Belinda had walked with him to the carriage, her eyes laughing, her body warm against his as she had told him of her plans, what she would do to prepare for their marriage while he was in London. She would be staying at the squire’s house until they were finally married, for there were always loose tongues in a seaport like Falmouth, and Bolitho wanted nothing to spoil it. He disliked Lewis Roxby, the squire, intensely, and could not imagine what his sister Nancy had seen in him when she had married him. But he could be relied on to keep her entertained and occupied with his horses and his spreading empire of farms and villages.
Behind his back, Roxby’s servants called him the King of Cornwall.
The shock had really hit Bolitho when he had been ushered into Admiral Beauchamp’s chambers. He had always been a small, frail man, seemingly weighed down as much by his epaulettes and gold lace as the tremendous responsibility he held and the interest he retained wherever a British man-of-war sailed on the King’s service. Hunched at his littered table, Beauchamp had been unable to rise and greet him. In his sixties, he had looked a hundred years old, and only his eyes had held their fire and alertness.
“I will not waste time, Bolitho. You have little to squander, I daresay. I have none left at all.”
He was dying with each hour and every tight breath, and Bolitho had been both moved and fascinated by the intensity of the little man’s words, the enthusiasm which had always been his greatest quality.
“Your squadron performed with excellence.” A hand like a claw had dragged blindly over the litter of papers on the table. “Good men lost, but others rising to replace them.” He had nodded as if the words were too heavy for him. “I am asking a lot of you. Probably too much, I don’t know. You have heard about the peace proposals?” His deepset eyes had caught the reflected sunlight from the tall windows. Like lights in a skull. “The rumours are true. We need peace, a peace moulded within the necessity of hypocrisy, to give us time, a breathing space before the final encounter.”
Bolitho had asked quietly, “You do not trust them, sir?”
“Never!”The word had drained the strength from him, and it had taken several moments before Beauchamp had continued, “The French will force the most advantageous terms for a settlement. To obtain them they are already filling their channel ports with invasion craft and barges, and the troops and artillery to fill them. Bonaparte hopes to frighten our people into a covenant advantageous only to him. When his wounds are healed, his ships and regiments replenished, he will tear up the treaty and attack us. There will be no second chance this time.”
After another pause, Beauchamp had said in a dull voice, “We must give our people confidence. Show them we can still attack as well as defend. It is the only way we’ll even the odds at the tables. For years we’ve driven the French back into their ports or fought them to surrender. Blockade and patrol, line-of-battle or single ship actions, it is what has made our Navy great. Bonaparte is a soldier, he does not understand these matters, and will take no advice from those who know better, thank God.”
His voice had grown weaker, and Bolitho had almost decided to call for assistance for the small, limp figure at the table.
Then Beauchamp had jerked his body upright and had snapped, “We need a gesture. Of all the young officers I have watched and guided up the ladder of advancement, you have never failed me.” A wizened finger had wagged at him, like part of a memory of the man Bolitho had recalled so vividly from their first meeting. “Well, not in matters of duty anyway.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Beauchamp had not heard him. “Get as many of your ships to sea as soon as possible. I have written instructions that you are to assume overall command of the blockading squadron off Belle Ile. Further vessels will be obtained for your convenience just as soon as my despatches are delivered to the port admirals.” He had fixed Bolitho with an unwinking stare. “I need you at sea. In Biscay. I know I am asking everything, but then, I have given all I have to offer.”
The picture of the high-ceilinged room at the Admiralty, the view from the windows of bright carriages, colourful gowns and scarlet uniforms seemed to blur as Bolitho’s mind came back to the cabin in Benbow.
He said, “Admiral Sir George Beauchamp is ordering me to sea, Thomas. No arguments, minimum delays. Unfinished repairs, short-handed, outstanding powder and shot, I shall need to know everything to the last detail. I suggest a conference of all the captains, and I shall draft a letter to Captain Inch which must be sent immediately by courier to his ship at Chatham.”
Herrick stared at him. “It sounds urgent, sir.”
“I-I am not sure.” Bolitho recalled Beauchamp’s words. I need you at sea. He looked at Herrick’s troubled face. “I am sorry to burst into your new happiness like this.” He shrugged. “And to Biscay of all places.”
Herrick asked gently, “When you went back to Falmouth, sir…”
Bolitho looked through the stern windows and watched a local bumboat edging towards the Benbow’s counter. Food and drink to be examined and bartered for. The small luxuries in a sailor’s life.
He replied, “The house was empty. It was as much my fault as anyone’s. Belinda had gone away with my sister and her husband. My brother-in-law wanted to show her a newly purchased estate in Wales.”
He swung round, unable to conceal the bitterness, the despair.
“After the Baltic and that hell at Copenhagen, who would have expected I should be sent to sea again within weeks?”
He looked around the quiet cabin as if listening for those lost sounds of battle. The despairing cries of the wounded, the jubilant cheers of the Danish boarders as they had swarmed up through these very stern windows to die on Major Clinton’s bloodied bayonets.
“How will she see it, Thomas? What use are words like duty and honour to a lady who has already given and lost so much?”
Herrick watched him, scarcely daring to breathe. He could see it all exactly. Bolitho hurrying back to Falmouth, preparing his explanations, how he would describe his obligations to Beauchamp even if it turned out to be a fruitless gesture.
Beauchamp had given his health in the war against France. He had selected young men to replace older ones whose minds had been left behind by a war which had expanded beyond their imagination.
He had offered Bolitho his first chance to command a squadron. Now he was dying, his work still unfinished.
Herrick knew Bolitho better than himself. So that was why Bolitho had come to the ship. The house had been empty and with no way of telling Belinda Laidlaw what had been decided.
“She’ll despise me, Thomas. Someone else should have gone in my place. Rear-admirals, especially junior ones, are two a penny. What am I? Some kind of god?”
Herrick smiled. “She’ll not think anything like that, and you know it! We both do.”
“Do we?” Bolitho walked past him, his hand brushing his shoulder as if to reassure himself. “I wanted to stay. But I needed to do Beauchamp’s bidding. I owe him that much.”
It had been like that old dream again. The house empty but for the servants, the wall above the sea lined with wild flowers and humming with insects. But the principal players were not there to enjoy it. Not even Pascoe, and that was almost as unnerving. He had received a letter of appointment to another ship within hours of Bolitho leaving for London.
He smiled even as he fretted about it. The Navy was desperate for experienced officers, and Adam Pascoe was equally eager to take the first opportunity which would carry him to his goal, a command of his own. Bolitho pushed the anxiety from his mind. Adam was just twenty-one. He was ready. He must stop worrying about him.
The sentry’s muffled voice came through the door. “Admiral’s coxswain, sah!”
Allday stepped into the cabin and smiled broadly at Bolitho. To Herrick he gave a cheerful nod. “Captain Herrick, sir.” He laid a large canvas bag on the deck.
Bolitho slipped into his uniform coat and allowed Ozzard to pull his queue over the gold-edged collar. Only one good thing had happened, and he had almost forgotten it.
“I shall shift my flag to Styx, Thomas. The sooner I contact my other ships off Belle Ile the better, I think.” He dragged a long envelope from inside his coat and handed it to the astonished Herrick. “From their lordships, Thomas. To take effect as from noon tomorrow.” He nodded to Allday who tipped a great scarlet broad-pendant on to the deck like a carpet. “You, Captain Thomas Herrick of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Benbow at Plymouth will take upon yourself and assume the appointment of Acting-Commodore of this squadron with all direct responsibilities thereof.” He thrust the envelope into Herrick’s hard palm and wrung the other one warmly. “My God,
