used.
When he looked again, the youth was in the centre of the cabin, directly beneath the open skylight. Older than he had expected, about fifteen. With experience he could be very useful.
He took the envelope and slit it with the knife he had used earlier, feeling the midshipman’s eyes watching every move. As I did. All those years ago.
He was not new, but had been appointed from another frigate, the Vanoc, which had been temporarily paid off for a complete overhaul. His name was Richard Deighton. Adam raised his eyes, and saw the youth look away from him.
“Your captain speaks well of you.” A young, roundish face, dark brown hair. He would be fifteen next month, and was tall for his years. Serious features. Troubled.
The name was familiar. “Your father was a serving officer?” It was not a question. He could see it all more clearly than the chebecs of only three days ago.
The youth said, “Captain Henry Deighton.” No pride, no defiance.
That was it.
“Commodore Deighton hoisted his broad-pendant above my ship, Valkyrie, when I was with the Halifax squadron.” So easily said.
The midshipman clenched one fist against his breeches. “The rank of commodore was never confirmed, sir.”
“I see.” He walked around the table, hearing Jago’s voice again. He had been there too on that day when Commodore Deighton had been shot down, it was thought by a Yankee sharpshooter. Except that after the sea burial the surgeon, rather the worse for drink, had told Adam that the angle of entry and the wound were all wrong, and that Deighton had been killed by someone in Valkyrie’s own company.
The matter had ended there. Deighton had already been put over the side, with the boy John Whitmarsh and others.
But the faces always returned; there was no escape. The family, they called it.
“Did you ask for Unrivalled?”
The midshipman lifted his eyes again. “Aye, sir. I always hoped, wanted…” His voice trailed away.
Bellairs was back. “Gig’s alongside, sir.” He glanced at the new midshipman, but only briefly.
Adam said, “Take Mr Deighton into your charge, if you please. The first lieutenant will attend to the formalities.”
Then he smiled. “Welcome aboard, Mr Deighton. You are in good hands.”
As the door closed he took out the letter once more.
It was like seeing yourself again… something you should never forget.
He picked up his hat and went out into the sunshine.
Captain Victor Forbes leaned back in Bethune’s fine chair and raised a glass.
“I’m glad you chose to come ashore, Adam. I’ve been reading through your report, Christie’s too, and I’ve made a few notes for the vice-admiral to read on his return.”
Adam sat opposite him, the cognac and the easy use of his first name driving some of his doubts away. The flag captain was obviously making the most of Bethune’s absence, although it was apparent from the occasional pause in mid-sentence to listen that, like most serving captains, he was ill at ease away from his ship.
Forbes added, “I still believe that raids on known anchorages, though damn useful and good for our people’s morale, will never solve the whole problem. Like hornets, destroy the nest. Time enough later to catch the stragglers.”
Adam agreed and tried to recall how many glasses he had drunk as Forbes peered at the bottle and shook it against the fading sunlight. “I’d have given anything to be there with you.” Then he grinned. “But with any luck Montrose will be a private ship again quite soon!”
“You’re leaving the squadron?”
Forbes shook his head. “No. But we are being reinforced by two third-rates, and about time too. Sir Graham Bethune will likely shift his flag to one of them. A damn nice fellow,” he grinned again, “for an admiral, that is. But I believe he is eager to leave, to get back to a stone frigate, the Admiralty again, most likely. I’ll not be sorry. Like you, I prefer to be free of flag officers, good or bad.”
Adam recalled Bethune’s restlessness, his sense of displacement even in a world he had once known so well. And there was a wife to consider.
Forbes changed tack. “I hear that you’ve got a new midshipman, a replacement for the one who was killed. Deighton-I knew his father, y’ know. We were lieutenants together in the old Resolution for a year or so. Didn’t know him all that well, of course…” He hesitated and peered at Adam as though making a decision. “But when I read the account of your fight with the Yankee Defender, in the Gazette I think it was, I was a little surprised. He never really struck me as being in the death-or-glory mould, one who would fall in battle like that. His son must be proud of him.” He sat back and smiled. Like a cat, Adam thought, waiting to see which way the mouse would run.
“He was killed by a single shot. It is common enough.”
Forbes exclaimed, “Thoughtless of me! Your uncle… I should have kept my damn mouth shut.”
Adam shrugged, remembering when Keen had left Halifax to return to England for promotion and high command at Plymouth. And to marry again… Deighton was to remain as commodore in charge until otherwise decided. He could remember Keen’s words to him, like a warning. Or a threat.
“Be patient with him. He is not like us. Not like you. ”
He said, “How is Sir Graham getting along with his visitor?”
Forbes gave him the grin again, obviously glad of the change of subject.
“They both know about wine, anyway!”
Adam smiled. “Claret, of course.”
A servant appeared with another bottle but Forbes waved him away.
He said, “I shall be dining with the army tonight. Don’t want to let our end down!”
Adam prepared to depart. It had been a friendly, informal discussion, but he had been a flag captain himself, and a flag lieutenant to his uncle. Both roles had taught him to sift fact from gossip, truth from rumour, and in this brief meeting he had learned that a new admiral was about to be appointed, and that Bethune would be leaving. The new flag would decide all future operations, as so ordered by the Admiralty. An aggressive demonstration of sea power might deter the Dey from any further attacks on shipping, or from offering refuge to any pirate or turncoat who offered his services in return for sanctuary.
Forbes had made a point of not mentioning Lady Bolitho’s death, although it was no doubt common knowledge in a place like this. Adam himself had said nothing about it; it was private, if not personal. Belinda was dead. I never knew her. But was it so simple?
Forbes frowned as a shadow moved restlessly beneath the door.
“Not like a ship, Adam. Too many callers, always wanting things. I’d never make an admiral in a thousand years!”
Adam left, cynically amused. He could see Forbes as precisely that.
Outside he paused to study the copper sky. It was a fine, warm evening, and in England the summer was over. It would be the first Christmas without war. And without his uncle.
Forbes had also avoided mentioning Bazeley’s lovely young wife. He wondered if she had fared any better aboard the brig, with its cramped quarters and limited comforts. After an Indiaman and then Unrivalled, a brig would seem like a work-boat. Eyes watching her every move, men deprived of a woman’s touch, the sound of a woman’s voice.
He had told Jago to return to the ship, saying that he would take a duty boat from the jetty. He grinned in the shadows. He had been expecting Forbes to ask him to stay. Instead, he would return to his own, remote cabin.
Something moved in a doorway, and his hand was on the hilt of his sword in a second, unconsciously.
“Who is there?”
The action and strain had cost him more than he would have believed.
It was a woman. Not a beggar or a thief.
“Captain Bolitho. It is you!”
