Alexander Kent - Man of War

Or being repaired. Like the one of Catherine, which she herself had commissioned to hang beside Sir Richard's portrait, in 'their room' as most of the household still called it. Dressed in a seaman's smock and little else, what she had been wearing in the open boat when she and her Richard had been shipwrecked. Allday, when he could be persuaded to speak of it, had painted his own picture of Catherine and Bolitho, who had won the heart of the country when they had endured the open boat which might have ended everything. Her courage, her example, a woman amongst desperate men in fear of their lives, had left an indelible impression on Sir Richard's old coxswain. "She even got me to sing a ballad or two! " He had laughed about it, proudly.

He had never known Nancy to hide her thoughts from him. She had suddenly faced him in the overgrown drive, the blackened building and chapel a grim backdrop, with the sea beyond. Always waiting. Perhaps a new horizon.

"It was Mary, the upstairs maid, who found it, Adam." She always added a title, like a label, to any member of the household, in case he should forget between visits. Like the lesson which had been handed down to him over the years, when speaking of his sailors, the people, as Richard Bolitho called them. Remember their names, Adam, and use them. A name is sometimes all they can call their own.

Mary had run screaming to the kitchen. The portrait of Catherine had been slashed, again and again. Only the face had been left intact. As if that some one had wanted the world to know who it was.

Sir Gregory Montagu had not been optimistic, but he had taken the damaged canvas to his studio. Now they would never know.

Adam had thought about it ever since. There had been gypsies in the area, more of them than usual, but it was not their way of things. Food, money, something to sell; those were different. He had hated himself for even considering Belinda's daughter Elizabeth. She would see Catherine as the enemy, the marriage wrecker, but she had been visiting a friend over the border in Devon at the time.

He realized that he had signed for the envelope and that the courier was climbing into his saddle again.

He knew that Yovell and Ferguson had followed him into the house, wanting to help, yet keeping their distance.

He entered the study and picked up the knife that lay beside Elizabeth 's sketch of the mermaid, thinking of the watch which had once stopped a musket ball, and the little mermaid engraved on its case. Just a shell now, and he knew that the boy Napier still carried it like a talisman.

For a moment longer the knife hesitated, the seal and Admiralty stamp blurred in the thin sunlight. The knife had belonged to Captain James Bolitho. Sir Gregory Montagu had been here then, asked to paint an empty sleeve on the portrait over the stairs, after Captain James had lost an arm in India. Perhaps he was watching the last Bolitho from that portrait now, the son of the man who had betrayed his father's trust. And his country.

He heard the envelope fall to the floor, although it must have opened itself; he did not remember returning the knife to the desk.

The beautiful handwriting, so familiar and precise in its terms. And without heart.

Addressed to Adam Bolitho, Esq. On receipt of these orders, will proceed with all despatch… His eyes hurried on. But no ship's name or title leaped out at him like a voice, like a picture. Like that first command, the little brig Firefly. Or Anemone. He tried again. Or Unrivalled…

To place yourself at the convenience and service of Sir Graham Bethune, Knight of the Bath, Vice-Admiral of the Blue, and to await further instructions. There was more, and a smaller note with details of travel, lodgings, and other matters which seemed meaningless.

Yovell was the first to speak.

"Is it good, sir?"

Ferguson was pouring something into a glass. His hand was shaking. Something else I should have noticed.

"The Admiralty, Daniel. Their lordships wish to see me. It is a command, not a request." He added with sudden bitterness, "Nor a ship! "

The heavy document had fallen beside its envelope. Despite his girth, Yovell picked it up and said quickly, "Do you see, sir? There is writing on the reverse."

Adam took it. A captain without a ship. God alone knew there were so many like him. No ship.

He stared at the writing, but saw only the face. Vice-Admiral Bethune. He had met him several times, lastly at Malta. Bethune had begun his service as a young midshipman in the little sloop-of-war Sparrow, Sir Richard Bolitho's first command. A man easy to like, and to follow, and, in his day, the youngest vice-admiral since Nelson. Once a frigate captain himself, then promotion, and lastly the Admiralty.

I am sending you a letter very shortly; it concerns some proposals which were brought to my notice. You will treat all instructions with utmost secrecy. On that, I am depending. Then his signature. Adam turned the sheet to the light. Bethune had written, almost like- an afterthought, Trust me.

He replaced the glass on the desk. Claret or cognac? It could have been anything.

Yovell said, " London, sir." He shook his head and smiled sadly. "Sir Richard never cared for the place. Not until…"

Adam walked past him, but briefly touched his plump arm. "Until, Daniel. What a span that one word covers."

He left the study and found himself staring into another log fire. Unseen hands always seemed to keep them blazing.

"I shall need Young Matthew for the first leg to Plymouth. After that…" He moved to the fire and held out his hands. "It will all be laid down in the instructions." A long, tiring and uncomfortable journey. And at the end of it? It might be nothing. Or perhaps he would merely be required to describe Unrivalled'^ part in the attack and final victory at Algiers. "I shall need more kit than usual. I must tell Napier…"

He broke off abruptly. Napier would not be going to London. Bethune's innocent enough note had been added for a reason. He looked directly at the round shouldered figure of Yovell across the hall. "Send word to the tailor for me, will you?" He saw Napier watching him from the passage which led to the kitchen. He knew. His eyes said it all.

Adam thought of Bethune again. It was all he had.

Trust me.

Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune moved some papers on his broad desk and stared at the ornate clock on the opposite wall, with its wind indicator and simpering cherubs.

He had walked to the Admiralty, across the park for some of the way, declining the offer of a carriage or, as was sometimes his habit, riding his own horse. It was not conceit, but a sense of purpose which carried him through each day.

He stood up, surprised that the exercise had not calmed his nerves. It was absurd; he had nothing to worry about.

He walked across the room and paused to study the painting of a frigate in action. It was his own, pitted against two big Spanish frigates. Bad odds even for a daring young captain, as he had been then. He had nevertheless run one of them aground and taken the other. Unconsciously, his hand touched the gold lace on his sleeve. Flag rank had followed almost immediately, and then the Admiralty. Routine, lengthy meetings, conferences with his superiors and sometimes the First Lord; he had even been called to elaborate upon various plans and operations to the Prince Regent.

And it had suited him, like the uniform, and the respect which went with it.

It had been wet in the park, but there had been all the usual horsemen and women about. He often expected to see Catherine there, riding herself, or in the carriage with the Sillitoe crest emblaloned on it. Like that last, arranged meeting. He bit his lip. The final one.

He stood by a window and looked down at the jostling carriages, carriers' carts and horses, always alive, moving.