Inshore Squadron Read online

  “Easy, man!” Browne knelt beside him. “Stunned, poor devil.”

  Allday said, “Looks like he was trying to crawl away. To get help, most probably.”

  They all stared at each other, and Bolitho snapped, “Look in the coach. Here, pull me up!”

  With some difficulty they dragged the door open and upwards like a gunport, the other being buried in the mud.

  Bolitho said, “It’s a woman. On her own.” He gripped the side of the door until the splintered wood pierced his skin.

  It had not happened. He was still asleep and this was one more cruel twist to torture him.

  He felt Allday beside him. “You all right, sir?”

  “Look inside.” He could barely control his voice.

  Allday thrust his leg through the door and gingerly eased himself inside. Out of the bitter wind and wet the interior seemed almost warm.

  He reached out and touched the body, then started with alarm as her head lolled slowly towards him.

  “Oh, my God!”

  Bolitho said, “Help me inside.”

  He did not even feel his bandaged thigh jar against the door. All he could see and feel was the woman’s body, her velvet cloak flung to her feet by the impact. The same long chestnut hair, almost the same face, feature by feature. She would even be about Cheney’s age, he thought despairingly.

  Hardly daring to breathe, he cradled her shoulders in his arm, and after another hesitation he thrust his hand under her breast. Nothing. He licked his lips, sensing Allday’s strength, willing her to live.

  There it was, a slight beat under his fingers.

  Allday said hoarsely, “Nothing broken, I’d say, sir. Nasty bruise on her temple.” With surprising gentleness he brushed some hair from her face. “I’d not believe it if you’d not been here, an’ that’s no lie.”

  Bolitho held her carefully, feeling her low breathing, the warmth of her body growing against his own.

  He heard Browne calling from the road. “What’s happening, sir?”

  Poor Browne, he could probably see nothing from his place beside the injured coachman.

  And what was happening? Bolitho wondered helplessly. A girl who looked so like Cheney, but was not. A twist of fate which had brought them together on the empty road, but not for long.

  Allday said, “We’d best get her to our carriage, sir.” He was watching Bolitho worriedly. “Reckon she’d have died in this cold, but for us.”

  Bolitho climbed out of the coach, his mind confused. Even the setting was as he had always imagined it. The coach smashed and overturned. Cheney carrying their unborn child, trapped inside. The coachman had been killed, but Ferguson, Bolitho’s one-armed steward, had been with her. Ferguson had somehow carried her two miles to find help, but to no avail. Bolitho had gone over it so often. If these strangers had been actors they could not have recreated it more truly, more savagely.

  Browne said, “I’ve fashioned a splint for his leg. He’s a bit stunned.” He looked vaguely through the sleet, his cocked hat shining like glass. “Lord Swinburne has an estate near here.” He shouted at the coachman, “Do you know it?”

  The coachman nodded, probably unwilling to become further involved. “Yes, sir.”

  It was then Browne sensed that something else was happening. He watched Allday carry the limp body to the carriage and turned to ask Bolitho about her. But he was already climbing into the carriage, his face a mask of concentration.

  Allday came back again and looked at the injured coachman.

  Browne whispered fiercely, “What is it, man?”

  Allday regarded him more calmly than he felt. “Mr Browne, sir, if you want to assist, I suggest you help search the other coach for baggage. There’ll be thieves aplenty here soon. Like crows round a gibbet. Then, if you would, you can tie that stray horse on behind us. I’m not much of a hand with horses.”

  As Browne obediently started for the coach Allday added, “He will tell you if he wants to, sir. No disrespect to you, an’ none taken, I hope.”

  He said it so bluntly that Browne knew he meant that he could go to hell if he chose to.

  Then something he had heard seemed to rouse his mind like a voice.

  “She’s like his dead wife, is that it?”

  Allday sighed. “That’s the strength of it, sir. I knew her well. I couldn’t believe my eyes just now.” He stared at the other carriage, its outline blurred in the steady sleet. “As if he doesn’t have enough on his mind.”

  He said it with such bitterness that Browne decided to leave it there.

  Later, as the carriage turned warily on to another road, the freed horse trotting obediently behind, Browne watched Bolitho as he and Allday protected the woman against any sudden lurch.

  Pale from shock, and yet her skin held more than a hint of sunlight. She had obviously been abroad, and quite recently, he thought. Browne put her age at about thirty. She was lovely, there was no other description. A gentle mouth, which even the pain and shock could not spoil.

  And her hair, he had never known such a fine rich colour.

  One of her hands fell from beneath her cloak, and Browne saw Bolitho reach out to lift it back again. Watched him falter in a manner he had not seen before. Perhaps it was the ring on her finger. Someone else’s, which was only to be expected, he thought. He saw the sadness in Bolitho’s eyes and felt strangely moved. In fantasy such things should never happen. Browne often had dreams of his own. Of the perfect girl riding towards him. Taking so long that the pain was only endurable because of the perfect ending which would some day be his.

  The ring had prevented even a dream for Bolitho.

  Allday said, “We’re passing a lodge, sir.” He cocked his head to listen as the coachman shouted something to the gatekeeper

  To himself he added bitterly, “I wish to God we’d done what Captain Herrick asked and stayed aboard for another night. Then he’d never have known about her.”

  The coach came to a halt and female voices seemed to flood into it.

  “Lawd bless us, sea officers, no less! Lend a hand there! You, tell Andy to saddle up and ride for the doctor!”

  Browne said, “Lucky I remembered this place, sir.”

  But Bolitho did not hear him, he was already following the others towards the entrance of the big house.

  Lord Swinburne seemed far too small a man to command so much authority and in such a magnificent house.

  He stood with his buttocks dangerously close to a roaring fire and looked from Bolitho to Browne with the searching intelligence of a winter robin.

  “Damn me, what a story, sir. And it’s good to have you with us, er, Bolitho. King’s officers are rare out here. The army and the fleet have taken all the young men away. How my steward manages to run things I dare not ask!”

  A servant girl entered the tall double doors and curtsied.

  “Beg pardon, m’lord, but the doctor has arrived.”

  “Damn yer eyes, girl, show him to the room! Tell him I’ve something to warm his tripes when he’s done!”

  The girl curtsied again, giggled and fled.

  Swinburne chuckled. “You’re off to London y’say, sir? Well, why not stay with us tonight? My head groom says this will blow over soon. You’ll be a damn sight more comfortable here than in some flea-infested inn, I daresay!” He was enjoying his unexpected visitors.

  Bolitho stretched his leg and felt the heat from the fire easing away the throbbing pain.

  Swinburne said with sudden gravity, “Good to know we have some young men to command our fleets. God knows, we’re going to need ’em. I hear that Nelson is back from the Mediterranean and already with the Channel Fleet. There are big events in the making, I’d say.”

  Bolitho took a glass from another servant. The wine was clear and cool. Made on the estate from some ancient receipt, most likely. The way they did it in Cornwall, and all such counties which had to live off their own resources.

  Lord Swinburne knew more than he did. But he
could drum up no excitement or interest. All he could think of was the girl upstairs. The touch of her. The scent of her hair as he had held her in the carriage. He was a fool, mad even, to compare her with Cheney. It was over. Sooner or later, by some method or other, he would have to find a release.

  Browne said, “I should like to stay here, m’lord. My father often speaks of you.” He looked at Bolitho. “Will it suit, sir?”

  Bolitho was about to refuse, to show rudeness if necessary, if only to escape and hide with his despair. But he saw a round little man with glasses coming through the room and knew he was the doctor.

  “Well, how is she?”

  The doctor took a goblet of brandy and held it admiringly against the fire.

  “Nothing broken, but she needs to rest. It was a bad shock, and she has bruises on her body like a prize-fighter.”

  Browne tried to appear unconcerned, but he was thinking of that lovely girl naked and helpless under the doctor’s eyes.

  The doctor added, “She’s conscious now, thank God. Her lady-ship is looking after her, so she’s in good hands.” He held out the goblet to be refilled. “By God, m’lord, I’d no idea the smugglers ran their cargoes as far as this!”

  Lord Swinburne grinned fiercely. “You impertinent devil! If there was another doctor in five miles you’d not set foot in here again!”

  They were obviously very good friends.

  The doctor placed his goblet down carefully and crossed to Bolitho.

  “Please be still, sir.”

  Bolitho made to protest and then saw the blood glinting in the firelight like a cruel eye. The doctor was already unbuttoning his coat.

  “Will you allow me to take you to another room?”

  Browne watched fascinated, Bolitho’s resentment changing to embarrassment as the doctor added gently, “I have seen enough brave men to know a wound, sir.”

  As they left the room, the tall officer leaning against the rotund doctor, Swinburne said, “You serve a remarkable man, Oliver. It might be the making of you yet.”

  “If Rear-Admiral Bolitho is unfit to continue tomorrow I shall leave without him, m’lord.” Browne considered his decision. It would almost be worth it just to see Sir George Beauchamp’s face when he marched into the Admiralty on his own with Bolitho’s despatches. “I think he would only fret and worry otherwise.”

  “Good thinking, Oliver, m’boy. The roads are not what they should be.”

  The doctor returned, buttoning his coat, as if that was his way of showing he was no longer working.

  He dropped his voice. “This is a terrible wound, Lieutenant. A good man did the work, but it needs far more patience than your superior is prepared to give.” He held his hands to the fire. “He was lucky to have such a good surgeon from what I have heard and read.”

  Swinburne said, “Well? What are you doing about it?”

  “I’ll keep him here, if I may. I believe he is a lonely man. The sudden change from swift action to life ashore might do him more harm than good.” He gestured around the great pillared room. “But in this humble abode, and with Christmas almost on us once more, I think he might fare better!”

  Swinburne winked at Browne. “Done! You go to those block-heads of Admiralty if you must. But be back here in time for our celebrations.” He rubbed his hands. “It will be like the old days!”

  When Bolitho returned he knew it was pointless to protest or argue. Sometimes it was better to give in. Fate, Herrick’s Lady Luck, or whatever you chose to call it. Something had decided he should leave Benbow at the first possibility. Something had prompted Browne to borrow the comfortable coach instead of catching the London mail. If he had insisted on the latter it would have taken another, busier road.

  He tried to smother the ridiculous hope, to destroy it before it destroyed him.

  Swinburne said loudly, “Of course, dammit! Bolitho! I did not realize it was you. I’ve been reading about you in the Gazette and the Times.” He shook his fist at Browne. “You’re a bigger fool than your father, Oliver! You didn’t tell me! God damn your eyes, man!” He was beside himself with pleasure.

  Browne said smoothly, “You did not give me much of an opportunity, m’lord.”

  A servant threw open the doors, and Lady Swinburne, moving with the stately confidence of a ship of the line, swept in to greet her guests.

  She nodded to Browne. “Ah, Oliver.”

  That was all she said, but Bolitho guessed that it meant far more.

  She took Bolitho’s hand and studied him curiously. She was a very large lady, a head and shoulders taller than her husband.

  “Rear-Admiral Bolitho, you are very welcome. You are like I would have wished our oldest son to be. He fell in battle at the Chesapeake.”

  Swinburne said, “Don’t distress yourself, Mildred. It’s a long time ago.”

  Bolitho squeezed her hand. “Not to me, my lady. I was there also.”

  She nodded. “I thought you were of an age.” A smile swept her sudden sadness aside.

  She said, “There is a young lady upstairs who wishes to see you. To thank you for what you did.” She saw the doctor give a quick shake of the head and then realised there was a bloodstain on Bolitho’s breeches which even some of the doctor’s spirit had failed to remove. “Well, later then.” She beamed at the others. “A wounded hero and a lady in distress, what better ingredients for Christmas, eh?”

  11 AN OLD SCORE

  BOLITHO stood uncertainly by a newly laid fire and listened to the sleet lashing the windows. It was evening, and for all he knew he could have been quite alone in the great house. They had not even roused him for a midday meal, but had allowed him to sleep in a small room on the ground floor.

  When he had at last awakened he had discovered his clothes neatly laid out, his breeches as white as new with no trace of the bloodstain.

  The house was very old, he decided, and had probably been added to through the various generations of the Swinburne family. This room was lined with well-used books which reminded him of the one in Copenhagen where he had supposedly met the Crown Prince. That, too, seemed like part of a dream. Only the painful reminder of his wound kept the rest alive in his mind.

  He tried to think of the girl from the wrecked carriage as a total stranger, as he would have done had she been different. It was like standing well back to examine a portrait, to fit the pieces together which were blurred by being too close.

  The door opened quietly and he turned, expecting it to be Browne or one of Swinburne’s attentive servants.

  She stood framed against the lights in the other room, her face and arms shining in the fire’s glow.

  Bolitho was about to cross the room when she said, “No, please. Remain where you are. I have heard about your injury. By helping to save my life on the road you could have risked your own.”

  She moved into the reflected firelight, her gown swishing across the floor. It was white with a yellow flowered pattern. Her long chestnut hair was tied back in a ribbon of the same yellow.

  She saw him staring and explained, “It is not mine. Lady Swinburne’s daughter loaned it to me. My luggage has already gone ahead to London.” She hesitated and held out her hand. “I am indebted to you and your friends.”

  Bolitho took her hand and sought helplessly for the right words.

  “I am thankful we were in time.”

  She released her hand gently and sat down in one of the chairs.

  “You are Rear-Admiral Bolitho.” She smiled gravely. “I am Mrs Belinda Laidlaw.”

  Bolitho sat opposite her. Her eyes were not like Cheney’s at all. They were dark brown.

  He said, “We were also going to London. To the Admiralty. We have just returned from duty.” He tried not to look at his leg. “I had the misfortune to stand up when I should have been lying down!”

  She did not respond to his feeble joke.

  “I, too, have just returned to England from India. It all seems changed here.” She gave a shiver. “
Not just the climate, everything. The war seems so near I can almost picture the enemy across the Channel waiting to invade us.”

  “I can think of several good reasons why the French will never come.” He smiled awkwardly. “Though they may try.”

  “I suppose so.” She looked lost, wistful.

  Bolitho thought that the bruises and concussion might have been worse than the doctor had realised.

  He asked gently, “Is your husband with you?”

  Her eyes darkened in shadow as she looked towards the closed door.

  “He is dead.”

  Bolitho stared at her. “I am so sorry. It was wrong of me to pry. Please forgive me.”

  She faced him again, her expression one of curiosity.

  “You really mean that. But I am through the worst of it, I think. He was with the East India Company. At Bombay he was happy, dealing with the company’s mercantile affairs, trade, all the expanding business he was helping to build. He had been a soldier, but was a gentle man and glad to be rid of his commission.”

  She gave a brief shrug, the movement stabbing at Bolitho’s concern like a knife.

  “Then he became ill. Some fever he caught when he was away on a mission inland.” Her eyes, like her tone, were dreamy, as if she was remembering each moment. “It got worse and worse, until he could not even move from his bed. I nursed him for three years. It became part of life, something to accept without pity or hope. Then one morning he died. What I did not know was that he had been doing some private business of his own. He’d hinted at it sometimes, of how he was going to break away from the company and not just be a link in their chain. But he left me no details of whatever he was doing and, needless to say, none of his ‘friends’ came forward to explain. In just a few hours of his death I discovered that I was penniless and completely alone.”

  Bolitho tried to imagine what it must have been like for her. And yet she spoke without bitterness or rancour. Perhaps, like her husband’s long-drawn-out suffering, she had been forced to accept it.

  He said, “I should like to make it plain that if there is anything I can do . . .”

  She raised her hand and smiled at his concern. “You have done enough. I will go on to London as soon as the road is clear and begin my new life.”