He joined her at the parapet and stared out into the bay.

  ‘Remember the Nile?’ he said.

  The Battle of the Nile was the worst battle she had ever experienced in all her years sailing with Rob. Napoleon’s army had invaded Egypt, the first stage of a planned conquest that was meant to go all the way to India. But a British fleet under Admiral Nelson had found Napoleon’s ships anchored off the Egyptian coast. With their flank protected by the shore, the French fleet should have been unassailable.

  Rob had been a captain that day, leading Nelson’s line. It was Rob who had read the pattern of the sea in the uncharted bay and realised that there must be a channel of deep water on the landward side of the French fleet, where they did not expect to be attacked. He had taken his ship across their bows, so the French were battered from both sides. The ensuing battle had destroyed the French ships, cutting off Napoleon’s army and dooming his campaign almost before it started.

  The victory had been terrible. The French flagship, the Orient, had caught fire. As well as a full magazine of gunpowder for a hundred-and-eighteen-gun ship, her hold had been loaded with munitions for an entire army. The explosion when the flames reached it had been heard as far away as Alexandria. In an instant, the ship and her thousand-man crew had been blasted into a million fragments.

  One piece – a chunk of iron, no larger than a shilling – had struck Rob in the eye. Phoebe shuddered as she remembered standing beside Rob’s sickbed in the bowels of the ship, a lamplit hell of blood and broken men. The surgeons had been operating so quickly that severed limbs spilled out of the buckets, and the blood flowed in waves across the deck. She had held Rob’s hand as the surgeons extracted the missile from the eye socket, praying the eye was all he would lose.

  ‘That was eight years ago,’ she murmured.

  The wound had been terrible, but clean. The red-hot metal had cauterised the flesh around the eye. Once the pain and the shock eased, Rob had recovered. A mercy.

  This was different. Rob had been unconscious since the Highlanders brought him to Cape Town, three days ago. Even after the surgeon had done his work, Rob had been too weak to move. Phoebe had tended him night and day. This moment, taking the air up on the ramparts, was the first time she had left his side in seventy-two hours, and even that felt like a betrayal. She told herself she did not want him waking up without her there. The truth was, she was terrified he would die without her.

  Angus’s head appeared through an open window.

  ‘He’s awake.’

  *

  Everything confused Rob. The wide, unfamiliar bed he woke up in. The pain throbbing in his chest. The view he could see through the windows: Table Mountain, far nearer than it should be.

  A moment later the door opened. Phoebe, Angus, Scipio and Adam rushed in. The relief on their faces told him more than any surgeon’s report about what must have happened. Flashes of memory returned. Sand dunes and sea grass. A long-barrelled rifle. The taste of whisky in his mouth. Then – darkness.

  The visitors clustered around his bed. But not too close. Rob noted they kept a wary distance, as if afraid of damaging him.

  ‘Was it that bad?’

  ‘The bullet missed your heart by this much.’ Adam held up his finger and thumb an inch apart. ‘But it shattered your collarbone. It will be a long time before you can use your arm again.’

  If ever.

  The alternative hung unspoken between them.

  Rob levered himself onto his right elbow. The strain was immense; sweat ran down his face and a tear beaded in the corner of his eye, but he kept pushing until he was nearly upright. Everyone could see the amount of physical effort he put into it, but no one tried to stop him.

  ‘Where are we?’

  Sitting up, he could see he was in a handsome room, long and spacious. The four-poster bedstead was carved of stinkwood, while the yellow-wood floorboards were waxed to a lustre. The wide bay windows were set with stained glass like jewels. Through one window, he saw his fleet at anchor in the bay, while through the other a large Union Jack blew from a flagpole.

  He struggled to take it in.

  ‘A victory?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Angus.

  ‘The battle was two days after the landing,’ said Adam. ‘General Janssens took up position on the ridge of a hill named Blaauwberg. The Highlanders charged it, and in a short time broke the Dutch lines decisively. They chased Janssens into the mountains, while the rest of our army marched into Cape Town. The garrison commander surrendered without firing a shot.’

  Rob processed the news.

  ‘And our losses?’

  ‘Two hundred and twelve casualties.’ Adam gave a tight smile. ‘Two hundred and thirteen, including you.’

  ‘I do not intend to be a casualty for long.’ A hint of the old steel returned to Rob’s voice.

  ‘On the contrary, my husband,’ said Phoebe, ‘the surgeon insists you must rest at least two months. If the wound reopens, there is a danger of infection.’

  She did not need to explain what that meant. All of them had seen men die of gangrene: the rot that devoured a man’s flesh until it poisoned him. If it set in in an arm or a leg, the limb could be amputated to save the man. But with this wound, so close to Rob’s heart, there would be no remedy.

  ‘My men . . .’

  ‘In a few weeks, the India convoy will be arriving under Admiral Bolt, and he will take command. Until then, your ships will sit at anchor in this safe harbour and refit after the voyage. They do not need you.’

  Only Phoebe would have dared put it so baldly. Adam looked away, while Angus could not meet Rob’s gaze.

  Rob gestured to his surroundings. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘The castle.’ Adam said. ‘The governor’s quarters.’

  Rob felt the finest linen made of best Chinese silk, the goose-down pillows and the yielding mattress. Compared to the narrow cot and paper-thin mattress he was used to at sea, it was like a king’s bed. But . . .

  ‘I must return to my flagship.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Phoebe pointed to the windows overlooking the bay. ‘You can watch your fleet from here. They will not run away.’

  ‘No,’ said Rob.

  ‘It will speed your recovery.’

  ‘No,’ Rob said again.

  A note of impatience came into Phoebe’s voice. Rob knew from long experience that it meant she would not be contradicted.

  ‘You must.’

  Rob tried to lift his arm to stop her, but the effort defeated him.

  ‘Enough. I know you are right. I will stay ashore.’

  Phoebe folded her arms.

  ‘But not here.’

  She didn’t understand.

  ‘Where, then?’

  ‘Nativity Bay.’ He saw the doubt in her eyes. ‘If I must recuperate, where better than with my family, in the house where I was born?’

  A distant look came into his eyes. Even the thought of home brought colour to his cheeks.

  ‘But to get there—’

  ‘It is a week’s easy sail up the coast. I will detach a sloop – I am still admiral of this squadron, am I not? – and Adam can take us. He has not seen his cousins and his aunts in years.’

  He knew his plan was fanciful, and not a little indulgent, but he had the authority to insist it would happen. He stretched out his arm to Phoebe and took her hand in his.

  ‘It is your home, too.’

  Phoebe did not let go of his hand.

  ‘Robert Courtney,’ she murmured, ‘you never know when to give up.’

  FRANCE, 1798. EIGHT YEARS EARLIER . . .

  P

  aul had never seen the sea before. He had spent his childhood moving between the family’s town house in Paris, and their estates and châteaux in the country around Orléans. Constance never took him to the coast. Once, in a dusty room that had been left unlocked, in a house they rarely visited, he had found a portrait of a young man in a navy captain’s uniform, with a warship in the background. The man’s fair hair and fine features were so familiar, he thought he was looking at his mother – but when he showed her the portrait, she had smacked him and locked herself away in tears. Later that day, he watched a footman burn the picture in the garden. When Paul asked who it was, the footman told him that the man was Paul’s own brother, Étienne, a dashing sea captain who had been killed in battle with the British.

  ‘Her favourite,’ the footman whispered. ‘Her greatest hope. After he died, she never set foot in a boat again.’

  Ever since, Paul had brooded about the brother he had never known. Sometimes he thought he could feel his presence, like a ghost at his side. He obsessed about it. And every time he did something wrong, or disappointed his mother, he thought: I am not as good as he was.

  Now he was going to sea himself. He stood on the quay at Toulon, formed up with his regiment, staring open-mouthed at the bustle of the harbour. There were ships everywhere he looked, a grand parade of nautical power, sails, pennants and flags dancing in the wind like a magnificent carnival. Thousands of men stood arrayed in confident ranks, exuding purpose and lethal intent. And beyond the breakwater, the vast expanse of the open sea, like a mouth waiting to swallow him.

  He turned his gaze on the largest ship, the hundred-and-eighteen gun flagship Orient, the pride of the French navy.

  ‘Admiral Nelson will shit himself when he sees her,’ the sergeant said.

  His name was Bastiat, a squat man from the Dordogne, with a face like a monkey and a nose for human weakness like a pig sniffing out truffles. He had taken a dislike to Paul since his first day in the regiment: tripping him, cursing him, humiliating him, making him an example to the others of everything a soldier should not be. He had not let up since then, or missed any opportunity to bully him.

  ‘What do you say, Couillon?’

  Couillon was the nickname he had given Paul. It meant ‘little balls’.

  ‘Vive la république,’ said Paul.

  He hated the army. Hated the other soldiers. Hated fighting for the revolution that had murdered his mother. But in those desperate days after her execution, it was the only place he could go to find refuge. France had introduced conscription: any young man found wandering the roads would be accused of being a counter-revolutionary or a deserter. Either way, he would be shot. Paul had assumed a false name and a false past, and buried himself in the last place that anyone would think to look for the son of the late Comte de Bercheny.

  He had fought in the Low Countries, then invaded Italy behind an unknown general named Napoleon Bonaparte. He had fought in thirteen battles, thirteen victories. Before each one, he had emptied his guts. Sergeant Bastiat called him a faggot and worse; the other soldiers spat at him and pissed on his blankets, so that he woke up damp and stinking of urine. But Paul had survived.

  Now the sight of the Orient stirred something in him. Not pride, revolutionary fervour or martial desire. It was the beauty of it. He pulled his sketch pad and a pencil out of his haversack and began drawing. His arm moved easily, bringing the ship to life on the page with bold lines. Sketching let him forget the relentless misery of the army and set him free.

  Drawing the ship demanded all his attention: the intricacies of her rigging and spars, the complex shadows that fell between the sails. He was transported. In the void between the eye and the hand, it was no longer Napoleon’s flagship, but the ship in the portrait in the locked room; and the tiny figure on the quarterdeck was his brother. In his imagination . . .

  A fist knocked the pencil from his hand. Bastiat snatched the paper away.

  ‘Give me that,’ said Paul in a low voice.

  ‘Come on, little bitch,’ said Bastiat. The other soldiers had gathered round, forming a tight circle. ‘Take it from me.’

  Bastiat showed him the paper – then, as Paul grabbed for it, he punched him hard in the gut. Paul doubled over, gasping for breath. Bastiat laughed and kicked his feet from under him, dumping him on his back on the quayside.

  The other men guffawed. A few aimed kicks at Paul.

  Lie still, Paul told himself. Let them lose interest. If you fight, you will make it worse. Endure what you must to survive.

  But the picture was of his brother, and Bastiat was still holding it above his head. Paul leaped up and lunged for it again. The sergeant brought up his fist.

  Paul moved faster than he expected. Before the punch was thrown, Paul was inside Bastiat’s guard. Paul was scrawny; Bastiat was built like a brick wall. Paul’s fists would bounce off his barrel chest without making a dent.

  Paul kicked him between the legs with all the power he possessed.

  The look of anguished surprise on Bastiat’s face made everything worthwhile. Then the sergeant’s fist hit Paul’s face very hard, so that he felt his nose crack. He fell to the ground, blood streaming over his lips.

  ‘I will kill you,’ said Bastiat.

  The other soldiers stepped away as Bastiat stood over Paul. He crumpled the drawing and tossed it aside. Paul saw the wind blow it across the quay towards the sea.

  ‘I will break every bone in your body,’ said Bastiat. ‘When I have finished with you, you will not even be able to hold your cock.’

  Paul had nothing to fight for. He curled himself into a ball and prayed for it to be brief.

  The blow never came. Paul heard a sudden shuffle of feet and stamping of boots. Opening an eye, he saw the platoon standing to attention. Bastiat had stepped back into line. He snapped a salute.

  A group of officers had appeared, men with fine leather boots and expensive swords. But that did not explain the look of awe and terror on Bastiat’s face.

  Then Paul saw the general, so short he was hidden in the throng of men, yet the moment you noticed him everyone around him appeared insignificant. You could describe his appearance – delicate features, a narrow bow mouth and tousled dark hair – but that barely captured his presence. He glowed with energy, like the haze around a candle flame. The hero of the revolution, the man who had saved France and conquered Italy: Napoleon Bonaparte.

  He was holding a rumpled piece of paper. It was Paul’s picture.

  ‘Who drew this?’

  Paul said nothing. Inwardly, he cursed his fate. He could have survived Bastiat’s beating, but now he had come to the attention of Bonaparte himself, he was doomed. What if they thought he was an English spy, drawing the French forces? Or – worse – if they found out who he really was?

  Bonaparte began to get agitated. He was not used to asking twice.

  ‘Who drew it?’

  Bastiat did not know why the general cared. But he knew that if he did not give Bonaparte what he demanded he would be cleaning latrines for the rest of his career. He pointed at Paul.

  ‘Him.’

  The general turned. Paul shrivelled under his gaze. Bonaparte’s grey eyes were as hard as steel, eyes that seemed to take in the world and shrink it to nothing.

  ‘You have rare talent, Private.’

  Paul blushed and bowed his head. He hated compliments.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Private Paul Courtenay, sir.’

  Courtenay was the name he had assumed when he joined the army.

  ‘You know where we are going?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The army’s destination was a closely guarded secret, though that did not stop rumours spreading. Some said Sicily, others Malta. Some of the wilder guesses said they were going to invade England itself.

  The general gave a small smile. ‘I am glad there are still some secrets in this army.’ The aides around him laughed sycophantically. ‘I can tell you, citizen, we are going where no Frenchman has ever been before.’

  Paul understood he was not expected to ask where that might be.

  ‘I am assembling a group of the most talented scientists, engineers and artists to accompany the expedition. They will document what we discover and bring our newly acquired knowledge back home to display to the world. They will demonstrate beyond doubt the glory of France.’

  He leaned forward and addressed Paul. ‘For a man of such humble origins to be elevated to the group, purely on account of his talent . . . you would be a living monument to the ideals of our revolution. Do you wish to join this group?’

  Paul had little idea what the general was proposing, or what he would say if he found out Paul’s origins were not humble at all. But it was obvious that Bonaparte was offering him the chance to escape, away from the front line – wherever they were going – and away from Bastiat. That was all Paul needed to know.

  ‘It would be the greatest honour of my life to be part of the expedition,’ he said.

  ‘Lefebvre.’ Bonaparte snapped his fingers. A tall man in a well-tailored grey coat stepped forward. His appearance was immaculate, except for the cuffs of his shirt, which were smeared with charcoal and spotted with paint. ‘This private is assigned to your commission. Take him under your care and see he has all the equipment he requires for the task ahead.’

  The commotion on the dock seemed to halt as Lefebvre’s gaze fixed on Paul. He had eyes full of appetite that drank in the world; an artist’s intensity that seemed to strip away Paul’s clothes and see into the flesh beneath. Paul felt uneasy.

  Lefebvre offered his hand. He had long, slim fingers that tickled Paul’s wrist as they shook hands. A benevolent smile touched the corner of his lips.

  ‘I look forward to working with you on our mutual mission.’

  Bonaparte passed Paul’s picture to an aide, who returned it to Paul. Paul saluted, sniffing back the blood that still trickled down his nose.

  ‘Vive la république!’

  Bonaparte saluted, then continued along the docks with his entourage. The moment they had passed, Bastiat gave Paul a murderous look. Paul ignored it. For the first time in nine years, since he had heard the church bells ringing in the revolution, he felt he had a purpose.

  He glanced at Lefebvre.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Lefebvre gave him another of his appraising stares. Paul blushed; he became keenly aware of his bloodied face, and the dockside muck that clung to his uniform after his fight with Bastiat. Lefebvre reached out and brushed a piece of straw from Paul’s shoulder.