for too much. A kiss and a promise. He could not imagine what Bolitho might have said if he had told him all that had happened on that single night in London. The mystery, the wildness, and the peace, when they had lain together, exhausted. For his own part, stunned that it could have been real.
His thoughts came back to Allday, and he said, “So there you are. Your little Kate is doing well. I must buy her something before we leave Halifax.”
Allday did not look up. “So small, she was. No bigger than a rabbit. Now she’s walking, you say?”
“Unis says.” He smiled. “And I’ll lay odds that she fell over a few times before she got her proper sea- legs.”
Allday shook his head. “I would have liked to see it, them first steps. I never seen anything like that afore.” He seemed troubled, rather than happy. “I should’ve been there.”
Avery was moved by what he saw. Perhaps it would be useless to point out that Bolitho had offered to leave him ashore, secure in his own home, after years of honourable service. It would be an insult. He recalled Catherine’s obvious relief that Allday was staying with her man. Maybe she sensed that his “oak” had never been more needed.
Avery listened to the regular groan of timbers as Indomitable thrust through a criss-cross of Atlantic rollers. They should have made contact with the Halifax-bound convoy yesterday, but even the friendly Trades could not always be relied upon. This was a war of supply and demand, and it was always the navy who supplied. No wonder men were driven to despair by separation and hardships which few landsmen could ever appreciate.
He heard the clatter of dishes from the wardroom, somebody laughing too loudly at some bawdy joke already heard too often. He glanced at the white screen. And beyond there, right aft, the admiral would be thinking and planning, no doubt with the scholarly Yovell waiting to record and copy instructions and orders for each of the captains, from flagship to brig, from schooner to bomb ketch. Faces he had come to know, men he had come to understand. All except the one who would be uppermost in his mind, the dead captain of Reaper. Bolitho would regard the mutiny as something personal, and the captain’s tyranny a flaw that should have been removed before it was too late.
Justice, discipline, revenge. It could not be ignored.
And what of Keen, perhaps the last of the original Happy Few? Was his new interest in Gilia St Clair merely a passing thing? Avery thought of the woman in his arms, his need of her. He was no one to judge Keen.
He looked up as familiar footsteps moved across the quarterdeck. Tyacke, visiting the watch keepers before darkness closed around them and their two consorts. If the convoy failed to appear at first light, what then? They were some five hundred miles from the nearest land. A decision would have to be made. But not by me. Nor even by Tyacke. It would fall, as always, to that same man in his cabin aft. The admiral.
He had not mentioned the letter to Tyacke: Tyacke would probably know. But Avery respected his privacy, and had come to like him greatly, more than he would have believed possible after their first stormy confrontation at Plymouth more than two years ago. Tyacke had never received a letter from anyone. Did he ever look for one, ever dare to hope for such a precious link with home?
He handed Unis’s letter to Allday, and hoped that he had read it in the manner he had intended. Allday, a man who could recognize any hoist of signals by their colours or their timing, whom he had watched patiently instructing some hapless landman or baffled midshipman in the art of splicing and rope-work, who could carve a ship model so fine that even the most critical Jack would nod admiringly, could not read. Nor could he write. It seemed cruel, unfair.
There was a tap on the door and Ozzard looked in. “Sir Richard’s compliments, sir. Would you care to lay aft for a glass?” He purposefully ignored Allday.
Avery nodded. He had been expecting the invitation, and hoping that it would come.
Ozzard added sharply, “You too, of course. If you’re not too busy.”
Avery watched. Another precious fragment: Ozzard’s rudeness matched only by Allday’s awakening grin. He could have killed the little man with his elbow. They knew each other’s strength, weakness too, in all likelihood. Maybe they even knew his.
His thoughts dwelled again on the letter in his pocket. Perhaps she had written it out of pity, or embarrassment at what had happened. She could never realize in ten thousand years what that one letter had meant to him. Just a few sentences, simple sentiments, and wishes for his future. She had ended, Your affectionate friend, Susanna.
That was all. He straightened his coat and opened the door for Allday. It was everything.
But Avery was a practical man. Susanna, Lady Mildmay, an admiral’s widow, would not remain alone for long. Perhaps could not. She had rich friends, and he had seen for himself the confidence, born of experience, she had displayed at the reception attended by Bolitho’s wife and by Vice-Admiral Bethune. He could recall her laugher when he had mistaken Bethune’s mistress for his wife. Is that all I could hope for?
Susanna was available now. She would soon forget that night in London with her lowly lieutenant. At the same time, he was already composing the letter he would write to her, the first he had written to anyone but his sister. There was no one else now. He walked aft towards the spiralling lantern, the rigid Royal Marine sentry outside the screen doors.
Allday murmured, “I wonder what Sir Richard wants.”
Avery paused, hearing the ship, and the ocean all around them. He answered simply, “He needs us. I know very well what that means.”
It was cold on the quarterdeck, with only the smallest hint of the daylight which would soon show itself and open up the sea. Bolitho gripped the quarterdeck rail, feeling the wind on his face and in his hair, his boat-cloak giving him anonymity for awhile longer.
It was a time of day he had always found fascinating as a captain in his own ship. A vessel coming alive beneath his feet, dark figures moving like ghosts, most of them so used to their duties that they performed them without conscious thought even incomplete darkness. The morning watch went about their affairs, while the watch below cleaned the mess decks and stowed away the hammocks in the nettings, with barely an order being passed. Bolitho could smell the stench of the galley funnel; the cook must surely use axle-grease for his wares. But sailors had strong stomachs. They needed them.
He heard the officer-of-the-watch speaking with his midshipman in brusque, clipped tones. Laroche was a keen gambler who had felt the rough edge of Lieutenant Scarlett’s tongue the very day Scarlett had been killed in the fight with the USS Unity.
It would be six in the morning soon, and Tyacke would come on deck. It was his custom, although he had impressed on all his officers that they were to call him at any time, day or night, if they were disturbed by any situation. Bolitho had heard him say to one lieutenant, “Better for me to lose my temper than to lose my ship!”
If you doubt, speak out. His father had said it many times.
He found he was walking along the weather side, his shoes avoiding ring bolts and tackles without effort. Catherine was troubled; it was made more apparent by her determination to hide it from him in her letters. Roxby was very ill, although Bolitho had seen that for himself before he had left England, and he thought it a good thing that his sister felt able to share her worries and hopes with Catherine, when their lives had been so different from one another.
Catherine had told him about the Spanish inheritance from her late husband, Luis Pareja. All those years ago, another world, a different ship; they had both been younger then. How could either of them have known what would happen? He could recall her exactly as she had been at their first meeting, the same fiery courage he had seen after the Golden Plover had gone down.
She was concerned about the money. He had mentioned it to Yovell, who seemed to understand all the complications, and had accompanied Catherine to the old firm of lawyers in Truro, to ensure that “she was not snared by legal roguery,” as he had put it.
Yovell had been frank, but discreet. “Lady Catherine will become rich, sir. Perhaps very rich.” He had gauged Bolitho’s expression, a little surprised that the prospect of wealth should disquiet him, but also proud that Bolitho had confided in him and no other.
But suppose… Bolitho paused in his pacing to watch the first glow of light, almost timid as it painted a small seam between sky and ocean. He heard a voice whisper, “Cap’n’s comin’ up, sir!” and a few seconds later Laroche’s pompous acknowledgement of Tyacke’s presence. “Good morning, sir. Course east by north. Wind’s veered a
