Alexander Kent - The Darkening Sea

She had touched his lips with her fingers. "He will do it all in his own way, Richard, in his own time."

Then she changed the mood, the touch of reality which had intruded to remind them both of that other world that was always waiting.

She had kissed him slowly. "Suppose I took his place? I have worn a seaman's garb before. Who would notice your new coxswain?"

Ferguson, smoking a last pipe in the balmy night air, had heard her familiar laughter. He had been glad for them; sad, too, that it could not last.

There had been news from Valentine Keen at his Hampshire home. Zenoria had given him a son, to be named Perran Augustus. From the tone of the letter Keen was obviously ecstatic with pride and delight. A son: a future admiral in his eyes already.

Bolitho had been curious about the choice of Perran, a very old Cornish name. Zenoria must have insisted upon it, perhaps to assert herself against Keen's rather overwhelming family.

Catherine had said simply, "It was her father's name."

Her mood had not lightened and Bolitho had imagined that it was because of the poisoned past. Zenoria's father had been hanged for a crime committed when fighting for farm workers' rights, and Zenoria's own involvement had indirectly caused her to be transported. Keen had rescued her, and had cleared her name. Bolitho still wondered if it was truly love, or gratitude which had given them a son.

"What is it, Kate?" He had held her to him, and she spoke softly.

"I would give everything to bear you a child, our very own. Not one to don the King's coat as soon as he is able, like so many of the names I see in the church where your family is honoured. And not one to be spoiled beyond his or her own good! " He had felt the tension in her body as she had added bitterly, "But I cannot, and mostly I am content. To have and hold your love, to cherish every moment together no matter how short they might be. Then at other times I have this demon inside me. Because of me you have given so much. Your friends, or those you have believed to be so, your freedom to do as you please without the eyes of envy watching every move She leaned back in his arms and studied each feature of his face, the rare tears unheeded on her skin. "You do so much for others and for your country. How dare they squeak their petty hatreds behind your back? In Golden Plover I was often terrified, but I would have shared it with none other. Those qualities you do not even know you have lifted my heart. They talk and sing of you in the taverns a sailor's sailor they call you, but they can never know what I have seen and done with you."

And then at the end of the second week the Admiralty messenger rode up to the old grey house below Pendennis Castle, and the orders they had both been expecting were delivered in the usual heavily sealed envelope.

Bolitho sat by the empty grate in the big room where he had heard his first stories of the sea and of distant parts from his father, his grandfather: it was now difficult to distinguish one from another in this house where life for so many of his family had begun, and as each grave portrait on the walls could testify, to which few had ever returned. He turned the envelope over in his hands. How many times, he wondered? Upon receipt of these orders… will proceed with all despatch… To a ship or a squadron, to some unknown part of the expanding power of Majesty, to the cannon's mouth if ordered.

He heard Ferguson 's wife talking to the messenger. He would leave here eventually well fed and cheered by some of her homemade cider. Bolitho's acknowledgement would be taken to London, passed from clerk to clerk, to the faces of Admiralty who knew little and cared even less for the countless ships and men who died for King and Country. The scrape of a pen by some Admiralty quill-pusher could leave men dead or horribly disfigured, like the unbreakable James Tyacke. Bolitho could see him now as if it had only just happened, Tyacke's brig Larne bearing down on their wretched longboat even in the hour of death. Now Tyacke, whom the slavers he hunted called 'the devil with half a face', drove himself and his ship as only he could, and for a purpose known only to himself. These same clerks of admiralty would turn away in horror if they saw his terrible disfigurement, simply because they could not see beyond it to the pride and courage of the man who wore it like a talisman.

He sensed that Catherine had come in, and when he glanced at her he saw that she was quite composed. She said, "I am here."

He slit open the envelope and quickly scanned the fine round handwriting, and did not see her sudden concern when he unconsciously rubbed his damaged eye.

He said slowly, "We shall be going to London, Kate." He gazed through the open doors at the trees, the clear sky beyond. Away from here.

He recalled suddenly that his father had sat in this same chair many times when he had read to him and to his sisters. You could see the trees and the hillside from here, but not the sea. Was that the reason, even for his father, who had always seemed so stern and courageous?

"Not to a new flagship?"

Her voice was calm: only the rise and fall of her breast made it a lie.

"It seems we are to discuss some new strategy." He shrugged. "Whatever that may be."

She guessed what he was thinking. His mind was rebelling against leaving the peace they had been able to share for these two happy weeks.

"It is not Falmouth, Richard, but my house in Chelsea is always a haven."

Bolitho tossed the envelope on to a table and stood up. "It was true about Lord Godschale. He has gone from the Admiralty and the London he so obviously enjoyed, although I suspect for the wrong reasons."

"Who will you see?" Her voice was level, prepared, as if she already knew.

Bolitho replied, "Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker." In his mind he could clearly see the thin mouth and pale eyes, as if he were intruding into this very room.

One hand went to her breast. "Was he not the one…"

He smiled grimly. "Yes, dear Kate, the President of Thomas Herrick's court-martial." Was it only a year ago?

He added, "So he has the whip-hand now." He turned as Ozzard entered with a tray and two goblets.

Catherine looked at the little man and smiled. "Your timing is better than that of any sand in a glass! "

Ozzard regarded her impassively. Thank you, m'lady." To Bolitho he said, "I thought some hock might be suitable, Sir Richard."

No secrets. The news would be all over the estate soon, then the town. Bolitho was leaving. For glory or to some fresh scandal, it was too soon to predict. Bolitho waited for the inner door to close, and then he placed a goblet in her hand.

"I raise a glass to my lovely Kate." He did so, and smiled. "Don't worry too much about Godschale's successor. It is better, I think, to know an enemy than to lose a friend."

She watched him over the rim of her goblet. "Must it always be you, Richard? I have said as much in the past, even at the risk of offending you. I know you might hate a position ashore… at the Admiralty perhaps, where respected leaders like you are in short supply, it seems…"

He took her goblet and stood it beside his own. Then he gripped her hands and looked at her steadily for some time. She could feel his inner struggle like something physical.

This war cannot last much longer, Kate. Unless things turn against us it must end. The enemy will lose heart once English soldiers are in their streets." She knew it was important to him, too vital to interrupt.

"All my life I have been at sea, as is the way in my family. For over twenty years of my service I have been fighting the French and whatever ally they might have at any one moment but always the French. I have seen too many men and boys torn apart in battle, and I blame myself for many of them." He gripped her hands more tightly and said, "It is enough. When the enemy flag comes down…"