Darkening Sea (26 page)

The woman stared at her and then screamed, “One whore to another, eh?” Then she flung the gold at the wall.

Sillitoe guided her to the door and heard the woman's voice break into sobs behind them, and the sound of her scrabbling about the floor to recover the money. Outside he spoke rapidly to one of his men, who was nodding abruptly in agreement with his instructions.

Catherine stared up at the house, the rain running down her throat and soaking through her clothing.

Sillitoe took her elbow and guided her away along the narrow passage. It had been terrible. It must be far worse for her. But how could it be true? He looked at her piercingly in the grey light and saw her still staring back at the little houses.

In turn she was asking herself why she had come. Duty, curiosity? It was certainly not pity.

She paused with one foot on the carriage step and said, “Thank you for coming with me, Sir Paul.”

He slumped down beside her. “I—I don't understand.”

She watched the street moving away, as it had always done for so many years.

“He killed my child,” she said.

The carriage wheels scraped over the cobbles, and through the rain-soaked windows everything was blurred and unreal.

Sillitoe could feel her tension, but knew if he even laid a hand on her arm she would turn against him. To break the silence he murmured, “My men will deal with everything. You must not be involved.”

It was as if he had not spoken. She said, “It was all so long ago. There are times when I can hardly believe it, and others when I see it like yesterday.” She was holding the strap against the uneven motion, her eyes on the street but seeing nothing.

They passed a rough piece of open ground and as though in a dream she saw some children gathering up broken branches for kindling. It had often been like that for her. But there had been laughter too until her mother had fallen sick and died, in that same sordid room.

She heard Sillitoe ask, “What was his work, his profession?”

Why should I talk about it?
But she answered him. “He was an actor, a performer. He could do most things.”

Sillitoe thought she sounded as if she were speaking of somebody else. It was hard to imagine that angry, lifeless face as anything but snarling in death.

“I met a young man.” She did not see Sillitoe either. She was thinking of Zenoria and Adam. “I was fifteen.” She gave what might have been a shrug, the most despairing thing he had seen her do. “It happened. I was with child.”

“And you told your father, were compelled to, with your mother gone?”

She said, “Yes. I told him.”

“Perhaps he was too upset to know what he was doing.”

She leaned her head against the cushion and said, “He was drunk, and he knew
exactly
what he was doing.”
You do not owe this man explanation. Only one, and he is on the other side of the world.
“He hit me and knocked me down those stairs you saw today. I lost my baby . . .”

Then he did grip her wrist. “Perhaps it was . . .”

“All for the best? Yes, there were several who said as much, including my young man.” She touched her eyes with her fingers. “It is not that. I nearly died. I think I wanted to . . . then.” She looked at him, and even in the carriage's gloomy interior he could feel the intensity of her stare. “I cannot ever bear a child, not even for the man I love above everything.”

Disconcerted, he said, “When we reach Chiswick I shall have a meal prepared for you.”

She laughed without making a sound. “You will please leave me at Chelsea. I would not wish to compromise you, nor do I desire to create more scandal. You do not ask me why I was so certain about my father's anger and his true motives.” She could feel the strong grip on her wrist, but the contact did not seem to matter. She continued, “That man, my own father, wanted to take me to his bed. He tried several times. Perhaps I was too distressed to deal with it properly. Today, I would kill any such man.”

She watched the passing houses, more expensive properties now, with the glint of water beyond. Ships, unloading or waiting to make sail to every quarter of the globe. Richard's world, which they shared even when they were parted.

Sillitoe asked quietly, “That woman we found there?”

“Chrissie? She was a friend. We used to mime to my father's reading in the market when things were bad, before he finally gave in to drink. She was faithful to him when I left home.” She turned away, her eyes filled with angry tears. “
Home.
Was it ever really that?” She contained her emotion and said, “You saw her reward. He put her on the streets.”

They did not converse again for some while, and then she said, “You always speak so highly of Richard, and yet in my heart I know you would use him to make me surrender to your desires, which are unworthy of you. Do you really believe I would betray the man I love, and risk losing him for that same reason?”

Sillitoe exclaimed, “You do me an injustice, Lady Catherine!”

“Do I? I would not answer for your safety if you wronged me.”

Some of his confidence seemed to return as he retorted, “I am well enough protected!”

She released her wrist very carefully. “From yourself? I think not.”

Sillitoe felt entirely confused by her calm frankness. It was as if he had been disarmed in a duel, and was having to fall upon his opponent's mercy.

She was speaking again, her eyes on the streaming window as if she were trying to recognise something.

“I have done things in my life which I would tell nobody. I have known warmth and friendship too, and I have learned many things since I danced and mimed on the streets of this great city. But love? I have shared it with only one man. You know him well enough.” She shook her head as if she were refuting something. “We lost one another once. We will not do so again.” She laid her hand on his sleeve. “Strangely enough, I feel better for telling you these things. You could leave me in Chelsea and share your discoveries with your friends, if you have any. But nobody can hurt me any more. I am beyond it, even though they call me a whore.”

She gripped his arm and spoke very slowly. “But do not harm Richard. I beg only that from you.”

She saw the river again, the bare trees like scarecrows in the fading light.

“Chelsea, Sir Paul!” The coachman sounded untroubled, perhaps because the mastiff had stayed with Sillitoe's two prize-fighters.

Then she saw Young Matthew peering out at the coach from the doorway of the basement kitchen, his coat black with rain. How long he had been waiting for her safe return she could only guess. She found that she was crying, something she rarely did. Perhaps because his simple loyalty was the cleanest thing she had seen since their return to London.

“You all right, me lady?” That was Sophie, holding the door wide to reveal the bright lights within.

As if from faraway she heard Sillitoe speak her name as he lowered the carriage step for her. She had not even seen him leave her side.

He gazed at her for what seemed a long time. Then he shrugged elegantly, and, stooping, kissed her hand.

He said suddenly, “I shall never feel differently about you. Do not humiliate me by denying me that at least.” He did not release her hand. “I will always be at your service if you need me.” He turned to climb into the carriage and hesitated. “I will do what I can. You have my word on it.” He was looking at her as if he was seeing her for the last time. “I will get your man back for you.” Then he was gone, the carriage turning the corner, the horses already aware perhaps of the nearness of home.

She felt Sophie's arm about her waist, hugging her. They stood together in the rain, which had not stopped since she had left here for Chiswick.

She was still holding on to Sillitoe's last words, almost afraid to believe what she had heard.

Then she said, “Let us go inside.” She wiped her eyes, and Sophie did not know if it was because of rain or tears.

Catherine said, “Tomorrow we will leave for Falmouth.” Together they climbed the steps, then she turned and looked back into the deepening shadows. “There is no place here for me any more.”

But stark and clear in her mind she could see the little street and the two young girls at play there.

15
A
FEELING

L
IEUTENANT
George Avery walked away past the sentry and into the cabin, grateful for the cooler air between decks although he knew that it was little more than an illusion.

“You wanted me, sir?” He glanced round and tried to adjust his eyes to the searing brightness of the sea astern, and another bright shaft of sun that shone down from a skylight. Yovell was sitting on the bench below the stern windows, using some of his papers to fan his streaming face. Bolitho stood by the table, as if he had not moved since their last meeting.

When he looked up, Avery could see the dark shadows around his eyes, the lines of strain by his mouth. It troubled Avery to see him like this. And there had been weeks of it, the endless search of an apparently empty ocean. He could still feel it throughout the ship as it had been felt in the rest of the little squadron when Tyacke's brig
Larne
had arrived in Cape Town with the handful of dazed and wounded survivors whom his boats had managed to snatch from death. None of the
Thruster
's officers had lived, and of the rest only a surgeon's mate had been articulate enough to offer some description of the disaster. Two frigates, one obviously the big American
Unity,
had fallen on the brig and her convoy of prizes. The surgeon's mate had been below in his sickbay and had been spared the first horrific broadside. Fired at extreme range, the weight of iron had smashed the brig almost onto her beam-ends. Masts, spars, rigging and canvas had thundered on to the crouching gun crews, trapping them amidst the wreckage before they could return a shot.

As the surgeon's mate had said, his voice broken with emotion, “We could do nothing. The people were dying. What could we have done?” He had rallied for only a moment. “But our captain refused to surrender. I never saw him after the next broadside. There was an explosion, a magazine I think, and then I was in the water. After that, the boats came. I never really believed in God . . . until then.”

Bolitho said, “No more ships reported attacked or seized. They know every move we make. I've spoken with the man Richie but he had nothing to offer. Where is Baratte? How much does he know of our plans to invade?” He imagined their extended forces as though on a chart, as he had been doing for weeks. “Major-General Abercromby and his army will be sailing from India. Our Major-General Drummond will complete the pincers and sail from Good Hope to Rodriguez, where we will re-form if necessary, and then on to Ile de France.” He stared at the chart until his eye stung like fire. “Then Mauritius. The end of French power across our trade routes.”

Avery said, “We know Baratte's one weakness, sir.”

Bolitho looked at him, remembering. On the day that
Thruster
had been totally destroyed, the enemy had also fired on the privateer
Tridente
until she had shared
Thruster
's fate. It could only mean that Baratte did not yet have full facilities for docking or careening any of his vessels. To do so in Mauritius would be inviting an attack, even a cutting-out expedition. He would not risk that. Secrecy and timing were everything. For both sides. They were grasping at straws, and all the while with each turn of the glass the two armies would be completing their preparations for attack.

Avery asked warily, “How much are the Americans involved, sir?”

“I believe, very much.” He glanced round as Allday, carrying his usual cloth, moved silently across the cabin to begin his daily ritual of polishing the old sword.

As he reached up for it Bolitho saw him stiffen, his arms in mid-air while the old pain lanced through him. It was never far away. He stooped slightly now, which he had never done before that terrible day when he had received a Spanish sword blade in his chest. It would have killed anyone but Allday. Bolitho saw him move his arms more slowly until the sword was safely in his grasp; he would know that he had seen it, just as he always knew when Bolitho was half-blinded by some harsh light. They both knew, and each pretended not to show it.

How long was it now? It had happened during the false Peace of Amiens: difficult to believe it had been all of eight years ago. The two deadly enemies resting briefly to lick their wounds and prepare for their next conflict. It was a wonder they had both survived. Too many familiar faces had not. How much would
Unity
be prepared to interfere to “defend” American shipping and the rights of her sailors on the high seas? As Adam had commented, she would make a formidable adversary if used against his small mixed squadron.

Bolitho snatched a magnifying glass, and in his mind saw Tyacke's strong profile as he had described these waters he had come to know so well. “My compliments to the captain. Ask him to step aft.” His voice was quite even, casual. Only the fact that Allday's polishing cloth had suddenly stilled showed that he recognised what was happening.

On the tilting quarterdeck, Captain Trevenen paused in his heavy pacing and regarded the flag lieutenant suspiciously.

Avery was careful not to rouse his temper. “Sir Richard wishes to discuss a matter with you, sir.”

“Another whim to act upon, is it? My ship is getting short of water, of everything. All we do is waste time!”

Avery knew that the men on watch could hear every word, just as he understood what would happen if he drew Trevenen's attention to the fact.

Trevenen strode past the first lieutenant and barked, “Keep an eye on these idlers, Mr Urquhart! There'll be extra work for every laggard if I catch them!”

As they passed Avery saw the other lieutenant's mouth form a silent curse. Their eyes met and Avery smiled. Urquhart was human after all.

In the cabin again Trevenen's head seemed to brush the deck-head as he strode to the table.

He sounded incredulous, as if it had been an insult even to ask him. “What? This place?”

Bolitho watched him, his face like a mask. What was the matter with Trevenen, the real reason for his foul temper?

“This place, Captain. It is called San Antonio.”

Trevenen seemed vaguely relieved. “It's nothing, sir. A wretched pile of rock in the middle of the ocean!” He sounded contemptuous, or as close to it as he dared.

“You met Commander James Tyacke, I believe?”

“I've
seen
him.”

Bolitho nodded slowly. “You are quite correct. One does not necessarily mean the other. And to know that fine officer is something even rarer and more valued because of it.”

Bolitho looked at the chart again if only to hide his anger.

“James Tyacke is a very experienced navigator and knows these waters well. He once mentioned San Antonio to me. A bleak place, uninhabited except for a small monastery and occasionally a fishing community, when the season is right. A rare order of monks, I understand, with a code of poverty and devotion. What better place to observe our shipping movements? Hardly
nothing,
I'd have thought!”

He looked at Allday's homely face, the sudden pain in his eyes as he remembered that day at San Felipe. Another island, another ocean; and they had been ordered to hand back the place to the French because of the Peace of Amiens.

He saw Allday nod very slowly. There had been a mission there too, and Allday had all but paid with his life.

He swung aft towards Yovell and said, “Prepare to copy out some orders.” He put his hand to his eye as the endless panorama of glittering mirrors mocked him.

“I want you to signal
Larne
to close on us. Light a flare if need be, but I think James Tyacke will understand.”

“That is more than I do, sir.” Trevenen stared at him. “If you value my word, I must tell you I am against wasting more time.”

“It is my responsibility, Captain. I should not need to remind you.”

He heard Trevenen's heavy feet crossing the quarterdeck, and the sudden activity as
Larne
's number was bent on to the halliards.

In his mind's eye Bolitho saw his little command:
Larne
leading the invisible line with Jenour's
Orcadia
well up to windward, her topsails visible to the masthead lookout.

Far, far astern was the other frigate
Laertes,
the prize that had once been Baratte's own flagship.

He thought of Adam when they had last met at Cape Town, the rebellion in his eyes when he had been ordered to remain with Keen's convoy and escort. He was the vital link between them and their flag officer in
Valkyrie.

Adam had argued that his place was in the van, not with the slow-moving transports.
Not with Valentine Keen,
he had really meant.

Bolitho had been as honest as was possible.

He had said, “You are arguably one of the best young frigate captains in the fleet. You have more than proved it on this station. The recapture of your prizes and
Thruster
's loss must not deflect your aim. Your true worth will be at my right hand when I call for it.” He had watched Adam's resistance soften as he had added, “If I keep you with me all the while, which I am sorely tempted to do, it will reek of favouritism to the others, will it not?”

But it had proved that Catherine's worst fear about Adam and Zenoria must be justified.

He looked at Yovell's fat hand holding his pen, Avery making a few notes from the chart.

Whatever it was, it would have to wait. He saw Allday give his lazy grin as he said, “Thought I'd forgotten, did you, Sir Richard? When we was together in Old Katie?” Even the affectionate nickname for Bolitho's little two-decker
Achates
brought it all back. “Strange to see how things slide along. Commodore was the captain, an' young Cap'n Adam was your flag lieutenant.” He smiled almost shyly. “An' then there was me.”

Bolitho touched his thick arm as he walked back to the table. “I thought I'd lost you that day, old friend.” He spoke with such emotion that Avery and Yovell stopped to listen. Bolitho did not notice.

A midshipman tapped at the door and he saw the marine sentry's scarlet arm out-thrust, as if the boy was not important enough to be admitted.

“Beg pardon, Sir Richard. The captain's respects, and
Larne
has acknowledged.”

Bolitho smiled at him. “Quite a mouthful, Mr Rees. Thank you.”

Allday murmured, “That'll go through the young gentlemen's berth, an' that's no error.”

Yovell said, “I'm ready, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho touched Avery's shoulder. “I am going to put a landing party ashore. I want you to go with it.”

Avery replied calmly, “For the experience, sir?”

Bolitho smiled. “Don't take offence at everything I say!” He shook his head. “Mr Urquhart is a good officer.” He almost added,
if he is allowed to be.
“But beneath his lieutenant's coat there is still only a boy.” He glanced at Allday, but not before he had seen the surprise on Avery's face. “I would take it a favour if you would accompany my flag lieutenant, Allday.”

He turned, but Bolitho was already standing behind Yovell's round shoulder, his face unusually stern with concentration.

To all captains and officers-in-charge of such vessels, under my command
. . .

He thought suddenly of the last courier schooner that had run down on them. He could not recall when it had been. One day was much like all the rest.

There had been no more letters from Catherine. He felt another touch of anxiety and concern. He could still hear her voice nonetheless.
Don't leave me
. . .

But all Avery saw was the vice-admiral.

It took another full day, even under all the sail
Valkyrie
could carry, before the small island of San Antonio was sighted by the masthead. Without the other ships in company it had been strangely lonely, and many times Bolitho had seen seamen pause in their work to stare at the sea as if they expected to sight another friendly vessel.

The island seemed to rise from the ocean itself as the
Valkyrie
tilted to the unwavering south-westerly. It was, as Tyacke had described, a bleak place. It could have been the remaining half of an extinct volcano, on the side of which Bolitho saw the crude monastery like an extension of the terrain it was built on.

With the coming of dawn every available glass was trained on it while the sailing-master and his mates studied the chart, which they had mounted near the wheel itself.

Avery joined Bolitho by the quarterdeck rail, his jaw still moving discreetly on a piece of salt pork which was too tough to swallow.

“How long, sir?”

Bolitho rested his hands on the rail, feeling the rising heat that would soon engulf the whole ship.

“Two hours. More or less.” He rubbed his eye and trained the telescope once again. There was some smoke rising from a saddle in the land which he had taken earlier for haze. There was life here. He had heard that the monastery had had many changes of occupants during the course of its long life. Disease had taken a toll, and once, Tyacke had told him, all the monks had died of starvation simply because the sea had been too rough to launch any of their boats. What sort of men would give up the real world for such a demanding life, and, some would say, pointless sacrifice?