The Only Victor (20 page)

He laid down the letter and said, “Apparently I am being given a squadron.” He watched her turn towards him as he added, “
Eventually.
Also a new flagship.”

She crossed the room in quick strides, her hat falling unheeded to the floor. “Does that mean we are not to be parted yet?” She waited for him to hold her. “Just tell me that is so!”

Bolitho smiled. “I must go to London.” He tightened his hold, feeling the warmth of her body against his own. “We shall go together, if that is what you want.”

She nodded. “I understand what you mean. What to expect from some quarters.” She saw the pain in his grey eyes and touched his face. “I knew your thoughts just now about your next flag-ship. She will not be your old
Hyperion.
But
she
is safe from those who would dishonour her by turning her into a hulk after all her years of service.”

He stroked her hair. “You read me like a book, Kate. I was thinking that. The new ship is named
Black Prince
and is completing fitting-out at the Royal Dockyard, Chatham. I will take you there, too . . . I don't want to lose you for a moment!”

She seated herself near the great fireplace, now empty, but with the dark stains of countless winter evenings on the stonework. While Bolitho moved about the room she watched him, saying nothing which might distract him or interrupt his thoughts. This was the other man whom she cherished so dearly, so possessively. Once he paused in his restless pacing and looked at her, but she knew he had not seen her.

He said suddenly, “I shall ask for a good flag captain. I will insist.”

She smiled sadly. “You are thinking of Valentine Keen?”

He walked over to her and took her hands. “Once more, you are right. He is not yet called into service again; and it is not like Val not to have announced the day chosen for their marriage. Strange, too, that Zenoria has not written to you.” He shook his head, his mind made up. “No, I would not request that he continues as my flag captain. Neither of them would thank me for
that!
” He squeezed her hands. “Like me, Val was late in finding the right woman with whom to share his life.”

She looked up at him, seeing the light in his eyes. “When we are in London will you promise to see that surgeon? For me, if for no other reason.”

He smiled. It was what he had asked of Tyacke. “If time allows.” He let out a sigh. “We have to leave for London in two days. How I loathe that journey . . . the only one in the world which gets longer every time!”

She stood up and looked around the quiet room. “Such memories. Without these past weeks I do not think I could have faced this news. But now it is home to me. It will always be waiting.” She faced him and added, “And do not fret over Val and his Zenoria. It is not long since they came together. They will want time to arrange matters, and then they will tell us.”

She dragged him to the window and exclaimed, “And
if time allows—
” She saw him grin as she attempted to mimic his words, “I shall show you some different sights in London so that you will not feel so gloomy each time you visit the Lords of Admiralty.”

They walked out into the garden and to the wall where the small gate opened on the path to the stile and the cliff. Where she had come to meet him on that first night.

She said eventually, “And you must not worry about me while you are gone. I would never stand between you and your ships. You are mine, so I am part of them too.”

Ozzard watched them from an upstairs window where he had been polishing some pewter dishes for Mrs Ferguson. He did not turn as Allday entered the room but remarked, “We're off again then?”

Allday nodded and massaged his chest as the old ache returned. “Aye. 'Tis London first though.” He chuckled. “Just happened to hear it.”

Ozzard began to polish a dish he had already shone to perfection. He looked troubled, but Allday knew better than to disturb his thoughts. Instead he said, “She's the
Black Prince,
brand-new second-rate of ninety-four guns. Bit larger than we've got used to, eh? Like a palace, an' that's no error!”

But Ozzard was far away. In that street along the old Wap-ping Wall where he had blundered from his little house on that hideous day.

He could hear her pleading and screams; and afterwards, when he had hacked his young wife and her lover to death until he had lost all strength in his arm, the terrible silence.

It had been haunting him ever since, revived by a casual comment made by the senior surgeon who had been in
Hyperion
during her last fight. When the old ship had started to go down, Ozzard had wanted to go with her, to stay with Bolitho's things in the hold, where he always went when the ship, any of their ships, had been in action.

But it was not to be. He let out a long sigh.

All he said was, “It's London, then.”

10 THE
W
AY OF THE WORLD

A
DMIRAL
the Lord Godschale was doing his best to show cordiality, to forget the coolness between himself and Bolitho when they had last met.

“It is time we had a good talk, Sir Richard. We in admiralty can too often become dry old sticks, missing out on greater deeds which officers like you seem to attract.”

Bolitho stood beside one of the tall windows and looked down at the sunlit roadway and the park beyond. Did London never rest, he wondered? Carriages and smart phaetons bustled hither and thither, wheels seemingly inches apart as their coachmen tried to outdo one another's skill. Horsemen and a few mounted ladies made splashes of colour against the humbler vehicles, carriers' carts and small waggons drawn by donkeys.

Jostling people, some pausing to gossip in the warm September sunshine, and a few officers from the nearby barracks, cutting a dash as they strolled through the park and trying to catch the eye of any likely young lady.

Bolitho said, “We are only as good as our men.” Godschale meant nothing of the sort. He was well pleased with his appointment and the power it gave him, and very likely believed that no ship or her captain would amount to anything without his guiding hand from afar.

Bolitho studied him as he poured two tall glasses of madeira. It was strange to realise that they once served together, when they had both been frigate captains during the American Revolution. They had even been posted on the same day. There was not much to show of that dashing young captain now, he thought. Tall, powerfully built and still handsome, despite a certain florid complexion which had not been gained on an open deck in the face of a gale. But behind the well-groomed sleekness there was steel too, and Bolitho could still recall how they had parted the previous year when Godschale had attempted to manœuvre him away from Catherine and back to Lady Belinda.

Bolitho did not believe that Godschale had any hand in the terrible plan to falsify evidence which put Catherine in the filthy Waites prison. Sometimes she had awakened at his side, even after all the months which had passed since he had rescued her, and had cried out as if she had been trying to fight off her jailers.

No, Godschale was a lot of things but he would have no stomach for a plan which might cast him down from his throne. If he had a weakness it was conceit, an actual belief in his own shrewdness. He had probably been used by Catherine's husband, convinced, as Belinda had been, that it was the only solution.

Bolitho gritted his teeth. He had no idea where Viscount Somervell was now, although he had heard rumours that he was on another mission for His Majesty in North America. He tried not to think about it, knowing that if ever they came face-to-face again he would call him out. Somervell was a duellist of repute, but usually with a pistol. Bolitho touched the old sword at his side. Perhaps someone else would cheat him of the chance.

Godschale handed him a glass and raised his eyebrows, “Remembering, eh?” He sipped at his madeira. “To great days, Sir Richard!” He eyed him curiously. “To happier ones also.”

Bolitho sat down, his sword resting across one leg. “The French squadrons which slipped through the blockade—you recall, m'lord? Before I sailed for Good Hope. Were they taken?”

Godschale smiled grimly. He saw the sudden interest, the keenness in Bolitho's eyes, and felt in safer waters. He was well aware that Viscount Somervell's wife was here in London, flaunting her relationship as if to provoke more hostility and rouse criticism. With Nelson it had been embarrassing enough; at least that affair had been allowed to rest. Nobody seemed to know where Emma Hamilton was now, or what had happened since his death at Trafalgar.

Godschale did not care much for Somervell's character and reputation. But he still had friends, some very powerful, at Court, and had been rescued from scandal and far worse by no less than His Majesty himself. But even the King, or more likely his close advisers, had conveniently removed Somervell from London's melting-pot until the problem of Bolitho's involvement was solved, or destroyed.

The admiral was sensible enough to accept that no matter how he felt about it, Bolitho was probably as popular in the country as Nelson had once been. His courage was beyond doubt, and in spite of some unorthodox methods and tactics, he
did
win battles.

In peacetime his affair with Lady Somervell would not be tolerated for an instant: they would both be shunned and barred from society, while Bolitho's own career would fly to the winds.

But it was not peacetime; and Godschale knew the value of leaders who won, and the inspiration they offered their men and the nation.

He said, “The larger of the two enemy squadrons was under the flag of our old opponent Vice-Admiral Leissègues. He managed to slip through all our patrols—nevertheless Sir John Duckworth, who was cruising off Cadiz, gained some intelligence that a French squadron was at St Domingo. Duckworth had already been chasing Leissègues, but had been about to give up when he had the news. He eventually ran them to ground, and even though the French cut their cables when Duckworth's squadron was sighted, he brought them to close-action. All the enemy were taken, but the hundred and twenty gun
Impérial
went aground and was burned. She would have made a formidable addition to our fleet.” He sighed grandly. “But one cannot do everything!”

Bolitho hid a smile. It sounded as if the admiral had won the victory from this very room.

Godschale was saying, “The other French force was brought to battle and lost several ships singly before fleeing back to harbour.”

Bolitho put down his glass and stared at it bitterly. “How I envy Duckworth. A decisive action, well thought out and executed. Napoleon must be feeling savage about it.”

“Your work at Cape Town was no less important, Sir Richard.” Godschale refilled the glasses to give himself time to think. “Valuable ships were released for the fleet by your prompt intervention. It was why I proposed you for the task.” He gave a sly wink. “Although I know you suspected my motives at the time, what?”

Bolitho shrugged. “A post-captain could have done it.”

Godschale wagged an admonitory finger. “Quite the reverse. They needed inspiration by example. Believe me, I
know!
” He decided to change the subject. “I have further news for you.” He walked to his table and Bolitho noticed for the first time that he was limping. A problem he shared with Lord St Vincent, he thought. Gout—too much port and rich living.

Godschale picked up some papers. “I told you about your new flagship, the
Black Prince.
A fine vessel to the highest requirements, I understand.”

Bolitho was glad he was looking at his papers and did not see his own rebellious smile.
I understand.
How like Captain Poland. Just to be on the safe side, in case something was proved to be amiss.

Godschale looked up. “Chosen your flag captain yet, or need I ask?”

Bolitho replied, “Under different circumstances I would have picked Valentine Keen without hesitation. In view of his coming marriage, and the fact that he has been continuously employed under demanding circumstances, I am loath to ask this of him.”

Godschale said, “My subordinate
did
receive a letter from your last captain, offering his services. I thought it odd. I might have expected him to approach you first.” His eyebrows lifted again. “A good man, is he not?”

“A fine captain, and a firm friend.” It was hard to think clearly with Godschale talking about the new ship. What had happened to Keen? It made no sense.

Godschale was saying, “Of course, in these hard times, the lieutenants may be quite junior, and the more seasoned professionals that much older. But then none of us loses any years, what?” He frowned suddenly. “So I would appreciate a quick decision. There are many captains who would give their lives for the chance to sail
Black Prince
with your flag at the fore.”

“It would be a great favour to me, m'lord, if you would allow me the time to enquire into this matter.” It sounded as if he were pleading. He intended it to.

Godschale beamed. “Of
course.
What are friends for, eh?”

Bolitho saw his quick glance at the ornate clock on the wall, an elaborate affair with gilded cherubs supporting it, their cheeks puffed out to represent the four winds.

He said, “I shall be in London for the present, m'lord, at the address I have given to your secretary.”

Godschale's humour seemed to have faded; his smile was fixed to his mouth. “Er, yes, quite so. Lord Browne's town house. Used to be your flag lieutenant before he quit the navy?”

“Yes. A good friend.”

“Hmm, you don't seem to be lacking in those!”

Bolitho waited. Godschale was picturing it all in his mind. Himself and Catherine together, caring nothing for what people thought. He stood up and readjusted the sword at his hip.

Godschale said heavily, “I don't wish to fan old flames, but is there any chance of your returning . . . er . . . Dammit, man, you know what I mean!”

Bolitho shook his head. “None, my lord. It is better you know now—I am aware that your lady is a friend of my wife. It would be wrong to promote feelings which are not to be returned.”

Godschale stared at him as if trying to think of some crushing retort. When it failed him he said, “We shall meet again soon. When that happens I hope I will have fresh information for you. But until that moment, let me remind you of something. A French ball can maim or kill a man, but ashore, his person can be equally hurt, his reputation punctured in a hundred ways!”

Bolitho walked to the door. “I still believe the former to be the more dangerous, m'lord.”

As the door closed Admiral the Lord Godschale smashed one fist down on his papers.
“God damn his insolence!”

Another door opened cautiously and the admiral's secretary peered around it.

“My lord?”

Godschale glared.
“Not a damn thing!”

The man winced. “Your next appointment will be here very shortly, m'lord.”

Godschale sat down carefully and poured himself another glass of madeira. “I shall receive him in half an hour.”

The secretary persisted, “But there
is
no one else, m'lord, not until . . .”

The admiral exclaimed harshly, “Does
nobody
in the Admiralty listen to what I say? I
know
all about it! But with luck, Sir Richard Bolitho will renew his acquaintance with Rear Admiral Herrick in the waiting-room. I wish to give them the opportunity to share
old times.
Do you see?”

The secretary did not see but knew better than to wait for another tirade.

Godschale sighed at the empty room. “One cannot do everything!”

There were two captains sitting in the outer waiting-room, each avoiding the other's eyes and trying to remain as separate as possible. Bolitho knew they were here to see some senior officer or Admiralty official; he had shared their apprehension and discomfort on more occasions than he could remember. Advancement or a reprimand? A new command, or the first step to oblivion? It was all in a day's work at the Admiralty.

Both captains sprang to their feet as Bolitho walked through the long room. He nodded to them, accepting their recognition and curiosity. Wondering why he was here and what it might indirectly imply for them. More likely they were curious about the man and not the vice-admiral; his reputation, if it were true or false.

Bolitho was more concerned with Godschale's announcement about his flag captain. He could still scarcely believe it. He had known how worried Keen had been about the age difference between himself and the lovely Zenoria. The girl he had rescued from a transport on her way to Botany Bay. Keen was forty-one years old, and she would be nearly twenty-two. But their love for one another had bloomed so suddenly out of suffering and been visible to everyone who knew them. He must discover what had happened. If Keen had signified his readiness to be his flag captain merely out of friendship or loyalty, Bolitho would have to dissuade him.

He had almost reached the tall double doors at the far end when they swung open, and he saw Thomas Herrick standing stock-still and staring at him as if he had just fallen from the sky.

Herrick was stocky and slightly stooped, as if the weight of his rear-admiral's responsibilities had made themselves felt. His brown hair was more heavily touched with grey, but he had not changed since he had sailed to support
Hyperion
in that last terrible battle.

His palm was as hard as at their first meeting, when he had been one of Bolitho's lieutenants in
Phalarope;
and the blue eyes were clear and as vulnerable as that very day.

“What are you . . .” They both began at once.

Then Bolitho said warmly, “It is so good to see you, Thomas!”