A Knight of the Bath, from a fine old seafaring family, looked on as a hero by the people of England. All the things which Glassport would like to be and to have.
So why had he come to Antigua' There was little or no prospect of a fleet action, and provided they could get reinforcements for the various flotillas, and a replacement for – He wilted as Bolitho touched on that very point, as if he had looked up quickly to see right into his mind with those steady, compelling grey eyes.
'The Dons took the frigate Consort from us?' It sounded like an accusation.
'Two months back, Sir Richard. She drove aground under fire. One of my schooners was able to take off most of her company before the enemy stood against her. The schooner did well, I thought that -'
'The Consort's captain?'
'At St. John's, Sir Richard. He is awaiting the convenience of a court martial.'
'Is he indeed.' Bolitho stood up and turned as Jenour re-entered the room. 'We are going to St. John's.'
Jenour swallowed hard. 'If there is a carriage, Sir Richard -' He looked at Glassport as if for guidance.
Bolitho picked up his sword. 'Two horses, my lad.' He tried to hide his sudden excitement. Or was it merely trailing a coat to draw him from his other anxiety? 'You are from Hampshire, nghtr
Jenour nodded. 'Yes. That is -'
'It's settled then. Two horses immediately.'
Glassport stared from one to the other. 'But the reception, Sir Richard?' He sounded horrified.
'This will give me an appetite.' Bolitho smiled. 'I shall return.' He thought of Allday's patience, Ozzard and the others. 'Directly.'
Bolitho peered closely at his reflection in an ornate wall mirror, then thrust the loose lock of hair from his forehead. In the mirror he could see Allday and Ozzard watching him anxiously, and his new flag lieutenant Stephen Jenour massaging his hip after their ride to St. John's and back to English Harbour.
It had been hot, dusty but unexpectedly exhilarating, and had almost been worthwhile just to see the expressions of passers-by as they had galloped along in the hazy sunshine.
It was dark now, dusk came early to the islands, and Bolitho had to study himself very carefully while his ear recorded the sound of violins, the muffled murmur of voices from the grand room where the reception was being held.
Ozzard had brought fresh stockings from the ship, while All-day had collected the fine presentation sword to replace the old blade Bolitho had been wearing.
Bolitho sighed. Most of the candles were protected by tall hurricane glasses so the light was not too strong. It might hide his crumpled shirt, and the stain left by the saddle on his breeches. There had been no time to return to Hyperion. Damn Glassport and his reception. Bolitho would much rather have stayed in his
cabin and sifted through all which the frigate captain had told him.
Captain Matthew Price was young to hold command of so fine a vessel. The Consort of thirty-six guns had been working through some shoals when she had been fired on by a coastal battery. She had been that close inshore when she had unfortunately run aground. It was much as Glassport had described. A schooner had taken off many of Consort's people, but had been forced to run, her task incomplete, as Spanish men-of-war had arrived on the scene.
Captain Price was so junior that he had not even been posted, and if a court martial ruled against him, which was more than likely, he would lose everything. At best he might return to the rank of lieutenant. The worst did not bear thinking about.
As Price sat in a small government-owned house to await the calling of the court martial he had plenty to ponder about. Not least that it might have been better had he been taken prisoner, or killed in battle. For his ship had been refloated and was now a part of His Most Catholic Majesty's fleet at La Guaira on the Spanish Mam. Frigates were worth their tonnage in gold, and the navy was always in desperate need of them. When Bolitho had been in the Mediterranean there were only six frigates available between Gibraltar and the Levant. The president of Price's court martial would not be able to exclude that fact from his considerations.
Once, in desperation, the young captain had asked Bolitho what he thought of the possible outcome.
Bolitho had told him to expect his sword to point towards him at the table. To hazard his ship was one thing. To lose it to a hated enemy was another entirely.
There had been no sense in promising Price he could do something to divert the court's findings. Price had taken a great risk to discover the Spanish intentions. Laid beside what Bolitho already knew, his information could be invaluable. But it would not help the Consort's captain now.
Bolitho said, 'I suppose it is time.' He looked at a tall clock and added, 'Are our officers present yet?'
Jenour nodded, then winced as the ache throbbed through his thighs and buttocks. Bolitho was a superb horseman, but then so was he, or so he had believed. Bolitho's little joke about people from Hampshire being excellent riders had acted as a spur, but at no time had Jenour been able to keep pace with him.
He said, 'The first lieutenant arrived with the others while you were changing, Sir Richard.'
Bolitho looked down at the immaculate stockings and remembered when he had been a lowly lieutenant with only one fine pair for such occasions as this. The rest had been darned so many times it had been a wonder they had held together.
It gave him time to think about Captain Haven's request to remain aboard ship. He had explained that a storm might spring up without warning and prevent his return from the shore in time to take the necessary precautions. The air was heavy and humid, and the sunset had been like blood.
Hyperion's sailing master, Isaac Penhaligon, a fellow Cornish-man by birth at least, had insisted that a storm was very unlikely. It was as if Haven preferred to keep to himself, even though someone at the reception might take his absence as a snub.
If only Keen was still his flag captain. He had but to ask, and Keen would have come with him. Loyalty, friendship, love, it was something of each.
But Bolitho had pressed Keen to remain in England, at least until he had settled the problems of his lovely Zenoria. More than anything else Keen wanted to marry his dark-eyed girl with the flowing chestnut hair. They loved and were so obviously in love that Bolitho could not bring himself to separate them so soon after they had found each other.
Or was he comparing their love with his own house?
He stopped his thoughts right there. It was not the time. Maybe it never could be now.
Perhaps Haven did not like him? He might even be afraid of him. That was something Bolitho had often found hard to believe in his own days as a captain. When he had first stepped aboard a new command he had tried to hide his nervousness and apprehension. It had been much later when he had understood that a ship's company was far more likely to be worried about him and what he might do 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.