BEYOND THE REEF

13… AND FAREWELL

JAMES SEDGEMORE, the Black Prince's first lieutenant, paused in his endless pacing of the quarterdeck to take a telescope from the midshipman-of-the-watch. His face was reddened by the lively south-easterly wind, and he was very aware of the activity around him as the ship prepared to get under way. Lying to her anchor off Spithead, she was already responding, her masts and rigging shivering, while above the decks tiny figures swarmed like monkeys amongst the black tracery of shrouds and stays, halliards and ratlines.

Sedgemore trained the glass on the sallyport and saw Black Prince's long green barge standing off the stairs, the oars pulling and backing to hold her clear of any damage in the choppy water. Tojohns, the captain's coxswain, was in charge, and would make sure that everything was all right.

The whole ship was alive with rumour and speculation after some of the tales Tojohns had brought aboard with him. The shipwreck, a mutiny, man-eating sharks, and through it all, the admiral's lady suffering and enduring with the rest of them.

A man gave a yelp of pain as a boatswain's mate swung at him with his rope starter. It would be good to get the people out to some sea room, Sedgemore thought. The officers for the most part were as green as the bulk of the hands, half of whom had never set foot in a King's ship before. They would soon learn, he thought grimly. He was not going to lose his chances of further promotion because of their ignorance or stupidity. He glanced at this same deck, where his predecessor had been cut in halves by a French ball. That was often how promotion came, and you never questioned it, in case the chance never offered itself again.

He thought too of his captain, so changed in manner from the time he had left the ship for some vague appointment in Cape Town: his temporary replacement had been swiftly removed after the ship's unfortunate collision. That had been lucky for Sedgemore too. He himself had been ordered ashore with despatches for the port admiral, and was quite blameless.

It was good to have Captain Keen back. The other man had been so distant he had been impossible to know. Keen on the other hand had returned cheerful and confident, and apparently not even troubled too much by the large proportion of landmen and scum from the jails.

There had been one awkward moment however, when Black Prince had left her moorings and sailed through the narrow entrance of Portsmouth Harbour to anchor here off Spithead. The wind had been unusually strong, and Sedgemore had felt the hair rising on his neck as he watched the shallows beneath Portsmouth Point and its cluster of houses seemingly just a few yards clear. He had turned towards his captain, and had seen him smiling as men scampered to the braces, and extra hands had flung themselves on the great double-wheel. Looking back, Keen had shown a new, youthful recklessness, which had not been there when they had waited for RearAdmiral Herrick's court martial to begin.

Surviving the perils of an open boat, or returning to a young wife-it was probably a bit of both.

More men ran to loosen belaying pins in readiness to free the halliards, so that nothing would stick in the heavy drift of spray when the anchor broke free.

Sedgemore smiled to himself. Yes, it would be good to go. Not Portugal but the West Indies, it appeared. Where he would be out of reach of his creditors until his fortune improved. Sedgemore was ambitious to a point of devotion. A command of his own, then post-rank; it was like a mapped-out road of his own fate. But his weakness was gambling, and a spell safely in the Indies would keep him out of trouble… until the next time. And Sir Richard Bolitho would soon be aboard again. Surely with his experience and leadership, there would be even better chances for advancement.

He saw Jenour appear momentarily on deck with Yovell before they vanished beneath the poop. Jenour, previously such a lively young officer, full of experiences with which he had sometimes entertained the wardroom, of all those who had come back from almost certain death, seemed subdued and unwilling to talk. However, Sedgemore knew nothing would remain a secret from anyone after a few weeks at sea.

The fourth lieutenant, Robert Whyham, who was officer-of-the-watch, said, "Barge is shoving off, sir!"

"I'll tell the captain. Pipe the guard to the side." He liked Whyham, who was the only lieutenant from the original wardroom, and had been promoted from sixth place in the past few months. He also envied him without really knowing the reason, except that Whyham had served under Captain Keen in a previous flagship, the French prize Argonaute. There had been glory in her great fight too. Sedgemore rarely allowed his mind to dwell on the harsher side of things.

He hesitated, a last look round: nothing adrift which he might be blamed for. "And tell that midshipman to go forrard and make certain the admiral's flag is already bent-on and ready to break on the last order of the salute."

Whyham touched his dripping hat. "Aye, sir."

At least the reception would go smoothly; both of the Royal Marine officers were from the original detachment which now made up an eighth part of Black Prince's eight hundred officers and men.

Lieutenant Sedgemore straightened the lapels on his coat and removed his hat as he reached the rigid marine sentry outside the captain's screen door.

One day, I shall have something like this. For a terrible moment he imagined he had spoken aloud, but when he glanced at the sentry's eyes he was thankful to see they were suitably blank.

He rapped on the door with his knuckles. "Captain, sir?"

The Black Prince's captain stood directly below the skylight of his day cabin and looked through the spray-dappled glass. The sky was grey, the clouds fast-moving in the occasional gusts against the ship's high tumblehome, which made itself felt in the very bowels of the hull. He glanced at Jenour, who was half-heartedly examining some papers Yovell had left for Keen's signature. It was hard to see him in that open boat with his torn hands hauling on an oar; the blood in the bottom after Allday had amputated the Golden Plover's master's infected leg. Hard to picture himself either, for that matter.

He knew what was troubling Jenour, and said, "It had to happen eventually. You have been Sir Richard's flag lieutenant longer than anyone. He likes you, and this is his way of rewarding you, as is only proper."

Jenour came out of his dark thoughts. Bolitho had told him himself that after they had reached the West Indies, and at the first opportunity, he would appoint him in command of some suitable vessel. It was customary, and in his heart Jenour had known it was inevitable. But he did not want to leave the vice-admiral. He had become a part of this precious body, we happy few as poor Oliver Browne had once called it. There were very few of them left now, but that had never deterred him.

Keen took his silence for a persisting doubt and said, "Responsibility is not yours to toss away. It is a privilege, not a right, as I and others like me soon discovered. Once you were less certain." He smiled. "Less mature, if you like. But your experience has grown with you, and it is needed more than ever. Look at this ship, Stephen. Boys and old men, volunteers and rascals. It is the way of things. Sir Richard is ordered to the Indies to command a squadron of fourteen sail of the line." He gestured across the litter of papers. "So what have their lordships offered him? Six instead of fourteen, one frigate instead of the promised three. It never changes. Which is why your skills, like it or not, are sorely needed. Take the vice-admiral's nephew, for instance. He too was once his flag lieutenant-now he is posted, and commands a fine frigate."

Jenour could not compare himself with Adam Bolitho. He was so like his uncle, but had a touch of fire which came from elsewhere, probably his dead father.

Jenour sighed. "It was good of you to listen, sir."

Keen watched him leave and began the routine of preparing himself for sea. Once the anchor was up and catted, he would not leave the quarterdeck until his ship was safely clear of the narrows and with the Needles well abeam. Then south-west into open waters, where his untried hands could find their skills, or lack of them, as the great ship bore down towards the Western Approaches.

Feet were moving everywhere, with the occasional shout, muffled by distance and the stoutness of the timbers, to tell of the activity and the tension of getting a man-of-war under sail. There would be other thoughts, too, apart from fear of heights above the swaying hull, or fighting out along the yards to learn the mysteries and terrors of making and reefing sails in half a gale. Thoughts of leaving home, perhaps never to return. Men snatched from the streets and lanes by press-gangs who had no time for heart or pity. That was a peculiar aspect of the character of seamen. For the most part those already in the King's service, even the pressed men, saw no reason why others should not share their own fate.

He crossed to the larboard side and peered through the streaming glass of the quarter gallery. Blurred, like a painting left out in the rain: the dull grey of fortifications, and the cheerful red roofs beyond. He recalled bringing this ship through the narrow harbour entrance, how Julyan the sailing-master had exclaimed, "God, I thought we was going to take the veranda off the old Quebec Inn for a moment or two!"

Have I changed so much? Has she done that for me too?

After all, what had he really expected? He loved her; why had he been surprised that she could at last find it within herself to return it? Perhaps it was merely gratitude…

But it had been none of these things. For a long, long time she had stood pressed in his arms, sobbing quietly, murmuring into his chest.

Even then, he had doubted it.

They had sat by the fire in the rooms set aside for them in the great house in Hampshire. For all they knew, it might have been empty but for themselves. Then she had taken his hand and had led him to that adjoining room, where another fire made the shadows dance around them like rejoicing spectres. She had faced him, paces away, her eyes shining in the flames' reflections, then very deliberately had let her gown fall to the floor. She had come to him, and together they had fallen on to the great bed. He had been in a daze as she had drawn his lips to her thrusting breasts, held his mouth to each nipple until he was roused to madness. But it was not to be so soon. She had stretched herself naked on the bed, so that her curving scar had been laid bare in the flickering firelight: he had never been permitted to see it so unashamedly revealed. She had looked at him over her bare shoulder and had whispered, "Take me as you will. I have the courage now." Her voice had broken as he had gripped her body with both hands, "And the love you were denied."

It had been like that until Keen had received his orders for Portsmouth: passion, exploration, discovery. The parting had been difficult, and left an ache in his heart he had never before experienced.

There was a tap at the outer door and he said, "Enter!" No wonder he had risked even this ship in a moment of remembered ecstasy.

Sedgemore glanced around the cabin, where important members of the court martial had taken refreshment during the various adjournments.

"Sir Richard Bolitho's barge has just left the sallyport, sir."

"Very well." Keen looked at his watch. Another departure, but this time with hope, the knowledge that she would be waiting for him. He knew now why he had been so unmoved by the events in the jolly-boat. Because he had not cared if he had lived or died, and had nothing to lose.

"Fast current running, sir."

Keen nodded, his thoughts lingering on those nights and sometimes, the days. She had introduced him to a desire and torment he had never known, to pleasures he had never imagined.

He said abruptly, "Yes. Put all spare hands on the capstan bars today. I want to break out the anchor as soon as possible."

"I've already done that, sir."

Keen smiled. You would. Given time, Sedgemore would become a good first lieutenant; he had already shown that. It was just as well, with all the raw hands at their disposal.

Sedgemore, he noted, was well turned-out to greet his admiral. His uniform coat had not been thrown together by some dockside Jew, but spoke of a good costly tailor. His sword, too, was expensive, its blade embossed and patterned in blue steel. It certainly did not come out of a lieutenant's pay, and Keen knew that Sedgemore's father was a humble saddler.

Keen brought his mind back to the ship's business. "I see we have more than a fair share of squeakers amongst our young gentlemen."

"Aye, sir. Two of the midshipmen are but twelve years old."

Keen picked up his sword. "Well, watch them, Mr Sedgemore."

"As if they were my own sons, sir!"

Keen eyed him calmly. "It was not what I meant. At that tender age they are often the cruellest bullies in the ship. I'll not have the people harassed more than need be."

He strode past him and glanced at the sentry. "How's the wife, Tully?"

The marine brought his heels smartly together. "We're expecting a third bairn, thank you, sir!" He was still beaming as Keen and his first lieutenant came into the watery grey daylight beyond the poop.

Sedgemore shook his head. He was learning a lot about his captain today. Had he been more perceptive he might have guessed where Keen had first gained his own experience.

Keen watched the green-painted barge, turning now to pass astern of a motionless yawl. Without the aid of a telescope he could see Bolitho hunched in his boat-cloak at the sternsheets, Allday beside him, and his own coxswain at the tiller. Remembering, yes. Perhaps him most of all. The lovely woman beside him, her body revealed by the soaking spray as she had taken her place in the crowded boat. The mutineers who had died, one at Allday's hand, the other, if he had indeed been one of the mutineers, under the merciless agony of drinking seawater. There had been news of one other mutineer who had been taking refuge in the boatswain's big cutter. He had been hanged at Freetown within hours of being marched ashore. Justice was always harder and faster the more sea miles you were from high authority.

Lady Catherine would have been here in Portsmouth, whatever Bolitho had said. She would be over yonder now, watching the lively barge, clinging to his image as she would soon have to hold on to his memory.

Keen smiled briefly to the senior Royal Marines officer, Major Bourchier, as he completed inspecting the guard of honour.

"Sorry to leave, Major?"

Bourchier puffed out his cheeks, which were almost the colour of his scarlet coat.

"No, sir, I'm ready for a spot of soldierin', what?"

Little imagination, but in truth a good soldier, Keen thought. The only time he had seen him show any emotion had been aboard Herrick's Benbow after the battle. The marines, the whole afterguard had been scattered like toy soldiers, their mingled blood marking them down for what they were. Perhaps he had seen himself there. What they all thought, at one time or another.

"Stand by aft! Royal Marines, ready!"

It seemed bitterly cold on Portsmouth Point, with a wet, blustery wind making the green barge shine like glass as its crew fought to hold station on the stairs.

Bolitho glanced past the weathered opening of the sallyport, through which he and so many others had gone before. This time it was so different. He put his arm around her shoulders, hating the moment of parting. He saw Allday on the stairs watching the boat, a sergeant of marines nearby keeping an eye on a squad of his men. Their duty was to see that Bolitho's remaining minutes in England were undisturbed by curious onlookers. Not that there were many of those. This must surely be a foretaste of the winter, and the October gales.

Catherine brushed some wet hair from her face and gazed at him searchingly.

"You will take care, dearest of men?"

He held her. "You know I will. I have everything to live for-now." He had begged her not to wait, but to go straight on to Falmouth. But he had known it would not happen.

She said, "When we were in that boat…" She hesitated, wanting to be anywhere but on this windswept street. "I knew I could face death with you beside me. Without you…" Again he heard the difficult pause. "You see, I am not so brave."

On their way here, with Matthew guiding the carriage through the deep ruts, which would become a bog as soon as winter closed in, he had told her about his squadron: six sail of the line instead of fourteen, one frigate instead of three. Even with the addition of Black Prince, arguably one of the most powerful ships in the world, it was not much of a force for finally stamping out French power and possessions in the Caribbean. And all because Bonaparte had wanted to take Portugal and put his own son on the throne of Spain. The action had divided their forces yet again, so that the Danish ships seized to complement the fleet were still not enough.

He said, "I shall miss you with all my heart." She said nothing and he knew she was finding it equally hard. Release her shoulders, step out on to the stairs and into the barge. It will be over.

He recalled how she had shown immediate dismay when he had told her that his solitary frigate was to be the old Tybalt, a ship he knew well, with a captain who would be worth his weight in gold when sniffing out the enemy's strength in the Indies.

"Not Adam, then?" Was she so concerned for his safety that she wanted all those dearest around him?

He asked, "What shall you do?"

She was watching him intensely, desperately. "I shall help Ferguson-and maybe Zenoria will ask my advice in seeking a house of her own in Cornwall. I know that Valentine's family still awes her…" Bolitho was not surprised. Lavish houses in London and in Hampshire, one brother a wealthy lawyer and the other who described himself simply as a "farmer": he owned even more land than Roxby.

She turned in his arms and studied him again. "I have sent a few things over to the ship. To keep you well nourished-to remind you of me sometimes."

He kissed her hair. It was wet from spray and perhaps drizzle. But it could have been tears.

"Take care of your eye."

It was all she said. There might once have been hope, the surgeon had said yet again. Something might still come about. But he had left little doubt in their minds that it was now only a matter of time.

Bolitho heard the horses stamping on the cobbles, eager to go, as if they knew they were returning this time to their own warm stables in Falmouth.

He said, "I have arranged for some out-riders for the journey, Kate."

She pulled off her glove and laid her hand on his cheek.

"Have you forgotten your tiger so soon? Have no fears for me, Richard. Just remember the house, waiting for you… D'you remember telling me to do that after the Golden Plover was lost, and our chances of survival were so small?"

He looked past her. "I will never forget." There was silence, then she said, "If only we could have had more time."

"What all sailors lament, my love."

"And it will be your birthday in three days. I… so wanted to be with you."

So she felt it too, he thought. Age; time; always the passing of time. It seemed so very precious now.

He walked her to the shelter of the wall. In his mind's eye he could see his flagship already there in the Western Ocean. A great ship, sailing alone, but a mere speck on that vast expanse of hostile sea.

"I shall raise a glass to thee, Kate."

Allday did not turn but called, "I think it's time, Sir Richard. The tide's on the turn an' Tojohns is hard put to hold the barge steady."

"Very well. Signal him alongside." Then he turned away from the sea and held her tightly against his spray-spotted boat-cloak.

"I love thee so, Kate. My heart is splintered in the pain I feel at parting from you."

They kissed for a long while, holding on to the moment and all the memories which had triumphed over danger, even death.

When she looked at him again there were real tears in her dark eyes.

"I cannot bear the thought of you being at English Harbour again without me. Where you came, and our love was freed for all time."

Bolitho had already thought of that, but had hoped she had been spared the reminder.

He heard the oars being tossed and saw her eyes turn towards Allday who was standing beside the pitching barge, in which a youthful lieutenant was sitting, staring about him as if he had never been in charge of a boat before.

She called, "This is not the first time, Allday. But take care of him for me!"

Allday tried to smile. "We both got a lot to come back for, m'lady-leastways, I think I have!"

He watched them kiss, knowing what this parting was costing the man he served and loved beyond all others; then he climbed down into the barge and glared at the gaping lieutenant. "It's customary for the officer to be ashore when the vice-admiral comes down, sir!" He saw Tojohns give a quick grin as the lieutenant jumped on to the pier and all but lost his cocked hat to the wind.

Allday said between his teeth, "Bloody hopeless, that's what!"

Bolitho saw none of it. "Go now. Do not wait. You will catch cold up here."

She released him very slowly, so that their fingertips were just touching when their arms were outstretched.

He said, "I have the locket."

She answered as she always did. "I will take it off for you when we lie together again, my dearest man."

Then, with the old sword swaying against his hip, Bolitho went down the stairs and touched his hat to the lieutenant and coxswain.

"I am ready." He sat beside Allday, his boat-cloak turned up over his ears, his hat beneath it on his lap.

"Bear off! Give way all!"

The oars rose and fell, and with the tiller hard over the smart barge turned quickly away from the slime-covered, treacherous stairs.

In his aching mind the oars seemed to beat a steady rhythm, up, down, up, down, rising and falling like wings as each pull carried him further away from the shore.

Back to the life he had come to expect since he had gone to sea at the age of twelve. It will be your birthday in three days. He could still hear her voice on the wind. Later on, in the seclusion of his cabin, he would remember every hour of their time together. Their walks, the happiness of silence and understanding, the sudden and demanding love and hunger for one another which had left them breathless, and sometimes shy.

He shifted round to watch the land drifting away, the anchored black and buff hulls of several men-of-war swaying heavily to their cables. My world. But try as he might, he could not accept that there was nothing else. Perhaps in the privations of the Golden Plover's jolly-boat there had been something to learn, even for him. The suffering which had brought a strange comradeship beyond rank and title, the loyalty which had kept Catherine and her maid safe in spite of the very real danger all around them.

Don't leave me.

The master, Samuel Bezant, cursing those who had betrayed him; Tasker the mate, who had been a part of the plot. He wondered if she ever allowed her mind to return to her Spanish comb, and how she had used it on the traitor Jeff Lincoln. She must have been planning what she must do to save Jenour from being discovered even as Lincoln had been pawing at her body. And Tyacke, his horribly scarred face so full of pleasure and pride that it should be his own ship which had finally found and saved them.

He glanced around, imagining her voice across the frothing choppy water, almost expecting to see her. But the walls were nearly out of sight in the spray that hung like mist on a low shore.

Don't leave me.

He stared ahead and saw each bargeman trying to avoid his gaze. Most of them at least would know him; but what of the others, and the small squadron assembling out there in the tropical heat and the fierce revolving storms that could tear the sticks out of any ship? They would have to learn. Like all those who had been left behind as a part of the price of admiralty.

Keen would be relieved to be sailing without any other consorts or responsibilities. It would give him time to train his people, to work them at sail and gun until they were a match for any ship which had been in commission far longer. It had been like seeing the old devil-may-care Keen again; it must have been a wonderful reunion for him with his girl with the moonlit eyes. The sailor and his mermaid.

He felt Allday stir. "There she is, Sir Richard." He displayed neither enthusiasm nor regret. She was his ship. This was his lot.

Bolitho shaded his eyes and saw Allday give him a quick, worried glance. Black Prince seemed to tower above the nearest 74. There were tiny figures working on the yards and in the topmasts' rigging; others moved along the gangways or waited in groups, no doubt being given more instructions by their lieutenants and warrant officers.

A ship to be proud of, but one without memory or tradition.

To settle his troubled thoughts Bolitho said quietly, "I am glad you have found your lady. I hope that all is well for the future."

It was pointless to remind Allday that he was free to quit the sea whenever he chose. He had earned it as much as many, and more than most. And now with the recurring pains in his chest from the Spanish sword thrust, he ought to be given a chance to enjoy something of his life. But it was no use. He had tried before. Allday only got angry, or hurt, which was much worse in so big a man in every other way.

Allday replied, "She's a fine little craft, Sir Richard. Can't imagine what she ever saw in poor Jonas Polin!" He chuckled, "God rest his soul!" Neither saw the curious stares from some of the bargemen. A coxswain chatting with his flag officer was not an everyday sight in the King's navy. Allday added, "We has an understanding, so to speak. I must keep my place, but she'll entertain no other." He frowned. "Well, summat like that." He glanced at Bolitho uncertainly. In a few moments there would be too much to do, too many faces for his admiral to recognise and acknowledge. Not many of the former, he thought.

He said, "If anything was to happen, Sir Richard." He spoke so quietly that his voice was almost drowned by the creak of oars and the surge of tide.

Bolitho laid his hand on the big man's sleeve. "Speak no more of it, old friend. It is the same for us both." He tried to smile. "The good die young, so there's an end to it, eh?"

When he looked again Bolitho saw the jib-boom sweeping past as Tojohns steered the barge as close around the bows as he dared. The fierce-eyed figurehead loomed overhead: Edward, Prince of Wales and son of Edward III, in chain mail and black armour with a splash of colour, the fleur de lys and English lions on the surcoat. Menacing enough to strike at the heart of any enemy, as it had on that terrible morning when they had shattered the French ship that had reduced Herrick's Benbow to a broken hulk.

Bolitho had the usual tense dryness in his throat as he saw the side-party waiting by the entry port, the blue and white of officers, the scarlet of the marines.

It often amused him when he thought of it at other times. Who would ever guess that he too might be nervous and unsure? It did not amuse him now.

"Bowman!"

Bolitho took out his hat and wedged it on to his head. Remembering her face, when he had rid himself of his queue in favour of the more modern haircut which Allday, who had the longest pigtail he had ever seen, had referred to as "a custom of the younger wardroom bloods!" But Kate had not chided him for it, nor laughed at his apprehension at being older than she.

Allday hissed, "Ready to come about, Sir Richard?" The ship stood high above them, the barge dipping and pitching as if to cast off the bowman's attempt to hold on to the chains.

Their eyes met. "Ready, it is." Bolitho moved the sword clear of his leg and reached out for the hand-ropes. It would only need one wrong step. And then, all at once or so it seemed, he was through the entry port and on to the comparative shelter of the gun deck.

The squeal of calls, the slap and bang of bayonetted muskets and the flash of the marine officer's sword: it never failed to overwhelm him. And here was Keen hurrying to greet him, his youthful features all smiles.

"Welcome aboard, Sir Richard!"

They gripped hands and Bolitho said with a wry smile, "I am sorry you didn't get your broad-pendant, Val. Fate was against it this time."

Keen grinned. "It is unimportant, Sir Richard. Like poor Stephen Jenour, I am not eager for that moment!"

Bolitho nodded to the assembled officers, seeing their expressions of curiosity, of hope perhaps. They depended on him for the future; to them, he was their future, for better or worse.

"I shall go aft directly, Val. I know you are eager to weigh anchor." He broke off and stared at a group of men who were being mustered by one of the lieutenants. "That man, Val-"

"Aye, sir. New hands. But the one you're looking at is the selfsame William Owen, Golden Plover's lookout on that unfortunate day."

Bolitho said, "Put him ashore. He has a protection. And after what he did-"

But for his respect Keen would have laughed. "He volunteered, sir. 'Thought we should keep together,' were his words." He watched Bolitho's unmasked surprise. You don't understand, do you? Not even now. Perhaps you never will.

He led the way aft, knowing that Bolitho was probably recalling the court martial, that bitter memory.

Inside the great cabin Ozzard and Jenour were waiting. Bolitho looked around. Her wine cabinet and cooler was already in position. It had been removed from the ship when he had been reported killed.

Ozzard said apologetically, "We've not got everything stowed yet, Sir Richard, but I've fresh coffee ready." He glanced around, proud of what he had managed to achieve in so short a time. Bolitho noticed that he showed no regrets about leaving. After the shipwreck he could have been forgiven for remaining on hard, dry land.

There was an open chest on the black and white checkered deck, and inside he saw some neatly parcelled books. They were new, bound in fine green leather and beautifully tooled in gilt so delicate it might have been finished with a gold pen.

"What are these?"

Ozzard wound his hands into his apron. "From her ladyship, Sir Richard. Came out in the guard-boat."

Keen saw his face and said quickly, "Come with me, Stephen." To Ozzard he added, "You may bring Sir Richard some coffee."

The doors closed and Bolitho heard the sentry put down his musket.

He got down on his knees and studied the collection: all the plays he had lost when Golden Plover had gone down. He took out one volume which lay apart from the rest. Shakespeare's collected sonnets, the printing of which was very clear, obviously chosen with great care to ensure that he could read them easily.

He felt his heart lurch as he saw a ribbon marker closed between the pages: swiftly he opened the book and held it where it would catch the best light on this grey day.

It was her own message, to comfort him when the thought of ageing and separation sought to depress him.

It is the star to every wandering barque,

Whose worth's unknown, altho' his height be taken.

Then he seemed to find her reassurance.

Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks…

He got up, oblivious to the shouted commands from the deck, the squeal of tackles, the shiver of the capstan through every timber.

He went to the stern windows and hoisted one open, his face and chest instantly drenched in rain and spray.

Just once, he called her name, and across the tumbling water he heard her cry.

Don't leave me.