And he was a part of it.
Adam Bolitho tried to ease the discomfort in his legs on the makeshift mattress and stared at the spiralling lantern above the chart table. It was an effort to think clearly, to determine each sound and movement. Here, in the chartroom, it even felt different. Like another ship.
He rubbed his eyes, and knew he would get no more sleep. He had already been on deck when Unrivalled had shortened sail for the night, and had sensed the growing strength of the wind, holding the ship over; the darkness had been filled with flying spray.
It had done something to clear his head. But not much.
He heard the muffled sounds of blocks, the stamp of bare feet somewhere overhead; even that seemed strangely distorted.
It was useless. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress and felt the ship rising, rising, before ploughing down again. He could see it in his mind, as clearly as if he were up there with Massie. He licked his dry lips. The middle watch. How much wine had they had?
The three lieutenants, and O’Beirne the surgeon, sitting around the table in his cabin. Lady Bazeley’s servant Hilda had supervised the flow of dishes and wines, assisted by young Napier. Bazeley himself had been in good form, recounting his various trips, visits to other countries, and, in passing, his building of fortifications and harbour facilities under government contract. Most of the wine had been his, and he had insisted that they should try whatever they fancied.
Adam had been very conscious of the young woman opposite him, her eyes giving little away while she listened to each officer in turn. He had been conscious, also, of the lack of personal comforts in the great cabin; no wonder she had guessed he was unmarried. The women had probably laughed about it when they had been left alone together.
He felt for a beaker of water but it was empty. And there would be more incidents like the one which had so unreasonably disturbed him. Bazeley had left the table to select a particular bottle of wine, and had paused by one of the cabin lanterns to show them his own name, engraved on the medallion around its neck.
“A Chateau Lafite, 1806. Now this will appeal to you, Captain.”
The ship had been close-hauled, the deck rising and shuddering to the pressure of sea and rudder. Adam had seen Bazeley put his other hand on his wife’s shoulder as if to steady himself as he had stressed the significance of that particular chateau or vintage, Adam could remember neither. He had been watching the hand gripping her naked shoulder, the strong fingers moving occasionally like a small, private intimacy.
And all the while she had been looking at him across the table; her eyes had never left his. Not once did she glance up at the man by her chair, nor had she responded to his touch. Perhaps it meant nothing, although he had heard that they had been married for only six months.
He had tasted the claret; it meant nothing to him. It might as easily have been cider.
He had seen her hand move only once, to readjust the gown across her shoulder. And even then she had looked at him.
He saw the old sword hanging beside his boat-cloak, swaying with the heavy motion. Was he so stupid that he could not recognise the danger? A single wrong move, and he would lose everything. He reached out and touched the damp timbers. The ship was everything.
He stood slowly, waiting for the pain, but it did not come. He spread his hands on the chart table and stared at Cristie’s scribbled notes and the soft cloth he used to polish the ship’s chronometer, something he entrusted to no one but himself. A man who had grown up in the same streets as Collingwood; what would he think of his captain if he knew his weakness? Like a false bearing or sounding on a chart. Not to be trusted.
There was a tap on the door: someone needing to examine the chart, to make some new calculation. If in doubt, call the captain. That, too, seemed to mock him.
But it was the boy Napier, his shirt soaked with spray, carrying his shoes in one hand.
“What is it?” Adam seized his wet arm. “Where have you been?”
Napier said quietly, “I-I thought I should call you, sir.” He swallowed, perhaps already regretting that he was here. “The lady-”
“Lady Bazeley? What’s happened?” His mind was suddenly quite clear. “Easy, now. Tell me-take your time.”
The boy stared at him in the swaying light. “I heard somethin’, sir. I was in the pantry, like you told me.” He stared out into the poop’s inner darkness. “She were out there, sir. I tried to help, but she wouldn’t move. She was sick, sir.”
Adam snatched his boat-cloak and said, “Show me.”
Once outside the chartroom the sound of sea and banging canvas was almost deafening. The deck was streaming with water, shipped each time Unrivalled ploughed into the heavy swell.
“Here, sir!” His voice was full of relief, that he had told his captain, that she was still where he had left her.
She was below the quarterdeck ladder on the leeward side of the upper deck; seamen on watch could have passed without seeing her. She could have fallen against one of the tethered eighteen-pounders, broken a rib or her skull. It happened even to experienced sailors.
Adam crouched under the ladder and gathered her into a sitting position. She felt very light in his arms, her hair hiding her face, her feet pale in the darkness. She was wet to the skin and her body was like ice.
“Cloak, here!” He held her again, feeling her shivering, with cold or nausea, it could be either.
He dragged the cloak round her shoulders, wrapping it with great care as more spray rattled against the ladder and drenched his shirt. He felt her body contract in another spasm and saw Napier with a sand bucket under the ladder.
“Easy, easy!” He did not realise he had spoken aloud. “I’ll bring some help.”
She seemed to understand then what he had said. Who he was. She tried to turn, to struggle round, one hand pushing the hair from her face. As he restrained her he felt the coldness of her skin. She was naked under the dripping gown.
She gasped, “No.” But when he pulled away she shook her head and said, “No! Don’t go.”
He said, “Get someone, fast!” But Napier had already disappeared.
Slowly and carefully, he began to drag the girl from beneath the ladder. At any second now someone would come, perhaps call Massie, who was in charge of the watch. And then Bazeley.
She lolled against him and he felt her grip his hand, pulling it against her, across her. She would remember none of it. The rest did not matter.
He felt someone kneel beside him, caught the rich tang of rum. It was Jago, the boy Napier hovering behind him like a nervous ghost.
Jago said between his teeth, “Trouble, sir?” He did not wait for or seem to expect a reply. “All women is trouble!”
They guided and half-carried her into the poop again, the sounds becoming muffled, insignificant.
The wardroom door was closed, and there was no sentry at the cabin screen. Jago muttered, “Just to be on the safe side, sir.”
They found the woman Hilda in a state of anxiety and disbelief.
Adam said, “Dry her, and get her body warm again. D’ you know what to do?”
She took the girl in her arms and led her to the couch which had been prepared in the sleeping cabin. There was no sign of Bazeley, nor were his clothes anywhere to be seen.
She said, “Too much wine. I tried to warn her.” She combed the wet hair from the girl’s face with her fingers. “You should go now. I can manage.” She called after them, “Thank you, Captain!”
Outside, it was as if nothing had happened. The sentry had reappeared at the screen, but stood aside as they passed. A ship’s boy was climbing the companion ladder, carrying a tarpaulin coat for one of the watchkeepers.
Adam stared at the deckhead, measuring the sounds of rigging and canvas. They would have to take in a reef if the wind did not cease.
“In for a squall.” He had spoken aloud, unconsciously.
Jago thought of the girl sprawled on the couch, the gown plastered to her body, hiding nothing.
Half to himself, he murmured, “It’ll be a bloody hurricane if this little lot gets out!”
