In a minute, he would make some excuse and disturb the captain, perhaps persuade him to climb into his cot. It was hard to recall the last time the man had been properly asleep. What drove him? He had known other captains who would have left the work to others, and complained about it afterwards.
He thought of the visit to the flagship; there was always plenty of gossip. How the captain had been kept waiting to see the commodore, after what he had done, and risked, to save the Frenchie from being turned into a giant coffin.
He should be used to it. Morgan had served three captains, and could take the rough with the smooth. This was different. Like today. Perhaps today most of all.
Something which his brother in Cardiff would never understand, as long as his lungs allowed him to live. The young midshipman standing in the great cabin, which had been suddenly emptied of visitors. The captain with the letter, which was still lying on his desk. Then his voice, inaudible to Morgan. And the youth, one of my officers, watching him fixedly, even trying to smile later at something the captain had said, with tears running down his face. They had walked together to the gallery windows, and he had seen the captain pointing out something, his hand on the midshipman’s shoulder, like brothers meeting and coming to know one another again.
He tensed. The pantry door moved very slightly. The screen door must have been opened, although there had been no sound, no shout or stamping of boots.
“Still awake, Luke?” Jago was fully dressed, alert. “What is it?”
So it was serious.
“Signal for the Cap’n.” He held up some paper. “Mr Monteith asked me to bring it—he’s a bit busy with a defaulter.” He grinned, but it did not reach his eyes. “Bloody drunk, more like!”
“Can’t it wait?” Morgan pushed a glass toward him, and filled it to the brim.
Jago shrugged. “The ink’s still wet. Must be important.”
They both turned as the pantry door was pulled aside.
“It’s impossible to find any peace, even here!”
Then he smiled. Afterwards, Morgan thought it was like seeing a great weight being lifted from him.
“Finish your drinks, please.” He took the signal and opened it unhurriedly. “And pour one for me.”
Jago watched him narrowly. So many times.
“Trouble, Cap’n?”
Adam crumpled the signal. He could see the unfinished letter on his desk.
My dearest Lowenna. I dream of you, always…
“I shall need the gig tomorrow, Luke. Flagship at four bells. Forenoon.”
He lifted his glass. It was still only a dream.
Lieutenant Mark Vincent walked along Onward’s larboard gangway, his mind ranging over his list of duties. It was a bright morning, surprisingly free of haze even along the shore, the buildings unusually clear in the sunlight. A steady northeasterly had made all the difference.
He licked his lips, tasting the strong coffee which had been his only breakfast. A wise decision, he thought. The cook must have broken open a new cask of salted pork for their first day in port. Some people never seemed to heed a warning. A line-up for the “seat of ease” in the forecastle had resulted, or more drastic measures for those unable to wait. Pumps and brooms had been busy at first light.
He glanced at the empty boat-tier. The boatswain needed no reminder: all the boats were in the water. Clinker-built craft, especially new ones, opened out very quickly if left high and dry.
He stopped and stared toward the main anchorage, and behind him the accompanying footsteps halted also: Midshipman Walker, ready to run with a message, or scribble something on his slate. The youngest member of his mess, and in fact the whole ship, Walker had changed more than any one. He seemed far more self-assured, serious, and more to the point, he had not been seen crouched over a bucket, spewing up his guts. Not even after the pork. Maybe the encounter with the schooner had left its mark. There was always a first time.
He saw Midshipman Deacon with some of his signals team standing by the flag locker, pointing to something and grinning. He held a telescope, although he would be hard put to see the flagship with other vessels anchored across his line of sight, among them a smart-looking brig, undoubtedly a courier, which had anchored very late, when the lights had been showing ashore and the water was like black silk. Skilled or reckless, her commander had taken a calculated risk.
Once again, Vincent asked himself, what would I have done, if…? There was always if.
The captain’s gig would be hooked on and ready; Jago had already gone down to keep an eye on that. A man you might never really know, unless he chose. But if you were in a tight corner, he would always be there.
Vincent ran a finger around his neckcloth. The air was warmer, despite the north-easterly wind. The captain would be speculating about his summons to the flagship. New orders? Running more errands for their invisible superiors? Not like last time, I hope. He took his mind from it and returned to his list. Some defaulters. Nothing very serious, mostly too much to drink. A few hours’ extra work would be enough, without any one thinking the first lieutenant was going soft.
Walker said loudly, “Boat heading this way, sir!”
Vincent turned. “Are you sure?”
Deacon had also seen it and was training his telescope, without undue excitement. It was not difficult to see him as a lieutenant, when opportunity and luck came his way.
Pulling smartly. Not a casual visitor this time. He walked to the ladder.
“Boat ahoy?”
The reply came back just as smartly. “Merlin!”
Midshipman Walker called, “The brig that came in last night, sir! It’s her captain!”
Vincent swore under his breath. “Man the side.” Some one had handed him a telescope. Now, of all times. He adjusted it and saw the boat leap into view, the crew pulling strongly, bowman standing and lifting the boathook.
He settled on the solitary passenger, and tensed. A young face, very young. But in command.
“Shall I pass the word to the captain, sir?”
“He’s about to leave the ship. I’ll deal with it.”
At the entry port, the side party was already in position, boatswain’s mates moistening their calls on their tongues, eyes on the approaching boat.
Vincent saw that Onward’s gig had been moved to clear the way. He was calm again, under control. He should get used to it. What did they say about promotion? Not what you know, but who you know…
The oars were tossed, and the calls trilled in salute.
“I apologize for appearing without any warning. My ship is under orders to sail, but I knew you were lying here…” He looked around. He was even younger than Vincent had thought.
Vincent said, “I am the senior here, sir. My captain is about to leave the ship.”
“I know. The flagship. I have just been aboard Tenacious myself.”
“Francis Troubridge! Of all people! Here, let me look at you!” They all stared as the captain strode amongst them and seized the visitor by his shoulders, and the two bright epaulettes they bore. “Commander Troubridge, by God! And rightly so! Well deserved, if people don’t know the real truth!”
They both laughed.
“This is Mark Vincent, my right hand.” Then, more quietly, “So many things I want to know, to ask you.” He took his arm and together they walked inboard, as if they were completely alone.
Jago had appeared on deck, and stood near Vincent, watching impassively.
“Vice-Admiral Bethune’s flag lieutenant, sir, in Athena. Afore we was given Onward.”
And it was all over just as quickly.
Another rough hug, then stepping apart and saluting one another. Friends. Equals.
Vincent watched with the others, and heard the captain call, “I shall tell her, when I see her!”
Then the boat was pulling away, with Commander Francis Troubridge waving his hat like a midshipman, as if he could not restrain himself.
Jago said, “We’d best
do the same, Cap’n.”
He had seen most things, could take them head on if need be. Ships that pass. Something his father used to go on about, when he was sober enough to make sense.
“I’m ready, when you are.” Adam was looking in the direction of the boat, but it was already hidden by the lateen sails of a Gibraltarian trader.
He thought of the last time they had all been together, in Bethune’s London house, captain, coxswain, flag lieutenant, and the vice-admiral’s servant, Tolan. The navy was like that. The family. It meant something, Jago thought. A hand on the shoulder.
Vincent was saying, “His first command, sir?” But some one called out, interrupting him, as the gig was warped alongside again.
Adam saw Morgan hurrying toward the entry port with the old sword in his hands. There would be some peace in the great cabin for a while. Morgan deserved it…He recalled Vincent’s words. Admiration or resentment?
He climbed down into the gig, the salutes ringing in his ears. “This will not take long.”
Jago turned to look at him. How does he know?
He said, “Do ’em good, Cap’n. Work off some o’ that pork!”
As they pulled away from Onward’s side and out of her shadow, Adam looked toward the anchored brig, her paintwork like glass in the sunlight. There were tiny figures aloft on her yards, and he guessed the capstan was already manned. Troubridge was cutting it fine, and under the eyes of the flagship, too. His brief visit had been important enough to him to delay sailing.
To both of us.
His first command. Like Firefly. He thought of that last walk on the waterfront, those same reminders.
I shall tell her, when I see her. But who would see her first?
He climbed swiftly up and around Tenacious’s tumblehome, and found the side party waiting. The flag lieutenant hovered as the salutes were carried out, and then guided him aft with an urgency very unlike his previous visit. As if there was not a minute to spare.
“The commodore is waiting to see you, sir. I shall take you straight to him.”
Adam had already seen a midshipman standing by the flagship’s belfry. He was speaking with some seamen, and obviously in no hurry to strike the four bells of the time arranged for this meeting.
He could hear Carrick’s voice long before he reached the lobby. The Royal Marine sentry was staring straight in front of him, face impassive. Maybe it was often like this.
“I don’t give a saint’s damn what he says! Get him here, now!”
A lieutenant hurried past without even sparing them a glance. Carrick was standing in the centre of the cabin, feet astride and with his fine coat unbuttoned, breathing hard, as if he had been running.
“So here you are, Bolitho. Not quite what we expected, eh?” He gestured to the flag lieutenant. “Get something to drink, for God’s sake, Flags. That fool of a servant is ashore, damn his eyes!”
“I believe you sent him, sir.”
It was not a wise thing to say, but Carrick apparently did not hear him.
“After all the care and preparation! Treachery— remember what I said, Bolitho? There’s no other word for it!”
He walked to the side of the cabin, still breathing raggedly, while the flag lieutenant found and placed a full glass on the table. He had already seen Adam shake his head. This was not the time.
Carrick slammed down the empty glass. “If I hadn’t sent you to accompany the Frenchman to…to Aboubakr…” He stumbled over the name. “The trick would have succeeded, and Nautilus would be lying in charred fragments, like that piece you showed me! The best bloody thing that could have happened, if you ask me!”
The flag lieutenant waited while Carrick strode to the stern windows and leaned out over the quarter, and said patiently, “The French government is concerned about the uprising, and is eager to strengthen its alliance with the present ruler.”
Carrick swung round, his face shining in the filtered sunlight. “They’re going to give Nautilus to him, for God’s sake! A token of trust and solidarity! Like the Algiers fiasco.” He jabbed a finger. “You were there, Bolitho—you saw the scum who tried to use a just campaign to cover their own crimes! There’ll be others this time, you mark my words!” He glared at the door. “Say that again!”
A voice called, “Merlin has just weighed, sir.”
He breathed out very slowly. “Good. Her commander’s a friend of yours, I gather?”
“My last ship, sir.” Adam watched him compose himself, as if it were a physical effort requiring all his strength.
“Well, he’s under my command now.” The anger was still simmering. “While I am still making decisions here!” He pointed to a litter of papers scattered across the table. “I have ships undergoing or awaiting repairs. Captains running damned errands for those who think they know what is needed.” He changed tack just as sharply. “I was told that Onward is taking on supplies?”
Adam felt the flag lieutenant’s eyes on him.
“The usual replenishments, sir. Fresh water too, of course. My purser is dealing with our immediate requirements.” Carrick was not listening.
Instead, he asked, “How soon can you weigh and put to sea?”
Another challenge, and Adam felt an overwhelming desire to hit back, reciprocate measure for measure, despite the consequences. “Now, if so ordered, sir.”
It was so quiet he thought he could hear Carrick’s breathing.
Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. “That was bravely said. I might hold you to it.” He loosened his coat. “But two more days should suffice.”
For a moment longer Adam thought he had gone too far, that the meeting was over before it was begun.
Commodore Carrick had turned toward the screen, his voice expressionless. “I shall want you to patrol that same coastline again. To be ready to act against interference or intimidation, as you see fit. You have proved your skill better than most. I have sent word to Capitaine—” He snapped his fingers. “Marchand. I think he owes us something, eh?”
Adam thought he saw the flag lieutenant raise his brows.
And Troubridge was already on his way to that same hostile rendezvous.
Carrick stared at the papers on his table. “When diplomacy fails, the cannon usually speaks. That must not happen. You will receive your orders with all despatch.” He thrust out his hand. “Be ready.”
They walked from the great cabin, this time together.
There was no sign of the brig Merlin; the north-easterly breeze was steady, and holding. Troubridge was on his way.
He had been warned: the rest was up to him.
The iron-hard eyes were watching him, perhaps reading his thoughts. “The next time we meet, Bolitho…” He did not finish it, saying instead, “I envy him. So be it!” Then he turned and walked away.
Adam made his own way to the entry port, where Jago and his crew would be waiting. Once back aboard Onward he would go around the messes, informally, like those other times, asking Vincent to accompany him.
He thought of his uncle, how it must have been.
The people come first.
14 STORM WARNING
THE CARRIER’S CART WHEELED SHARPLY into the inn yard and jerked to a halt.
John Allday climbed down on to the cobbles and took a few moments to recover. It was no distance from the village of Fallowfield and back here to the Old Hyperion Inn. He usually walked it. But maybe not for a while.
Dick the carter waved to him. “Got some fruit, John—tes all today. I’ll trot un round to the kitchen.” He was off without waiting for a response. He was no stranger here.
Allday leaned back carefully, allowing his muscles to unclench. The lane was in poor shape: too many heavy wagons using it, carrying ballast for the new road. It brought more business to the inn; Unis deserved that; but it would be better when things became quieter again.
He looked up at the sign, depicting the old Hyperion as he had known her. He was proud of it, and he smiled. Keep sailing, my girl!
He felt the heat of the sun across his shoulders, but there was thunder about, a storm blowing in from Falmouth Bay. Rain would stop the farmers complaining. He straightened his back. The stiffness was almost gone. He looked across the yard toward the open stables. Two or three horses: so there were still some customers, wearing out their welcome. He checked himself. Where would we be without them? Where would I be? A light carriage too, shafts empty, a tarpaulin draped over the box. Some one else thought there was rain on the way.
Jack, their latest recruit since Tom Ozzard had shoved off one night, was rolling an empty cask carefully toward the cellar door. A good lad…He saw Allday and gave him a furtive “thumbs down.” He had learned a lot since coming to work for them.
So Harry Flinders was here. Allday sighed. He would have to make an effort, for Unis’s sake.
She came to meet him, wiping her hands on her apron as he stooped to hug her. So small, but so strong in his arms, as any customer would be quick to discover if he tried to take liberties with her.
She was about to tell him, but he said, “I knows, my love,” and crossed his heart with a grin. “I’ll stand upwind of him!” He moved to the door, careful to disguise any fatigue or discomfort from her.
She said, “That fellow Grimes is here again,” and waited for some comment. “The builder working on the Roxby house.”
Allday glanced around the kitchen, taking quiet pleasure in the gleam of copper and the ranks of shining pewter. His unfinished model of Frobisher stood on one of the shelves, and he was strangely reluctant to complete it. Maybe a slight alteration to the foremast rigging was needed, or the rake of the bowsprit? Something. It had to be right.
Unis knew what he was thinking, although she said nothing. John had intended it as a gift for Captain Adam, but the model of Frobisher might never be finished. To him it was not just any ship. It was their ship. John’s last, and Sir Richard’s, where he had fallen to an enemy marksman. But she knew the truth. Like the sea, in his heart he had never left it.
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