"Alexander Kent - Bolitho 20 Darkening Sea Txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kent Alexander)

Adam smiled, and it made him look like a boy again. "I cannot. We must take on fresh water and depart with all despatch. Please convey my warmest greetings to Lady Catherine." He hesitated. "And any who care for me."

Bolitho glanced over and saw Allday watching him, his head on one side like a shaggy, questioning dog.

He said, "I shall take the gig, Allday. I'll send it back for you and Yovell, and any gear we may have overlooked."

Allday, who hated to leave his side, did not blink. He understood. Bolitho wanted to meet her alone.

"Ready to come about, sir!"

With her courses already brailed up and under reefed topsails, Anemone curtsied around in the freshening breeze. It was the sort of weather she had always relished.

"Let go!"

A great burst of spray shot above the beak head as the anchor plummeted down for the first time since the sun and beaches of the Caribbean. Men, starved of loved ones, homes and perhaps children they had barely known, stared around at the green slopes of Cornwall, the tiny pale dots of sheep on the hillsides. There were few who would be allowed ashore even when they reached Portsmouth, and already there were scarlet-coated marines on the gangways and in the bows, ready to fire on anyone foolish enough to try to swim to the shore.

Afterwards he thought it was like a dream sequence. Bolitho heard the trill of a call as the gig was hoisted out and lowered alongside, its crew very smart in checkered shirts and tarred hats. Adam had learned well. A man-of-war was always judged first by her boats and their crews.

"Man the side!"

The Royal Marines fell in by the entry port, a sergeant taking the place of their officer, who had died of his wounds and now lay fathoms deep in that other ocean.

Boatswain's mates moistened their calls with their lips, eyes moving occasionally to the man who was about to leave them, the man who had not only talked with them in the dog watches but also had listened, as if he had really needed to know them, the ordinary men who must follow him even to the cannon's mouth if so ordered. Some had been perplexed by the experience. They had been expecting to find the legend. Instead they had discovered a human being.

Bolitho turned towards them and raised his hat. Allday saw his sudden distress as a probing shaft of sunlight lanced down through the shrouds and neatly furled sails to touch his injured eye.

It was always a bad moment, and Allday had to restrain himself from stepping up to help him over the side where the gig swayed to its lines, a midshipman standing in the stern-sheets to receive their passenger.

Bolitho nodded to them, and turned his face away. "I wish you all good fortune. I am proud to have been in your midst."

Vague impressions now, the cloud of pipe clay above the bayonetted muskets as the guard presented arms, the piercing twitter of calls, the fleeting anxiety on Allday's rugged features as he reached the gig in safety. He saw Adam by the rail, his hand half-raised, while behind him his lieutenants and warrant officers sought to be the first to take his attention. A man-of-war at sea or in harbour was never at rest, and already boats were putting off from the harbour wall to conduct, if they could, every kind of business from the sale of tobacco and fruit to the services of women of the town, if a captain would permit them on board.

"Give way all!" The midshipman's voice was a squeak. Bolitho shaded his eyes to see the people on the nearest jetty. Faintly, above the scream of gulls circling some incoming fishing boats, he heard the church clock strike the half-hour. Old Partridge had been right about the time of their arrival. Anemone must have anchored exactly at four bells as he had predicted.

More uniforms at the top of the stone stairs, and an old man with a wooden leg who was grinning as if Bolitho were his own son.

Bolitho said, "Morning, Ned." He was an old boatswain's mate who had once served with him. What ship? How many years ago?

The man piped after him, "Did 'ee give they Frenchies a quiltin', zur?"

But Bolitho had hurried away. He had seen her watching him from the narrow lane that led eventually to the house by a less public route.

She stood quite still, only one hand moving as it stroked the horse's neck, her eyes never leaving his face.

He had known she would be here, just as she had been drawn from her bed to be the first, the only one to greet him.

He was home.

Bolitho paused with his arm around Catherine's shoulder, one hand touching her skin. The tall glass doors leading from the library were wide open, and the air was heavy with the fragrance of roses. She glanced at his profile, the white lock of hair etched against his sunburn. She had called it distinguished, to comfort him, although she knew he hated it, as if it were some trick to constantly remind him of the difference in years between them.