seemed to add to the man rather than the reverse.
He had heard Lieutenant Varlo bragging about the brigantine they had taken into Freetown. The impression it would make.
His mate Rist had said hotly, 'A few manacles? It'll take more than that to pin a charge on that hugger Cousens!'
Cristie had hoarded that, too. Rist knew more than he realised. But he was probably right. With bounty being offered for every slave freed and recovered, a captain and his ship's company could be expected to share among them a purse which ranged from sixty pounds for a male slave to ten pounds for a child. But the prize court would require more than a few irons or manacles as proof.
It was all most of the sailors could think about.
It was strange about Rist, he thought. He wanted to be a prize-master, the only way up the ladder for a man of his service and rank, but had returned from the Albatroz angry, troubled about something. It was unlike him. He was a good master's mate, and a good friend when you needed one.
In a man-of-war, that was most of the time.
Adam did not notice the master's amusement. He was looking at the open log, the notes and the observations, ship's position and course, a man for punishment, an issue of grog. Unrivalled's life story.
But it was the date. Almost a year since his uncle had fallen. Tyacke must have been thinking of it too, but had said nothing.
He felt the locket sticking to his skin. And Catherine.
He crossed to an open port and stared at the unchanging pattern of land abeam. Misty in some places, hard and sharp in others. Were there eyes over there watching this ship, he wondered. Like the playful dolphins he had seen around Unrivalled's slow-moving stem this morning, or the gulls which seemed too tired to leave the water as the ship had passed them by. The hot, unmoving air quivered very slightly. More a sensation than a sound. He straightened.
'A storm, d' you think?'
Cristie turned. Bare feet thudded overhead as the watch on deck came alive. He studied the captain's profile, and thought unexpectedly of his home on the Tyne. It was probably snowing there. Bitter too.
But all he said was, 'Gunfire, sir.'
Lieutenant Galbraith strode to the larboard nettings and levelled the telescope he had just snatched from its rack by the compass box. He winced as the sun burned across his shoulders when he stepped out of the driver's shadow. He had sent Midshipman Deighton clattering down the companion ladder, but knew in his heart that the captain would have heard the distant echoes.
He ignored the buzz of voices nearby, speculation, a welcome break from the airless torpor of watchkeeping.
He swore under his breath. The lens had misted over. The masthead lookout might see something. But it had been gunfire. Not heavy, but rapid. Now there was utter silence.
He heard the captain's voice now. He smiled to himself. No longer a stranger.
'Bring her up a point, if she'll take it. Mr Deighton, aloft with you and speak with the masthead.' He turned away and must have glanced at the serious-faced midshipman. 'An extra pair of eyes won't do any harm!'
Galbraith cupped his hands. 'Pipe the hands to the braces, Mr Partridge!'
Cristie was here, too. 'T'gallants, sir?' A question, or a gentle reminder; you could never be sure with the master.
Adam nodded. 'Yes. Hands aloft. East-nor'-east.'
Galbraith waited for the confusion to settle into a pattern. Topmen swarming up the shrouds like monkeys, marines at the mizzen braces. A master's mate using his hat to deflect the glare from the compass so that the helmsmen could see it.
'Helm a-lee!'
The big double wheel creaked over, like everything else bone dry. Galbraith licked his lips and tried not to think of a tankard of ale in some impossible situation.
He started, as another sound sighed against the hull. Just one. An explosion. A ship in trouble? On fire?
Adam joined him by the nettings. 'Too much haze coming offshore. And in any case…' lie did not finish, as Deighton called down, 'Deck there! Sail on the larboard bow, sir!' He paused; perhaps the lookout had told him something. Then, 'Very fine on the how, sir! Moving inshore!'
Cristie said, 'Not too smartly charted hereabouts. We'll be close enough presently!'
Someone else murmured, 'I'll bet the bastard knows it, too!'
Galbraith accepted it. A few sounds, a vague sighting of a sail, probably quite small to be standing so close inshore. Not much to go on, and yet these men around him had already given it a form and personality. Somebody to hate.
Adam took a glass and climbed into the shrouds again. The coastline was unchanged, moving slightly in the haze. No wonder men went mad in the desert. He forced himself to ignore the tarred cordage which was burning through his breeches like a furnace bar.
It was a sail. Maybe two masts, but not very large. He was already losing it in the clinging heat haze. He bit his lip. They were getting a better share of the wind than Unrivalled, that was certain.
A waste of time. But there had to be a reason.
'Get the t'gallants on her now.' He stared up, surprised as the maintopsail writhed and then banged away from its yard. Wind. Like an omen. He heard the creak of steering gear and saw one of the helmsmen turn to grin at his companion.
'That's woke 'er up, Ted!'
Adam walked to the opposite side, his mind busy with the frugal intelligence at his disposal. An explosion. Only the one. And yet a vessel was standing away from whatever had caused it. Fear or guilt? There was nothing to choose.
He knew that Cristie was watching him. Thinking of that last time when his captain had taken this ship through a channel which was scarcely known. Adam often thought about it. Holding his breath while Unrivalled's great shadow had risen inexorably from the sea bed for a final embrace.
A terrible risk, and Galbraith would remember it better than anyone. It had saved his life that day.
He glanced at the ensign as it curled away from the peak. It would not last. But while it did…
Deighton yelled down again. 'Deck there!' He seemed to falter. 'Something in the water, sir! Same bearing!'
'What the hell does he think he's doing?' Varlo had arrived.
Adam cupped his hands and waited as the sudden flurry of wind through canvas and shrouds eased into a sigh.
'Tell me. Take your time.' Somehow he knew it was Sullivan up there. It was his watch, but he would have been there anyway. Would have known. The seaman who had fought at Trafalgar under Our Nel, and who was still working on a fine model of his old ship, the Spartiate. Strange how one thought linked to the other. Spartiate was a French prize taken by Nelson at the Nile, seven years before Trafalgar. His uncle's last flagship, Frobisher, had been a prize too. Did ships feel it…?
'Deck there!'
Adam stared up at the mainmast, seeing the midshipman's struggle, his efforts to remain calm.
'Some wreckage, sir. Very small, and…'
Adam said quietly, 'Tell me. Between us!' He did not realise he had spoken aloud, nor did he see Galbraith's look of compassion.
'Blood, sir.'
Cristie said, 'How could it be? Even with a glass he could never see…' He broke off as his senior mate Rist retorted harshly, 'He would, you know, if there's enough of it!'
Adam folded his arms. 'Mr Cousens, go aloft and bring him down.' He held the signals midshipman's eyes. 'With care, do you understand?'
He did not turn. 'Take in the t'gallants, Mr Galbraith, and have the jollyboat made ready for lowering.' He counted the seconds and said, 'Go yourself, Leigh.'
Then he crossed to the quarterdeck rail and stood beside the sailing master.
