He said, 'I have a letter for you. I fear it has taken its time finding its way to Falmouth.'
Adam took it, seeing the marks and the official signatures. From Catherine.
'I thought to send it across by the boat, but I judged it best to see you first.'
Adam turned the letter over in his hands. She hadn't forgotten.
Jago was still standing by the door, arms folded, face expressionless. Yovell regarded him sternly. 'This fellow said I should take cover in here, better for one of my age, indeed!'
Jago grinned. 'No disrespect, sir!'
Adam turned, angered by the interruption. Galbraith was shouting to his men, and there were other voices, loud and excited.
Jago said patiently, 'I was about to say, Cap'n. We seem to have gathered some recruits. Volunteers!'
Yovell was watching him, his eyes both warm and sad. 'I meant no harm. But these men came across in the packet from Falmouth. With me.'
'Do I know any of them?'
'Perhaps not. All of them served under Sir Richard.'
'My God.' Adam looked past him, knowing, understanding what it must have cost Yovell, a man closer to his uncle than almost any one.
And now there was a letter from the woman who had loved him.
He said, 'I shall go out to them,' and walked blindly across the familiar cobbles. Like part of a dream. The lifeline.
Yovell polished his spectacles with a handkerchief and remarked, 'It seemed the thing to do, you see. The letter gave me the idea.' He didn't add that Allday had known nothing about it.
Adam came back, inexplicably disturbed and moved. Hard hands reaching out as he had passed among them, tattoos and weathered faces, every one a prime seaman.
It was as if he had known all of them, but in his heart he knew that they had seen and heard another Bolitho when he had spoken to them.
He said quietly, 'That was a fine thing you did.' And to Jago, 'Gig ready?'
Jago nodded. 'Say the word, sir.'
Adam looked at the round-shouldered man who, in his own quiet way, had changed everything.
'Will you stay in Penzance a while?'
Yovell shrugged, and seemed almost apologetic.
'I have some things with me, sir. I had heard that you lost your clerk recently, so I thought I would offer my services until something better presents itself.' He was smiling, but there was no doubt of his sincerity. His need.
'Are you sure, man? She's no ship of the line, you know!'
Yovell said severely, 'I was Sir Richard's clerk before becoming his secretary. I can adapt, even for one of my age.'
Jago picked up the newcomer's chest and followed them out into the keen air. lie had seen his captain's face when those men had crowded around him, as if it was the start of some big and glorious venture, just as he had seen it in that church nearby.
He was reminded of the handshake which, for him, had decided things. And he was glad of it.
Adam rested his hand on the breech of one of the eighteenpounders which shared his quarters and sensed the movement under his palm. Something he had never grown used to, never truly accepted, that a ship was alive and responding in her own way.
He shook his head, dismissing the notion, and glanced around the cabin. Young Napier had been busy; there was nothing lying about, everything was in its place.
How many in Unrivalled's company were feeling regret and anxiety, he wondered. It was easy to laugh it off, for the old hands to brag about it after a few tots of rum on their messdecks. But that was then. Unrivalled was ready to leave. Alive.
The wind had backed a little, which might allow some of the new men time to become accustomed to the complications of getting under way. You never forgot the first time. Everyone else seemed to know exactly what was expected of him.
He heard the shrill of a call; the ship was restless, straining at her cable, her fully laden hull matched against the men labouring at the capstan bars. Yes, there would be a few faint hearts on this cold December forenoon.
He stood away from the gun as if he had heard someone speak, and patted his worn, seagoing coat to make certain he had everything he needed, and glanced at the small desk where he kept his personal log book. He had placed Catherine's letter carefully between its pages to press out the wear and tear of its journey.
My dear Adam. He could hear her voice, had tried to picture her writing it. How she felt, what she was doing. How she looked.
She had mentioned George Avery, and had thanked him for writing to her of his death. She had touched only briefly on its effect on Sillitoe, Avery's uncle.
But it was clear enough; she was with Sillitoe. She had spoken of his strength, his protection, and that she was accompanying him on some business venture.
Adam was still surprised by his own foolishness, his naivete. After what she had endured, the grief and the enmity, it was a wonder she had written at all.
He half-listened to the sudden thud of feet overhead, the shouts as a petty officer chased some confused newcomer to his right station. They would learn. They had to.
fie recalled the dry wording of his final orders.
You are to repair in the first instance to Freetown, Sierra Leone, and avail yourself ' of the latest intelligence concerning the forts and settlements on that coast. You will reasonably assist the senior officer of the patrolling squadron in whatever way you consider conforms with these said orders.
But on passage Unrivalled would call into Funchal, Madeira, to replenish stores, and perhaps make more sense out of such vague instructions.
The slave trade was a fact, although banned officially by Britain. A felony, to the delight of the antislavery movement in Parliament and elsewhere.
A show of strength, then. He wondered how Galbraith and the others regarded it. They were safe, lucky to be employed; they had seen that for themselves in Plymouth and Penzance.
For the practical ones, like Cristie, the master, it was all a matter of sea-miles logged, favourable winds and faith in the stars. To Tregillis the purser, it was food, drink, and a minimum of waste for every one of those miles, with enough left over for emergencies.
He plucked at his shirt and felt the locket against his skin. The bare throat and shoulders, the high cheekbones… it was over because it had never begun. Nor would it. They might never meet again. Perhaps she only truly existed in this locket.
Napier came in from the sleeping quarters, careful, he noticed, to walk lightly on the restless deck.
He could see it now. The boy on Triton's deck, falling with a jagged splinter deep in his thigh like some obscene dart. Triton was like many Dutch vessels; her builders had used a lot of teak, something hated by English sailors. The splinters were known to poison and cause gangrene to spread at an alarming rate. Even O'Beirne had been troubled about it, and had wanted to put the boy ashore at Gibraltar where he might have received better attention.
Napier had insisted that he wanted to stay with the ship. He had suffered for it, and would carry the scars of O'Beirne's surgery until his dying day.
O'Beirne had said severely, 'You'll always have a limp, my boy!'
Napier had been equally stubborn. And he seemed to be overcoming his limp.
Adam had written to the boy's widowed mother. She should be proud of the child she had allowed to be signed on without, it seemed, much hesitation.
He touched the locket again and carefully released it. Catherine had sent no address. It was as if she simply needed him to know that she was there. Like the day at the memorial service at Falmouth, when Galbraith had asked to join him.
He looked at Napier. 'It's time.' He had heard the muffled chimes of eight bells, and beyond it the slow, regular
