would never let go.
Then he had said quietly, 'My father once sat here, Robina. My father.'
He still could not believe it.
She slipped her hand through his arm and nestled her cheek against his coat.
'You must go, Adam. I have made you late enough as it is.'
Together they moved back to the coach and climbed inside.
As the horses came alive again in their harness, the girl said softly, 'We shall be in Boston very soon.' She turned and looked directly into his eyes. 'You may kiss me now if you wish, Adam.' She tried to make light of it by adding, 'No one can see us here. It would not do for local folk to think that Robina Chase was a fizgig!'
Her mouth was very soft and she had a perfume like fresh flowers.
Then she gently pushed him away and dropped her eyes.
'Well, really, Lieutenant…' But the jest eluded her. She said breathlessly, 'It's love, isn't it?'
Adam smiled, his mind in a daze. 'It must be.'
The coach rolled across cobbles and on to a stretch of old ships' timbers.
Several people paused to glance at the fair-haired girl and the young sea officer who helped her protectively from the coach.
Adam stared in astonishment and then looked at the girl on his arm.
'What shall I do now, Robina?'
It was like a douche of cold water. Achates had gone.
'So here you are.' Jonathan Chase nodded to his niece and then said grimly, 'Sailed yesterday. Your admiral was hellbent for San Felipe.'
He toyed with the idea of telling the young lieutenant about the Sparrowhawk's end, but as he looked from him to his niece he decided against it.
Instead he said, 'You'd better come home with me, young fella. Tomorrow I'll see what I can do about arranging passage for you. You'd not want to miss your ship, eh?'
He saw their hands touch and knew they had not heard a word.
Chase led the way to his own carriage, his face frowning in thought. His niece was the apple of his eye, but you had to face the facts squarely as you did a problem at sea.
They made a striking pair, but the family would never allow it to go further. He could not imagine what he had been thinking of when he had first introduced them.
A young sea officer, an English one at that, with few prospects other than the Navy, was not the right match for Robina Chase. So the sooner he found his ship again the better.
Bolitho left the shadow of the poop and walked forward to the quarterdeck rail. He noticed the curious glances darted in his direction by the bare-backed seamen who were working on the endless tasks of a fighting ship. Even now they were not used to having a flag-officer in their midst, and could not accept that he did not dress in the style suited to his rank. Like the other officers, Bolitho wore only an open-necked shirt and breeches, and would willingly have stripped naked to gain relief from the heat had that not violated every rule in the book.
He looked up at the canvas, sail by sail. Filling tightly for the present, but at any moment they could fall limp and useless as they had for much of the time since leaving Boston.
Bolitho tried not to allow his mind to dwell on it. Why had his sister Nancy written? Was it really as Keen had suggested, or was she trying to prepare him for bad news? Belinda had been ill. It might be something from her earlier life in India when she had nursed her sick husband until he had died.
He paced across the pale planking, worn smooth by a million bare feet in Old Katie's twenty-one years at sea.
He tried to shift his thoughts away from Falmouth but they lingered instead on his nephew.
Bolitho had wanted, needed to remain in Boston more than anything in his heart and soul. To wait for one more word from Belinda, and to have his nephew rejoin the ship. He should not have allowed him to go to Newburyport. Maybe Keen, like Browne, had been right about that too. He ought not to have chosen one so close as his aide.
Keen crossed the deck and said, 'Wind's holding steady, sir.'
He watched Bolitho's reaction. For eight of the longest days he could remember Keen had worked his ship to the southward, spreading every stitch of canvas to coax another knot out of her. It had been a poor average all the same, and he guessed that Quantock was comparing him with the last captain. He did not care about his dour first lieutenant, but was more conscious of the fact that Bolitho had never levelled a single criticism or complaint. He knew better than most that in these waters the wind was never reliable, rarely an ally when you most needed it.
Bolitho looked at the flapping masthead pendant.
'Tomorrow then, Val.'
'Aye, sir. Mr Knocker assures me that we shall be off San Felipe by noon, if the wind holds.' He sounded relieved.
Bolitho looked abeam, at the regular swell and occasional feather of spray as a fish broke the surface. Like Keen, he had studied the charts and sketches of San Felipe until he could see them in his sleep. Fifty miles long but less than twenty miles wide at its broadest parts, it was dominated by an extinct volcano and a huge natural harbour on the southern side. The northern approaches were fiercely guarded by reefs, and there was a further barrier of coral adjoining the little islet on the opposite side. It was a formidable place, even without the old fortress which commanded the approaches to Rodney's Harbour, as the anchorage was named. There was fresh water in plenty, while rich crops of sugar and coffee made a tempting prize. Bolitho found himself inwardly agreeing with the island's governor, Sir Humphrey Rivers, that it was a madness to hand the place back to the French.
Keen was saying, 'I shall use the prevailing wind to approach the harbour from the south-east, sir. I'd not care to run in under cover of darkness.'
He was making light of it, but Bolitho could guess at his concern for his ship. The waters around San Felipe were used to brigs and trading-schooners, but a ship of the line, even a small sixty-four, needed room to breathe.
Bolitho said, 'I shall go ashore and meet the governor as soon as possible. We know that Captain Duncan had an audience with him.'
He glanced forward as Midshipman Evans walked past some of the sailmaker's crew who were speaking with Foord, the fifth lieutenant. The midshipman turned and stared at the little group and then hurried, almost ran, to the nearest hatchway.
Keen explained, 'Another of Sparrouhawk's wounded has died, sir.'
Bolitho nodded. One more dead. The sailmaker's mates would sew him up in an old hammock and drop him overboard at sunset.
'Tell Midshipman Evans to report to my clerk for duties in the cabin. Keep his mind off things.'
He strode away and began to pace up and down until his shirt was plastered to his skin.
Keen shook his head. Take his mind off things. Bolitho had enough worries and responsibilities for ten men, yet he could still spare a thought for the stricken midshipman.
'Deck there!'
Keen looked up and shaded his eyes against the fierce glare.
The masthead lookout on his perch in the cross-trees yelled, 'Land on th' lee bow!'
Keen looked at the master and grinned. 'Well done, Mr Knocker. We shall remain on the present tack until we can gauge the final approach.'
Knocker grunted. His priest's face gave away neither pleasure nor resentment.
Keen glanced at Bolitho. He had heard the cry but gave no sign either.
'I'll drop the corpse outboard during the last dog watch, sir.' Quantock was tall and ungainly but could move like a cat.
Keen faced him and tried not to feel dislike for his senior lieutenant.
'We shall bury him with due honour, Mr Quantock. Have the watch below piped aft at dusk.'
The lieutenant shrugged. 'If you say so, sir. It's just that he was not one of ours – '
Keen saw the little midshipman being led away by Yovell, the clerk, and said sharply, 'He was somebody's, Mr Quantock!'
