The watch keepers were already being relieved, and Fitzroy, the fourth lieutenant, was about to take over from Barclay, but all Adam saw was Tolan as he reached out and caught the marine by the wrist, and swung him around as if he weighed nothing.
”Don’t ever leave a musket like that, you bastard!” He thrust the man aside and snatched it up, turning it to hold it within inches of the marine’s face. ”See that, damn your eyes? If it had fallen you could have killed somebody!”
Adam called sharply, ”Belay that!” He felt the pain in his side, the wound caused by a dying marine dropping his loaded musket. Another inch, the surgeon had said .. .
”Carry on, Tolan. Tell Sir Graham I shall be delighted.”
Strange that he could be so calm after that flash of anger. And something more.
”Everything all right, sir?” It was Stirling, striding through the crowd of watching seamen as if they did not exist.
Adam shrugged. ”It passed over.” He saw the cook’s assistant hurrying away with the chicken, pursued by ironic cheers, hoots and clucking from the remaining onlookers.
Lieutenant Fitzroy had taken over the watch; new lookouts were already perched high aloft. Viewed from the quarterdeck, they looked as if they were about to slide down the horizon.
Fitzroy said dutifully, ”Steady she goes, sir. Sou’ west by west. Full and by.” He touched his hat. ”Permission for the cooper to bring new casks on deck?”
”Granted.” Adam turned away. Routine had taken over once more. Had saved him.
From what? He saw the sergeant of marines glaring at the man who had so carelessly discarded his firearm. But it was Tolan’s anger and swift reaction that lingered in his mind.
Stirling was saying, ”That fellow had his wits about him, sir. Not what you’d expect.” He straightened up, as if he had gone too far. ”I keep thinking I’ve seen him before somewhere.”
Then something caught his eye and he shouted, ”Thompson, flake down that line and do your work smartly for a change!” The first lieutenant was back.
Dugald Fraser, the sailing master, folded his arms and stared into the hard glare as if to defy it. He had been at sea all his life and had served in almost every class and size of ship. As master, he was at the top of his profession, something he rarely considered. He did not see the point.
He watched the sea boil along the weather side, bursting occasionally over the gangway, draining along the scuppers and making the guns shine above their buff painted carriages.
The horizon was almost gone, the margin between sea and sky lost in mist and drifting spray.
”The wind’s veered a piece, sir.” He glanced at Lieutenant Fitzroy by the rail, his body angled steeply against the tilt of the quarterdeck. The helmsmen, too, were clinging to the big spokes, taking the strain of sea and rudder. He tasted the salt hardening on his cracked lips. Fitzroy was young, but he was experienced. He should have acted before this.
Fitzroy looked over his shoulder as Athena gave a great shudder, and more water tumbled over the gangway and sluiced down among the men working on deck. The afternoon watch was not yet over, but it would soon be dark in this weather.
”The captain must be informed.” It sounded like a question.
Fraser said, ”Aye,” and winced as water splashed his face and neck. Nearly June, and it felt like winter. ”We should shorten sail an’ let her fall off a point.”
He almost grinned at Fitzroy’s expression of relief.
A boatswain’s mate said, ”Cap’n’s comin’ up, sir.”
Fraser watched a working party reel and stagger on the forecastle, making something fast, bare feet slithering on the wet planking, bodies shining, soaked to the skin.
The captain was hatless, hair blowing unheeded in the wind and wearing one of his old seagoing coats, patched and stitched like any common seaman’s. Fraser was satisfied. You would still know he was the captain no matter how he was dressed.
Adam was looking at the sky, the masthead pendant whipping out, bar-taut, like a spear. The ship was labouring heavily, but shaking off the crested rollers with each plunge.
”We will alter course two points. Steer west by south.” He wiped his face with his sleeve, and smiled. ”If we can’t fight it, we may as well use it!” He touched Fraser’s arm as he gazed at the sea, and waited for the right moment to move to the compass box. Then he said to the helmsmen, ”Are you holding her? Another hand on the helm, maybe?”
One of them tore his eyes from the flapping driver and shouted, ”Not yet, zur! She’m good as gold!” and they laughed as if it was a huge joke.
Fraser heard it, and inwardly noted it, as he might compose an entry in his log.
When Captain Ritchie had walked this quarterdeck it had been very different. Passing a casual moment with his sailors would have been unheard of. He had been respected, but Adam Bolitho had something Ritchie would never have recognized. The two helmsmen were tough and experienced, had seen it all, or thought they had. But off watch they would be telling their messmates how the captain had asked their opinion, even joked about it... Adam Bolitho did not appear to have changed since the old Achates.
He heard the captain call, ”Mr. Fitzroy, you’ll need more hands on deck, and lively too! I am not a mind reader, you know!”
Calls shrilled and seamen ran to their stations, ready to wear ship, and, when ordered, take in a reef and bring the canvas under control. ”And tell Mr. Mudge to hoist the quarter boat aboard. It will be swamped otherwise.”
There was no edge to his tone, but Fitzroy exclaimed, ”I had it bailed an hour back, sir!”
Adam regarded him thoughtfully. ”Send another man down to bail it, and we will have a burial on our hands, I fear.”
The horizon had finally disappeared, a new darkness creeping beneath a bank of clouds like a cloak.
”Steady she goes, sir! West by south!”
A master’s mate muttered, ”Bloody wind’s droppin’, Mr. Fraser.”
Fraser tightened his coat about his throat. ”Rain’s back too, I see!” Even above the din of sea and thrashing canvas he could hear the heavy drops, like shot being scattered from a gunner’s pouch.
He saw the captain’s dark eyes flash as he swung round and pushed the soaking hair from his forehead.
Some one shouted, ”Might blow itself out! I was in the Atlantic in ninety-nine when we had the worst storm The voice trailed away as Adam lurched to the rail again and waited for the deck to steady itself. He was drenched, the water like ice on his spine and running down his thighs.
The flashes had died in the mist and advancing rain, but the thunder still hung in the air. And in his memory.
He said, ”Pipe all hands. Fetch the first lieutenant directly.”
He knew they were staring at him, probably thinking he was losing his nerve.
Fraser saw it as if it was already written in the log. He was too old a hand to forget.
It was not just a storm, and if it was, it would not last.
It was gunfire.
The Royal Marine sentry outside the admiral’s quarters brought his heels sharply together and as if by magic the screen door opened, one of Bethune’s servants holding it, and bowing his head as Adam entered. Nothing was said. Perhaps Bethune found announcements unnecessary, distracting.
After the squeak of blocks, with seamen scrambling through and over lively halliards and braces, the admiral’s quarters were like a sanctuary. It was impossible, but here even the motion seemed less, the shipboard noises subdued. Remote.
The dining space was in darkness, all the candles doused, if they had ever been alight in the first place.
Adam groped his way past unfamiliar furniture toward the day cabin, where Bethune was sitting at his desk, some dishes before him, a bottle of some kind propped upright in an opened drawer. His coat hung on the back of his chair, and his fine waistcoat was unbuttoned. Somehow, Adam thought, he still managed to look elegant and relaxed. Beyond the desk the stern windows were
completely black, but in the reflected light he could see water running down the thick panes, rain or spray, probably both.
Bethune put his hand to his lips and pulled a chicken bone from his teeth before tossing it into a bowl at his elbow.
He looked at Adam while he dabbed his mouth with a napkin.
”Anything new to report, Adam?”
”The wind is steady. Fraser thinks it will hold. So do I. Not strong, but it will see us through the night.”
”That is not what I asked.” Bethune reached for the bottle, but it was empty. ”What do you think it was? Really think?”
A shadow emerged from the other cabin and a full bottle was placed in the drawer. It was Tolan, as quiet on his feet as he was quick.
”Gunfire, Sir Graham. Then an explosion.” He could feel the weariness closing around him again. What had taken him on deck without waiting for the officer of the watch to call him?
Not the wind or sea. That was experience, standing hundreds of watches in every kind of weather, and almost every ocean.
He was still not used to this ship. It would take more time. Choose the right moment.
He thought of his uncle again. Instinct: if you had it, you had to trust in it.
Bethune was watching Tolan’s hands come from the shadows and fill his goblet. ”An attack? Pirates? What other seafarers would be ready and eager to fight in these conditions?” He tasted the wine without comment. ”They will be up and away by now, whoever they were.” Then he said curtly, ”I’m told that the galley fire is still alight?”
Adam contained his sudden anger. It sounded like an accusation.
”I knew we would not be going to quarters. Tomorrow?” He would have shrugged, but his shoulders ached too much. ”Things may have changed. I considered that the people should have a hot meal while they can.”
Bethune smiled. ”I was not questioning your judgment, Adam. Far from it.” Just as swiftly, he changed tack. ”When do you estimate we shall reach English Harbour?”
Adam caught sight of his reflection in the sloping windows. Moving slightly to the vibration of the tiller head, like a spectre looking inboard from this violent ocean.
”The north-east trades will give us a soldier’s wind. I’d estimate two more weeks.”
”Or thereabouts. What I calculated myself. After that .. .” Bethune held the glass up to the faint light. ”We will discover the latest intelligence from the commodore at Antigua and, of course, the governor. I am sure that our ”allies” will do all they can to assist!”
He held one hand to his ear as calls trilled, as if from another world. ”You can fill their bellies and warm their souls with rum, but it does not always win popularity.”
”They are cold, hungry, and tired, Sir Graham. I owe them that, at least.”
”As you say.”
Adam left the cabin, the door closing behind him as silently as it had opened.
He rubbed his eyes. Bethune had not offered him any wine.
And he had not waited to share the unfortunate chicken.
He listened to the hiss of the sea beyond the sealed gun ports, and imagined the watch on deck, peering into the darkness, thinking of the echoes of battle, or the death of a ship in distress. Their world.
Jago was louging by the companion ladder, but straightened up as Adam seized the handrail.
He did not need to be told. It was still too close to Algiers and all those other times. When your mind and nerve could become blunted, like a badly used razor.
”All quiet on deck now, sir.”
Adam made to pass him. ”I’m just going to take a turn around, Luke. It does no harm.”
Jago did not budge. ”You’ve not eaten anythin’, sir.” He saw the keen, warning eyes, but persisted, ”Bowles told me. Upset, he was, too.”
Adam reached out impetuously and gripped his arm. ”One day, you will go too far!” He shook him gently. ”Until then .. . I will go aft. And maybe .. .”
Jago stood back, and grinned. ”Aye, Cap’n. Mebbee that’s more like it!”
He watched him climb the companion. A good wet of brandy, or some of that fancy wine the officers gulped down, would do him more good than harm, the mood he was in.
He remembered the painting he had seen, carefully placed where it would be safe even if they ran into a hurricane. Only a picture, but the woman was real enough. Like Unrivalled, second to none .. .
A corporal of marines marched past him, another bullock close on his heels. Changing the sentries for the middle watch. For tomorrow .. no, today.
He saw the white crossbelts crisp and clear against the shadows of the nearest twenty-four pounder. Always the reminder.
He thought suddenly of the vice-admiral: a good reputation, popular too, they said.
Jago walked away, humming silently to himself.
But not one you would ever turn your back on.
The relieved sentry and the corporal marched away to join their companions in the ‘barracks’. A hot meal at this hour was unheard of, in the Corps or anywhere else, and a tot as well for good measure. It was not to be missed. Tomorrow could wait.
In the little pantry adjoining the admiral’s quarters, George Tolan was standing with a glass in his hand, adjusting to the deck’s slow roll and the solitary lantern’s beam swinging across his face.
All this time. All those years. I should have been ready. He had trained himself to always be prepared. For the slightest hint, the weak moment which could still betray him.
Very deliberately he filled the glass with wine. He sensed the warning again, like a signal, or a flare in the night. He would have to be doubly careful, even to the amount of wine he drank. Something far stronger would be better, but Bethune would notice. It would destroy everything he had worked for.
His mind hesitated, like a keeper feeling for a trap, before he allowed himself to think it over again. The stupid marine who had tossed aside his musket just to make a fool out of the cook’s assistant and his damned chicken. The musket had been at half-cock. Safe, or so the untrained idiot might think. Many had discovered otherwise to their cost; he had heard that the captain had been wounded by such a shot.
His guard must have been down, he thought. He had snatched up the heavy weapon, had caught it perfectly at the point of balance. Just like all those other times, all the drills and the bellowing sergeants. The skill, and eventually the pride at what he was doing. Only a second’s carelessness, and he had acted as if he was back in the line. And like that day when he had killed his officer.
He had listened to Bethune talking with the captain. For a moment he had imagined that Bolitho had noticed his reaction, his ease with a musket. Twenty years ago. It could have been yesterday.
He wiped the glass and held it up to the swinging light.
Bethune would be calling him very soon now. His cot was ready, his heavy robe laid out on a chair. They would talk for a while as he helped him into the cot, and perhaps brought him another drink. He talked but never listened, unless he wanted to hear something.
Tolan heard the little bell tinkle from the admiral’s quarters. He would not throw it all away now, after twenty years.
He picked up his tray and opened the door.
”Coming, Sir Graham!”
He was safe.
Adam awoke with a start, his eyes hot and sore, his mouth like dust. It was Jago, bending over the coat, one hand shielding the shuttered lantern while he waited for his senses to recover.
Adam struggled into a sitting position, his mind groping for details and sounds. He felt as if he had slept for only a few minutes.
”What’s happening?”
Jago watched him impassively, eyes in shadow.
”Dawn comin’ up, Cap’n. First light very soon.”
”Already?” The cabin seemed to be as dark as ever. Then he smelled fresh coffee, and thought he heard Bowles moving about in the pantry.
Jago added patiently, ”There may be trouble we have to deal with today
. You said so yourself, Cap’n. They’ll be lookin’ to you. So I thought a shave might be in order, so to speak.”
Adam groaned and climbed out of the cot, feeling the deck, angled but steady. ”I’ve no time for that now, man!”
But the anger refused to come, and eventually he shrugged and said, ”I suppose it makes sense.”
He walked across the checkered deck covering and sat in the chair by his desk, thinking of Bethune somewhere beneath his feet. As refreshed as ever, no doubt. He smiled. What made him a flag officer, far removed from the day to day problems and discomforts of ordinary sailors. The smile grew. Or captains .. .
Feet thudded overhead and some one shouted. He felt Jago’s hand on his shoulder, like a groom quieting a restless horse.
”Easy, Cap’n.” The razor glinted in the solitary light. ”I’ll not be long. You take some coffee first.”
Adam leaned back in the chair and thought of the painting in his sleeping cabin. He had been looking at it, at her, when he had fallen asleep, the spiralling lantern keeping watch over both of them.
Where was she now? What was she doing, thinking?
Now that she had had time to consider and remember, how would she see that moment, when they had become one?
Bowles was here, head bowed beneath the deck head beams. ”Clean shirt, sir, and another coat.” He glanced at Jago; he might have winked.
Adam stood up and touched his face. Like the hot coffee, the shave had pushed the tiredness aside.
Jago remarked, ”Lighter already, Cap’n.”
Adam fastened the shirt and tugged the neck cloth into place. He was ready.
”The picture put it somewhere safe, Bowles.”
”All done, sir.”
Adam walked to the chair and touched it. They would never discover the reason for the gunfire and the flashes in those black clouds; this was a vast ocean, with ships tiny by comparison, like drifting leaves on a mill-race.
”I’m going on deck.”
Bowles nodded gravely. Jago waited, seeing the indecision, the doubts.
He left the cabin and walked past the chart room and into the fading shadows. Anonymous shapes moved aside, faces and voices becoming people he had come to know: the morning watch, four o’clock until eight, when the ship, any ship, awoke.
Alexander Kent - Bolitho 26 Page 14