O’Beirne came into the cabin and dragged on his coat; Yovell had already seen the dark stains of blood on his shirt. He did not seem to need sleep, either.
O’Beirne saw Napier pouring a glass of brandy.
“Well trained, boy!” But the usual humour evaded him. He looked at Yovell and waved one hand despairingly. “Can’t you do anything about it? The man will kill himself if he keeps to this pace.” He swallowed the brandy gratefully and held out the goblet to be refilled. “When we reach Plymouth I shall submit my papers for a transfer, see if I don’t!” Then he did grin, very wearily.
They both knew he had no intention of quitting Unrivalled.
Yovell asked quietly, “How is he?”
O’Beirne tilted the goblet in a shaft of sunlight. “Lucky, I would say without hesitation. The musket ball cut across the old wound he received when he lost his other command, Anemone. We’ll not know the total damage for a while. I’ve stitched him up as well as I may under these circumstances. Another inch . . .” he shook his head, “...and he’d have gone outboard with those other poor fellows.”
He closed his worn leather bag with a snap. “I’m away now, before he makes me forget my sacred oath!”
He paused by the screen door. “Napier, come and see me later. I want to have a look at that leg of yours.” The door closed behind him.
Yovell sighed. The captain had even found time to tell O’Beirne about the boy’s injury.
Adam Bolitho heard the door, and O’Beirne’s unmistakable voice as he spoke with the sentry.
With care, he sat on a chest and leaned forward to study himself in the hanging mirror. Calmly and intently, as he might examine some failing subordinate.
He was naked to the waist, his sunburned skin dark against the most recent layer of bandages. Like a tight waistcoat, and a constant reminder, throbbing now after O’Beirne’s examination. The bowl was beside the hanging cot, some bloodstained water shivering in time with the dull boom of the rudder-head.
He listened, seeing the ship as she must appear to any other vessel, responding to a freshening wind. It had veered overnight, south-easterly. He found that he was holding his side, reliving it. The closeness of disaster: death had seemed almost secondary.
Tomorrow would see them off Ushant: the Western Approaches, and the English Channel.
But he could find no satisfaction in it. He could only think about the unknown barque; there was no certainty that she was Osiris. But she had made the signal causing the frigate to cast off when they had been about to grapple and board Unrivalled. So that the barque’s master could bring his own armament to bear. But for the unexpected sighting of another sail, it could have ended there. The unknown vessel had made off almost immediately, as had their two attackers.
The barque had made the signal. So she must have the authority and the intelligence to plan and undertake so dangerous a venture. His mind repeated it. It could have ended there.
He glanced around the sleeping quarters. Quieter now; a stand-easy must have been piped to allow his men to rest from their countless tasks.
He thought of Jago by his side, dark features grim and challenging as they had buried the dead.
During the action and in the days which had followed they had lost a total of fourteen men. Some others lingered on the verge, but O’Beirne was hopeful. Fourteen, then. Too many.
In his mind’s eye he could still see them. Midshipman Cousens racing up the shrouds, the big telescope swaying over his shoulder. So full of life. A boatswain’s mate named Selby. Adam had not known much about him; perhaps in some way he had avoided it. Selby had been the alias used by his own father when he had been escaping justice. When he saved my life, and I did not know him. The Royal Marine, Fisher, an old sweat who had never gained promotion in the Corps. But a popular man, who had always been proud to boast of his service in the old third-rate Agamemnon, Horatio Nelson’s last command as a captain. It had marked him out, lent him a certain celebrity. He had died without knowing that he had nearly killed his own captain.
He found he was holding his side again. Fourteen men. He stood up slowly and grimaced as the pain seared across his ribs. And Midshipman Sandell.
The hammers had started up once more. Stand-easy was over.
He saw Napier by the door, and that he had a clean shirt over his arm.
Adam smiled. He could not remember the last time he had done so.
“We’ll go on deck, David. Are you ready?”
Napier shook out the clean shirt and nodded gravely. It was what he had been waiting to hear.
“Aye, ready, sir!”
Yovell looked up as they entered the great cabin. “Mr Midshipman Deighton was here, sir. I told him it was not convenient . . .” He saw the clean breeches and shirt and Napier’s face.
Adam said, “I sent for him. I am appointing him signals midshipman. He is more experienced than the others, keen too.” He raised his hand. “Never fear, my friend, I shall see him directly. On deck.”
Yovell pushed the spectacles on to his forehead and gazed at his hands. They felt as if they were shaking. With God’s help he could usually conceal emotion. It was not like him at all.
He heard the door close, and the stamp of the sentry’s boots.
It was what they all needed.
The captain was back.
The admiral’s servant moved the chair a few inches as if to indicate that it had already been selected for the visitor. Adam had noticed that there was little conversation between Lord Exmouth and his personal servant; perhaps they had been together for so long that spoken instruction had become unnecessary.
He lowered himself into the chair, afraid that the pain would return at this moment when he needed to be fully alert. Galbraith had warned him about it, had almost pleaded with him, and Jago had been unable to conceal his indignation.
“What do they expect, sir? You have been wounded—you shouldn’t be here at all, by rights!”
Adam thought of Herrick, overcoming his disablement, visiting Unrivalled at Freetown, and the stubborn determination which had made him refuse the offer of a bosun’s chair to hoist him aboard.
He had had misgivings of his own as the gig had approached the flagship’s side. Like a cliff; he was still not sure how he had reached the entry port without losing his hold and falling headlong, as Herrick would have done but for Jago’s swift action.
Jago had touched his hat, standing in the gig while Adam had reached out to pull himself on to the “stairway,” and he had heard him murmur softly, “Nice an’ easy does it, sir.”
And now he was here, in the admiral’s great cabin. The din of his reception had been the worst part, not the calls, or the slap and click of muskets, but the faces on the fringe of the side party and the waiting officers. Curiosity or excitement, he was not certain. Like the silence which had fallen over Plymouth’s busy harbour and jetties as Unrivalled was moved slowly to her allotted anchorage. Her company had worked without complaint, for him, for the ship, and for one another, but they could not conceal the scars of battle, and only the most pressing tasks could be accomplished while the ship was still under way.
It was the first anyone had known of the action, and he had sensed the shocked stillness of those same vessels which had seen them depart less than three weeks ago. Some store ships had stopped work when the frigate’s shadow had glided slowly abeam, the hoists and derricks motionless, as if it were a mark of respect.
The request for his appearance on board the flagship Queen Charlotte had been brought by the guard-boat and not by any signal, and the officer of the guard had signed for and carried the secret despatches to this very cabin.
Lord Exmouth sat back in his chair, outwardly relaxed, but his keen eyes missed nothing.
“I read your report, Bolitho. Very thorough, especially under the circumstances.” His hand moved very slightly and a tray with two fine glasses appeared on his table. Another small movement, and the servant began to pour wine. “You might like this. I ke
ep it for myself, usually.”
He continued, “I also read other things which you did not put in your report, and I appreciate how you felt, feel, about the sly and unprovoked attack made under false colours.” He shook his head. “An old trick. But you were under orders. My orders. Which is why I selected you in the first place. Any other vessel, brig or fast schooner, would have stood no chance at all.”
There was a discreet tap on the door and a lieutenant moved soundlessly to the table and placed a note by the admiral’s glass. He left the cabin just as quietly, giving Adam only a brief glance in passing.
Lord Exmouth read the note and screwed it into a tight ball.
“It is as I surmised, Bolitho. The Dey has gathered more ships to his flag, like the frigate which attacked Unrivalled. French, Dutch, who can say? But I don’t have to explain that to you, do I?” He made another small gesture and the glasses were refilled.
Adam tried to stretch his body in the chair, testing it, feeling the immediate drag of the bandages. He did not remember even drinking the wine. It was almost cool in the great cabin, but he felt as if his body was burning.
The admiral was observing him calmly. “You did not mention that you were wounded. I am not a mind-reader, Bolitho, nor should I have to remind you.” He did not wait for any reply. “Time is running out. I intend to sail from here at the end of the month. To Gibraltar, where we shall be joined by a Dutch squadron under Baron van de Capellan, an officer who is known to me, and whom I greatly respect.” His eyes crinkled in a smile. “In your report you mention that you did in fact see some Dutch ships at the Rock. Very astute of you—perhaps you had already guessed what their purpose might be?”
“I had good cause to remember one Dutch frigate, my lord.”
“Indeed, indeed. But as Our Nel was given to say, war makes strange bedfellows . And peace creates even more!”
He glanced at the skylight as the trill of calls drifted down into this remote cabin. The admiral was a great man, but perhaps still a frigate captain at heart. The sound of running rigging in the middle of the night watches . . . someone calling a command or a warning . . . Like young Cousens, who had seen the danger before anyone. And had paid for it.
“I have a good squadron already, Bolitho. To say that I need a certain captain is too frivolous a term for my taste. You have the experience and the skill for this venture. I want you in the van when I begin the attack on the Dey’s defenses and his ships. If your ship is not in fit repair by the time I make that move, then I will find you another!”
Adam caught his breath, astonished and dismayed.
“She will be ready, my lord! With some local help, I can . . .”
The admiral held up one hand. “I will arrange that. Shall you be fit enough to follow the flag?”
His whole world was suddenly compressed into this moment, with this famous man, and the threat of losing Unrivalled.
“I will be ready, my lord. You have my word.”
The admiral frowned and pressed his fingertips together. “Your word may not be enough. I knew your uncle, and I can see something of him in you. You’d not rest and leave the routine to others.”
Adam stared around the cabin, the truth stark and very real. He would lose Unrivalled . . .
The admiral stood up and walked aft to the tall windows. The big three-decker had plenty of headroom, even for him. Perhaps he was still with his own frigate, somewhere . . .
He turned swiftly.
“Your first lieutenant, Galbraith. I met him. He seemed competent enough.” It sounded like a question. “I read somewhere that you recommended him for promotion, even though you were short of trained people at the time? So you must have confidence in the fellow’s ability.”
“Yes, sir.” Why was it so strange, that he had hesitated? “He is a fine officer.”
“That settles it, Bolitho. You will take a week or so, and spend the time ashore. Cornwall is my home too, y’ know.” He smiled, but his eyes never wavered from Adam’s face. “I am not giving you an order, Bolitho. I want you in the van. If you do not think you can do it, then tell me now. I would not hold it against you, not after what you’ve done.”
“I can, my lord. So will Unrivalled.”
Discreet voices. It was time.
Adam stood up and gasped involuntarily with pain.
Lord Exmouth held out his hand and took Adam’s between both of his own. As Allday had done.
“I will make certain that your ship has all the aid she needs. I may even be able to hurry up the bounty money owed to your people. It will not raise the dead, but it will lift a few spirits, I daresay!”
The flag lieutenant had returned; the door was open and ready.
Then the admiral released his grip and said almost curtly, “You will go to your boat by bosun’s chair. This time. Pride is one thing, Bolitho, but conceit is an enemy!”
The servant was already leaving with the tray and the two glasses; the next visitor was to receive other than the admiral’s own wine. Lord Exmouth smiled, almost sadly.
“He is a good fellow. Lost his hearing back in ’ 93 , after we captured the Cleopatre when I commanded Nymphe.” He glanced around the spacious cabin, and his eyes were momentarily wistful. “Now, she was a fine little ship.”
Adam went on deck, past two other captains waiting to see the admiral. Unbelievably, the great man would have been the same age as himself when he had commissioned Unrivalled.
He turned and raised his hat to the flag, and to the assembled side party.
Then, hardly trusting himself to hesitate, he walked directly to the group of seamen waiting with the bosun’s chair.
One, a boatswain’s mate, made a quick adjustment and raised his fist to those handling the tackle.
Only for an instant, their eyes met. Then he whispered, “You showed ’em, Cap’n! Now us’ll do it together!” He cupped his hands and yelled, “’Andsomely, lads! ’Oist away, there!”
The marines presented their muskets but he barely noticed. The flagship’s people were cheering him as he rose above the gangway and then swung easily above the waiting gig.
Jago steadied the tackle until he had freed himself and reached the sternsheets.
Midshipman Martyns was at the tiller, and looked as if he was about to say something, his face full of excitement and pleasure as the cheers echoed over and around them, as if the whole ship was joining in. But Jago silenced him with a scowl.
Adam felt the gig move away from shadow into sunlight, and thought of the unknown seaman who had spoken to him. Together.
He looked at Jago and shrugged. Like hearing someone else.
“So be it, then,” he said.
The girl sat facing the tall mirror, her hand moving steadily up and down, the brush running through the full length of her dark hair. Brush . . . brush . . . brush, unhurriedly, in time with her breathing. She wore a long, loose gown; this was a private moment, and there would be no visitors.
Around and beneath her, the old glebe house was very still. Empty. Montagu had ridden into Falmouth to speak with a carpenter there: some work he wanted carried out while they were away.
Away. London again, that endless journey in their own coach. It was Sir Gregory’s wish.
She studied herself in the glass, meeting her own gaze like a stranger. Outside the house it would be hot, very hot, the shrubs and flowers drooping in the sun’s glare. She would have to arrange for the roses, at least, to be cared for.
The brush stopped, and she thought of the deserted studio directly beneath her feet. The portrait was finished, but Sir Gregory would still not be satisfied until he had given it more time “to settle in.” She had looked at it on several occasions. Interest or guilt; she could not describe her feelings. Would not. The brush began to move again, this time the other side, her long hair draped over her shoulder and down to her thigh. Beneath the gown she was naked. Something she shared with no one.
She thought of the portrait again. Anybody who kn
ew Captain Bolitho, Captain Adam as she had heard people call him, would recognise it as fine work. Lady Roxby would be pleased with it. But something was missing. She tossed her hair impatiently. How could she know?
The rose was there in the portrait. Sir Gregory had seemed satisfied with that, if a little surprised.
She tried to think of London and the house, which even the Prince Regent had visited several times.
She plucked at the gown; even the thick walls of the glebe house could not hold the heat at bay. Her feet were bare, and she rubbed one on the tiled floor as she recalled the stone house where she had last seen Adam Bolitho, and that tense little group, and the courier with the recall to duty.
She had heard the cook talking about a man-of-war which had entered Plymouth a day or so ago. Damaged, as if in battle, although there had been no news of any such event. She put down the brush and shook her hair out. This place was so isolated. She rubbed her thigh with her hand. For my sake.
She looked at the window, the creeper tapping against the dusty glass although there was no breeze.
She stood up and stepped back from the mirror, her eyes never leaving her reflection. She might be asked to sit for Sir Gregory in London, or for one of his students. Why did she do it? He had never insisted. She stared at herself and touched her body, the hand in the mirror like that of a stranger. Because it saved me.
She let the hand fall to her side and turned away from the stranger in the glass. She had heard a horse; Sir Gregory was back, earlier than expected. The house would be alive again. She wondered why he insisted on riding when he could afford any carriage he wanted. The old cavalier. He would never change. What will become of . . .
She swung round, startled. Someone was banging on the door. She hurried to the window and looked down. No one was supposed to be coming today . . .
She saw the horse, tapping one hoof and idly chewing some overgrown grass, then she saw the stable boy, looking straight up at her, his eyes wide with alarm.
“What is it, Joseph?”
“You’d better come, Miss Lowenna! There’s bin an accident!”
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