from Penzance when his mother had died. It was too similar not to move him.
Bankart had already proved himself a good seaman and could reef, splice and steer, equal to many his senior in age and service. As second coxswain he would have little contact with his admiral. His duties would be confined to maintaining the readiness and appearance of the barge, going on errands to ships and the shore, and helping Allday in any way that he could. It seemed a satisfactory solution for the present.
He got up and walked into his sleeping compartment, then, after a slight hesitation, he opened a drawer and took out the beautiful oval miniature. The artist had caught her expression perfectly. Bolitho replaced it under his shirts.
What was the matter with him?
He was happy. He had a lovely wife ten years his junior, and now a daughter. And yetHe turned away and re- entered the day cabin.
When they joined the fleet things would be different. Action, danger, and the rewards of victory.
He stared at his reflection in the salt-encrusted windows and smiled wryly.
Sir Richard, yet at the actual moment the King had seemingly forgotten his name.
Bolitho tried to gather his thoughts for the months ahead, how Lapish would react the first time the squadron's only frigate was called to arms, but it eluded him.
He thought instead of the portrait which had gone from the room which looked towards the sea, and wished suddenly he had brought it with him.
Far beneath Bolitho's spacious quarters and the view astern from its gilded gallery, Argonautes sickbay seemed airless. For the orlop deck, below the level of the waterline, was completely sealed, a place of leaping shadows from the swaying, spiralling lanterns where the massive deckhead beams were so low a man could not stand upright. From the day the ship had been built, the orlop had not, and would never see the light of day.
Tiny hutchlike cabins lined part of the deck where warrant officers clung to their privacy with barely room to move. Nearby was the midshipmen's berth where the 'young gentlemen' lived their disordered lives and were expected to study for promotion by the light of a glim, an oiled wick in a shell or an old tin.
The hanging magazine and powder stores, where a single spark could bring disaster, shared the deck with them, and below them the great holds carried everything to sustain the ship for many months if need be.
Right aft at the foot of a companion ladder the sickbay seemed bright by comparison with its white paint and racks of jars and bottles.
Keen strode towards it, his head automatically lowered to avoid the beams, his epaulettes glittering as he passed from one lantern to the next. Dark shapes and vague faces loomed and faded in the gloom, that other world away from sea and sky.
He saw James Tuson, the surgeon, speaking with his assistant, a tall, pallid Channel Islander named Carcaud. The latter was more Breton than English, but was intelligent and could both read and write. Keen knew that Tuson, who had been Achates' surgeon, took a great interest in his lanky assistant and had taught him as much as he could. They even played chess together.
Keen liked the silver-haired Tuson, although he knew him no more than in their previous ship. He was a fine surgeon, twenty times better than most of his profession who served the King's ships. But he kept to himself, not an easy thing in this teeming world between decks, and often went to the wardroom only for meals.
A marine, his crossbelts very white in the poor light, straightened his back and made Tuson turn towards the captain. It had been a wise precaution to place a sentry at the door, Keen thought. Many of the hands had been aboard one ship or another without a break for many months. Any woman might be at risk. One labelled a felon even more so.
Tuson murmured something and his assistant, bent almost double, melted into the shadows.
Keen said, 'How is she?'
Tuson unrolled his shirt sleeves and considered the question.
'She says nothing, to me anyway. She's young, under twenty I'd wager, and her skin is fine, and her hands have not worked in a field.' He turned away from the rigid sentry whose leather hat seemed to be wedged against the deckhead, and dropped his voice. 'There are several bruises. I fear she may have been raped or savagely molested.' He sighed. 'I'd not risk an examination under the circumstances.'
Keen nodded. The girl had suddenly become a person, someone real and not just a victim.
The surgeon was watching him thoughtfully; he rarely smiled.
'She can't stay here, sir.'
Keen avoided the issue. 'I'll speak with her.' He hesitated, 'Unless you advise to the contrary?'
The surgeon led the way towards the small, bright place.
'She knows where she is, but be patient, I beg you.'
Keen stepped into the sickbay and saw the girl lying face down on a pillow and covered with a sheet. She appeared to be sleeping, but Keen could tell by her quick breathing that she was pretending. The surgeon pulled down the sheet and Keen saw her back tense.
Tuson said in his soft, matter-of-fact tones, 'The scar is healing, but-' He lifted a loose dressing and Keen saw the deep cut left by the whip. If he had not acted promptly, or had not gone over to the ship at all, she would be crippled or dead. In the lantern light the scar looked black.
Tuson pointed to hair which was long and dark brown; it was matted and tangled and as he touched it Keen saw her stiffen again.
He said, 'She needs a bath and some fresh clothing.'
Keen said, 'I'll send a lieutenant over to the Orontes as soon as we anchor. She must have some possessions surely.'
His words seemed to strike her like the whip and she rolled over violently, covering her breasts with the sheet and oblivious to the immediate droplets of blood which broke from her scar.
'AO, not back there! Please, not back to that, that place!'
Keen was taken aback by the outburst. The girl was almost beautiful, something which bruises and disordered hair could not conceal. She had small, well-shaped hands, and eyes so wide they were almost starting from her face as she pleaded with him.
He said, 'Easy, girl. Easy now.' He reached out to steady her but saw Tuson give a quick shake of his head.
The surgeon said, 'This is the captain. He saved you from the flogging.'
She looked at Keen's anxious face and said, 'You, sir?' It was little more than a whisper. 'It was you?'
She had a soft, West Country voice. It was impossible to imagine her standing trial and being transported in that filthy vessel with the other prisoners.
'Yes.' Around him the ship kept up her continuous chorus of creaks and groans with the occasional boom of water beyond the massive timbers as the keel crashed into a trough. But Keen was conscious only of stillness, as if all time had suddenly stopped.
He heard himself ask, 'What's your name?'
She glanced quickly at the surgeon, who nodded encouragingly.
'Carwithen.' She clutched the sheet tighter as Tuson readjusted the dressings on her back. 'Where are you from?'
'Dorset, sir, from Lyme.' Her small chin lifted briefly and he saw it tremble. 'But I'm Cornish really.'
Tuson grunted, 'Thought so.' He straightened his back. 'Now lie still, and don't open the cut again. I'll have some food brought down.' He turned to the door and beckoned to his waiting assistant.
She looked at Keen once more and said in a hoarse whisper, 'You really are the captain, sir?'
Keen knew that her guard was about to break. He had grown up with two younger sisters and knew the first signs. God alone knew, she had suffered enough.
He moved to the door, pausing as the hull dipped and then reluctantly lifted her eighteen hundred tons for the next challenge. The girl did not take her eyes from his face. 'What will you have done with me, sir?'
Her eyes were shining. He must not be here when the tears broke through.
Instead he asked bluntly, 'What's your first name?'
She seemed caught off balance. 'Zenoria.'
He backed away. 'Well, Zenoria, do as the surgeon directs. I will ensure that no harm comes to you.'
