The Darkening Sea Page 4

  The two weeks that followed Anemone’s brief visit to Falmouth to land her passengers seemed to pass with the speed of light. For Bolitho and his Catherine it was a world of fantasy and rediscovery, and days and nights of love which left them spent in one another’s arms. There had been shyness too, as on the day of Bolitho’s return, when like conspirators they had ridden to that cove they called their own, to avoid well-meaning callers at the house, to be with one another and nobody else. It was a small crescent of pale sand wedged between two towering cliffs, and it had been a landing place for any smuggler daring or reckless enough to chance a passage through the jagged reefs until a rock fall had closed the only way out.

  Leaving their horses on the cliff path they had climbed down to the hard-packed sand, where she had pulled off her boots and pressed her own prints in the beach. Then they had embraced one another, and she had seen the sudden shyness, the hesitation of a man still unsure, doubting perhaps that the love was his for the asking.

  It was their place and always would be. He had watched her throw aside her clothes as she had done aboard the Golden Plover at the start of their brutal ordeal, but when she had faced him there had been a wildness and a passion he had not seen before. The sun had touched their nakedness and the sand had been warm beneath them when they had realised that the tide was turning once again; and they had splashed through the hissing, lapping water, the sea’s embrace sharp and cleansing as they had laughed together, and waded around the rocks to the safety of another beach.

  There had been evenings, too, of formality, with Lewis Roxby’s household doing its best to provide lavish banquets and entertainment that would ensure that his nickname, The King of Cornwall, remained unchallenged. Moments of tranquillity, memories shared and reawakened while they had ridden around the estate and surrounding villages. Old faces and some newcomers had greeted them with a warmth Bolitho had never experienced. He was more used to the surprise he saw whenever they were both walking together. It was probably inconceivable that the returned vice-admiral, Falmouth’s most famous son, should choose to toil along the lanes and hillsides like any bumpkin. But he knew from long experience that after the confines of a King’s ship, the monotonous food and the strain of command, any officer who failed to exercise his mind and body when he could was a fool.

  Allday’s announcement had caught them by surprise. Bolitho had exclaimed, ‘It is the best thing I have heard for a long, long time, old friend!’

  Catherine had kissed him on the cheek, but had been bemused by Allday’s sudden uncertainty. ‘I am a troubled man,’ he had proclaimed more than once, as if the pleasure shown by everyone else had dispelled his earlier confidence.

  As they lay in their bed, listening to the distant boom of the sea through the open windows, she had said quietly, ‘You know what disturbs him, do you not, Richard?’

  She had leaned over him, her long hair silvered in the filtered moonlight, and he had held her closer, his hand pressing her naked spine, still damp from their eagerness for each other.

  He had nodded. ‘He fears that I shall leave him on the beach. Oh, how I would miss him, Kate! My oak. But how much pleasure it would give me to know he was safe at long last, able to enjoy his new life with this lady I have yet to meet.’

  She had touched his lips with her fingers. ‘He will do it all in his own way, Richard, in his own time.’

  Then she changed the mood, the touch of reality which had intruded to remind them both of that other world that was always waiting.

  She had kissed him slowly. ‘Suppose I took his place? I have worn a seaman’s garb before. Who would notice your new coxswain?’

  Ferguson, smoking a last pipe in the balmy night air, had heard her familiar laughter. He had been glad for them; sad, too, that it could not last.

  There had been news from Valentine Keen at his Hampshire home. Zenoria had given him a son, to be named Perran Augustus. From the tone of the letter Keen was obviously ecstatic with pride and delight. A son: a future admiral in his eyes already.

  Bolitho had been curious about the choice of Perran, a very old Cornish name. Zenoria must have insisted upon it, perhaps to assert herself against Keen’s rather overwhelming family.

  Catherine had said simply, ‘It was her father’s name.’

  Her mood had not lightened and Bolitho had imagined that it was because of the poisoned past. Zenoria’s father had been hanged for a crime committed when fighting for farm workers’ rights, and Zenoria’s own involvement had indirectly caused her to be transported. Keen had rescued her, and had cleared her name. Bolitho still wondered if it was truly love, or gratitude which had given them a son.

  ‘What is it, Kate?’ He had held her to him, and she spoke softly.

  ‘I would give everything to bear you a child, our very own. Not one to don the King’s coat as soon as he is able, like so many of the names I see in the church where your family is honoured. And not one to be spoiled beyond his or her own good!’ He had felt the tension in her body as she had added bitterly, ‘But I cannot, and mostly I am content. To have and hold your love, to cherish every moment together no matter how short they might be. Then at other times I have this demon inside me. Because of me you have given so much. Your friends, or those you have believed to be so, your freedom to do as you please without the eyes of envy watching every move—’ She leaned back in his arms and studied each feature of his face, the rare tears unheeded on her skin. ‘You do so much for others and for your country. How dare they squeak their petty hatreds behind your back? In Golden Plover I was often terrified, but I would have shared it with none other. Those qualities you do not even know you have lifted my heart. They talk and sing of you in the taverns – a sailor’s sailor they call you, but they can never know what I have seen and done with you.’

  And then at the end of the second week the Admiralty messenger rode up to the old grey house below Pendennis Castle, and the orders they had both been expecting were delivered in the usual heavily sealed envelope.

  Bolitho sat by the empty grate in the big room where he had heard his first stories of the sea and of distant parts from his father, his grandfather: it was now difficult to distinguish one from another in this house where life for so many of his family had begun, and as each grave portrait on the walls could testify, to which few had ever returned. He turned the envelope over in his hands. How many times, he wondered? Upon receipt of these orders … will proceed with all despatch … To a ship or a squadron, to some unknown part of the expanding power of Majesty, to the cannon’s mouth if ordered.

  He heard Ferguson’s wife talking to the messenger. He would leave here eventually well fed and cheered by some of her homemade cider. Bolitho’s acknowledgement would be taken to London, passed from clerk to clerk, to the faces of Admiralty who knew little and cared even less for the countless ships and men who died for King and Country. The scrape of a pen by some Admiralty quill-pusher could leave men dead or horribly disfigured, like the unbreakable James Tyacke. Bolitho could see him now as if it had only just happened, Tyacke’s brig Larne bearing down on their wretched longboat even in the hour of death. Now Tyacke, whom the slavers he hunted called ‘the devil with half a face’, drove himself and his ship as only he could, and for a purpose known only to himself. These same clerks of admiralty would turn away in horror if they saw his terrible disfigurement, simply because they could not see beyond it to the pride and courage of the man who wore it like a talisman.

  He sensed that Catherine had come in, and when he glanced at her he saw that she was quite composed. She said, ‘I am here.’

  He slit open the envelope and quickly scanned the fine round handwriting, and did not see her sudden concern when he unconsciously rubbed his damaged eye.

  He said slowly, ‘We shall be going to London, Kate.’ He gazed through the open doors at the trees, the clear sky beyond. A way from here.

  He recalled suddenly that his father had sat in this same chair many times when he had read to
him and to his sisters. You could see the trees and the hillside from here, but not the sea. Was that the reason, even for his father, who had always seemed so stern and courageous?

  ‘Not to a new flagship?’

  Her voice was calm: only the rise and fall of her breast made it a lie.

  ‘It seems we are to discuss some new strategy.’ He shrugged. ‘Whatever that may be.’

  She guessed what he was thinking. His mind was rebelling against leaving the peace they had been able to share for these two happy weeks.

  ‘It is not Falmouth, Richard, but my house in Chelsea is always a haven.’

  Bolitho tossed the envelope on to a table and stood up. ‘It was true about Lord Godschale. He has gone from the Admiralty and the London he so obviously enjoyed, although I suspect for the wrong reasons.’

  ‘Who will you see?’ Her voice was level, prepared, as if she already knew.

  Bolitho replied, ‘Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker.’ In his mind he could clearly see the thin mouth and pale eyes, as if he were intruding into this very room.

  One hand went to her breast. ‘Was he not the one …’

  He smiled grimly. ‘Yes, dear Kate, the President of Thomas Herrick’s court-martial.’ Was it only a year ago?

  He added, ‘So he has the whip-hand now.’ He turned as Ozzard entered with a tray and two goblets.

  Catherine looked at the little man and smiled. ‘Your timing is better than that of any sand in a glass!’

  Ozzard regarded her impassively. ‘Thank you, m’lady.’ To Bolitho he said, ‘I thought some hock might be suitable, Sir Richard.’

  No secrets. The news would be all over the estate soon, then the town. Bolitho was leaving. For glory or to some fresh scandal, it was too soon to predict. Bolitho waited for the inner door to close, and then he placed a goblet in her hand.

  ‘I raise a glass to my lovely Kate.’ He did so, and smiled. ‘Don’t worry too much about Godschale’s successor. It is better, I think, to know an enemy than to lose a friend.’

  She watched him over the rim of her goblet. ‘Must it always be you, Richard? I have said as much in the past, even at the risk of offending you. I know you might hate a position ashore … at the Admiralty perhaps, where respected leaders like you are in short supply, it seems …’

  He took her goblet and stood it beside his own. Then he gripped her hands and looked at her steadily for some time. She could feel his inner struggle like something physical.

  ‘This war cannot last much longer, Kate. Unless things turn against us it must end. The enemy will lose heart once English soldiers are in their streets.’ She knew it was important to him, too vital to interrupt.

  ‘All my life I have been at sea, as is the way in my family. For over twenty years of my service I have been fighting the French and whatever ally they might have at any one moment – but always the French. I have seen too many men and boys torn apart in battle, and I blame myself for many of them.’ He gripped her hands more tightly and said, ‘It is enough. When the enemy flag comes down …’

  She stared at him. ‘You intend to quit? To abandon the life you have always known?’

  He smiled slowly, and afterwards she thought it had been like seeing the real man emerge. The one she had loved and almost lost, the man she shared with none other.

  ‘I want to be with you, Catherine. It will be a new navy when the war ends, with younger officers like Adam to improve the sailor’s lot.’ He smiled again. ‘Like Allday’s song that day, “to keep watch for the life of Poor Jack”. Our men have earned that reward at least, a thousand times over.’

  Later they stood by the open doors, so that she could see the orchard and the hillside, with the rich display of roses she had planted for his return.

  Bolitho said quietly, ‘There is a moment in every sailor’s life.’ He looked for the first time at the sea, its hard horizon like a steel blade. ‘I think brave Nelson knew it, even before he walked the deck that day off Cape Trafalgar.’ He turned and looked at her. ‘I am not ready, dear Kate. Fate alone will decide, not the Hamett-Parkers of this world.’

  They heard the clatter of a post-horse leaving the stableyard, carrying his brief reply to the lords of Admiralty.

  He smiled and held her waist more tightly. So be it then.

  * * *

  3

  Voice in the Night

  * * *

  IT TOOK BOLITHO and Catherine all of six days to make the long journey to London. Using their carriage, and with a regular change of horses, they could have done it in less. But the Admiralty had named no particular date for his interview and had merely suggested ‘at your earliest convenience’. Flag rank had its privileges after all.

  With Matthew the senior coachman up on the box and Allday at his side, they had drawn many stares and quite a few cheers from passers-by and farm workers as they had clattered along the cobbled streets of towns and villages, or churned up the dust of twisting lanes and the King’s highway.

  When they stopped at inns, either for the night or for some refreshment, it became common for people to crowd around them to wish them well, some timidly, others less so, as if they wanted to be part of the legend.

  As expected, Allday had been adamant about not staying in Falmouth. ‘Suppose you gets ordered to a new command, Sir Richard? What would they think o’ that?’ Who they were he did not specify. ‘Vice-Admiral o’ the Red, Knight of th’ Bath no less, and yet he’s without his coxswain!’

  Bolitho had pointed out that Ozzard and Yovell would be remaining at Falmouth until the situation was more definite, and Allday had been as scornful as he dared. ‘A servant an’ a quill-pusher! The likes o’ them would never be missed!’ But Catherine had told him that Allday needed to get away, if only to ponder on his new undertaking.

  Sometimes Catherine slept, her head on his lap as trees and churches, fields and farms rolled past. Once she clutched his arm, her eyes suddenly wide but seeing nothing, as she lived through a bad dream or worse.

  While she slept, Bolitho considered what might await him. Perhaps there would be no familiar faces this time; no ships the names of which conjured up violent memories, or friends lost now forever.

  Perhaps he might be sent to hoist his flag in the Mediterranean and so relieve Vice-Admiral Lord Collingwood, Nelson’s dearest friend and his second-in-command at Trafalgar. It was well-known that Collingwood was a sick man, some said already on the threshold of death. He had not spared himself, nor had he been spared by the Admiralty, and he had been at sea almost continuously since the battle when Nelson had fallen, to be mourned by the whole country. Collingwood had even overcome his pride enough to plead to be released from command in the Mediterranean, but Bolitho had heard nothing of their lordships’ response.

  He thought of Catherine’s suggestion concerning duty ashore and was almost surprised that he did not regret his decision to quit the sea, nor that he had shared his determination with her. The sea would always be there, and there would always be wars: the Bolitho family had shown their mettle in enough of them in the past, and there was no reason why greed and the search for power should not continue.

  He stroked her hair and her neck until she stirred slightly in her sleep, recalling the love they had shared, even on the endless journey from Cornwall. Beaming landlords, curtsying maids, waving customers: it had all blurred together now. Only the nights were real. Their need for one another, and other nights when they had merely lain close, in silence, or shared the cool of an evening at some window in a sleeping village, or a town where wheels rattled through the night and a church clock kept a count of the hours.

  Once, when he had confessed how much he was dreading leaving her, she had faced him in the darkness, her long hair loose about her bare shoulders.

  ‘I love you, Richard, more than life itself, for without you there is no life. But after what we endured in Golden Plover we can always be together. Wherever you are I shall be with you, and when you need me I will hear your voi
ce.’ She had taken his face in her hands and had said, ‘You are so many things to me, dearest of men. You are my hand in yours; you are one so unsure sometimes that you cannot see the love others hold for you. You are my lover as I am your mistress, or whatever they choose to call me. And you are also a friend, one I can turn to without fear of rebuff. I would not have you change, nor would I try to change you. But if others attempt to harm you or to force us apart, then …’

  He had held her very close and had murmured into her hair, ‘Then my tiger will show her claws!’

  It was dusk when they finally approached the Thames, not far from the tavern where Bolitho had met secretly with Herrick before his court-martial to ask if he might act in his defence. Herrick’s refusal had been like a door slammed in his face. Last year, and yet it seemed so long ago. Over the great bridge with the gleam of black water below where ships lay moored like shadows, yards crossed and sails tightly furled, waiting for the next tide perhaps, when they would quit the Pool of London and spread their wings for the open sea and maybe the vast oceans beyond. The lifeblood of commerce and survival, envied and hated by others in equal proportions. The navy was stretched to the limit and could barely maintain the blockade of the enemy’s ports and the convoy of vital shipping, but every master down there in those drowsing vessels would expect their protection, and it was right they should have it.

  There were a few lights at the water’s edge, wherrymen plying for hire as they would throughout the night. Young bloods coming and going from their gambling and their women, and across the river to the pleasure gardens where Catherine had taken him to show him part of her London, of which he knew so little.

  Eventually the river ran closer to the road and the horses trotted into the tree-lined street called Cheyne Walk.

  Bolitho climbed down, stiff from so many miles, glad there were no curious onlookers this time. Her tall, narrow house with its iron balcony and the room which faced the river had become their other haven. Here people minded their own affairs, and showed no surprise at those who owned or rented such property. General or pauper, artist or mistress, there was privacy here for all.