Authors: Alexander Kent
He walked over to the table. On it was a precisely folded copy of
The Times
and beside it a goblet and carafe of water. So quiet, as if the whole corridor were holding its breath.
He moved to the window, impatient now, refusing to acknowledge the strain and fatigue of mind and body. He should have known what it would do to him. The bitter aftermath of the action at San José, “skirmish” as one news sheet had dismissed it, and the long passage home. Plymouth and then Portsmouth. He rubbed his forehead. Mere days ago. It seemed like a lifetime.
The window overlooked an enclosed courtyard, so near the opposite wall that you had to press your head against the glass to see it. The other wall had no windows. Storerooms of some kind? And above, trapped above the two walls, was the sky. Grey, cold, hostile. He stepped back and looked around the room. A cell indeed.
A carriage had been sent to Bethune’s house to collect him for the journey to and along Whitehall. He was met by a clerk who had murmured polite comments about the weather and the amount of traffic, which, he was told, often delayed important meetings if senior officers were trapped in it. The constant movement, the noise. Like a foreign country.
Because I am the stranger here.
From there he had been handed over to the porter, a towering, heavy man in a smart tailed coat with gleaming buttons, whose buckled shoes had clicked down one passageway after another as he led the way. Like a ship of the line, with lesser craft parting to let them through.
There was one picture on this otherwise bare wall. A two-decker, firing a salute or at an unseen enemy. Old, and probably Dutch. His mind was clinging to the inconsequential detail. Holding on.
All those faces, names. Not even a full year since
Athena
had hoisted Bethune’s vice-admiral’s flag.
And I became his flag captain.
And now she was paid off, like all those other unwanted ships. Their work, and sometimes their sacrifice, would soon be forgotten.
He recalled the longer waiting room he had seen briefly in passing. So like those redundant ships that seemed to line the harbours or any available creek: a final resting place.
Officers, a few in uniform, waiting to see some one in authority. Need, desperation, a last chance to plead for a ship. Any ship. Their only dread to be discarded, cast from the life they knew, and ending on the beach. A warning to all of them.
There were nine hundred captains on the Navy List, and not an admiral under sixty years of age.
Adam turned abruptly and saw his own reflection in the window. He was thirty-eight years old, or would be in four months.
What will you do?
He realized that he had thrust one hand into his coat, the pocket where he carried her letters. The link, the need. And she was in Cornwall. Unless…He jerked his hand from his coat.
“If you would follow me, Captain Bolitho?”
He snatched up his hat from the table with its unread newspaper. He had not even heard the door open.
The porter peered around the room as if it were a habit. Looking for what? He must have seen it all. The great victories and the defeats. The heroes and the failures.
He touched the old sword at his hip. Part of the Bolitho legend. He could almost hear his aunt reminding him of it when they had been looking at his portrait; he had been painted with a yellow rose pinned to his uniform coat. Lowenna’s rose…He could see her now.
Andromeda.
He heard the door close. Cornwall. It seemed ten thousand miles away.
There were fewer people in this corridor this time, or perhaps it was a different route. More doors. Two officers standing outside one of them. Just a glance, a flicker of eyes. Nothing more. Waiting for promotion, or a court martial…
He cleared his mind of everything but this moment, and the man he was about to meet: John Grenville, still listed as captain, but here in Admiralty appointed secretary to the First Lord. He remembered hearing Bethune refer to him as “second only to God.”
The porter stopped and subjected him to another scrutiny, and said abruptly, “My son was serving in
Frobisher
when Sir Richard was killed, sir. He often speaks of him whenever we meet.” He nodded slowly. “A fine gentleman.”
“Thank you.” Somehow it steadied him, like some one reaching out. “Let’s be about it, shall we?”
After the cell-like waiting room, this one seemed enormous, occupying an entire corner of the building, with great windows opening on two walls. There were several tables, one of which held a folding map stand; another was piled with ledgers.
Captain John Grenville was sitting at a vast desk, his back to one of the windows, framed against the meagre light. He was small, slight, even fragile at first glance, and his hair was completely white, like a ceremonial wig.
“Do be seated, Captain Bolitho.” He gestured to a chair directly opposite. “You must be somewhat weary after your travel. Progress has cut communication time to a minimum, but the human body is still hostage to the speed of a good horse!”
He sat cautiously, every muscle recalling the journey from Portsmouth. During the endless halts to change horses or rest them, he had seen the new telegraph system, mounted on a chain of hills and prominent buildings between the roof above their heads to the final sighting-point on the church by Portsmouth dockyard. A signal could be transmitted the entire distance in some twenty minutes, when visibility was good. In less time than it would take a courier to saddle and mount.
The winter light was stronger, or his eyes were becoming used to it. He was aware, too, that they were not alone. Another figure almost hidden by a desk on the far side of the room stood up and half-bowed, the light glinting briefly on spectacles perched on his forehead. Like Daniel Yovell, he thought.
Grenville said, “That is Mr Crozier. He will not disturb us.” He leaned forward in his chair and turned over the papers arranged before him in neat piles.
Adam forced himself to relax, muscle by muscle. There was no tiredness now, no despair. He was alert. On guard. And he was alone.
“I have, of course, read all the reports of the campaign conducted under Sir Graham Bethune’s command. Their lordships are also informed of the operational control of the commodore, Antigua,” one hand moved to his mouth, and there might have been a trace of sarcasm. “Now
rear-admiral
, Antigua. It slipped my mind!”
Adam saw him clearly for the first time. A thin face, the cheekbones very prominent and the skin netted with tiny wrinkles, perhaps the legacy of some serious fever early in his service. Keen-edged, like steel. Not a man who would make a mistake about somebody’s promotion. Especially at Antigua.
“As flag captain, were you ever concerned that the conduct of operations might not be completely satisfactory?”
So casually said. Adam felt the clerk’s close attention, and sensed his pen already poised.
“I have submitted my own report, sir.
Athena
’s log will confirm the ship’s total involvement.”
Surprisingly, Grenville laughed. “Well said, Bolitho, like a good flag captain!” He leaned back in his chair, the mood changing again. “You are not under oath, nor are you under suspicion for any cause or reason.” He held up one hand as if expecting an interruption; like his face, it was almost transparent. “We are well aware of your record as a King’s officer, both in command and while serving others. You are not on trial here, but we are dealing with diplomacy, something more nebulous than the cannon’s mouth, or the rights and wrongs of battle.”
“No captain can be expected to contradict…” Adam broke off, and continued calmly, “Given all the circumstances, the vessels at our disposal, and the weather, I think we acted in the only way possible. Good men died that day at San José. Slavery is an evil and a brutal thing. But it is still highly rewarding for those who condone it.” He turned unconsciously toward the half-hidden desk. “And it costs lives, even if it
is
dismissed as a skirmish by those who apparently know otherwise!”
The bony hand came up slowly. “Well said, Bolitho. I hope your ideals reach Parliament. Eventually.”
He turned over more papers, and when he spoke again it was as if his thoughts had been rearranged with them. “
Athena
is paid off, and her people moved to other ships when suitable, or to continue their lives ashore. As is the way of the navy. Your first lieutenant has elected to remain with
Athena
until she is given over to other work,” a cold eye briefly across the desk, “or disposed of.”
Adam said nothing, recalling the stern, unsmiling features of Stirling, the first lieutenant. Unmoved, unshaken even in the heat of battle. A man he had never understood.
But was I to blame?
Grenville stood up suddenly and walked to the nearest window. He wore a plain, perfectly cut blue coat, and it was easy to see him as a captain again. Over his shoulder he remarked, almost offhandedly, “You had Lady Somervell buried at sea. That was
your
decision, I believe?”
Bethune must have told him, or the First Lord.
Adam stared past him at the overcast sky. He could see them now, as if it had only just happened. Bethune and Sillitoe staring each other down. The hatred, and something that was stronger than both of them.
He said, “She’s free now, sir.” He looked over at the clerk. The pens were still in their standish. Unused. He said quietly, “What of Sillitoe, sir?”
Grenville’s shoulders lifted slightly. “Others, far higher than their lordships, will have the disposal of him. Be sure of that.” He turned and regarded him steadily. “And what of you, Bolitho? Do you have plans?”
Adam was on his feet without realizing it. “Another ship, sir.” Like all those others in that waiting room. Refusing to admit any doubt.
Grenville looked at a clock on the mantel as it chimed delicately. He pulled out his watch, as if it were a signal. The clerk had risen from the desk and his eyes were on the door.
Grenville smiled, but his eyes gave nothing away. “I heard that you intend to be married?”
“I—am hoping—” He stared down as Grenville seized his hand. The fingers were like iron.
“
Then do it.
Bless you both.” He turned away. “Be patient, Bolitho. A ship will come.”
The door was open, and instinct told him another visitor was waiting for an audience with this man, so frail and so powerful. Always on call to the First Lord himself; he would forget this meeting before that clock chimed again.
He saw that Grenville had turned his back on the door and was looking directly at him. He could feel the force of his gaze like something physical.
He said, “I hold a certain authority here in Admiralty. Some would describe it as influence. But I have never forgotten the truths that make a sailor.” He gestured around the room, dismissing it. “To walk my own deck, to hear the wind’s voice above and around me—nothing can or will replace that.” He shook his head, impatient or embarrassed. “I had to
know
, Bolitho, to be certain. Now be off with you. The chief clerk will take care of your requirements.”
Adam was in the passageway, and some one was handing him his hat.
“This way, sir.” A different porter, and the door was shut. As if he had imagined it.
But the words lingered in his memory.
I had to know, to be certain.
He touched the sword, pressing the weight of it against his hip. He did not see the same two officers turn as he passed them.
The old captain had seen all the faces of command. The blame and recrimination as well as the huzzas of triumph when an enemy’s flag dipped through the smoke of battle. And when pride vanquished the doubt, and the fear.
He could still feel the iron grip on his hand.
Then do it!
To see her again, to be with her.
Walk with me.
It seemed to take an eternity before the chief clerk was satisfied. Questions, answers, papers that needed a signature. Then it was done. On his way to the entrance hall, he passed the main waiting room again. All the chairs were stacked at one end, and two men were mopping the floor in readiness for another day. A door opened and slammed, but neither looked up from his work.
The doors of Admiralty were opened, and the air like ice. It was pitch dark on the street outside. But there were carriages, and men’s voices passing the time of day. One would take him to Bethune’s house. But all he saw was the officer who had just emerged from the sealed room. The last interview of the day. One of many…Perhaps after the long wait, he had been offered some hope.
How many times?
Then suddenly he swung round and stared at Adam’s uniform and the gold lace, caught momentarily in the light from the porters’ lodge, and then, openly, at his face. Not envy. It was hate, like a raw wound.
“This way, Captain Bolitho!”
He followed the porter down the steps and into the cold darkness. Like a brutal warning. Something he would never forget.
The coachman jumped down from his box and lowered the step with a flourish.
“’Ere we are, sir. ’Nother cold night, by the feel of it!”
Adam stamped his feet, looking up at the house. The coachmen employed by the Admiralty certainly knew their business: he would never have found his own way back to this place. Even so, it seemed to have taken far longer than his journey to Whitehall. Perhaps the coachman had taken a more indirect route, on the off-chance that his passenger might request some amusement after his day’s dealings with their lordships.
It had been another world. Glimpses of a London he would never know: people standing around braziers in the street, waiting for their employers or merely for companionship. On one corner a whore, on another a tall, ragged man reciting poetry, or preaching, or perhaps singing. No one had appeared to be listening.
He felt for some coins, fumbling; he was more weary than he had thought. There were lights in most of the surrounding windows, but not at this house.
“Thank ’ee, sir!” The coachman’s breath was like smoke in the lamplight. “I ’ope we meet again!”