All in so short a time. He had known fear, and had endured pain; his wounded leg still troubled him, but he refused to admit it. And he had found the closest thing to having a real home, even love, which he had never believed possible.
In all his fifteen years, this was the first time he had been made to hate.
Audacity’s midshipmen’s berth was no better and no worse than most ships of her size. Situated on the orlop deck below the waterline, it was devoid of natural light, other than that which filtered through gratings in the deck above.
The smells were many and varied, stale or hoarded food, and from the bilges beneath. It was partitioned by midshipmen’s chests and a scrubbed table, while hammocks were slung wherever there was a space.
Napier went down to the berth, the “cockpit,” to change into his seagoing uniform for the remainder of the day. Only then could you be certain of the rank and status of Audacity’s complement of two hundred.
He adjusted the solitary lantern and opened his chest. On top of the books and clothing, sewing and stitching gear, and his best hat, lay the dirk. He had never quite got over it, or the quiet way Captain Bolitho had given it to him to begin his new life, and to mark his fifteenth birthday.
He gripped it and turned it toward the swaying light. It had all started when he had left the dirk lying on the mess table soon after sailing from Plymouth.
There had been two other midshipmen here that day, quietly superior and aloof toward the new arrivals, although they had all been about the same age; and there had been Paul Boyce.
Like a contest, something he should have ignored or accepted.
Boyce had picked up the dirk and exclaimed, “Look at this! A fine piece of workmanship, and from Salters in the Strand of London indeed! What lowly midshipman can afford such luxury? He has a generous sponsor, this one. I must learn the secret!”
Napier could remember the sudden flash of anger when he had snatched the dirk from Boyce’s grip.
One of the others had snapped, “No arms in the mess, you should know that!”
Boyce had bowed gravely. “I do not mean to offend. I merely wondered what was given in return?”
On another occasion when they had been working with a party of seamen, restowing the boats for the long Atlantic passage, Boyce had tried to trip him. But Napier was quick on his feet, and Boyce had fallen and injured his wrist.
I’ll not forget! It had been like that ever since, although Boyce was always careful not to show his hostility in the presence of a lieutenant or warrant officer.
But sooner or later . . . Napier stiffened as he heard voices. One was Boyce, the other was that of Scully, the young mess boy who helped look after the berth and was always hurrying on one errand or another.
Boyce was working himself up into a rage, which seemed to come without effort.
“What do you call this? I told you I wanted two clean shirts! I can’t imagine what hovel you were raised in, but it makes me sick!”
Then Scully, anxious. Worse, he was terrified. “I pressed them like you said!”
Something hit the table. “Sir! Say sir to me, eh?”
The lid of Napier’s sea-chest was still raised. Neither of them had seen him.
Boyce seemed to be humming to himself.
Then he said quite calmly, “You know what I told you before?” The sound again. “Bend over that chest. Do it!”
Napier rose on one knee, the scene fixed in his mind. As if there was not another soul in the whole ship.
The mess boy was bending over the chest, unfastening and dragging down his breeches, sobbing or pleading it was impossible to tell.
Napier said, “Stand up, Scully. Cover yourself!” He saw the rattan cane in Boyce’s hand. He had also seen the purple weals across the boy’s buttocks before he could hide them.
Boyce was staring at him, his heavy features contorted as if he was going to choke.
“Spying, were you? I’ll make you regret the day you ever . . .” He gaped, as Napier tore the cane from his hand. “What are you doing?”
“We are going on deck to see the first lieutenant.” He did not take his eyes off him, but said to the cowering mess boy, “And you will tell him what happened, now and at any other time. I will stand by you!”
He felt numb, but able to grasp that his voice sounded steady, resolute. Like somebody else. And it mattered so much. Maybe too much. It was all here and now. The shop in Plymouth, the tailor peering through his spectacles, the same way that Daniel Yovell did. Looking at the captain and beaming. Oh, not for you, sir? The young gentleman this time!
It mattered. He himself had worked in Unrivalled’s cockpit and had seen the other side of her “young gentlemen.” He had soon learned that there were bullies on every deck, but in a small ship it was rarely tolerated for long.
Boyce shrugged. “I shall explain.”
They all looked up as calls trilled through the messdecks overhead.
“All hands! All hands to quarters and clear for action!”
Napier closed and locked his chest, still unable to believe that he was so calm.
He was vaguely aware of Boyce’s face flashing in the reflected light as he clipped the dirk to his belt.
A surgeon’s mate ran past and Napier recalled that the sick bay and surgeon’s quarters were directly adjoining the berth.
When he turned again, Boyce had disappeared, and the mess boy was gripping the offending shirts in both hands.
He pleaded, “Don’t tell anybody, sir. I don’t want no more trouble!”
How often had he said that?
Screens were being pulled down and feet pounded loudly overhead. Exercise or false alarm, he found he did not care. He felt as if he had suddenly grown up.
Then he was running with all the others.
Captain Adam Bolitho sat in the tall-backed chair and folded the letter he had reread with such care. From Nancy, and it had been like hearing her voice, her quick laugh. All this time, and he had not known about it.
Even if I had . . . The courier, a brig from Plymouth, had brought more despatches for Bethune. Nancy’s letter had eventually reached Antigua by a longer route, and two different vessels. The last mail bag had been stamped “Gibraltar.” And there had been two letters from Lowenna.
Loud thuds sounded throughout the ship. Stores; and perhaps the purser had managed to obtain some more fruit.
He stared through the stern windows. A few local craft were skimming the flat water, so there had to be some kind of wind. Here in the cabin, even with skylight and quarter windows open, it was completely airless. And Athena was still at anchor, as if she would never move again. The strain on the sailors was showing itself in the punishment book, the first sign in any ship. Flogging never cured anything, but neither did boredom.
He looked at the sky; angry was the word for it. But this was the hurricane season, and September was always the worst month. How could it be September?
He opened Lowenna’s letter again. She had included a sketch drawn by his cousin Elizabeth. They were seeing quite a lot of each other. He felt more than relief. He was strangely grateful.
More shouts: a boat coming alongside. But still no frigates had arrived to reinforce the squadron, and to give the commodore any extra resources for casting his net around the slave routes.
The screen door opened and closed: it was Luke Jago. He was no longer announced by the sentry, a privilege he never abused.
“You wanted me, Cap’n?” His eyes flicked to the open letters. He was ready.
“Bryan Ferguson—you remember him, don’t you?”
Jago nodded, seeing the office, the stable yard, and Grace, always planning and arranging things.
“We got on well last time we was in port.”
“He died. Heart gave out. He was never all that strong, though he’d be the last to admit it.”
Jago said, “He’ll be sorely missed, I reckon.”
“I heard a boat alongside?”
Jago walked to the quarter windows and grimaced at the sky.
“In for a blow by the makin’s of it.” He recalled what Adam had said. “Sir Graham’s servant, sir.”
Adam said, “He’s been ashore for a few hours.”
“On an errand, I believe.” His eyes creased in a smile. The captain didn’t miss much even if he was always busy as hell.
Adam looked at the little sketch. Two mermaids this time, waving to an incoming ship. If only it were true.
Jago gauged the moment. “Strange when you thinks of it, Cap’n. Us stuck in harbour, while young Mister Napier is out there, showin’ us all what to do!”
Bowles had appeared soundlessly from his pantry.
“May I pour something, sir?”
Adam shook his head. “Not yet. Sir Graham has been sitting with all those official envelopes. I think I had best be ready.”
Somewhere a door slid shut and Bowles nodded gravely. He knew every sound in the poop like his own body.
“I think that is probably wise, sir.”
Adam glanced at his coat, hanging from a door. It was barely moving. Lowenna had been in London, and had seen some lawyer who was dealing with Montagu’s affairs. It had been raining there. She had returned to Falmouth, to Nancy. He thought of Ferguson, who had lost an arm at the Saintes, a lifetime ago. The house would be missing him. So would poor Grace.
“Flag-Lieutenant, sah!”
Troubridge entered the cabin but shook his head when Bowles offered to take his hat. He looked strained, even irritated, and said, “I can’t stay.” He joined Adam, looking briefly at the letters on the table. “Sir Graham is sending for the commodore. I’m off to fetch him. May I use the gig?”
Jago was already by the door. “Ready when you needs me, sir.”
Adam asked quietly, “Is it trouble?”
Troubridge did not answer directly. “How soon can you get underway, sir? They say there’s a storm in the offing.” He looked very young, and vulnerable.
Adam saw Bowles reaching for his coat. “Tell me.” And all the while, like other times, different places, the mechanics of his mind were clicking into place. How many officers were ashore? Which working parties could be found and recalled to the ship; how long would it take?
Troubridge sighed. “Sir Graham had his response from the Admiralty. No more frigates, not yet in any case. One will eventually be coming direct from Freetown, otherwise . . .” He shrugged. “The other thing is that we received a report about San José. Most of it is owned by a renegade Portuguese named Miguel Carneiro. Came to Cuba from Brazil after causing some embarrassment to the government there, and to greater powers in Lisbon. Claims to have some connection with the Portuguese royal family. It’s all getting rather beyond me.”
Adam looked past him at the harbour, and the threatening sky. “Is he the missing name, Francis? The slavers’ paymaster?” He crossed the cabin and gazed at the anchored barque.
He said, “Athena can be clear of English Harbour before nightfall.”
He watched Troubridge’s uncertainty, like someone else, all confidence gone. Bethune must have given him a harder ride than usual. But why?
He tried to lighten it. “I’ll not be sorry to find some sea room if it’s to be a real storm.”
Troubridge turned toward the door. “Sir Graham is certain that at least three of the big slave ships are hiding at San José, maybe waiting for settlement. For the Villa de Bilbao’s gold.”
“Then they’ll wait. The weather gives them an even better reason.”
He saw the conflict on the young lieutenant’s face. Loyalty and trust, friendship and something more.
Troubridge said flatly, “This man, Carneiro, he has been warned, or soon will be.”
“Gig’s alongside, sir!”
“How can Sir Graham be sure of this?” He thought of the servant, Tolan, his absence ashore, and Bethune’s fury upon his return. He had heard his voice even up here until someone had closed a door.
Troubridge hesitated, and seemed to come to a decision. “There was a lady, sir. Sir Graham intended to see her.” He swallowed. “Again. But the house was empty. Everything gone.” He made a halfhearted attempt at a shrug, and tried to smile. “So you see?”
Adam walked with him, out into the sunshine, the heat and the busy normality.
Troubridge added, “Sir Graham sends his compliments and . . .”
He doffed his hat and hurried down to the entry port.
Adam watched the gig pull smartly away from the side, and saw Jago turn to shade his eyes and stare up at the poop. At me.
So it was Catherine. Perhaps it explained her failure to answer his letters, when he had told himself that they had gone astray, like Nancy’s. The rest he could imagine for himself.
He saw Stirling waiting by the quarterdeck ladder, grim-faced. A man who never changed.
“I want all shore working parties recalled. How many are there?”
The response was instant. “Only two, sir. The carpenter’s crew and the purser’s clerk with five seamen.”
He glanced at the masthead pendant. Hardly moving, but in no time it could become a screaming gale.
He looked across at the barque again. “I want to see the sail-maker, as soon as I’ve left the admiral.” He saw each word hit its mark. “No more visitors aboard, except for the commodore, of course.”
Stirling touched his hat, but did not smile.
As he walked to the companion Adam thought of the night he had dined as a guest of the wardroom. Landsmen could never understand how a captain could be a guest in his own command. Perhaps it was a ship’s strength, like keel or timbers.
He closed his mind to everything but that same sense of warning, like a hand reaching out.
Tolan opened the screen door for him but dropped his eyes, and his thoughts or emotions remained hidden.
Bethune was waiting, facing the screen, as if he’d been in that stance since Troubridge had been sent to “fetch” the commodore.
He was fully dressed, his shirt fresh against his waistcoat. He looked very calm; not a hair out of place, as Yovell would have said.
He gestured to a chair. Even that looked as if it’d been arranged.
“Flags told you the latest intelligence, I take it?” He did not wait. “My information is reliable. This fellow Carneiro has had contact with certain ship owners, would-be slavers if you like, as well as with powerful figures in business and politics.” His mouth twisted briefly. “I daresay with our people, too.”
He waited while Tolan poured two glasses of wine.
“A local trading vessel sailed recently for Kingston, or so it was alleged. A man named Jacob, well known to the commodore, to all accounts.” He sipped the wine.
Adam did likewise but tasted nothing. He was hearing Troubridge’s words at the conference, about who might carry the blame if the campaign misfired.
He saw Tolan standing by a hanging mirror and realized he was watching him. More like a voice than a pair of eyes. He carried messages for Bethune, anything he asked, but kept his mouth tight. Tolan had found out about the trader Jacob. It explained far more than his master’s anger.
Bethune said, “You are ready for sea, if need be?”
“By the dog-watches, Sir Graham. I have passed the word.”
Bethune regarded him steadily. “I did the right thing to select you for flag-captain.” He checked himself, as if he had gone too far. “Do you have any proposals?”
So casually asked. The realization hit him like a fist. Bethune was desperate.
He said, “Time is not on our side, Sir Graham.” He saw him clench his fist as if he could scarcely control his annoyance, or perhaps his anxiety. “I think we should go directly to San José. If greed does not hold those vessels in port, then nothing will.” He saw Bethune stride to the stern windows and lean on the bench seat to peer out at the harbour. Across his bright epaulettes, he said, “The reports of the weather are not good.” He did not turn, and Adam
could almost feel the tension.
“It may be our only ally.” But he was thinking of Athena’s sail-maker, slotting his name. Cruikshank. A Dorset man. Someone must have mentioned it.
He said, “I think we should take the Villa de Bilbao in company.” He waited, seeing the doubt, the disappointment perhaps. “As the bait.”
Bethune nodded slowly, standing very upright, his neat hair touching the deckhead.
“We might just have the edge on them. The old equation, eh, Adam? Time, speed, and distance?”
Adam wanted to leave, to begin something which he might regret for the rest of his life. Like being driven, inspired.
Bethune said quietly, “I shall leave you to prepare things. I have every confidence. In the meantime, I shall deal with the commodore.”
As he reached the door, Bethune smiled for the first time.
“Good work, Adam.”
Standing by the hanging mirror, George Tolan gripped the back of a chair to control himself.
Bethune had said the same to him, that day when he had gone to meet the woman named Catherine.
The deserted house, the little servant who “knew nothing,” the bed where they had been together.
He smiled bitterly. One betraying the other.
He listened to all the new sounds. Like any ship. Or one ship he always remembered.
Athena was coming to life again.
14 LOYALTY OR GRATITUDE?
CAPTAIN Ian Munro gripped a mizzen stay and felt the wind transmitting its strength through every spar, from truck to keel. Even now, after countless watches at sea under most moods of weather, its power still excited him. He doubted if many of Audacity’s company would believe that.
He trained his telescope and waited for the bows to lift and steady, spray drifting over the deck like hail with the wind across the quarter. The other vessel was on the same bearing, her tan sails etched against the low banks of cloud. She was a large top-sail schooner, no flag, her hull showing the marks of hard usage.
Munro had ordered the usual preparations. Beat to quarters and clear for action. It was unlikely that any merchantman, slaver or not, would care to cross swords with a frigate. But from all he had learned and heard since joining Sir Graham Bethune’s command, it was prudent not to take chances.
Man of War Page 24