It had been Rhodes ’ cousin, once Frobisher’s captain, who had attempted to rape Catherine. Because I allowed her to go home
unescorted. He thought of Adam’s face when he had mentioned
Rhodes ’ particular interest in Sir Richard Bolitho’s flagship. He had been ashamed that he could conceal the full truth, but it would have helped no one, least of all Catherine, and he had to consider what old hatreds might do to his own future, as well as Adam’s.
But the much-used code of conduct failed to afford him any comfort. It seemed in this instance merely a device which placed expediency before honour and friendship.
He studied his successor once more. Rhodes was tall and heavily built, and had once been handsome. His face was dominated by a strong, beaked nose which made his eyes appear small by comparison, but the eyes, overshadowed though they were, missed nothing. The band was comprised of soldiers borrowed at short notice from the garrison commander, a friend of Captain Forbes; the frigates carried Royal Marine drummers and fifers but they had not yet paraded together. Rhodes had commented on the music, a military quick march, which he thought inappropriate.
The walls had been lined with people watching the ceremony, and Bethune had found himself wondering how long it would take news of Rhodes ’ appointment to reach the Dey of Algiers.
He walked across the dusty jetty as the guard was dismissed and the onlookers began to disperse. He saw Sir Lewis Bazeley standing in the shade of a clump of sun-dried trees; how would he get along with Rhodes, if he stayed in Malta? An energetic man, eager, Bethune had thought, to impress on younger men what he could do, although Bethune could not imagine him having anything in common with the girl he had married. He had never known if Lady Bazeley had really been in ill health when she had declined to accompany them in the brig. He had thought about Adam’s presence here during that time, but Forbes had said nothing to him on the subject, and he was, after all, his flag captain.
And finally, he considered England, the grey skies and chill breezes of October. He smiled. It would be wonderful.
Rhodes strode over to join him. “Smart turn-out, Sir Graham. Standards-they count more than ever, eh?”
Bethune said, “I shall show you the temporary headquarters building, m’ lord. I have sent for a carriage.”
Rhodes grinned. “Not a bit of it, we’ll walk. I can see the great barn of a place from here!” He gestured to his flag lieutenant. “Tell the others!”
Bethune sighed. Another Bazeley, or so it seemed.
By the time they had gone halfway Rhodes was breathing heavily, and his face was blotched with sweat, but he had never stopped firing questions. About the six frigates in the squadron, and the expectations of getting more. About the many smaller craft, brigs, schooners and cutters which were the eyes and ears of the man whose flag flew in command.
They paused in deep, refreshing shadow while Rhodes turned to stare at the anchored men-of-war, shimmering in haze above their reflections.
“And Unrivalled’s one of them, is she?” He looked at Bethune, his eyes like black olives. “Bolitho, what’s he like?”
“A good captain, m’ lord. Successful as well as experienced. What the navy is going to need more than ever now.”
“Ambitious, then?” He looked at the ships again. “He’s done well, I’ll give him that. Father a traitor, mother a whore. He’s done very well, I’d say!” He laughed and strode on.
Bethune contained his fury, at Rhodes and with himself. When he reached the Admiralty perhaps he could discover some way to transfer Adam. But not without Unrivalled. She was all he had.
Rhodes had stopped once more, his breathless retinue filling the street.
“And who is that, sir?”
Bethune saw a flash of colour on the balcony as Lady Bazeley withdrew into the shadows.
“Sir Lewis Bazeley’s wife, m’ lord. I explained-”
Rhodes grunted, “Women in their place, that’s one thing.” Again the short, barking laugh Bethune had often heard in London. “But I’ll not have them lifting their skirts to my staff!”
Bethune said nothing. But if it came to drawing a card, his own money would be on Bazeley rather than Rhodes.
And then he knew he was glad to be leaving Malta.
Luke Jago bowed his legs slightly and peered at Halcyon’s stout anchor cable to gauge the distance as the gig swept beneath her tapering jib-boom, then glanced at the stroke oar and over the heads of the crew, easing the tiller-bar until the flagship appeared to be pinioned on the stem-head. They were a good boat’s crew, and he would make certain they stayed that way.
He saw the captain’s bright epaulettes catch the sunlight as he leaned over to gaze at the anchored seventy-four.
Professional interest? It was more than that and Jago knew it.
Felt it. There were plenty of other boats arriving and leaving at God’s command.
Vice-Admiral Bethune at least had seemed human enough, and had obviously got on well with the captain. Now he had gone. Jago had seen Captain Bolitho and the first lieutenant watching the courier brig as she had made sail, with the vice-admiral her only passenger. Most senior officers would have expected something grander than a brig, he thought. Bethune must have been that eager to get away.
And now there was Lord Rhodes, a true bastard to all
accounts. More trouble.
Jago looked at the midshipman sitting below him. The new one, Deighton. Very quiet, so far, not like his father had been. He wondered if the boy had any idea of the truth. Killed in action, for King and Country. His lip almost curled with contempt.
Deighton had been scared rotten even before the ball had marked him down.
The flagship was towering over them now, masts and spars black against a clear blue sky. Every piece of canvas in place, paintwork shining like glass.
A ship, any ship, could look very different in the eyes of those who saw her. Jago knew from hard experience how it could be. To the terrified landsman, snatched from his daily life by the hated press-gang, the ship was a thing of overwhelming terror and threat, where only the strong and the cunning survived. Toa midshipman boarding his first vessel she would appear awe-some, forbidding, but the light of excitement was already kindled, ready to be encouraged or snuffed out.
He looked at the captain’s shoulders, squared now as if to meeting adversary. To him, she would seem different again. He saw him shade his eyes and raise his head, knew what he was looking for, and what it meant to him. Today. Now. The Cross of St George lifting and rippling from Frobisher’s mainmast truck: the admiral’s flag, where his uncle’s had been flying when they had shot him down.
He had died bravely, they said. Without complaint. Jago found he could accept it, especially when he looked at his own captain.
“Bows!” He did not even have to raise his voice. Other coxswains were here, watching, and there were several, grander launches with coloured canopies over their stern sheets.
Jago swore silently. He had almost misjudged the final approach to Frobisher’s main chains, where white-gloved sideboys were waiting to assist their betters to the entry port.
“Oars!” He counted seconds. “Up!”
The gig came to rest alongside perfectly. So you could crack an egg between them, as old coxswains boasted.
But it had been close. Jago had seen the canopied launches. It usually meant that women would be present, officers’ wives maybe, or those of the governor’s staff. But there was only one who troubled him, and he could see her now, half-naked, her gown soaked with spray and worse. And the captain holding her. Not scornful, or making a meal of it like some, most, would have done.
Adam got to his feet, one hand automatically adjusting his sword. For only an instant their eyes met, then Jago said formally, “We shall be waitin’, sir.”