Adam glanced at him, this Galbraith who was still unknown to him.
“Passenger on board, sir!” He thought Bellairs sounded disappointed. “A lieutenant, sir!”
Adam walked to the entry port, and saw the officer in question shaking hands with the Royal Marine lieutenant who was in charge of the boat. A tall man, dark hair streaked with grey. Adam clenched his fist without realising it. It had to come. But not now, not like this. He was unprepared. Vulnerable. Perhaps Bethune had been trying to warn him at Gibraltar.
Galbraith said uncertainly, “I do not recognise him, sir.”
“Why should you?” He touched his arm, aware of the sharp sarcasm. “Forgive me. My rank does not afford me a licence to insult you.” He stared at the entry port. “He is-was-my uncle’s flag lieutenant. And friend.”
Then he walked to meet his visitor, and all he could feel was envy.
Lieutenant George Avery seated himself in a high-backed chair and watched as the cabin servant placed two goblets of wine on a table. The chair felt hard, unused, like the ship herself.
Strange how it became with ships, he thought. In a King’s ship you always expected to see a familiar face, catch a name you had once known. The navy was a family, some said; you were always a part of it.
He had been introduced to the senior lieutenant, a powerfully built man with an honest face and a firm handshake. But he was a stranger. He studied the captain. He had been prepared for this meeting, although he guessed Adam Bolitho had been disconcerted by it.
But it was not that. He observed him now, in profile as he wrote briefly on a pad for a small, sickly-looking man who must be a clerk.
They had met several times, and Avery had always remembered his quick, observant approach to his work and the people he met, in retrospect always youthful, always restless. Like a young colt, Richard Bolitho had once said.
The resemblance was there, to the portraits in the house in Falmouth. And, above all, to the man he had served, and had loved.
We are about the same age, but whereas he has his career and his future ahead like a beacon, I have nothing. Adam Bolitho and his uncle had been kept apart far more than they had been together, and yet, in his mind, Avery had always thought of one as being in the mould of the other. It was not so. Adam had changed in some way, matured as was inevitable for any man of his rank and responsibility. But it went far deeper. He was guarded, withdrawn. Perhaps still unable or unwilling to accept that the cloak, the guardian presence, was gone, that there was not even a shadow. Adam was looking at him now, holding out the goblet.
“You will like this.”
But he was not telling him; he was asking him to share something.
Avery held up the goblet, and thought of the wines she had sent aboard for Richard Bolitho.
“I am told that you saw Lady Somervell when you were in England, sir? Before you sailed.”
“Aye. She was concerned that I would not care enough to order some wine for myself!” Then he did smile, and, only briefly, he was the young, headstrong officer Avery had first met.
Avery said, “She never forgets,” and the smile faded. Like sunlight dying even as you watched, he thought.
“We were at Falmouth… I pray to God she is able to come to terms with this terrible loss.” He changed tack swiftly, in the manner Avery remembered. “And what of you? Shall you remain here in Malta?”
Avery put down the goblet. It was empty, and he could taste the wine on his lips, but he did not recall drinking it.
“I am able to elaborate on the information already to hand, sir.” He hesitated. “Sir Richard had cause to meet Mehmet Pasha, the man who commands and governs in Algiers. I was with him, and was privileged to share the intelligence we gained there. If I may be of help?”
He moved his shoulder and Adam saw him wince: the old wound which had brought him down and had cost him his ship. We have so much in common. He had seen his own flag cut down in surrender when, like Avery, he had been too badly wounded to resist. And he also had been a prisoner of war, before making his escape. A court martial had cleared and had praised him. The verdict could just as easily have destroyed him.
He said, “I would be grateful. Sir Graham Bethune has very little on which to proceed.”
Above and around them the anchored frigate was alive with shipboard sounds, and once during their conversation he got up and closed the cabin skylight against them. As if, for these moments, he wanted to share it with nobody else.
Avery spoke evenly and without any obvious emotion, but Adam understood what it was costing, and what it meant to him.
At last, here was someone who had been there. Had seen what had happened.
Avery said simply, “I saw him fall.” The tawny eyes were distant. He almost smiled. “Allday was with me.”
Adam nodded, but dared not speak or interrupt. For Avery’s sake, but mostly for his own.
Avery was looking at the sloping stern windows, and the anchored ships beyond.
“He was the bravest and the most compassionate man I ever served, ever knew. When I was pulled out to your ship just now, I almost asked to be taken ashore. But I had to come. Not out of duty or respect-they are mere words. Not even because it was your right to be told. Above all, I thought I would feel resentment, because you are here and he is not. I now know that I did the right thing. He spoke of you often, even on the day he fell. He was proud of you, of what you had become. More like a son, he said.”
Adam said, quietly, “Did he suffer?”
Avery shook his head.
“I think not. He spoke to Allday. I could not hear what he said, and I had not the heart to question him afterwards.”
Afterwards.
Avery’s eyes moved to the table, and the envelope which was addressed to Vice-Admiral Bethune.
“I shall take it to him when I leave, sir.”
Duty, so often used as an escape from tragedy. Adam had learned it the hard way, better than most.
He said, “You could return later. We might sup together. Nobody else.” He felt like a hypocrite, but was glad when Avery declined. “Tomorrow, then. There will be a conference, I believe?”
Avery glanced down, and almost unconsciously plucked a solitary gold thread from his coat. Where he had once worn a twist of gold lace to distinguish him as an admiral’s flag lieutenant.
Bethune would already have one of his own, as Valentine Keen had had at Halifax. There could be resentment.
Avery said, “If you so requested, I should be pleased…” He smiled again, faintly, as though his mind were somewhere else. “Honoured to accompany you. I can still stand a fair watch, and I have nothing to go home for as yet.”
Adam recalled that Avery was the nephew of Sillitoe, that man of power whose name was rarely out of the news-sheets. Another nephew. Another coincidence.
He held out his hand. “I’m glad you came. I’ll not forget.”
Avery took a small package from his pocket and unwrapped it with great care.
The locket. He had seen his uncle wearing it whenever he had been on deck with his shirt unfastened. As I do. He took it and held it to the sunlight, the perfect likeness, Catherine’s bare shoulders and high cheekbones. He was about to turn it over to examine the inscription when he saw the broken clasp and severed chain. As clean a cut as if done by a knife. His fingers closed tightly upon it. No knife. The marksman’s shot must have done it.
Avery was watching him.
“I have been unable to find a local craftsman with skill enough to repair it. I would have sent it to her… Now, I think it better that you should be the one, sir.”
They faced one another, and Adam understood. In his way Avery had been in love with her also. Now that she needed help, there was no one.
“Thank you for saying that. Perhaps I shall be able to return it myself.”
Avery picked up his hat, knowing he would do nothing of the kind. Suddenly he was pleased at what he had done. He looked at Adam, and for a fleeting moment he saw the other face. He smiled. Like a good flag lieutenant.
Galbraith was at the entry port when they came on deck, and saw them shake hands, as if each was reluctant
