day.
And despite the drills and forced marches, the rough and often brutal humour, and the ritual of field punishment, young George Tolan had loved it.
As the war with the old enemies, France and her allies, had continued to spread and mount in ferocity, Tolan's life had changed yet again. As the fleet increased in strength there was a shortage of marines, the backbone of any fighting ship when it came to action at close quarters, both afloat and in forays ashore. They also acted as a disciplined force which could be called upon to maintain order among ships' companies which were largely comprised of pressed men, dragged aboard His Majesty's ships to fight and, when necessary, die without question or protest.
Some of Tolan's Surrey regiment were drafted to the Channel Fleet, in his case to an old two-decker, not so different, he supposed, from Athena, soon to be Bethune's flagship. After tented camps and austere barracks, the day to day experiences were at first a challenge, and then a contest between the marines and the overcrowded world of the mess decks
It was the first time Tolan had ever seen the sea, but like the Corps itself he grew to accept it.
Perhaps even then he had been conscious of the invisible barriers which stood between the marines and the overwhelming mass of sailors, pressed or otherwise, and divided forecastle and quarterdeck. At divisions, or when hands were mustered to hear the captain read out the Articles of War while some poor devil was stripped and tied to a grating to receive a flogging, or when they were posted as sentries to stand guard over dwindling water supplies, or to prevent men from deserting when the ship was in harbour or close to the shore. Only in battle, when the enemy's flag flew high alongside and the air was choked with smoke, did those barriers fall, and they became of one company.
And then, just twenty years ago, the impossible had happened, and the entire country reeled in shock and fear. The fleet, which admirals and parsons alike had always described as our sure shield against all peril, had mutinied at the Nore and at Spithead. A French invasion was daily expected, and too late the Admiralty had been forced to accept what foul conditions, savage punishment, and in many cases tyrannical discipline had brought down upon their heads.
Tolan had been reminded of it when he had been listening to the old clerk at the Admiralty, the one who had fought under Black Dick's command in the old Queen Charlotte at the Glorious First of June, just three years before the mutiny had broken out. Howe himself had been at the Admiralty, but his fairness and undoubted popularity were still remembered by those same men of his old flagship when mutiny had snared her with all the others. Howe and other senior officers were forced to swallow their pride and parley with the mutineers' delegates, and something far stronger than discipline and fleet orders had won the day. Many officers were removed from duty, some dismissed from the service. Mutineers who had used violence against officers and messmates alike were punished, even hanged. Order was restored, and the country turned to face the enemy across the Channel once again.
But aboard Tolan's ship it did not end without bloodshed. The captain was a disciplinarian of the old school, and when his company voted to follow the example of the fleet and refused to obey any further commands from aft, he had been beside himself with disbelief and fury.
The arms chest had been forced open, and the mutineers had driven most of the officers and the more trusted hands from the upper deck. Only the scarlet line had stood fast, muskets loaded, bayonets fixed.
The young officer, who had been from Tolan's own regiment, had raised his sword, and for an instant it seemed that the threat had passed. Then the captain had ordered him to fire on the mutineers. Tolan could remember the complete silence, as if it were yesterday.
Faces staring at one another across a few feet of decking. Seamen who had joked and chuckled when the soldiers, acting marines, had been forced to learn the crafts of seamanship and man the braces to alter course, amused by their attempts to cling to their army training and customs even at sea.
The sword had sliced down. Fire! Obey orders without question. All he knew.
The complete silence.
Then a young corporal on the right of the line, one of the only true marines aboard, half turned, smartly as if to an order, and called, 'Belay that! Ground your arms! '
Some laid down their muskets, others stared around, confused and overtaken by the swiftness of events, so that the crack of a pistol shot seemed like a broadside.
Tolan had got to know the young corporal, and had learned many things from him. How to keep a clean and smart kit in the close confines of a ship, how to cook, and what it took to prime and load a cannon. How to survive.
He still thought about it. The corporal lying on the deck, his eyes wide with shock as the shot had killed him.
Like a mad dream. His own musket pressed into his arm, the officer swinging round with the pistol still smoking in his hand. Then the jerk of the butt against his shoulder, the officer's hat flying into the air with the blood from his shattered face.
Like many others, Tolan had deserted that day, and so it had continued, running and hiding, while a ruthless search for culprits spread across the country.
In desperation he had presented himself to a recruiting party put ashore from a frigate. Bethune had been her captain, his first command. It was the perfect disguise and the perfect place to lose himself. He had once served as an officer's orderly, and it was not long before he was selected to attend the captain.
There had been testing moments. Once in Portsmouth dockyard, he had come face to face with a tall lieutenant, whom he had recognized instantly despite the passing of the years. A midshipman aboard that same ship when he had shot down his own officer. Just a glance, nothing more. Another time when he had quit the sea to accompany Bethune on some mission or other he had met a man by the Thames in London, the same river which ran within half a mile of where he had been born. Don't I know you?
It had got no further. That time…
He straightened his back and plucked his coat away from his chest. He was sweating. Would he never be able to forget it?
He saw Bethune's minute secretary Edward Paget coming down the steps, an important-looking satchel under one arm. A worrier, Tolan had long ago decided, always asking questions and making notes. Good at his work, though. He almost smiled. Otherwise Bethune would have cast him adrift years ago. Others did not seem to notice. Bethune was always ready to listen and to discuss, if it suited him. Handsome, dashing, with an eye for pretty women; a man who looked after himself. Must be fifty or even over, but looked far younger. A man Tolan could understand, and like, but underneath it all he was steel, something Tolan had marked well.
He saw that the carriage was already loaded, and apparently ready. It was time. How strange that the flagship at Plymouth was named Queen Charlotte. Not the same ship which had been at the centre of the Great Mutiny, but her name had been carried on. The navy's way. It was like a reminder. A warning, if he needed one.
'Ah, there you are, Tolan! ' Bethune peered up at the sky and then at the cathedral as the clock began to boom the hour. 'Good sleep?' He nodded. 'That's as well I doubt it will be an easy ride.'
He had not waited for an answer; he rarely did. They walked to the carriage together in silence. It was only then that Tolan realized Bethune, always so buoyant and confident, was unwilling to leave.
She stood very still and upright by the opened, gate, her body completely covered by a cloak. She had even pulled its hood over her head so that her long hair hung down her back, out of sight.
It was well past noon; she had heard a church clock strike somewhere. It seemed an eternity ago.
She shivered, glad of the cloak; there was a fresh southeasterly breeze blowing in from the sea. But she knew it was not that. She looked down the slope and saw the Tamar through the trees, some small craft tossing at their moorings as if they were in the Channel.
She thought of the note the post boy had brought to the house behind her. Dearest Lowenna. Together at noon tomorrow.
Today. Perhaps something had happened. Perhaps he had changed his mind. She had gone over it so many times since the earnest young lieutenant, her companion and guardian all the way from London, had described it all to his captain. Made light of it, perhaps joked with his fellow officers aboard the Athena about his exploits with the captain's 'friend'. In the same breath, she knew Francis Troubridge would not. Probably a couple of years her junior, but he had seemed from another generation, courteous, friendly, protective, not once attempting any intimacy.
At the inns where their little procession of coaches and carts had paused on the journey she had seen the
