“You asked to see me?” He curbed his impatience. His was the need.
Lovatt regarded him with calm eyes.
“My father fought alongside yours in the struggle for independence. They knew one another, although I did not know about you, the son.”
Adam wanted to leave, but something compelled him to remain. “But you were a King’s officer.”
“When I am handed over to the right authority I shall be condemned as one. No matter-my son is all I have now. He will forget.”
Adam heard boots scrape outside the door. A marine sentry. O’Beirne was taking no chances. On either of us.
Lovatt was saying, “I left America and returned to England, to Canterbury, where I was born. I had an uncle who sponsored my entry as midshipman. The rest is past history.”
“Tell me about Tetrarch.”
“I was third lieutenant in her… a long time ago. She was a fourth-rate then, but past her best. There was bad feeling ’twixt the captain and the senior lieutenant, and the people suffered because of it. When I spoke up on their behalf I discovered I had stepped into a trap. Because of my father, an Englishman on the wrong side, I was left in no doubt as to how my future would be destroyed. Even the second lieutenant, whom I had thought a friend, saw me as a threat to his own advancement.” He gave a sad smile. “Not unknown to you perhaps, sir?”
Midshipman Fielding peered around the door. “Mr Wynter’s respects, sir, and he wishes to take in another reef.” His eyes were fixed on Lovatt.
“I shall come up.” Adam turned back, and saw something like desperation in the hazel eyes.
“There was no mutiny. They simply refused to stand to their guns. I agreed to remain aboard until their case had been put to the French.” The eyes were distant now. “Most of them were exchanged, I believe. I was branded a traitor. But an American privateer came into Brest… Until then I had been a trusted prisoner of the French navy. On parole, on my honour.” It seemed to amuse him. “And I had met a girl there. Paul is our son.”
Adam stood, his hair brushing the deckhead. “And now you are a prisoner again. Did you think your mention of my father could buy you privilege? If so, then you do not know me.” It was time to go. Now.
Lovatt sank back against the trestle. “I knew your name, what it has come to mean to sailors of all flags. My wife is dead. There is only Paul. I was planning to obtain passage to England. Instead, I was given command of Tetrarch.” He shook his head. “That damned, wretched ship. I should have forced you to fire on us. Finished it!”
The deck moved slightly. They would all be up there waiting for him. The chain of command.
Adam stopped, his hand on the door. “ Canterbury? You have people there still?”
Lovatt nodded. The effort of conversation was taking its toll.
“Good friends. They will care for Paul.” He looked away, and Adam saw the despair in his clenched fist. “But he will come to hate me, I think.”
“He is still your son.”
Again the faint smile. “Be content, Captain. You have your ship.”
O’Beirne filled the doorway, his eyes everywhere.
Adam said, “I have finished here.” He regarded Lovatt coldly. The enemy, no matter which flag he served or for what reason.
But he said, “I shall do what I can.”
O’Beirne opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of brandy, which he had been saving for some special occasion although he had not known what. He recalled the even, Cornish voice as the captain had spoken a simple prayer before the corpses were put over the side. Most of the dead were unknown. Protestant, Catholic, pagan or Jew, it made no difference to them now.
He found two glasses and held them up to the light of the gently spiralling lantern to see if they were clean, and noticed the dried blood, like paint, on his cuff.
Lovatt cleared his throat, and said, “I believe he meant it.”
O’Beirne pushed a glass towards him. “Here-kill or cure. Then you must rest.”
He lingered over the glass. Some special occasion… He saw the brandy tilting with the rhythm of the sea, and imagined Captain Bolitho with his men, watching the stars, holding station on this man’s ship.
He said, “Of course he meant it.” But Lovatt had fallen into an exhausted sleep.
From somewhere aft he heard the sound of a fiddle, probably in the junior warrant officers’ mess. Badly played, and out of tune.
To Denis O’Beirne, ship’s surgeon, it was the most beautiful sound he had heard for a long time.
Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune walked across the tiled floor and stood by one of the tall windows, careful to remain in the shadows, but feeling the heat of the noon sun like something physical. He shaded his eyes to stare at the anchored ships, his ships, knowing what made each distinct from the others, just as he now knew the faces and characters of each of his captains, from his bluff flag captain Forbes in Montrose, out there now with her awnings and windsails shimmering in the harsh glare, to the young but experienced Christie in the smaller twenty-eight gun Halcyon. It was something he could now accept, as he had come to accept the responsibility of his rank, one of the youngest flag officers on the Navy List.
The sense of loss was still there, as strong as ever, and if anything he felt even more impatient, conscious of a certain disappointment which was new to him.
Whenever he was at sea in Montrose he felt this same restlessness. He had confided to Sir Richard Bolitho more than once his discomfort at commanding, but not being in command, of his own flagship. Each change of watch or unexpected trill of a bosun’s call, any sound or movement would find him alert, ready to go on deck and deal with every kind of incident. To leave it to others, to wait for the respectful knock on the screen door, had been almost unbearable.
Bethune had grasped at the chance of a seagoing appointment, having imagined that the corridors of the Admiralty were not for him.
He had been wrong, but it was hard to come to terms with it.
He watched the small boats pulling around the captured French frigate, La Fortune. A prize indeed. It had been a risk, and he had seen Adam Bolitho’s face clearly in his mind as he had read the report. But a risk skilfully undertaken. If their lordships required any further proof that the Dey of Algiers was intent on even more dangerous escapades, this was it.
He recalled Bouverie’s description of the cutting-out expedition. It was wrong to take sides, and Bethune had always despised senior officers who did so, but Bouverie had given the impression that the capture of the frigate had been entirely his own idea.
He turned his back on the grand harbour and its crumbling backdrop of ancient fortifications, and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the dimness of this room which was a part of his official headquarters. Once owned by a wealthy merchant, it was almost palatial. There was even a fountain in the small courtyard, and a balcony. In this house was the room where Catherine Somervell had made her final visit to her beloved Richard.
Bethune had ordered that it be kept locked, and could guess what his staff thought about it. He had visited the room only once. So still, so quiet, and yet when he had thrown open the shutters the din and turmoil of Malta seemed to swamp the place. It was uncanny.
There was a bell on a table. He had only to ring it and a servant would appear. Wine, perhaps? Or something stronger? He almost smiled. That was not like him, either; he had seen the results of over-indulgence only too often at the Admiralty.
He walked to another window. When he thought of his wife in England, and of their two young children, he could feel only guilt. Because he had been glad to leave, or because he had not trusted his own feelings for Richard Bolitho’s mistress? It seemed absurd out here. He turned as someone tapped on the door.
Or was it?
It was his flag lieutenant, Charles Onslow. Young, eager, attentive. And dull, so dull. He was a distant cousin, and the appointment had been a favour to his wife.
Onslow stood just inside the door, his hat beneath his arm, his youthful features set in a half-smile.
“I am sorry to interrupt you, Sir Graham.” He usually prefaced any remark to Bethune with an apology, not like the Onslow he had heard barking at his subordinates. Favour or not, he would be rid of him.
