BEYOND THE REEF

2. STRANGERS

EVEN THOUGH it was dark, the quiet and exclusive square was exactly as Bolitho had remembered. Tall, elegant houses, most of which seemed to have every window ablaze: light even reflected from the wet, bare trees where, within weeks, nursemaids would be wheeling their charges and loitering to gossip about their households.

The carriage pulled up on its brake and Bolitho saw Allday's features quite clearly as he leaned over in the glare of one of its lamps. Bolitho climbed down and stamped his feet to restore the circulation, giving himself time to compose his thoughts.

There was a mews at the end of the nearest houses where a brazier glowed in the damp air, almost hidden by the various grooms and coachmen who would wait, all night if required, for their lords and ladies to call for them from lavish supper parties or from the gambling rooms across the square. It was the other London, which Bolitho had grown to hate. Arrogant, thoughtless. Without pity. As different from Catherine's London as these mindless fops were from Bolitho's sailors.

"Wait nearby, Matthew." He glanced at Allday's massive shadow. "Stay with me, old friend."

Allday did not question him.

The door swung inwards even before the echo of the bell had died. A footman stood outlined against the chandeliers, his features invisible in shadow, like a wooden cut-out in some fashionable shop.

"Sir?"

Allday said harshly, "Sir Richard Bolitho, matey!"

The footman bowed himself into the splendid hallway, which Bolitho noticed had been completely redecorated with new claret-coloured curtains instead of the others he had seen on his last visit. Those had also been new at the time.

He heard the murmur of voices and laughter from the dining-room upstairs-hardly what he had been expecting.

"If you will wait here, Sir Richard?" The footman had recovered his confidence a little. "I will announce your arrival."

He opened a door and Bolitho remembered this room too, despite more expensive alterations. Here he had confronted Belinda about her connivance with Viscount Somervell, Catherine's dead husband, how they had planned to hold her under false charges in the notorious Waites prison until she could be deported, disposed of. He would never forget Catherine in that filthy jail, filled with debtors and lunatics. Catherine could never be caged; she would have died first. No, he would not forget.

"Why, Sir Richard!"

Bolitho saw a woman standing in the open doorway and somehow knew she was the "messenger," Lady Lucinda Manners, presumably one of Belinda's close friends, who had left the brief note at Catherine's Chelsea house. Piled fair hair, a gown cut or pulled so low it barely covered her breasts… She was watching him, an amused smile on her lips.

"Lady Manners?" Bolitho gave a curt bow. "I received your letter on my arrival in London. Perhaps-"

"Perhaps, Sir Richard, I will suffice as your companion until Lady Bolitho is free to leave her guests?" She saw Allday behind the door for the first time. "I thought you would be alone."

Bolitho remained impassive. I can well imagine. The delicious predator: another attempt at compromise.

"This is Mr Allday. My companion. My friend."

There was a tall-backed porter's chair in the hallway and Allday sat down in it very carefully. "I'll be in range whenever you gives the word, Sir Richard." One of the chandeliers shone briefly on the brass butt-plate of the heavy pistol concealed under his coat.

Lady Manners had seen it also, and she said a little too brightly, "You have nothing to fear in this house, Sir Richard!"

He looked at her calmly. "I am glad to know it, ma'am. Now, if you would hasten this interview I would be equally grateful."

The murmur of voices overhead stopped, as if the house itself were listening, and Bolitho heard the hiss of her gown against the banisters as she descended the beautiful staircase.

She stood two steps from the bottom and regarded him in slow examination, as if looking for something she had missed.

"So you came, Richard." She offered her hand, but he remained where he was.

"Let us not pretend. I came because of the child. A matter of-"

"Duty, were you about to say? Certainly not out of affection."

Bolitho glanced meaningly at the opulent surroundings. "It seems that my protection is rather more than adequate, let alone deserved."

The chair squeaked and she exclaimed, "I would prefer not to discuss this in front of servants, yours or mine!"

"We speak a different language." Bolitho found he could look at her without hatred, without any of the feelings he had expected. To think she had even chided him that he had married her for the worst possible reason, because she had looked so much like his first wife, Cheney.

"Allday has shared all the dangers and furies of this damned war-he is one of the men your so-called friends would spurn, even though he daily risks his life to keep you in comfort." He added with sudden anger, "What about Elizabeth?"

She seemed about to return to the attack, then gave it up.

"Follow me."

Allday leaned forward to watch until they had disappeared on the curving staircase. He would not worry too much, he decided. Bolitho had a great deal on his mind, but he had shown his steel to her ladyship and the other bitch with the bare shoulders and the glance that would sit fair on a Plymouth trollop.

He reflected on the passage to Cape Town. It would be like no other, he thought. With Lady Catherine, Captain Keen and young Jenour in company, it would be more like a yacht than a voyage on the King's business. Allday considered Lady Catherine. How different from the sluts he had seen in this house. Tall, beautiful; a real sailor's woman, who could turn a man's heart into water or fire just by looking at him. She even cared about the Bolitho estate in Falmouth and had according to Ferguson, the steward and Allday's good friend, done wonders already with her suggestions and advice on how to make it pay again, to restore the losses incurred when Bolitho's father Captain James had been forced to sell much of the land to settle his other son's gambling debts.

Now they were all gone, he thought grimly. Apart from young Adam, to whom Bolitho had given the family name: there would be no more of them. It made him uneasy to imagine the old grey house empty, with none of its sons to come home from the sea.

It was something he shared with Bolitho, and a preoccupation he worried about in private. That one day the enemy's steel or a blast from the cannon's jaws would separate them. Like the master and his faithful dog, each fearful that the other would be left alone.

Upstairs conversation was returning to the dining-room. Bolitho barely noticed as they stopped outside an ornate gilded door.

Belinda faced him coldly. "As Elizabeth's father, I thought you should know. Had you been at sea I might have acted differently. But I knew you would be with… her."

"You were right." He returned the cold, steady stare. "Had my lady caught the fever from poor Dulcie Herrick I think I would have ended my life." He saw the shot go home. "But not before I had done for you!"

He thrust open the door and a woman in a plain black gown, whom he guessed was the governess, scrambled to her feet.

Bolitho nodded to her, then looked at the child who lay fully dressed on the bed, partly covered by a shawl.

The governess said quietly, "She is sleeping now." But her eyes were on Belinda, not him.

Elizabeth was six years old, or would be in three months' time. She had been born when Bolitho had been in San Felipe with his little 64-gun flagship, Achates. Keen had been his flag captain in Achates, too, and in that battle Allday had received the terrible sword-thrust in the chest which had almost killed him. Allday rarely complained about it, but it sometimes left him breathless, frozen motionless with its recurring agony.

Belinda said, "She had a fall."

The child seemed to stir at her voice and Bolitho was reminded of the last time he had seen her. Not a child at all: a miniature person, all frills and silks like the lady she would one day become.

He had often compared it with his own childhood. Games amongst the upended fishing boats at Falmouth, with his brother Hugh and his sisters and the local children. A proper life, without the restrictions of a governess or the remote figure of her mother, who apparently only saw her once a day.

He asked sharply, "What kind of fall?"

Belinda shrugged. "From her pony. Her tutor was watching her closely, but I'm afraid she was showing off. She twisted her back."

Bolitho realised that the child's eyes were suddenly wide open, staring at him.

As he leaned over to touch her hand she tried to turn away from him, reaching for the governess.

Belinda said quietly, "To you, she is a stranger."

Bolitho said, "We are all strangers here." He had seen the pain on the child's face. "Have you called a doctor-a good one, I mean?"

"Yes." It sounded like of course.

"How soon after it happened?" He sensed that the governess was staring from one to the other, like an inexperienced second at a duel.

"I was away at the time. I cannot be expected to do everything."

"I see."

"How can you?" She did not conceal the anger and contempt in her voice. "You care nothing for the scandal you have caused with that woman-how could you hope to understand?"

"I will arrange a visit from a well-appointed surgeon." Belinda's tone left him quite cold. This was the woman who had left Dulcie Herrick to die after pretending friendship to her, who had used Herrick's revulsion at Catherine's liaison with her husband, and who had discredited Catherine and eventually deserted her in that same fever-ridden house. He tried not to think of his old friend Herrick. He, too, would die or live in dishonour if the court martial went against him.

He said, "Just once, think of somebody else before yourself."

He moved to the open door and realised he had not once called her by her first name.

He was in time to see somebody peering curiously out of the dining-room.

"I think your friends are waiting for you."

She followed him to the head of the stairs. "One day your famous luck will run out, Richard! I would I could be there to see it!"

Bolitho reached the hallway as Allday lurched up from his porter's chair.

"Let us go back to Chelsea, Allday. I will send a letter in Matthew's care to Sir Piers Blachford at the College of Surgeons. I think that would be best." He paused by the carriage and glanced at the street brazier, the dark figures still hunched around it. "Even the air seems cleaner out here."

Allday climbed in with him, and said nothing. More squalls ahead. He had seen all the signs.

He had seen the look Belinda had given him on the stairs. She would do anything to get Bolitho back. She would be just as glad to see him dead. He smiled inwardly. She'd have to spike me first, an' that's no error!

Admiral the Lord Godschale poured two goblets of brandy and watched Bolitho, who was standing by one of the windows staring down at the street. It irritated the admiral increasingly that he should always feel envy for this man who never seemed to grow any older. Apart from the loose lock over the deep scar on his forehead which had become suddenly almost white, Bolitho's hair was as dark as ever, his body straight and lean, unlike Godschale's own. It was strange, for they had served as young frigate captains together in the American war: they had even been posted on the same date. Now Godschale's once-handsome features had grown heavy like his body, his cheeks florid with the tell-tale patterns of good living. Here at the Admiralty, in his spacious suite of offices, his power reached out to every ship great and small, on every station in His Britannic Majesty's navy. He gave a wry smile. It was doubtful if the King knew the names of any of them, although Godschale himself would be the very last to say so.

"You look tired, Sir Richard." He saw Bolitho dragging his mind back into the room.

"A little." He took the proffered glass after the admiral had warmed it over the crackling fire. It was well before noon, but he felt he needed it.

"I heard you were out late last night. I had hoped…"

Bolitho's grey eyes flashed. "May I ask who told you I was at my wife's house?"

Godschale frowned. "When I heard of it I cherished the thought that you might be returning to her." He felt his confidence ebbing under Bolitho's angry stare. "But no matter. It was your sister, Mrs Vincent. She wrote to me recently about her son Miles. You dismissed him from your patronage, I believe, while he was a midshipman in Black Prince… a bit hard on the lad, surely? Especially as he had just lost his father."

Bolitho swallowed the brandy and waited for it to calm him.

"It was a kindness as a matter of fact, my lord." He saw Godschale's eyebrows rise doubtfully and added, "He was totally unsuited. Had I not done so I would have ordered my flag captain to court-martial him for cowardice in the face of the enemy. For one who enjoys spreading scandal, my sister appears to have overlooked the true reason!"

"Well!" Godschale was at a rare loss for words. Envy. The word lingered in his mind. He considered it again. He was all-powerful, wealthy, and beyond the risk of losing life or limb like the captains he controlled. He had a dull wife, but was able to find comfort in the arms of others. He thought of the lovely Lady Somervell. God, no wonder I am still envious of this impossible man.

Godschale pressed on grimly. "But you were there?"

Bolitho shrugged. "My daughter is unwell." Why am I telling him? He is not interested.

Like the mention of the midshipman. It was merely another probe. He knew Godschale well enough by reputation, both past and present, to understand he would hang or flog anyone who put his own comfort in jeopardy, just as he had never shown the slightest concern for the men who month after month rode out storm and calm alike, with the real possibility of an agonising death at the end of it.

"I am sorry to know it. What can be done about it?"

"Lady Catherine is with a surgeon at this moment. She knows him quite well." He felt his injured eye prick suddenly as if to reveal the lie, the real reason she had gone to consult the heron-like Blachford.

Godschale nodded, wondering why Bolitho's wife was allowing such interference.

Bolitho could read his thoughts as though he had shouted them aloud; he recalled Catherine's voice, while she had lain at his side in the darkness. They had talked for much of the night, and as usual she had seen everything more clearly than be.

"You care so much, Richard, because you still feel responsible. But you are not. She made the child what she is. I've seen it happen all too often. I shall visit Sir Piers Blachford-he is one of the few I would trust. I am sure he will be able to help Elizabeth, or find someone who can. But I will not see you destroy yourself by going to that house again. I know what she is still trying to do… as if she has not already taken enough from you."

Bolitho said, "In any case, I am quite certain you did not bring me here merely to discuss my domestic situation, my lord?"

Strangely, Godschale seemed content to leave it at that. Until the next time.

"No, quite right. Quite right. I have completed all the arrangements for your visit to the Cape. My aide will give you the full details." He cleared his throat noisily. "But first, there is the court martial. The date is set for the end of next week. I have sent word to your flag captain at Portsmouth." He looked at him challengingly. "I did not choose Black Prince for the court martial out of spite. You will be more private in her. Dockyard work can be held up during this beastly affair."

Bolitho asked quietly, "Who is the President to be?"

Godschale shuffled some papers on his ornate table as if he could not remember.

He cleared his throat again and answered, "Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker."

Bolitho felt the room spin. In seconds he had seen the man. Dour, uncompromising features, a thin mouth: a man more feared than respected.

"I shall be there to give evidence, my lord."

"Only if you are asked-as a witness after the fact, so to speak."

Bolitho turned from the window as a troop of dragoons clattered past.

"Then he is already condemned." Then he said sharply, surprised that he could still plead, "I must do something, my lord. He is my friend."

"Is he?" Godschale refilled the fine goblets. "That brings me to the other matter… The court was prepared to allow you to defend him. It was my idea, in fact. The whole affair can do nothing but harm to the fleet-to all senior officers who are far from support, and who have only their own judgement to sustain them. With our army poised on the threshold of Europe every officer from admiral to captain will need all the confidence in the world if this great venture is to succeed. If we fail, there can be no second chance."

He had voiced the very opposite view at their last meeting, Bolitho thought, but it no longer mattered.

"Do you mean that RearAdmiral Herrick rejected me as his defence?" He recalled Herrick's face the last time they had met, the blue eyes stubborn, hurt, bitter. "Whom did he choose?"

Godschale glanced at the clock. It would be better if Bolitho was gone before his sister arrived to add to the general problem.

"That is the point, Sir Richard. He will have nobody." He studied him, heavily intent. It was not like Godschale to risk anything which might dislodge his position of power. Was it really true what they said about this man, he thought uneasily. Had Bolitho's charisma touched even him?

"There is something you might do."

Bolitho saw his inner struggle and was surprised by it. He had never known Godschale in this mood before. "Yes. Anything."

Godschale was beginning to sweat, and it was neither from brandy nor the heat of the fire.

"RearAdmiral Herrick is at Southwark. He will be met there by the Marshal to take a coach to Portsmouth the day after tomorrow. You will need all your discretion; many sea officers come and go on the Portsmouth Flier and might recognise you. It would embroil you even further… there might even be an attempt to smear you with collusion."

Bolitho held out his hand. "I thank you for this, my lord-you may never know what it means. But one day I may be in a position to repay you. And have no fear. I heard nothing from you."

Godschale attempted to give a rueful grin. "Nobody would believe it in any case, not of me, that is!" But the grin would not show itself.

Long after the doors had closed behind Bolitho, Godschale was still staring at the window where his visitor had stood. He thought he would already be feeling regret, but if anything he felt strangely uplifted.

His secretary opened the doors with a flourish as Godschale rang the little bell on his table.

"My lord?"

"Send for my carriage. Now."

The man stared at the clock, bewildered by his master's behaviour.

"But Mrs Vincent will be here in an hour, my lord!"

"Do I have to say everything twice, man? Send for the carriage."

The man fled and Godschale poured another goblet of brandy.

Envy. Aloud to the empty room he said abruptly, "God damn you, Bolitho, you put years on me! The sooner you get back to sea the better, for all our sakes!"

It was already dark again by the time Bolitho's carriage arrived at the inn at Southwark. After they had rattled over London Bridge to the south bank of the Thames, he imagined he could smell the sea and the many ships lying at anchor, and wondered if Allday had also noticed it, and was thinking about the passage to the Cape.

He heard Matthew curse from his box and felt the wheels jar savagely against fallen stones. He rarely swore, and was the best of coachmen, but this carriage had been borrowed for the journey. Secrecy would be impossible if the Bolitho crest was there for all to see.

They slowed down to pass a big mail coach standing outside the famous George Inn, from which place so many sea officers began their long and uncomfortable journey to Portsmouth. Without horses it looked strangely abandoned, but ostlers and inn servants were already loading chests and boxes on top, while the passengers consumed their last big meal, washed down with madeira or ale as the fancy took them. The George was the one place in London where Bolitho was most likely to be confronted by someone he knew.

A little further along the road was the smaller Swan Inn, a coaching and posting stop with the same high-galleried front as the George. But there the similarity ended. The Swan was used mainly by merchants, somewhere to break their journey or discuss business without fear of interruption.

In the inn yard shadowy figures ran to take the horses' heads, and a curtain twitched as someone peered out at the new arrival.

Allday's stomach rumbled loudly. "I smell food, Sir Richard!"

Bolitho touched his arm. "Go and find the innkeeper. Then eat something."

He climbed down and felt the bitter air sweeping from the river. Upstream in the little Chelsea house Catherine would be looking out at this same river, imagining him here.

A bulky lump of a man appeared in the light from an open side door.

"God swamp me, Sir Richard! This is a surprise!"

Jack Thornborough had begun life as a purser's clerk during the American Revolution, and later when discharged he had obtained work in the nearby naval victualling yard at Deptford. It was said unkindly of him that he had robbed the yard so successfully with the connivance of ships' pursers that he had made enough to purchase the old Swan lock, stock and barrel.

"You can guess why I'm here, Jack." He saw the man's bald pate shine in the shaft of light as he nodded like a conspirator.

"In 'is room, Sir Richard. They'm comin' fer 'im day arter t'morrer, so they says, but they might come earlier."

"I must see him. Nobody should know about it."

Thornborough led him through the door and bolted it. He beamed at the plain black hat and unmarked cloak which Bolitho had donned for the occasion. "Yew'm more like a gentleman of the road, beggin' yer pardon, than any flag officer!"

He felt his stomach contract and realised that, like Allday, he had not eaten since first light.

"See to my people, will you, Jack?"

Thornborough touched his forehead, just for an instant a sailor once again.

"Leave it to me, Sir Richard!" He became serious. "Up them stairs right to the top. You'll not meet a soul, nor will anyone see you."

A very private room then. For highwaymen perhaps, or lovers unaccepted by society. Or a man he had known for over twentyfive years, who was facing disgrace or death.

He was surprised to find that he was not even breathless when he reached the top of the creaking stairs. So many walks with Catherine, along the cliffs at Falmouth or through the fields where she had described what she and Ferguson had planned for the estate. She had, moreover, won the respect of Lewis Roxby, who had always had an eye on the Bolitho land, and had acquired some in the selling-off of property to settle Bolitho's brother's debts. Roxby was after all married to Bolitho's favourite sister Nancy. It was good that she and Catherine were friends. Unlike Felicity, who seemed so full of hate.

He rapped on the dark, stained door: years of smoke from the inn's many grates, from encounters in the night with those who did not wish to be seen. But Jack Thornborough would not let him down. He had been serving in the same frigate as Bolitho's dead brother Hugh, and despite Hugh's treachery had always spoken kindly of him. As others had often remarked, the navy was like a family; sooner or later you met the same ships, the same faces. Even the ones who fell were not forgotten. Bolitho rapped again and for a moment imagined that the room was empty, the journey wasted.

A voice said, "Go away."

Bolitho let out a sigh. It was Herrick.

"Thomas, it's me. Richard."

There was another long pause and then the door opened very slightly. Herrick stood back and waited for Bolitho to enter. The small, poorly-lit room was littered with clothing, an open sea-chest, and incongruously on a table amongst some letters lay Herrick's beautiful telescope, Dulcie's last gift to him.

Herrick dragged a coat from a chair and stared at him. He was stooped, and in the candlelight his hair seemed greyer than before. But his eyes were bright enough, and there was only ginger beer on another table, no sight or smell of brandy.

"What are you doing here, Richard? I told that fool Godschale not to drag you into it… I acted as I thought best. They can all go to hell before I'd say otherwise!" He walked over to get another chair and Bolitho was further saddened to see that he still limped from his wound. He had been cut down by a jagged splinter on Benbow's quarterdeck, with his marines and gun crews strewn about him like bloodied bundles of rag.

"You'll need help, Thomas. Someone must speak for you. You know who the President is to be?"

Herrick gave a tight smile. "I heard. Killed more of his own men than the enemy, I shouldn't wonder!"

Wheels scraped over the cobbles and harness jingled in the inn yard at another arrival. It seemed as if it came from another world; but suppose it was the Admiralty Marshal? There was only one stairway, and not even the impressive Jack Thornborough could hold him off forever.

Herrick said suddenly, "Anyway, you'll be called as a witness." He spoke with savage bitterness. "To describe what you found after the battle. As a witness you'd not be allowed to defend me, even if I wanted it." He paused. "I just thank God my Dulcie is not here to see this happening." He stared at the shining telescope. "I even thought of ending it all, and damn them and their sense of honour."

"Don't talk like that, Thomas. It's not like you."

"Isn't it? I don't come from a long line of sea officers like you." It was almost an accusation. "I started with nothing; my family was poor, and with some help from you I gained the impossible-flag rank. And where has it got me, eh? I'll tell you: probably in front of a firing-squad, as an example to the others. At least it won't be my own marines-they all bloody well died." He waved a hand vaguely, like a man in a dream. "Out there somewhere. And they did it for me-it was my decision."

He stood up stiffly, but instead of the rearadmiral Bolitho could only see the stubborn and caring lieutenant he had first met in Phalarope.

Herrick said, "I know you mean for the best, Richard…"

Bolitho persisted, "We are friends."

"Well, don't throw away all you've achieved for yourself because of me. After this I don't much care what happens, and that's the truth. Now please go." He held out his hand. The grip was just as hard as that lost lieutenant's had been. "You should not have come."

Bolitho did not release his hand. "Don't turn away, Thomas. We have lost so many friends. We Happy Few-remember?"

Herrick's eyes were faraway. "Aye. God bless them."

Bolitho picked up his plain cocked hat from the table and saw a finished letter in the light of two candles. It was addressed to Catherine, in Herrick's familiar schoolboy hand.

Herrick said almost offhandedly, "Take it if you like. I tried to thank her for what she did for my Dulcie. She is a woman of considerable courage, I'll grant her that."

"I wish you might have told her in person, Thomas."

"I have always stood by my beliefs, what is right or wrong. I'll not change now, even if they allow me the opportunity."

Bolitho put the letter in his pocket. He had been unable to help after all; it had all been a waste of time, as Godschale had hinted it would be.

"We shall meet again next week, Thomas." He stepped out on to the dark landing and heard the door close behind him even before he had reached the first stair.

Thornborough was waiting for him by his busy kitchen.

He said quietly, "Some hot pie to warm you, Sir Richard, afore you leaves?"

Bolitho stared out at the darkness and shook his head. "Thank you-but I've no stomach for it, Jack."

The innkeeper watched him gravely. "Bad, was it?"

Bolitho said nothing, unable to find the words. There were none.

They had been strangers.