Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef Page 6

  The President snapped, “You will answer, sir!”

  Tyacke said evenly, “That must have been what I was thinking.”

  Cotgrave turned to Herrick. “You have a question or two perhaps?”

  Herrick regarded him calmly. “None. This officer speaks the truth, as well as being a most gallant fighter.”

  One of the captains said, “There is a question from the back, sir.”

  “I am sorry to interrupt the proceedings, even delay refreshment, but the President did offer to have matters explained to a mere landsman.”

  Bolitho turned round, remembering the voice but unable to identify the speaker. Someone with a great deal of authority to make a joke at Hamett-Parker’s expense without fear of attack. Dressed all in black, it was Sir Paul Sillitoe, once the Prime Minister’s personal adviser, whom Bolitho had first met at a reception at Godschale’s grand house near Blackwall Reach. That had been before the attack on Copenhagen.

  Sillitoe was thin-faced and dark, with deep hooded eyes, very self-contained; and a man one would never know, really know. But he had been charming to Catherine on that occasion when the Duke of Portland, the prime minister at the time, had attempted to snub her. Standing amidst so many now, he was still quite alone.

  Sillitoe continued, “I would be grateful if you would clarify the difference ‘twixt two seafaring terms which have been mentioned several times already.” He looked directly at Bolitho and gave the briefest of smiles. Bolitho could imagine him doing the very same while peering along the barrel of a duelling pistol.

  Sillitoe went on silkily, “One witness will describe the convoy’s possible tactics as being ‘scattered,’ and another will term it ‘dispersed. ‘ I am all confusion.”

  Bolitho thought his tone suggested otherwise, and could not help wondering if Sillitoe had interrupted the Judge Advocate for a different purpose.

  The latter said patiently, “If it pleases, Sir Paul. To scatter a convoy means that each ship’s master can go his own way, that is to say, move out from the centre like the spokes of a wheel. To disperse would mean to leave each master to sail as he pleases, but all to the original destination. Is that clear, Sir Paul?”

  “One further question, if you will bear with me, sir. The ships’ masters who have claimed they could have outsailed the enemy ships—were they all requesting the order to disperse?”

  Cotgrave glanced questioningly at the President and then replied, “They did, Sir Paul.”

  Sillitoe bowed elegantly. “Thank you.”

  Hamett-Parker snapped, “Then if that is all, gentlemen, this hearing is adjourned for refreshments.” He stalked out, followed by the other members of his court.

  “You may dismiss, Commander Tyacke.”

  Tyacke waited until most of those in the cabin had bustled away and Herrick had left with his escort. Then he shook Bolitho’s hand and said quietly, “I hoped we would meet soon, Sir Richard.” He glanced at the deserted table where the sword was still shining in the April sunlight. “But not like this.”

  Together they made their way out to the broad quarterdeck, where many of the visitors had broken into small groups to discuss the trial so far, all to the obvious irritation of watchkeepers and working seamen alike.

  “Is everything well with you?” Bolitho stood beside him to stare at a graceful schooner tacking past; he guessed Tyacke was comparing her with his lost Miranda.

  “I should have written to you, Sir Richard, after all that you did for me.” He gave a great sigh. “I have been appointed to the new anti-slavery patrol. We sail for the African coast shortly. Most of my men are volunteers—more to escape from the fleet than out of any moral convictions!” His eyes crinkled in a grin. “I never thought they’d get it through Parliament after all these years.”

  Bolitho could agree with him. England had been at war with France almost continuously for fifteen years, and all the while the slave traffic had gone on without hindrance: a brutal trade in human beings which ended in death from the lash as often as from fever.

  And yet, there were many who had voted against its abolition, describing the traders and plantation owners in the Caribbean as loyal servants of the Crown, men ready to defend their rights against the enemy. Supporters usually added the extra bait for their cause, that a plentiful supply of slaves would continue to mean cheaper sugar for the world’s market, as well as releasing other men for active duty at sea or in the army.

  This new patrol might suit Tyacke very well, he thought. The private man with a small company which he could educate to his own standards.

  Tyacke said, “I fear I did little good for Rear-Admiral Herrick’s cause just now, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho replied, “It was the truth.”

  “Will he win the day, do you think, sir?”

  “We must.” He wondered afterwards if Tyacke had noticed that he had not said he.

  Tyacke remarked, “Ah, here comes your faithful cox’n.”

  Allday moved effortlessly through the chattering groups and touched his hat.

  “Begging your pardon, Sir Richard, but I thought you might want to take your meal in the Master’s chartroom.” He gave a grim smile. “Mr Julyan was most firm on the matter!”

  Bolitho answered readily, “That would suit very well. I have no stomach for this today.” He glanced around at the jostling, apparently carefree people who were waiting to be called to their refreshment, seeing instead this deck as it had been on that dismal September morning. The dead and the wounded, the first lieutenant cut cleanly in half by a massive French ball. “I do not feel I belong here.”

  Tyacke held out his hand. “I have to leave, Sir Richard. Please offer my best wishes to Lady Somervell.” He glanced at Keen, who was waiting to see him over the side to his gig. “And to you too, sir.”

  Keen had known what it must have cost Tyacke to go all the way to Zennor to see him marry Zenoria, to experience again the shocked stares and brutal curiosity to which he would never become accustomed.

  “I thank you, Commander Tyacke. I shall not forget.”

  Tyacke raised his hat and the marines’ muskets thumped in salute, a cloud of pipeclay floating from their crossbelts like smoke. The calls shrilled and Bolitho gazed after him until the gig was pulling strongly away from the ship’s great shadow.

  “Join me in the Master’s quarters, will you, Val?”

  Someone was ringing a bell, and the small tide of visitors began to flow towards the temptation of food, brought on board, it was said, from the George Inn itself.

  Ozzard had prepared a meal which seemed to consist mostly of several kinds of cheese, fresh bread from Portsmouth, and some claret. He had learned very well what Bolitho could and could not take when he was under great strain.

  Keen asked, “What do you think, Sir Richard?”

  Bolitho was still thinking of what he had observed before entering the chartroom. Near the big double-wheel the Judge Advocate had been in close conversation with Sir Paul Sillitoe. They had not seen him, but had separated before continuing up to Keen’s quarters.

  “If only he had called someone to defend him. This is all too personal, too cleancut for outsiders to understand.” He toyed with the cheese, his appetite gone. “I think it will be over quite soon. This afternoon Captain Gossage will give evidence. He can say little of the battle because he was wounded almost as soon as Benbow engaged. But it will depend much on his earlier assessment, his guidance as flag captain when the truth of the situation was apparent.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “It will be our turn, and Thomas’s.”

  Keen stood up. “I had better be seen to welcome the senior officers to my quarters, I suppose.” He did not sound as if he liked the prospect.

  “A moment, Val.” Bolitho closed the chartroom door. “I have a suggestion—or rather, Catherine put forward the idea.”

  “Sir? I would always be guided by that lady.”

  “While we are away on passage to the Cape,
we think Zenoria should be offered the use of our house in Cornwall. You have rented one here, I believe, while Black Prince is fitting out, but in Cornwall she would be with people who would care for her. There is another reason.” He could sense Keen’s instant guard; it was so unlike him. Matters were worse than they had feared. “Zenoria once told Catherine she would take it as a great favour if she could make use of the library there. It is extensive … it was built up by my grandfather.”

  Keen smiled, his eyes clearing. “Yes, I know she wishes to educate herself more, to learn about the world.” He nodded slowly. “It was kind of Lady Catherine to concern herself with this, sir. Zenoria’s first time alone as a married woman.”

  He did not continue. He did not need to.

  “That’s settled then.”

  Later when the court convened, Bolitho ran his eyes over the seated spectators, for that was what they had become. Like onlookers at a public hanging. There was no trace of Sir Paul Sillitoe.

  Herrick looked tired, and showed considerable strain. He too must be thinking of tomorrow.

  The Judge Advocate cleared his throat and waited for Hamett-Parker to offer him a curt nod.

  “This court is reassembled. Please call Captain Hector Gossage.” He glanced around at the intent faces as if expecting another interruption. “He was flag captain to the accused at the time of the attack.”

  Herrick turned and looked directly at his sword on the table. It was as if he expected to see it move, or perhaps he already imagined it pointing towards him.

  Gossage’s entrance was almost too pitiful to watch; he seemed to have shrunk from the bluff, competent captain Bolitho had met on several occasions. Now his face was lined, and one cheek was pitted with small splinter scars; one sleeve of his dress coat was empty, pinned up and useless, and he was obviously still in great pain. A chair was brought and Gossage assisted into it by two orderlies who had accompanied him from the hospital here at Haslar Creek.

  Hamett-Parker asked not unkindly, “Are you as comfortable as we can make you, Captain?”

  Gossage stared around as if he had not properly heard. So many senior officers and guests. “I should be standing, sir!”

  Hamett-Parker said quietly, as if daring anyone to so much as cough or move, “You are not on trial here, Captain Gossage. Take your time and speak in your own words. We have studied the Details of Evidence, heard the opinions, for they were little more than that, of many witnesses. But Benbow was the flagship and you were her captain. It is your story we wish to hear.”

  It was then that Gossage seemed to see Herrick opposite him for the first time.

  He began brokenly, “I—I’m not her captain any more. I’ve lost everything!” He tried to move round so that Herrick could see his empty sleeve. “Look what you’ve done to me!”

  Hamett-Parker gestured to the surgeon and snapped, “The court is adjourned until the same time tomorrow.” To the surgeon he added, “Take good care of Captain Gossage.”

  As the little group shuffled toward the rear of the cabin, Hamett-Parker spoke to the Judge Advocate, his tone severe. “That must not occur again in this court, Mr Cotgrave!” But when he glanced round Bolitho saw only triumph in his eyes.

  4

  REVENGE

  THE HOUSE, which was of medium size and owned by the Admiralty, was situated just outside the dockyard gates. It had a permanent staff, but was entirely without any kind of personality; it was merely a place where senior officers and Admiralty officials could stay temporarily while conducting their business with the dockyard or the port admiral.

  It was not yet dawn but already Bolitho could hear the comings and goings of carts and waggons, and during the long night he heard the occasional tramp of feet and the clink of weapons as the press-gangs returned from yet another search of outlying villages for men who were without any official protection.

  The last time, when he had been awakened from a troubled sleep, he had heard a woman’s voice, high-pitched and pleading, although he could not make out the words. She had been calling out long after the gates had clanged shut, her man taken from her side to help fill the depleted ranks in the fleet. Her pleas would fall on deaf ears, especially with the war about to expand still further. Fit men, sometimes any men would suffice. Even those with the written protection, fishermen, sailors of the HEIC, prime hands whom the navy needed more than any, kept out of sight at night when the press were about. It was useless to try and right a wrong if you awoke with a bruised head in some man-of-war already standing out into the Western Approaches.

  Very gently he lifted Catherine’s head from his bare shoulder and eased it on to a pillow. As he did so he felt her long, tumbled hair slide from his skin, their bodies still warm from their embrace.

  But it had been a night without passion or intimacy, a night when they had shared an even deeper love, knowing their need and support of one another. With great care he climbed from the bed and walked quietly through to the adjoining room. The fire was dead in the grate but already he could hear a servant, or perhaps the loyal Ozzard, re-laying another downstairs.

  This room, like the house, felt damp and unlived-in, but it was still a haven compared to the alternative: a local inn, prying eyes and questioning glances. Everyone would know about the court martial. This was a naval port, the greatest in the world, but gossip flourished here like a village.

  He stared from a window and after some hesitation thrust it open, admitting the cold air of dawn, the strong tang of the sea, freshly-cut timber, tar and oakum, the stuff of any Royal dockyard.

  It was today. He stared hard at the dark shadows of the buildings beyond the wall. Allday and Ozzard would have prepared his best dress coat with its gleaming epaulettes, each with a pair of silver stars to display his rank.

  He would not feel the familiar weight of the old family sword against his thigh; he would wear, instead, the lavishly decorated presentation sword given to him by the people of Falmouth in recognition of his service in the Mediterranean and at the Battle of the Nile. For here he was authority, the vice-admiral again; not “Equality Dick” as his sailors had so often called him, not even the hero who brought admiring grins from the ale-houses and coffee establishments because of his liaison with a beautiful woman. It made him feel like a stranger to himself. He could not forget Herrick’s bitterness at Southwark, when he had gone to plead and reason with him. Don’t throw away all you’ve achieved for yourself because of me. He was what his father would have wished, a flag officer like all the others in those portraits which lined the stairway and gallery in the old grey house in Cornwall.

  He heard a girl laugh somewhere, probably Catherine’s new maid servant, Sophie, a small, dark creature whom Catherine had said was half-Spanish. She had taken her as a favour to an old friend in London; at a guess the girl was about fifteen. It had happened quite suddenly, and Catherine had not yet had time to relate the full story. She had been concerned only for him, and what might be the outcome of today.

  There had been a letter sent from London by post-boy, from Lord Godschale. The packet which was to carry them to the Cape had left the Pool of London and was making her way down-Channel to Falmouth, where she would await Bolitho’s arrival. A strange change of plans, Bolitho had thought, more secrecy, in case there should be fresh scandal about Catherine’s going with him. Godschale had cleared his own yardarm by suggesting that Catherine pay her own fare and expenses for the voyage.

  She had given her bubbling laugh when he had told her. “That man is quite impossible, Richard! But he has a roving eye and a reputation to support, I am given to understand!”

  They had also discussed Zenoria. She had left in the Bolitho carriage the previous evening with Jenour and Yovell for protection and company. She had seemed eager to go, and when Bolitho had said, “She will be able to say goodbye to Val at Falmouth,” he had not sounded very convincing, even to himself.

  The only good news had also been from London, from the heron-like Sir Piers Bla
chford. Elizabeth’s injury was neither permanent nor serious, now that she was under proper care. Bolitho had not told Catherine that Belinda had sent word that he himself was expected to pay all the necessary costs: she had probably guessed anyway.

  He waited for the first hint of daylight, then covered his uninjured eye with his hand and stared for so long that the eye pricked painfully and began to water. But there was no mist, no failing vision this time; perhaps the three months ashore, with occasional trips to Portsmouth and London had worked in his favour.

  Without turning he knew she had entered the room, her naked feet soundless on the carpet. She came up behind him and put a coat around his bare shoulders.

  “What are you doing? Trying to catch a cold, or worse?”

  He put his arm around her body and felt her warmth through the plain white gown, the one with the gold cord around her throat which if released could bare her shoulders or her whole being.

  She shivered as he ran his fingers over her hip. “Oh, dear Richard—soon now, and all this will be over.”

  “I have been poor company of late.”

  Catherine turned in his arm and looked at him, only her eyes shining in the faint light.

  “So many thoughts, so many worries. They strike at you from every side.”

  She had read Herrick’s letter aloud to him, and he had been moved that she had shown more regret than anger. In it, Herrick had thanked her for staying with his wife to the end. A letter between total strangers. He ran his hand under her long hair and kissed her lightly on the neck.

  She covered his hand with hers. “Much more of that, Richard, and I will forget the importance and the formality of this day.”

  She looked out at the paling sky and the last weak star. “I love everything we do, all that we have found in one another.” He tried to turn her towards him but felt her strong supple body resist him; she would not, could not face him. “When you are away from me, Richard, I touch myself where you have touched me, and I dream it is you. The climax is matched only by the disappointment when I know it is … just another fantasy.”