For My Country’s Freedom

4. Royal Command

For most of the journey from Chelsea, along the Thames and towards Parliament, Bolitho and Catherine spoke little, each reflecting on the immediate future.

Sillitoe had sent a brief note by hand to Chelsea, intimating that the invitation to Carlton House was not a mere matter of vanity or curiosity Bolitho guessed that he had been told to ensure that they both attended.

This was also the day when Bolitho had visited a consulting physician recommended by the great man himself, Sir Piers Blachford of the College of Surgeons. Catherine had stayed in the carriage, unwilling to wait at Chelsea until the examination was finished.

It had been very thorough, and Bolitho’s eye still smarted from the probing and the stinging ointment.

When he had returned to the carriage she had known, despite his smile and his cheery wave to Young Matthew, that it had been in vain.

Even now as she gripped his hand beneath her cloak she could sense his distress, wondering perhaps if he could ever come to terms with it. It seemed that nothing could be done unless some new technique were developed. The doctor had spoken of damage to the retina and had warned that further probing could destroy the eye altogether.

He had used the terminology of his profession in an almost matter-of-fact fashion, the language of his world. It had probably meant very little to Richard except for the verdict. His eye would only get worse, but it might be a considerable time before the disability became obvious to anybody else.

Then, this evening, there had been that precious moment

when she had descended the stairs in her green silk gown, and he had watched her all the way. So many memories: their hands touching briefly when Bolitho had all but fallen on the step in that house above English Harbour.

Her hair was piled on her head, brailed up, as Allday had once described it, to reveal the gold filigree earrings Bolitho had given her, the ones she had managed to hide in her stained clothing when her husband and Belinda Bolitho had connived to have her wrongly imprisoned for debt, with deportation an almost certain outcome.

Around her neck she wore his latest present, which he had commissioned for her as a surprise when he had returned home from the sea. It was a diamond pendant fashioned in the shape of an open fan, like the one he had brought her from Madeira.

She had watched his eyes, had felt them like warmth from the sun. The pendant rested provocatively in the shadow between her breasts. He had said quietly, "You will be the most beautiful lady tonight." It had touched her deeply. A lady in title only, but to Richard she knew it meant far more.

A few people pointed at the crest on the carriage door, but here in the heart of London fame was commonplace and too often ephemeral.

Bolitho seemed to read her thoughts. "I will be glad to go home, Kate." Their hands embraced beneath the cloak, like lovers themselves. "I do not know why we are here." He turned and looked her full in the face. "But I shall enjoy showing you off. I always do. Is that so childish?"

She stroked his hand. "I would have you no other way, and I am proud to be at your side."

Even if Sillitoe was wrong, and the invitation had come only out of curiosity the love of scandal by those who had no cause to fear it, she would show only dignity.

The sky over London was unusually clear but the windows of

Carlton House were ablaze with lights, as smartly liveried linkmen and boys ran to open doors and lower carriage steps. Above the bustle of horses and staring spectators they heard the sound of music, violins and a harpsichord. Bolitho felt her hand on his arm and heard her whisper, "Like Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. I shall take you there again."

He nodded. He was pleased she still remembered that night when she had shown him a part of her London.

Bewigged footmen whisked away their cloaks and Bolitho’s cocked hat. He watched them being carried into an ante-room and marked it carefully in case a hasty retreat should become necessary. Aware of his uncertainty, she smiled at him, her eyes flashing in the glitter of a thousand candles.

Most men in his position would be revelling in it, she thought. Here was a real hero, loved, feared, respected and envied. But she knew him so well. Could sense his wariness, his determination to protect her from any who might try to harm her.

They were ushered into a great room with a painted ceiling of water nymphs and fantastical sea-horses. The orchestra was here, although Catherine suspected there was a second playing elsewhere in this extravagant building. It appeared to have been newly decorated, and perhaps was a reflection of the Prince Regent’s tastes or personality. Described behind his back as a gambler, drinker and debauchee, and to his face by his father as "king of the damned," his blatant affair with Mrs Fitzherbert and countless mistresses who had followed her clearly demonstrated the contempt in which he held both his father and society

There were several women present. Some were plain and seemingly ill at ease, with nothing to say, their husbands on the other hand loud-mouthed and sweating badly as the room became more crowded. There were other women less overawed by their surroundings, some vivacious, and wearing gowns cut so low it was a marvel they stayed in position. It was almost a relief to see Sir

Paul Sillitoe, who was pointing them out to a footman while he himself came to greet them.

"Congratulations, Sir Richard! You are turning many heads this evening!" But his eyes were on Catherine as he raised her hand to his lips. "Each time we see you, Lady Catherine, it is like a first meeting. You look enchanting."

She smiled. "You are all flattery, sir."

Sillitoe became business-like. "It is a small gathering by Prinny’s standards. The main banquet room is partitioned off. We must accept it as an intimate affair. The Prince Regent’s dislike for the prime minister has worsened, I am given to believe. He will not be missed."

Bolitho took a tall, beautifully shaped goblet from a tray and saw the footman’s eyes dart between them. Did Sillitoe obtain all his intelligence from men like this? The extent of his knowledge was uncanny, the power that that knowledge would represent almost dangerous.

Sillitoe was saying, "About forty of us, I understand."

Bolitho glanced at Catherine. Sillitoe would know exactly how many, and the worth and perhaps the secrets of each and every one of them.

He had returned his attention to Catherine now, his hooded eyes giving nothing away. "There will be many wines at table…"

She touched the diamond fan at her breast. "I take heed of your warning, Sir Paul. Our host gains entertainment and amusement from his guests if they imbibe too freely, is that it?"

Sillitoe bowed. "You are perceptive as always, Lady Catherine. I knew I had no need to mention it."

Bolitho saw faces turning away when he caught them staring. Well, let them stare, damn them. He could easily imagine some of these men making fools of themselves, and ladies becoming the perhaps not unwilling prey of others. He had seen it happen in

army establishments often enough. Was that what they thought now, watching Catherine, seeing her defiance of convention as a threat to their own manhood, or a challenge to it?

He thought of her in those last days in the sun-blistered longboat, keeping his hopes alive when to everyone else rescue had seemed impossible, and the prospect of death their only escape. Even now, as she turned to glance around the room, the faint scars of sunburn on her bare shoulders were still visible after all the months since Golden Plover had smashed on to the reef. Suddenly he wanted to take her in his arms, to keep holding her until the terrible pictures in his mind were no more.

Instead, he asked, "When I am away…" He saw her stiffen, and knew Sillitoe was trying not to listen. "I would wish for nothing dearer than a portrait of you."

She tilted her chin and he saw a pulse beating in her throat. "I would be happy to oblige you, Richard." She reached out and gripped his hand. It was as if the room were completely empty "Your thoughts are always of me, never for yourself…"

She turned away as the doors were flung open and an equerry called importantly, "Pray be upstanding for His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, Regent of all England!"

Bolitho studied him intently as he entered the colourful gathering. For one so heavy he walked with a light step; he even seemed to glide, and Bolitho was reminded suddenly of a ship of the line, losing the wind even as she floated smoothly to her anchorage.

He was not quite certain what he had expected: something perhaps between Gillray’s cruel cartoons and the paintings he had seen at the Admiralty. He was about six years younger than Bolitho but his excesses had worn badly. A devotee of fashion, he was elegantly dressed, his hair swept forward in the very latest style, while his lips remained pursed in a little amused smile.

As he moved slowly down the room women curtsied deeply

while their partners bowed, flushed with pleasure if they were noticed.

But the Prince, "Prinny" as Sillitoe had outrageously called him, looked straight at Bolitho and then, more deliberately, at Catherine. "So you are my new admiral." He bowed his head to Catherine who had subsided into a curtsy. "Please rise, Lady Catherine." His eyes rested on the glittering pendant and what lay beneath. "This is an honour. You will sit with me." He offered his hand to Bolitho. "You have a good tailor, sir. Do I know him?"

Bolitho kept his face impassive. A courier to Falmouth and a letter of instructions to the tailor there, old Joshua Miller, who had worked on the new uniform without pause. The others would be ready when he hoisted his flag above Indomitable.

He replied, "He works in Falmouth, Your Royal Highness."

The Prince smiled. "Then indeed I shall not know him." His eyes moved to the diamond fan again. "It must bore you, my lady, living in the country when Sir Richard is away, hmm?"

"I keep too busy to become bored, sir."

He gently patted her wrist. "One so beautiful should never be busy!"

They led the way into the adjoining room. Bolitho had heard that when it had been fully extended for a more lavish banquet recently, the table had been over two hundred feet long, with an artificial stream running from a silver fountain at its head.

They were not to be disappointed at this more humble gathering, it appeared. A veritable army of footmen and servants lined the walls, and music drifted gently through the far doors.

Bolitho took his place without enthusiasm. He had recognised the expression in the Prince Regent’s eyes, the lewd confidence of one used to getting his own way. As a footman pulled out a chair for Catherine she glanced over the table at him, her eyes very level and compelling. Remember me, they

seemed to say, reassuring him. The woman in the boat. The one who loves you and no other.

The Prince sat back in a tall chair at the head of the table. It was more like a throne, Bolitho thought, with an ornately carved back featuring the plumes of his own coat of arms and the royal crown and cipher, G.R. It seemed that he already imagined himself as King.

Catherine sat on his right hand, Bolitho on his left. As far as the Prince of Wales was concerned, his other guests could think what they chose.

He raised one hand and instantly, like a well-trained platoon of Royal Marines demonstrating a complicated drill, the footmen and servants moved into action.

As was customary, Bolitho had expected Grace to be spoken; in fact he had seen a severe-looking bishop at the opposite end of the table in the act of getting to his feet. The Prince gave no sign that he had seen him, but Bolitho guessed that, like Sillitoe, His Royal Highness missed very little. Soon the table was groaning with the weight of huge platters, some of gold, some of silver. The number of staff in the kitchens must be equally large, Bolitho thought. Spring soup, then slices of salmon and caper sauce were served with fried fillet of sole. Each dish would have satisfied even the hungriest midshipman, but when he glanced along the table Bolitho saw little hesitation as silver flashed in the candlelight, and hands moved and plunged as if his fellow guests had not eaten for days.

The Prince remarked as more glasses were filled, "This is a lighter wine, Lady Catherine, not much to my taste. I prefer something with a little more body."

She met his gaze and said, "From Madeira, I believe." She had not reacted to the emphasis he had placed on the last word; in fact, it was even rather amusing. He was no different from other

men after all. She looked across at Bolitho and raised her glass. "To our new admiral, sir!"

A few sitting close by followed suit, but most were more concerned with emptying their plates in anticipation of the next offering.

The Prince said, "Indeed, yes. I was impressed with your choice of words at the Admiralty, Sir Richard, although your choice of a flagship surprised me until I perceived the logic of it. The vital need for speed and gunnery to act as one… there are still many who will not believe it. Merchants and so forth, who can see only an increase in trade and thicker linings to their purses if we slacken our pressure on the enemy. This war must be pursued. I insist on it!" He gave Catherine a wry smile. "Forgive this talk, Lady Catherine. Doubtless you have heard enough on the subject."

"Where Sir Richard is concerned, I am always ready to learn more, sir."

He wagged one finger at her. "His will be an enormous responsibility"

She replied calmly, "Cannot that be said of every captain who sails alone, and with only his own skills and courage to sustain him?"

He nodded, surprised perhaps by her directness. "Ah yes, but an admiral’s responsibility is total!"

Bolitho leaned back as white-gloved hands darted around him and plates vanished as if by magic. It gave him time to consider the Prince’s remarks. He had heard that he was eager to increase pressure on the French, finish it once and for all. No wonder the prime minister was absent; Spencer Perceval leaned towards appeasement, if only to avoid war with the United States.

But the Regent’s powers were severely limited for another twelve months, and no drastic actions might be commenced that could have far-reaching effects to which, after this period, the King might object if recovered from his madness.

He looked up and found Catherine watching him, thinking no doubt of the dangers inherent in this new appointment. They needed an admiral who would act without hesitation, who would not drag his feet and wait for conflicting instructions from London. That was the official position. They both knew the reality. He had often told her about the loneliness of command when sailing out of company without higher authority. If you were successful, others would take the credit. If you failed, the blame was yours alone.

He raised his glass to her.

The Prince was running his eyes over the next course, a highly decorative array of roast rack of lamb, larded capon and braised turkey, ham, tongue and several kinds of vegetables. And, of course, more wine. He said, "I should have seated you at the other end of the table, Sir Richard. You and this lady are akin to conspirators!"

But he laughed, and Bolitho noted that several guests were nodding and laughing too, although they could not possibly have heard a word. It was just as well that the soldiers and sailors in the field or on the ocean who often paid for their service with their lives could not see those who took them so much for granted. "I am told that you will sail first to Antigua?" He gestured to a footman, who served him a second portion of capon. It gave Bolitho time to look at her, and recognise the shadow of pain at the Prince’s abrupt disclosure. I should have told her when I knew.

He answered, "I shall assemble my squadron there, and I hope to gain some local knowledge as well."

The Prince dabbed his chin and said casually, "I knew your late husband, Lady Catherine. An eager man at the tables." He gazed at her. "Reckless, to a point of danger."

"I know."

"But we all have our weaknesses. Even I…" He did not elaborate, but attacked the braised turkey with renewed vigour.

Then he remarked, "Your choice of captain, Sir Richard." He snapped his fingers absently in the direction of a footman. "Tyacke, isn’t it? You could have had any captain. Any man would be prepared to kill for such a chance. And yet you chose him without hesitation. Why so?"

"He is an excellent seaman and an accomplished navigator."

"But only the commander of a lowly brig?"

The Prince stared down with astonishment as Catherine laid one hand on his sleeve.

She said quietly, "But is it not also true that Nelson chose Hardy for his flag-captain when he in fact commanded a lowly brig?"

He roared with laughter. "Touchй, Lady Catherine! I am impressed!"

She started with alarm as a glass fell on the table and the wine spread towards her like blood. Bolitho said, "Forgive me, sir." But he was speaking to Catherine, and she knew it.

The light from one of the great chandeliers had dazzled him, and he had missed the wineglass even as he reached for it. No one else seemed to have noticed.

The Prince patted her hand, beaming genially at her. "We will take more wine while these fellows replace the cloth." He did not remove his hand and added, "There are so many things I wish to know."

"About me, sir?" She shook her head and felt the diamond pendant warm against her breast.

"You are much spoken of, Lady Catherine. Admired too, I’ve no doubt!"

"I am loved by but one, sir."

Bolitho glanced at the footman who had replaced his glass. "Thank you." The man almost dropped his tray, and Bolitho guessed that he was rarely acknowledged, let alone addressed.

He looked down the table, and found Sillitoe watching him.

Too far away to hear anything, but near enough to guess what the Prince was doing. What he did so often and so well.

"My spies tell me that you are a good horsewoman. Perhaps when Sir Richard is away you would join me for a ride. I adore horses."

She smiled, the light and shadow on her high cheekbones making her appear even more lovely. "I shall not come, sir." When he leaned towards her she shook her head and laughed. "Not even for you!"

The Prince appeared surprised and uncertain. "We shall see!" Then he turned to Bolitho and said, "All real men must envy you." His irritation was plain as a woman several places away leaned forward and pitched her voice until it was audible.

"I have wondered, Lady Catherine, and others must have asked you since that terrible shipwreck…"

Catherine glanced at Bolitho and gave a slight shrug. This was familiar ground. His sister Felicity had put forth the very suggestion this woman was about to make.

"What have you wondered, madam?"

"All those men in one small boat." She looked around, her eyes just a little too bright. She had obviously not been warned about the Prince’s love of wine. "And you the only lady amongst them?"

Catherine waited. Sophie apparently was not included in the ordeal. She was only a servant.

She said coolly, "It is not an experience I would wish to repeat."

On the opposite side of the table, a worried-looking man with thinning hair said in a fierce whisper, "That is enough, Kathleen."

His wife, very much younger, tossed her head. "Things which women must do, but in front of staring eyes…"

Bolitho said abruptly, "Do you never ask about the sailors who are at sea in all conditions, madam? How they live? Why they tolerate such conditions? Then I will tell you. It is out of

necessity." He turned towards Catherine. "I shall never forget her courage, and I would suggest you do not, either!"

The Prince nodded and said in a stage whisper, "I expect that Lady Kathleen would have welcomed the experience!" His eyes were hard with dislike as the insinuation reached the woman in question.

The remainder of the evening was an ordeal of endurance and discomfort. Another great course arrived, this time of guinea-fowl, oyster patties and curried lobster, with more wine to wash it down. Finally, a rhubarb tart was served with three kinds of jelly and, lastly, cheesecakes. Bolitho wanted to drag out his watch, but knew his host would see and resent it.

He looked across at Catherine and she blew out her cheeks at him. "I shall not eat again for another month!"

Eventually it was over. After the ladies had withdrawn there was port and cognac for the gentlemen-the latter, assured the Prince, not contraband. Bolitho guessed that most of the guests were beyond caring. The Prince detained them until the last, as Bolitho had known he would. He watched a servant bringing his hat and cloak, but before he could take them the Prince said in his thick voice, "Admiral Bolitho, may good fortune go with you." Then he took Catherine’s hand and kissed it lingeringly He looked into her dark eyes. "I never envied a man before, Lady Catherine, not even to be King." Then he kissed her hand again and held her bare arm with his strong fingers. "Sir Richard is that man."

Finally they were in the carriage, the iron-shod wheels rattling over the cobbles and into the darkened streets.

He felt her nestle against him. "I am sorry about Antigua."

"I think I knew."

"You were wonderful, Kate. I had to bite my tongue at times."

She rubbed her head against his shoulder. "I know. I almost told that Kathleen woman a thing or two!" She laughed bitterly.

"Are you tired, Richard?" She touched his arm. "Too tired?"

He slipped his hand beneath her cloak and caressed her breast.

"I will wake you when we see the Thames, Kate. Then we shall see who is tired!"

Young Matthew heard her laugh. All those carriages and famous people, but when the others heard whose coachman he was they had treated him like a hero. Wait until they reached Falmouth again, he thought. He might even stretch the story for Ferguson and Allday’s benefit and say that the Prince of Wales had spoken to him!

The Thames showed itself in the moonlight like blue steel and Bolitho moved slightly in his seat.

He heard her whisper, "No, I am not asleep. Do not take your hand away. I shall be ready."

The Crossed Keys Inn was small but commodious, and perched beside the road that ran north from Plymouth to Tavistock. It was rarely used by the coaching trade, which was hardly surprising. James Tyacke on his walks after dark had discovered that in places the track was hardly wide enough for a farm wagon, let alone a coach-and-four.

This evening he sat in a corner of the parlour and wondered how the inn paid for itself. It was run by a homely little woman named Meg, a widow like so many inn and alehouse proprietors in the West Country. Few folk from the nearby village of St Budeaux seemed to come here, and during the day most of the customers were farm workers who-thank God, he thought- kept to themselves.

He sat in the shadow of the big chimney-breast and watched the flickering flames in the hearth. It was April and the trees were in bud, the fields alive with birds. But it was still cold at night.

Soon he would eat, one of Meg’s rabbit pies most likely. Then another walk maybe. He glanced around the parlour, the

furniture scrubbed and clean, the walls decorated with hunting scenes and some old brasses. It was his last night here. He stared at the new uniform coat that lay on a bench seat opposite his own. The cost of gold lace had risen since his last purchase, he thought. Just as well he had received a large payment of prize-money. Memories came, sudden and vivid: Larne’s gunner dropping a ball across the bows of some stinking slaver, terrified black faces, naked women chained together in their filth like animals. The slavers themselves, Portuguese and Arab, men prepared to bribe and barter. When they were brought to him they knew it was pointless. There were no more bargains to be made, only the rope at the end of the passage to Freetown or the Cape.

The thrill of the chase, with every spar threatening to splinter itself under a full press of canvas.

Ozanne had her now. Tyacke could think of no better man.

He stared again at his coat, a bright new epaulette on the right shoulder. It seemed somehow out of place, he thought. But he was a captain now, no matter how junior. He wondered if Avery had told Sir Richard how he had betrayed his secret in order to persuade him.

Suppose Avery had kept silent. Would I have changed my mind? Or would I still be in the dockyard in Larne?

Two men came in and moved to a table on the far side of the room. Meg seemed to know them and brought tankards of ale without being asked. On her way back to the kitchen she paused to poke the fire. If she had been shocked by Tyacke’s face she had not shown it. Perhaps she had seen worse in her time.

"So we’m losin’ yew tomorrer, Mr Tyacke."

"Yes," he said, turning slightly away from her.

"I’ve told Henry to fetch ’is cart bright ’n’ early for yew."

Tomorrow. Weeks of uncertainty. Now it was almost time.

Tyacke had not been back in England for years. On his way here from the dockyard he had watched the passing scenery like

a stranger in some foreign country. Through the city itself, shop after shop. Hairdressers and hatters, painters and distillers, and more inns and lodging-houses than he could imagine. Plenty of sea officers, and sailors who he assumed had the protection and were free to come and go as they pleased. He recalled the disbelief amongst Larne’s company when Bolitho had granted permission for his men to go ashore. Only one had failed to return. Drunk, he had fallen into a dock and drowned.

He had seen plenty of women, too. Some prettily dressed and decorative, the wives of army and naval officers, perhaps. Others, like Meg of the Crossed Keys, trying to do men’s work, to replace those who might never come home.

He said, "I’ve been very comfortable here. Maybe I’ll see you again some day."

She turned to look at him, and although he watched carefully for it, there was no abhorrence in her eyes when they rested on his face.

"I’ll fetch your supper soon, zur."

They both knew they would not meet again.

He sipped his brandy. Good stuff. Maybe smugglers came this way… His thoughts returned to his new command. How different she would be. Designed originally as a small third-rate of 64 guns, she had been cut down to her present size by the removal of most of her upper deck and corresponding armament. But her forty 24-pounders remained, with an additional four 18-pounders for bow- and stern-chasers. Tyacke had studied every detail of the ship, and her history since she had been built at the famous William Hartland yard at Rochester on the Medway

He considered Bolitho’s comments, the ship’s possible use if war broke out with the United States. All the big new American frigates carried twenty-four-pounders and for sheer firepower were far superior to English frigates like Anemone.

More to the point, perhaps, his new command had a far greater

cruising range. Her original company of over six hundred had now been reduced to 270, which included 55 Royal Marines.

She was still undermanned, but then every ship was, which was in or near a naval port.

All those unknown faces. How long would it be before he came to know them, their value, their individual qualities? As a captain he could ask what he pleased of his officers. Respect, as he had seen with Bolitho, had to be earned.

He thought again of the ship herself. Thirty-four years old, built of fine Kentish oak when there had been such trees for the asking. In newer ships some of the timbers were barely seasoned, and their frames were cut by carpenters, not shaped over the years for extra strength. Some were built of teak on oak frames, like John Company’s ships, which were mostly laid down in Bombay. Teak was like iron, but hated by the sailors who had to work and fight in them. Unlike oak splinters, teak could poison a man, kill him far more slowly and painfully than canister shot.

Tyacke swallowed more brandy. His new command had first tasted salt water while he had been in his mother’s arms.

His face softened into a smile. We must have grown up together. She had even been at the Nile. He tried not to touch his scarred cheek. Other battles too. The Chesapeake and the Saintes, Copenhagen, and then because she was too small for the line of battle she had shared all the miseries of blockade and convoy duty

There must be a lot of experienced post-captains asking why Sir Richard should hoist his flag above an old converted third-rate when he could have had anything he wanted. A full admiral now. He wondered what Catherine Somervell thought about it. He could see her as if she were beside him, first in the dirty and soaking sailor’s clothing, and then in the yellow gown he had carried with him since the girl of his choice had rejected him. It was strange, but he could even think of that without the pain, as if it had happened to somebody else.

He tried to remember if he had all he needed, and his thoughts returned to Bolitho’s mistress. But the term offended him. His lady. She would make certain that Bolitho was well provided for when he left home.

He thought he could smell cooking and realised how hungry he was. It made good sense to eat well tonight. He would be too tense and anxious later on. He smiled again as he recalled that Bolitho had told him he was always nervous when he took over a new command. But remember, they are far more worried about their new captain!

And what about John Allday-"his oak," as he called him- would he be so eager this time to quit the land?

One of the men at the other table put down his tankard and stared at the door. His companion almost ran through the adjoining room where some farmhands were drinking rough cider. Then Tyacke heard it. The tramp of feet, the occasional clink of metal.

Meg bustled in, her hands full of knives and forks.

"The press, sir. They’m not usually this far from ’ome." She smiled at him. "Never fear. I’ll see they don’t disturb yew."

He sat back in the deep shadows. Being in charge of a press-gang was a thankless task. As a junior lieutenant he had done it only once. Whimpering men and blaspheming women. Curiously enough, although most of the shore parties who performed that duty were themselves pressed men, they were usually the most ruthless.

There were muffled shouts from the rear of the inn and Tyacke guessed that the man who had rushed from the room had been taken. His companion came back, shaking despite the folded protection he had been fortunate enough to carry.

The door crashed open and a young lieutenant strode into the parlour.

He snapped, "Stand up and be examined!" Then he seemed to realise that the man in question had already been inspected

and swung towards the shadowy figure by the chimney-breast.

"And you! Did you hear me? In the King’s name!"

Tyacke did not move but thrust out his foot and pushed the bench seat into the candlelight.

The lieutenant gaped at the gleaming gold lace and stammered, "I did not know, sir! Few officers come this way."

Tyacke said quietly, "Which is why I came. Not to be shouted at by some arrogant puppy hiding in the King’s coat!" He stood up. Meg, two armed seamen in the doorway and the man who had been examined all froze as if it were some kind of mime.

Tyacke turned very slowly. "What is your name, lieutenant?"

But the young officer was unable to speak; he was staring at Tyacke’s terrible wound as if mesmerised.

Then he muttered in a small voice, "Laroche, s-sir."

"May I ask what ship?"

"Indomitable, sir."

"Then we shall meet tomorrow, Mister Laroche. I am Captain James Tyacke."

Suddenly he had the parlour to himself.

Meg hurried in again, a steaming pot wrapped in a cloth.

"I be that sorry, zur."

Tyacke reached out and touched her arm. "It was nothing. We all have to begin somewhere."

Tomorrow it would be all over the ship. He considered it. Indomitable. My ship.

Again he thought about Bolitho and the memory steadied him.

They will be far more worried about you.

Meg left him to his supper but paused in the door to watch him, wondering how it had happened, how such a fine-looking man could ever learn to accept it.

She quietly closed the door, and thought of him long after he had gone.