They lost all sense of time and were conscious only of each other. They discovered a love which was both tender and demanding, passionate and gentle.
Darkness fell over the anchorage, but Gibraltar could have been split in halves and they would not have known.
In the first uncertain glow of dawn Bolitho moved carefully from the bed and walked to the window.
A few lights bobbed around the ships, and his returning instinct told him that life had restarted there. The hands had been called, the decks would be holystoned as the yawning watchkeepers waited for the bells to chime, the half-hour glasses to be turned to greet another day.
He heard her move and turned back to the bed where she lay like a fallen statue, one arm outstretched towards him.
He sat down beside her and touched her skin, feeling his resolve crumble, the desire returning to match hers.
Somewhere, a million miles away, a trumpet blared raucously and soldiers blinked away their sleep.
He said softly, “I have to go, Belinda. Your friends will be coming soon to prepare you for the passage to England.”
She nodded. “The Barclays.”
She was trying to smile, but when he touched her body she seized his hand and squeezed it hard around her breast.
“I am not so strong as I believed. The sooner you leave, the quicker will be our reunion, I know that!”
Bolitho looked down at her. “I am so lucky.” He turned away. “If-”
She gripped his hand more tightly. “No, my darling, not if, when! ”
He smiled and slowly released himself from her grip.
“When.” He looked at the crumpled uniform on the floor. “It has a good ring to it.”
Then he pulled on his clothes, not daring to look at her until he had clipped on the sword and was ready to leave.
Then he sat down again, and in an instant she threw her arms around his neck, her naked body pressed against his coat as she kissed him with something like desperation while she breathed words into his skin.
He felt the salt tears against his lips, his or hers, he did not know.
She made no attempt to follow him, but sat on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chin, as she watched him move towards the door.
Then she said huskily, “Now you are the admiral again, and you belong down there with your world. But last night you belonged to me, dear Richard.”
He hesitated, his hand on the door. “I shall always belong to you.”
The next instant he was outside in the passageway, as if it were all a broken dream.
Two servants were in a yard below the walls chopping sticks for a fire, and a garrison cat strolled along the rough stones as if undecided how to begin the day.
Bolitho strode down the slope towards the landing-stage, looking neither right nor left until he reached the jetty.
Then, and only then, did he look back, but the Rock’s shadow had swallowed the house completely.
The guard-boat was idling past the jetty, a lieutenant dozing in the sternsheets while his men continued their monotonous sweep around the squadron. The lieutenant was soon wide awake when he saw Bolitho’s epaulettes in the first sunlight.
As he directed his boat to steer for the squadron’s flagship, the lieutenant’s mind was awhirl with speculation. The admiral had been to a secret meeting with the military governor. He had received instructions on a move to parley with the enemy on a new peace mission.
Bolitho was unaware of the lieutenant’s interest and of everything else but the night which had gone by in minutes, or so it seemed now.
And he had thought of himself as a man of honour! He waited for the shame and the dismay to come, but instead he felt only happiness, as if a great weight had been lifted from him.
“Boat ahoy!”
Bolitho looked up, startled to see Benbow towering high above the boat. He could see the marine sentry with his fixed bayonet moving above the beakhead on his little platform where he watched for unlawful visitors and would-be deserters alike.
The boat’s coxswain cupped his hands and bellowed, “Flag! Benbow! ”
Bolitho straightened his shoulders and gave a rueful smile. Now they would all know. Their rear-admiral was back in command.
But he could not let go so easily. Belinda.
“Sir?” The lieutenant stooped attentively by his side.
Bolitho shook his head. “Nothing.” He must have spoken her name aloud.
What had Sir John Studdart said of him? Like a junior lieutenant.
He certainly felt like one.
Herrick walked from beneath the poop and nodded to the master and his men by the wheel before he continued on to the quarterdeck. Without even being aware of it his eyes recorded that everything was as it should be on what promised to be another scorching day.
The ratlines and yards were alive with scurrying figures, and he heard the petty officers’ hoarse cries as they urged the topmen to greater haste.
Herrick paused by the rail and glanced along his command. The barge was hoisted inboard, as were the other boats. There was the usual air of excitement and expectancy which even discipline and routine could not completely disguise.
Wolfe strode across the deck, his arms and great feet moving like pistons.
He touched his hat and reported, “Ship ready to sail, sir.” He glanced across at their consort and added, “I think we have an edge on Nicator this time.”
Herrick grunted. “I should hope so, dammit.”
Below on the gun-deck more men surged about in response to the shouted commands, raising fists as names were checked against a watch-bill or duty list.
Benbow was preparing to weigh. At any other time it was rare indeed to see so many of her people disgorged on to the upper decks. Seamen and marines, idlers and ships’ boys, the highest to the most junior. The ship was leaving harbour again. Where bound and to what purpose was not their concern.
Wolfe, like every first lieutenant worth his salt, was going through his own list for the day. At sea or in port, the work had to continue, and his captain must be kept informed.
“Two hands for punishment this forenoon, sir. Page, two dozen lashes for drunkenness and quarrelling.” He paused and glanced from his list to Herrick’s features. “Belcher, twelve lashes for insolence.” He folded his list, satisfied. “All hands aboard, none deserted.”
“Very well. Man the capstan. Get the ship under way.”
Herrick beckoned to a midshipman for his telescope and then trained it on the eighty-gun Dorsetshire. No last minute argument from Sir John Studdart. He was probably keeping well out of it. Bolitho had the bit between his teeth, and anyone seen to agree with him or encourage further action against the enemy’s invasion fleet might be painted with the same brush. He smiled grimly. As if anyone could or would stop Bolitho now. He glanced up at the flag at the mizzen masthead. Lifting quite well in a rising breeze. It would have to do. He tried not to think of what Dulcie would say when he lost his broad-pendant.
Wolfe said, “I was about early this morning, sir. I saw the rear-admiral come off shore.”
The blue eyes regarded him mildly. “And?”
Wolfe shrugged. “Nothing, sir.” He swallowed hard. “Capstan’s manned. That damn fiddler is scraping like a blind man’s spoon. I’d best go forrard.”
Herrick hid a smile. He knew about Bolitho’s return at first light. The whole ship probably knew or guessed the reason. It was always like that. Good or bad, you shared it.
Clank… clank… clank… The capstan was turning slowly, the men straining over the bars, sweating and breathing hard, while the fiddler kept them going to a well-known shanty.
The great forecourse, loosely brailed, stirred at its yard, and far above the decks the fleet-footed topmen raced
