Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

What strange and perverse fate had brought Adam and Keen together? It could restore, or just as easily destroy them.

Yovell was polishing his small gold-rimmed spectacles. “When will Mr Avery be joining us, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho eyed him thoughtfully. A man of many parts: it was rumoured that Yovell had been a schoolmaster at one time. He could well believe it. It was hard to imagine him as he had been in the boat after Golden Plover had gone down, his hands, unused to seamen’s work, torn and bleeding on the oars, his face burned raw by the sun. But he could remember not a single word of complaint. A scholar, a man who enjoyed his Bible as another might relish a game of dice: even his casual question about the flag lieutenant held genuine interest. Perhaps they were two of a kind, both enigmatic in their fashion. George Avery was a quiet, often withdrawn man; even Sillitoe appeared not to know much about his nephew. Or care, possibly. Sillitoe’s sister had been Avery’s mother: of Sillitoe’s brother, who had so inspired Avery that he had seemed to look upon him as a father whenever they had met, Bolitho knew nothing. Sillitoe’s brother had been a naval officer, and very likely had sponsored Avery for his first appointment as midshipman. Avery’s own father, and austere upbringing in a religious family, had never dampened his eagerness to follow the sea. Sillitoe’s brother, in the Ganges, had fallen at the Battle of Copenhagen, like so many on that bloody day.

There was little to do in London for a lieutenant without connections, he thought, although Catherine had hinted that there had once been a woman in Avery’s life.

Only a woman could scar him so deeply.

She was probably right.

He said, “Mr Avery will be coming down in a week or so. Or whenever he likes.” Or perhaps Avery would leave it until the last minute. Maybe he could not bear to see others who did not hide their love from one another, when he himself had no one.

He listened to the muffled thud of hooves. “Her ladyship is home early.”

Yovell was at the window, and shook his head. “No, Sir Richard, it’s a messenger.” He did not turn. “Despatches, no doubt.”

Bolitho stood, trying to prepare himself as his secretary went out to deal with it. So soon. So soon. A month more, and already they were warning him of his departure. It would have been better if they had allowed him to remain in Indomitable; and in the same second he knew that was a lie. To be with her, only for an hour, would have made all this worthwhile.

Yovell came back, holding the familiar canvas envelope with its Admiralty fouled anchor, to dispel any lingering hope he might have had.

Yovell returned to the window and peered out at the trees. The cat, he noticed, had disappeared. He thought of Allday again. It was going to be difficult.

He listened to the knife slitting the envelope. The messenger was in the kitchen being given something hot to drink, no doubt full of envy for those who lived in great houses such as these. He heard Bolitho say quietly, “It is brought forward by a week. We take passage for Halifax on February eighteenth.” When he turned from the window he thought his admiral seemed very composed: the man everyone expected to see. Beyond the reach of any personal emotion.

He said, “It is not the first time, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho seized a pen and bent over the papers on the desk. “Give the fellow this receipt.” He stood up and held his cuff over his eye as he faced the light. “I shall ride out to meet Lady Catherine. Tell Matthew, will you?”

Yovell hurried away, not wanting to leave, but understanding that he had to confront the prospect of separation alone. Three weeks, then an ocean, a world apart.

He closed the door quietly behind him. Perhaps cats had the right ideas about life, he thought.

They met by the slate wall that marked the boundary of Roxby’s estate. She did not dismount until he got down and walked to her, and then she slid from the saddle and waited for him to hold her, her hair blowing out freely in the salt breeze.

“You’ve heard. How long?”

“Three weeks.”

She pressed her face to his so that he would not see her eyes. “We will make it a lifetime, dearest of men. Always, always, I will be with you.” She said it without anger or bitterness. Time was too precious to waste.

He said, “I don’t want to go. I hate the thought of it.”

Through his cloak she could feel him shivering, as if he were cold or ill. She knew he was neither.

He said, “Why must you suffer because of me, because of what I am?”

“Because I understand. Like your mother and all those before her. I will wait, as they did, and I will miss you more than any words can describe.” Then she did look at him, her dark eyes very steady. “Above all, I am so very proud of you. When this is over, we shall be together, and nothing will ever force us apart again.”

He touched her face and her throat. “It is all I want.”

He kissed her very gently, so gently that she wanted to cry.

But she was strong, too strong to allow the tears to come. She knew how much he needed her and it gave her the courage that was necessary, perhaps more now than at any other time.

“Take me home, Richard. A lifetime, remember?”

They walked in silence, the horses following companionably behind them. At the top of the rise they saw the sea, and she felt him grip her arm more tightly. As if he had come face to face with the enemy.

CAPTAIN ADAM BOLITHO tightened his boat-cloak around his neck as the jolly-boat pulled out strongly into the Solent. A strange departure from Portsmouth, he thought: without the snow, everything was normal again. Noise, bustle, marching men, and many boats milling around the stairs, waiting to carry their officers out to the ships at anchor.

Except that this was not his ship. He had paused only briefly to step aboard the frigate Zest, to sign some papers, to take his leave as quickly as possible. The ship had fought well; without her, even Indomitable ’s formidable artillery might not have been able to beat the Yankees into submission. But that was as far as it went. He never felt that Zest was really his ship, nor had he attempted to make her so. His ship lay on the seabed, her beautiful figurehead staring into the deeper darkness, so many of her company still with her.

The midshipman in charge of the jolly-boat was very aware of his passenger’s rank and reputation: even the name of Bolitho had sent a flood of rumours through the ship.

Adam looked at the chests at his feet. All new, everything, even the fighting sword he had purchased with such care. The rest lay with Anemone.

He glanced at his small companion. John Whitmarsh, who had been the only one saved from the sea, had served in Anemone for almost two years before she foundered. A mere child. He had been “volunteered” by an uncle, if uncle he was, after the boy’s father, a deep-water fisherman, had drowned off the Goodwins. John was to be his servant. Adam had never seen such pride or such gratitude when he had asked him. The boy still did not understand the lifeline had been for his captain, and not the other way round.

The midshipman said stiffly, “There she lies, sir.”

Adam tugged down his hat. She was the Wakeful, a 38-gun frigate, hard-worked and in constant demand like most of her breed. Now she was completing the last tasks before sailing, taking on fresh water, fruit if there was any available, and, of course, men. Even the most dedicated press-gang would be hard put to find any suitable hands in a naval port.

He looked at the boy again. Not much different in spite of his smart new jacket and white trousers. Ozzard had taught him some of it; the rest he would learn quickly enough. He was bright, and if he was nervous or still suffering from his experiences and the memory of seeing his best friend, another ship’s boy of the same age, drift away beyond help, he did not show it.