He thought he saw a small crinkle around the man's eyes, as if he were saying privately, Told you you couldn't manage without me! "
Allday grunted. "I'll be there, Sir Richard, an' that's no…" He did not finish it but grinned, obviously remembering how Catherine had teased him with his favourite expression.
Bolitho glanced up at the austere Admiralty building. How many times had he come to this place? To receive orders; to beg for a ship, any ship; to be employed again when the clouds of war had spread once more across the Channel. Where he had met Herrick and where they had shaken hands as friends, but parted as strangers in this same building. Bolitho had sent word here by messenger, and wondered if Godschale's successor would keep him waiting, or perhaps delay the meeting altogether. It was strange that even in the navy's private world he should know so little of Sir James Hamett-Parker. He had first heard of him in any depth during the great mutinies throughout the fleet at the Nore and Spithead. All England had been shocked and horrified at that sudden display of defiance, which had incited even the staunchest men into open mutiny, leaving England undefended and at the mercy of the French.
The mutineers had formed themselves into councils with delegates to represent their cause, their plea for better conditions at every level, pay, food, and the harsh routine which had reduced some ships to the level of prison hulks, in which any bad captain could make a seaman's life a living hell. Some of the officers who had become notorious for their cruel and heartless treatment had been put forcibly ashore and their authority overturned. One of those had been Hamett-Parker.
Someone in the Admiralty must have decided against displaying any sympathy or weakness at Herrick's court-martial, and it was obvious that a guilty verdict had been taken for granted. But for his flag captain's change of evidence it was certain that Herrick would have faced disgrace, and very possibly death. Hamett-Parker's rigid ideas of discipline and duty must have made him the obvious choice for President of the Court.
Bolitho loosened the sword at his hip, not the fine presentation one given to him by the good people of Falmouth for his services in the Mediterranean and at the Battle of the Nile, but the old family blade. Forged for his great-grandfather Captain David in 1702, it was lighter than some of the more modern blades, and as straight and keen as ever. A show of defiance? Conceit, some would say. He smiled to himself. There was little margin in between.
"Can I 'elp you, sir?" An Admiralty messenger paused in polishing the big pair of brass dolphins from which a ship's bell was suspended and peered at him. In seconds his watery eye had taken in the bright epaulettes, each with its pair of silver stars, the lace on the sleeves, and above all the gold medal of the Nile about his neck.
"Bolitho." He knew he had little to add to that. He asked, "What happened to Pierce?"
The man was still staring. "I'm afraid 'e slipped 'is cable, Sir Richard." He shook his head, wondering how this famous officer, beloved by his sailors and all who served him, could even remember the other old porter.
Bolitho said, "I am sorry. Is there anything I can do?"
The porter shook his head. "Bin ill fer quite a time, Sir Richard. Often spoke of you, 'e did."
Bolitho said quietly, "He taught me many things…" He broke off, angry with himself, and saw a lieutenant with a fixed smile of anticipation waiting by the staircase. His arrival had already been signalled, apparently. As he followed the young officer up the stairs he was reminded suddenly of Jenour, and wondered how he was settling down to his new role of command. That new maturity gained after the
Golden Plover's loss and his own daring efforts to retake that wretched vessel after the mutiny had convinced him that he was ready to offer his hard-won experience to others. As Keen had said after they had been snatched to safety by Tyacke's brig Lame, "None of us will ever be quite the same again."
Perhaps Keen was right. Who would have believed it possible that Bolitho himself would have declared his intention of leaving the navy when the war was finally over? He walked along the passageways, past the blank impersonal doors, the line of chairs where captains could sit and wait to see a superior, to be praised, promoted or disciplined. Bolitho was glad to see they were all empty. Every captain, no matter how junior, was beyond price; the war's harvest had made certain of that. He himself had sat here many times, waiting, hoping, dreading.
They paused at the big double doors behind which God-sc hale had once held court. He had once been a frigate captain like Bolitho, and they had been posted at the same time. There was no other similarity. Godschale loved the good life: receptions and balls, great banquets and state occasions. He had an eye for a pretty face, and a wife so dull he probably considered it a fair distraction.
He had clumsily tried to make Bolitho return to his wife and their daughter Elizabeth, and his other ideas on strategy had, Bolitho thought, often failed to consider the logistics of available ships, supplies, and the great distances of ocean in which the enemy could choose its victims. But despite Godschale's annoying way of brushing obstacles aside, Bolitho knew in some strange way that he would miss him, bombast and all.
He turned, aware that the lieutenant had been speaking to him, probably all the way from the entrance hall.
The lieutenant said, "We were all excitement when we heard of your latest victory over Contre Amiral Baratte. I am honoured to be the one to meet you! "
Bolitho smiled. The young man's French accent was faultless. He would go far.
The doors opened and closed behind him and he saw Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker facing him across a massive marble-topped table. It was as if he had been seated for some time, staring at the doors, waiting for the first seconds of confrontation. The great wine cabinet, the clock with its cherubs, the model of Godschale's first command had all vanished. Even the air felt different.
Hamett-Parker stood up slowly and shook hands across the vast table.
"Welcome back, Sir Richard." He gestured to a chair. "I thought we should meet without further delay. There are many things I wish to discuss." He had an incisive voice, but spoke unhurriedly as if each word came under scrutiny before being released. "Your nephew made a fast passage, it seems. Where time is concerned I must be a miser. Too much of it has been wasted here."
Bolitho listened carefully. Did he imply that Godschale was the culprit? Or was he testing him for his own past loyalty?
Hamett-Parker walked slowly to a window and flicked a curtain aside. "I observed your entrance, Sir Richard. I see you came alone."
He had been watching. To see if Catherine had been with him, or if she was waiting now in the carriage.
He said, "From Chelsea, Sir James."
"Ah." He said nothing else, and Bolitho saw the finely cut profile, the slightly hooked nose, the young man still clinging behind the mask. His hair was grey, quite white in some places, so that it looked in the hazy sunshine like a wig; he even wore an old-style queue. He would not have seemed out of place in some fading portrait from a century earlier, although Bolitho knew Hamett-Parker was only about ten years his senior.
"There is much speculation as to what the enemy intends if, or rather when Sir Arthur Wellesley brings the war in Spain to a victorious conclusion. The despatches from the Peninsula remain encouraging news is daily expected of some dramatic climax. But the French will not surrender because of Spain. Our forces are fully extended, our yards unable to keep pace with the need for more ships, even if we could find the men to crew them. The enemy is aware of this. With all aggression ended in the Caribbean, we can withdraw certain vessels." He looked away and added crisply, "But not enough! "