Honour This Day (5 page)

He heard Jenour's heels tapping on the floor, and half-smiled as he recalled the lieutenant's eagerness to ride neck-and-neck with him. More like two country squires than King's officers.

He saw the overlapping colours of ladies' gowns, bare shoulders, curious stares as he drew closer to the mass of people. They had had little notice of his coming, Commodore Glassport had said, but he guessed that any official visitor or a ship from England was a welcome event.

He noticed some of
Hyperion
's wardroom, their blues and whites making a clean contrast with the red and scarlet of the military and Royal Marines. Once again he had to restrain himself from searching for familiar faces, hearing voices, as if he still expected a handshake or a nod of recognition.

There were some steps between two squat pillars, and he saw Glassport peering along the carpet towards him. Relieved no doubt that he had actually arrived after his ride. One figure stood in the centre, debonair and elegant, and dressed from throat to ankle in white. Bolitho knew very little of the man he had come to meet. The Right Honourable the Viscount Somervell, his Majesty's Inspector General in the Caribbean, seemed to have little which equipped him for the appointment. A regular face at Court and at the right receptions, a reckless gambler some said, and a swordsman of renown. The last was well-founded, and it was known that the King had intervened on his behalf after he had killed a man in a duel. To Bolitho it was familiar and painful territory. It hardly qualified him for being here.

A footman with a long stave tapped the floor and called, “Sir Richard Bolitho, Vice-Admiral of the Red!”

The sudden stillness was almost physical. Bolitho felt their eyes following him as he walked along the carpet. Small cameos stood out. The musicians with their fiddles and bows motionless in mid-air, a young sea-officer nudging his companion and then freezing as Bolitho's glance passed over him. A bold stare from a lady with such a low-cut gown that she need not have covered herself at all, and another from a young girl who smiled shyly then hid her face behind a fan.

Viscount Somervell did not move forward to greet him but stood as before, one hand resting negligently on his hip, the other dangling at his side. His mouth was set in a small smile which could have been either amusement or boredom. His features were of a younger man, but he had the indolent eyes of someone who had seen everything.

“Welcome to—” Somervell turned sharply, his elegant pose destroyed as he glared into a trolley of candelabra which was being wheeled into the room behind him.

The sudden glare of additional light at eye-level caught Bolitho off-balance just as he raised his foot to the first of the steps. A lady dressed in black who had been standing motionless beside the Viscount reached out to steady his arm, while through the mass of candles he saw staring faces, surprise, curiosity, caught like onlookers in a painter's canvas.

“I beg your pardon, Ma'am!” Bolitho regained his balance and tried not to shade his eye as the mist swirled across it. It was like drowning, falling through deeper and deeper water.

He said, “I am all right—” then stared at the lady's gown. It was not black, but of an exquisite green shot-silk which shone, and seemed to change colour in its folds and curves as the light that had blinded him revealed her for the first time. The gown was cut wide and low from her shoulders, and the hair he remembered so clearly as being long and as dark as his own, was piled in plaits above her ears.

The faces, the returning murmur of speculative chatter faded away. He had known her then as Catherine Pareja.
Kate.

He was staring, his momentary blindness forgotten as he saw her eyes, her sudden anxiety giving way to an enforced calm. She had known he was to be here. His was the only surprise.

Somervell's voice seemed to come from a great distance. He was calm again, his composure recovered.

“Of course, I had forgotten. You have met before.”

Bolitho took her proffered hand and lowered his face to it. Even her perfume was the same.

He heard her reply, “Some while ago.”

When Bolitho looked up she seemed strangely remote and self-assured. Indifferent even.

She added, “One could never forget a hero.”

She held out her arm for her husband and turned towards the watching faces.

Bolitho felt an ache in his heart. She was wearing the long gold filigree earrings he had bought her in that other unreal world, in London.

Footmen advanced with trays of glittering glasses, and the small orchestra came to life once again.

Across the wine and past the flushed, posturing faces their eyes met and excluded everyone.

Glassport was saying something to him but he barely heard. After all that had happened, it was still there between them. It must be quenched before it destroyed them both.

3
K
ING'S RANSOM

B
OLITHO
leaned back in his chair as a white-gloved hand whisked away the half-emptied plate and quickly replaced it with another. He could not remember how many courses he had been offered nor how many times the various goblets and fine glasses had been refilled.

The air was full of noise, the mingled voices of those present, at a guess some forty officers, officials and their ladies with the small contingent from
Hyperion
's wardroom divided amongst them. The long room and its extended table was brightly lit by candles, beyond which the shadows seemed to sway in a dance of their own as the many footmen and servants bustled back and forth to maintain a steady supply of food and wine.

They must have garnered servants from several houses, Bolitho thought, and he could gather from the occasional savage under-tones of the senior footman that there had been several disasters between kitchen and table.

He was seated at Catherine's right hand, and as the conversation and laughter swirled around them he was very aware of her, although she gave little hint of her own feelings at his presence. At the far end of the table Bolitho saw her husband, Viscount Somervell, sipping his wine and listening with apparent boredom to Commodore Glassport's resonant and thickening tones. Occasionally Somervell appeared to glance along the table's length, excluding everyone but his wife or Bolitho. Interest, awareness? It was impossible to determine.

As the doors swung open from time to time to a procession of sweating servants Bolitho saw the candles shiver in the smoky air. Otherwise there was little hint of movement, and he pictured Haven, safe in his cabin, or brooding over his possible role in the future. He might show more animation when he learned what was expected of him and his command.

She turned suddenly and spoke directly to him. “You are very quiet, Sir Richard.”

He met her gaze and felt his defence falter. She was just as striking, more beautiful even than he'd remembered. The sun had given her neck and shoulders a fine blush, and he could see the gentle pulse of her heart where the silk gown folded around it.

One hand lay as if abandoned beside her glass, a folded fan close by. He wanted to touch it, to reassure himself or to reveal his own stupidity.

What am I? So full of conceit, so shallow that I could imagine her drawn to me again after so long?

He said instead, “It must be seven years.”

Her face remained impassive. To anyone watching she might have been asking about England or the weather.

“Seven years and one month to be exact.”

Bolitho turned as the Viscount laughed at something Glassport had said.

“And then you married
him.
” It came out like a bitter accusation and he saw her fingers move as if they were listening independently.

“Was it so important?”

She retorted, “You delude yourself, Richard.” Even the use of his name was like the awakening of an old wound. “It was not so.” She held his gaze as he turned again. Defiance, pain, it was all there in her dark eyes. “I need security. Just as you need to be loved.”

Bolitho hardly dared to breathe as the conversation died momentarily around him. He thought the first lieutenant was watching them, that an army colonel had paused with his goblet half-raised as if to catch the words. Even in imagination it felt like a conspiracy.

“Love?”

She nodded slowly, her eyes not leaving his. “You need it, as the desert craves for rain.”

Bolitho wanted to look away but she seemed to mesmerise him.

She continued in the same unemotional tone, “I wanted you then, and ended almost hating you.
Almost.
I have watched your life and career, two very different things, over the past seven years. I would have taken anything you offered me; you were the only man I would have loved without asking for security in marriage.” She touched the fan lightly. “Instead you took another, one you imagined was a substitute—” She saw the shot strike home.
“I knew it.”

Bolitho replied, “I thought of you often.”

She smiled but it made her look sad. “Really?”

He turned his head further so that he could see her clearly. He knew others might watch him for he appeared to face her directly, but his left eye was troubled by the flickering glare and the swooping shadows beyond.

She said, “The last battle. We heard of it a month back.”

“You knew I was coming here?”

She shook her head. “No. He tells me little of his government affairs.” She looked quickly along the table and Bolitho saw her smile as if in recognition. He was astonished that the small familiarity with her husband should hurt him so much.

She returned her gaze to his. “Your injuries, are they— ?” She saw him start. “I helped you once, do you not remember?”

Bolitho dropped his eyes. He had imagined that she had heard or detected his difficulty in seeing her properly. It all flashed through his mind like a wild dream. His wound, the return of the fever which had once almost killed him. Her pale nakedness as she had dropped her gown and folded herself against his gasping, shivering body, while she had spoken unheard words and clasped him to her breasts to repulse the fever's torment.

“I shall
never
forget.”

She watched him in silence for some moments, her eyes moving over his lowered head and the dangling lock of hair, his grave sunburned features and the lashes which now hid his eyes, glad that he could not see the pain and the yearning in her stare.

Nearby, Major Sebright Adams of
Hyperion
's Royal Marines was expounding on his experiences at Copenhagen and the bloody aftermath of the battle. Parris, the first lieutenant, was propped on one elbow, apparently listening, but leaning across the young wife of a dockyard official, his arm resting against her shoulder which she made no attempt to remove. Like the other officers, they were momentarily free of responsibility and the need to keep up any pretence and the posture of duty.

Bolitho was more aware than ever of a sudden isolation, the need to tell her his thoughts, his fears; and was revolted at the same time by his weakness.

He said, “It was a hard fight. We lost many fine men.”

“And
you,
Richard? What more did you have to lose that you had not already abandoned?”

He exclaimed fiercely, “Let it be, Catherine. It is over.” He raised his eyes and stared at her intently. “It must be so!”

A side door opened and more footmen bustled around, but this time without new dishes. It would soon be time for the ladies to withdraw and the men to relieve themselves before settling down to port and brandy. He thought of Allday. He would be out there in the barge with his crew waiting for him. Any petty officer would have been sufficient, but he knew Allday. He would allow no other to wait for him. He would have been in his element tonight, he thought. Bolitho had never known any man able to drink his coxswain under the table, unlike some of the guests.

Somervell's voice cut along the littered cloth although he seemed to have no problem in making it carry.

“I hear that you saw Captain Price today, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho could almost feel the woman at his side holding her breath, as if she sensed the casual remark as a trap. Was guilt that obvious?

Glassport rumbled, “Not captain for long, I'll wager!” Several of the guests chuckled.

A black footman entered the room and after the smallest glance at Somervell padded to Bolitho's chair, an envelope balanced carefully on a silver salver.

Bolitho took it and prayed that his eye would not torture him now.

Glassport was going on again. “My only frigate, by God! I'm dashed hard put to know—”

He broke off as Somervell interrupted rudely, “What is it, Sir Richard? Are we to share it?”

Bolitho folded the paper and glanced at the black footman. He was in time to see a strange sympathy on the man's face, as if he knew.

“You may be spared the spectacle of a brave officer's dishonour, Commodore Glassport.” His voice was hard and although it was directed at one man it gripped the whole table.

“Captain Price is dead.” There was a chorus of gasps. “He hanged himself.” He could not resist adding, “Are you satisfied?”

Somervell pushed himself back from the table. “I think this may be a suitable moment for the ladies to retire.” He rose effortlessly to his feet, as if it was a duty rather than a courtesy.

Bolitho faced her and saw the concern stark in her eyes as if she wanted to tell him out loud.

Instead she said, “We will meet.” She waited for him to raise his head from a brief bow. “Soon.” Then with a hiss of silk she merged with the shadows.

Bolitho sat down and watched unseeingly as another hand placed a fresh glass by his place.

It was not their fault, not even the mindless Glassport's.

What could I have done?
Nothing could interfere with the mission he intended to undertake.

It might have happened to any one of them. He thought of young Adam instead of the wretched Price sitting alone and picturing the grim faces of the court, the sword turned against him on the table.

It was curious that the message about Price's death had been sent directly from St John's to
Hyperion,
his flagship. Haven must have read and considered it before sending it ashore, probably in the charge of some midshipman who in turn would hand it to a footman. It would not have hurt him to bring it in person, he thought.

He realised with a start that the others were on their feet, glasses raised to him in a toast.

Glassport said gruffly, “To our flag officer, Sir Richard Bolitho, and may he bring us fresh victories!” Even the huge amount of wine he had consumed could not hide the humiliation in his voice.

Bolitho stood up and bowed, but not before he had seen that the white-clad figure at the opposite end had not touched his glass. Bolitho felt his blood stir, like the moment when the top-sails of an enemy revealed their intentions, or that moment in early dawn when he had faced another in a duel.

Then he thought of her eyes and her last word.
Soon.

He picked up his own glass.
So be it then.

The six days which followed
Hyperion
's arrival at English Harbour were, for Bolitho at least, packed with activity.

Every morning, within an hour of the guardboat's delivery of messages or signals from the shore Bolitho climbed into his barge and with a puzzled flag lieutenant at his elbow threw himself into the affairs of the ships and sailors at his disposal. On the face of it, it was not a very impressive force. Even allowing for three small vessels still in their patrol areas, the flotilla, for it was no more than that, seemed singularly unsuited for the task in hand. Bolitho knew that their lordships' loosely-worded instructions, which were locked in his strongbox, carried all the risk and responsibility of direct orders given to a senior captain, or a lowly one like Price.

The main Antigua squadron, consisting of six ships of the line, were reported as being scattered far to the north-west in the Bahama Islands, probably probing enemy intentions or making a show of force to deter would-be blockade-runners from the Americas. The admiral was known to Bolitho, Sir Peter Folliot, a quiet, dignified officer who was said to be sorely tried by ill-health. Not the best ingredients for aggressive action against the French or their Spanish ally.

On the sixth morning, as Bolitho was being carried across the barely ruffled water towards the last of his command, he considered the results of his inspection and studies. Apart from
Obdurate,
an elderly seventy-four, which was still undergoing storm repairs in the dockyard, he had a total of five brigs, one sloop-of-war, and
Thor,
a bomb-vessel, which he had left until last. He could have summoned each commander to the flagship; it would have been what they were expecting of any flag officer, let alone one of Bolitho's reputation. They were soon to learn that he liked to discover things for himself, to get the feel of the men he would lead, if not inspire.

He considered Somervell, and his failure to visit
Hyperion
as he had promised after the reception. Was he making him wait deliberately, to put him in his place, or was he indifferent to the final plan, which they would need to discuss before Bolitho could take decisive action?

He watched the rise and fall of the oars, the way the barge-men averted their eyes whenever he glanced at them, Allday's black shadow across the scrubbed thwarts, passing vessels and those at anchor. Antigua might be a British possession, one so heavily defended that a need for more ships was unnecessary, but there were plenty of traders and coastal sailing-masters, who, if not actual spies, would be ready and willing to part with information to the enemy if only for their own free passage.