Alexander Kent - Cross of St George

She came down, and put her hand on his shoulder. “Tell us. I can hardly believe it.”

Avery gazed at his filthy boots. “I was there, Sir Richard. I thought it only right. I know what it is to face the possibility of disgrace and ruin at a court martial.” He repeated, “I thought it was only right. There was heavy snow on the south coast. The telegraph towers were hidden from one another. It might have taken another day for the news to reach you.”

“But you came?” Catherine saw Bolitho grip his arm.

Surprisingly, Avery grinned. “I rode most of the way. I forget how many times I changed horses. Eventually I fell in with the fellow outside, otherwise I doubt I’d have found the place.” He took the glass of cognac, and his hand shook uncontrollably. “Probably cost me a year’s pay, and I don’t think I’ll be able to sit down comfortably for a month!”

Bolitho walked to a window. Honourably acquitted. As it should be. But things did not always end as they should.

Avery finished the cognac and did not protest when Catherine refilled his glass. “Forced a few coaches and carts off the road-” He saw Bolitho’s expression and added gently, “I was not in court, Sir Richard, but he knew I was there. Your nephew was going to see the port admiral. Someone said that he has an extended leave of absence. That is all the information I have.”

Bolitho looked at Catherine, and smiled. “Seventy miles on dark and treacherous roads. What sort of man would do that?”

She removed the glass from Avery’s nerveless fingers as he lolled against the cushions, and was asleep.

She replied quietly, “Your sort of man, Richard. Are you at peace now?”

When they reached the bedroom they could see the river quite clearly, and there were indeed people already moving along the road. It was unlikely that anyone had noticed the sudden arrival of the carriage, or the tall sea officer banging on the door. If they had, they would think little of it. This was Chelsea, a place that minded its own business more than most.

Together they looked at the sky. It would soon be daylight, another grey January morning. But this time, with such a difference.

She held his arm around her waist and said, “Perhaps your next visit to the Admiralty will be the last for a while.”

He felt her hair against his face. Her warmth. How they belonged.

“And then, Kate?”

“Take me home, Richard. No matter how long we must travel.”

He guided her to the bed, and she laughed as the first dogs began to bark outside.

“Then you can love me. In our home.”

Vice-Admiral Graham Bethune was already on his feet when Bolitho was ushered into his spacious rooms at the Admiralty, and his smile was warm and genuine.

“We are both abroad early today, Sir Richard.” His face fell slightly. “Although I fear I have not yet had news of your nephew, Captain Bolitho. The telegraph, excellent though it may be in many ways, is no match for our English weather!”

Bolitho sat down as a servant removed his hat and cloak. He had walked only a few paces from the carriage, but the cloak was soaked with rain.

He smiled. “Adam was honourably acquitted.” Bethune’s astonishment was a pleasure to see. They had met several times since Bolitho’s arrival in London, but he was still surprised that Bethune’s new authority had not changed him in some way. In appearance, he had matured a good deal since his days as a midshipman in Bolitho’s first command, the little sloop-of-war Sparrow. Gone was the round-faced youth, his complexion a mass of dark freckles; here was a keen-eyed, confident flag officer who would turn any woman’s head at Court, or at the many elegant functions it was now his duty to attend. Bolitho recalled Catherine’s initial resentment when he had told her that Bethune was not only a younger man, but also his junior in rank. She was not the only one who was baffled by the ways of Admiralty.

He said, “My flag lieutenant, Avery, rode all the way from Portsmouth this morning to tell me.”

Bethune nodded, his mind busy on another course. “George Avery, yes. Sir Paul Sillitoe’s nephew.” Again the boyish smile. “I am sorry. Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick, as he is now. But I am glad to know it. It must have been hard for your nephew, losing ship and liberty at one blow. And yet you appointed him to command Zest at the final encounter with Commodore Beer’s ships. Remarkable.” He walked to a table. “I sent my own report, needless to say. One has little confidence in courts martial, as we have seen many times for ourselves.”

Bolitho relaxed slightly. So Bethune had found the time to put pen to paper on Adam’s behalf. He could not imagine either of his predecessors, Godschale, or particularly Hamett-Parker, even raising a finger.

Bethune glanced at the ornate clock beside a painting of a frigate in action. Bolitho knew it was his own command, when Bethune had confronted two large Spanish frigates and, despite the odds, had run one ashore and captured the other. A good beginning, which had done his career no harm at all.

“We shall take refreshment shortly.” He coughed. “Lord Sillitoe is coming today, and I am hoping we shall learn more of the Prince Regent’s views on the American conflict.” He hesitated, momentarily unsure of himself. “One thing is almost certain. You will be required to return to that campaign. What is it now, a bare four months since you engaged and defeated Commodore Beer’s ships? But your opinions and your experience have been invaluable. I know it is asking too much of you.”

Bolitho realized that he was touching his left eye. Perhaps Bethune had noticed, or maybe word of the injury and the impossibility of recovery had finally reached this illustrious office.

He answered, “I had expected it.”

Bethune observed him thoughtfully. “I had the great pleasure of meeting Lady Somervell, Sir Richard. I know what this parting will mean to you.”

Bolitho said, “I know you met her. She told me. There are no secrets between us, and never will be.” Catherine had also met Bethune’s wife, at a reception at Sillitoe’s house by the river. She had said nothing about her, but she would, when she judged that the moment was right. Perhaps Bethune had an eye for the ladies? A mistress, maybe.

He said, “You and I are friends, is that not so?”

Bethune nodded, not understanding. “A small word, for what it truly means.”

“I agree.” He smiled. “Call me Richard. I feel that rank, and the past, stand in the way.”

Bethune strode to his chair, and they shook hands. “This is a far better day than I dared hope.” He grinned, and looked very young. “Richard.” Another glance at the clock. “There is another matter, which I would like to discuss with you before Lord Sillitoe arrives.” He watched him for a few seconds. “You will soon know. Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen is being appointed to a new command, which will be based in Halifax, Nova Scotia.”

“I had heard as much.” Full circle, he thought. Halifax, where he had left his flagship, Indomitable, upon his recall to England. Was it really so short a time ago? With her had been their two equally powerful prizes, Beer’s USS Unity and the Baltimore, which together carried as much artillery as a ship of the line. Fate had decided the final meeting; determination and a bloody need to win had decided the outcome. After all the years he had been at sea, pictures could still stand out as starkly as ever. Allday’s grief, alone among all the gasping survivors as he had carried his dead son, and had lowered him into the sea. And the dying Nathan Beer, their formidable adversary, with Bolitho’s hand in his, each understanding that the meeting and its consequences had been inevitable. They had covered Beer with the American flag, and Bolitho had sent his sword to his widow in Newburyport. A place well known to men-of-war and privateers; where his own brother Hugh had once found refuge, if not peace.