He did not hear the heavy tramp of feet and the clink of weapons until a voice shouted, "You there! Stand and be examined! "
He could barely stop himself shaking as he turned and saw the press gang poised on the corner he had just come around. Not like the ones you saw in fishing villages or naval seaports. These men were armed to the teeth as they hunted for likely recruits in an area which was crammed with sailors, nearly all of whom would
have the right papers, the "Protection" to keep them free of the navy.
A massive gunner's mate, a cudgel hanging from his wrist, a cutlass thrust carelessly through his belt, said, "Wot's this then?" He peered at Ozzard's blue coat with the bright gilt buttons, the buckled shoes beloved by sailors whenever they had funds enough to buy them. "You're no sailor, I'll be damn sure o' that! " He put a hand on Ozzard's shoulder and swung him round to face his grinning party of seamen. "What say you, lads?"
Ozzard said shakily, "I-I do serve-"
"Stand aside! " A lieutenant pushed through his men and regarded Ozzard curiously. "Speak up, fellow! The Fleet needs more hands." He ran his eye over Ozzard's frail person. "What ship, if serve you do?"
"I-I am servant to Sir Richard Bolitho." He found he was able to look up at the lieutenant without flinching. "ViceAdmiral of the Red. He is presently in London."
The lieutenant asked, "Hyperion-was she your last ship?" All his impatience had gone. As Ozzard nodded he said, "Be off with you, man. This is no place for honest people after dark."
The gunner's mate glanced at his lieutenant as if for consent, then pressed some coins into Ozzard's fist.
"'Ere, go an' get a good wet. Reckon you've bloody earned it after wot you must 'er seen an' done! "
Ozzard blinked and nearly broke down. A wet. What Allday would have said. His whole being wanted to scream at them. Didn't they see the name on the shop front? What would they have said had he told them how he had run most of the way to Tower Hill to seek out a recruiting party? In those days there was always one hanging around near the taverns and the theatre. Ready to ply some drunken fool with rum before they signed him on in a daze of patriotic fervour. How would they have behaved if he'd described what he had left behind in that quiet little house? He made himself look at it. The window was no longer in the sun.
When he turned the press gang had vanished, and for a second longer he imagined it was another part of the torment, the stab of guilt which left him no peace. Then he looked down at his hand and opened the fingers while his body began to shake uncontrollably There were the coins the gunner's mate had given him. "I don't want your pity." The coins jangled across the cobbles as he flung them into the lengthening shadows. "Leave me alone! "
He heard someone call out, saw a curtain move in the house next to the one which had once been his. But nobody came.
He sighed and turned his back on the place, and the shop with his stolen name on the front.
Somewhere in the warren of alleys he heard a sudden scuffle, someone bellow with pain, then silence. The press gang had found at least one victim who would awake with a bloody head aboard the Thames guardship.
Ozzard thrust his hands into his coat pockets and began the long walk back to that other part of London.
His small figure was soon lost in the shadows, while behind him, the house was as before. Waiting.
Just a few miles upstream from Wapping where Ozzard had made his despairing pilgrimage, Bolitho bent over to offer his hand to Catherine, and assist her from the wherry in which they had crossed the Thames. It was early darkness, the cloudless sky pin-pointed with countless stars: a perfect evening to begin what Catherine had promised to be "a night of enchantment."
Bolitho put some money into the wherryman's hand, with a little extra so that he would be here to carry them back across the swirling black river. The man had a cheeky grin, and had not taken his eyes off Catherine while he had pulled his smart little craft lustily over the choppy water.
Bolitho did not blame him. She had been standing in Lord Browne's hallway beneath a glittering chandelier when he had come down the staircase. In a gown of shot silk, very like the one she had worn that night in Antigua when he had met her again for the first time after so long. Catherine loved green, and her gown seemed to change from it to black as she had turned towards him. It was low-cut to reveal her throat and the full promise of her breasts. Her hair was piled high, and he had seen that she was wearing the same filigree earrings which had been his firstever gift to her. The ones she had somehow managed to sew into her clothing when she had been forced into the Waites prison.
The wherryman flashed him a broad grin. "I'll be 'ere, Admiral-nah you go off an' enjoy yerselves! "
Bolitho watched the little boat speed back across the river to seek out another fare.
"I don't understand." He looked down at his plain blue coat, bought in Falmouth from old Joshua Miller. He and his father had been making uniforms for the Bolitho family and other Falmouth seaofficers longer than anyone could recall. "How did he know?"
She flicked open her new fan and watched him above it, her eyes shining in the glow of many lanterns. "More people know about us than I thought! " She tossed her head. "What do you think, Richard? My little surprise-to take your mind off weightier matters?"
Bolitho had heard of the London pleasure gardens but had never visited any. This one at Vauxhall was the most famous of all. It certainly looked enchanted. Lantern-lit groves, wild rose hedges, and the sound of birds who enjoyed the merriment and music as much as the visitors.
Bolitho paid the entrance fee of half a crown each and allowed Catherine to guide him into the Grand Walk, a place for promenade, lined with exactly matching elms, and past little gravel walks with secret grottoes and quiet cascades and fountains.
She tightened her grip on his arm and said, "I knew you'd like it. My London." She gestured with the fan towards the many supper booths where splendidly dressed women and their escorts listened to the various orchestras, sipping champagne, cider or claret as the fancy took them.
She said, "Many of the musicians are from the finest orchestras. They work here to keep their pockets filled, their bellies too, until the season returns."
Bolitho removed his hat and carried it. The place was packed with people, the air heavy with perfume to mingle with the flowers and the distant smell of the river.
Catherine had been wearing a broad Spanish-style shawl, for it was known to be cold along the river at night. Now she let it drop to her arms, her throat and breasts shining in lanternlight or changing into provocative depths and shadows as they walked along a path.
It was like an endless panorama, where comic songs and bawdy ballads shared the same status as the work of great composers and lively dancing. There were plenty of uniforms too. Mostly red with the blue facings of the Royal regiments, and some sea-captains from the many ships moored below LondonBridge, and the twisting route which would carry them back to the sea once more.
They paused where two paths crossed, so that it was possible to hear the music of Handel from one angle, while from the opposite direction they could listen to someone singing "Lass of Richmond Hill." And neither seemed to detract from the other, Bolitho thought. Or perhaps it really was enchanted. On the extreme of the brightly lit gardens was "The Dark Walk." Catherine led him into the deep shadows where other couples stood and embraced, or merely held one another in silence.
Then she turned and lifted her face to him, pale in the darkness. "And no, dearest of men, I never walked here with another."
"I would not have blamed you, Kate. Or the man who would lose his heart to you as I did."
She said, "Kiss me. Hold me."
Bolitho felt her arch towards him; sensed the power of their love which hurled all caution and reserve aside.