Bethune said nothing. But if it came to drawing a card, his own money would be on Bazeley rather than Rhodes.
And then he knew he was glad to be leaving Malta.
Luke Jago bowed his legs slightly and peered at Halcyon’s stout anchor cable to gauge the distance as the gig swept beneath her tapering jib-boom, then glanced at the stroke oar and over the heads of the crew, easing the tiller-bar until the flagship appeared to be pinioned on the stem-head. They were a good boat’s crew, and he would make certain they stayed that way.
He saw the captain’s bright epaulettes catch the sunlight as he leaned over to gaze at the anchored seventy- four.
Professional interest? It was more than that and Jago knew it.
Felt it. There were plenty of other boats arriving and leaving at God’s command.
Vice-Admiral Bethune at least had seemed human enough, and had obviously got on well with the captain. Now he had gone. Jago had seen Captain Bolitho and the first lieutenant watching the courier brig as she had made sail, with the vice-admiral her only passenger. Most senior officers would have expected something grander than a brig, he thought. Bethune must have been that eager to get away.
And now there was Lord Rhodes, a true bastard to all
accounts. More trouble.
Jago looked at the midshipman sitting below him. The new one, Deighton. Very quiet, so far, not like his father had been. He wondered if the boy had any idea of the truth. Killed in action, for King and Country. His lip almost curled with contempt.
Deighton had been scared rotten even before the ball had marked him down.
The flagship was towering over them now, masts and spars black against a clear blue sky. Every piece of canvas in place, paintwork shining like glass.
A ship, any ship, could look very different in the eyes of those who saw her. Jago knew from hard experience how it could be. To the terrified landsman, snatched from his daily life by the hated press-gang, the ship was a thing of overwhelming terror and threat, where only the strong and the cunning survived. Toa midshipman boarding his first vessel she would appear awe-some, forbidding, but the light of excitement was already kindled, ready to be encouraged or snuffed out.
He looked at the captain’s shoulders, squared now as if to meeting adversary. To him, she would seem different again. He saw him shade his eyes and raise his head, knew what he was looking for, and what it meant to him. Today. Now. The Cross of St George lifting and rippling from Frobisher’s mainmast truck: the admiral’s flag, where his uncle’s had been flying when they had shot him down.
He had died bravely, they said. Without complaint. Jago found he could accept it, especially when he looked at his own captain.
“Bows!” He did not even have to raise his voice. Other coxswains were here, watching, and there were several, grander launches with coloured canopies over their stern sheets.
Jago swore silently. He had almost misjudged the final approach to Frobisher’s main chains, where white- gloved sideboys were waiting to assist their betters to the entry port.
“Oars!” He counted seconds. “Up!”
The gig came to rest alongside perfectly. So you could crack an egg between them, as old coxswains boasted.
But it had been close. Jago had seen the canopied launches. It usually meant that women would be present, officers’ wives maybe, or those of the governor’s staff. But there was only one who troubled him, and he could see her now, half-naked, her gown soaked with spray and worse. And the captain holding her. Not scornful, or making a meal of it like some, most, would have done.
Adam got to his feet, one hand automatically adjusting his sword. For only an instant their eyes met, then Jago said formally, “We shall be waitin’, sir.”
Adam nodded, and looked at the midshipman. “Listen and learn, Mr Deighton. Your choice, remember?”
The midshipman removed his hat as Adam reached for the hand ropes. They heard the twitter of calls and the bark of commands, then he asked quietly, “You were there too, weren’t you? When my father…”
Jago answered sharply, “Aye, sir. A lot of us was there that day. Now take the tiller an’ cast off the gig, can you manage that?”
The youth dropped his lashes. It was as if Jago had told him what he had not dared to ask.
Above their heads, as the gig cast off to make way for another visitor, Adam replaced his hat and shook the hand of Frobisher’s captain, a lantern-jawed Scot named Duncan Ogilvie. He was well over six feet tall, and it was hard to imagine him living comfortably in any ship smaller than this.
“You must allow the admiral a few minutes to bid farewell to an early visitor.” He gestured vaguely with his head. “Commodore from the Dutch frigate yonder.”
Adam had watched her anchor and had felt the old uneasiness at the sight of her flag amongst the squadron’s ships. The flag of a once respected enemy, but an enemy for all that. It would take even stronger determination when the French ships began to appear. He turned to say something, but the other captain was already greeting a new arrival, and his eyes were moving swiftly beyond him to yet another boat heading for the chains.
Adam had been a flag captain twice, with his uncle and with Valentine Keen. It was never an easy appointment. To be Rhodes ’ flag captain would be impossible.
A harassed lieutenant eventually found him and escorted him aft to the great cabin. Even with all the screens removed and furniture kept to a minimum, the whole of the admiral’s quarters was packed with uniforms, red and scarlet, and the blue and white of sea officers. And women. Bare shoulders, bold glances from the younger ones, something like disdain from the not so young.
The lieutenant called out Adam’s name and ship, and a marine orderly appeared as if by magic with a tray of glasses.
“Better take the red wine, sir. T’ other’s not much good.” Then, as an afterthought, he murmured, “Corporal Figg, sir. Me brother’s one o’ your Royals!” He hurried away, wine slopping unheeded over his sleeve.
Adam smiled. The family again.
“Ah, there you are, Bolitho!” It sounded like at last. Rhodes waited for him to push through the crowd, his head bowed between the deck beams. He was almost as tall as his flag captain.
Rhodes said loudly, “I don’t suppose you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Captain Bolitho? Commands one of my frigates.”
And there she was, smiling a little as she stepped from behind the admiral’s considerable bulk. She was all in blue, her hair piled above her ears, the luminous skin of throat and shoulders as he remembered.
She said, “On the contrary, Lord Rhodes, we know one another quite well,” and offered her hand deliberately, unaware or indifferent to the eyes upon them.
An officer was speaking urgently to the admiral, and Rhodes had turned away, obviously angered by the interruption.
As Adam raised the hand to his lips, she added softly, “I should have said, very well.”
They stood by the stern windows, watching their reflections in the thickened glass. They did not touch, but Adam could feel her as if she was pressed against him.
She said, “We shall be leaving Malta very soon.” She turned as if to follow another reflection, but the figure melted away and was lost in the throng.
Then she moved slightly, with one hand raised. “Look at me.”
Adam saw the little silver sword at her breast. There were so many things he wanted to say, needed to ask, but he could sense the urgency, the hopeless finality. Of a dream.
She said, “You look wonderful.” Her free hand moved and withdrew. As if she had been about to touch him, had forgotten where they were. “The bruise? Is it gone?”
Their eyes met, and he felt the irresistible thrill of danger as she murmured, “My mother said when I was a child and I hurt myself, I’ll kiss it better, Rozanne.” She looked away. “It was so beautiful, all of it.” Her lip quivered. “I shall not spoil it now.”
“You couldn’t spoil anything…” He lingered over the name. “Rozanne.”
He heard Rhodes ’ voice again, and Bazeley’s, and their laughter. She raised her chin, and said steadily, “You see, Captain, I love you!”
