
A grey day. Bolitho gripped the weather nettings and mopped his forehead with his shirt-sleeve. His skin and clothing were wringing wet, as much from sweat as from flying spray.
Only Majendie seemed content to remain on deck, willingly, his pencil busy, his thin body and jutting beard dripping with moisture.
Sloop of War Page 27
