clank of the capstan pawls.
He thought of the men who had come with Yovell to sign on. How were they now?
And Yovell himself. He had settled down as if he had never left the sea. He was sharing a tiny cabin space which also served as a store for the purser's records with Ritzen, the purser's assistant, a Dutchman who had played an unlikely but vital part in discovering the role and purpose of Triton in that last battle. Adam sensed that Yovell had needed to get away from his hardwon security, if only to hold on to something far more precious.
Napier said, 'Can I come up with you, sir?'
Adam smiled. 'Regrets?'
The youth thought about it, his face serious. 'My place, sir.'
They walked through the screen door, where the marine sentry was already stiffly at attention, and probably wishing he was on deck with his mates.
Adam touched his hat to the figures by the quarterdeck rail and looked at the slowly revolving capstan; its twin would be keeping time below decks. The fiddle was going, the shantyman beating time with his foot, his voice all but lost in the creak and rattle of blocks and rigging.
They were all here, Cristie with his master's mates, Galbraith by the rail, and young Bellairs at the foot of the towering mainmast. Here the marines, their coats very bright in the hazy light, waited with the afterguard to control the mizzen sheets and braces. The simplest mast in the ship, all they were any use for, as the old Jacks proclaimed. And right forward, one arm outstretched and dwarfed by the beautiful figurehead, was the new lieutenant, Varlo, watching the jerk of the incoming cable.
And young Midshipman Cousens with the big signals telescope turned toward the land. He was Bellairs' successor, and the next obvious candidate for promotion when the opportunity offered itself. If he was lucky.
Adam nodded to Galbraith. 'The wind's steady. Stand by.' He even recalled his own words that day before the fight. Trust me. So many times.
Another midshipman's voice. That was Martyns, the one who had been with Jago in the gig.
Anchor's hove short, sir!' Repeating Varlo's call from the beakhead, his voice broke in a shrill squeak.
Adam saw one of the helmsmen glance away from the flapping masthead pendant just long enough to grin at his companion.
'Stand by, the capstan!'
More calls and running feet. 'Loose th' heads'ls!'
Adam tensed. This was the moment.
'Hands aloft and loose tops'ls.!'
The cable was coming home, much faster now. Or was it his heart? He looked toward the shore, hardly another sail moving. But many eyes would be watching today. Some relieved, others already feeling the ache of separation.
He thought of the crippled seaman who had served with him in Anemone, the ship which had begun so much, and had opened the way for him. A shattered man, who lived from day to day with his woman, two lost souls, each needing the other.
They would be there today.
Men scurried past him, one pausing to stare at him. The captain. What's he like?
The yell from forward. 4nchors aweigh, sir!'
He felt the deck stagger, and dashed spray from his face as the ship appeared to ride her bowsprit up and over the timeless barrier of St Michael's Mount.
Small details stood out. Cristie's hand gesturing at an extra man to throw his weight on the wheel as the helm went down. Hoarse cries from overhead as the sails broke free, then filled and bellied out to the wind. Blocks squeaking, men hauling on the braces to drag the great yards round still further, to capture the wind, so that the rudder-head sounded like a drumbeat.
'Steady she goes!'
Adam looked again. That would be Newlyn village over there as Unrivalled continued to pivot round, but it was lost in haze and drifting spray.
'Sou'-west by south, sir!'
Galbraith, his hands cupped to make his voice carry. 'More men on the weather forebrace, Mr Partridge! Lively there!'
Adam gripped the quarterdeck ladder rail, reminded of the night Napier had come to tell him of the girl who was lying just there.
And what had happened later, in Malta… A dangerous madness, potentially no less lethal than a teak splinter, or the shots which had cut down so many over the months… the years.
He pushed away from the rail and walked stiffly up to the weather side. tic knew Jago was watching him, standing near the signals party in case he was needed, but careful not to show it. Perhaps that was his strength…
He said, 'Steer sou'-west until we weather the headland, Mr Cristie!' and saw his approval.
To Galbraith he shouted, 'We'll get the fore and main courses on her directly!'
The ship heeled still further, some bare feet sliding, a few men sprawling, too concerned with watching the land which was already fading away.
There were kicks and curses too. Leadership and knowledge would follow.
'Steady she goes, sir! Full an' bye.'
He considered the calculations he had made and compared with the taciturn sailing master.
With a pause at Funchal, Unrivalled could complete her passage to the Windward Coast in about a month. Less.
He looked up as more shouts came from the maintop.
Galbraith was peering aloft also, but seemed satisfied. Drill, drill and more drill; there were no passengers in a King's ship.
Time to train and to prepare. Adam shaded his eyes and stared across the quarter, but the land was just a blurred, misshapen barrier.
He touched the locket beneath his sodden shirt.
And time to forget.
He was free.
3. To Serve This Ship
LIEUTENANT Leigh Galbraith paused at the foot of the companion ladder and clung momentarily to the handrails, gauging the mood and energy of the ship and the deck which awaited him. It was four in the morning, or very soon would be, but time seemed to have lost all meaning. Even during the middle watch he had been summoned from his cabin in response to the call for all hands. To shorten sail yet again, the sea a wilderness of leaping spectres, and waves surging along the hull like a tide race.
His whole body ached, and he could not remember being dry and warm. Five days of it, not long when you considered what they had already achieved in this ship. He smiled bitterly, hearing his captain's words. That was then.
Even the handrail was clammy, and his stomach contracted as he heard somebody retching uncontrollably.
He climbed the rest of the ladder and waited for the wind to greet him. A few moments more while his eyes grew accustomed to it: the wet, huddled shapes of the watchkeepers, the three helmsmen joined like statuary as they clung to the big double wheel, eyes seen occasionally in the compass light as they peered aloft at the iron-hard canvas, tightly reefed though it was, fighting their own war with sea and rudder.
Varlo was waiting for him, slim figure angled to the deck as if nothing could shift him.
Galbraith listened to his report, although the chart had been engraved on his mind even in the discomfort of his swaying cot, the boom of the sea alongside.
Nine hundred miles since they had tacked clear of Mounts Bay. It felt ten times that.
