“I welcome it!” Bethune stared at the heavy dress coat which was hanging carelessly on the back of a chair. So many officers envied him, and looked to him in hope of their own advancement.
I do not belong here.
“What is it?”
“A report from the lookout, Sir Graham. Unrivalled has been sighted. She will enter harbour in late afternoon if the wind prevails.”
Bethune dragged his thoughts into the present. Unrivalled had quit her station. Adam must have had good reason. If not…
Onslow added helpfully, “She has a ship in company. A prize.”
Another from Algiers, perhaps, although it seemed unlikely. He was reminded of Richard Bolitho’s insistence that, unpopular though it might be with some senior officers, the bare bones of the written Fighting Instructions were no substitute for a captain’s initiative.
Always provided that the end justified the methods.
“You may signal Unrivalled when she enters harbour, Captain repair here when convenient.”
Onslow frowned; perhaps he thought it too leisurely. Slack.
He was turning in the doorway. “I all but forgot, Sir Graham.” He dropped his eyes. “A lieutenant named Avery desires an audience with you.”
Bethune plucked his shirt from his ribs. “How long has he been waiting?”
“The secretary brought word an hour back. I was dealing with signals at the time. It was an unusual request, I thought.”
He was enjoying it. He, more than any, would know that Avery had been flag lieutenant to Sir Richard Bolitho. He would also know that Avery had volunteered to remain at Malta to offer his assistance and the experience he had gained when he had visited the lion’s den, Algiers.
“Ask him to come up. I shall apologise to him myself.”
It was almost worth it to see the rebuke go home like the sounding-shot before a broadside.
He made to pick up his heavy coat but decided against it.
He heard Avery in the corridor; he had come to recognise the uneven, dragging step.
Avery paused and gazed almost uncertainly around the room, like so many sea officers out of place on dry land. He would have to get used to it, Bethune thought.
He offered his hand, smiling.
“I regret the delay. It was unnecessary.” He gestured to the envelope on the table. “Your orders. You are free to leave Malta, and take passage in the next available vessel. Go home. You have done more than enough here.” He saw the tawny eyes come finally into focus, as if Avery’s mind had been elsewhere.
“Thank you, Sir Graham. I was ready to leave.” The eyes searched him. “I came to see you because…” He hesitated.
Bethune tensed, anticipating it. Avery would know this place. The room. Where there was now only silence.
Avery said, almost abruptly, “I heard that Unrivalled has been sighted. With a prize.”
Bethune did not question how he knew, although he himself had only just been told. It was something beyond explanation: the way of sailors, he had heard an old admiral call it.
He said, “Forgive me. I spoke of home. It was thoughtless.”
Avery regarded him without emotion, vaguely surprised that he should remember, let alone care. He had no home. He had lived at Falmouth. As Allday had put it often enough, “like one of the family.” Now there was no family.
He shrugged. “I might be needed here. I have a presentiment about this prize, something Captain Bolitho and I discussed. He is a shrewd man-his uncle would be proud of him.”
Bethune said gently, “And of you, I think.” He swung round as another tap came from the door. “Come!”
It was Onslow again, his eyes moving quickly from the envelope on the table to his admiral’s dishevelled appearance, coatless in the presence of a junior officer. He avoided looking at Avery completely.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Graham. Another report from the lookout. The schooner Gertrude has been sighted.”
Bethune spread his hands. “We are busy, it seems!” Then he turned on his flag lieutenant, his mind suddenly clear. “Gertrude? She is not due for several days, surely, wind or no wind. Send a messenger to the lookout immediately.”
Onslow added unhappily, “And Captain Bouverie of Matchless is here, Sir Graham.”
Avery said, “I shall leave, sir.”
Bethune held out his hand.
“Sup with me tonight. Here.” He knew Avery disliked Bouverie, mainly, he suspected, because he had brought him back to Malta with the French frigate, when Avery would have preferred Adam’s company. The same bond which held them all together. He allowed himself to explore the thought. And Catherine, who has touched us all.
Avery smiled. “I would relish that, sir.” And meant it.
Bethune watched him leave, and heard the uneven step retreating. There were many things to deal with: Unrivalled’s unexpected return, and the early arrival of the courier schooner Gertrude. Despatches. Letters from England, orders for the ships and men under his command. It could all wait. He would ask Adam to join them, and, out of courtesy, his flag captain as well. Show no favouritism…
There would be others here tonight. He looked across at the empty balcony and the sealed shutters. Invisible, perhaps, but they would be very close.
He realised that Onslow was still there.
“I will see Captain Bouverie now. After that, I shall discuss the wine for this evening.” He pulled on the heavy coat with its bright epaulettes and silver stars. It seemed to make a difference to everyone else around him, but he was the same man underneath.
Poor Onslow; it was not entirely his fault. He caught him at the half-open door.
“You are invited too, of course.”
For once, Onslow was unable to control his pleasure. Bethune hoped he would not regret the impulse.
He thought of Avery, wanting to leave this place, but afraid of the life he might find waiting for him.
He smiled to himself and faced the door, ready to perform.
Catherine had visited him once at the Admiralty, privately, if not actually in secret. She had removed her glove so that he could kiss her hand. The knowledge hit him like a fist. Adam, George Avery, and one of the youngest flag officers on the Navy List… they were all in love with her.
The night was warm, but a soft breeze from the sea had driven away the day’s clinging humidity.
Three officers stood side by side at an open window, watching the lights, boats bobbing like fireflies on the dark water. There were a few pale stars, and from the narrow streets they could hear singing and cheering. Earlier there had been a raucous ringing of bells, until some drunken sailors had been chased out of the church.
Captain Forbes had made his excuses and had remained in his ship, the captured Tetrarch needing his full attention. She looked larger in harbour against the sloops and brigs, and her valuable cargo of powder, shot and supplies, to say nothing of the vessel herself, would fetch a substantial reward in the prize court.
But even that seemed secondary, especially in this cool room with its banks of flickering candles.
It had been a boisterous meal, interspersed with countless toasts and good wishes for absent friends. Lieutenant Onslow had been fast asleep for most of it, and even the servants had been surprised by the amount of wine he had swallowed before sliding on to the floor.
The little schooner Gertrude had carried overwhelming news: the British and allied armies under the Duke of Wellington had met and fought Napoleon at a place called Waterloo. When Gertrude had weighed anchor to carry her despatches around the fleet there had been little more information than that, except that there had been horrific casualties in a battle fought in mud and thunderstorms, and victory had more than once hung in the balance. But it had been reported that the French army was in retreat. To Paris perhaps, although even as they waited there might still be a reverse in fortune.
But out there in the harbour aboard ships of every size and type men were cheering, men who had known nothing but war and sacrifice. Bethune remembered that day in London when the news of Napoleon’s defeat had
