Bethune turned away and looked across the courtyard.
“I will see them.” He added abruptly, “Separately.”
Onslow understood, or thought he did. He would do it by seniority.
Bethune was well aware of the peculiar rivalry between Adam Bolitho and Emlyn Bouverie of the frigate Matchless. They scarcely knew one another, and yet it had leaped into being. He thought of the successes his small squadron had achieved, despite, or perhaps even because of this personal conflict. It might even be used to greater advantage if he could enlarge his chain of command here. He smiled again. He could never go back to being a mere captain, and he wondered why he had not noticed the change in himself before.
Adam Bolitho stood aside to allow two heavily laden donkeys to push their way through the narrow street. When he glanced up at the strip of blue sky overhead, it seemed the buildings were almost touching.
He had deliberately taken a longer route from the jetty where he had landed from the gig, perhaps for the exercise, maybe to think; his mind was only vaguely aware of the babble of voices around him. So many tongues, so many different nationalities crammed together in apparent harmony. Plenty of uniforms, too. The Union Flag was obviously here to stay.
There were stairs across this part of the street, and he felt the stabbing pain, when earlier he had all but forgotten it.
He paused to give himself time and heard the gentle tap of a hammer. Here the open-fronted shops were as varied as the passers-by. A man selling grain, another asleep beside a pile of gaudy carpets. He ducked beneath a canopy and saw a man sitting cross-legged at a low table. The sound was that of his hammer against a miniature anvil.
He looked up as Adam’s shadow fell across shallow baskets full of metal, probably Spanish silver like the chain on Catherine’s locket, and asked in faultless English, “Something for a lady, Captain? I have much to offer.”
Adam shook his head.
“I may return later…” He hesitated, and bent to examine a perfect replica of a sword. “What is this?”
The silversmith shrugged. “Not old, Captain. Made for a French officer who was here,” he gave a polite smile, “before you came. But never collected. The war, you understand.”
Adam picked up the sword, so small, but heavy for its size. A brooch, or a clasp of some kind. He smiled; he was being ridiculous, and he knew it.
The silversmith watched him calmly. “There is an inscription, very small. It must have been important. It says Destiny, Captain.” He paused. “I have other pieces also.”
Adam turned it over in the palm of his hand. “You speak very good English.”
Again the shrug. “I learned in Bristol, many years ago!” He laughed, and several people who had paused to observe the transaction joined in.
Adam heard none of them. “Destiny.” Like the horizon which never got any nearer.
Somewhere a bell began to chime, and he clapped his hand to his empty watch pocket. He was late. Outwardly at least, Bethune was tolerant enough, but he was still a vice-admiral.
He said, “I would like to have it.”
The silversmith watched him take out his purse, and when he was satisfied held up one hand.
“That is enough, Captain.” He smiled as Adam held it to the light. “If the lady declines it, sir, I will buy it back from you, at a consideration, of course.”
Adam returned to the sunlight a little dazed, amazed at his own foolish innocence.
He touched his hat to a Royal Marine sentry and walked into the courtyard.
An unknown French officer, and a silversmith from Bristol.
Then he saw her on the balcony, in the same gown she had been wearing when she had left Unrivalled. She was looking down at him, but she did not smile or wave to him.
He felt it again, like a challenge. Destiny. The horizon.
And he knew it was already too late for caution.
Adam was surprised by the warmth of Bethune’s welcome, as if he were genuinely pleased, relieved even, to see him.
“Sit here.” He gestured to a chair far from the reflected glare. “I saw you come through the gates just now-limping, I thought. I read the full report.” He glanced at the dour-faced clerk at the other table. “Most of it, in any case. I am glad it was nothing worse.”
“The shot struck my watch. Which is why I was late, sir.”
He saw Bethune look meaningly at his flag lieutenant. So they had noticed.
“You are here and you are safe, that’s the main thing. I am so damned short of vessels I am beginning to think that nobody cares in the Admiralty.” He laughed, and Adam saw the young officer again.
Bethune said, “We shall take wine in a moment. I would ask you to stay for a meal, but I have matters which require prompt action.” The easy smile again. “But you’ve heard all that before, eh? We all have!”
Adam realised for the first time that Bethune was adrift here in Malta. Perhaps high command was even lonelier than the life of a captain.
“No matter, sir. I have to return to my ship. But thank you.”
Bethune walked to the window, one hand tapping against the flaking shutter.
“Captain Bouverie of Matchless was here.”
“I saw him briefly, sir.”
“Not a happy man, I fear. His ship badly requires an overhaul. She has been the longest out here, as far as I am aware.”
Adam thought of something he had heard Jago say. Like a man who’s found a penny but lost a guinea. It fitted Bouverie well.
And Adam did not need to be told. If Matchless was sent to a dockyard in England she might be paid off, laid up, her company disbanded.
It could happen to me. To us.
He saw Bethune step back from the shutter, and knew he had been watching the balcony. Watching her. The revelation surprised him, and he began to see him in quite a different light, recalling that Catherine had spoken of him favourably in her letters. Rank had its privileges, and its drawbacks too, apparently.
Bethune said, “We have received information from what is judged to be a reliable source.” He waited for Adam to join him at the other table where Onslow had arranged a chart, weighed down with carved ivory figurines. “These islands to the south-west of Malta. Owned by nobody, claimed by many.” He tapped the chart. “Almost midway ’twixt here and the coast of Tunis. They are useless for trade or habitation except for a few fishermen, and not many of those, with the corsairs so active in these waters.”
He stood aside as Adam bent over the chart.
“I know them, sir, but at a distance. Dangerous shoals, not even safe for an anchorage. But small craft,” he looked up and saw Bethune nod, “they would find the islands useful.” There was a sudden silence, broken only by the scratching of the clerk’s pen.
Even the sounds of the street did not penetrate to this room.
“Some of the islands have high points of ground.” He touched the chart as if to confirm it. “When this one was last corrected, it stated that two of them could be three hundred feet or more above sea level.”
Bethune rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I believe the corsairs are sheltering their chebecs among these islands. The high ground rules out any kind of normal approach. A blind lookout would see our t’gallants before we got within five leagues of the place!”
“And the information is good, sir?”
Bethune glanced towards the window again, but seemed to change his mind.
“Two traders have been attacked in the past week, another is missing. A Sicilian vessel saw the chebecs-her master has given us some useful information over the years. Us and the French, of course!”
Adam said quietly, “My uncle always had the greatest respect for the chebecs, sir. His flagship Frobisher was attacked by some of them. Lieutenant Avery told me about it.”
They both looked at the empty chair, and Bethune said, “He saw what many of us missed.”
Adam walked a few paces. “A landing party. At night. Volunteers.”
“Royal Marines?”
“I think not, sir. They are fine fighters, but they are foot soldiers at heart. This would require stealth, men used to working aloft in all weathers, sure-footed, eager.”