He did not need to hear it from the lieutenant. Captain Bolitho was being recalled. Galbraith could not determine if he was relieved or resentful.
He followed the other officer beneath the poop. Everything was larger than life. And there was no sense of movement, as if the great ship were hard aground. He was reminded suddenly of Varlo: he had been somebody's flag lieutenant before he had joined Unrivalled, replacing the dead Lieutenant Massie.
Wounds healed quickly under such circumstances. It was only a short time ago, and yet he could scarcely recall what Massie had looked like, how he had sounded. The unwritten rule. His name was never mentioned, either.
He signed for the sealed orders, observed by a small, darting man who must be the clerk or secretary to someone higher. No one asked him to be seated.
The flag lieutenant said, 'That seems in order, Mr, er, Galbraith.' He looked up, startled, as a shadow fell across the door.
The newcomer was tall, well-built, and dressed in what appeared to be a towelling robe, of the kind Galbraith had seen worn by wealthy people at a local spa. His large feet were bare, and he had left wet impressions across the perfect deck covering.
He could only be the legendary admiral. Nobody else would dare.
He held out a big hand and said abruptly, 'Exmouth. You're from Unrivalled, I believe.' He smiled, easing out the lines and wrinkles. A sailor's face. 'Glad to have you with me. I read the report your captain left with Valentine Keen. I found it inspiring. Could make all the difference when I am allowed to proceed with matters.' He looked piercingly at his aide, who was open-mouthed at this casual display of informality. 'A glass of something would not be unappreciated!'
Galbraith said, 'I had better call my boat, my lord.'
The admiral nodded gravely. 'It takes some getting used to, believe me.'
He waited for the flag lieutenant to scuttle away and added, 'Gunnery, that will prove and win the day. If anything will.' His eyes were distant. 'All these ships at my command. But Unrivalled is the only one which was there.'
Galbraith felt the tension drain from his muscles. So it was Algiers. He was surprised to discover that he was heartened by the confirmation. The land had nothing to offer anymore.
The admiral regarded him steadily. 'I shall be glad to have Captain Bolitho in the van.' Ills voice softened. 'I knew his uncle. Great days.' He patted Galbraith's arm. 'Best not to dwell on old times, but great they were. And he was a fine man.' His eyes hardened as the lieutenant returned with some wine.
'You will stay and take a glass with me?' Again, the unexpected smile. 'It is an order.'
The admiral waited, the glass delicate in strong fingers. 'Yours, Mr Galbraith.'
Galbraith presented his own glass and said quietly, 'Absent friends, my lord.'
Their eyes met.
'Well said.'
Later, when Galbraith waited for the gig to be signalled alongside, he thought of that encounter with the admiral. It would be all over the flagship within the hour, about the lieutenant who had joined Lord Exmouth for a glass of wine. Like old shipmates.
And tomorrow Captain Bolitho would receive his recall. Glad or sorry, which would he he?
He considered his own feelings. The bitterness was gone.
The old glebe house was exactly as he remembered it: he had thought of little else since his visit. And yet there seemed so much more to see and hear; the hedgerows along the lane were alive with movement, birds, and other furtive sounds of the countrv-side. Some jackdaws watched his approach, as if to time the exact moment when they would all take to the air in noisy unison, before returning after he had ridden a few yards. And wild roses. He reached down and plucked one, remembering that other time, the only time…
The same stable boy hurried to greet him and waited as Adam swung himself down from the saddle.
There were flowers here too, foxgloves, almost wild in the sprawling garden. A place of memories, he thought, where time had come to a halt.
The boy said, 'Th' master's with a gentleman, zur.' His eyes were fixed on the old sword at Adam's hip. Young though he was, he probably knew of the Bolitho family, the sailors commemorated in the church of King Charles the Martyr. Where he had stood beside Catherine at the memorial service, and Galbraith had asked to attend with him. It had been their first true moment of intimacy and understanding, not merely as captain and first lieutenant, but as men.
The dour-faced servant had arrived, and said unhelpfully, 'You're a piece early, Captain. Sir Gregory's engaged at the moment.'
The stable boy, anxious not to offend, and with the prospect of another coin or two glimmering in his mind, said, 'I told 'n.' He pointed to a walled garden. 'You could look at th' bees, zur?'
Adam patted the horse's flank. He must have ridden harder than he had realised. Nervous? Anxious? What is the matter with me?
He had hardly touched his breakfast, and he had felt Ferguson 's eyes on him as he had waited for Lukey to be brought from the stables. He had even tried to concern himself with Unrivalled, and what might lie ahead when the final orders were settled. He had gone to the room and looked at his uncle's portrait again. Could almost hear his voice. Trust the professionals in your ship. You lead, they'll not let you down.
He had heard him say that several times. The professionals. The warrant officers, and the time-serving men like Sullivan, the sharpest lookout he had ever known, and Partridge, the bluff, heavy-handed boatswain. And Cristie, with a lifetime's experience of currents and tides, shoals and stars. He knew them, and had been with them in calm and storm, broadside and the grim aftermath.
The servant took his silence for annoyance, and said almost grudgingly, 'I can tell you the instant Sir Gregory is ready, sir.' He shuffled away. Maybe he had been with the old house when Montagu had bought it…
Adam walked slowly along a winding path, and found himself listening for the sound of a harp. He tried again to shrug it off. Like a bumbling midshipman… But it would not release him.
He thought about this day, his birthday. Nancy would be coming to the house. There would be a few friends, Grace Ferguson would supervise the food and wine, and would probably cry a little. And perhaps John Allday would come across from Fallowfield on the Helford River. To celebrate, or to mourn? There was only one would have made it complete.
He looked up and saw her coming towards him. She was dressed from neck to toe in pale grey, a gown so fine that it seemed to float around her body. She carried an armful of yellow roses, and he noticed that her skin had been browned by the sun, that her throat was hare, and the gown had almost slipped from one shoulder.
She had stopped on this same path, her gown catching at other flowers Adam neither saw nor recognised.
Above all, he knew she was about to turn and retrace her steps. If need be, run, to avoid the inevitable contact.
His hat was in his hand although he had not moved. He bowed his head, clumsy and awkward, words sticking in his throat, afraid that when he raised his eyes she would be gone.
'I beg your pardon. I did not wish to disturb you.' He dared to look at her. 'I arrived too early, it seems.'
He saw one hand detach itself from the flowers and rise to adjust the gown across her bare shoulder. And all the while she was looking at him. Into him, with neither smile nor recognition.
Her eyes were very dark, as he remembered them. In a single glance, but it was the same. He had not recalled her hair, other than that it was also dark, almost black in the dusty sunshine. But much longer, waist-length, perhaps more.
He said, 'It was good of Sir Gregory to make the time for me. My aunt…'
She continued along the path but then stopped again, a few feet away.
She said, 'He wanted to do it.' She gave what might have been a shrug. 'Otherwise you would not be here.'
Her voice was soft, but strong, cultured, not a local girl. Assured, as she would be when composing herself for a painting. And yet, there was something else. He heard Montagu's voice. She was badly burt also. What had he been trying to say?
She said, 'I must leave you, Captain Bolitho.' She lingered over his name, testing it as Montagu would assess the quality of a new canvas.
In a moment he would step aside, and she would not look back.
