me.' He smiled faintly. 'As I believe I once was.'
Yovell said, 'The surgeon is a good man, sir.'
'I am relying on it.' He stood up, his hand running over the back of the chair. He could see them all in his mind. As he would describe them to her.
The men you lead.
The door opened and Jago stepped into the cabin.
'The sail is changin' tack, sir. A frigate. One of ours.'
He recognised the strain and was angered by it. Any captain could decide if you lived or died. But this one cared. 'Sullivan is at the main, sir.'
Yovell adjusted his spectacles. He sensed the unlikely bond between them, although he did not fully understand it, yet. A man who scorned authority, and had been quick to say so. But one who had earned respect by giving his hand to Adam Bolitho. Yovell was not a seafarer, but he had noticed that when Jago entered the sentry had not even challenged him.
Adam said, 'I'll come up presently.' Their eyes met. 'Call me.'
He looked around the cabin again, trying to find the words to describe it to her in his mind. But the other voice intruded.
I want you in the van.
It had already been decided.
Midshipman Deighton wedged his book beneath one arm and levelled the telescope again. 'She's Halcyon, twenty-eight, Captain Robert Christie, sir!' He peered quickly at the others, and seemed startled by the authority in his own voice.
Adam folded his arms and watched the other frigate, almost bows-on now, her sails in disarray as she changed tack to converge on Unrivalled.
Even now he could feel the shiver of memory, of instant recognition. As if he had known.
Was it only a year or so since they had last met? When Admiral Lord Rhodes had ordered Halcyon to chase and attack the big frigate Triton, the day so many faces had been wiped away. Outranged and outgunned, Halcyon had stood no chance, and Rhodes must have known it. But he had been so eager to prevent Unrivalled from giving chase that he had ordered her to remain on station. Adam had ignored the signal, and they had won the day. When Martinez, the Dey's agent and advisor, had died, shot down by Corporal Bloxham as he had been about to fire. The day young Napier had taken the great splinter in his leg.
And yet despite the pain and the hate, the rejoicing and the sadness, one picture always stood out in his mind. He glanced at Galbraith's strong profile; he would recall it, too. They had swept past the mauled Halcyon and he had seen her destruction, the thin threads of scarlet running from her scuppers, as if the ship were bleeding to death. Young Deighton had been there also. And he had heard Galbraith's voice, harsh with emotion. 'They're cheering! Cheering us!'
Somehow Halcyon had survived, and her captain with her; James Tyacke had spoken of him when they had met in Freetown. He felt his lips crack into a smile. That seemed so long ago. Tyacke had been a lieutenant in the Majestic at the Battle of the Nile, and Christie had been a young midshipman. He thought of the medal now in his strongbox. The Nile. It had affected so many in this naval family. The Happy Few… Where Tyacke had had half his face blasted away. Just before it had happened, he had saved that young midshipman from breaking. When Christie had become a man. A better nzan, he had later said to Sir Richard. He wiped his mouth with his hand. Less than two years ago, in this same Mediterranean Sea.
'heave-to, if you please.' He saw Galbraith's eyes. He had remembered.
Deighton called, 'Ylave despatches on board, sir!'
He could almost feel the tension of those around and closest to him dissipate. The waiting and uncertainty were in the past. Jack always knew…
Cristie muttered, 'Not wasting any time, is he?'
Unrivalled came round easily, her sails all aback, that same Corporal Bloxham, now a sergeant, shouting at some marines to form up at the entry port. The deck was still rising and falling heavily while the ship hove-to, so that they swayed in an untidy dance until they found their feet again.
Some of the seamen were grinning broadly. Sailor and 'bullock' would never really mix.
Adam watched the frigate's gig pulling strongly across the dark blue water, a cocked hat in the sternsheets. Christie was coming in person.
Galbraith was observing Halcyon through a telescope. For some reason, it made him feel like an intruder. Even without the glass he had seen the scarred and blistered paintwork, her figurehead still unrepaired and partly shot away. He lowered the glass. Battered and hard-worked, with obviously little time spent in harbour, but a ship any man would give his right arm to call his own.
The calls trilled and Adam saw Christie climbing from his boat. Tall, a keen, intelligent face; probably posted a year or so after me. The sort of man who would catch any woman's eye. The frigate captain.
But when he raised his hat to the guard and quarterdeck Adam saw the legacy of that terrible day.
Above either ear his hair was not merely greying, it was white, as if it had been dyed. The touch of war.
The meeting in Unrivalled was brief, Adam sensing both the urgency and the relief of this rendezvous.
One of the wardroom messmen served refreshments, and he was surprised that Christie chose rum.
He said, 'My supplies are all in chaos. His lordship has kept us busy indeed. I am glad the muddled thinking is over and done with.'
Adam waited while Yovell unfastened the envelope, and looked up sharply at his visitor as Christie said, 'Lord Exmouth sent word to the Dey. Surrender all the Christian slaves, and disband the fleet of renegades-pirates, I'd call them-or defeat is inevitable.' He smiled for the first time, and Adam could see him as Tyacke's midshipman at the Nile. 'Needless to say, it was ignored. The emissary was damned lucky to leave alive!'
Adam glanced at the messman, face very intent, ears taking full note of everything that was being said.
He thought of Napier. The sea was calm enough, for the moment. O'Beirne might take the opportunity to extract that one, dangerous splinter.
'Lord Exmouth is joined by a Dutch squadron, six good ships to all accounts. But between ourselves, I'd prefer to act without anyone else becoming involved.'
Adam recalled Jago making much the same remark. 'Let the meneers stay away an' smoke their own pipes.' The war was over. The mistrust was not.
He stood up and walked to the stern windows, feeling the jerk and tremble of the big rudder. Ready to go. To obey.
He heard himself say, 'The day after tomorrow, then.' August twenty-seventh. Exactly a month since Bellairs had given him her note. Here.
Christie had his hat in his hand, and his glass stood empty. 'I must leave. Lord Exmouth is all in haste. He insisted you were to be found without delay.'
Adam followed him to the door. The last in the line. And the first to lead.
'You have a fine ship, Captain Bolitho.' But there was no envy.
Adam said, 'After this, perhaps you may return to England.'
Christie faced him; the messman and the rigid marine sentry meant nothing. They could have been quite alone.
'England has nothing to offer me. They would take my ship from me. Without her…' He broke off, and said almost abruptly, 'I could ask for no better ship or captain in the van.' He shook Adam's hand, lingering over it. 'If you meet Captain Tyacke again…' He could not continue.
But when the marine guard and side party stood in swaying ranks to show respect, one ship to another, they saw only the two captains.
Galbraith waited for the gig to bear off from the side and watched some of his own seamen's eyes, critical or impressed as their station dictated. It was something no landsman would ever understand, he thought.
He looked up at the men aloft, and standing loosely by braces and halliards. Waiting for the next order. Their captain would tell them, but everybody from the cook's slush-monkey to the elegant captain of Royal Marines would already know. And soon, sooner rather than later, these guns would be in action again. In earnest and without mercy.
He glanced towards Lieutenant Varlo, who was up by the foremast with Rist, the master's mate.
