Quite useless, and yet it seemed to mean everything to the boy. The realisation angered him suddenly. He was being unfair, and as intolerant as his visitor.
In the same breath he knew how different it was. Not once had Turnbull shown the slightest pity for the murdered slaves and Paradox's boarding party. The loss of the prize and its potential bounty seemed to matter more to him.
Midshipman Deighton entered the cabin, his hat under his arm.
'Mr Galbraith's respects, sir, and the wind is freshening.' Ile glanced up as feet thudded overhead. Perhaps remembering what he had seen from the lofty masthead. Was that only yesterday?
Turnbull said, 'I shall require my boat, Bolitho. We don't want to lose the wind!' lie became serious again. 'As soon as we clear the land and gain sea room we can pick up the south-east trades. That will knock a few days off the passage.'
Adam said, 'Carry on, Mr Deighton. I shall come up directly. Have the commodore's boat called alongside.'
He wondered why Turnbull had not chosen to shift his broadpendant to Unrivalled for the return passage. It was all a cloak of mystery, some image of dash and daring which he seemed to consider appropriate for his present role.
The door closed and Turnbull asked casually, 'Deighton? His father was killed, wasn't he? A commodore, too!' He chuckled again. 'I shall have to watch myselfl'
At the door he said abruptly, 'I would appreciate it if your clerk could complete two copies of your report before we sight Freetown. It will be useful to me, and I expect the new Crown Agent will be concerned to read it when he hears about the boarding party. An act of piracy, no less, which no turtleback at the Foreign Office will dare to ignore, not this time!'
Adam led the way to the companion ladder, glad he was leaving. Turnbull glanced back towards the deserted wardroom, and once more his eyes missed nothing. Perhaps he was recalling a face or some moment in his past.
He said, 'The Crown Agent is or was a sea officer himselfthat's something in our favour, I hope.'
He turned again, one perfectly polished shoe poised on the ladder.
'Name's Herrick. RearAdmiral Thomas Herrick-mean anything to you?'
Adam gripped the handrail to steady himself. Turnbull had not waited for or expected an answer. He already knew.
On deck again it was still with him, and those who waited by the entry ports or stood smartly aside as he passed wore the faces of others he had known. We Happy Few. Very few now. And Thomas Herrick had been one of the first.
So many questions, unanswered and unexplained. Like some of Cristie's calculations, the neat lines on a chart which somehow seemed to convene and join again and again.
The vessel which had perished, and screaming, trapped men and women left to drown or be savaged by sharks. Tyacke, who had been unable to speak of the memory which still ruled his life, and George Avery who had died because of it. And now Thomas Herrick. Down over the years. My uncle's best friend.
He raised his hat to the commodore, and the calls shrilled in salute as the marines presented arms.
On the face of it, Turnbull should be more than satisfied. An unblemished record, and the seniority to prepare him for the next step to flag rank. When so many others had been cast aside with the running down of the fleet, he had a bright future within his grasp.
He watched the boat pulling clear. The commodore did not once look astern at Unrivalled.
Adam replaced his hat, and recalled the two barely touched glasses of Madeira in his cabin.
Looking back, it was hard to discern the real man beyond the authority.
All he could recognise was envy.
7. Secrets
UNRIVALLED'S gig came smartly alongside a sagging, sun-blistered pier and hooked on. Luke Jago tilted his hat and stared at the buildings on the waterfront, one of which displayed the Union Flag, with two scarlet-coated marines finding what shade they could inside the arched entrance. Then he glanced at Midshipman Deighton, who was in charge of the gig. He had said nothing more about the bloodstained water, the pathetic fragments, all that remained to mark the scene of the slaughter. He was doing well, and even Jago had to admit to something like admiration. It was as far as he would go.
He waited while Captain Bolitho climbed on to the pier. In his best frock coat, cocked hat and fresh breeches, he could have been someone else entirely, he thought. The open shirt and scuffed hessian boots belonged elsewhere. Jago hid a grin. Like me.
Adam said, 'Not too far to walk.' Ile turned to look back at the ship, clean and sharp against the sprawl of merchantmen and busy coastal craft. Awnings and windsails already rigged, some boats lurking nearby to offer their wares, always hopeful.
Jago watched him, remembering his expression, his change of mood after they had dropped anchor this morning. It had happened after Captain Tyacke's first lieutenant had come aboard to see him, as if he had judged their arrival to the minute. Then Jago had seen it for himself. Their prize, the Portuguese-owned Albatroz, had gone from Freetown. Released, they said, on some small legal detail, point of law as he had heard Cristie call it. He knew most of Unrivalled's company had been so certain of their share of the prize-money that they had spent it already in their dreams.
But it was not that. It was something deeper, more personal. Perhaps he knew the captain better than he realised, and could sense his moods in a way he would never have believed likely. Nor wanted to. Like young Deighton, and his father the commodore who had been killed by one of their own men. They shared it, but it remained private all the same.
He looked at the people milling along the waterfront. Black, brown, as many colours as the flags in the harbour.
'I'll lead the way, sir.' He glanced into the boat as Deighton asked uncertainly, 'What shall I do?'
Jago frowned. 'Keep the boat in the shadow, if you can. An' if any bugger tries to steal somethin'…' He could not keep it up with Deighton. He grinned. 'You've got a pretty dirk on yer belt, Mr Deighton. Use it!'
Adam climbed the last of the steps and looked at the town, the dust and the haze rising beyond it like woodsmoke.
As he had brought Unrivalled up to her anchorage he had seen another vessel already at her moorings; she had probably entered Freetown an hour or so earlier. A brig, sturdy and typical of those which served as maids of all work in the fleet. Tyacke would have seen her too, and been reminded of his first command. As I was of mine. But it was something else. She was a courier brig, most likely from England, her scarred hull and weathered appearance speaking more than words of the seas he knew so well. Grey, stormy: the enemy. And there were men working aloft on the yards, spreading new canvas, or sending down the remnants from their recent passage to be repaired.
Courier brig. So there would be mail, for somebody. Men unable to read or write would have the letters recited to them on the messdeck, while others who perhaps never received news from home would sit and listen. Share it.
He stopped by a tall, dangerous-looking cargo hoist and tried again to come to terms with the thought uppermost in his mind. Tyacke had considered it important enough to send his lieutenant, Raven, across to prepare him. Or to warn me?
RearAdmiral Thomas Herrick. To everybody else the name would signify just another flag officer, perhaps not even that.
But Adam had known Herrick for as long as he could remember. The navy's way, on and off, like a family. They all said that…
He could not accept that Valentine Keen, now Flag Officer Plymouth, had not known, had not forewarned him. He had served both with Richard Bolitho and Thomas Herrick more times than he could count. And yet, just weeks
