forward for promotion.”
Urquhart was taken aback. “But, sir-I don’t think-I am satisfied to serve you…” He got no further.
Adam said, “That’s enough,” and shook his arm a little for emphasis. “Never say that, John. Never even think it.” He looked up at the sky and the quivering belly of the maintopsail. “My uncle once described his first command as the greatest gift. But it is much more than that.” His eyes hardened. “Which is why I mistrust those who betray such a privilege.” Then he seemed to shake off the mood. “At noon, then. Today is Friday, is it not?” He smiled, and Urquhart wondered why there was no woman in his life. “Tonight the toast will be, a willing foe and enough sea room. A perfect sentiment!”
That evening the wind rose again, and backed to north-east-by-north. Urquhart was pulled once more to the Success, and was drenched in spray before he was halfway across.
Somehow, he did not care. The stage was set. And he was ready.
Captain Adam Bolitho walked across the black and white checkered deck covering and stared through the tall stern windows. The wind had eased a good deal overnight, but still made its presence felt in short, fierce gusts, dashing the spray high over the ship until it pattered from the dripping sails like rain.
He saw the murky outline of the other frigate, her shape distorted by the caked salt on the glass, her bearing so extreme that she appeared out of control, adrift.
It had been hard work to pass the tow across at first light, requiring tough, experienced seamanship, or as Evan Jones, the boatswain, had remarked, “All brute force and bloody ignorance!” But they had done it. Now, yawing drunkenly to each gust of wind, the Success fought her tow like a beast being led to slaughter.
He heard eight bells chime from the forecastle and made himself leave the windows. He glanced around the big cabin. Keen’s quarters: he had almost expected to see him here at the table where he had placed his own chart within easy reach, so that Ritchie or the lieutenants should not be able to watch his concern as one more hour passed. He leaned on the table, the American coastline under one palm. He had seen his uncle do this, holding the sea in his hands, translating ideas into action. In so many ways we are very alike. But in others…
He straightened his back and looked up at the skylight as somebody laughed. Urquhart had kept his word. Others might suspect his intentions, but nobody knew. And they could still laugh. It was said that when Trevenen had been in command, any sound had been offensive to him. Laughter would be like insubordination or worse.
He thought of the book of poems which Keen had given him, here in this very cabin, with, he believed, few memories of the girl who had owned it, and not knowing the pain it had aroused. And here, he had seen the miniature that Gilia St Clair had intended another to keep and cherish.
More voices came down from the quarterdeck and for a moment he thought he heard a lookout. But it was only another working party, splicing, stitching, repairing: a sailor’s lot.
The door opened and the boy John Whitmarsh stood looking in at him.
Adam asked, “What is it?”
The boy said, “You’ve not touched your breakfast, Cap’n. Coffee’s cold, too.”
Adam sat in one of Keen’s chairs and said, “No matter.”
“I can fetch some fresh coffee, sir.” He looked at the chart and said gravely, “ Cape Breton to…” He hesitated, his lips moving as he studied the heavy print at the top of the chart. “To Delaware Bay.” He turned and stared at him, his eyes shining. “I read it, sir! Just like you said I would!”
Adam walked into the other cabin, unable to watch the boy’s excitement and pleasure. “Come here, John Whitmarsh.” He opened his chest and withdrew a parcel. “D’ you know the date of today?”
The boy shook his head. “It be Saturday, sir.”
Adam held out the parcel. “July twenty-first. I could not very well forget it. It was the day I was posted.” He tried to smile. “It was also listed in Anemone’s log as the date when you were volunteered. Your birthday.” The boy was still staring at him, and he said roughly, “Here, take it. It’s yours.”
The boy opened the parcel as if it were dangerous to touch, then gasped as he saw the finely made dirk and polished scabbard. “For me, sir?”
“Yes. Wear it. You’re thirteen now. Not an easy passage, eh?”
John Whitmarsh was still staring at it. “Mine.” It was all he said, or could say.
Adam swung round and saw the second lieutenant, William Dyer, staring in from the passageway.
Dyer seemed to be a reliable officer and Urquhart had spoken well of him, but it was too good a piece of gossip to miss. What he had just witnessed would soon be all over the wardroom. The captain giving gifts to a cabin boy. Losing his grip.
Adam quietly said, “Well, Mr Dyer?” They could think what they damned well pleased. He had known few acts of kindness when he himself had been that age. He could scarcely remember his mother, except for her constant love, and even now he did not understand how she could have given herself like a common whore in order to support her son, whose father had not known of his existence.
Dyer said, “The master sends his respects, sir, and he is anxious about our present course. We will have to change tack shortly for the next leg-a hard enough task, even without that great drag on the tow-line.”
Adam said, “The master thinks that, does he? And what do you think?”
Dyer flushed. “I thought it better coming from me, sir. In Mr Urquhart’s place, I felt it was my duty to bring his unease to your notice myself.”
Adam walked back to the chart. “You did well.” Had Urquhart seen the folly of his idea? For folly was what it would be. “You deserve an answer. So does Mr Ritchie.”
Dyer gaped as Adam swung round and shouted, “The skylight, John Whitmarsh! Open the skylight!”
The boy climbed on a chair to reach it, his new dirk still clutched in one hand.
Adam heard the wind gusting against the hull and imagined it ruffling the sea’s face, like a breeze on a field of standing corn. The cry came again. “Two sail to th’ nor’-east!”
Adam said sharply, “That is the answer, Mr Dyer. The enemy was not asleep, it seems.” To the boy he said, “Fetch my sword, if you please. We shall both be properly presented today.”
Then he laughed aloud, as if it were some secret joke. “July 21st, 1813! It will be another day to remember!”
Dyer exclaimed, “The enemy, sir? How can it be certain?”
“You doubt me?”
“But, but… if they intend to attack us they will hold the wind-gage. All the advantages will be theirs!” He did not seem able to stop. “Without the tow we might stand a chance…”
Adam saw the boy returning with his captain’s hanger. “All in good time, Mr Dyer. Tell Mr Warren to hoist Flag Seven for Success to recognize. Then pipe all hands aft. I wish to address them.”
Dyer asked in a small voice, “Will we fight, sir?”
Adam looked around the cabin, perhaps for the last time. He forced himself to wait, to feel doubt, or worse, a fear he had not known before Anemone had been lost.
He said, “Be assured, Mr Dyer, we shall win this day.” But Dyer had already hurried away.
He raised his arms so that the boy could clip on his sword, as his coxswain, George Starr, had used to do: Starr, who had been hanged for what he had done aboard Anemone after her flag had come down. Without knowing that he spoke aloud, he repeated, “We shall win this day.”
He glanced once more at the open skylight, and smiled. A very close thing. Then he walked out of the cabin, the boy following his shadow without hesitation.
Midshipman Francis Lovie lowered his telescope and wiped his streaming face with the back of his hand.
“Flag Seven, sir!”
Urquhart eyed him grimly. It had come as he expected, but it was still a shock. The captain’s private signal.
He took the telescope from Lovie’s hands and trained it towards the other ship. His ship. Where he had been trusted, even liked by some when he had stood between Valkyrie’s company and a tyrant of a captain. As it must have been in Reaper, and in too many other ships. Adam Bolitho’s words seemed to intrude through all his doubts and uncertainties. I mistrust those who betray such a privilege. He watched the familiar figures leap into the lens, men he knew so well: Lieutenant Dyer, and beside him the most junior lieutenant, Charles Gulliver, not long ago a midshipman like the one who was sharing this dangerous task with him. Lovie was seventeen, and Urquhart liked to believe that he himself had played his part in making him what he was. Lovie was ready to sit his examination for
