gallery open as if to clear away the last vestige of their presence here. The bedding had vanished, his own cot was in its place. No wonder she had played with him, when all the time…
He saw his boat-cloak hanging from the deckhead, where it was never kept. He took it down and folded the collar. The entire garment had been sponged and cleaned, the stains from that night gone completely. He felt inside the deep pocket, although he did not know why.
It was a small, sealed paper. He carried it to the quarter gallery and opened it.
There was no note. But there was a lock of her hair, tied with a piece of scarlet ribbon.
14. Destiny
VICE-ADMIRAL Sir Graham Bethune pushed some of the unopened despatches to one side and got up from the ornate desk.
“Deal with these, Grimes. My head is too full for much more at present.”
He felt the clerk’s eyes following him to the window, which looked across the small, sun-drenched courtyard.
The day had started badly with the guard-boat’s officer reporting that Unrivalled’s arrival meant more than simply the delivery of despatches or letters-there were visitors to accommodate and entertain. Bethune felt the same resentment returning as he heard a woman’s voice, and saw the gleam of colour from the opposite balcony. His flag lieutenant had insisted that that particular room was the obvious choice for guests who had come with the full blessing of the government and the lords of the Admiralty. He could hear Bazeley’s voice too, loud, demanding, authoritative. Full of himself.
He sighed, and walked back to the desk. There was a letter from his wife as well, asking about the possibility of joining him in Malta, or of his coming back to London. She made it sound like the only civilised place to live.
He glanced at Adam Bolitho’s report. Two more prizes. Surely their lordships would offer him extra ships now. There was proof enough that the activities of the Dey of Algiers and his equally unpredictable ally in Tunis required swifter, sharper measures. He almost smiled. It would also make an impressive spearhead for his return to another post in London.
Bethune enjoyed the company of women, and they his, but he had always been discreet. The prospect of his wife joining him in Malta made him realise just how far they had grown apart since her attempts to humiliate Catherine, perhaps even long before that. Of course, he thought bitterly, there were always the children…
He looked at the other window, thinking of Lieutenant Avery standing beside him, sharing it, remembering it. And now he was dead. The Happy Few were only ghosts, only memories.
Bazeley’s young wife would turn a few heads here when her presence became known. She had probably married the great man for his fortune, which, allegedly, was considerable, but if any of the young bloods from the local garrison got the wrong ideas, they had better watch out. He wondered how Adam had managed to resist her very obvious charm on the passage here from Gibraltar. He was reckless. But he was not a fool.
The flag lieutenant was back. “Captain Bouverie is here, Sir Graham.”
Bethune nodded. It was even harder to recall Onslow as he had been on that last night together, lying on his back, snoring and drunk. But almost human.
“Very well.”
Onslow smiled, as always apologetic. “And Captain Bolitho is due shortly. His boat was reported a few minutes ago.”
Bethune turned away and looked across the courtyard.
“I will see them.” He added abruptly, “Separately.”
Onslow understood, or thought he did. He would do it by seniority.
Bethune was well aware of the peculiar rivalry between Adam Bolitho and Emlyn Bouverie of the frigate Matchless. They scarcely knew one another, and yet it had leaped into being. He thought of the successes his small squadron had achieved, despite, or perhaps even because of this personal conflict. It might even be used to greater advantage if he could enlarge his chain of command here. He smiled again. He could never go back to being a mere captain, and he wondered why he had not noticed the change in himself before.
Adam Bolitho stood aside to allow two heavily laden donkeys to push their way through the narrow street. When he glanced up at the strip of blue sky overhead, it seemed the buildings were almost touching.
He had deliberately taken a longer route from the jetty where he had landed from the gig, perhaps for the exercise, maybe to think; his mind was only vaguely aware of the babble of voices around him. So many tongues, so many different nationalities crammed together in apparent harmony. Plenty of uniforms, too. The Union Flag was obviously here to stay.
There were stairs across this part of the street, and he felt the stabbing pain, when earlier he had all but forgotten it.
He paused to give himself time and heard the gentle tap of a hammer. Here the open-fronted shops were as varied as the passers-by. A man selling grain, another asleep beside a pile of gaudy carpets. He ducked beneath a canopy and saw a man sitting cross-legged at a low table. The sound was that of his hammer against a miniature anvil.
He looked up as Adam’s shadow fell across shallow baskets full of metal, probably Spanish silver like the chain on Catherine’s locket, and asked in faultless English, “Something for a lady, Captain? I have much to offer.”
Adam shook his head.
“I may return later…” He hesitated, and bent to examine a perfect replica of a sword. “What is this?”
The silversmith shrugged. “Not old, Captain. Made for a French officer who was here,” he gave a polite smile, “before you came. But never collected. The war, you understand.”
Adam picked up the sword, so small, but heavy for its size. A brooch, or a clasp of some kind. He smiled; he was being ridiculous, and he knew it.
The silversmith watched him calmly. “There is an inscription, very small. It must have been important. It says Destiny, Captain.” He paused. “I have other pieces also.”
Adam turned it over in the palm of his hand. “You speak very good English.”
Again the shrug. “I learned in Bristol, many years ago!” He laughed, and several people who had paused to observe the transaction joined in.
Adam heard none of them. “Destiny.” Like the horizon which never got any nearer.
Somewhere a bell began to chime, and he clapped his hand to his empty watch pocket. He was late. Outwardly at least, Bethune was tolerant enough, but he was still a vice-admiral.
He said, “I would like to have it.”
The silversmith watched him take out his purse, and when he was satisfied held up one hand.
“That is enough, Captain.” He smiled as Adam held it to the light. “If the lady declines it, sir, I will buy it back from you, at a consideration, of course.”
Adam returned to the sunlight a little dazed, amazed at his own foolish innocence.
He touched his hat to a Royal Marine sentry and walked into the courtyard.
An unknown French officer, and a silversmith from Bristol.
Then he saw her on the balcony, in the same gown she had been wearing when she had left Unrivalled. She was looking down at him, but she did not smile or wave to him.
He felt it again, like a challenge. Destiny. The horizon.
And he knew it was already too late for caution.
Adam was surprised by the warmth of Bethune’s welcome, as if he were genuinely pleased, relieved even, to see him.
“Sit here.” He gestured to a chair far from the reflected glare. “I saw you come through the gates just now- limping, I thought. I read the full report.” He glanced at the dour-faced clerk at the other table. “Most of it, in any case. I am glad it was nothing worse.”
“The shot struck my watch. Which is why I was late, sir.”
He saw Bethune look meaningly at his flag lieutenant. So they had noticed.
“You are here and you are safe, that’s the main thing. I am so damned short of vessels I am beginning to think
