The man was still staring. 'I'm afraid 'e slipped 'is cable, Sir Richard.' He shook his head, wondering how this famous officer, beloved by his sailors and all who served him, could even remember the other old porter.
Bolitho said, 'I am sorry. Is there anything I can do?'
The porter shook his head. 'Bin ill fer quite a time, Sir Richard. Often spoke of you, 'e did.'
Bolitho said quietly, 'He taught me many things…' He broke off, angry with himself, and saw a lieutenant with a fixed smile of anticipation waiting by the staircase. His arrival had already been signalled, apparently. As he followed the young officer up the stairs he was reminded suddenly of Jenour, and wondered how he was settling down to his new role of command. That new maturity gained after the
Golden Plover's loss and his own daring efforts to retake that wretched vessel after the mutiny had convinced him that he was ready to offer his hard-won experience to others. As Keen had said after they had been snatched to safety by Tyacke's brig Lame, 'None of us will ever be quite the same again.'
Perhaps Keen was right. Who would have believed it possible that Bolitho himself would have declared his intention of leaving the navy when the war was finally over? He walked along the passageways, past the blank impersonal doors, the line of chairs where captains could sit and wait to see a superior, to be praised, promoted or disciplined. Bolitho was glad to see they were all empty. Every captain, no matter how junior, was beyond price; the war's harvest had made certain of that. He himself had sat here many times, waiting, hoping, dreading.
They paused at the big double doors behind which God-sc hale had once held court. He had once been a frigate captain like Bolitho, and they had been posted at the same time. There was no other similarity. Godschale loved the good life: receptions and balls, great banquets and state occasions. He had an eye for a pretty face, and a wife so dull he probably considered it a fair distraction.
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, un wasted
'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 Eury-alusT
'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?'
