But Ozzard was far away. In that street along the old Wapping Wall where he had blundered from his little house on that hideous day.
He could hear her pleading and screams; and afterwards, when he had hacked his young wife and her lover to death until he had lost all strength in his arm, the terrible silence.
It had been haunting him ever since, revived by a casual comment made by the senior surgeon who had been in Hyperion during her last fight. When the old ship had started to go down, Ozzard had wanted to go with her, to stay with Bolitho's things in the hold, where he always went when the ship, any of their ships, had been in action.
But it was not to be. He let out a long sigh.
All he said was, "It's London, then."
10. The Way Of The World
ADMIRAL the Lord Godschale was doing his best to show cordiality, to forget the coolness between himself and Bolitho when they had last met.
"It is time we had a good talk, Sir Richard. We in admiralty can too often become dry old sticks, missing out on greater deeds which officers like you seem to attract."
Bolitho stood beside one of the tall windows and looked down at the sunlit roadway and the park beyond. Did London never rest, he wondered? Carriages and smart phaetons bustled hither and thither, wheels seemingly inches apart as their coachmen tried to outdo one another's skill. Horsemen and a few mounted ladies made splashes of colour against the humbler vehicles, carriers' carts and small waggons drawn by donkeys.
Jostling people, some pausing to gossip in the warm September sunshine, and a few officers from the nearby barracks, cutting a dash as they strolled through the park and trying to catch the eye of any likely young lady.
Bolitho said, "We are only as good as our men." Godschale meant nothing of the sort. He was well pleased with his appointment and the power it gave him, and very likely believed that no ship or her captain would amount to anything without his guiding hand from afar.
Bolitho studied him as he poured two tall glasses of madeira. It was strange to realise that they once served together, when they had both been frigate captains during the American Revolution. They had even been posted on the same day There was not much to show of that dashing young captain now, he thought. Tall, powerfully built and still handsome, despite a certain florid complexion which had not been gained on an open deck in the face of a gale. But behind the well-groomed sleekness there was steel too, and Bolitho could still recall how they had parted the previous year when Godschale had attempted to manoeuvre him away from
Catherine and back to Lady Belinda.
Bolitho did not believe that Godschale had any hand in the terrible plan to falsify evidence which put Catherine in the filthy Waites prison. Sometimes she had awakened at his side, even after all the months which had passed since he had rescued her, and had cried out as if she had been trying to fight off her jailers.
No, Godschale was a lot of things but he would have no stomach for a plan which might cast him down from his throne. If he had a weakness it was conceit, an actual belief in his own shrewdness. He had probably been used by Catherine's husband, convinced, as Belinda had been, that it was the only solution.
Bolitho gritted his teeth. He had no idea where Viscount Somervell was now, although he had heard rumours that he was on another mission for His Majesty in North America. He tried not to think about it, knowing that if ever they came face-to-face again he would call him out. Somervell was a duellist of repute, but usually with a pistol. Bolitho touched the old sword at his side. Perhaps someone else would cheat him of the chance.
Godschale handed him a glass and raised his eyebrows, "Remembering, eh?" He sipped at his madeira. "To great days, Sir Richard! " He eyed him curiously. "To happier ones also."
Bolitho sat down, his sword resting across one leg. "The French squadrons which slipped through the blockade-you recall, m'lord? Before I sailed for Good Hope. Were they taken?"
Godschale smiled grimly He saw the sudden interest, the keenness in Bolitho's eyes, and felt in safer waters. He was well aware that Viscount Somervell's wife was here in London, flaunting her relationship as if to provoke more hostility and rouse criticism. With Nelson it had been embarrassing enough; at least that affair had been allowed to rest. Nobody seemed to know where Emma Hamilton was now, or what had happened since his death at Trafalgar.
Godschale did not care much for Somervell's character and reputation. But he still had friends, some very powerful, at Court, and had been rescued from scandal and far worse by no less than His Majesty himself. But even the King, or more likely his close advisers, had conveniently removed Somervell from London's melting-pot until the problem of Bolitho's involvement was solved, or destroyed.
The admiral was sensible enough to accept that no matter how he felt about it, Bolitho was probably as popular in the country as Nelson had once been. His courage was beyond doubt, and in spite of some unorthodox methods and tactics, he did win battles.
In peacetime his affair with Lady Somervell would not be tolerated for an instant: they would both be shunned and barred from society, while Bolitho's own career would fly to the winds.
But it was not peacetime; and Godschale knew the value of leaders who won, and the inspiration they offered their men and the nation.
He said, "The larger of the two enemy squadrons was under the flag of our old opponent ViceAdmiral Leissegues. He managed to slip through all our patrols-nevertheless Sir John Duckworth, who was cruising off Cadiz, gained some intelligence that a French squadron was at St Domingo. Duckworth had already been chasing
Leissegues, but had been about to give up when he had the news. He eventually ran them to ground, and even though the French cut their cables when Duckworth's squadron was sighted, he brought them to close-action. All the enemy were taken, but the hundred and twenty gun Imperial went aground and was burned. She would have made a formidable addition to our fleet." He sighed grandly. "But one cannot do everything! "
Bolitho hid a smile. It sounded as if the admiral had won the victory from this very room.
Godschale was saying, "The other French force was brought to battle and lost several ships singly before fleeing back to harbour."
Bolitho put down his glass and stared at it bitterly. "How I envy Duckworth. A decisive action, well thought out and executed. Napoleon must be feeling savage about it."
"Your work at Cape Town was no less important, Sir Richard." Godschale refilled the glasses to give himself time to think. "Valuable ships were released for the fleet by your prompt intervention. It was why I proposed you for the task." He gave a sly wink. "Although I know you suspected my motives at the time, what?"
Bolitho shrugged. "A post-captain could have done it."
Godschale wagged an admonitory finger. "Quite the reverse. They needed inspiration by example. Believe me, I know! " He decided to change the subject. "I have further news for you." He walked to his table and Bolitho noticed for the first time that he was limping. A problem he shared with Lord St Vincent, he thought. Gout-too much port and rich living.
Godschale picked up some papers. "I told you about your new flagship, the Black Prince. A fine vessel to the highest requirements, I understand."
Bolitho was glad he was looking at his papers and did not see his own rebellious smile. I understand. How like Captain Poland. Just to be on the safe side, in case something was proved to be amiss.
Godschale looked up. " Chosen your flag captain yet, or need I ask?"
Bolitho replied, "Under different circumstances I would have picked Valentine Keen without hesitation. In view of his coming marriage, and the fact that he has been continuously employed under demanding circumstances, I am loath to ask this of him."