flagged floor. Then they closed.
She came in from the kitchen and gave him a friendly smile. Allday was right; she was a trim little craft, and more in command since Ferguson had last seen her, when he had briefly introduced himself.
'Quiet tonight, Mr Ferguson. Something hot, or something strong?'
He smiled. He could not get Roxby out of his thoughts. How would he deal with it? Vincent's mother lived in one of his houses; Roxby might add fuel to the fire by dragging her into it. Rumour had it that she was friendly with Bolitho's wife; that might also ensure that the scandal would not die so quickly. Allday had told him about the son, and his short career as a midshipman. A real little tyrant, and cruel too.
She said, 'You're miles away.'
He tried to relax. He had wanted to get out, hide from the estate and the familiar faces who relied on him. He had met Lady Catherine after her visit to the injured worker, and during a general conversation she had mentioned Captain Adam. Just for an instant he had imagined she had heard about the incident in Bodmin. But how could she?
Instead, Catherine had asked if Adam had visited the house frequently during their absence. He had told her the truth, and why not? He was seeing too many devils when there were none.
He said, 'Some of your pie, and a tankard of ale, if you please.'
He watched her bustling about and wondered if Allday would ever settle down. Then he saw the carved ship model in the adjoining room: Allday's Hyperion. Then it must be serious. It made him strangely glad.
She put the tankard down on his table. 'Aye, 'tis quiet, right enough.' She shifted uneasily. 'Did hear there's some sort of meeting going on.'
Ferguson nodded. Probably a cock-fight, something he hated. But many enjoyed it, and large bets changed hands in the course of an evening's sport.
Ferguson turned and looked at the dog. It was no longer asleep but staring fixedly at the door, its teeth bared in a small, menacing growl.
Unis Polin said, 'Foxes, maybe.'
But Ferguson was on his feet, his heart suddenly pounding like a hammer.
'What is it?'
Ferguson clutched the table as if to prevent himself falling. It was all there, coming back: the moment when he had heard the feet. Except that it was no longer a brutal memory. It was now.
The old man reached down and touched his dog's fur, quietening him.
He croaked, 'There be a King's ship in Carrick Road.'
The feet drew closer, marching and dragging.
Ferguson stared around as if he were trapped.
'My God, it's the press.'
He wanted to run. Get away. Go back to Grace and the life he had come to value and enjoy.
The door banged open and a tall sea officer loomed out of the darkness, his body shrouded in a long boat-cloak glittering with drops of sleet or snow.
He saw the woman by the table and removed his hat with a flourish. For one so young, in his mid-twenties at a guess, his hair was streaked with grey.
'I beg pardon at this intrusion, ma'am.' His eyes moved quickly around the parlour, missing nothing. The comely woman, the one-armed man, the dog by the fire which was still glaring at him, and finally the old farmer. Nothing.
Unis Polin said, 'There's nobody here, sir.'
Ferguson sat down again. 'She's right.' He hesitated. 'What ship?'
The other gave a bitter laugh. 'She's the Ipswich, 38.' He threw back his cloak, to reveal an empty sleeve pinned to his lieutenant's coat. 'It seems we've both been in the wars. But there's no ship for me, my friend-just this stinking work, hunting men who will not serve their King!'
To the woman he added more calmly, 'There is a place near here called Rose Barn, I believe?'
The old man leaned forward. 'Tes 'bout a mile further on this road.'
The lieutenant replaced his hat and as he opened the door Ferguson saw lanterns shining on uniforms and weapons. Over his shoulder he said, 'It would be unwise to raise a warning.' He gave a tired smile. 'But of course you know not what we are about, eh?'
The door closed, and all at once the silence was around them, like something physical.
Ferguson watched as she removed the pie from the table and replaced it with a piece that was piping-hot.
He said, 'The press-gang must be heading for the fight you mentioned.'
The old farmer cackled. 'They'll get naught there, me dear. Men with protection, and soldiers from the garrison.'
Ferguson stared at him, his spine like ice. So this was Roxby's way. He would know all the officers of the dreaded press, and the times and locations of cock-fights and other sport. He suddenly felt quite sick. They might catch a few, despite what the old farmer had said, just as they had taken him and Allday when the Phalarope had put a press-gang ashore. One thing was quite certain in his mind. Miles Vincent would be one of them.
'I must leave. I-I'm sorry about the pie…'
She watched him anxiously. 'Another time then. I want you to tell me all about John Allday.'
The mention of the big man's name seemed to strengthen him. He sat down again at the table and picked up a fork. He would stay, after all.
He glanced at the dog, but it was fast asleep. Outside the door there was only stillness.
He thought with sudden anger, And why not? We protect our own and those we love. Or we go down with the ship.
What else could he have done?
By morning it was snowing, and when Lewis Roxby walked into his stable yard he saw his head keeper, Beere, pause just long enough to give him a nod before he was swallowed up in a gust of swirling snow.
The frigate Ipswich had sailed before dawn, as was the navy's way, and it was a long time before anyone realised that Miles Vincent's bed had not been slept in.
15. FROM THE DEAD
LIEUTENANT Stephen Jenour handed his hat to Ozzard and then strode aft to the broad day-cabin where Bolitho was seated at a small table. The Black Prince was in the process of changing tack yet again, and as the sun moved slowly across the stern windows Jenour felt its heat through the smeared glass like an opening oven door.
Bolitho glanced up from his letter to Catherine. He had forgotten how many pages he had written so far, but it never seemed difficult to confide in her even when the distance between them mounted with each turn of the glass.
Jenour said, 'Captain Keen's respects, Sir Richard, and he wishes to inform you that Antigua is in sight to the south-west'rd.'
Bolitho laid down his pen. Seven weeks to cross an ocean and find their way to the Caribbean's Leeward Islands. It was ironic that his old Hyperion had done the same passage in a month, and at exactly this time of year. Keen must be both relieved to have made the landfall and disappointed at the time taken, and the many shortcomings which had presented themselves in the ship's company.
Perhaps the deceptive calm of bright sunshine and warmth on their hard-worked bodies might make amends. The Atlantic had been at its worst, at least in Bolitho's experience, producing great surging gales, while men half- frozen on the yards fisted and fought icy canvas until their hands were torn and raw. The high winds had been perverse too, and the ship had been driven a hundred miles off-course when the wind direction had veered so suddenly that even Julyan the master had been astonished.
Gun drill had been out of the question for the latter part of their passage. It was all Keen could do to get his men fed and rested before the Western Ocean again released its ferocity.
It said much for Keen's example and that of his more seasoned hands that they had not lost a spar or another
