He saw the surgeon raise one hand to his lips. 'It is not fever, Sir Richard. Lord Sutcliffe is diseased, beyond medical aid. Spiritual too, I would imagine.'
'I see.' Bolitho looked up at the elegant house, the best in English Harbour. Where they had found one another, where they had loved so fiercely, ignoring the challenge to honour and reputation, and the harm their liaison might provoke.
He said shortly, 'Syphilis.' He saw the quick nod. 'I had heard something of the admiral's reputation, but I had no idea…' He broke off. What was the point of involving the surgeon? Common seamen became diseased from their rare contacts with women of the town; senior officers were never discussed in the same breath.
The surgeon hesitated. 'I fear you may get little sense from his lordship. His mind is failing, and he has iritis, and cannot bear the pain of daylight.' He shrugged ruefully. 'I am sorry, Sir Richard. I know of your care for the ordinary sailor, and the assistance you gave to Sir Piers Blachford, under whom I had the honour to prepare myself for this sickening profession.'
Blachford. He never seemed to be far away. Bolitho said, 'I thank you for your frankness, Doctor Ruel. Your calling is not so sickening as you proclaim-I am all the more confident now that I have met you.' He nodded to the others. 'I shall go in now. Stephen, come with me.'
Herrick sounded surprised. 'What about me?'
Bolitho said calmly, 'Trust me.'
Two marines opened the doors and they stepped into the great hallway. Like yesterday. Like now. The smiling, insincere faces, the women in their daring gowns and jewels, the sudden brightness of the light. Then stumbling on an unseen step. Catherine stepping away from the others to assist him. A contact which, after so long, had seemed to burn like a fuse.
Although it was morning and the harbour outside gleaming with sunlit reflections and deep colours, it was like that night again.
A nervous black servant bowed to them and gestured to the nearest doorway.
Bolitho murmured, 'The admiral cannot see very well-any kind of light sears his eyes. Do you understand?'
Jenour gravely commented, 'He does not have long, Sir Richard. It is tertiary syphilis at the most virulent stage.'
Despite his anxiety, Bolitho found time to be surprised at the young lieutenant's understanding. But then his father was an apothecary, and his uncle a doctor of some repute in Southampton. They had probably hated Jenour's throwing away a possible career in medicine for the risks and uncertainty of naval service.
He said, 'Help me, Stephen.' He did not need to explain further.
As the door was opened he found himself in complete darkness. But as he strained his eyes he saw a sliver of hard sunlight between two curtains and knew he was in the room where she had discovered his injury, and he had been unable to distinguish the colour of a ribbon in her hair. Yesterday.
'Be seated, Sir Richard.' The voice came out of nowhere, surprisingly strong, petulant even, like someone who had been kept waiting.
Bolitho gasped, and instantly felt Jenour's hand at his elbow. He had collided with a low stool or table, and the realisation of his helplessness made him suddenly despairing and angry.
'I am sorry to greet you in this fashion.' The tone said otherwise.
Bolitho found a chair and sat on it carefully. In that one sliver of light he could see the man's outline against the wall, and worse, his eyes, like white stones in the solitary beam.
'And I am sorry that you are thus indisposed, my lord.'
There was silence, and Bolitho became aware of the sour stench in the room, the odour of soiled linen.
'I am, of course, aware of your reputation and your family history. I am honoured that you should be sent here to replace me.'
'I did not know, my lord. Nobody in England has heard of your…'
'Misfortune? Was that how you were about to describe it?'
'I meant no disrespect, my lord.'
'No, no, of course, you would not. I command here. My orders stand until…' He broke off in a fit of coughing and retching.
Bolitho waited and then said, 'The French will surely know of our intentions to attack and, if possible, seize Martinique. Without it they would be unable to operate in the Caribbean. My orders are to seek out the enemy before he can use his ships to attack and weaken our assault. We need all our strength.' He paused. It was hopeless. Like talking to a shadow. But Sutcliffe was right about one thing. He did hold overall command, diseased, mad or otherwise. He continued, 'May I suggest that when Tybalt returns from Jamaica you send a fast schooner there and request the admiral to give you further support?'
Sutcliffe cleared his throat noisily. 'RearAdmiral Herrick authorised the impressment of those schooners, but then he is a man well acquainted with insubordination. I have every intention of informing their lordships of any further acts of disloyalty. Do I make myself clear?'
Bolitho answered quietly, 'It sounds like a threat, my lord.'
'No. A promise, certainly!'
Jenour shuffled his feet and instantly the disembodied eyes shifted towards him. 'Who is that? You brought a witness?'
'My flag lieutenant.'
'I see.' He laughed gently, a chilling sound in such a stifling room. 'I knew Viscount Somervell, of course, when he was His Majesty's Inspector General in the Indies and I was in the Barbados. A man of honour, I thought… but you will doubtless disagree, Sir Richard.'
Bolitho touched his eye, his mind reeling. The man was mad. But not so mad that he had lost the use of spite.
'You are correct, my lord. I do disagree.' He was committed now. 'I know him to have been a knave, a liar and a man who enjoyed killing for the sake of it!'
He heard the admiral vomit into a basin and clenched his fists in disgust. God, were these the wages of sin the old rector at Falmouth had threatened them with, when they had all been frightened children? The legacy of doom?
When Sutcliffe spoke again he sounded quite calm, dangerously so.
'I have heard your reports of some so-called Dutch frigate, your passionate belief that the enemy intends to divide our forces. Here, you will obey me. Carry out your patrols and exercise your people; that would make good sense. But try to discredit me and I will see you damned to hell!'
'Very probably, my lord.' He stood up and waited for Jenour to guide his arm.
'I have not dismissed you yet, sir.'
Bolitho turned wearily. It was so pointless, so futile. With the greater part of the fleet held in readiness to repel an attack on Jamaica, the way was wide open for French counter-action. And all I have is six ships.
Jamaica was nearly thirteen hundred miles to the west. Even with favourable winds it would take ships far too long to regain their command of the Leeward Islands.
He said, 'I believe that the enemy intend to attack our bases here, my lord.'
'Here? Antigua? St Kitts perhaps? Where else do you imagine them?' He gave a shrill laugh which ended in another bout of retching. This time it did not stop.
Bolitho found the door open, Jenour's face filled with concern as the half-light of the hallway greeted them.
The surgeon was waiting for him, standing apart from the others as if he had guessed what had happened.
'How long, Doctor?' He heard Sutcliffe ringing his bell, saw the obvious reluctance of the servants to answer it. 'Can you tell me that?'
The doctor shrugged. 'Out here, men and women die every day, quietly and without complaint. It is God's will, they say. I have grown accustomed to it, though I can never accept it.' He considered the question. 'Impossible to say, Sir Richard. He might die tomorrow; he could survive a month, even longer, by which time he will not know his own name.'
'Then we are done for.' He felt the fury rising again. There were thousands of men depending on their
