The Only Victor (39 page)

Fittock paused and looked him in the eyes, and said softly, “I'll not forget.” Then he was gone.

“One more thing, Corporal.” The leggings and polished boots froze on the ladder. “Close the hatch when you leave.”

Vincent was staring at him with disbelief.
“Are you mad?”

Segrave tossed his coat to the deck. “I used to know someone very like you.” He began to roll up his sleeves. “He was a bully too—a petty little tyrant who made my life a misery.”

Vincent forced a laugh. In the damp, cool hold it came back as a mocking echo.

“So it was
all too much for you,
was it?”

Surprisingly, Segrave found he could answer without emotion.

“Yes. It was. Until one day I met your uncle and a man with only half a face. After that I accepted fear—I can do so again.”

He heard the hatch thud into position. “All this time I've watched you using your uncle's name so that you can torment those who can't answer back. I'm not surprised you were thrown out of the H.E.I.C.” It was only a guess but he saw it hit home. “So now you'll know what it feels like!”

Vincent exclaimed,
“I'll call you out—”

The smash of Segrave's fist into his jaw flung him down onto the deck, blood spurting from a split lip.

Segrave winced from the pain of the blow; all those years of humiliation had been behind it.

“Call me out,
sonny?
” He punched him again in the face as he scrambled to his feet, and sent him sprawling. “Duels are for
men,
not pigmies!”

Four decks above them Lieutenant Flemyng, who was the officer-of-the-watch, took a few paces this way and that before glancing again at the half-hour glass by the compass box.

He beckoned to a boatswain's mate and snapped, “Go and find that damned snotty, will you, Gregg? Skylarking somewhere, I shouldn't wonder.”

The man knuckled his forehead and made to hurry away, but was stopped by the harsh voice of Cazalet, the first lieutenant.

“Not just yet, Mr Flemyng!” He came from Tynemouth and had a voice which carried above the strongest gale.

Flemyng, who was the ship's third lieutenant, stared at him questioningly.

Cazalet smiled to himself and trained his glass on the old
Sunderland.
“I think he should have a
mite
longer, don't you?”

Admiral the Lord Godschale flapped a silk handkerchief before his hawk-like nose and commented, “The damn river is a bit vile this evening.”

He looked powerfully magnificent in his heavy dress coat and shining epaulettes, and as he stood watching the colourful throng of guests which overflowed the broad terrace of his Greenwich house he found time to reflect on his good fortune.

But it was extremely hot, and would remain so until night touched the Thames and brought some cool relief to the officers in their coats of blue and scarlet. Godschale watched the river winding its endless journey up and around the curve into Blackwall Reach, the ant-like movement of wherries and local craft. It was an imposing house and he was constantly grateful that the previous owner had sold so eagerly and reasonably. At the outbreak of war with France, as all the hideous news of the Terror had insinuated its way across the Channel, the former owner had taken his possessions and investments and had fled to America.

Godschale smiled grimly. So much for his faith in his country's defences at the time.

He saw the slight figure of Sir Charles Inskip threading his way through the laughing, jostling guests, bobbing here, smiling there—the true diplomat. Godschale felt the return of his uneasiness.

Inskip joined him and took a tall glass of wine from one of the many sweating servants.

“Quite a gathering, m'lord.”

Godschale frowned. He had planned the reception with great care. People who mattered in society, evenly mixed with the military and those of his own service. Even the Prime Minister was coming. Grenville had only held office for a year and after Pitt, whatever people had said about him, he had been a disaster. Now they had a Tory again, the Duke of Portland no less, who would probably be even more out of touch with the war than Grenville had been.

He saw his wife deeply engaged in conversation with two of her closest friends. The latest gossip no doubt. It was hard to picture her as the lively girl he had first met when he had been a dashing frigate captain. Plain, and rather dull. He shook his head. Where had that girl gone?

He glanced at the other women nearest to him. The hot weather was a blessing as far as they were concerned. Bare shoulders, plunging dampened gowns which would never have been tolerated a few years ago in the capital.

Inskip saw his hungry expression and asked, “Is it true that you have recalled Sir Richard Bolitho? If so, I think we should have been informed.”

Godschale ignored the careful criticism. “Had to. I sent
Tybalt
for him. He anchored at the Nore two days ago.”

Inskip was unimpressed. “I don't see how it will help.”

Godschale tore his eyes from a young woman whose breasts would have been bare if her gown were stitched half an inch lower.

He said in a deep whisper, “You've heard the news? Napoleon has signed a treaty with Russia and has had the damned audacity to
order,
if you please,
order
Sweden and Denmark to close their ports against us and to sever all trade. In addition France has demanded their fleets to be put at
their
disposal! God damn it, man, that would be close on two hundred ships! Why did nobody see the nearness of this sorry affair? Your people are supposed to have eyes and ears in Denmark!”

Inskip shrugged. “What shall we do next, I wonder?”

Godschale tugged at his neckcloth as if it was choking him. “
Do?
I'd have thought it was obvious!”

Inskip recalled Bolitho's bitterness and contempt when
Truculent
had sighted the three Frenchmen.

He said, “So that is why Bolitho will be here?”

Godschale did not answer directly. “Admiral Gambier is even now assembling a fleet and all the transports we will need to carry an army across to Denmark.”

“
Invade?
The Danes will never be willing to capitulate. I think we should wait—”

“Do you indeed?” Godschale studied him hotly. “D'you believe Denmark's sensibilities are more important than England's survival? For that is what we are talking about, dammit!” He almost snatched a glass from a servant and drained it in two gulps.

The orchestra had struck up a lively gigue but many of the guests seemed unwilling to leave the great terrace, and Godschale guessed why.

At the Admiralty this morning he had told Bolitho of this reception, how it would prove an ideal setting where deeper matters of state might be discussed without arousing attention. Bolitho had replied calmly enough but left no doubt as to his conditions.

He had said, “There will be many ladies there, my lord. You will have not had time to arrange an ‘official' invitation for me as I am
ordered
here.”

Godschale spoke aloud without realising it. “He simply stood there and told me he would not come here unless he could bring that woman!”

Inskip let out a deep breath of relief. He had imagined that Bolitho might have brought even worse news with him.

“Are you surprised?” Inskip smiled at Godschale's discomfort; Godschale, whom he had heard had a mistress or two in London. “I have seen what Lady Somervell has done for Bolitho. I hear it in his voice, in the fire of the man.”

Godschale saw his secretary making signals from beside a tall pillar and exclaimed, “The Prime Minister!”

The Duke of Portland shook their hands and glanced around at the watching eyes. “Handsome levee, Godschale. All this talk of gloom—rubbish, is what I say!”

Inskip thought of Bolitho's men, the ordinary sailors he had seen and heard cheering and dying in the blaze of battle. They hardly compared with these people, he thought. His men were real.

The Prime Minister beckoned to a severe-looking man dressed in pearl-grey silk.

“Sir Paul Sillitoe.” The man gave a brief smile. “My trusted adviser in this unforeseen crisis.”

Inskip protested, “Hardly unforeseen—”

Godschale interrupted. “I have had the matter under constant surveillance. There is a new squadron in the North Sea with the sole duty of watching out for some move by the French, any show of force towards Scandinavia.”

Sillitoe's eyes gleamed. “Sir Richard Bolitho, yes? I am all eagerness to meet him.”

The Prime Minister dabbed his mouth. “Not
I,
sir!”

Sillitoe regarded him impassively; he had hooded eyes, and his features remained expressionless.

“Then I fear your stay in high office will be as short as Lord Grenville's.” He watched his superior's fury without emotion. “The French Admiral Villeneuve said after he was captured that at Trafalgar every English captain was a Nelson.” He shrugged. “I am no sailor, but I know how they are forced to live, in conditions no better than a jail, and I am quite certain that they were inspired more by Nelson—enough to perform miracles.” He looked at them almost indifferently. “Bolitho may not be another Nelson, but he is the best we have.” He turned as a ripple of excitement ran through the guests. “Forget that at your peril, my friends.”

Godschale followed his glance and saw Bolitho's familiar figure, the black hair marked now by grey streaks in the lock above that savage scar. Then, as he turned to offer her his arm, Godschale saw Lady Catherine Somervell beside him. The mourning was gone, and the hair which was piled above her ears shone in the sunshine like glass. Her gown was dark green, but the silk seemed to change colour and depth as she turned and took his arm, a fan hanging loosely from her wrist.

She looked neither right nor left, but as her glance fell on Godschale he swore he could feel the force of her compelling eyes, and a defiance which seemed to silence even the whispers which surrounded her and the tall sea-officer by her side.

Godschale took her proffered hand and bowed over it. “Why, m'lady,
indeed
a surprise!”

She glanced at the Prime Minister and made a slight curtsy. “Are we to be introduced?”

He began to turn away but Bolitho said quietly, “The Duke of Portland, Catherine.” He gave a small bow. “We are honoured.” His grey eyes were cold, and said the opposite.

Sir Paul Sillitoe stepped forward and introduced himself in the same flat voice. Then he took her hand and held it for several seconds, his gaze locked against hers. “They say you inspire him, m'lady.” He touched her glove with his lips. “But I believe you inspire England, through your love of him.”

She withdrew her hand and watched him, her lips slightly curved, a pulse flickering at her throat in the strong light. But when she had searched his face and found no sarcasm, she answered, “You do me a great kindness, sir.”

Sillitoe seemed able to ignore all those around them, even Bolitho, as he murmured, “The clouds are darkening again, Lady Catherine, and I fear that Sir Richard will be required perhaps more than ever before.”

She said quietly, “Must it always be him?” She felt Bolitho's warning hand on her arm but gripped it with her own. “I have heard of Collingwood and Duncan.” Her voice shook slightly. “There must be others.”

Godschale was poised to interrupt, his carefully prepared words flying to the wind at her sudden, unexpected insistence. But Sillitoe said, almost gently, “Fine leaders—they have the confidence of the whole fleet.” Then, although he glanced at Bolitho, his voice was still directed to her. “But Sir Richard Bolitho holds their hearts.”

Godschale cleared his throat, uncomfortable at the turn the conversation had taken and especially because of the watching faces around the terrace. Even the orchestra had fallen silent.

He said too heartily, “A sailor's lot, Lady Catherine—it demands much of us all.”

She looked at him, in time to see his eyes lift quickly from her bosom. “Some more than
others,
it would appear.”

Godschale beckoned to a footman to cover his embarrassment. “Tell the orchestra to strike up, man!” He gave a fierce grin at the Prime Minister. “Are you ready, Your Grace?”

Portland glared at Sillitoe. “You attend to it. I have no stomach for this kind of diplomacy! I will discuss the situation tomorrow, Godschale. There is much I have to do.”

Again he turned to leave but Bolitho said, “Then I may not see you again before I sail?” He waited for Portland's attention. “There are some ideas I would like to offer—”

The Prime Minister eyed him suspiciously, as if seeking a double meaning. “Perhaps another time.” He turned to Catherine. “I bid you good evening.”