If he knew, or sensed in some way… We have no secrets. It was easy enough to say.
And she remembered Sillitoe's last words at their undisturbed supper, while the sea and the wind had boomed around them, but she had felt no fear.
He had said quietly, 'I am a willing party to this, and you must be sensible of my feelings for you. But I am curious to know what drives you… what carries you in the face of everything? Sir Richard is as safe as any flag officer can be. He has a good ship, to all accounts, and a reliable squadron. Not what he has been used to. So I have to ask myself, why?'
She had answered simply, without pausing to consider it.
'Because he needs me.'
Richard Bolitho stepped into Frobisher's sick-bay and hesitated, unprepared for the brightness of its interior, the white-painted bulkhead and partitions, and the shelves of bottles and jars which rattled occasionally in time with the ship's motion. A world completely apart from the rest of the ship; Lefroy's domain. It was said that he even slept down here, rather than use one of the wardroom cabins, which, built as they were only of screens, could be torn down whenever the ship cleared for action. They were only temporary; here on the orlop deck, below the waterline, a place which had never seen the light of day since Frobisher had been built at Lorient, there was an air of permanence. On deck, in that other world, which he understood, Bolitho knew the hour was close to noon, the sky almost empty of cloud. In the sick-bay, time had no measure.
Lefroy was regarding him thoughtfully, more like a country parson than ever in the curious white smock he favoured when working among the wounded.
He said, 'Another has died. Sir Richard.' He sighed. Two amputations. A strong man, but……' He shrugged, almost apologetically. 'Miracles are hard to come by.'
'Yes. Captain Tyacke told me. Fifteen killed in all. Too many.'
Lefroy heard the bitterness, and wondered at it. But he said, 'His name was Quintin.'
'I know. He was a Manxman. I spoke with him one night when it was his trick at the wheel.' He repeated, 'Too many.'
He glanced at the spiralling lanterns, and said, 'It's no better.'
Lefroy gestured to a chair. 'It was most unfortunate that the musket was discharged so close to your face. It could only aggravate the original injury.'
Bolitho sat and leaned back in the chair. 'I would be dead but for that Royal Marine's aim, my friend!'
Lefroy was wiping his hands, but thinking of the hours which had followed the fanatical attack on the flagship. He had only served under one admiral before, and could not have imagined him visiting the orlop as Bolitho had done, to talk with the wounded, or to take a hand in a strong clasp, and watch the life ebb from a man's face.
'I shall try this patch again.' The steely fingers adjusted a patch and placed it firmly over Bolitho's uninjured eye. The fingers again. Probing, stinging, another kind of ointment. He felt the heat of a lamp, so close that he could smell the wick. His eyelid was held, the eye wide open, while Lefroy said, 'Look right. Look left. Up. Down.'
He tried not to clench his fists, to contain the rising fear. What he had known from the beginning, when he had been unable to see the sergeant who had been right beside him. What he had been unable to accept.
Lefroy said. 'Anything?' He bit his lip as Bolitho shook his head.
'Nothing. Not a glimmer.'
Lefroy replaced the lantern. He had held it very close, so there could be no deception.
He untied the patch and turned away from the chair.
Bolitho looked around him. Everything the same as before; everything completely different.
He said quietly, 'As you said, miracles are hard to come by.'
Lefroy said, 'Yes,' and watched Bolitho stand again, the casual way he adjusted his coat, then touched his hip as if he expected to find his sword still there. A remarkable man, one who had been wounded several times in the service of his King and country, although he somehow doubted if the admiral would regard it in that light.
'I shall prepare something for it, Sir Richard. It should afford you no discomfort.'
Bolitho glanced at his reflection in a hanging mirror. How could it be? The same face, the same eyes, the same lock of hair which hid the deep scar there.
He thought of Catherine, that night in Antigua when he had found her again. When he had stumbled in a shaft of light. Now he would not stumble; there was nothing to deceive him.
'When we return to Malta, Sir Richard… He was caught off guard as Bolitho answered, Tomorrow morning, early, if Mr. Tregidgo can be believed.'
'I was going to suggest that you might visit a local doctor. I am no expert in this field.'
Bolitho touched his arm and reached for the door. 'See to the wounded.
I shall be all right.'
On the quarterdeck once more, he stood for a few minutes staring at the dark blue water, the spray leaping over the beak head with a movement like flying fish.
Tyacke had been waiting for him, but Bolitho knew he would never admit it.
'All well, sir?'
Bolitho smiled at him, warmed by his concern. A man who had suffered so much, and had never been allowed to forget it; who had almost broken when the woman he had loved had turned away. And all I think about is what Catherine will see when she looks at me again.
He said, 'I shall walk with you a while, James.' He paused. 'But for Sergeant Bazely, I would not be doing that!'
Avery had been looking at the signals log with Singleton, the midshipman in charge. Bolitho had been down on the orlop for only a short while, although it had felt like hours.
He heard Bolitho say, There may be some letters for us when we anchor that would sweeten the pill, eh?'
He heard them laugh, saw some seamen look up to watch them pass.
Midshipman Singleton said, 'My ambition is to be like that, sir.'
Avery turned sharply, surprised by the seriousness and the sincerity of this youth who had seen men die screaming on this same deck.
He said. 'Keep to your studies, my lad. One day you might remember what you just told me. I hope you do.' He stared unseeingly at the open log. 'For all our sakes!'
Singleton was still gazing at the two pacing figures, remembering how the admiral had gone to speak to each of the survivors from the brig Black Swan. It had been impossible to save the brig, and she had been set alight to prevent her capture and repair by the Algerines.
He would remember that most of all. Black Swan's young commander, wounded, but too stricken to accept attention while he had watched the dirty column of smoke against the blue sky. The end of his ship. He had heard the lieutenants saying it would finish his career too, at a court-martial table.
Bolitho had joined him by the nettings and had gripped his uninjured arm, held it until the other officer had turned towards him.
Singleton could still hear it. The worst lies behind you now. Think only of the next horizon.
He turned to Avery, but the tall lieutenant with the tawny eyes and the grey streaks in his hair was gone.
The first lieutenant called wearily, 'When you are through with your dreams, Mr. Singleton, I would be obliged if you would bring me your log!'
Singleton stammered, 'Aye, aye, sir!'
Order and routine. But for him, things would never be quite the same again.
Daniel Yovell. Bolitho's round-shouldered secretary, dripped the red. official wax on to yet another envelope before sealing it. Then he shifted slightly in his chair, and peered through the salt-dappled stern windows, where the sun was touching the bright sails of some local craft as Frobisher made her final approach. He heard Allday moving restlessly in the sleeping cabin, still brooding over the short, savage fight on the upper deck when one twist of the Algerine's great blade had rendered him helpless to defend his admiral. His friend.
Yovell's frown softened slightly. People mocked him behind his back. Old Yovell and his Bible. But it had helped him in more ways in the past than people would ever know. Allday had no such release.
He was here now, looking at the pile of letters and despatches which had kept Bolitho, and Yovell's pen, busy for much of the time since the encounter with the chebecks.
Allday asked, 'What d'you think will happen?'
Yovell adjusted his small gold-rimmed spectacles. 'It depends. On what orders are waiting for us in Malta. On
