Tomorrow he would have to leave for the Nore where Tybalt would be waiting. It was merely coincidence that Tybalt should be the frigate ordered to collect him from the squadron, then take him back. She had been the same vessel which had brought him home, still shocked by the loss of his old Hyperion. All else was different he thought. The rugged Scots captain had gone to a seventy-four, his officers allotted to other ships where their experience, even among the youngest, would be priceless.
Bolitho was glad. Memories could be destructive, when he might need all his resolution.
He thought too of the squadron, which was still out in the North Sea, beating up and down, back and forth, waiting to learn the enemy's intentions, sifting information as fishermen will search for a good catch.
Whatever lay ahead of them, his experience or intuition must decide how they would all face it. It was like being in the hub of a great wheel. At first he had taught himself to reach out around him from the Black Prince's poop or quarterdeck, placing names and faces, duties and reactions of the men who control a ship in battle.
They would all know him by reputation or hearsay, but he must understand those closest to him in case the worst should happen. The sailing-master, and Cazalet the first lieutenant; the other officers who stood their watches day and night in all conditions; the gun-captains and the Afterguard. Like spokes reaching out and away to every deck and cranny in the ship.
And far beyond, to his individual captains in the line of battle, the others like Adam who roamed beyond the vision of the lookouts to find evidence, clues which their viceadmiral might fit into the pattern, if indeed there was one. One thing was quite evident. If Napoleon did succeed in seizing the fleets of Denmark and Sweden and some said there were over a hundred and eighty ships between them, the English squadrons, still reeling from the damage and demands made upon them since Trafalgar, would be swamped by numbers alone.
He had asked Godschale about Herrick's part in the over-all plan. The admiral had tried to shrug it off, but when he had persisted had said, "He will be in command of the escorts for the supply ships. A vital task."
Vital? An old passed-over commodore like Arthur Warren at Good Hope could have done it.
Godschale had tried to smooth things out. "He is lucky-he still has Benbow and his flag."
Bolitho had heard himself retort angrily, "Luck? Is that what they call it in Admiralty? He's been a fighter all his life, a brave and loyal officer."
Godschale had watched him bleakly, "Highly commendable to hear so. Under the present, um-circumstances-I think it surprising you should speak out in this fashion."
Damn the man! He gave a bitter smile as he remembered Godschale's confusion when he had told him that Catherine would accompany him to the levee.
The moon slipped out of a long coamer of cloud and brought the river to life, like the shimmering silk of Catherine's gown. In the little square he saw the tops of the trees touched with moonlight as if they were crowned with powdered snow.
He gripped the iron rail with both hands and stared at the moon, which appeared to be moving independently leaving the clouds behind. He did not blink, but continued to stare until he saw the misty paleness begin to form around and beside it. He dropped his gaze, his mouth suddenly dry It was surely no worse. Or was that another delusion?
He felt the curtains swirl against his legs like frail webs, and knew she was with him.
"What is it, Richard?" Her hand moved between his shoulders, persuasive and strong, easing away his tension if not the anxiety.
He half-turned and slipped his arm beneath the long shawl which she had had made from the lace he had brought from Madeira. She shivered as if from a chill breeze as his hand moved across her nakedness, exploring her again, arousing her when she had believed it impossible after the fierceness of their passion.
He said, "Tomorrow, we are separated." He faltered, already lost. "There is something I must say."
She pressed her face to his shoulder and moved so that his hand could complete its exploration.
"At the funeral." He could feel her looking at him, her breath warm on his neck as she waited for him. "Before the coffin was covered, I saw you toss your handkerchief into the grave…"
She said huskily, "It was the ring. His ring. I wanted no part of it after what happened."
Bolitho had thought as much, but had been afraid to mention it. Was it that he could still harbour doubts, or had he not believed it possible that she could love him as she did?
He heard himself ask, "Will you face more scandal and wear my ring, if I can find one beautiful enough?"
She caught her breath, surprised at his request, and deeply moved that the man she loved without reservation, and who would be called to battle and possibly death if it was so decided, could still find it so dear and important.
She allowed him to take her inside the windows and stood looking at him while he removed her shawl, her limbs glowing in the light of two bedside candies.
"I will." She gasped as he touched her. "For we are one, if only in each other's eyes." It had always been rare for her to shed tears, but Bolitho saw the wetness beneath her closed lashes as she whispered, "We will part tomorrow, but I am strong. Now take me as you will. For you, I am not strong." She threw back her head and cried as he seized her, "I am your slave! "
When dawn broke over London, Bolitho opened his eyes and looked at her head on his shoulder, her hair in disorder and strewn across the pillow beside him. There were red marks on her skin although he could not remember how they had been caused, and her face, when he combed some hair from it with his fingers, was that of a young girl, with no hint of the unspoken anxieties they must always share.
Somewhere a clock chimed, and he heard the grind of iron-shod wheels in the street.
Parting.
18. Fire And Mist
BOLITHO stood by the Black Prince's stern windows and half listened to all the familiar sounds as she made more sail again and got under way. In the quarter gallery he could see the ghost-like reflection of the frigate Tybalt, as she stood off from the flagship and prepared to return to the Nore for orders.
Her new captain was doubtless relieved to have delivered his passenger without mishap or risk of any blame for delays, and that he could now resume his own individual role.
Bolitho thought of that last farewell in the house on the river. Catherine had wanted to drive with him to Chatham, but she had not pleaded when he had said, "Go to Falmouth, Kate. You will be amongst friends there." They had parted as passionately as they had lived together. But he could still see her. Standing on the stone steps, her eyes filling her face, her high cheekbones holding shadows as the sun reflected from the river.
Bolitho heard Ozzard banging about in the sleeping compartment: he seemed to be the only one of his little band who was actually glad to be back with the squadron.
Even Allday was unusually depressed. He had confided that when he had seen his son aboard Anemone, the younger man had confessed that he wanted to quit the navy after all. It was like a slap in the face for Allday To discover a son he had known nothing about, to learn of his courage when he had first suspected him a coward, and then to see him made coxswain to Captain Adam Bolitho-it had been more from life than he had ever hoped.
His son, also named John, had explained that he wanted an end to war. He loved the sea, but he had said that there were other ways of serving it.
Allday had demanded to know what they might be, and his son had replied without hesitation, "I want to fish, and one day own my own boat. Settle down with a wife-not like so many."
Bolitho knew that last remark was what had really hurt him. Not like so many. His father, perhaps?