planking, the crack of unruly canvas and the squeal of blocks spoke for themselves.
He propped himself on one elbow and swallowed hard. Halcyon's officers had invited him to their wardroom for a last meal before landfall. That had been strange, too. After a big cut-down two-decker like Indomitable, and the other ships which had flown his flag in recent years, it had all seemed so small, so intimate: Captain Robert Christie, a guest in his own ship to conform with the time-honoured custom, Avery and himself. Halcyon's three lieutenants, sailing master, surgeon and captain of marines had completed the gathering. And the wardroom itself had been packed tight. One midshipman had also been invited, the youngest in the ship; he had proposed the loyal toast, but otherwise remained awed and silent throughout the meal and lively conversation.
It was hard not to make comparisons. This mixture of youthful exuberance and excitement; the way it had once been for him, when he had taken command of his first frigate, Phalarope. He winced and rubbed his eyes. All of thirty years ago. How was that possible? The headache would go when he went on deck. Too much wine… the rare chance to relax and speak with just a handful of officers who were typical of all those under his command… He peered over the side of the cot and saw that the door into the main cabin was unfastened, swinging this way and that while the hands on deck brought Halcyon back under control and laid on a new tack.
There was an early greyness from the stern windows; in no time, it would be bright and hot once again.
Captain Christie knew his ship well. They had logged six hundred miles in less than four days, in spite of contrary winds one minute and the chance of lying becalmed the next. But that was the Mediterranean, no better place for a frigate captain to work his ship and her company until they became one.
He thought of Tyacke, recalling their last words together before he had transferred to Halcyon. Tyacke had been opposed to the idea of his visit to Algiers from the first mention of it.
Christie, on the other hand, had confined his comments to the matters of navigation and a final landfall. He, better than most, would be aware of the possible danger to his ship if their reception was hostile, and if injury or death befell his admiral his chances of further advancement would be ruined. A thinking man, and an intelligent one.
Avery had suggested that he might go ashore and make the first contact with the Dey or his advisers. Like Tyacke, he was not convinced that his admiral was fully apprised of the risks.
Bolitho sat upright. More sleep was out of the question. He felt the ship lean over, and imagined the sea boiling around her stem while her sails filled again to the wind.
He was not here to incite another war. But the Dey had to be made to understand that that was where it would end, if the outrages committed by Barbary corsairs and Algerine pirates were allowed and encouraged to continue. In spite of all the treaties and promises, slavery remained a fact. Six years after prohibition, the trade still flourished; according to his Admiralty instructions, between fifty and sixty thousand slaves were being transported each year. And here in the Mediterranean, the Dey of Algiers condoned the seizure of luckless sailors and fishermen, mostly Sicilians and Neapolitans, simply because they were Christians. It could not be tolerated.
He smiled as he heard someone moving about in the other cabin. Allday had known or guessed he was awake.
He would be fetching hot water from the galley, for the morning shave which had become so much a part of their rituals and relationship.
He climbed down from the hanging cot and remembered this time to duck his head; even here down aft, Halcyon was smaller than Phalarope had been. He glanced up at the skylight. It was lighter. He touched the locket around his neck and tried to imagine what she was doing. If she woke missing him as he missed her. Or did she… Allday's shoes creaked on the painted deck covering.
'Fine morning, Sir Richard.' He watched his pale shape in the gloom, waiting to test his mood, like an old Jack smelling the sea changes.
'We shall anchor during the forenoon.' He saw Allday un shutter a lantern for the shave. How many times, he wondered. How many dawns like this?
Allday saw the lantern throw its light across the cabin. The watch on deck would see it. The admiral's up and about! Trying to fathom out a reason, when he could stay in his comfortable cot while they were lashing up and stowing their hammocks to provide some room on the crowded mess decks The watch below had their hammocks slung so close together they were usually touching. You could hear what a man was thinking.
He grinned. They only knew the admiral. They would never know the man.
Bolitho lay back in the chair. 'What are your thoughts today, old friend?'
Allday worked busily on the blade. 'I think it's a risk. Maybe I don't believe it's worth it. Let somebody else take the weight, or get a bloody nose for a change
'Is that what you really think?
No wonder the imposing major-general had not understood. How could he?
'It's what most of the Jacks will be thinking, an' that's no error!'
Bolitho heard the familiar, uneven step directly overhead. Avery was up and dressed already. There would be another argument from him. But so much better than making them seal it up and say nothing. Like the fragment of news Avery had gleaned about Frobisher's previous captain, Oliphant. A
man who gambled heavily and usually lost most of it; a womaniser who hardly came up to the high moral standards of his influential cousin, Rhodes. Perhaps the future First Lord had hoped and intended that Oliphant's future might be assured as flag captain? It was like a puzzle where the clues refused to fit, but sooner or later he would hear about it. Some might already be making comparisons with Hugh, his own dead brother, a gambler who had cost their father so dearly in debts and in grief.
He thought, inevitably, of Adam; but he could find small trace of Hugh in him, apart from his quickness with a sword or pistol. And what some called his recklessness. What they said of me.
The deck tilted, and the lantern swung giddily until the rudder took command again.
Allday stood with the razor upraised. He had seen the shaft of light pass over Bolitho's injured eye and his attempt to shield it. Like the time when Bryan Ferguson had caught him trying to lift a cask full of ale. and the agony of his old wound had knocked him witless.
Always the pain… 'Done. Sir Richard.' He watched him get to his feet, his body adjusting to the deck and the lively movement. How it had always been, and they were still together. Instead of comfort, it brought him a momentary sadness.
Bolitho faced him, vaguely silhouetted now against the grey light.
'I know, old friend. I want that, too.'
Allday watched him return to the sleeping compartment, and then shook his head.
He could not ask Lieutenant Avery to write about that, either. He would save it and tell Unis himself. When it was all over.
'South-east by east, sir! Steady as she goes!'
Bolitho remained on the larboard side of the quarterdeck, watching the land spread away on either bow, almost colourless in a shimmering haze. The wind had dropped and had backed slightly to the north-west, and it had taken them longer to reach their destination than Christie and his sailing master had predicted.
Bolitho tried to ignore the heat across his shoulders, the stabbing reflections from the sea. A grim, inhospitable place, he thought, with deep water close inshore, so that any strange vessel would have to anchor within easy range of the guns of which Major-General Valancy had spoken.
He took a glass from the midshipman of the watch and levelled it with great care on the nearest land. Rough and broken; he could imagine the dust between his teeth, the heat rising from the ground itself.
The ship had probably been under observation since daylight: a man-of-war, unexpected, and more to the point, unaccompanied. It was a risk, but curiosity might overcome the use of direct action.
He touched the locket beneath his damp shirt. If not… He looked at the men working on deck, some pausing to peer at the land, then at the officers on the quarterdeck as if to gauge their chances. He recalled Allday's words. What most of the Jacks will be thinking. He was rarely wrong.
He returned the telescope to the midshipman and caught him staring at him. It would be something worthy of a letter home.
Christie joined him by the rail, his hat tugged down over his eyes to protect them from the blinding glare.
'When we reach the outer anchorage, Sir Richard, what then?'
Bolitho replied, 'We shall fire a salute to the citadel, if we can see it. Then you may anchor.'
Christie nodded doubtfully. 'The wind troubles me, sir. If it veers we shall be on a lee shore.' Unexpectedly, he
