“Well met, Captain Bolitho! For a moment I thought I had taken the wrong turning.”
It was a small carriage drawn by two horses, probably because of the steeper inclines of the road. And despite the familiarity of the greeting, the face staring from the open window was that of a stranger, lean and narrow with deepset eyes, the hair completely grey, the voice confident and cultured.
“I understand you’re heading for the harbour?” The door creaked open. “I’m going that way. Please join me.”
Adam shook his head. “I cannot. My shoes are …”
The man pushed the door back as far as it would go and held up one of his feet. “Mine too. But I’m glad I was there.”
And Adam remembered seeing him in the graveyard, almost hidden among the officials and visitors, but somehow remaining remote, apart from them all.
He thrust out a hand as hard and lean as himself. “I’m Godden, by the way.” He smiled, and seemed younger. “I was hoping to meet you, but time ran out. Today changed that.” He slid across the bench seat so that Adam could climb in beside him. The coachman who had jumped down to hold the horses was waiting silently. “Carry on, Toby!”
The carriage turned back on to the road, and Adam’s mind groped with the sudden shift of events. The man sitting beside him was not merely “Godden.” He was the Honourable Sir Charles Godden, the admiral’s “important guest,” who had had every one on the move since his arrival in Freetown.
Godden said, “I have been hearing quite a lot about you, Captain Bolitho. This recent venture must seem a reward for all the work supported by Rear-Admiral Langley and his staff. Do you see any end to the slave trade in view? It is illegal in most countries, but the business goes on, although the admiral seems to think it is already in decline … almost finished except in name.”
Adam hesitated. This meeting was no accident, and it was more than a mere courtesy.
He said carefully, “There are always men willing to take the risk, if the money is ready and sufficient. Slaves are being taken from these shores as far away as Brazil and Cuba, despite the efforts of the patrols and the threat of punishment if caught.”
He stared through the window next to him. Even so diplomatic a comment sounded disloyal, against the code of duty and loyalty as a sea officer.
Godden said, “Politics and the navy have much in common,” and tapped some dried mud from his shoe. “Robert Walpole is regarded as Britain’s first true prime minister.” He paused. “Except by the Irish, of course!” He became serious again. “Walpole was a man I would have dearly liked to know. We could all still learn from his example. His family motto, for instance. The part I remember is, Fari quae sentias.” He twisted round and gripped Adam’s arm. “Speak as you feel!”
He rapped the inside of the roof. “Here, Toby!”
The carriage juddered to a halt, dust settling around it in a yellow cloud. Godden turned easily in his seat, his eyes in shadow. “I know a good deal about you, and I have learned more since I arrived here.” He seemed to sense a challenge, and added, “Not from staff officers.”
He tapped his chest. “Or politicians like me. But from ordinary, decent men like the ones you lead. Who trust you.”
Adam opened the door and said sharply, “And who die because of me!”
He stepped down into the road so that Medusa seemed to be towering over him. Solid, real.
They shook hands, but only their eyes spoke. Then Adam turned toward the steps to the jetty. His arrival would already have been reported.
I should have walked.
But the words were still ringing in his mind: Speak as you feel.
Lieutenant James Squire halted in a patch of shade by an unfinished wall and looked across the graveyard, deserted after the orderly departure of the uniforms and the local people who had occupied most of the spare ground, watching curiously. Now it was over, the graves neatly marked and numbered to await the stone or wooden crosses. He stretched and felt his tendons crack. By which time Onward should be at sea again. Never look back. He had seen a lot of good men die over his years at sea, and a few he still remembered.
He heard two of the gravediggers talking to one another, one of them smoking a well-used pipe. To them it was just a job of work, and rightly so.
He felt in his pocket to ensure he had the signed papers Bolitho had told him to collect while he was reporting to the admiral. He felt his sunburned face crease into a frown. The admiral should have been the first here to show his respect. Gratitude. He thought of Luke Jago, and what he might have said. That will be the bloody day!
He glanced down at his shoes; the mud had dried on them like iron. He recalled that the senior chaplain had been careful to stand on a rug throughout the service. He thought by contrast of the sea burials, the captain speaking the familiar words.
He turned, caught off-guard by a woman’s voice.
“Over here, if you’re certain …”
Two of them, one who was still pointing toward the graves, dressed in a white cape like a nun or a medical attendant, round-faced, smiling tolerantly. The other was Claire Dundas. Her arms were full of blossoms, a splash of colour against her plain gown. Her companion was carrying a kind of frame of neatly tied canes.
Claire looked across directly at him, her face partly hidden by flowers. “I thought we were too late.”
Squire heard the other woman say, “Don’t forget, Claire dear, the doctor wants to see you on the hour.”
The girl ignored her. “I saw you sail into harbour.” She did not look at him. “I had a telescope.”
Squire strode across the uneven ground and reached without thinking for her hand. The blossoms remained between them like a barrier.
She said quietly, “I prayed for you,” and gazed away, almost guiltily. “For … all of you.”
“I haven’t forgotten. I was hoping to see you somehow …” Squire broke off awkwardly and touched the ribbon around the flowers. “These are fine. Are they lilies?”
She smiled for the first time, perhaps with relief that he had changed the subject. “No, only vines. Bleeding Heart, they’re called here.” She shook them gently, and only then looked at him. “They will not last long, but I just thought-” She did not go on.
He knew he was staring at her but could not help himself, as if the woman in white and the gravediggers were invisible, remembering how she had struggled and fought to free herself as he had tried to carry her to safety, her nakedness scarcely covered by his uniform coat. He could see the scar on her wrist, fading, but still visible enough to remind her. And although she had arranged her hair differently, he could still see the dark bruise on her forehead.
He said, “I must see you. Not here.” He took her wrist and felt her tense. “Not like this, Claire.”
The other voice intruded. “We really must leave now. They will be expecting you.”
He released her wrist and stooped to pick up some of the vines which had dropped between them. “I’ve been so worried about you.” He looked up into her face, in shadow against the clear sky.
She said, “You saved my life.” She broke off, and took a few paces as if to join her companion. “I will never forget … Jamie.”
Squire watched them leave. She did not look back, and the vines lay where they had fallen.
A voice muttered, “‘Ere, sir, I’ll put ‘em on show,” and there was an intake of breath as Squire thrust some coins into his fist. It must have been more than he realised.
It was over. It had never begun.
Rowlatt, the master-at-arms, watched impatiently as the harbour launch thrust away from Onward‘s side and headed toward the shore, faster this time, having unloaded the seamen and marines from the funeral muster. Then he strode aft toward the quarterdeck where the first lieutenant was inspecting an unexpected delivery of purser’s stores. So much for a day of mourning …