Cross of St George Page 6

  Instead, he was here.

  What would she say? She might not even consent to see him. He stared at the house again, trying to remember his captain, her husband. He had assumed that Mildmay had been given the old Canopus as an insult, because of some past misdemeanour. Perhaps he had offended someone in high places: it was not uncommon. That was why I was sent to her. Taken originally as a prize from the French at the Nile, she had received such a battering and had subsequently been worked so hard that her greatest enemy was rot.

  But Mildmay had left the ship while she had been in dock, and had been promoted to flag rank, with further promotion two years later. Now he was dead.

  He felt his confidence, never very great, wavering. He would make an even bigger fool of himself this time.

  The double doors of the house were before him, although he did not recall having mounted the steps. As though he had been secretly observed, one of them swung inward, opened by a tall, rather severe-looking woman dressed from neck to toe in grey, with a bunch of keys hanging from the chatelaine at her waist.

  “Yes?” Her eyes moved over him swiftly. She was probably more used to senior officers and the quality, he thought, and, surprisingly, it made him smile. It was the same assessment and dismissal that the Jermyn Street tailor had given him.

  He said, “I wish to speak to Lady Mildmay.”

  The eyes moved on, looking for a carriage or some other evidence of respectability.

  “She is not expecting your visit?” It was not really a question.

  Avery heard music, a pianoforte, and in the sudden stillness applause, like a scattering of dry leaves.

  “No, not exactly. I—”

  “What is it, Mrs Pepyat? I thought I—”

  Avery removed his hat. “I am sorry, my lady.” She was standing by the great, curving staircase, one hand to the bosom of her gown, as if she had been surprised or annoyed by the intrusion.

  She said, “Mister Avery, you keep a poor diary!” But she smiled, and walked to meet him. “Is something amiss?”

  He took the cool hand she offered and kissed the back of it. “I am recalled, my lady. I must leave for Cornwall shortly.” The pianoforte had started to play again, and Avery said, “I will leave. You are entertaining.”

  She watched him, her blue eyes questioning. “No, no. That is a Mr Blount—he comes from Highgate to play for us, to raise money for the sailors’ hospital at Greenwich.” She shrugged. “It is an amiable way to meet old friends, or acquaintances, if you prefer …” She smiled. “You like music, Mr Avery? It is Mozart, very fashionable, it seems.”

  Avery was listening. “Yes. His Fantasy in C Minor.” He did not see her raised brows. “I sang in the choir, and my father’s organist used to entertain us with that music afterwards.”

  He must go. The formidable Mrs Pepyat obviously thought so.

  “Take this gentleman’s hat and cloak.” A footman darted out from nowhere, and took them from him. His line of retreat was severed.

  She slipped her arm through his and guided him toward a tall doorway.

  “We will sit by this pillar. See? No one has noticed a thing.”

  He sat beside her. Although she had released his arm he could still feel her touch. The room was full, the women, some young, some not so young, sitting attentively, with here and there an expensively shod foot tapping in time to the music. The men were mostly older, and there were several red uniforms: senior officers putting on a brave face for society’s sake, but, for the most part, obviously bored. The pianist named Blount was very small, with the frame of a youth, but his face could have been that of an old portrait, and Avery knew simply by watching him that he had completely dismissed his audience from his mind.

  She leaned toward him, and Avery saw two other women turn instantly to observe them. “There will be refreshments later. I shall have to entertain then, a little.”

  She was very close, so close that he could smell her hair, her perfume, and see the rise and fall of her breasts.

  “Am I as you remember, Mister Avery?”

  She was teasing him again. Or was she.

  He lowered his voice. “Exactly as I remember.”

  She turned away. The music ceased and people stood to applaud, some, he thought, out of pleasure, others with relief that it was over.

  An act of charity. Avery glanced around at the rich gowns, the stylish hair arrangements, the men, smiling now as the first trays of wine appeared. How much of the collection would find its way to the sailors’ hospital, he wondered, and was shocked by his own cynicism.

  He remained by the pillar and took a goblet of wine from a passing footman. She was moving amongst her guests without hesitation or uncertainty. He heard her laugh, and saw two of the soldiers beaming at her.

  He stepped back as a solitary naval uniform, a lady on one arm, paused to speak with Lady Mildmay before heading for the door. Escaping.

  She was with him again, her eyes moving across the room. “Are you enjoying yourself, Mr Avery?”

  “That officer. I know him.”

  “Vice-Admiral Bethune. Yes, he has risen like a bright star.” It seemed to amuse her.

  “And that was his wife.” She was not as he had expected. Perhaps he had been misinformed.

  She was looking at him steadily. “Not his wife. From what we hear, one can hardly blame him. He is very attractive, if I may say so as a woman.”

  Some of the others were leaving now, their duty done. She asked suddenly, “Recalled, you said? When do you return?” She turned to smile and curtsey to a big, florid-faced man and his lady. “So good of you to come, Your Grace!” And as quickly, the smile was gone. “Tell me.”

  He shrugged. “I am joining Sir Richard Bolitho’s squadron.”

  She put her hand to her breast again. Off guard, no longer so composed. “The Americas? The war?”

  He smiled. “It is the way of sailors, madam.”

  She turned again as two more women rose to leave. They smiled like old friends, but one looked directly at Avery, her eyes full of a hard curiosity.

  Avery asked abruptly, “And who was that? ”

  She closed her fingers on his arm, either ignoring or not caring for the consequences.

  “That was your admiral’s wife, Lady Bolitho. Did you not know?”

  Avery shook his head. “This is not my world.” He glanced at the door. “I have things to attend to, my lady. I did not mean to disturb you. That was not my intention.” He saw the sudden doubt in her eyes.

  “Do you have a carriage?”

  “I can easily obtain one. I am going to Chelsea.”

  Somebody called out to her but she did not appear to hear. She said, “My carriage can take you there, and in more comfort.” She gripped his arm more tightly. “Please.” No further pretence. “Please stay.”

  “I think we owe Lady Mildmay a debt of gratitude for her charming hospitality, and the dedication with which she has always carried out her work on behalf of those less fortunate.”

  She bowed low, her smile confident. The shadow between her breasts made a lie of her composure.

  As she straightened again, she looked directly into his eyes. “George … please, go tomorrow.”

  It was madness. But there was the other madness, which they had all shared, the thunder of the great guns, the screams and the horror of battle. How could he explain, how extricate himself from this? But she had already vanished among the remaining guests.

  Avery made his way through the house until he found the garden, which was already in twilight.

  Madness, then. So be it.

  The carriage had stopped at the crest of a slight rise, the horses stamping on the rough road, untroubled by the keen morning air.

  Bolitho turned toward her, holding her hand beneath her heavy cloak, wondering how time could pass so swiftly and without mercy.

  “We are almost there, Kate.”

  “I know. I remember.”

  They could have driven all th
e way from Falmouth without stopping, but had stayed the night at an inn outside Liskeard. Bolitho had been very aware of the danger of missing his ship because of a late arrival, or some accident on the road: that the tide waited for no man had been impressed upon him since he had first gone to sea at the age of twelve, or perhaps even earlier, as a child listening to his father and the local men who lived on and from the sea. Nor would he have Catherine travelling so far without some brief respite.

  They had left the Turk’s Head early; neither of them wanted breakfast. Even in such a small place there had been no escape from his own notoriety. People had been waiting outside the inn, and had waved and called to them, wishing them luck and happiness. Catherine had responded as she always did, although their kindness must have broken her heart. It was not next week or the week after. It was today.

  The other members of his “little crew” would already be aboard: Avery, more withdrawn than usual after his sojourn in London; Yovell with his books and his Bible, untroubled as always; Ozzard, who gave nothing away; and, of course, Allday. Allday was genuinely sorry to be leaving his wife and child, but there was something more to it, pride, or a certain satisfaction because he was still needed, and had returned to what he considered his proper role in life.

  He had talked with Catherine throughout the night. The ship, Royal Enterprise, was a fleet transport, faster than most merchant vessels, and used to carrying important passengers to any destination so ordered by Their Lordships. The voyage should take three weeks to a month, weather permitting: the masters of such transports were highly experienced, making the best use of prevailing winds for an untroubled passage. So there might be a hint of early spring in Cornwall by the time he rehoisted his flag above Indomitable in Halifax.

  At least he would have James Tyacke, as well as Adam and Keen to sustain him. What would she have?

  He had told her about Belinda and her need for more money. Catherine had known, or guessed.

  She had exclaimed, “Need? Self-indulgence, more likely! I’ll not have that woman troubling you, Richard.”

  When the inn had fallen quiet for the night they had held one another and talked, until desperate passion had brought them together for the last time.

  They heard Matthew speaking softly with Ferguson. Ferguson had insisted on accompanying them, and would escort Catherine back to Falmouth rather than entrust her to the protection of a paid guard. He and Matthew had remained in the inn parlour yarning and drinking until they had eventually retired, Ferguson to one of the rooms, Matthew to sleep with his horses as he always did on the road.

  Catherine twisted round to look at him again. “Remember, I am always with you. I shall write often, to let you know how it looks in Falmouth, at our house.” She touched the lock of hair above his right eye; it was almost white now, and she knew he hated it. She thought the savage scar beneath it must be the cause; the rest of his hair was as black as it had been on the day she had first seen him.

  She murmured, “So proud, Richard.” She lowered her head and her fist struck the seat. “I will not weep. We have gone through so much, and we are so lucky. I will not weep.”

  They had decided that they should part before he joined the ship: so different from that other time when she had climbed Indomitable ’s side and been cheered by Tyacke’s sailors, many of whom had since died in that last fight with Beer’s Unity.

  But now that the time had come, it was hard to contemplate leaving her.

  Reading his thoughts, she said suddenly, “May we get out, Richard, just for a few minutes?”

  They climbed down and he took her arm as her cloak billowed out in the wind. Bolitho did not need any gauge: he knew the feel of it. A sailor’s wind. The Royal Enterprise would be tugging at her cable, eager to go. He had known it all his life, though rarely as a passenger.

  And there, like a dark, twisting snake, was the Hamoaze, and beyond it, misty in the damp air, Plymouth and the Sound.

  She said quietly, “The hills of Devon, Richard. How well I know these places, because of you.”

  “We have done and shared so much.”

  She put her fingers on his mouth. “Just love me, Richard. Say that you will always love me.”

  They walked back to the carriage where Matthew stood by the horses, and Ferguson, shapeless in a big coachman’s caped coat, sat in silence, sharing it, as he had so many times.

  The door closed and they were moving again. Downhill now, with more people about, some of whom pointed at the crest on the coach, and cheered without knowing if it was occupied or empty.

  Houses next, a stableyard he remembered from his time as a junior lieutenant. He held her and looked at her, knowing what it was costing, for both of them. She was beautiful, despite the shadows beneath her eyes, as he always saw her when they were separated by the ocean.

  She was saying, “I shall keep very busy, Richard. I shall help Bryan, and I will visit Nancy more often. I know she frets over Lewis. He will heed nothing the doctors tell him.”

  Matthew called, “We’re here, Sir Richard.”

  She clung to his arm. “I shall walk with you to the jetty. They may not have sent a boat yet. I can keep you company.”

  He touched her face, her hair. “The boat will be there. I am an admiral. Remember?”

  She laughed. “And you once forgot to tell me!”

  He embraced her. Neither moved. There was no baggage: it had been sent ahead. All he had to do was get out, and walk through the gate and to the jetty. It was so simple. That was probably what they had told themselves on the way to the guillotine …

  He opened the door. “Please stay here, Kate.” He held her again, and she leaned over and kissed him. Then he stepped back and stared at the others. “Take good care of her.” He could barely see them. “For me.”

  Matthew grinned. “None better, sir!” But there was no smile in his eyes.

  Ferguson was down on the road. He said, “God speed, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho stood quite still; afterwards, he thought it had been as if their spirits had joined.

  Then he turned on his heel and walked through the gates.

  She watched, her eyes smarting, afraid to miss the moment when he would look back. He had been right: they were waiting. Uniforms blue and scarlet; formal, austere voices. Respect for her man, an admiral of England.

  But he did turn, then very slowly raised his hat and bowed to her. When she looked again, he was gone.

  She waited for Ferguson to climb into the carriage, and said, “Tell Matthew to drive back along the same road.”

  Ferguson replied, “The ship’ll stand well out before she changes tack, m’lady. We’ll not be able to see anything.”

  She sat back in the seat. “I shall see him.” She looked at the passing cottages. “And he will know it.”

  4 CAPTAINS

  AS EIGHT BELLS chimed out from the forecastle belfry, Captain James Tyacke climbed through the companion and onto the broad quarterdeck. The air, like everything else, was wet, clinging, and cold, and the ship seemed hemmed in by an unmoving curtain of fog. He gripped his hands tightly behind his back and listened to the staccato beat of hammers, and the occasional squeak of blocks as some item of rigging was hauled aloft to the upper yards. When he looked up, it was uncanny: the topmasts and top-gallant spars were completely cut off by the fog, as if the frigate Indomitable had been dismasted in some phantom engagement.

  He shivered, hating the climate, too used perhaps to the African sun and the south’s clear blue horizons.

  He stopped by the empty hammock nettings and peered down at the water alongside. Lighters were moored there, and other boats were pulling this way and that like water-beetles, vanishing and reappearing suddenly in the mist.

  This was Halifax, Nova Scotia. A busy and vital seaport, and a pleasant-looking town, from the little he had seen of it. He touched the nettings, like cold metal on this dismal day. But not for long, he told himself. Very soon this work would be completed, wh
ich, considering the winter’s bitter weather and the needs of all the other men-of-war sheltering here, was a record of which to be proud. Six months had passed since they had entered harbour after the savage battle with the two American frigates. The largest prize, Unity, had already left for England, and would be receiving all the attention she required. She had been so badly mauled that he doubted she would have survived the long Atlantic crossing if her pumps had not been kept going throughout every watch.

  He gritted his teeth to prevent them from chattering. Some captains would have donned a thick boat-cloak to keep out the cold. James Tyacke did not entertain the idea. Indomitable ’s company had to work as best they could in their usual clothing, and he did not believe that he should take advantage of his rank. It was not some facile act to impress the men. It was merely Tyacke’s way.

  Like the empty nettings. Ordinarily, when the hands were piped to show a leg and make ready for another working day in harbour, the hammocks were neatly stowed there, and kept in the nettings during the day: when the ship was called to battle they offered the only protection from flying splinters for the helmsmen and officers on the quarterdeck. But life was hard enough in a King’s ship, Tyacke thought, and here, when the only heating throughout Indomitable’s impressive one hundred and eighty feet was the galley stove, wet hammocks at the end of the day would have made things even more uncomfortable.

  Figures loomed and faded in the mist, officers waiting to ask him questions, others wanting final instructions before they were pulled ashore to collect the quantities of stores and supplies required by this ship-of-war. My ship. But the satisfaction would not come, and the pride he occasionally allowed himself to feel kept its distance.

  It was March, 1813. He stared along the deck. It was impossible to believe that next month he would have been in command of Indomitable for two whole years. What next? Where bound, and to what end? Indomitable was more powerful than most of her class. Built as a third-rate, a ship of the line, she had been cut down to perform the role of a heavily-armed frigate, and as she had proved in September when she had stood alongside the USS Unity, she was more than a match for the superior American firepower with her forty 24-pounders and four 18-pounders, as well as the other weapons she carried.