market vehicles, saw the woman who sat alone, her face shaded by a broad-brimmed hat. It could have been Richard's mistress. That woman. Why had he told Adam Bolitho? Concern, or was it guilt?
It had been Adam who had brought the news to him, that his own very dear Dulcie had died. Just as Herrick had once carried the tragic news of Bolitho's young wife's death…
He stared with something like hatred at the garishly painted battles. The roots and memories were stronger than many believed.
He heard unhurried footsteps approaching, and braced himself. Perhaps it was a mistake, or Bethune had taken another appointment.
'Sir Graham Bethune can see you now, sir.'
Herrick stood up, and winced as the heavy dress coat dragged at his stump. So damned typical of this place. Can see you now. As if it was a favour!
He knew he was being unreasonable, and blamed his pain for it. He hated the way people stared, or clucked sympathetically when they met him. I IC could recall a surgeon suggesting that he should wear ostrich quills on his coat to steer people away from jostling or reopening the wound. He could even hear himself.
Afraid of war, are they? Or of what it does to those who have to fight it?
If Dulcie had been alive… Ile saw the doors swing inward, and Bethune waiting to greet him. Standing, his arm outstretched, his left arm, to match his own.
'Good to see you, Thomas!' I lis handshake was firm, his paten still that of a sailor. 'Seat yourself. There'll be some wine in a moment, but we are served by snails in this cathedral!'
Herrick sat down, taking time to adjust himself in the chair, like someone searching for a trap. Then he looked directly at Bethune. He had always prided himself in being honest and open with others, and grudgingly he recognised those qualities in Bethune, something which the vice-admiral's lace and the grand office could not hide.
Bethune said, 'I saw your reports. I was particularly interested in your views on Freetown and the Windward Coast-I have said as much to the First Lord. You should get the credit you deserve. I suspect you may he requested to return to that or some other aspect of the slave trade, but I don't suppose you'll mind about that.' It was not a question.
Herrick almost smiled. Requested; a term they used when you had attained flag rank. It still meant that you had no choice in the matter.
Bethune strode to a window and opened it, admitting the ceaseless din of iron-shod wheels and the clatter of many horses: London on the move, never at rest.
Herrick watched him. He too was restless, full of energy. Still a young man, like the one who had commanded that fine frigate depicted in this room's only painting.
Bethune went on, 'I especially liked your report on Captain Tyacke, another officer who might well have gone unnoticed, passed over, but for someone caring enough to act.'
Herrick clenched his remaining fist. As if Tyacke were also in this room, listening to the street, watching the dragoons, like the man in the crowd. He said without hesitation, 'Sir Richard did as much for me, Sir Graham.'
Bethune nodded, satisfied perhaps. 'You served with him at the Nile?'
Herrick rubbed the arm of his chair. This was not what he had expected.
'Yes. In Lysander. I was Sir Richard's flag captain then.'
Bethune turned from the window. Herrick would say no more, but it was enough.
'Tyacke was at the Nile also, where he was so cruelly wounded.'
A servant entered and began to place glasses on a tiny square of cloth. More like a woman than a grown man, Herrick thought.
For a moment he thought he had misheard as Bethune dismissed the servant and repeated, 'Lady Somervell. I saw her here, in London.' He glanced over at him. 'This is Rhenish-I hope it will suit? It should be cool, although after its journey up those stairs one can only hope!' And laughed, completely relaxed. Or was he?
Herrick said, 'It is some time since I saw her. It was in Falmouth, when I was intending to take up an appointment with the revenue service.'
Bethune critically examined a glass. He knew about that, and thought he knew why Keen had intervened. Not all grudges faded with the years.
He said, 'A brave and lovely woman. I admire her greatly.' Ile thought of the Nile medal she had entrusted to him. Another link. But it had always been there. He suspected that she knew how he felt.
He tried to shut it from his mind and said, 'I think that Baron Sillitoe may become more involved with his business affairs in the West Indies, even Cuba.'
Herrick stiffened. Cuba, still the world's clearing house for slaves.
Bethune said, 'We must put all past disagreement aside. The fleet is committed to the Algiers venture, as it is elsewhere where the trade flourishes. You know this, and I know it. I would take it as a great favour if you would pass on to me what you may hear about said involvement, so that the innocent can be protected.' He raised his glass very slowly until their eyes met.
Herrick swallowed; if the hock was warm or ice-cold, he did not notice it.
'I understand, Sir Graham.' It was utter madness, and if anything went wrong Bethune would deny any association.
He watched Bethune's tanned hand refilling the glasses.
When Dulcie had died of typhus, Lady Somervell… he hesitated even over her name… Catherine had stood by her. The only one, to the end. She could so easily have been infected by the fever herself. But she had stayed.
'It shall be done.'
Their glasses touched.
Committed, then. And Thomas Herrick was suddenly alive again. Restored.
Tomorrow he might regret it. He smiled quite openly.
But that was tomorrow.
14. Sudden Death
JAMES BELLAIRS, Unrivalled's young third lieutenant, touched his hat and said, 'I relieve you, sir.'
Eight bells had just rung out from the forecastle. The first watch was about to begin.
Lieutenant Varlo saw his own men hurrying away to their various messes and remarked, 'If you are certain you can manage 'til the hour of midnight?'
Bellairs watched him walk to the companionway and tried not to dislike him. A competent officer, but never without the lastminute jibe, the sarcastic quip at someone else's expense.
One of Bellairs' watch had been adrift when the hands had mustered aft; he had fallen and injured his wrist. Varlo had remarked, 'Shall we rouse out the master-at-arms to find him, eh?'
He allowed his anger to settle. It was not in his nature, and anyway… He spread his arms and stared along the length of the ship. Already in deep shadow, with an incredible orange glow to starboard as the sun dipped towards the horizon. To larboard it was lost in a purple haze. You could sense the nearness of land. He put Varlo from his mind and smiled. Not so near: Lisbon lay about sixty miles abeam according to the last calculation. He listened to the creak and hum of taut rigging as Unrivalled leaned more steeply on the larboard tack. Every watch brought him fresh confidence, like the sounds which had once made him uneasy, but usually unwilling to call for advice from a lieutenant. Now he was a lieutenant himself, and those years as a 'young gentleman' seemed a lifetime ago.
He glanced at the cabin skylight. There was a glow there, brighter than usual. The captain, going over his orders again. Was he ever unsure, he wondered, with nobody to advise him?
He walked to the compass, the two helmsmen watching him as he passed. Soon it would be too dark to recognise faces, but it no longer mattered. He felt that he knew every man in the ship. Even the had ones. He grinned. Especially the had ones…
He thought of Plymouth, now five days astern. A smooth if lively passage so far. Skirting the Bay and its foul moods, they had been out of sight of Cape Finisterre except from the masthead, when they had changed tack yet again to steer south-west by south and follow the coast of Portugal. Standing well out to sea, perhaps to avoid
