It was not uncommon. Boys signed on for the fleet or some particular ship, but always with a link to sustain them. Then a new marriage, and the new husband or 'friend' would consider the youth in question to be so much inconvenience, a burden.
Adam was on his feet without knowing it. It had been right here when Herrick had asked him the question, and Napier, in his own serious fashion, had replied without hesitation, 'We take care of each other, sir.' And the same boy, with a jagged teak splinter spearing his leg, concerned only with helping his captain.
Yovell went to the door and brought Napier right aft to the stern windows. He saw Napier's chin go up, with defiance, or a determination not to give in; he might even regard Yovell's behaviour as some sort of betrayal. It only made him appear younger. Defenceless.
Adam said, 'We'll not talk on this, David. But I know. We weigh anchor during the morning watch, so I shall want to be up and about early.'
He saw the boy nod, not understanding.
'Unrivalled will be in Plymouth in June, earlier with fair winds. Think of that.'
Napier stared at the deck; he had even forgotten to remove the offending shoes.
'I know, sir.'
Adam did not look at Yovell. He dared not, but put his hands on Napier's slight shoulders and said, 'After that, my lad, you are coming home. With me.' He swung away and added abruptly, 'Some cognac for myself and Mr Yovell. I have some letters to dictate.'
The boy paused by the pantry and looked back. It was enough.
Yovell said gently, 'We have no letters, sir.'
It was a day he would never forget.
11. Home From The Sea
ADAM BOLITHO winced as his elbow slipped from the window rest and he was tossed against the carriage side. lie was astonished that he could have fallen asleep, when every bone in his body ached from the lurching motion. The roads were dry, the ruts left by the last rainfall iron-hard, a match for even an expert driver like Young Matthew. He looked out at the passing countryside, the contrasting greens, the rugged stone walls, which were so familiar. And so alien.
It was hard to recall Unrizvalled's return to Plymouth, or even set each event in its true order.
Plymouth, in contrast to their last departure, was no longer full of ships laid up in ordinary, or stripped and forlorn, awaiting the ignominy of being hulked or broken up. It was alive with men-of-war, from towering liners to seventy-fours, and support craft of every shape and size. But not many frigates, he noticed. Not a full fleet, but it soon would he, from what he had been told.
He glanced at Yovell, sitting opposite him, filling both scats and fast asleep despite the sickening motion, gold spectacles still on the top of his head.
Yovell had the gift of acceptance. Ile had been neither surprised nor excited by the prospect of their return. As if it was ordained.
He heard the boy Napier's voice above the clatter of wheels and harness, and the steady thud of hooves on the narrow road. I le had wondered about the impulse, if that was what it had been, which had compelled him to tell Napier he was coming with him to Falmouth. Not any longer. He could hear Young Matthew, the Bolitho coachman, answering his many questions, laughing at some of them, but enjoying his new companion.
Young Matthew: even that was part of the story which went with the old grey house. His grandfather had been Old Matthew, the head coachman for many years. The boy's father had been lost at sea in one of the famous Falmouth packet ships, so it had seemed only natural that the name should remain, even though he must be over forty by now.
Strange that they should have sighted a homeward-bound packet while they had been beating up the Channel to Plymouth. Long enough to close with the other vessel, and pass a message to her master.
Ferguson would have seen to the rest. Young Matthew had been in Plymouth waiting for him when he had left Unrivalled. For ten days… He had never been absent from his ship for any such length of time. He had wanted it more than he had realised. Needed it. But his other self had forcibly opposed it.
He thought now of Vice-Admiral Keen. When you were at sea only the ship mattered; it had to be so, for any captain. You tended to believe that everything else would remain the same in your absence, like a familiar landfall, or the face of a friend.
He had realised what was happening as soon as he had gone ashore to make his report to the Flag Officer, Plymouth, at the magnificent Boscawen House, with its sweeping views of sea and coastline.
Furniture 'all anyhow,' as Jago would put it, packing cases and bustling servants, Keen's flag lieutenant with what appeared an armful of lists. He seemed barely able to remember that Unrivalled had anchored that morning; he had had more important matters to deal with, and a new flag officer was arriving the following day.
Keen accepted it. He was appointed to the Nore, the Medway, and a whole new dockyard with facilities for the next generation of ships, and men. It was important, and he had the knowledge that his immediate future was secure. He might even rise to the rank of admiral. It did not seem possible; physically he had changed hardly at all, and only once did an inner disappointment reveal itself.
'Each command their lordships pass my way takes me further and further from the sea. In many ways I envy you, Adam. You'll never know how much.'
His wife Gilia had been there too, and had added her insistence to Keen's on the subject of taking leave from duty while there was still time.
Keen had said, 'You've been at sea almost continuously for years! The longest time you had ashore was when you were a prisoner of the Yankees, and even they couldn't hold you!'
And there was the child. Only a month old, squawking in the arms of a nurse and barely larger than a woollen glove, he had thought.
They had named her Geraldine, after Keen's mother.
When Keen had been called away to deal with something which one of his staff found beyond his abilities, Gilia had spoken with the same candour and sincerity as when Adam had confessed his love for Zenoria.
'He loves the child, of course, Adam.' She had rested one hand on his sleeve, like that other time. 'But it's the navy. He wants a boy, to carry on the tradition he began.'
Adam knew Keen's father had done everything within his power to persuade his son to quit the service, and take up more important work in the City, like himself, or even in the Honourable East India Company.
Then she had said, 'I shall miss this place. So many memories. But, as Val is constantly pointing out, I've travelled with my father almost as much as any sailor!'
Yovell said, 'We're slowing down.' He put his head on one side. Like a wise owl, Adam thought. 'Stopping, in fact.'
He was suddenly alert, the dreams and uncertainties scattered. It had been a long, long drive, with halts from time to time for the horses to rest and water, all of fifty miles or so from the Tamar to this place, on a road somewhere in Cornwall. For much of it they had been out of sight of the Channel: hills, fields, pastures and men working in the sunshine, hardly glancing at the smart carriage with the Bolitho crest on each door, well coated with the dust of travel. They had stopped for a meal at an inn at St Austell, and more notice had been taken of them there. They were an oddly assorted group, he supposed, a sea officer and a large, benevolent figure who might have been almost anything. And the boy, proud, and showing it, of his new single-breasted blue jacket with its gilt buttons, which Adam had obtained from the tailor he occasionally used in Plymouth.
So many memories. He thought of Gilia again and smiled. Like Galbraith's repeated assurances that he would keep good charge of the ship while his captain was away, and the surprise which even he had been unable to conceal when Adam had responded, 'It is my behaviour I care about, not yours, Leigh.'
The carriage quivered to a halt, the leathers creaking in time with the horses stamping on the hard ground. They knew better than anyone; they would be in their stables within the hour.
He heard someone jump down and knew it was Napier. Perhaps his confidence was running out. Like mine.
