Galbraith said, “He had nothing but the sword, sir.”
Adam looked at him, his eyes distant. But promise me… What had he been going to say? He turned and saw the dead man’s son standing just inside the door, his eyes wide and unblinking. He stared at the trestle bed, and may have seen Lovatt’s face before one of the seamen covered it with a piece of canvas. The same boy who had refused to come to his father’s side when he was dying, even at the last… His anger faded as quickly as it had flared. The boy was quite alone. As I once was. As I am now. He had nothing left.
He turned away, aware that Avery was watching him. There was so much to do. Lovatt had called it a final conceit. Was that all it meant?
The boy said, “I would like the sword, capitaine.” His voice was very controlled, and clear, so that even his mother’s French inflection was noticeable.
Adam said to Napier, “Take him forrard and report to my cox’n. He will tell you what to do.”
Then, to the boy, he said, “We will speak of the sword later.”
He walked to the stern windows and stared at the sky, feeling the ship around him. Second to none.
Galbraith was back. “Orders, sir?” Once again, the lifeline. To normality. To their world.
“Sail drill, Mr Galbraith. See if the topmen can improve their timing.”
Galbraith smiled.
“And tomorrow I thought we might exercise the eighteen pounders, sir.”
Adam looked back at the sleeping compartment. It was bare but for his own cot, which he had been unable to use. There was only Lovatt’s sword leaning against the hanging wardrobe. Final.
He recalled Galbraith’s remark.
“I think not, Leigh.” He saw Avery clench his fist. So he already knew. “I fear that tomorrow it will be in earnest.”
11. The Last Farewell
GALBRAITH stifled a yawn and walked up to the weather side of the quarterdeck. Another morning watch, when a ship came alive again and found her personality. A time for every competent first lieutenant to delegate work, and to discover any flaws in the pattern of things before his captain drew his attention to them.
He felt a growing warmth on his cheek, and the ship sway to a sudden gust of wind. He saw the helmsmen glance from the flapping driver to the masthead pendant, licking out now across the larboard bow, easing the spokes with care to allow for it.
It would be hot today, whatever the wind decided. The decks had been washed down at first light, and were now almost dry, and some of the boatswain’s crew were filling the boats with water to prevent the seams opening when the sun rose to its zenith. His eye moved on. Hammocks neatly stowed, lines flaked down ready for instant use, without the danger of tangling and causing an infuriating delay.
A brief glance aloft told him that more men were out on the yards, searching for breaks and frayed ends, another daily task.
He saw the cabin servant, Napier, making his way aft, a covered dish balanced in one hand, and recalled the burial, Lovatt’s body sliding over the side after the captain had spoken a few words. A seaman, one of Lovatt’s, tugged off his tarred hat: respect or guilt, it was hard to tell. Napier had been there also, standing in the dying light beside Lovatt’s son. As the body had been tipped on a grating Napier had put his arm around the other boy’s shoulder.
Galbraith saw another gust crossing the heaving water, ruffling it like a cat’s fur. The large ensign was standing out from the peak, and beyond the naked figurehead the hazy horizon tilted to a steeper angle. In for a blow… He smiled. As the master had predicted. The wind had shifted, veered overnight, north-easterly across the starboard quarter.
He walked to the opposite side again and looked at the compass, the helmsman’s eyes noting every move. Due west. Gibraltar in three days, less if the wind increased. He watched a seaman on the gun deck splicing a rope’s end, his face stiff with concentration. Another, who had been applying grease to a gun truck, reached out and took it from him. The strong, tarred fingers moved like marlin spikes, there was a quick exchange of grins, and the job was done. One of the prisoners, helping a new hand still mystified by the intricacies of splicing and rope work. If only they were not so undermanned. He paced impatiently up the tilting deck. There was still half the morning watch to run, and a hundred things he needed to supervise.
The lookouts had sighted a few distant sails, doubtless fishermen. It was as well they were not hostile. What would happen if they could get no more men at Gibraltar? He looked towards the cabin skylight, imagining Captain Adam Bolitho down there, alone with his thoughts. No matter what orders the vice-admiral had given him, or any other flag officer for that matter, he had nothing with which to rebuke himself. So short a time in commission, and together they had welded a mixed collection of hands into one company, had cut out a frigate and had taken a supply ship. It could have gone against them if Tetrarch had fought to the finish; they might both have been destroyed. And yet, despite all this, Galbraith still found his captain impossible to know. Sometimes almost bursting with spirit and enthusiasm, and then suddenly remote, as if he were afraid to draw too close to any one person. He thought of Lovatt, and the captain’s determination to extract all available intelligence, even though the man was dying. What was Lovatt after all? A traitor, most would say; an idealist at best. Yet there had been compassion in the captain’s voice when he had buried that unhappy man.
He heard a step on the companion ladder and saw Lieutenant Avery staring at the sea and the sky.
“No breakfast, then?”
Avery grimaced and joined him by the compass. “Too much wine last night. It was stupid of me.” He peered aft. “The captain about yet?”
Galbraith studied him. Avery sounded depressed, and he guessed it had nothing to do with the wine.
“Once or twice. Sometimes I think he never sleeps.” Then, “Walk with me. Blow away the cobwebs, eh?”
They fell into step together. They were both tall men, and like most sea officers who cared to take regular exercise they were able to walk without difficulty among watchkeepers and working parties alike, their feet avoiding ringbolts and gun tackles without conscious effort, when any one of those obstacles would have sent a landsman sprawling.
Galbraith said, “You’ve known Captain Bolitho for a long time, I gather.”
Avery glanced covertly at him. “Of him. We have not met very often.”
Galbraith paused as a halliard snaked past his thigh. “I should think he’d be a hellish fine target for women, but he’s not married.”
Avery thought of the girl who had killed herself. He sensed that Galbraith was not merely seeking gossip to pass it on elsewhere. He wanted to know his captain, perhaps to understand him. But not from me.
Galbraith continued to walk, aware of Avery’s unwillingness to discuss it, and changed the subject.
“When all this is over, what do you intend for yourself?”
Avery winced at the pain in his head. “On the beach. There will be too many officers in better positions than mine for me to compete any more.” Like you.
Galbraith said, “You have a very famous uncle, I hear. If I were in your shoes-”
Avery halted abruptly and faced him. “I hope you never are, my friend!” He thought of the locket the admiral had been wearing when he had been shot down, which he had given to Adam. What would become of Catherine?
Midshipman Fielding said, “The captain’s on his way, sir.” He had been trying very hard not to look as if he had been eavesdropping.
Galbraith touched Avery’s arm. “I did not mean to pry, George, but I need to understand this man. For all our sakes.”
Avery smiled, for the first time. “One day, when he is down there in his cabin, the man without the bright epaulettes, ask him. Just ask him. His uncle taught me that, and so much more.”
Adam Bolitho walked from the companion-way and nodded to the master’s mate of the watch.
“A promising start to the day, Mr Woodthorpe.” He looked up at the braced yards, the canvas full-bellied now, cracking occasionally in the breeze. Seeing the ship as Galbraith had this morning, but viewing it so differently.
