London, we will have our own haven-we shall be beholden to nobody She spoke too of Falmouth, of ideas which she and Ferguson had put in motion to clear more land, to make a profit, and not merely sustain its existence. She never mentioned Belinda, nor did she speak of the enormous amount of money Belinda required to live in the only style she had come to accept.
There was a knock at the outer door and Keen entered and said apologetically, 'I thought you should know, Sir Richard. Our schooner is in sight to the east'rd and is desiring to close on us.'
Allday dabbed Bolitho's face and watched the light in his eyes. There was no sign of injury. No change, he thought. So perhaps after all. Bolitho said, 'News, d'you think, Val?'
Keen said impassively, 'She comes from the right direction.'
In Catherine's last letter she had mentioned her meeting with Zenoria. 'Tell Val to take heart. The love is as strong as before. It needs a sign.' Keen had taken the news without comment. Resigned, hopeful or desperate; whatever his emotions were, he hid them well.
When Allday had left them alone Bolitho exclaimed, 'In God's name, Val, how much longer must we beat up and down this barren coast waiting for some word? Every morning the horizon is empty but for our own companions, each sunset brings more curses from the people because of all this futility! '
There were more delays, while the schooner tacked this way and that before she could lie under Black Prince's lee and drop her boat in the water.
Lieutenant Evan Evans had served with the Revenue cutters before joining the King's navy but he looked more like a pirate than a law-abiding sailor. A great block of a man with rough grey hair which looked as if he cut it himself with shears, a brick-red face so battered and so ruined by hard drinking that he was a formidable presence even in Bolitho's great cabin.
Ozzard brought some wine but Evans shook his shaggy head. 'None o' that, beggin' yer pardon, Sir Richard-it plays hell with my gut! '
But when Ozzard produced some rum Evans drained the tankard in one swallow. 'More like it, see?'
Bolitho said, 'Tell me what you found.'
Together they walked to the table where Bolitho's own chart was spread with his personal log open beside it.
Evans put a finger as thick and as hard as a marlin spike on the chart and said, 'Three days back, Sir Richard. Makin' for the Bay o' Heligoland, she was, leastways 'twas a fair guess at her direction.'
Bolitho contained his impatience. Evans was reliving it. It would destroy the picture in his mind if he was goaded. It was strange to hear the local landmarks described in his rich Welsh accent.
Keen prompted gently, 'She?'
Evans glared at him and continued, 'Big as a cathedral, she was. Ship o' th' line.' He shrugged heavily. 'Then two frigates came from nowhere, out o' th' sun to all intents. One was a forty-four.' He frowned, so that his bright eyes seemed to vanish into thick folds of skin.
Bolitho straightened his back and clasped his fingers together behind him. 'Did you see her name, Mr Evans?'
'Well, we were proper busy when she let fly with a bowchaser, but my little schooner can show a clean pair o' heels as anyone will tell you…'
Bolitho remarked, 'She was L'Intrepide, was she not?'
The others stared at him and Keen asked, 'But how could you know, sir?'
'A premonition.' He turned from the table to conceal his face from them. It was here; he could feel it. Not just yet, but soon, quite soon.
'The larger vessel-how big, d'you think?'
Evans nodded to Ozzard and took another tankard of rum. Then he wiped his lips with the back of his rough hand and frowned. It seemed habitual.
'Well, I'm no real judge, but she were a liner right enough.' He glanced professionally around the cabin. 'Bigger'n this 'un, see?'
'What?' Bolitho turned back at Keen's sudden surprise and doubt. 'Must be a mistake, sir. I have read every word of those reports from the Admiralty No ship larger than a seventy-four survived Trafalgar. They were either taken or destroyed in the gale that followed the battle.' He looked almost accusingly towards the wild-haired lieutenant. 'No agent has reported the building of any vessel such as the one you describe.'
The lieutenant grinned. The burden was no longer his, and the rum was very good.
'Well, that's what I saw, Sir Richard, an' I've been at sea for twenty-five year. I were nine when I ran out o' Cardiff. Never regretted it.' He shot Keen a pitying glance. 'Long enough to know which is the sharp end o' a pike!'
Keen laughed, the strain leaving his face as he retorted, 'You are an impudent fellow, but I think I asked for it! '
Bolitho watched him, the news momentarily at arm's length. Only Keen would be man enough to make such an admission to a subordinate. It would never have occurred to Bolitho that he might have learned it from his own example.
Bolitho said, 'I want you to carry a despatch to Portsmouth. It could be urgent.'
Keen said, 'The Nore would be a shorter passage, sir.'
Bolitho shook his head, thinking aloud. They have the telegraph at Portsmouth. It will be faster.' He eyed Evans meaningly as he swallowed some more rum. 'I take it you have a reliable mate? '
It was not lost on the shaggy Welshman. 'I won't let you down, Sir Richard. My little schooner will be there by Monday.'
'There will be a letter also.' He met Evans' searching stare. 'I would appreciate if you send it by post-horse yourself. I shall pay you directly.'
The man grinned. 'God love you, no, Sir Richard. I know them buggers at Portsmouth Point an' they owe me a favour or two! '
Keen seemed to come out of his thoughts. 'I have a letter as well which could perhaps go with it, Sir Richard?'
Bolitho nodded, understanding. If the worst happened he might never know Zenoria's love. It did not bear even thinking about.
'You are doing the right thing, Val,' he said quietly. 'My lady will ensure she receives it.'
By noon the schooner was under way again, watched with envy by those who knew her destination, and wished that their next landfall would be England.
While Bolitho and Keen thought about their respective letters, carried in the schooner's safe with the despatches, other smaller dramas were being enacted deep in the hull, as is the way with all large men-of- war.
Two seamen who had been working under the direction of Holland, the purser's clerk, to hoist a fresh cask of salt pork from the store, were squatting in almost total darkness, a bottle of cognac wedged between them. One of the men was Fittock, who had been flogged for insubordination. The other was a Devonian named Duthy a ropemaker and, like his friend, an experienced seaman.
They were speaking in quiet murmurs, knowing they should not still be here. But like most of the skilled hands they disliked being cooped up with untrained ignorant landsmen who were always bleating about discipline, as Duthy put it.
He said, 'I'll be glad to swallow the anchor when me time's up, Jim, but I'll miss some of it, all the same. I've learned a trade out of the navy, an' provided I can stay in one piece…'
Fittock swallowed hard and felt the heat of the spirit run through him. No wonder the wardroom drank it.
He nodded. 'Provided, yes, mate, there's always that.'
'Yew think we'm goin' to fight, Jim?'
Fittock rubbed his back against a cask. The scars of the lash were still sore, even now.
He showed his teeth. 'You knows the old proverb, mate? If death rakes the decks, may it be like prize money.'
His friend shook his head. 'Don't understand, Jim.'
Fittock laughed. 'So that the officers get the biggest share! '
'Now here's a fine thing! '
