He heard Massie say irritably, “Could have been there for months!”
Nobody answered, and he sensed that they were all looking at their captain.
He turned to the sailing-master. “What do you think, Mr Cristie?”
Cristie shrugged. “Aye. In this sea it could have been drifting hereabouts for quite a while.”
He was no doubt thinking, why? To investigate some useless wreckage would mean changing tack, and in this uncertain wind it might take half a day to resume their course.
The master’s mate said, “Here’s Sullivan, sir.”
Sullivan walked from the shrouds, gazing around the quarterdeck as if he had never seen it before.
“Well, Sullivan? A fool’s errand this time?”
Surprisingly, the man did not respond. He said, “Somethin’s wrong, sir.” He looked directly at his captain for the first time. Then he nodded, more certain, knowing that the captain would not dismiss his beliefs, his sailor’s instinct.
He seemed to make up his mind. “Gulls, sir, circlin’ over the wreckage.”
Adam heard the midshipman of the watch suppress a snigger, and the master’s mate’s angry rebuke.
A shadow fell across the compass box. It was Galbraith, the first lieutenant.
“Trouble, sir? I heard what he said.”
Gulls on the water meant pickings. Circling low above it meant they were afraid to go nearer. He thought of the boy John Whitmarsh, who had been found alive after Anemone had gone down.
“Call all hands, Mr Galbraith. We shall heave-to and lower the gig.” He heard the brief, almost curt orders being translated into trilling calls and the responding rush of feet. What’s the bloody captain want this time?
He raised his voice slightly. “Mr Bellairs, take charge of the gig.” He turned to watch the hands rushing to halliards and braces. “Good experience for your examination!” He saw the midshipman touch his hat and smile. Was it so easy?
He saw Jago by the nettings and beckoned him across. “Go with him. A weather eye.”
Jago shrugged. “Aye, sir.”
Galbraith watched the sails thundering in disorder as Unrivalled lurched unsteadily into the wind.
He said, “I would have gone, sir. Mr Bellairs is not very experienced.”
Adam looked at him. “And he never will be, if he is protected from such duties.”
Galbraith hurried to the rail as the gig was swayed up and over the gangway.
Did he take it as a slight because one so junior had been sent? Or as a lack of trust, because of what had happened in his past?
Adam turned aside, angry that such things could still touch him.
“Gig’s away, sir!”
The boat was pulling strongly from the side, oars rising and cutting into the water as one. A good boat’s crew. He could see Jago hunched by the tiller, remembered shaking hands with him on that littered deck after the American had broken off the action. And John Whitmarsh lay dead on the orlop.
“Glass, Mr Cousens!” He reached out and took the telescope, not noticing that the name had come to him without effort.
The gig loomed into view, up and down so that sometimes she appeared to be foundering. No wonder the frigate was rolling so badly. He thought of Cristie’s comment. In this sea.
He saw the oars rise and stay motionless, a man standing in the bows with a boat-hook. Jago was on his feet too, but steadying the tiller-bar as if he was calming the boat and the movement. The hard man, and a true sailor, who hated officers and detested the navy. But he was still here. With me.
Bellairs was trying to keep his footing, and was staring astern at Unrivalled. He held up his arms and crossed them.
Massie grunted, “He’s found something.”
Cristie barely spared him a glance. “Somebody, more like.”
Adam lowered the glass. They were pulling a body from the sea, the bowman fending off the surrounding wreckage with his boat-hook. Midshipman Bellairs, who would sit for lieutenant when the admiral so ordered, was hanging over the gunwale vomiting, with Jago holding his belt, setting the oars in motion again as if all else was secondary.
“Fetch the surgeon.”
“Done, sir.”
“Extra hands on the tackles, Mr Partridge!” The boatswain was not grinning now.
He thought again of Whitmarsh, the twelve year old who had been “volunteered” by a so-called uncle. He had told him how he had drifted from the sinking frigate, holding his friend’s hand, unaware that the other boy had been dead for some while.
He turned to speak to Sullivan but he had gone. He handed the telescope to the midshipman of the watch; he did not need to look again to know the gulls were swooping down once more, their screams lost in distance. The spirits of dead sailors, the old Jacks called them. Scavengers fitted them better, he thought. He heard O’Beirne giving instructions to two of his loblolly boys. A good surgeon, or another butcher? You might never know until it was too late.
Adam walked to the side, two marines springing out of his way to allow him to pass. The gig was almost here, and he noticed that Bellairs was on his feet again.
Why should it matter? We all had to learn. But it did matter.
A block squeaked, and he knew Partridge’s mates were lowering a canvas cradle to hoist the survivor inboard. It would probably finish him, if he was not dead already.
Other men were running now to guide the cradle over the gangway, clear of the boat tier.
Adam said, “Secure the gig and get the ship under way, if you please. Take over, Mr Galbraith.” He did not see the sudden light in Galbraith’s eyes, but he knew it was there. He was being given the ship. Trusted.
The surgeon was on his knees, sleeves rolled up, his red face squinting with concentration. Large and heavy though he was, he had the small hands and wrists of a very much younger person.
“I cannot move him far, sir.”
To the sickbay, the orlop. There was no time.
“Carry him aft, to my quarters. More room for you.”
He leaned over and looked at the man they had pulled from the sea. From death.
One bare arm showed a faint tattoo. The other was like raw meat, a bone protruding through the blackened flesh. He was so badly burned it was a marvel he had lived this long. A fire, then. Every sailor’s most dreaded enemy.
Someone held out a knife. “’E were carryin’ this, sir! English, right enough.”
O’Beirne was cutting away the scorched rags from the body. He murmured, “Very bad, sir. I’m afraid…” He gripped the man’s uninjured wrist as his mouth moved, as if even that were agonising.
Perhaps it was the sound of the ship coming about, her sails refilling, slapping and banging as the great yards were braced hard round, or the sense of men around him again. A sailor’s world. His mouth opened very slightly.
“’Ere, matey.” A tarred hand with a mug of water pushed through the crouching onlookers, but O’Beirne shook his head and put a finger to his lips.
“Not yet, lad.”
Jago was here, on his knees opposite the surgeon, lowering his dark head until it seemed to be touching the man’s blistered face.
He murmured, “He’s here, mate. Right here with us.” He looked up at Adam. “Askin’ for the Captain. You, sir…” He broke off and lowered his face again. “Ship’s name, sir.” He held the man’s bare shoulder. “Try again, mate!”
Then he said harshly, “No good, sir. He’s goin.””
Adam knelt and took the man’s hand. Even that was badly burned, but he would not feel it now.
As his shadow fell across the man’s face he saw the eyes open. For the first time, as if only they lived. What did he see, he wondered. Someone in a grubby shirt, unfastened, and without the coat and the gold lace of authority. Hardly a captain…
He said quietly, “I command here. You are safe now.”
