The sense of loss was still there, as strong as ever, and if anything he felt even more impatient, conscious of a certain disappointment which was new to him.
Whenever he was at sea in Montrose he felt this same restlessness. He had confided to Sir Richard Bolitho more than once his discomfort at commanding, but not being in command, of his own flagship. Each change of watch or unexpected trill of a bosun’s call, any sound or movement would find him alert, ready to go on deck and deal with every kind of incident. To leave it to others, to wait for the respectful knock on the screen door, had been almost unbearable.
Bethune had grasped at the chance of a seagoing appointment, having imagined that the corridors of the Admiralty were not for him.
He had been wrong, but it was hard to come to terms with it.
He watched the small boats pulling around the captured French frigate, La Fortune. A prize indeed. It had been a risk, and he had seen Adam Bolitho’s face clearly in his mind as he had read the report. But a risk skilfully undertaken. If their lordships required any further proof that the Dey of Algiers was intent on even more dangerous escapades, this was it.
He recalled Bouverie’s description of the cutting-out expedition. It was wrong to take sides, and Bethune had always despised senior officers who did so, but Bouverie had given the impression that the capture of the frigate had been entirely his own idea.
He turned his back on the grand harbour and its crumbling backdrop of ancient fortifications, and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the dimness of this room which was a part of his official headquarters. Once owned by a wealthy merchant, it was almost palatial. There was even a fountain in the small courtyard, and a balcony. In this house was the room where Catherine Somervell had made her final visit to her beloved Richard.
Bethune had ordered that it be kept locked, and could guess what his staff thought about it. He had visited the room only once. So still, so quiet, and yet when he had thrown open the shutters the din and turmoil of Malta seemed to swamp the place. It was uncanny.
There was a bell on a table. He had only to ring it and a servant would appear. Wine, perhaps? Or something stronger? He almost smiled. That was not like him, either; he had seen the results of over-indulgence only too often at the Admiralty.
He walked to another window. When he thought of his wife in England, and of their two young children, he could feel only guilt. Because he had been glad to leave, or because he had not trusted his own feelings for Richard Bolitho’s mistress? It seemed absurd out here. He turned as someone tapped on the door.
Or was it?
It was his flag lieutenant, Charles Onslow. Young, eager, attentive. And dull, so dull. He was a distant cousin, and the appointment had been a favour to his wife.
Onslow stood just inside the door, his hat beneath his arm, his youthful features set in a half-smile.
“I am sorry to interrupt you, Sir Graham.” He usually prefaced any remark to Bethune with an apology, not like the Onslow he had heard barking at his subordinates. Favour or not, he would be rid of him.
“I welcome it!” Bethune stared at the heavy dress coat which was hanging carelessly on the back of a chair. So many officers envied him, and looked to him in hope of their own advancement.
I do not belong here.
“What is it?”
“A report from the lookout, Sir Graham. Unrivalled has been sighted. She will enter harbour in late afternoon if the wind prevails.”
Bethune dragged his thoughts into the present. Unrivalled had quit her station. Adam must have had good reason. If not…
Onslow added helpfully, “She has a ship in company. A prize.”
Another from Algiers, perhaps, although it seemed unlikely. He was reminded of Richard Bolitho’s insistence that, unpopular though it might be with some senior officers, the bare bones of the written Fighting Instructions were no substitute for a captain’s initiative.
Always provided that the end justified the methods.
“You may signal Unrivalled when she enters harbour, Captain repair here when convenient.”
Onslow frowned; perhaps he thought it too leisurely. Slack.
He was turning in the doorway. “I all but forgot, Sir Graham.” He dropped his eyes. “A lieutenant named Avery desires an audience with you.”
Bethune plucked his shirt from his ribs. “How long has he been waiting?”
“The secretary brought word an hour back. I was dealing with signals at the time. It was an unusual request, I thought.”
He was enjoying it. He, more than any, would know that Avery had been flag lieutenant to Sir Richard Bolitho. He would also know that Avery had volunteered to remain at Malta to offer his assistance and the experience he had gained when he had visited the lion’s den, Algiers.
“Ask him to come up. I shall apologise to him myself.”
It was almost worth it to see the rebuke go home like the sounding-shot before a broadside.
He made to pick up his heavy coat but decided against it.
He heard Avery in the corridor; he had come to recognise the uneven, dragging step.
Avery paused and gazed almost uncertainly around the room, like so many sea officers out of place on dry land. He would have to get used to it, Bethune thought.
He offered his hand, smiling.
“I regret the delay. It was unnecessary.” He gestured to the envelope on the table. “Your orders. You are free to leave Malta, and take passage in the next available vessel. Go home. You have done more than enough here.” He saw the tawny eyes come finally into focus, as if Avery’s mind had been elsewhere.
“Thank you, Sir Graham. I was ready to leave.” The eyes searched him. “I came to see you because…” He hesitated.
Bethune tensed, anticipating it. Avery would know this place. The room. Where there was now only silence.
Avery said, almost abruptly, “I heard that Unrivalled has been sighted. With a prize.”
Bethune did not question how he knew, although he himself had only just been told. It was something beyond explanation: the way of sailors, he had heard an old admiral call it.
He said, “Forgive me. I spoke of home. It was thoughtless.”
Avery regarded him without emotion, vaguely surprised that he should remember, let alone care. He had no home. He had lived at Falmouth. As Allday had put it often enough, “like one of the family.” Now there was no family.
He shrugged. “I might be needed here. I have a presentiment about this prize, something Captain Bolitho and I discussed. He is a shrewd man-his uncle would be proud of him.”
Bethune said gently, “And of you, I think.” He swung round as another tap came from the door. “Come!”
It was Onslow again, his eyes moving quickly from the envelope on the table to his admiral’s dishevelled appearance, coatless in the presence of a junior officer. He avoided looking at Avery completely.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Graham. Another report from the lookout. The schooner Gertrude has been sighted.”
Bethune spread his hands. “We are busy, it seems!” Then he turned on his flag lieutenant, his mind suddenly clear. “Gertrude? She is not due for several days, surely, wind or no wind. Send a messenger to the lookout immediately.”
Onslow added unhappily, “And Captain Bouverie of Matchless is here, Sir Graham.”
Avery said, “I shall leave, sir.”
Bethune held out his hand.
“Sup with me tonight. Here.” He knew Avery disliked Bouverie, mainly, he suspected, because he had brought him back to Malta with the French frigate, when Avery would have preferred Adam’s company. The same bond which held them all together. He allowed himself to explore the thought. And Catherine, who has touched us all.