cabin.
Adam waited for his breathing to steady, and watched the other ships leap into focus as he trained the glass over and beyond the anchorage. No difference, and then the slightest movement, other masts turning, coming into line, yards and rigging suddenly hidden by clouds of filling canvas as Audacity, of twenty-four guns, broke out her anchor and gathered way. They would all be busy, too busy to stare around at the bigger ships of war as they tacked toward the open sea.
He said, 'Make to Audacity, good luck.' That would set them guessing. But some one might tell David. It was a small ship. A frigate…
'From Flag, sir?'
Adam kept the glass to his eye. 'No. Make it from Athena.'
He heard the flags flap out from the yard and imagined some one calling Audacity's captain, and the curiosity it would arouse.
The frigate had almost completed her manoeuvre when Lieutenant Evelyn shouted, 'Acknowledged, sir! '
Adam returned the telescope, and walked to the opposite side of the quarterdeck.
He knew Stirling was observing him from beside the compass box, and said, 'I shall be doing Rounds in the first watch, Mr. Stirling.' He saw the immediate caution. 'Last night in port. Captain's privilege, or should be.'
Stirling hesitated. 'I'd like to accompany you, sir.'
Adam smiled. 'Thank you. That suits me well.' He turned toward the anchorage again, but there was no more movement.
If I was wrong and he hates his new life, then he will come to hate me. He thought of the silk garter now locked in his cabin. And if I have wronged her, I will never forgive myself.
He could still feel Stirling watching him as he returned to the companion way.
A small step. But it was something.
Luke Jago held the razor up to the light and tested the blade with his thumb before folding it away in its worn case.
The captain never seemed to need much of a shave. If he left his own face unshaven for more than a day, it felt more like a piece of sword-matting than skin.
He looked over at him now, knowing him in almost every mood, something he had once thought he would never be able to do again. With an officer.
He saw all the signs. Only half of John Bowles' coffee was gone, and the breakfast remained untouched.
He tuned his ear to all the other sounds, men moving about the hull, wedges being tapped home, loose gear stowed away, all boats secure on their tier, except one which would tow astern once Athena was at sea. A last chance for any one who went overboard. It happened, although not as often as you might expect. Jago's mouth twisted into a smile. Especially after last night. The hoarded rum, and the unexpected issue of the coarse red wine the lower deck called Black Strap.
Sailing day.
He glanced again at the captain, still in a clean shirt and breeches, his coat hanging on the door of his sleeping quarters. Once at sea he would be changing into one of his weather-stained coats and the white trousers favoured by most officers. He thought of the admiral: it was hard to imagine Bethune ever having been other than what he was now. At least he spoke to the men who served him. Unlike some. Unlike most.
Jago thought of the days, and weeks, ahead. Antigua he knew well enough. A friendly place, but that was when it was threatened with war: the old enemies, France and Spain, even the Dutch. It was a long haul, nearly four thousand miles to all accounts. It would sift out the seamen from the 'passengers', the braggarts from those with brains.
And he thought of Napier. Mister Napier. Make or break, they all said. He would be all right, if little pigs like Midshipman Blake and the haughty Vincent left him alone. There were Blakes and Vincents in every ship Jago had ever known. Napier was a good lad, but it took more than a fancy new uniform or a smart dirk to make an officer.
He heard voices, and then the sentry's call. 'Midshipman o' the watch, sir! '
Bowles was there, the door half open, as if he too was very aware of the captain's mood.
Jago sucked his teeth. Speak of the devil. It was Mister bloody Vincent.
'Guardboat alongside, sir. Request for last mail.' He stood very erect, only his eyes moving as he watched the captain, silhouetted now against the stern windows, one hand resting on the tall-backed chair.
'On the desk.' Adam turned to look at them, as if undecided. Now that it was too late. 'Just those. Thank you.'
He had already seen the guard boat pulling around the anchored Athena; even without a glass he had recognized the officer in charge. The same
man who had come aboard Unrivalled and had brought his new orders, and told him that he was losing his ship.
Two letters, one to his Aunt Nancy; a proper epistle this time, he hoped. Usually when he wrote to her a single letter could take weeks to finish, with sea miles covered, interruptions of every kind, and war. But she understood. She had good cause.
And the other… He did not have the words. It was not like seeing her again. Holding her. Seeing her emotions, her fears. He was sailing in a few hours' time, and he would be away for months. Or longer. Who could tell?
He seemed to hear Bethune's words. This mission, for that is what it is fast becoming. What did he have to offer her? Why should she wait? She had lost enough of her life already.
He looked back at the desk. The letters and Vincent had gone.
He picked up his little book and glanced at the coat on the door; it was no longer still, but swaying slightly. The wind was back. He pictured the different faces he had come to know in so short a time, reacting. Fraser the sailing master watching the masthead pendant, getting the feel of the wind's power, how it would affect his calculations, and his captain. Stirling, eyes aloft on spars, yards, and rigging, all the possible dangers for the top men making sail, fisting hard canvas, careful of each hand and foothold. Old Sam Fetch, the gunner; he would check each weapon and its breeching rope to make sure nothing would break adrift if the weather worsened in open water.
He heard Bowles refilling his coffee cup, reading the signs.
Too much brandy, perhaps? He thought of the contrasts when he had done Rounds the previous evening. From one end of the ship to the other, with Stirling thudding behind him and a midshipman preceding, without the usual formality of a ship's corporal or the master-at-arms. He had seen their expressions when he had removed his hat each time he had entered a mess or walked through one of the crowded gun decks Surprise,
appreciation, amusement, it was hard to tell. But it was always there, the lesson Richard Bolitho had drummed into his nephew when he had been new and green, as green as David Napier. Show respect. It is their home too, remember that. He had felt Stirling following his example, perhaps for the first time in his service.
The warrant officers in their own mess had been at ease, even with their captain. Ready to answer a casual question, and to offer one. Do you miss Unrivalled, sir? And without thinking, he had replied, I miss a part of each ship I've ever served. Curiously, it was the first time he had put it into words.
Then the Royal Marines' mess deck The 'barracks'. Everything in its place, an air of soldierly camaraderie which marked them out from all those crowded around them.
The midshipmen's gunroom, untidy despite their hasty efforts to prepare for his visit. Living day to day like every midshipman, thinking only of reaching the final step in the ladder, the examination for lieutenant, and only then becoming a King's officer. Few ever considered that the step from gunroom to quarterdeck was merely the beginning.
Had Luke Jago been with him, he would have seen it with different eyes, the potential tyrants and bullies, the toadies and the failures. And, just occasionally, the one who would listen and learn, and deserve his new authority. He had been more often right than wrong.
And Rounds had taken him to the sick bay on the orlop deck, below Athena's waterline, where George Crawford the surgeon and his mates had to deal with every kind of ailment and injury from gunshot to a fall from aloft, fever to the aftermath of a flogging.
Crawford was a wiry, quietly spoken man, with very clear eyes and a voice which was neither incisive nor callous when he talked of his trade. A far cry from Unrivalled's big, witty Irishman, Adam thought.
