superiors. Did nobody care? The admiral was going to die, eaten alive by his disease. But to the outside world, if it believed the lie, he was a man worn out by his devotion to duty.
The surgeon stood by one of the shaded windows, and pointed at the bright silver line of the horizon.
'Yonder lies the enemy, Sir Richard. He is not there for no purpose.' He studied Bolitho's grave features. 'For you, God's will is not enough, is it?'
For a long moment Bolitho stood with Jenour on the sun-baked jetty while the barge was manoeuvred alongside the stairs. In the violent light the same officers who had been sent to greet him hovered discreetly and at a distance. Perhaps they were glad to see him leave after disturbing their secluded world, thinking perhaps that routine would save them. Sutcliffe would die, and after a fitting ceremonial funeral, another admiral would arrive. Life would go on.
'Well, Stephen, what do you think of this?'
Jenour stared out to sea. 'I believe that Lord Sutcliffe is fully aware of his authority, Sir Richard.'
Bolitho waited. 'I need to know, Stephen. To rest on one's own views can be like an unbaited trap.'
Jenour bit his lip. 'None of the officers here would dare to defy him. Right or wrong, Lord Sutcliffe commands their destinies. To speak otherwise would be seen as treason, or at best, mutiny.' His open face was filled with anxiety. 'Nobody will support you, Sir Richard.' He faltered. 'Except the squadron and your captains, who will expect you to act on their behalf.'
Bolitho said bitterly, 'Yes, and ask them to die for me.' He turned aside as the barge hooked on. 'What of RearAdmiral Herrick? Come on, speak out, man-as my friend now!'
'He will do nothing. He risked all for his own satisfaction at his court martial.' He watched the pain in Bolitho's eyes. 'He will never do so again.'
Allday stepped on to the jetty and removed his hat, immediately taking in Bolitho's expression and the flag lieutenant's unusual intensity.
Bolitho climbed down after Jenour and settled in the sternsheets.
It was the second time in the day that Jenour had surprised him. Once again, he knew he was right.
17. SHIPS PASSING
BOLITHO went on deck, the taste of coffee lingering on his tongue. Keen was about to exercise the upper gun deck's twelve-pounders and he saw the casual glances as he walked to the quarterdeck rail. They had become used to seeing their vice-admiral dressed so informally in only shirt and breeches, and Bolitho was pleased that Keen had impressed it on all his officers to do likewise. If it did not make them seem more approachable, it might at least show them as human beings.
Keen smiled. 'Sail in sight, sir. Hull-up to wind'rd.' He tried to make it interesting, a piece of news to break the day-to-day monotony.
Black Prince was steering due south, some 250 miles from Antigua. Abeam, the lookouts could just manage to distinguish the island of St Lucia, the silent volcano of Soufriere a prominent landmark that had saved many seafarers over the years.
Astern of the flagship the two 74s Valkyrie and Relentless kept their snail's pace, their reflections barely moving on a dark blue sea which appeared solid enough to walk on, like crude glass. The remaining ships Bolitho had placed under Crowfoot's command, and sent to patrol the Guadeloupe Passage to the north.
This was frustration at its worst. The ships were too slow, and on several occasions they had sighted unidentified vessels, which had soon headed away rather than face the prospect of being stopped and searched by the powerful men-of-war. They had to have smaller ships in support. Godschale, a frigate captain himself in that other war, should have moved heaven and earth to get them.
Who was the newcomer? Obviously not an enemy. He would have been off like a fox at the sight of hounds if he was.
Sedgemore was shouting to Lieutenant Whyham, 'Keep them at it, sir! I want these twelve-pounders cleared for action in ten minutes, less if they have the will for it!'
Bolitho glanced at the gun crews. Bare backs less rawly burned, and more the colour of leather. He had not timed the upper batteries, but he knew by his own standards as a captain that they were a long way from Sedgemore's target.
'Deck there! She's a frigate!'
Bolitho saw Keen watching him. What was it this time, Sutcliffe's death or news of home? Or the war had ended, and they had been the last to know.
'Heave-to, Captain Keen. Let him run down on us.' He looked again at the gun crews. 'I would suggest you continue the drills, Mr Sedgemore. It has been known for ships to carry on fighting even when adrift.'
'Aloft with a glass, Mr Houston!' Keen turned away to escape Sedgemore's sudden deflation. 'Mr Julyan, stand by to wear ship, if you please!'
While the big three-decker floundered round into the wind and her two consorts endeavoured to remain on station, their pyramids of sails almost lifeless, the upper deck's twenty-eight guns went through the frantic routine of clearing for action.
'Deck, sir! She's made her number!' The midshipman's voice was shrill when calling from such a height and Bolitho guessed that he hated the fact. 'She's the Tybalt, 36, Captain Esse!'
Bolitho tried to contain his sudden hope. The last of his squadron, and a frigate. It was like an answered prayer.
He lifted a glass from the rack and trained it on the approaching ship. Where was Adam now, he wondered? And where had the time gone? It was now mid-January 1809. A new year, without anything to show for it. He thought of England, the bitter wind off the Atlantic seeping around the old house and gardens. What of Catherine? Could she really be happy in that kind of life, alone amongst people who for the most part would always remain strangers? Or might she become bored, impatient, and turn to other distractions?
In two hours Tybalt was almost in gunshot range and Bolitho said, 'Captain repair on board as soon as is convenient, Val.'
He frowned when one of the gun crews fell about in confusion as the twelve-pounder, released from its breeching-rope, ran momentarily out of control.
Sedgemore yelled, 'God damn your eyes, Blake, your people are all cripples today!'
Bolitho touched the locket beneath his damp shirt and smiled. What was he thinking of? They were lovers. Nothing could break that.
He waited until the frigate was hove-to and had lowered her gig and then went below to his cabin. Let there be news this time.
Captain William Esse was tall and thin with a pleasant smile and an old-fashioned manner, which seemed at odds with his 25 years. He laid a canvas bag on the cabin table and seated himself with great care, as if afraid his long legs might become entangled.
'What news, Captain Esse? I must know without delay.'
Esse smiled and took a glass from Ozzard. 'Jamaica was hot, Sir Richard, and the slave-revolt little more than a skirmish. The extra soldiers were not needed at all.' He shrugged. 'So we brought them back to Antigua.'
'What of Lord Sutcliffe?'
Esse gave him a blank stare. 'He is still alive, Sir Richard, although I was not asked to see him.' He saw Bolitho's expression and added hastily, 'A fast packet visited English Harbour. There are letters for you from England.'
Bolitho touched the heavy pouch. Letters from Catherine, one at least. It was like a hunger, a longing. All the rest was disappointment. There was no news of the enemy. Perhaps the threat was only in his mind. Or maybe the journey in the open boat had blunted his reckoning in some way?
Over three months since he had left Spithead. It felt like eternity. And Sutcliffe was still defying death. He wondered how Herrick was managing to stay out of trouble.
Esse exclaimed, 'But I almost forgot, Sir Richard! As we weighed anchor, Anemone entered harbour. I was not able to speak much with Captain Bolitho, but I gather he was bringing despatches for Lord Sutcliffe. He shouted
