He would have received the news earlier but Wakeful's, young captain had lost a couple of spars in a Western Ocean! storm in his eagerness to be the first to bring the despatches. Wakeful had also carried a passenger.
Keen looked at him now: Captain Henry Deighton, the next; acting commodore of the Halifax squadron, and soon to be. directly under the command of Sir Alexander Cochrane, who i had taken over the whole station. |
It had all happened so quickly that Keen could not decide if he was pleased or disturbed by the unseemly haste.
There had been several letters among the despatches, including one from the First Lord, to reassure him, perhaps, that the next phase of his career was about to begin. There had been no letters from his father, a sure sign of his continuing disapproval.
And there was Gilia. He would delay no longer in asking her, and of course her father, if his proposal of marriage would be acceptable.
Deighton said, "Captain Bolitho what is he like, sir?"
Keen studied him. He was a senior post-captain, with several years of blockade duty and two fleet actions to his credit. Squarely built, with short, gingery hair and restless eyes. Not an easy man to serve, harder still to know, he thought.
"A good frigate captain. Successful, too."
"Yes, I know him by reputation, of course, sir. It must have been a great asset to have Sir Richard Bolitho at his shoulder."
Keen said nothing. Deighton had already made up his mind, or had had it made up for him.
Deighton said, "Originally one of Sir Richard's midshipmen, I understand."
Keen said, "So was I. Vice-Admiral Bethune at the Admiralty was another. A good influence, it would seem."
Deighton nodded. "I see. I look forward to meeting him. Lost his ship, taken prisoner of war and then escaped… he sounds resourceful, if a trifle reckless."
"He is my flag captain, at least until I leave here."
It was quietly said but he saw the shot go home. Deighton had come from England; he would know better than anyone what was intended. It would mean further promotion, to vice-admiral. He still could not believe it.
He thought of Richard at home now in England, with his Catherine. He had seen and shared the legend himself. He opened the drawer very slightly and saw the miniature of the girl looking up at him. It could be his, too. Ours.
He half-listened to the tramp of boots outside the building, the raucous shouts of drill sergeants. This part of the place was on loan to him because of the general; it would soon revert to the army once his flag came down.
What would Adam think of the peace? He had agreed to be his flag captain, and the decision had surprised Keen. Adam was his own man, Deighton was right about that, and reckless to some degree, although Keen would never say so to someone outside the Happy Few. He could stay here and serve under the new commodore, or he could apply to be relieved, to take his chances in England while he hunted for a new command. It would not be easy; he knew that from his experience of other treaties, other respites in the long years of war.
He thought of all their faces, Inch, and Neale, and others like Tyacke who had somehow survived. The word was rarely used in the fleet, but each man was a hero. Perhaps that was what his father had implied more than once. That in war you needed heroes if you were to succeed. In peace, they were an embarrassment to those who had risked nothing.
It made him feel vaguely uneasy, as if he were letting Adam down. That was absurd. The choice was made, and by the time the next courier vessel arrived, everything might have changed yet again.
He closed the drawer, realising that de Courcey had returned.
"Valkyrie's gig has been sighted, sir."
De Courcey withdrew. The perfect aide, always there when he was needed, although Keen very clearly understood why he and Adam could not endure one another.
Deighton got to his feet. A heavy man, but he moved lightly, with an air of urgency and purpose. Commodore would be a big step for him. Sir Alexander Cochrane had gathered so many senior officers under his command that it was unlikely Deighton would rise any higher. And he would know it.
Deighton said, "I must leave, sir. I have arrangements to complete."
"We shall meet again this evening, Captain Deighton. I shall introduce you to Halifax society!"
Deighton stared at him, as if searching for a trap of some kind. Then he left the room.
Keen sighed, and thought, unexpectedly, of England, of Hampshire. It would be spring there. And there would be Gilia.
Suddenly, he was glad to be leaving.
Adam Bolitho opened the shutters of the two lanterns in his cabin to give it an air of welcome and seclusion. He rubbed his shin, cursing silently to himself; he had just collided with a chair in the darkness.
He touched the watch, heavy in his pocket, but did not look at it. It was about three o'clock in the morning, with Valkyrie riding easily at her anchor, a ship at rest, as much as she could be with some two hundred and fifty souls, seamen and marines, throughout her hull, some probably still awake after hearing of Napoleon's submission, and wondering what it might mean to them.
When he had returned from his visit to Keen's temporary headquarters he had ordered the lower deck to be cleared and the hands to muster aft. All those upturned faces: men he had come to know well, and those others who had managed to stay at arm's length from him, and all other authority. United by discipline, by the ship, and by their loyalty to one another, the strength of any man-of-war.
Later, he had explained to his officers what the immediate future might bring. With the arrival of better weather, it would almost certainly mean increased action against the Americans. That had been expected.
Dyer had been quite outraged when he had told them that there would be an acting commodore, as if the exchange of a rear-admiral's flag for a mere broad pendant was akin to a personal insult.
The day after tomorrow Valkyrie would sail in company with another small convoy, but her main duty would be to demonstrate to Commodore Deighton the importance and the efficiency of the squadron's scouts and offshore patrols.
Adam slumped in a chair and rubbed his shin again. He had had too much to drink, although he could scarcely remember it. And that was not like him.
He had changed into his best uniform and returned ashore for the evening reception which Keen had felt was necessary to welcome his successor. It had been a noisy, uninhibited gathering, which had shown no sign of ending even when Adam had made his excuses and walked back to the jetty, where his gig's crew had been dozing at their oars.
David St. Clair and his daughter Gilia had been there, as he had known they would be, as well as local merchants and suppliers to the fleet, officers of the garrison, and several other captains. Benjamin Massey, a close friend of Keen's father, had not attended; it was said that he had returned to England. But Massey's mistress, Mrs. Lovelace, had been present. She had smiled at Adam, that same direct, challenging look she had given him before. But this time her husband had accompanied her. The invitation in her eyes had been very clear.
Gilia St. Clair had made a point of greeting him, and had hinted that Keen was about to propose marriage. She had watched his face while she spoke to him, remembering, perhaps, when she had asked him if he had known Keen's wife, and his unhesitating reply. I was in love with her. She might have told Keen while Valkyrie had been away, but for some strange reason he was certain that she had not.
Then she had mentioned Keen's promotion, and the possibility of his becoming port admiral at Plymouth, and the despair that was ever waiting for its chance seized him once again.