The smash of Segrave's fist into his jaw flung him down onto the deck, blood spurting from a split lip.
Segrave winced from the pain of the blow; all those years of humiliation had been behind it.
"Call me out, sonny?" He punched him again in the face as he scrambled to his feet, and sent him sprawling. "Duels are for men, not pigmies! "
Four decks above them Lieutenant Flemyng, who was the officer-of-the-watch, took a few paces this way and that before glancing again at the half-hour glass by the compass box.
He beckoned to a boatswain's mate and snapped, "Go and find that damned snotty, will you, Gregg? Skylarking somewhere, I shouldn't wonder."
The man knuckled his forehead and made to hurry away, but was stopped by the harsh voice of Cazalet, the first lieutenant.
"Not just yet, Mr Flemyng! " He came from Tynemouth and had a voice which carried above the strongest gale.
Flemyng, who was the ship's third lieutenant, stared at him questioningly.
Cazalet smiled to himself and trained his glass on the old Sunderland. "I think he should have a mite longer, don't you?"
Admiral the Lord Godschale flapped a silk handkerchief before his hawk-like nose and commented, "The damn river is a bit vile this evening."
He looked powerfully magnificent in his heavy dress coat and shining epaulettes, and as he stood watching the colourful throng of guests which overflowed the broad terrace of his Greenwich house he found time to reflect on his good fortune.
But it was extremely hot, and would remain so until night touched the Thames and brought some cool relief to the officers in their coats of blue and scarlet. Godschale watched the river winding its endless journey up and around the curve into Blackwall Reach, the ant-like movement of wherries and local craft. It was an imposing house and he was constantly grateful that the previous owner had sold so eagerly and reasonably. At the outbreak of war with France, as all the hideous news of the Terror had insinuated its way across the Channel, the former owner had taken his possessions and investments and had fled to America.
Godschale smiled grimly. So much for his faith in his country's defences at the time.
He saw the slight figure of Sir Charles Inskip threading his way through the laughing, jostling guests, bobbing here, smiling there-the true diplomat. Godschale felt the return of his uneasiness.
Inskip joined him and took a tall glass of wine from one of the many sweating servants.
"Quite a gathering, m'lord."
Godschale frowned. He had planned the reception with great care. People who mattered in society evenly mixed with the military and those of his own service. Even the Prime Minister was coming. Grenville had only held office for a year and after Pitt, whatever people had said about him, he had been a disaster. Now they had a Tory again, the Duke of Portland no less, who would probably be even more out of touch with the war than Grenville had been.
He saw his wife deeply engaged in conversation with two of her closest friends. The latest gossip no doubt. It was hard to picture her as the lively girl he had first met when he had been a dashing frigate captain. Plain, and rather dull. He shook his head. Where had that girl gone?
He glanced at the other women nearest to him. The hot weather was a blessing as far as they were concerned. Bare shoulders, plunging dampened gowns which would never have been tolerated a few years ago in the capital.
Inskip saw his hungry expression and asked, "Is it true that you have recalled Sir Richard Bolitho? If so, I think we should have been informed."
Godschale ignored the careful criticism. "Had to. I sent Tybalt for him. He anchored at the Nore two days ago."
Inskip was unimpressed. "I don't see how it will help."
Godschale tore his eyes from a young woman whose breasts would have been bare if her gown were stitched half an inch lower.
He said in a deep whisper, "You've heard the news? Napoleon has signed a treaty with Russia and has had the damned audacity to order, if you please, order Sweden and Denmark to close their ports against us and to sever all trade. In addition France has demanded their fleets to be put at their disposal! God damn it, man that would be close on two hundred ships! Why did nobody see the nearness of this sorry affair? Your people are supposed to have eyes and ears in Denmark! "
Inskip shrugged. "What shall we do next, I wonder?"
Godschale tugged at his neckcloth as if it was choking him. "Do? I'd have thought it was obvious! "
Inskip recalled Bolitho's bitterness and contempt when Truculent had sighted the three Frenchmen.
He said, "So that is why Bolitho will be here?"
Godschale did not answer directly. "Admiral Gambier is even now assembling a fleet and all the transports we will need to carry an army across to Denmark."
"Invade? The Danes will never be willing to capitulate. I think we should wait-"
"Do you indeed?" Godschale studied him hotly. "D'you believe Denmark 's sensibilities are more important than England 's survival? For that is what we are talking about, dammit! " He almost snatched a glass from a servant and drained it in two gulps.
The orchestra had struck up a lively gigue but many of the guests seemed unwilling to leave the great terrace, and Godschale guessed why.
At the Admiralty this morning he had told Bolitho of this reception, how it would prove an ideal setting where deeper matters of state might be discussed without arousing attention. Bolitho had replied calmly enough but left no doubt as to his conditions.
He had said, "There will be many ladies there, my lord. You will have not had time to arrange an 'official' invitation for me as I am ordered here."
Godschale spoke aloud without realising it. "He simply stood there and told me he would not come here unless he could bring that woman! "
Inskip let out a deep breath of relief. He had imagined that Bolitho might have brought even worse news with him.
"Are you surprised?" Inskip smiled at Godschale's discomfort; Godschale, whom he had heard had a mistress or two in London. "I have seen what Lady Somervell has done for Bolitho. I hear it in his voice, in the fire of the man."
Godschale saw his secretary making signals from beside a tall pillar and exclaimed, "The Prime Minister! "
The Duke of Portland shook their hands and glanced around at the watching eyes. "Handsome levee, Godschale. All this talk of gloom-rubbish, is what I say! "
Inskip thought of Bolitho's men, the ordinary sailors he had seen and heard cheering and dying in the blaze of battle. They hardly compared with these people, he thought. His men were real.
The Prime Minister beckoned to a severe-looking man dressed in pearl-grey silk.
"Sir Paul Sillitoe." The man gave a brief smile. "My trusted adviser in this unforeseen crisis."
Inskip protested, "Hardly unforeseen-"
Godschale interrupted. "I have had the matter under constant surveillance. There is a new squadron in the North Sea with the sole duty of watching out for some move by the French, any show of force towards Scandinavia."
Sillitoe's eyes gleamed. "Sir Richard Bolitho, yes? I am all eagerness to meet him."
The Prime Minister dabbed his mouth. "Not I, sir! "
Sillitoe regarded him impassively; he had hooded eyes, and his features remained expressionless.
"Then I fear your stay in high office will be as short as Lord Grenville's." He watched his superior's fury without emotion. "The French Admiral Villeneuve said after he was captured that at Trafalgar every English captain was a Nelson." He shrugged. "I am no sailor, but I know how they are forced to live, in conditions no better than a jail, and I am quite certain that they were inspired more by Nelson-enough to perform miracles." He looked at them almost indifferently. "Bolitho may not be another Nelson, but he is the best we have." He turned as a ripple of excitement ran through the guests. "Forget that at your peril, my friends."
Godschale followed his glance and saw Bolitho's familiar fig-ure, the black hair marked now by grey streaks in the lock above that savage scar. Then, as he turned to offer her his arm, Godschale saw Lady Catherine Somervell beside him. The mourning was gone, and the hair which was piled above her ears shone in the sunshine like glass. Her gown was dark green, but the silk seemed to change colour and depth as she turned and took his arm, a fan hanging loosely from her wrist.