The Darkening Sea

4. Strategy

Captain Adam Bolitho reined the big grey to a halt and stared across a flint wall towards the great house. The wall was new, probably one of the many being built by French prisoners of war, he thought. He stroked the horse's mane while he gazed at the rolling Hampshire countryside with its air of timeless peace, so different from his home county where the sea was rarely out of sight.

People had glanced at him curiously as he had ridden through villages, following the old coaching road. A sea-officer was obviously rare in these parts, while the military were only too common.

He looked at his hand and extended it in the hot sunshine. It was quite steady, untroubled. He almost laughed at himself. He felt far from either, and doubted more than ever the wisdom of his having come here.

Anemone lay at Spithead awaiting orders, but he was so short of hands after the port admiral had insisted on transferring some of his men 'to more deserving vessels' that the frigate would not move for a few more days. As he had expected he had lost his senior lieutenant Peter Sargeant. It had been a sad parting but Adam had not hesitated, knowing too well how important it was to grasp the chance of promotion, in Sargeant's case the command of a fleet schooner. You rarely got a second opportunity in the navy.

Aubrey Martin, the second lieutenant, had moved up, and they were hourly expecting another junior officer and some midshipmen. Having lost some of his most seasoned warrant officers to the needs of the fleet as well as his first lieutenant and good friend, Adam knew it would be a long haul to regain Anemone's status as a crack frigate with a company to match.

The captain of the dockyard had discovered that he was going for a ride, if only to free himself from the constant stream of orders and requests which were the lot of every captain under the watchful eye of a flag officer. The captain had received two letters for Valentine Keen, which had followed him from the flagship Black Prince in the West Indies and had eventually arrived in Portsmouth.

The dockyard captain had commented dryly, "One is from his tailor, same as mine in London. I'd know that skinflint's scrawl anywhere. But you never know." He added helpfully, "Nice canter anyway."

That at least was true. The powerful grey had been loaned to him by a major of marines at the barracks, an officer who was apparently so well supplied with horses that he would have had to serve for a hundred years in the Corps to pay for them if he depended on his service allowance alone.

Adam studied the house again. About five miles to the east of Winchester at a guess, and not many villages nearby. Five miles it could be ten times that, he thought.

But why was he here? Suppose Keen suspected something, or Zenoria had blurted out the truth. He made himself face it without embroidering the facts. He had taken her. A moment of despairing passion when each had thought they had lost someone loved in the Golden Plover.

He had taken her. Had she refused him he dared not think what might have happened. He would have been ruined, and it would have broken his uncle's heart. Of her they would have said, no smoke without fire. The easy way for the liars and the doubters.

He often remembered his fury when he had heard the stranger at the inn insulting the Bolitho name. Each time he had come to the same desperate conclusion. I nearly killed him. Another instant and I would have done it.

You fool. Go back while you can. Even as he thought it his heels dug into the grey's flanks and he was trotting down a slope towards the tall gates, each with a bronze stag on the top. The family was very rich and influential, and Keen's father was known to think his son mad for remaining in the navy when he could have almost any career he wanted.

An old gardener was stooping amongst flower beds, his barrow nearby. Adam touched his hat as he rode up the sweeping drive, and noticed that there was a long fowling piece propped against the barrow. This place must be very isolated, servants or not, he thought. How would an untamed girl like Zenoria settle to this after Cornwall 's wild coastline?

The house was even larger and more imposing than he had imagined. Pillars, a magnificent portico adorned with carvings of lions and strange beasts, and steps clean enough to eat from.

He would have smiled but for his inner tension. The old grey house at Falmouth was shabby by comparison. A place that welcomed you. Where you could live.

A small, wizened man darted from somewhere and held the reins while Adam dismounted.

"Give him some water. I shall not be long." The man nodded, his face completely blank.

He did not turn away from the house as the man led the big horse around the corner of the building. He thought his nerve would break if he did.

One of the paired doors swung inwards even before he could reach it, and a prim-looking woman with keys at her waist stood facing him without warmth.

"Captain Adam Bolitho, ma'am. I have letters for Captain Keen." Or was he already promoted to flag rank?

"Are you expected, sir?"

"No. Not exactly." Used to sailors jumping to his every command, he was taken aback by her chilling tone.

She remained firmly in the centre of the doorway. "Captain Keen is away, sir." She may have considered telling him where he was, but changed her mind. "Will you leave a message?"

There were voices and then he heard Zenoria call, "What is it, Mrs. Tombs?"

Adam felt his heart beating faster. The housekeeper was aptly named.

The door opened wide and she was there, staring at him. She wore a simple flowered gown and her dark hair was piled above her ears. Her only adornments were some pearl earrings and a pendant, which he guessed was worth a small fortune. He did not quite know what he had been expecting, but she looked like a child dressing up in adult's clothing. Playing a part.

"I – I am sorry, er, Mrs. Keen. I have some letters." He fumbled for them, but his cuff caught on the short fighting sword he always favoured. "My ship is still at Portsmouth. I thought '

The forbidding housekeeper asked, "Is everything in order, ma'am?"

"Yes." Zenoria tossed her head as he had seen her do when her hair had hung down like glossy silk. "Why should it not be?"

"Very well, ma'am." She stood back to allow the newcomer to enter. "If you require anything…" She glided away soundlessly on the marble floor but her words remained like a warning.

Zenoria stared at him for several seconds. "You know you are not welcome here, Captain." She glanced around as if afraid someone would hear. But the house was completely silent, as if it were listening. Watching.

"I am so sorry. I shall go directly." He saw her draw back as he took a pace towards her. "Please. I didn't mean to offend you. I thought your husband would be here." He was losing her, even before he had made any contact.

She was very composed, dangerously so. "He is in London. At the Admiralty. He will be back this evening." Her eyes blazed. "You should not have come. You must know that."

A door opened and closed discreetly and she said, "Come into the library."

She walked ahead of him, very erect and small in this great cathedral of a house. The girl with moonlit eyes, as her uncle had called her.

There were books piled in little heaps on a table. She said in an almost matter-of-fact voice, "All mine. Waiting for our new house when it is ready for us." She stared at the tall windows where a bee was tapping on the glass. They are so kind to me here… but I have to ask. I have no carriage and I am told not to ride alone. There are footpads and they say deserters always close by. It is like the desert! "

Adam thought of the gardener and his musket. "When will you leave here?" He barely dared to speak.

She shrugged. Even that sent a pain to his heart. This year, next year I am not sure. We will live near Plymouth. Not Cornwall, but close. In truth I find this life daunting. The family is away in London for the most part, and Val's youngest sister never wants to leave the baby alone."

Adam tried to remember the sister. She was the one who had lost her husband at sea.

"I see nobody. Only when Val comes back can I…" She seemed to realise what she was saying and exclaimed, "And what of you? Still the gallant hero? The scourge of the enemy?" But the fire refused to kindle.

He said, "I think of you so much I am almost beside myself." A shadow passed the window and he saw a girl carrying the baby across a neatly trimmed lawn. "It's so little, " he said.

"You are surprised, are you? You thought perhaps he might be older even your own son?"

She was taunting him, but when he turned towards her he saw the real tears in her eyes.

"I wish to God he were mine. Ours! "

He heard his horse being led to the front of the house again. The housekeeper would feel happier if he left without further delay. She would likely tell Keen about his visit.

He laid the two letters on the table. "For your husband. They were my key to your door. But I failed…"

"What did you expect? That I would take you to my bed merely because it is you, because you always get what you want?"

He picked up his hat and pushed his unruly hair from his forehead. He did not see her start at the familiar gesture. "I wanted only you, Zenoria." It was the first time he had spoken her name here. "I did not have the right, or the courage to tell you that I loved you."

She pulled a silk bell-cord. "Please go." She watched him move to the library door, her figure very still. "Perhaps God will forgive both of us, but I can never forgive you."

The door closed, and for several minutes she stood quite still until she heard a groom calling out his thanks to the young captain for the coins that had been put into his hand. Only then did she take a small book from one of the piles, and after a further hesitation she opened it. Pressed in the middle were a pair of wild roses, now as flat as silk. He had given them to her on that ride, on his birthday. She said to the silent room, "And I loved you, Adam. I always will."

Then she dried her eyes and adjusted her gown before going to the double doors and out into the sunshine.

The old gardener was still working unhurriedly. Only his barrow and musket had moved. Along the drive and through the gates she could see the road. It was empty. As if none of it had happened.

She heard the child crying, the placating sounds from Val's sister, who had wanted one of her own.

All was as it had been before. But she knew she had just lost everything.

Bolitho paused by the ballroom's pillared entrance, using the time it took for a bewigged footman to notice him to accustom his own eyes to the light.

The footman had a reedy voice, and he thought it unlikely that anyone heard his announcement above the scrape of violins from an orchestra and the great din of voices. It was certainly a very impressive house in fashionable St. James's Square, 'noble' as Catherine had aptly described it, and far too large for Hamett-Parker alone. The admiral had lost his wife in a hunting accident, but had certainly retained a liking for lavish living. Bolitho had also noticed a marble statue of a centurion in the entrance hall, and had realised then that it had been put there by the house's original owner, Admiral Anson, to commemorate his own flagship of that name.

Footmen and some Royal Marines pressed into service to assist them laboured through the throng. There were red coats and the scarlet of the marines, but the navy's blue and white made up the majority of guests: there were very few below the rank of post captain. Of His Majesty there was no sign, and Bolitho had heard that he quite often failed to attend such receptions even though he was reminded of them by his long-suffering staff.

He felt a prickle of annoyance as he saw the large number of women present. Some might be wives: some, with their bold glances and barely-covered bosoms, were unlikely guests. But they did not count because nobody cared. If any ordinary officer were having an affair others would merely ignore it. But if Catherine had been on his arm, looking as she did on these rare occasions, you could have heard a pin drop, and every eye would be staring.

Someone took his hat and was lost amongst the crowd. Another, a Royal Marine, reached him with a tray and turned it carefully towards him. Bolitho glanced at him questioningly and the marine said in a conspiratorial whisper, "That's the good stuff, Sir Richard." He nearly winked. "I'm proud to be servin' you. Wait till I tells the lads! "

Bolitho sipped the wine. It was good. Cold too, surprisingly enough. "Do I know you?"

The man grinned, as if such things were impossible. "Bless you, no, Sir Richard. I was one o' Benbow's after guard when you came for us." His face was suddenly grim. "I'd bin wounded, y'see, otherwise I'd 'ave bin lyin' dead with all me mates."

Bolitho heard someone snap his fingers, and turned to see a captain he did not know beckoning to the marine.

This was one of Thomas Herrick's own marines, a man who thought himself lucky to be alive and recovered from his wound, unlike so many on that terrible day.

He snapped, "Have you no manners, sir?"

The captain stared at him and at his rank and seemed to sink into the throng like a fish in a pond.

He said, "Rear-Admiral Herrick was my friend."

The marine nodded gravely. He had seen the captain flush, then cringe at this man's sharp rebuke. Something else to tell the lads in the barracks.

"I knows it, Sir Richard. Beggin' yer pardon, I think it's wrong to send 'im to New South Wales."

Bolitho took another goblet from among the good stuff and nodded. Why had he said, 'was my friend'? Was there no hope? Was friendship really dead between them? Herrick had always been a stubborn man, sometimes beyond sense or reason. He could still not accept Bolitho's love for a woman not his wife, even though Catherine had been the only one to stay with Herrick's own beloved Dulcie when she had been dying so horribly of typhus. It was a miracle that Catherine herself had not fallen to the same fate.

He looked through a gap in the crowd and saw Hamett-Parker watching him intently, his pale eyes reflecting the hundreds of candles like chips of glass.

Bolitho walked towards him. The marine had vanished for another tray. Bolitho had smelt brandy on his breath: he had better watch his step if his officer noticed it.

Hamett-Parker bobbed his head. "I was aware of the charisma they say you possess, Sir Richard. That common fellow was obviously an admirer."

"I always draw comfort from such men, Sir James. I saw what he and his comrades endured. He and others like him make me very aware of what we owe them in leadership."

The admiral grunted. "I'll not deny that. But we must all take care that popularity does not win more friends than leadership." He glanced around at the noisy crowd. "Lord Godschale would have approved, don't you think?"

"What has become of him?" He sensed that Hamett-Parker was trying to goad him.

"He should be well on his way to Bombay by now." The admiral appeared indifferent, but his voice was sharper. "A most important position with the Honourable East India Company. Extremely lucrative, I would surmise."

Bolitho could not imagine Godschale willingly exchanging the pleasures of London for the intense heat and fevers of India. Hamett-Parker remarked, "I believe it was not unexpected. An indiscretion can often be overlooked. A political scandal cannot." He gazed at him coldly. "As I said, one must lead by example! "

"Is Captain Keen to be here tonight, Sir James?"

Hamett-Parker offered a faint smile. "No. He is not long married, and I can spare him a while."

"I had hoped that he would be promoted directly to flag rank."

"Were you?"

Bolitho prayed that someone would come and interrupt this verbal fencing match. "No, I was not. I was commodore first." Hamett-Parker would know that better than anyone. He contained his anger and added, "I have known Captain Keen for a long time. He was a midshipman under my command. He is a fine officer and a decent man."

"And comes from a powerful and influential family, yes? I respect your concern, of course, but you must accept that Captain Keen must be more than a fine officer to hoist his flag as rear-admiral. But we shall see. He will have every chance to prove himself, that I promise you."

A footman came towards them, a single goblet in the centre of his tray. The admiral took it and said, "Refreshing at times like these."

Bolitho noticed that he was drinking lime juice. Perhaps so that he could watch the antics of his subordinates and equals as the hock and madeira flowed freely.

Hamett-Parker frowned but instantly contained it as Sir Paul Sillitoe, elegantly dressed in dark grey silk and wearing a slender court sword at his hip, strode across the floor.

"My apologies for my late arrival, Sir James." Several guests nearby were making a pretence of not listening. They were not to be disappointed. "I have been with the prime minister we saw His Majesty together. The King will not be coming here after all."

Hamett-Parker regarded him balefully. "What ails him now?"

Sillitoe smiled at Bolitho for the first time, then said, "We have just received word, Sir James, from Talavera. General Wellesley has won a great victory over Marshal Soult. The war on the Peninsula is all but won."

There was a stunned silence, then as the word spread across the room and into other parts of the house a great burst of wild cheering made the chandeliers quiver like pieces of ice.

Hamett-Parker nodded. "Earlier than expected." He sounded completely unmoved.

Sillitoe took a glass of wine and smiled again. "A perfect way to celebrate your appointment, Sir James. Congratulations! " He looked at Bolitho. "A great moment for you also, sir. Without you and your seamen no soldier could have set foot on enemy soil! "

Hamett-Parker said, "We shall sup very shortly, while some of them can still stand. Pass the word! "

As the admiral turned away to play the host, however ungraciously, Sillitoe said lightly, "You are alone tonight, Sir Richard?" His hooded eyes gave nothing away.

"I came only because Lady Catherine insisted."

He nodded impassively. "Very wise. There are times when discretion is worth more than a squadron."

Bolitho was suddenly tired of it. "I'll not wait. I shall make my excuses."

Sillitoe shrugged. "We shall meet again very soon. There is work for both of us now that Arthur Wellesley has dished up his old enemy."

"What is it to be?" He wanted to leave, but needed to know.

Sillitoe took his arm and guided him to an anteroom where the din of cheers and tipsy laughter were muffled, if not quenched completely.

"Advise me, Richard, and I will advise the Duke of Portland. The French intend to strangle our trade our lifeline, if you like."

"I read of the latest attacks. If we had not captured the French rear-admiral Andre Baratte I would see his hand in this."

Sillitoe smiled gently. "You are very shrewd. But Baratte was released, exchanged for Lord Derwent who was captured in Spain. You see? So soon back in England and already you are proving your worth." The smile widened but did not reach his eyes. "Especially to me! "

He pulled out his watch and yawned. "My carriage is outside. I will take you to Chelsea, if you like. We can talk in peace."

In sight of the Thames again, the street deserted in an unexpected rainfall, Sillitoe lost no time in questioning Bolitho about the threat to merchant shipping.

"I am all ears, Richard, eager for knowledge. I would never make a sailor in five hundred years! "

Bolitho was still pondering the stupidity of those who had chosen to exchange Baratte for some English aristocrat. Baratte had had a high reputation as a frigate captain and then as commodore of a squadron before being promoted to his rank. Several attempts had been made to capture him in battle, all unsuccessful. It had fallen to Bolitho's Tybalt to change matters by seizing Baratte's frigate and the man himself when all the odds had decreed otherwise. It was said that Baratte hated the English as much as he loved France; and now he was gone, probably better aware of England 's strength or weakness than before his capture.

Sillitoe remarked, "We hold Good Hope, largely thanks to you. Surely that should be enough?"

Bolitho saw the straggling trade routes in his mind, from India and the East Indies, as far as New South Wales and the expanding colony there. Baratte would have the pick of any ship or cargo he chose to attack. But he would need a base, somewhere to water and provision his ships and unload his prizes. It could be no half-hearted operation like the haphazard killing and plunder practised by common pirates.

He said, "We would need a small, fast-moving squadron, a flotilla even. Six frigates with a competent captain…" He sensed Sillitoe's reaction and said, "I know. It is like asking for the moon. But without a planned and practical strategy the losses will become worse and their lordships will be forced to release more men-of-war, no matter how badly they are needed in home waters." He glanced out of the window and wished that Sillitoe were sitting on his right. His eye was sore, and he wanted to touch it even though he knew it would not help.

He said, "Like Baratte, I suppose I have always been a frigate captain at heart. I commanded three. It was like nothing else."

"Oh? What of SparrowT

He tensed. "She was a sloop-of-war, not even as big as a sixth-rate." Like Hamett-Parker, the mysterious Sillitoe had done his research well.

"I see."

Bolitho continued. "There are the anti-slavery patrols that run out of Good Hope and Freetown. Their aid could be useful. They would know all the likely anchorages, if only from interrogating the slavers when they catch them." He was reminded again of Tyacke. A dedicated seaman, alone because of his terrible disfigurement, and yet able to command respect and a kind of strange affection from the men who served with him. That day when they had been close to death, the sight of Lame had made even the hardest survivor gasp out his thanks to heaven.

Sillitoe was saying, "That is one of the things I like about you. You don't merely toss away ideas without consideration. You think them through, as only a professional officer can. Our new lord of Admiralty is not yet ready to bend. In time he will have to."

"Why did Godschale leave?"

Sillitoe said coolly, "You are also very direct. Godschale, as I think you know, was fond of the ladies. But he was neither consistent nor careful. He compromised a lady of quality, then spurned her for another. It was unfortunate that the one he turned his back on was the wife of a certain member of the House of Lords. More I cannot say."

"He will not like Bombay."

Sillitoe watched him from the shadows. That is an understatement."

It was very dark when they reached the house but the rain had stopped, and there were stars already showing between the clouds.

"I have a favour to ask you, Richard."

Bolitho half-turned, one hand on the carriage door. "Well?"

"You will need a good flag-lieutenant when you take up your next appointment, now that young Jenour has become the amateur captain. I think I have the right one for you." He sounded as if he were smiling in the darkness. "My nephew, to be exact. At present serving as lieutenant in the old Cano-pus. The ship is undergoing extensive repairs at the Nore."

"I would have to see him."

"Naturally. I will arrange it. He is not one of those pompous little upstarts… he is intelligent, better educated than many who wear the King's coat."

"I cannot promise anything." It was strange to think of Sillitoe having a nephew, or any relations for that matter. Catherine had told him that Sillitoe had known her dead husband, Viscount Somervell. In what role, he wondered. Gambler, duel list or cheat? One usually led to the others. But not Sillitoe. He was too clever, too secretive.

He was looking out at the darkened house. "My regards to Lady Catherine. A pity she is not at home." He rapped the carriage roof. "Drive on! "

Bolitho touched his eye. He always trusted Catherine's instincts about people. Wait and see, she had said. Where Sillitoe was concerned it was sound advice.

The housekeeper opened the door and said, "I've a table laid for you, Sir Richard."

"Thank you, no, I've no appetite. I shall go to our room."

Our room. He closed the door behind him and looked around at their other haven. Her perfume was here; the gown she wore so often when she came to bed because he liked it so much, as if she might enter at any moment.

He hurried to the window as a carriage slowed down at the street corner. But it carried on past the house. They had been separated only because she had feared he could be blamed for snubbing the reception. Hamett-Parker would know he had left early; he would also be told that he and Sillitoe had been together. He tossed his heavy dress coat on to a chair, and smiled when he thought how indignant Ozzard would be about it.

He lay staring at the dancing shadows cast by a solitary candle and thought of her kneeling over him, or lying with her dark hair spread out in disorder across the pillows while she waited for him, unashamed, even proud of the body which he would explore until they could delay no longer.

He was soon asleep, and even then she was with him.