“Yeah. Well, I suppose if yer want ter be captain, yer gotta be. Make a mistake, show a weakness, an’ the sea’ll ’ave yer. Makes men ’ard, but makes ’em loyal too. An’ yer could always rely on Mr. Cornwallis. Bit stuck kind o’ by the book, ’e were, but honest to a fault.” He shook his head. “I ’member one time w’en ’e ’ad ter punish a feller wot done summink wrong, don’t rightly recall wot now. But it weren’t much, but regulations said ’e ’ad ter be lashed wi’ the cat … answered back the bo’sun or summink. Yer could tell Mr. Cornwallis din’t wanna do it. Bo’sun were a right bastard. But yer can’t break ship’s discipline or ye’re all lost.”
He twisted up his face, thinking back to the incident. “But Mr. Cornwallis, ’e made ’ard work of it. Paced the quarterdeck all by ’isself fer days, ’e did. Mad as ’ell. Then suffered like ’e were the one wot ’ad bin beat.” He took a deep breath. “Bo’sun got lost overboard an’ Mr. Cornwallis bust a gut tryin’ ter find if ’e were pushed.” He grimaced. “Never did find out, though.”
“And was he?” Pitt asked.
MacMunn grinned at Pitt over the top of his mug.
“Yeah, ’course ’e were! But we all reckoned as Mr. Cornwallis din’t really wanter know that.”
“So you didn’t tell him?”
“S’right! Good man, Mr. Cornwallis. Wouldn’t wanter make things ’ard fer ’im. An’ if ’e’d a’ know’d, ’e’d a’ ’ad the poor sod ’anged from the yardarm, no matter ’ow much ’e’d a’ felt fer ’im, an’ like ter ’ave pushed the bo’sun over ’isself.” He shook his head. “Got ’is imagination all in the wrong places. Feels for folk summink terrible, but takes everythin’ too exact, if you know wot I mean?”
“Yes, I think I do,” Pitt answered. “Would he ever take credit for another man’s act of bravery, do you think?”
MacMunn looked at him incredulously.
“More likely ’ang for another man’s crime, ’e would! ’Oo-ever said that’s both a liar and a fool. ’Oo is ’e?”
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out. Can you help me, Mr. MacMunn?”
“ ’Oo, me?”
“If you will. For example, did Captain Cornwallis have any personal enemies, people who were envious or who cherished a grudge?”
MacMunn screwed up his face, his tea forgotten. “ ’Ard ter say, if ye’re honest like. Nothin’ as I knows of, but ’oo can say wot goes on in a man’s mind w’en ’e’s passed over in the ranks, or w’en ’e ’as ter be told orff fer summink. Honest man knows it’s ’is owndoin’ … but …” He shrugged expressively.
But no matter how hard Pitt pressed, MacMunn had few practical suggestions to make, and Pitt thanked him again, and left him feeling considerably lighter in spirits, as if he had met with something essentially clean which had washed away the sense of oppression which had weighed him down after speaking with Durand. A fear inside him had eased.
The early afternoon found him in Rotherhithe with Able Seaman Lockhart, a taciturn man rather the worse for drink who gave him no information of value and seemed to remember Cornwallis as a man to be feared, but respected for his seamanship. He disliked all senior officers, and said so. It was the only subject upon which he would offer more than single-word replies.
By late afternoon, when the air was hot and still and a haze had settled over the City, the river winding below in a glittering ribbon, Pitt walked up the hill from the landing stage towards the Greenwich Naval Hospital to see the onetime ship’s surgeon, Mr. Rawlinson.
Rawlinson was busy, and Pitt had to wait in an anteroom for over half an hour, but he was reasonably comfortable and the unaccustomed sights and sounds held his interest.
When Rawlinson came he was dressed in a white shirt with the neck open and the sleeves rolled up, as if he had been hard at work, and there were bloodstains on his arms and several places on his body. He was a big man, well muscled, with a broad, amiable face.
“Bow Street police station?” he said curiously, eyeing Pitt up and down. “Not one of our people in trouble, surely? Not over the river and on your patch, anyway.”
“Not at all.” Pitt turned from the window, where he had been watching the water and the traffic going up to the Port of London. “I wanted to ask you about an officer who served with you in the past … John Cornwallis.”
Rawlinson was incredulous. “Cornwallis! You can’t mean he’s come to your attention. I thought he was in the police himself. Or was it the Home Office?”
“No, police.” It seemed explanations were unavoidable. He had promised discretion. How could he honor that and still be of any use? “This is an incident in the past that has been … misinterpreted,” Pitt replied tentatively. “I am looking into it on Captain Cornwallis’s behalf.”
Rawlinson pursed his lips. “I was a ship’s surgeon, Mr. Pitt. I spent a great deal of my time in the orlop.”
“The what?”
“The orlop. The lower deck, aft, where the wounded are taken and we do our operating.”
Below them on the river a clipper with canvas full set was drifting up tide towards the Surrey Docks, its magnificent sails white in the sun. There was something sad about it, as if its age were already dying.
“Oh. But you did know Cornwallis?” Pitt insisted, dragging his mind back.
“Certainly,” Rawlinson agreed. “Sailed under his command. But being the captain of a ship is not a very sociable position. If you haven’t been at sea you probably haven’t much of an idea of the power a captain has and the necessary isolation that requires.” Unthinkingly, he wiped his hands on the sides of his trousers, unaware of smearing them with traces of blood. “You can’t be a good commander without keeping a certain distance between yourself and the men, even the other officers.” He turned and led the way into a wide gallery through a glass-paned door and down the steps to the grass, the panorama of the river beyond the sloping ground.
Pitt followed, listening.
“The whole structure of the crew is built on a very tight hierarchy.” Rawlinson waved his hands as he spoke. “Too much familiarity and men lose that edge of respect for the captain. He has to be more than human to them, close to infallible. If they see his vulnerability, his doubt, ordinary weaknesses or fears, something of the power is lost.” He glanced at Pitt. “Every good captain knows that, and Cornwallis did. I think much of it came naturally to him. He was a quiet man, solitary by choice. He took his position very seriously.”
“Was he good?”
Rawlinson smiled, leading the way across the grass in the sun. The breeze from the river smelled of salt. The tide was running sharply. Overhead, gulls circled, crying loudly.
“Yes,” he answered. “Actually, he was very good.”
“Why did he come ashore?” Pitt asked. “He’s comparatively young.”
Rawlinson stopped, his expression guarded, defensive for the first time. “Forgive me, Mr. Pitt, but why does that concern you?”
Pitt struggled for the right reply. Surely only some element of the truth would serve Cornwallis now?
“Someone is endeavoring to hurt him,” he replied, watching Rawlinson’s face. “Damage his reputation. I need to know the truth in order to defend him.”
“You want to know the worst they could say, with any honesty?”
“Yes.”
Rawlinson grunted. “And why should I not suspect that the enemy you speak of is you yourself?”
“Ask Cornwallis,” Pitt responded.
“In that case, why don’t you ask him what the worst or the best is of his career?” It was said with wry amusement, no ill will at all. He stood in the sun with his bloodstained arms folded, a smile on his face.
“Because we don’t always see ourselves as others do, Mr. Rawlinson,” Pitt replied. “Does that need explaining?”
Rawlinson relaxed. “No, it doesn’t.” He began to walk again, waving his hand in invitation to Pitt to accompany him. “Cornwallis was a brave man,” he answered. “Both physically and morally; perhaps a trifle short in imagination. He had a sense of humor, but it didn’t show very often. He took his pleasures quietly. He liked to read … all manner of things. He was a surprisingly good artist with watercolors. Painted light on water with a sensitivity that astounded me. Showed a completely different side of the man. Made one understand that sometimes genius is not in what you put in but what you leave out. He managed to convey”-he circled his hands in a sweeping motion-“air! Light!” He laughed. “Would never have thought he had such … daring … in him.”
