Darkening Sea (5 page)

He had clumsily tried to make Bolitho return to his wife and their daughter Elizabeth, and his other ideas on strategy had, Bolitho thought, often failed to consider the logistics of available ships, supplies, and the great distances of ocean in which the enemy could choose its victims. But despite Godschale's annoying way of brushing obstacles aside, Bolitho knew in some strange way that he would miss him, bombast and all.

He turned, aware that the lieutenant had been speaking to him, probably all the way from the entrance hall.

The lieutenant said, “We were all excitement when we heard of your latest victory over Contre Amiral Baratte. I am honoured to be the one to meet you!”

Bolitho smiled. The young man's French accent was faultless. He would go far.

The doors opened and closed behind him and he saw Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker facing him across a massive marble-topped table. It was as if he had been seated for some time, staring at the doors, waiting for the first seconds of confrontation. The great wine cabinet, the clock with its cherubs, the model of Godschale's first command had all vanished. Even the air felt different.

Hamett-Parker stood up slowly and shook hands across the vast table.

“Welcome back, Sir Richard.” He gestured to a chair. “I thought we should meet without further delay. There are many things I wish to discuss.” He had an incisive voice, but spoke unhurriedly as if each word came under scrutiny before being released. “Your nephew made a fast passage, it seems. Where time is concerned I must be a miser. Too much of it has been wasted here.”

Bolitho listened carefully. Did he imply that Godschale was the culprit? Or was he testing him for his own past loyalty?

Hamett-Parker walked slowly to a window and flicked a curtain aside. “I observed your entrance, Sir Richard. I see you came alone.”

He had been watching. To see if Catherine had been with him, or if she was waiting now in the carriage.

He said, “From Chelsea, Sir James.”

“Ah.” He said nothing else, and Bolitho saw the finely cut profile, the slightly hooked nose, the young man still clinging behind the mask. His hair was grey, quite white in some places, so that it looked in the hazy sunshine like a wig; he even wore an old-style queue. He would not have seemed out of place in some fading portrait from a century earlier, although Bolitho knew Hamett-Parker was only about ten years his senior.

“There is much speculation as to what the enemy intends if, or rather
when
Sir Arthur Wellesley brings the war in Spain to a victorious conclusion. The despatches from the Peninsula remain encouraging—news is daily expected of some dramatic climax. But the French will not surrender because of Spain. Our forces are fully extended, our yards unable to keep pace with the need for more ships, even if we could find the men to crew them. The enemy is aware of this. With all aggression ended in the Caribbean, we can withdraw certain vessels.” He looked away and added crisply, “But not enough!”

Bolitho said, “I believe that the French will intensify their attacks on our supply lines.”

“Do you?” He raised an eyebrow. “That is most interesting. The Duke of Portland said as much to me quite recently.”

The prime minister. Bolitho felt his lips relax into a smile. He had all but forgotten who it was. Moving from one campaign to another, watching men die and ships torn apart, the final authority beneath His Britannic Majesty too often seemed unimportant.

“It amuses you?”

“I beg your pardon, Sir James. I am out of touch, it seems.”

“No matter. I understand he is of a sickly disposition. There will be a new hand on the tiller before too long, I fear.”

Bolitho winced as a sharp line of sunlight passed over the admiral's shoulder and made him turn his head to one side.

“The light disturbs you?”

Bolitho tensed. Did he know? How could he?

He shook his head. “It is nothing.”

Hamett-Parker returned slowly to the table, his steps, like his words, measured, unwasted.

“You are wondering why you were withdrawn from your command?”

“Of course, Sir James.” He saw the admiral's eyes for the first time. So pale they were almost colourless.

“Of course? That is strange. However, we need to discuss possible French interference with our shipping routes. One frigate, a privateer even, could tie down men-of-war we could not spare even if we had them. It is widely believed that more attacks are already being planned—they will be hastened if, as we anticipate, Wellesley drubs the French army on the Peninsula. The prime minister will wish to know your thoughts, as will Sir Paul Sillitoe.” He saw Bolitho's surprise and said calmly, “Something else you did not know, it would appear. Sillitoe is senior advisor to the prime minister and certain others in high places. Even His Majesty is not unaware of him.”

Bolitho looked for some sign of sardonic humour or even sarcasm. There was none. In his mind he could see the man quite clearly: tall and slender with the quick, sure movements of a duel-list. A dark, interesting face with deceptively hooded eyes. He was as quick and as sharp as steel, and he had been both charming and gracious to Catherine at one of Godschale's ridiculous receptions when she had been deliberately snubbed by the Duke of Portland. A strange, remote man, but not to be underestimated; perhaps not to be trusted. Bolitho had heard that Sillitoe had travelled all the way to Falmouth for the local memorial service after the loss of the
Golden Plover
and the reported deaths of all those aboard. He did not need to warn Catherine of any other intentions Sillitoe might have.

He thought of her this morning, warm in his arms, holding him, watching him later while Allday shaved him, and sharing a quick breakfast downstairs. In a rough shawl or in gleaming shot-silk like the night they had been reunited at English Harbour, she would never pass unnoticed. No, Catherine would recognise any ploy, subtle or otherwise.

“You were well known for the energy of your performance when you were a frigate captain, Sir Richard.” Hamett-Parker continued in the same curt manner. “The line of battle has been
my
lot in life.” He changed tack again. “I seem to recall that you were flag captain to Sir Lucius Broughton in
Euryalus?
”

“I was flag captain to Rear-Admiral Thelwall until he was relieved due to ill-health. Broughton hoisted his flag in
Euryalus
after that.”

“I deduce from your tone that you disliked him. I always thought him to be an excellent flag officer. Like me, he would never allow sentiment to blur the needs of duty and discipline.” He clenched his fist as if he had allowed himself to say too much, and continued, “You were involved in the Great Mutiny?”

It sounded almost like an accusation.

“We were lucky in
Euryalus.
”

“Luck? What has that to do with it? We were at war with a ruthless enemy as we are now. I commanded
Cydnus,
a two-decker of ninety guns. Well trained, well drilled, she was the envy of the squadron.”

Bolitho saw the hand clench into a tight fist again. Hamett-Parker's one weakness: the incident he could never forget.

“There are always rotten apples in some casks. The plan for mutiny amongst my people was fed to those simpletons and knot-heads like poison. They defied me—
me,
their captain.” His pale eyes shone like glass in the reflected light. It was as if he could still not believe it. That ordinary, common seamen could demand their rights even at the risk of death by hanging or a flogging around the fleet, which had been the punishment meted out to more than one delegate.

Bolitho said sharply, “Admiral Broughton was a fool. If he were one of my officers today I would tell him as much!”

They both became calm again, and Hamett-Parker said, “My record is one to be proud of.” He glanced meaningfully around the room. “I think others must have appreciated that.”

Bolitho said, “What is expected of me, Sir James?” He was surprised how calm he sounded. Inwardly he was burning like a fireship, angered by this unreachable man, angry with himself.

“We need a plan, one that can be exercised with simplicity, one that will not antagonise the flags of nations not already drawn into the fight.”

“You mean the Americans, Sir James?”

“I did not say that!” He wagged one finger and gave a stiff smile. Then he said, “I am glad we met before we meet the others involved.” He pulled some papers towards him. “My flag lieutenant has the address of your lodgings in London, I assume?”

“I imagine so, Sir James.” Probably half of London knew it. “May I ask something?”

He tugged out a bright gold watch and glanced at it. “I must not be too long.”

Bolitho thought sadly of Godschale.
One cannot do everything.
“What is intended for my last flag captain, Valentine Keen?”

Hamett-Parker pouted. “For an instant I thought you would ask about someone else.” He shrugged, irritated. “He will hoist a broad-pendant when all is decided. If he performs adequately I am certain flag rank will be his privilege, as it is ours.”

Bolitho stood up and saw the other man's glance fall to the old sword. “May I take my leave, Sir James?” It was over; the rapiers were to be laid in their cases again. For the present.

“Please do.” He leaned back in his great chair, his fingertips pressed together like a village parson. Then he said, “Vice-Admiral Sir Lucius Broughton, the
fool
you so bluntly described, died doing his duty in the penal settlements of New South Wales.” His pale eyes did not blink as he added, “His position will, I am certain, be ably filled by your friend, Rear-Admiral Herrick.”

Bolitho turned on his heel and flung open the doors, almost colliding with the hovering lieutenant.

Hamett-Parker had got deep under his skin, out of malice or for some other purpose, he did not know or care. What did he want? He had been careful not to mention Catherine, or “the scandal” as he would no doubt call it.

He hurried down the stairs, his mind reeling with ideas and memories. Just the mention of the
Euryalus:
Thelwall coughing out his life, Broughton watching the terrible flogging unmoved. But most of all, Catherine. He had commanded
Euryalus
when he had first met her. She had been aboard the merchantman
Navarra;
her husband had been killed by Barbary pirates, and she had cursed Bolitho for causing his death.

“Would the nice sea officer like a ride in comfort?”

He spun round, half-blinded by the sunlight, and saw her watching him from the carriage window. She was smiling, but her fine dark eyes were all concern.

“How did you know?”

She took his wrist as he climbed into the carriage, and replied quietly, “I always know.”

Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker held the curtain aside and looked down as the woman aided Bolitho into the elegant carriage.

“So that is the notorious Lady Catherine.”

Sir Paul Sillitoe, who had just entered by another door, smiled at the admiral's back. “Never underestimate that lady, Sir James, and do not make her an enemy.” He walked casually to the littered table and added coolly, “Or you will make one of me. Be assured of it, sir!”

Bolitho sat on a bench in the shade of a solitary tree in the neat little garden behind the house. It was peaceful here, and the clatter of iron-shod wheels and the regular passing of horses were muffled, as if far away. Behind the rear wall were the mews for this row of houses, for horses and a limited number of carriages.

He watched Catherine cutting roses and wondered if she were still missing Falmouth and what must seem the unlimited space of the house there, compared to this small town-house. Her gown was low-cut so that she could feel the benefit of the sun directly overhead, and the darker line on her shoulder where she had been so cruelly burned in the open boat was still visible.

It had been three days since his interview with Hamett-Parker and the uncertainty, the waiting, had unsettled him.

She looked at him and her expression was troubled. “Is there no way we can learn what is happening, Richard? I know what you are thinking.”

He stood up and crossed to her side. “I am bad company, dear Kate. I want to be with you and have no senseless burden hanging above me!”

A breeze turned over the pages of
The Times
and blew it on to the grass. There was more news of enemy attacks on shipping heading for home around the Cape of Good Hope. Each vessel had been sailing independently and without escort. It seemed likely that that had been what Hamett-Parker had been hinting at. Suppose he were ordered back to Cape Town,
Golden Plover
's original destination when mutiny and shipwreck had erupted like a sudden storm? Were the marauding ships which had carried out these attacks French naval vessels or privateers? Whatever they were, they must be based somewhere.