Officers and seamen alike removed their hats, while others seemed to lean out and down from their various vantage points to watch each move, hear every word which would make this man their captain. The one man who held the power of life and death, misery and happiness, over every soul aboard.
Adam had removed his hat and tucked it beneath his arm. He took out the familiar roll of parchment and stared unseeingly at the beautiful copperplate script: some one else's words, somebody else's voice reading them.
It was addressed to Adam Bolitho, Esquire, the commission which appointed him to the Athena, willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain in her accordingly…
Some he remembered from other ships. Some he knew almost by heart. Many of the men assembled here today would have heard the same words many times, if they had served long enough.
He cleared his throat, and knew that Stirling was gazing at him with scarcely a blink.
'… hereof, nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer the contrary at your peril.'
Like Unrivalled, and Anemone. And like the little brig which had been his first command, and had been brought back to life by the hard handshake of Athena's sailing master just minutes ago.
Stirling was nodding, but watching some of the assembled hands as if to discover the true feeling of the ship. His ship, for three years.
Troubridge murmured, 'I can take you to your quarters, sir. They are all but ready for use.' He was mentally ticking off his flag lieutenant's ever-present list. 'A cabin servant has been appointed. He served the previous captain.' He frowned as somebody gave a cheer. 'He requested to remain on board.'
Adam turned as the lines of seamen and marines began to break up and separate into groups.
He said, 'An issue of rum would not come amiss, Mr. Stirling.'
Stirling bit his lip. 'I'm not sure that the purser has arranged it, sir.'
The purser. The man who usually counted every coffee bean and biscuit as if it were his own. He could vaguely recall a limp handshake, and an Irish name. It would come back to him.
He said, 'Then tell him, if you please.' He saw a barge full of dockyard workers poling abeam, some of the men giving another cheer as they passed.
A new beginning for the ship. He followed Troubridge aft and beneath the shadow of the poop. A bigger ship, but still he had to duck his head to avoid the first deck head beam.
There was no sentry at the screen door, and the air was heavy with fresh shipboard smells. The cabin seemed larger, unlived in. When he made to open one of the sloping stern windows, there was wet paint on his fingers.
A captain's retreat. He looked at the new black and white checkered deck covering beneath his shoes. Except that Bethune and his staff would be right there, below him. A private ship no longer.
In a day or so Luke Jago would arrive with some of the things which had been taken to Falmouth. He eyed the space near the bench seat across the stern. The chair would be right there… He gazed at the harbour shimmering beyond the thick glass windows. Provided Jago had not changed his mind. Taken his bounty and prize money and swallowed the anchor.
He looked up at a skylight, then deliberately removed his dress coat and hung it from the latch, where it would swing to the harbour's easy motion. Like that day when he had received his orders. When he had been told he was losing Unrivalled. Just like that.
Defiance; anger; he found it was neither.
He said abruptly, 'I would like a shave, and a bath of some sort.'
Troubridge exclaimed, 'I doubt if the ship is quite ready, sir.' The flag lieutenant was never far away. 'I could call away a boat, and have you in the George at Portsmouth Point in no time.'
Adam moved to the opposite side, and the screen across the sleeping cabin.
'Too many ghosts.' He did not explain. 'Find that servant you mentioned, and then…'
Troubridge was opening a cupboard and taking out a finely cut goblet.
He smiled, almost shyly. 'I did arrange a small welcome for you, sir.'
Feet stamped beyond the screen door, and Adam heard a corporal reading out the standing orders to the marine sentry. More stamping, then silence.
He sat on the bench seat and looked around the bare cabin.
'Then you will join me, eh?'
There was a muffled burst of cheering and Troubridge could not contain a grin. 'Ahah. The rum has been issued, sir.'
Adam took a goblet and glanced at the breech of a twelve-pounder which shared his quarters, and would be one of the first in action if this ship was ever called upon to fight.
It was cognac. Probably some of Bethune's.
He stood, and raised the goblet. 'To the ship! '
Troubridge was young but he was quick to learn, and he felt that he knew this captain better than he had expected he would ever do after so brief an acquaintance.
He lifted his own goblet and said simply, 'And to absent friends, sir.'
It was done.
Bryan Ferguson stood by the window of his cramped estate office and watched the horses being manoeuvred toward the carriage in the centre of the stable yard. The sky was a clear, pale blue, the air like ice, but it was likely to remain dry for the journey to Plymouth. Young Matthew and his lads had made a fine show with the carriage, he thought. You could see your face in it; even the harness shone like black glass.
A special day, but he was also saddened by it. He heard Yovell speaking to somebody in the passageway and was suddenly grateful that the portly secretary was coming back here when he returned from Plymouth. From his mission, as he had put it. Yovell was good company, and a great help with the never-ending work connected with the estate, and anyway, Ferguson had told him frankly, was too old for a seagoing existence.
He glanced down at his empty sleeve. He was grateful, something he had not been able to admit before, not even to his beloved Grace. He was the one who was getting too old for this work, the estate, the tenant-farmers and stock holders who knew his shortcomings. Yovell was a kindly soul, but nobody's fool, and he had a mind like quicksilver. And in any case…
He turned as Yovell came in, carrying his heavy coat with its attached cape. He was rarely seen without it, and today he would need it.
'The tailor has gone, Daniel. At long last.'
Yovell studied him gravely. 'I shall deal with him when I'm in Plymouth. I have a few matters to attend to for Captain Adam. You have quite enough to do here.' He counted off points on his plump fingers. 'The Captain's personal baggage has gone ahead.' He smiled gently. 'The chair also. It might take the edge off his new responsibilities. But knowing him as I do, I doubt it.'
Ferguson looked out at the carriage again. The horses were standing peacefully in the traces, harness adjusted, a stable boy giving them a last currying before departure. Local people would see the carriage and its familiar crest, and maybe they would wonder. Not a Bolitho this time; the old grey house was empty again.
He saw Luke Jago crossing the yard and knew he would miss him also. Jago had a strange, blunt way of making friends. A bad enemy if you crossed him, he thought.
Every landsman's idea of the true sailor. In his fine jacket with its gilt buttons, flared neckerchief and nankeen breeches, he would give any one confidence. He thought of John Allday, and the moment when the two coxswains had met for the first time.
Allday was his best friend, and they shared an inseparable past, even though Ferguson 's seagoing life had ended when he had lost his arm in battle. Most people might envy the big, shambling man who had been Sir Richard's coxswain, who had been with him at the end, and had held him as he died. Now Allday was happily married to his pretty Unis, and together they managed a successful inn, The Old Hyperion, over in the village of Fallowfield. They had a little daughter named Kate. Not many Jacks who had stepped ashore had found such satisfaction.
But Ferguson had seen the truth in those blue, honest eyes which could rarely hide a secret.
Allday envied Jago, because of the other life which had been taken away.
Jago pushed noisily through the door and dropped his chest on the floor.
Time to shove off, then?' He nodded to Yovell. 'Thanks for finding a place to lay my head.'
