small drummers and fifers; they had been drilling when he had returned aboard. He walked aft to the windows and rested his palms on the sill; it was warm from the deceptive sunlight. Yesterday. Was it only that? The ship had swung still further to her anchor, but he could imagine the road, the sloping hillside, the Tamar. He thought of those last minutes. Seconds. The final touch.
And tomorrow, or a few days at the most, this ship would weigh and put to sea, like all those other times. But so different.
'I'd better get ready, Bowles.' He wondered how Bethune was feeling about this day. No regrets? No doubts?
He heard the sentry tap his musket on the grating outside the screen door.
'Captain's cox'n, sir! '
Jago was exercising his privilege of coming and going as he chose, no doubt to voice his resentment that Athena'?' gig, his gig, was not being used today to collect the vice-admiral.
If we 'ad our own barge, I'd have 'em in shape in a week, sir!
It was the closest he would come to pride.
Jago stepped through the door, his hat in one hand, his tanned features unable to contain a grin.
'Visitor, sir.' He stepped briskly to one side. 'Special visitor! '
They stood facing one another, the captain in his shirtsleeves, with dishevelled hair, and the young midshipman, very erect, but all confidence gone now that his determination had deserted him.
'Good God, David, it is you! Come over here and let me look at you! '
Napier said, 'We anchored this morning, sir.' He gestured to the stern windows. 'The lower anchorage. I asked for permission…' His voice trailed away as Adam seized him by the shoulders and exclaimed, 'You'll never know…' He saw the gleaming midshipman's dirk. 'It suits you, David.' He shook him gently. 'It does indeed suit you! '
Napier nodded, his eyes very serious. 'For my fifteenth birthday. You remembered. I had no idea.'
Adam walked with him to the stern windows, his arm around his shoulders.
'Is everything all right, David? The ship? Everything?'
The youth turned and looked up at him. No words, just the look, then he said, 'I have settled in, ' and forced a smile. 'The captain remembers my name now.' He could not keep it up. 'I miss looking after you, sir.'
Jago said, 'I think the boat is waitin', sir.'
'I'll see you over the side, David.'
Napier shook his head. 'No, sir. You know what they would say. Favouritism.'
'So my uncle taught me.' They stood by the open door, Jago, Bowles, the ship, another world.
Adam said, 'If ever you need anything, write to me. One day we'll serve together again.'
Napier looked slowly around the great cabin, as if he wanted to forget nothing.
Jago cleared his throat. 'I'll take you on deck, Mister Napier, sir! '
But this time it did not work.
Bowles watched it all in silence. No matter what task they were called upon to perform, and how this unknown captain would deal with it, he knew that this was the man he would always see and hear.
He realized that the door was closed, and that his captain was by the desk again, fastening his shirt.
He said, 'A fine young man, sir.'
Adam did not hear him. It had been like seeing himself.
The admiral's barge pulled purposefully between the anchored ships, the oars rising and falling like polished bones. If any other boats or small craft appeared to be on a converging course, or about to cross her path, the sharp eyed lieutenant who remained standing beside the coxswain would merely raise one hand in the air, and the tiller would stay where it was.
Seated in the stern sheets Lieutenant Francis Troubridge felt the excitement running through him, and it was all he could do to contain it, sitting as he was within a few feet of his superior. It was like nothing he had experienced before. Even the barge crew was smartly turned out, matching shirts and tarred hats, lying back on their looms, eyes astern, but never on the admiral.
Occasionally they swept past a boat which had stopped to allow them to pass unimpeded. All oars tossed, an officer standing, hat raised in salute. Some of the local craft carrying passengers or working parties from the docks also showed their respect: cheers echoed across the choppy water, and aboard one harbour boat women waved scarves and aprons, their voices lost in the timed creak of oars.
Troubridge glanced covertly at Bethune. Not to be in an office or visiting some large man-of-war in one port or another, but at sea. What he had always wanted, and this time with the status and privilege of being the admiral's personal aide.
Bethune was sitting very upright on a cushion, one foot quietly tapping on the bottom boards, his handsome profile completely at ease, a slight smile never far away whenever another boat stood clear to allow the barge to pass.
That was something Troubridge had soon learned about his admiral. Unlike so many he had seen at the Admiralty or on ceremonial occasions, he had never allowed himself to be visibly drunk. He had seen the port admiral stagger as he had waited on the stone stairs, while Bethune stepped almost casually into the waiting barge. Self-discipline, or something even stronger.
'Ah, there she is! ' Bethune had pulled out his beautiful watch. 'Right on time, eh, Flags?'
Troubridge flushed. He had intended to point out Athena for the admiral's benefit. Bethune had beaten him to it.
'She looks well, Sir Graham.' He saw the slight smile again. Like a rebuke.
Athena seemed to tower over them, as if they had covered the last cable in seconds. Rigging blacked down, each yard and spar perfectly set, White Ensign curling from her poop and the Union flag in the bows, her new paintwork shining in the sunlight like glass.
Troubridge thought suddenly of his father, how proud he would be of his youngest son, and felt some of the tension draining away. This was what he wanted.
'Boat ahoy?'
He smiled despite the solemnity of the occasion. Everybody in Plymouth would know this barge, and its purpose here today. The navy never changed.
The big coxswain looked swiftly at Bethune's shoulders and cupped his hands.
'Flag! Athena! '
Troubridge watched the scarlet line of Royal Marines, the blues and whites of the assembled officers and lesser ranks, warrant officers and the rest. The mass of the ship's company was crammed into the main deck and between the gangways, others on the forecastle and aloft on the fighting tops where a man could find space to stand.
He saw faces duck down out of sight at one of the gun ports as the barge altered course and headed for the main chains and the freshly gilded entry port.
The lieutenant in charge gave his orders, but Troubridge heard none of it, staring at the black and white hull rising above him. The bowmen had shipped their oars and were facing ahead, their boat hooks held in readiness. Side-boys were already positioned on the bottom stairs, to take the lines, or fend off the barge to avoid an unseamanlike collision.
There was a bosun's chair just in sight above the nettings. The anchorage was choppy, and it was not unknown for a senior officer to
escape falling overboard by that less dignified route.
Another order, and the oars were tossed and held steady in two dripping ranks; the barge had been made fast.
But Troubridge was remembering the tales he had heard as a boy, from his father or some of his friends. Of Nelson, 'Our Nel', leaving England in Victory for the last time; walking the deck of his flagship with his young flag lieutenant, Pasco, while the enemy had spread and filled the horizon, and together they had composed the signal every true Englishman still knew by heart.
'Are you ready, Mister Troubridge?' Bethune was standing upright, holding out his expensive boat cloak not even using a seaman's shoulder to steady himself against the motion. 'They are waiting for us, as you see! ' He was actually laughing.
Then he reached out, pausing only to add, 'You did as I asked?'
Troubridge swallowed. 'Aye, Sir Graham.' He should not have been staring aimlessly around. In a moment he
