Cross of St George

1. Sword of Honour

THE ROYAL DOCKYARD at Portsmouth, usually a place of noise and constant movement, was as quiet as the grave. It had been snowing steadily for two days, and the buildings, workshops, piles of timber and ships’ stores which made up the clutter in every big yard had become only meaningless shapes. And it was still snowing. Even the familiar smells had been overwhelmed by the white blanket: the sharp tang of paint and tar, hemp and new sawdust, like the sounds, seemed smothered and distorted. And, muffled by the snow, the echoing report of the court-martial gun had gone almost unnoticed.

Set apart from the other buildings, the port admiral’s house and offices were even more isolated than usual. From one of the tall windows, which overlooked a nearby dock, it was not even possible to see the water in the harbour.

Captain Adam Bolitho wiped the damp glass and stared down at a solitary Royal Marine, whose scarlet tunic was a stark contrast to the blinding whiteness of the backdrop. It was early afternoon; it could have been sunset. He saw his reflection in the window, and the light of the blazing log fire on the other side of the room, where his companion, a nervous lieutenant, sat perched on the edge of his chair with his hands held out to the flames. At any other time Adam Bolitho could have felt sorry for him. It was never an easy or a welcome duty to be the companion… his mouth tightened. The escort, for someone awaiting the convenience of a court martial. Even though everyone had assured him that the verdict would be unquestionably in his favour.

They had convened this morning in the spacious hall adjoining the admiral’s house, a place more usually the venue of receptions than a courtroom where a man’s future, even his life, could be decided. Grotesquely, there had even been a few traces of the Christmas ball which had been held there recently. Adam stared at the snow. Now it was another year: January 3, 1813. After what he had endured, he might have imagined that he would have grasped at a new beginning like a drowning man seizing a lifeline. But he could not. All he loved and cared for lay in 1812, with so many broken memories. He sensed the lieutenant shifting in his chair, and was aware of movement elsewhere. The court was reassembling. After a damned good meal, he thought: obviously one of the reasons for holding the proceedings here, rather than force the court to endure the discomfort of a long pull in an open boat to the flagship, somewhere out there in the snow at Spithead.

He touched his side, where the iron splinter had smashed him down. He had believed he was dying: at times, he had even wanted to die. Weeks and months had passed, and yet it was hard to accept that it was less than seven months since he had been wounded, and his beloved Anemone had been surrendered to the enemy, overwhelmed by the massive artillery of the U.S.S. Unity. Even now, the memories were blurred. The agony of the wound, the suffering of his spirit, unable to accept that he was a prisoner of war. Without a ship, without hope, someone who would soon be forgotten.

He felt little pain now; even one of the fleet surgeons had praised the skill of Unity’s French surgeon, and other doctors who had done what they could for him during his captivity.

He had escaped. Men he had barely known had risked everything to hasten his freedom, and some had died for it. And there were others, who could never be repaid for what they had done for him.

The lieutenant said hoarsely, “I think they’ve returned, sir.”

Adam acknowledged it. The man was afraid. Of me? Of having become too intimate, if it goes against me?

His frigate, Anemone, had turned to face a vastly superior enemy, out-gunned and out-manned, with many of his company sent away as prize crews. He had not acted out of arrogance, or reckless pride, but to save the convoy of three heavily laden merchantmen he had been escorting to the Bermudas. Anemone’s challenge had given the convoy time to escape, to find safety when darkness came. He remembered Unity’s impressive commander, Nathan Beer, who had had him moved to his own quarters, and had come to visit him as he was treated by the surgeon. Even through the mists of agony and delirium, Adam had sensed the big American’s presence and concern. Beer had spoken to him more like a father to his son than like a fellow captain, and an enemy.

And now Beer was dead. Adam’s uncle, Sir Richard Bolitho, had met and engaged the Americans in a brief and bloody encounter, and it had been Bolitho’s turn to give comfort to his dying adversary. Bolitho believed they had been fated to meet: neither had been surprised by the conflict or its ferocity.

Adam had been given another frigate, Zest, whose captain had been killed while engaging an unknown vessel. He had been the only casualty, just as Adam had been the only survivor from Anemone apart from a twelve-year-old ship’s boy. The others had been killed, drowned, or taken prisoner.

The only verbal evidence submitted this morning had been his own. There had been one other source of information. When

Unity had been captured and taken into Halifax, they had found the log which Nathan Beer had been keeping at the time of Anemone’s attack. The court had been as silent as the falling snow as the senior clerk read aloud Beer’s comments concerning the fierce engagement, and the explosion aboard Anemone which had ended any hope of taking her as a prize. Beer had also written that he was abandoning his pursuit of the convoy due to the damage his enemy had inflicted. At the end of the report he had written, Like father, like son.

A few quick glances were exchanged in the court, nothing more. Most of those present were either unaware of Beer’s meaning, or unwilling to remark on anything that might prejudice the outcome.

But to Adam, it had been like hearing the big American’s voice in that hushed room. As if Beer was there, offering his testimony to an adversary’s courage and honour.

But for Beer’s log, there was little else to confirm what had truly happened. And if I were still a prisoner? Who would be able to help? I should be remembered only as the captain who struck his colours to the enemy. Badly wounded or not, the Articles of War left little room for leniency. You were guilty, unless proven without doubt to the contrary.

He was gripping his fingers together behind his back, so hard that the pain helped to steady him. I did not strike my colours. Then, or at any time.

Curiously enough, he knew that two of the captains who were sitting on the board had also been court-martialled. Perhaps they had been remembering, comparing. Thinking of how it might have been, if the point of the sword had been towards them…

He moved away from the window and paused by a tall mirror. Perhaps this was where officers examined their appearance, to ensure it would meet with the admiral’s approval. Or women… He stared coldly at his reflection, holding back the memory. But she was always there. Out of reach, as she had been when she was alive, but always there. He glanced at the bright gold epaulettes. The post-captain. How proud his uncle had been. Like everything else, his uniform was new; all his other possessions lay now in his chests on the seabed. Even the sword on the court-martial table was a borrowed one. He thought of the beautiful blade the City merchants had presented to him: they had owned the three ships he had saved, and were showing their gratitude. He looked away from his reflection, his eyes angry. They could afford to be grateful. So many who had fought that day would never know about it.

He said quietly, “Your duty is all but done. I have been bad company, I fear.”

The lieutenant swallowed hard. “I am proud to have been with you, sir. My father served under your uncle, Sir Richard Bolitho. Because of what he told me, I always wanted to enter the navy.”

Despite the tension and unreality of the moment, Adam was strangely moved.

“Never lose it. Love, loyalty, call it what you will. It will sustain you.” He hesitated. “It must.”

They both looked at the door as it opened carefully, and the Royal Marine captain in charge of the guard peered in at them.

He said, “They are waiting, Captain Bolitho.” He seemed about to add something, encouragement, hope, who could tell. But the moment passed. He banged his heels together smartly and marched out into the corridor.

When he glanced back, Adam saw the lieutenant staring after him. Trying to fix the moment in his mind, perhaps to tell his father.

He almost smiled. He had forgotten to ask him his name.

The great room was full to capacity, although who they were and what they sought here was beyond understanding. But then, he thought, there was always a good crowd for a public hanging, too.

Adam was very aware of the distance, the click of the marine captain’s heels behind him. Once he slipped. There was still powdered chalk on the polished floor, another reminder of the Christmas ball.

As he came around the last line of seated spectators to face the officers of the board, he saw his borrowed sword on the table; its hilt was toward him. He was shocked, not because he knew the verdict was a just one, but because he felt nothing. Nothing. As if he, like all these others, was a mere onlooker.

The president of the court, a rear-admiral, regarded him gravely.

“Captain Adam Bolitho, the verdict of this Court is that you are honourably acquitted.” He smiled briefly. “You may be seated.”

Adam shook his head. “No, sir. I prefer not.”

“Very well.” The rear-admiral opened his brief. “The Court holds that Captain Adam Bolitho not only acquitted himself of his duty in the best tradition of the Royal Navy, but in the execution of such duty has done infinite credit to himself by a very obstinate defence against a most superior force. By placing his ship between the enemy and the vessels charged to his protection, he showed both courage and initiative of the highest order.” He raised his eyes. “But for those qualities, it would seem unlikely that you would have succeeded, particularly in view of the fact that you had no knowledge of the declaration of war. Otherwise…” The word hung in the air. He did not need to explain further what the outcome of the court martial would have been.

All the members of the court stood up. Some were smiling broadly, obviously relieved that it was all over.

The rear-admiral said, “Retrieve your sword, Captain Bolitho.” He attempted to lighten it. “I would have thought you might be wearing that fine sword of honour I have been hearing about, eh?”

Adam slid the borrowed sword into its scabbard. Leave now. Say nothing. But he looked at the rear-admiral and the eight captains who were his court and said, “George Starr was my coxswain, sir. With his own hand he lit charges which speeded the end of my ship. But for him, Anemone would be serving in the United States navy.”

The rear-admiral nodded, his smile fading. “I know that. I read it in your report.”

“He was a good and honest man who served me, and his country, well.” He was aware of the sudden silence, broken only by the creak of chairs as those at the back of the great room leaned forward to hear his quiet, unemotional voice. “But they hanged him for his loyalty, as if he were a common felon.”

He looked at the faces across the table, without seeing them. His outward composure was a lie, and he knew he would break down if he persisted. “I sold the sword of honour to a collector who values such things.” He heard the murmurs of surprise behind his back. “As for the money, I gave it to George Starr’s widow. It is all she will receive, I imagine.”

He bowed stiffly and turned away from the table, walking between the ranks of chairs with his hand to his side as if he expected to feel the old torment. He did not even see the expressions, sympathy, understanding, and perhaps shame: he saw only the door, which was already being opened by a white-gloved marine. His own marines and seamen had died that day, a debt no sword of honour could ever repay.

There were a few people in the outer lobby. Beyond them, he saw the falling snow, so clean after what he had attempted to describe.

One, a civilian, stepped forward and held out his hand. His face seemed vaguely familiar, yet Adam knew they had never met.

The man hesitated. “I am so sorry, Captain Bolitho. I should not detain you further after what you have just experienced.” He glanced across the room where a woman sat, gazing at them intently. “My wife, sir.”

Adam wanted to leave. Very soon the others would be milling around him, congratulating him, praising him for what he had done, when earlier they would have watched him facing the point of the sword with equal interest. But something held him. As if someone had spoken aloud.

“If I can be of service, sir?”

The man was well over sixty years old, but there was an erectness, a pride in his bearing as he explained, “My name is Hudson, Charles Hudson. You see…” He fell silent as Adam stared at him, his composure gone.

He said, “Richard Hudson, my first lieutenant in Anemone.” He tried to clear his mind. Hudson, who had slashed down the ensign with his hanger while he himself lay wounded and unable to move. Again, it was like being an onlooker, hearing others speak. I ordered you to fight the ship! Each despairing gasp wrenching at his wound like a branding iron. And all the while Anemone was dying beneath them, even as the enemy surged alongside. And Hudson ’s last words before Adam was lowered into a boat. If we ever meet again…

Adam could still hear his own answer. As God is my witness, I will kill you, damn your eyes!

“We had only one letter from him.” Hudson glanced again at his wife and Adam saw her nod, helping him. She looked frail, unwell. It had cost them dearly to come here.

He said, “How is he?”

Charles Hudson did not seem to hear. “My brother was a vice admiral. He used his influence to have Richard appointed to your ship. When he wrote, he always spoke of you so warmly… he was so proud to be serving with you. When I heard about your court martial, as they dare to call it, we had to come. To see you, to thank you for what you did for Richard. He was our only son.”

Adam tensed. Was. “What happened?”

“In his letter he said he wanted to find you. To explain… something.” He dropped his head. “He was shot, attempting to escape. He was killed.”

Adam felt the room sway, like the deck of a ship. All that time, the pain and the despair, the hatred because of what had happened; and he had thought only of himself.

He said, “I shall tell my uncle when I see him. He was known to your son.” Then he took the man’s arm and led him towards his wife. “There was nothing for Richard to explain. Now he is at peace, he will know that.”

Hudson ’s mother was on her feet, holding out her hand to him. Adam stooped, and kissed her cheek. It was like ice.

“Thank you.” He looked at each of them. “Your loss is my loss also.”

He glanced round as a lieutenant coughed politely, and murmured, “The port admiral wishes to see you, sir.”

“Can’t it wait?”

The lieutenant licked his lips. “I was told that it was important, sir. To you.”

Adam turned to say goodbye, but they had gone, as quietly and patiently as they had waited.

He felt his cheek. Her tears, or were they his own?

Then he followed the lieutenant, past people who smiled and reached out to touch his arm as he passed. He saw none of them.

He heard nothing but his own anger. I ordered you to fight the ship. It was something he would never forget.

Lady Catherine Somervell walked softly toward the window, her bare feet soundless as she glanced back at the bed. She listened to his breathing. Quiet now: he was asleep, after the restlessness he had tried to conceal from her.

She realized that the night was quite still, and there was a hint of moonlight for the first time. She groped for a heavy silk shawl but paused again as he stirred on the bed, one arm resting on the sheet where she had been lying.

She looked out at the ragged clouds, moving more slowly, allowing the moon to touch the street, which shone still from the night’s downpour. Across the road, which was all that separated this row of houses from the Thames, she could just discern the restless water. Like black glass in the moonlight. Even the river seemed quiet, but this was London: within hours this same road would be busy with traders on their way to market, and people setting up their stalls, rain or no rain.

She shivered, despite the thick shawl, and wondered what daylight would bring.

Little more than a month had passed since Richard Bolitho had returned home, and the guns of St Mawes battery had thundered out their salute to Falmouth ’s most famous son. An admiral of England, a hero and an inspiration to the men who followed his flag.

She wanted to go to him now. Not to the public figure, but to the man, her man, whom she loved more than life itself.

This time she could not help him. His nephew had been ordered to face a court martial, the direct consequence of losing Anemone to the enemy. Richard had told her that the verdict would vindicate Adam, but she knew him so well that he could not conceal his anxiety and his doubt. His business at the Admiralty had prevented him from being at Portsmouth where the court was convened; she also knew that Adam had insisted upon facing the court alone, and unaided. He knew too well how Bolitho hated favouritism, and the manipulative use of outside influence. She smiled sadly. They were so alike, more like brothers than anything else.

Vice-Admiral Graham Bethune had assured Richard that he would inform him immediately he heard anything: the fast telegraph from Portsmouth to London could bring a despatch to the Admiralty in less than half an hour. The court had been convened yesterday morning, and as yet there had been no word. Nothing.

Had they been in Falmouth she might have distracted him, involved him in the estate’s affairs, in which she had taken such an interest during his long absences at sea. But their presence had been required in London. The war with the United States, which had erupted last year, was believed to be at a turning point, and Bolitho had been summoned to the Admiralty to settle doubts, or perhaps inspire confidence. She felt the old bitterness. Was there nobody else they could send? Her man had done enough, and had too often paid the price.

She must confront it: they would soon be parted again. If only they could get back to Cornwall… It might take all of a week, with the roads in their present state. She thought of their room at the old grey house below Pendennis Castle, the windows that faced the sea. The rides, and the walks they enjoyed so much… She shivered again, but not from cold. What ghosts would wait for them when they took that particular walk, where the despairing Zenoria had flung herself to her death?

So many memories. And the other side of the coin: the envy and the gossip, even the hatred, which was more subtly revealed. Scandal, which they had both endured and surmounted. She looked at the dark hair on the pillow. No wonder they love you. Dearest of men.

She heard the sound of iron wheels, the first sign of life in the street. Going to fetch fish from the market, no doubt. Peace or war, the fish were always there on time.

She slipped her hand inside her gown, her fingers cold around her breast. As he had held her, and would hold her again. But not this night. They had lain without passion in one another’s arms, and she had shared his anxiety.

She had felt the cruel scar on his shoulder, where a musket ball had cut him down. So many years ago, when her husband, Luis, had been killed by Barbary pirates aboard the Navarra. She had cursed Richard on that day, blaming him for what had happened. And then, after he had been wounded, he had been plagued by the return of an old fever, which had almost claimed his life.

She had climbed into the cot with him, naked, to comfort him and hold the icy grip of the fever at bay. She could smile at the memory now. He had known nothing about it. So many years, and yet it could have been yesterday…

He had changed her life, and she knew she had changed his.

Something that went far beyond his demanding world of duty and danger, something only they shared, which made people turn and look at them when they were together. So many unspoken questions; something others could never understand.

She touched her skin again. Will he always find me beautiful when he returns from another campaign, another country? I would die for him.

She reached out to close the curtains, and then stood quite still, as if she were held by something. She shook her head, angry with herself. It was nothing. She wiped the window pane with her shawl and stared at the street below, The Walk, as it was called locally. A few patches of moonlight revealed the trees, black and bare of leaves, like charred bones. Then she heard it: the rattle of wheels on the cobbles, the gentle step of a solitary horse.

Moving slowly, as if uncertain of the way. A senior officer returning to his quarters at the barracks nearby after a night of cards, or, more likely, with his mistress.

She watched, and eventually a small carriage moved across a bar of moonlight: even the horse looked silver in the cold glow.

Two carriage lamps were burning like bright little eyes, as if they and not the horse were finding the way.

She sighed. Probably someone who had taken too much to drink, and would be overcharged by the driver for his folly.

Her hand was still beneath her breast, and she could feel her heart beating with sudden disbelief. The carriage was veering across the road towards this house.

She stared down, barely able to breathe as the door opened and a white leg paused uncertainly on the step. The coachman was gesturing with his whip. It was like a mime. The passenger stepped down soundlessly onto the pavement. Even the gold buttons on his coat looked like pieces of silver.

And then Richard was beside her, gripping her waist, and she imagined she must have called out, although she knew she had not.

He looked down at the road. The sea officer was peering at the houses, while the coachman waited.

“From the Admiralty?” She turned toward him.

“Not at this hour, Kate.” He seemed to come to a decision. “I’ll go down. It must be a mistake.”

Catherine looked down again, but the figure by the carriage had vanished. The bang on the front door shattered the stillness like a pistol shot. She did not care. She had to be with him, now, of all times.

She waited on the stairs, the chill air exploring her legs, as Bolitho opened the door, staring at the familiar uniform, and then at the face.

Then he exclaimed, “Catherine, it’s George Avery.”

The housekeeper was here now, muttering to herself and bringing fresh candles, obviously disapproving of such goings-on.

Catherine said, “Fetch something hot, Mrs Tate. Some cognac, too.”

George Avery, Bolitho’s flag lieutenant, was sitting down as if gathering himself. Then he said, “Honourably acquitted, Sir Richard.” He saw Catherine for the first time, and made to rise. “My lady.”

She came down, and put her hand on his shoulder. “Tell us. I can hardly believe it.”

Avery gazed at his filthy boots. “I was there, Sir Richard. I thought it only right. I know what it is to face the possibility of disgrace and ruin at a court martial.” He repeated, “I thought it was only right. There was heavy snow on the south coast. The telegraph towers were hidden from one another. It might have taken another day for the news to reach you.”

“But you came?” Catherine saw Bolitho grip his arm.

Surprisingly, Avery grinned. “I rode most of the way. I forget how many times I changed horses. Eventually I fell in with the fellow outside, otherwise I doubt I’d have found the place.” He took the glass of cognac, and his hand shook uncontrollably. “Probably cost me a year’s pay, and I don’t think I’ll be able to sit down comfortably for a month!”

Bolitho walked to a window. Honourably acquitted. As it should be. But things did not always end as they should.

Avery finished the cognac and did not protest when Catherine refilled his glass. “Forced a few coaches and carts off the road-” He saw Bolitho’s expression and added gently, “I was not in court, Sir Richard, but he knew I was there. Your nephew was going to see the port admiral. Someone said that he has an extended leave of absence. That is all the information I have.”

Bolitho looked at Catherine, and smiled. “Seventy miles on dark and treacherous roads. What sort of man would do that?”

She removed the glass from Avery’s nerveless fingers as he lolled against the cushions, and was asleep.

She replied quietly, “Your sort of man, Richard. Are you at peace now?”

When they reached the bedroom they could see the river quite clearly, and there were indeed people already moving along the road. It was unlikely that anyone had noticed the sudden arrival of the carriage, or the tall sea officer banging on the door. If they had, they would think little of it. This was Chelsea, a place that minded its own business more than most.

Together they looked at the sky. It would soon be daylight, another grey January morning. But this time, with such a difference.

She held his arm around her waist and said, “Perhaps your next visit to the Admiralty will be the last for a while.”

He felt her hair against his face. Her warmth. How they belonged.

“And then, Kate?”

“Take me home, Richard. No matter how long we must travel.”

He guided her to the bed, and she laughed as the first dogs began to bark outside.

“Then you can love me. In our home.”

Vice-Admiral Graham Bethune was already on his feet when Bolitho was ushered into his spacious rooms at the Admiralty, and his smile was warm and genuine.

“We are both abroad early today, Sir Richard.” His face fell slightly. “Although I fear I have not yet had news of your nephew, Captain Bolitho. The telegraph, excellent though it may be in many ways, is no match for our English weather!”

Bolitho sat down as a servant removed his hat and cloak. He had walked only a few paces from the carriage, but the cloak was soaked with rain.

He smiled. “Adam was honourably acquitted.” Bethune’s astonishment was a pleasure to see. They had met several times since Bolitho’s arrival in London, but he was still surprised that Bethune’s new authority had not changed him in some way. In appearance, he had matured a good deal since his days as a midshipman in Bolitho’s first command, the little sloop-of-war Sparrow. Gone was the round-faced youth, his complexion a mass of dark freckles; here was a keen-eyed, confident flag officer who would turn any woman’s head at Court, or at the many elegant functions it was now his duty to attend. Bolitho recalled Catherine’s initial resentment when he had told her that Bethune was not only a younger man, but also his junior in rank. She was not the only one who was baffled by the ways of Admiralty.

He said, “My flag lieutenant, Avery, rode all the way from Portsmouth this morning to tell me.”

Bethune nodded, his mind busy on another course. “George Avery, yes. Sir Paul Sillitoe’s nephew.” Again the boyish smile. “I am sorry. Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick, as he is now. But I am glad to know it. It must have been hard for your nephew, losing ship and liberty at one blow. And yet you appointed him to command Zest at the final encounter with Commodore Beer’s ships. Remarkable.” He walked to a table. “I sent my own report, needless to say. One has little confidence in courts martial, as we have seen many times for ourselves.”

Bolitho relaxed slightly. So Bethune had found the time to put pen to paper on Adam’s behalf. He could not imagine either of his predecessors, Godschale, or particularly Hamett-Parker, even raising a finger.

Bethune glanced at the ornate clock beside a painting of a frigate in action. Bolitho knew it was his own command, when Bethune had confronted two large Spanish frigates and, despite the odds, had run one ashore and captured the other. A good beginning, which had done his career no harm at all.

“We shall take refreshment shortly.” He coughed. “Lord Sillitoe is coming today, and I am hoping we shall learn more of the Prince Regent’s views on the American conflict.” He hesitated, momentarily unsure of himself. “One thing is almost certain. You will be required to return to that campaign. What is it now, a bare four months since you engaged and defeated Commodore Beer’s ships? But your opinions and your experience have been invaluable. I know it is asking too much of you.”

Bolitho realized that he was touching his left eye. Perhaps Bethune had noticed, or maybe word of the injury and the impossibility of recovery had finally reached this illustrious office.

He answered, “I had expected it.”

Bethune observed him thoughtfully. “I had the great pleasure of meeting Lady Somervell, Sir Richard. I know what this parting will mean to you.”

Bolitho said, “I know you met her. She told me. There are no secrets between us, and never will be.” Catherine had also met Bethune’s wife, at a reception at Sillitoe’s house by the river. She had said nothing about her, but she would, when she judged that the moment was right. Perhaps Bethune had an eye for the ladies? A mistress, maybe.

He said, “You and I are friends, is that not so?”

Bethune nodded, not understanding. “A small word, for what it truly means.”

“I agree.” He smiled. “Call me Richard. I feel that rank, and the past, stand in the way.”

Bethune strode to his chair, and they shook hands. “This is a far better day than I dared hope.” He grinned, and looked very young. “Richard.” Another glance at the clock. “There is another matter, which I would like to discuss with you before Lord Sillitoe arrives.” He watched him for a few seconds. “You will soon know. Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen is being appointed to a new command, which will be based in Halifax, Nova Scotia.”

“I had heard as much.” Full circle, he thought. Halifax, where he had left his flagship, Indomitable, upon his recall to England. Was it really so short a time ago? With her had been their two equally powerful prizes, Beer’s USS Unity and the Baltimore, which together carried as much artillery as a ship of the line. Fate had decided the final meeting; determination and a bloody need to win had decided the outcome. After all the years he had been at sea, pictures could still stand out as starkly as ever. Allday’s grief, alone among all the gasping survivors as he had carried his dead son, and had lowered him into the sea. And the dying Nathan Beer, their formidable adversary, with Bolitho’s hand in his, each understanding that the meeting and its consequences had been inevitable. They had covered Beer with the American flag, and Bolitho had sent his sword to his widow in Newburyport. A place well known to men-of-war and privateers; where his own brother Hugh had once found refuge, if not peace.

Bethune said, “Rear-Admiral Keen will hoist his flag in the frigate Valkyrie. Her captain, Peter Dawes, who was your second-in-command, stands to accept promotion and is eager to take another appointment.” He paused discreetly. “His father, the admiral, suggested that the present was as good a time as any.”

So Keen was going back to war, still in mourning for Zenoria. It was what he needed, or imagined he needed. Bolitho himself had known the haunting demands of grief, until he had found Catherine again.

“A new flag captain, then?” Even as he spoke, he knew who it would be. “Adam?”

Bethune did not answer directly. “You gave Zest to him out of necessity.”

“He was the best frigate captain I had.”

Bethune continued, “When Zest returned to Portsmouth she was found to be in a sorry state of repair. Over four years in commission, and after two captains-three, if you count your nephew-and several sea-fights, which left her with deep and lasting damage, and without proper facilities for complete repair… the last battle with Unity was the final blow. The port admiral was instructed to explain all this to your nephew after the court’s verdict was delivered. It will take months before Zest is ready for service again. Even then…”

After the court’s verdict. Bolitho wondered if Bethune shared the true meaning. Had the sword been pointing at Adam, he would have been fortunate to have remained in the navy, even with a ship as worn and weakened as Zest.

Bethune was not unaware of it. “By which time, this war will probably be over, and your nephew, like so many others, could be rejected by the one calling he loves.” He unfolded a map without appearing to see it. “Rear-Admiral Keen and Captain Bolitho have always been on good terms, both under your command and elsewhere. It would seem a satisfactory solution.”

Bolitho tried not to remember Adam’s face as he had seen it that day in Indomitable, when he had given him the news of Zenoria’s death. It had been like watching his heart break into pieces. How could Adam agree? Knowing that each day he would be serving alongside and under the orders of the man who had been Zenoria’s husband. The girl with moonlit eyes. She had married Keen out of gratitude. Adam had loved her… loved her. But Adam, too, might be grateful for an escape provided by Keen. A ship at sea, not an undermanned hulk suffering all the indignities of a naval dockyard. How could it work? How might it end?

He loved Adam like a son, always had loved him, ever since the youth had walked from Penzance to present himself to him after his mother’s death. Adam had confessed his affair with Zenoria: he felt that he should have known. Catherine had seen it much earlier in Adam’s face, on the day Zenoria had married Keen in the mermaid’s church at Zennor.

Madness even to think about it. Keen was going to his first truly responsible command as a flag officer. Nothing in the past could change that.

He asked, “You really believe that the war will soon end?”

Bethune showed no surprise at this change of tack. “Napoleon’s armies are in retreat on every front. The Americans know this. Without France as an ally, they will lose their last chance of dominating North America. We shall be able to release more and more ships to harass their convoys and forestall large troop movements by sea. Last September you proved, if proof were needed, that a well-placed force of powerful frigates was far more use than sixty ships of the line.” He smiled. “I can still recall their faces in the other room when you told Their Lordships that the line of battle was finished. Blasphemy, some thought, and unfortunately there are still many you have yet to convince.”

Bolitho saw him look at the clock yet again. Sillitoe was late. He knew the extent of his own influence and accepted it, knew too that people feared him. Bolitho suspected it pleased him.

Bethune was saying, “All these years, Richard, a lifetime for some. Twenty years of almost unbroken war with the French, and even before that, when we were in Sparrow during the American rebellion, we were fighting France as well.”

“We were all very young then, Graham. But I can understand why ordinary men and women have lost faith in victory, even now, when it is within our grasp.”

“But you never doubted it.”

Bolitho heard voices in the corridor. “I never doubted we would win, eventually. Victory? That is something else.”

A servant opened the fine double doors and Sillitoe came unhurriedly into the room.

Catherine had described the portrait of Sillitoe’s father, which she had seen at the reception in his house. Valentine Keen had been her escort on that occasion: that would have set a few tongues wagging. But as he stood there now, in slate-grey broadcloth and gleaming white silk stock, Bolitho could compare the faces as if he had been there with her. Sillitoe’s father had been a slaver, “a black ivory captain,” he had called him. Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick had come far, and since the King had been declared insane his position as personal adviser to the Prince Regent had strengthened until there was very little in the political affairs of the nation he could not manipulate or direct.

He gave a curt bow. “You look very well and refreshed, Sir Richard. I was pleased to hear of your nephew’s exoneration.”

Obviously, news travelled faster among Sillitoe’s spies than in the corridors of Admiralty.

Sillitoe smiled, his hooded eyes, as always, concealing his thoughts.

“He is too good a captain to waste. I trust he will accept Rear Admiral Keen’s invitation. I think he should. I believe he will.”

Bethune rang for the servant. “You may bring refreshments, Tolan.” It gave him time to recover from his shock that Sillitoe’s network was more efficient than his own.

Sillitoe turned smoothly to Bolitho.

“And how is Lady Catherine? Well, I trust, and no doubt pleased to be back in town?”

Pointless to explain that Catherine wanted only to return to a quieter life in Falmouth. But one could not be certain of this man. He who seemed to know everything probably knew that, too.

“She is happy, my lord.” He thought of her in the early hours of the morning when Avery had arrived. Happy? Yes, but concealing at the same time, and not always successfully, the deeper pain of their inevitable separation. Before Catherine, life had been very different. He had always accepted that his duty lay where his orders directed. It had to be. But his love he would leave behind, wherever she was.

Sillitoe leaned over the map. “Crucial times, gentlemen. You will have to return to Halifax, Sir Richard-you are the only one familiar with all the pieces of the puzzle. The Prince Regent was most impressed with your report and the vessels you require.” He smiled dryly. “Even the expense did not deter him. For more than a moment, that is.”

Bethune said, “The First Lord has agreed that orders will be presented within the week.” He glanced meaningfully at Bolitho. “After that, Rear-Admiral Keen can take passage in the first available frigate, no matter who he selects as flag captain.”

Sillitoe walked to a window. “ Halifax. A cheerless place at this time of the year, I’m told. Arrangements can be made for you to follow, Sir Richard.” He did not turn from the window. “Perhaps the end of next month-will that suit?”

Bolitho knew that Sillitoe never made idle remarks. Was he considering Catherine at last? How she would come to terms with it. Cruel; unfair; too demanding. He could almost hear her saying it. Separation and loneliness. Less than two months, then, allowing for the uncomfortable journey to Cornwall. They must not waste a minute. Together.

He replied, “You will find me ready, my lord.”

Sillitoe took a glass from the servant. “Good.” His hooded eyes gave nothing away. “Excellent.” He could have been describing the wine. “A sentiment, Sir Richard. To your Happy Few!” So he even knew about that.

Bolitho scarcely noticed. In his mind, he saw only her, the dark eyes defiant, but protective.

Don’t leave me.