Yovell did not smile. 'I'm worried about you, Sir Richard."
Bolitho looked at them. 'Good friends, all of you. But just now and then I have to act alone.'
He thought suddenly of the livid scar on SomervelPs neck. Was that what was intended to settle the matter? A duel?
He dismissed the idea immediately. Somervell was too anxious to please the King. No, it was to be a skirmish of a different kind.
He said, 'I shall take Allday with me.'
Adam clapped one hand over his hair and exclaimed, 'I am an idiot! I completely forgot it!' He pointed vaguely through the windows. 'I have taken young Bankart as my own coxswain! He marched aboard Firefly at Plymouth when I called there for orders.'
'That was good of you, Adam.'
He grinned but it did not reach his eyes. 'Only right that one bastard should help another!'
The little brig Firefly weighed and put to sea the following day. It was a rush from the moment Bolitho had read the despatches, and he barely had time to summon his captains and to tell them to use the next weeks to supply and refurbish their ships.
Haven had listened to the instructions without any show of surprise or excitement. Bolitho had impressed on him more than any other, that as flag captain it was his obliged duty to watch over the squadron, and not merely the affairs of his own command. He had also made it very clear that no matter what impressive plan Captain McKee of the frigate Tybalt should put forward as an excuse to steal away and regain his independence, it was to be denied. I need that frigate as much, if not more than I need him.
After Hyperion's cabin, the brig's quarters seemed like a cupboard. Only beneath the skylight could Bolitho stand upright, and he knew that the ship's company had to exist in some parts where the deckhead was only four feet six inches high.
But the vessel seemed as lively inboard as out, and Bolitho quickly noticed that there was a very relaxed feeling between afterguard and forecastle, and was secretly proud of what his nephew had done.
He was disturbed by the fact there had been no more news from Catherine and had told himself she was trying to keep up normal appearances until the gossip died, or was transferred to another. But it worried him nevertheless, especially after reading the one letter which had been sent by Belinda.
It was a cool, and what his mother would have called a sensible letter. She referred only briefly to the infatuation with this woman, something which could be forgiven if not understood. Nothing would be allowed to stand between them. Ishall not tolerate it. Had she written in anger he might have felt less troubled. Perhaps she had already met Catherine at one of the receptions which attracted Belinda so much. But that also seemed unlikely.
Once into the Western Ocean Firefly began to live up to her name. Adam kept her standing well out and away from land as day by day they beat their way around the southern shores of Portugal, then north towards the Bay of Biscay. When he asked Adam why he was standing so far out from land he explained with an awkward grin that it was to avoid the weatherbeaten ships of the blockading squadrons. 'If any captain sees Firefly he'll make a signal for me to heave-to so that he can pass over mail for England! This time, I do not have an hour to waste!'
Bolitho found time to pity the men of the blockading squadrons. Week in and week out they tacked up and down in all weathers, while the enemy rested safely in harbour and watched their every move. It was the most hated duty of all, as Hyperion's newer hands would soon appreciate.
The passage of twelve hundred miles from Gibraltar to Portsmouth was one of the liveliest Bolitho could recall. He spent much of the time on deck with Adam, shouting to each other above the roar of spray and wind as the brig spread her canvas to such a degree that Bolitho wondered why the sticks were not torn out of her.
It was exhilarating to be with him again, to see how he had changed from the eager lieutenant to a man in command. Who knew the strain of every piece of cordage and canvas, and could give confidence to those who did not. Sometimes he liked to quote Nelson, the hero he so obviously admired. His first lieutenant, quite new to Bolitho, had asked him nervously about reefing when the Biscay gales had sprung up suddenly like some fierce tribe.
Adam had called above the din, 'It is time to reef when you feel like it!'
Another time he had quoted his uncle when a master's mate had asked about getting the men fed, before or after changing tack?
Adam had glanced across at Bolitho and smiled. 'The people come first this time.'
Then into the Western Approaches and up the Channel, exchanging signals with watchful patrols, and then on a glorious spring morning they sighted the Isle of Wight. Five and a half days from Gibraltar. They had flown right enough.
Bolitho and Adam went to a smaller inn, and not the George, to await the Portsmouth Flier to London. Perhaps they had both spoken so much about the last time they had left Portsmouth together. Too many memories, maybe? Like being cleansed of something bad.
It had been like a tonic to see Allday with his son throughout the lively passage. Now they too were saying their farewells, while young Bankart remained with his ship and Allday boarded the coach. Bolitho protested that Allday had to be an outsider, because the coach was filled to capacity.
Allday merely grinned and looked scornfully at the plump merchants who were the other passengers.
'I want to see the land, Sir Richard, not listen to th' Heatings o' th' likes o' them! I'll be fine on the upper deck!'
Bolitho settled in a corner, his eyes closed as a defence against conversation. Several people had noticed his rank, and were probably waiting to ask him about the war. At least the merchants appeared to be doing well out of it, he thought.
Adam sat opposite him, his eyes distant as he watched the rolling Hampshire countryside, his reflection in the coach window like the portraits at Falmouth. ~
On and on, stops for fresh horses, tankards of ale from saucy wenches at the various coaching inns. Heavy meals when they halted so that the passengers could ease their aching muscles and test their appetites on anything from rabbit pie to the best beef. The further you went from the sea, the less sign of war you found, Bolitho decided.
The coach ground to a halt at the final inn at Ripley in the county of Surrey.
Bolitho walked along the narrow street, his cloak worn to conceal his uniform although the air was warm and filled with the scent of flowers.
England. My England.
He watched the steaming horses being led to their stables and sighed. Tomorrow they would alight at the George in Southwark. London.
Then she would give him back his confidence. Standing there, without a uniform in sight, and the sound of laughter from the inn he found he was able to say it out loud.
'Kate. I love thee.'
12. The One-Legged Man
Admiral Sir Owen Godschale watched while his servant carried a decanter of claret to a small table and then withdrew. Outside the tall windows the sun was shining, the air hot and dusty, remote like the muffled sounds of countless carriage wheels.
Bolitho took time to sip the claret, surprised that the Admiralty could still make him ill-at-ease and on the defensive. Everything had changed for him; it should be obvious, he thought. He and Adam had been ushered into a small, comfortably furnished library, something quite different from the large reception room he had seen earlier. It had been crowded with sea-officers, mostly captains, or so it had appeared. Restlessly waiting to meet a senior officer or his lackey, to ask favours, to plead for commands, new ships, almost anything. As I once was, he had thought. He still could not get used to the immediate respect, the servility of the Admiralty's servants and guardians.