white-hot anger when she had turned on him, cursing him for allowing it to happen. But her love had burned even more brightly when Fate had touched them.
She rested her hand on one of the swinging cots and smiled. When she faced him he saw the pulse beating in her throat, the sudden mischief in her dark eyes.
'I long to cross the ocean with you, dearest of men. But sleep in one of these coffins?' She laughed, and someone outside the door stopped to listen. 'On certain nights the deck will suffice!'
As he took her in his arms they heard the faint cry, 'Anchor's hove short!'
The regular clink of a windlass, the stamp of bare feet as seamen rushed to braces and halliards, the sudden thump of the tiller-head as the helm was put over in readiness.
She whispered into his hair, 'The music of the sea. A ship coming alive… It means so much to you.' When she raised her head her eyes were shining with emotion. 'Now, for once I will share them.' Her mood changed again. 'Let us go on deck, Richard. A last look.' She paused, as though unwilling to say it. 'Just in case…'
'Anchor's aweigh!'
They staggered to the companion-way, reaching out for support as the lively barquentine broke free of the ground and leaned hard over like a frigate.
Bezant stood with his legs braced apart like trees, his eyes flit-ting from peak to compass, to the flapping jib until like the other canvas it filled out taut to the wind.
Catherine slipped her arm through Bolitho's and watched the great pile of Pendennis Castle begin to move abeam. The deck was already lifting to the lively water of the Channel.
Men from the foremast slid down the stays and came bustling aft to assist the others at the mizzen, where the great driver swung out over the dancing spray until it, too, was sheeted home.
There would be much gossip between decks when the watch was piped below. The officer who had thrown his reputation in society to the wind, for the love of this lady with the streaming hair, and the laugh on her mouth and in her eyes.
The ship changed tack again, and the sea boiled over the scuppers until the wheel brought her under command once more.
But as Bezant later remarked to his mate, 'For all them two cared, they could have been the only souls aboard!'
Richard Bolitho went on deck as the evening sun began to dip, and transform the sea from shark-blue to a shimmering rusty-red. There was no sight of land, but the gulls still lingered hopefully, gliding around the hull or perching sometimes on the foremast yards.
Three days outward bound from Falmouth, and already the Golden Plover had displayed her speed, and the responding pride of her shaggy-haired master.
The two helmsmen stood, bare feet splayed on the deck, their eyes moving occasionally from compass to the driver's quivering peak. Neither glanced at Bolitho.
Maybe they were getting used to their passengers, he thought, or perhaps it was because like Keen and Jenour he had discarded his uniform coat, and was more recognisable as an ordinary man.
Three days, and already they were well past the hazards of Biscay, where just once the masthead lookout had called down to report a man-of-war's upper yards on the horizon. Samuel Bezant had immediately altered course away from it, and confided to Bolitho that he cared not whether it was friend or foe. Either could bring the attention of another, and his orders were to stand away from involvement with the blockading squadron.
'Beggin' your pardon, Sir Richard, but any flagship will call on me to lie-to on some pretext or another.'
Of the enemy he had said almost scornfully, 'Many's the time my Plover's outsailed even a frigate. She's broad in the beam, but so too is she deep-keeled, and can come about in most weather better than any other!'
Bezant was here now, in deep discussion with his mate, another wild-looking man by the name of Jeff Lincoln.
Bolitho crossed the deck to join them. 'You are making a fair speed.'
Bezant studied him carefully as if it might be taken as a complaint.
'Aye, Sir Richard, I'm well pleased. We should anchor at Gibraltar in two days.'
Like most masters he might have put into Madeira, even Lisbon, to replenish stores at more favourable prices. But it made good sense to keep away. With the French in occupation of Portugal it was possible they might have landed on some of the islands too. Golden Plover was well-stocked and had only a small company to supply rather than the mass of hands required for any King's ship; she could enjoy the luxury of long passages while keeping away from danger. There was always concern about fresh water, but Bezant had his own sources on lesser-known islands if for any reason the wind and weather turned against them.
The mere mention of Gibraltar seemed to squeeze Bolitho's heart like an icy hand. Where he had landed after losing Hyperion. How many, many memories linked him still to that old ship.
'I'll not be sorry to get under way again from the Rock, Sir Richard. It is in our best interest to keep well clear of the land-a thousand eyes watch the comings and goings of every vessel there. Sometimes I feel more like a pirate than a packet-master!'
'Deck there!'
They looked up at the masthead, where only the topsail was still in bright sunshine. The lookout was pointing with one arm, like a bronze figure in a church.
'Sail to the nor'-east!'
Bezant hardly seemed to need to raise his voice. 'You keep watching that 'un, Billy!' To Bolitho he added carelessly, 'Probably one o' your ships, Sir Richard. Either way, I shall lose him after dark.'
'What cargo do you carry?'
Bezant seemed to shy away. 'Well, seeing it's you, I suppose…' He looked at him with sudden determination, as if it was something which had been uppermost in his mind from the moment he had received his orders. 'It's another reason I don't need to draw attention to Plover's whereabouts.' He took a deep breath. 'It's gold. Pay for the army at Cape Town. Now, with such an important passenger aboard for good measure I feel the stuff is burning a hole right through the keel.'
He added with sudden bitterness, 'I don't know why they can't send a man-o'-war, a frigate or the like. Those fellows are used to looking for trouble. I'm paid to stay out of it.'
Bolitho thought of the growing pressure for action against the French in Portugal, Spain eventually as well, if Napoleon continued to mount pressure against his old ally.
He heard himself say, 'Because there are not enough such vessels.' He smiled, remembering his father. 'There never were.'
There was a light step at the companion-way and Bolitho saw the waif-like figure of Sophie watching him, holding on to a handrail as if her life depended on it. Even though the Bay of Biscay had been kinder than usual, Sophie had taken it badly and had been sick for a whole day. Now she was her lively self again, her eyes, bright with curiosity, reflecting the dying sunlight. She must be finding all this very different from the Jewish tailor's shop in far-off Whitechapel.
'Supper's ready, Sir Richard. I was sent to fetch you, like…'
Catherine had been explaining to the girl how she should be careful where she went on board the Golden Plover.
Bolitho had heard her whisper in reply without any sort of shyness, 'Oh, I knows about men, me lady. I'll watch me step right enough!'
The cabin looked welcoming, the deckhead lantern already fit and spiralling with each plunge of the stem. Keen was in quiet conversation with Catherine, and Jenour was apparently writing at a small, beautifully-carved desk. It could have a story to tell, he thought; it had probably been made by a ship's carpenter, like some of his own furniture at Falmouth.
He paused and glanced over Jenour's shoulder. But it was not an addition to yet another long letter to his parents; it was a sketch. Men washing down the foredeck, a gull with flapping wings perched on the bulwark screeching for food.
Jenour became aware of his shadow and looked up. He immediately blushed.
'Just a drawing to put in with the letter, Sir Richard.' He attempted to put it away but Bolitho picked it up and studied it with care. 'Just a drawing, Stephen? I think it is quite excellent.'
He felt Catherine slip her hand under his arm as she moved across the gently swaying deck.
