The First Lord had had no doubts at all. 'Not since Collingwood held this command has there been stability and leadership. Your reputation, your sense of honour are more valuable now than in the line of battle!' He had neglected to mention that Collingwood, Nelson's second-in-command at Trafalgar, had died in the Mediterranean without ever being relieved of that command, despite his repeated requests to be allowed to come home, and despite the illness which had eventually killed him.
He walked on, disquieted by his thoughts.
It had been bad enough when he and Catherine had left Falmouth. Allday visiting the house, ostensibly to ensure that the swords were in good trim, then coming straight out with it. Not pleading, but insisting on his right to be at Bolitho's side, wherever his flag should lead. And his secretary, Yovell, a man of many faces, and the secretive Ozzard. His little crew. And now there was Avery to consider. Bethune had hinted that he had been offered a great opportunity, a chance of security and prosperity. God knew he would never find either as a lowly lieutenant.
The door was open and she was standing at the top of the steps, her hair piled above her ears, like silk in the candlelight.
She slipped his arm around her waist. 'Come into the garden, Richard. I have some wine there. I heard you were coming.' She seemed to sense his tension. 'I had a visitor.'
He turned. 'Who?'
The strain was very evident in his face.
'George Avery. He had come on a mission, with an invitation to some reception.' She caressed his hand. 'Tomorrow. After that, we can leave for Falmouth.'
He said nothing, and walked into the garden, into its deepening shadows. He heard her pour the wine, then she said quietly, 'So it is to be Malta, Richard?'
Nothing of the anger she had shown in Falmouth. This was the poised, determined woman who had dared everything for his sake, who had even shared the ordeal in an open boat off the coast of Africa.
'I have not decided, Kate……'
She put her fingers lightly on his mouth. 'But you will. I know you so well, better than any other, even yourself. All those men you have led and inspired, they will expect it. For them, and the future they have been fighting for. You told me once, they are never allowed to ask, or to question why they should sacrifice so much.'
They walked together to the low wall and watched the sunset over the river.
She said, 'You are my man, Richard. I will be with you, no matter how unfair or unjust I believe this decision may be. I would die rather than lose you.' She touched his face, the cheekbone beneath the damaged eye. 'And afterwards?'
'Afterwards, Kate. That is a very beautiful word. Nothing can or will part us again.'
She took his hand and pressed it to her breast. Take me, Richard. Use me as you will, but always love me.'
The wine remained in the garden, untouched.
2. More Than a Duty
Captain James Tyacke sat by the small table in his room and half listened to the muffled murmur of voices from the parlour below his feet. The Cross Keys was a small but comfortable inn on the road which headed north from Plymouth to Tavistock. Few coaches paused here because of the narrowness of the track, and he had sometimes wondered how the inn managed to make a living, unless perhaps it had some connection with the smuggling trade. It suited him very well, however, away from the stares and the swiftly averted glances. The pity, the curiosity, the revulsion.
It was hard, even unnerving, to accept that he had last stayed here all of three years ago. It had been run at the time by a pleasant woman named Meg, who had spoken to him often, and had looked at him directly, without flinching. Three years ago; and when he had left the inn on that last occasion, he had known they would not meet again.
The new landlord was welcoming enough, a little ferret of a man with quick, darting movements, and he had done his best to ensure that Tyacke was not disturbed.
Three years. It was a lifetime. He had been about to take command of Indomitable, Sir Richard Bolitho's flagship, before they had made sail for American waters. So many miles, so many faces, some already lost from memory. And now that same Indomitable lay at Plymouth, paid off, an empty ship, waiting for a new future, or with no future at all.
He glanced at the big brass-bound sea chest by the bed. They had travelled a long, long way together. His whole world was contained in it.
He thought of the past weeks, spent mostly aboard his ship attending to the thousand and one details of paying off, and worse, the rough farewells and handshakes from men he had come to know, men whose confidence and loyalty he had won by his own example.
And Sir Richard Bolitho; that had been the most difficult parting of all. As admiral and flag captain they had discovered a mutual trust, and an admiration which might never be truly understood by an outsider.
And now Napoleon was beaten; the war with the old enemy was over. Perhaps he should have felt elation, or relief. But as Tyacke had watched the fleet schooner Pickle standing out to sea, taking Bolitho and Allday on to Falmouth, all he had been conscious of was a sense of sorrow and loss.
The port admiral was a friend of Bolitho's, and had been both cordial and helpful to his flag captain. He had no doubt thought Tyacke's request to be transferred once more to the anti-slavery patrols off the coast of West Africa, exchanging the comparative comfort of a larger ship, or some well-earned extended leave ashore for cramped quarters and the risks of fever and death, bizarre. Bolitho's written support had added a great deal of weight. But, as the admiral had explained, the transfer might not be possible for another year or more.
He remembered Indomitable as he had last seen her. Yards sent down, her usually immaculate decks littered with unwanted cordage and spars, her powerful cannon, which had roared defiance at the American Retribution, silent and disarmed. Now she was no longer needed, like the men who had served her so long and so well, men who had been pressed into the navy, for the most part. His mouth softened into a smile. But then, so had Allday been a pressed man. And the wounded, what of them? Cast ashore to try and find their places in a world which had all but forgotten them, to fend for themselves as best they could, to beg on the streets when all most people wanted now was to forget the war.
And Sir Richard Bolitho, the hero and the man. One who could inspire others when all hope seemed lost, and who could not conceal his compassion, or his grief for those who had fallen.
Again he gave the small smile. Bolitho had given him back his own hope, his pride, when he had believed them gone for ever. He touched the side of his face. Scored away by fire, rendered inhuman during the great battle when Nelson had led his ships to the Nile. How the eye had survived was a miracle. He had been so lucky, some said. What did they know? All the years since he had been smashed down by a French broadside, when men had been killed and maimed on every side and even the captain of his ship, Majestic, had died in that bloody embrace, the disfigurement had haunted him. The stares, the way his young midshipmen had dropped their eyes, glanced away, anything but look at him. The devil with half a face, the slave-traders had called him. And now he was asking to go back to that lonely world of solitary patrols, pitting his wits against the traders, until the sighting and chase; the stinking vessels with their holds packed with chained slaves living in their filth, knowing they would be killed at the slightest provocation, their bodies pitched to the sharks. Slavers and sharks were rarely far apart.
No, they would not let Bolitho leave the navy. To many people who served in the fleet, he was the navy. Between them, Bolitho and his mistress had defied convention and the censure of society. Tyacke touched his face again. He remembered her climbing up Indomitable's tumble home at Falmouth, disdaining a boatswain's chair, and arriving on deck with tar on her stockings, raising the loudest cheers from the ship's company because of it. The sailor's woman who had come aboard to wish them well: men about to be carried to the other side of the world, torn from wives and families by the relentless press gangs, or felons freed by the local judges provided they were put aboard a King's ship.
And she had done it because she cared for them. She had even disdained formality that day in Falmouth, and
