'What do you think happened to Midshipman Sandell?'
'Lucas, the maintopman accused of threatening him, denies all knowledge, sir. And in any case he was in the care of the ship's corporal, in irons during that watch.' He added bitterly, 'My watch!'
Adam released his grip and stared at the towering Rock. There was mist or low cloud around the summit; Cristie had said it might promise a wind for the return passage.
Varlo seemed to be enjoying his investigation, had even made a sketch showing where every man would or should have been stationed in what he had calculated was the last half hour of Sandell's life. At the second eighteenpounder on the starboard side he had discovered that two halls were missing from the shot garland. Enough to carry a body swiftly down before the keel had had time to pass over it. And up forward, so close to the lively bow wave, it would hardly make a sound.
Sandell had had the makings of a tyrant, given the opportunity. But it could have been anybody.
You never spoke of it, but it was always there. When you realised that if the worst happened and you were sailing alone, only the afterguard and the thin line of marines stood between a captain and mutiny.
He saw Jago at the top of the ladder, his dark features expressionless. Waiting.
'I want both counts of punishment to be stood down. One man was drunk, and you know from experience that flogging has never yet cured a drunkard. As for Lucas, he is a good hand. Remember how he saved two raw landmen from falling to the deck when we first commissioned? A man of spirit and courage, and I'll not see him broken without proper evidence.'
'Sandell's people are quite important, I believe, sir?'
Adam was looking at the Frobisher again. 'They shall have the truth, Leigh. When I know it.'
He walked to the rail and joined his coxswain.
'Man the side! Attention on the upper deck!'
Rist, master's mate, stood with the others while the calls trilled and the captain went quickly down the side into his gig.
He said, 'You reckon Mr Sandell's gone to the sharks?'
Cristie overheard and said calmly, 'If I was a shark I'd throw the little bastard right back at us!'
Rist forced a smile, but turned away as the calls shrilled once more and work recommenced.
He thought about it again; he had done little else since it had happened. It would soon be forgotten, and as everybody knew but would not say, Midshipman Sandell with his arrogance and secretive cruelty was no loss to anyone. Think of it, man. The fleet was growing again, you could see that for yourself at Plymouth, and here beneath the Rock there were more craft than on their last visit. The real cutting down was over. For now, anyway. Rist was not young, but young enough for promotion if it was offered or fell his way. To sailing master like old Cristie, or maybe to a command of his own, no matter how small, just given the time and the chance.
He watched the first lieutenant speaking to Partridge, the boatswain. He liked and respected Galbraith, trusted him also.
He faced it for the hundredth time. How long would that last if he revealed that he had witnessed the murder?
He had to go down to the chart room. It was no use just going over it again. He felt the fine new spyglass the youth Ede had made for him. Put yourself first. But it would not go away.
Luke Jago perched his buttocks against a massive stone bollard and picked his teeth with a piece of whalebone. The stone was still warm, and yet looking across the dark, heaving water there were already lights showing on some of the ships, like fireflies at his home in Dover. What he could still remember of it.
The gig's crew was close by, where he could keep a weather eye open for some lastminute chancer, although he had to admit they had become a fairly reliable boat's crew. He heard someone kicking stones into the water. Midshipman Deighton, doing his share on this duty. A 'young gentleman,' and one day he would be a lieutenant, and maybe another jumped-up slave driver. But he had to admit that he liked him, shared something which even his keen mind could not define or accept. Always ready to listen and learn, never threw his weight about even with the most junior hands, but it went deeper than that. Like the one most important thing which had brought them together, the fact that Jago had been there when Deighton's father had died. Shot down by one of his own men, although nobody ever spoke of it. Not even the captain.
He thought of the missing midshipman. Sandell. He smiled grimly. Sandell, as he had always insisted. Nobody spoke much about that, either. Deighton was affected by it, although he had never liked the other midshipman. It was like a presence moving between decks.
Captain Bolitho had been ashore for most of the day, but had sent word by messenger that the gig would not be needed. Until now.
He watched the passing throng of people; it was always the same at the Rock. It was funny when you thought about it. A few years back and you could imagine the Dons, just over the water at Algeiras, waiting to spy, on ships arriving and leaving here, ready to send fast horsemen with the news, where from? or where hound? The enemy. Now there were ships of a dozen flags at anchor here. He could recall all too easily when there was only one flag. The rest were the foe.
But they were not making much of a secret of their presence here; he had heard the first lieutenant say as much to young Bellairs. Why Unrivalled? Any fast schooner or courier brig could have done it. They did it every day somewhere or other.
He hid a smile in the dying sunlight.
Two sailors from another vessel had looked at the gig, and had asked what was their ship?
When he had told them, one had exclaimed, 'That's Captain Bolitho's ship, matey!'
Jago had been forced to give in to a feeling of pride, which before would have been laughable.
Neither of those two Jacks had ever laid eyes on the captain. But the name was enough.
Deighton stood up and brushed his white trousers. 'The captain's coming.'
Jago pushed himself away from the bollard and spat the whalebone into the water. Must be getting old. Deighton had seen him first.
He could sense the impatience, anger even, as the captain stepped down into the nodding boat.
Jago gauged the mood. Took a chance.
'We sailin' again, sir?'
He saw the upturned face, the dark eyes framed by the hair, the familiar cocked hat. He had gone too far this time.
But Adam said quietly, 'We are so, my friend. In Falmouth I heard of an errand boy who rose to be a rich and powerful man. Now you can see a captain who has become an errand boy!'
The boat's crew shifted on their thwarts, sharing it, some without understanding. Midshipman Deighton rested one hand on the tiller to lean forward and listen. So very different, yet these two men had filled his life when he had believed himself to be alone.
He remembered the day he had met Captain Bolitho for the first time. He had been sympathetic, but not out of mere duty, as his father would have reminded him. Like a friend. Someone who had understood what he was going through.
'Cast off! Bear off forrard!' His voice confident and strong.
As the gig pulled away into the lengthening shadows, Midshipman Richard Deighton would have changed roles with no one.
Jago smiled and settled back to watch the regular rise and fall of the blades.
Once, he saw the captain turn to look at the big hulk he had seen on their arrival. The last time had been when Admiral Lord Rhodes had ordered Unrivalled to stand fast, to discontinue the chase of the renegade frigate, and this captain had ignored the signal. And together they had won the day.
But in his heart Jago knew he was seeing the moored hulk and her empty gun ports as she had once been, as his uncle's flagship.
He saw him remove his hat and hold it against his breast, and was surprised that it touched him so deeply.
And yet, beyond even that, he felt something else. Like a warning.
It was the scent of danger.
Two days out of Gibraltar, Unrivalled was heading north again after standing well clear of Cape St Vincent to find more sea room. As was expected, Cristie's prophecy about the wind had proved true. Within an hour of leaving
