In an hour's time he would report to the vice-admiral. They had dined together; Troubridge and Henry S outer, the captain of the Royal Marines detachment, had also been there. The conversation had been light, and untainted by duty, or as much as it could be. And the wine, as Adam had guessed, was predictable. Too many glasses. Only the vice-admiral had seemed unimpaired. Adam had been almost grateful when he had been called away to carry out Captain's Rounds.
He wondered if Bethune had remained in his cot since the dinner.
He smiled. Jago probably had an answer to that, too.
The sentry shouted, 'Officer o' the watch, sir! '
It was Barclay, the second lieutenant.
'The officer of the guard has left a package for you, sir. There is no address or superscription. I am not certain I should have accepted it.'
'Who gave it to the guard boat Mr. Barclay?'
The lieutenant might have shrugged, but suppressed it. 'Somebody from a local boatyard…'
Adam saw the house, white against the trees and the Tamar. Empty, but for two people.
'Show me.'
Jago took it from the lieutenant and carried it into the main cabin.
'Down here, sir?'
It was square, and wrapped in pale canvas, like a tray. Adam shook his head. His mouth was dry.
'No, Luke. On the chair.'
Jago stood it upright against the chair back and regarded it suspiciously. Bowles bent as if to unfasten it but Adam said, 'I'll do it.'
It was a frame; it must have been freshly made, perhaps only a day or so ago, the wood smooth but unpainted. From the boatyard.
He did not recall unwrapping it, or how long it took. He stood back and looked at the portrait, hardly daring to breathe or move. He knew that Jago and Bowles had gone, and the screen door was shut.
It could have been that day. The eyes, arff the arms pinioned to the rock. The hint of the monster about to break surface. He reached out to touch it, and saw that the smoke stains had been cleaned away.
He had written to her. She would not receive his letter until after Athena had set sail.
But she had already answered him.
Andromeda.
8. Storm Warning
Adam Bolitho leaned his hands on the chart table and looked down at the sailing master's log. Neat and observant, like the man, he thought. A pair of brass dividers began to slide across the uppermost chart and Adam put them in a small drawer. Around him the ship was coming to life again, timbers murmuring, loose gear clattering, while the sails filled and hardened. He had been on deck when both watches were called to make more sail, and had seen the sea break into long patterns of white horses, then into steep-sided crests, the canvas swelling, holding Athena hard over, the top men skipping about the yards like monkeys, glad to be doing something after the periods of perverse breezes and torrential rain.
He thrust himself away from the table without another glance at Eraser's calculations; he knew them by heart. It was their ninth day at sea, and they had logged barely one thousand four hundred miles, without sighting another vessel of any kind after leaving the coastal waters of Cornwall. It made the Atlantic seem even vaster, and gave many of the younger hands a sense of loneliness they had never experienced before. The sun, when it appeared, was bright but without warmth; that and wet clothing did little for comfort or discipline.
He heard some Royal Marines clumping across the deck for another drill or inspection. Captain Souter, their commanding officer, had organized marksmanship contests with his men divided into squads, one competing against the other. They had lined a gangway and fired at pieces of driftwood thrown outboard from the bows. Apart from good training, it had provided a welcome distraction for seamen off watch, some of whom would doubtless have bets riding on the results. Sailors would bet on almost anything, lawful or not.
But it had not lasted for long. Vice-Admiral Bethune had sent a message requesting that the musketry cease forthwith. It had been disturbing his concentration.
He was about to look aft and changed his mind. He had no idea what Bethune did for most of the day, but he rarely appeared on deck. Adam made his daily reports on progress, and the ship's routine. Usually Bethune was reading his confidential papers, or dictating to his secretary. His smart, impassive servant was almost always present, as if Bethune could not bear solitude.
He walked to the weather side of the quarterdeck, Barclay, the lieutenant who had the watch, moving to the opposite side in the accepted fashion to allow his captain some pretence of privacy.
He looked along the main deck. It was nearly noon; the galley funnel was giving off its usual greasy plume of smoke. And there would be the customary issue of grog. He watched the shark-blue horizon sloping across the beak head and jib sails: no sharp edge, but another hint of mist. He looked across at Fraser; he would have noted it. Rain again before the dog watches. Wet clothing, damp hammocks.
The midshipmen were grouped around the sailing master, each with his own sextant, ready to take the noon sights and check the ship's position. Again. He studied their faces, serious, intent, or anxious, the younger ones at least. Those who were expecting a summons to the examination for lieutenant were more confident, like Vincent, straight-backed, his sextant carelessly held in one hand. Probably very aware of his captain's presence on deck. And another, Rowley, who came from a long line of sailors, handsome until he smiled. He had lost two front teeth, knocked out by a block in a gale before Adam had assumed command.
He thought again of Napier; he had all this and much more to overcome.
Fraser said, 'Ready! ' and all the sextants swivelled round as eight bells chimed out from the forecastle. The sun was being helpful today, but you could never be sure. It was not unknown for somebody to turn over the half- hour glass too early during each watch, so that a man's time on deck could be shortened with the sand only partly filtered away. 'Warming the glass', as it was called, could make a mockery of any calculation.
Fraser and one of his mates were making notes, and one of the youngest midshipmen was holding his hand up to ask a question, as if he were still at school. The noon gun would crash out at Plymouth, and the gulls would rise from the water, screaming and squawking, as if it had never happened before. Adam walked to the hammock nettings and gripped a lashing as the deck tilted over again.
And she would hear it. Perhaps she would picture this ship, further and further away. Perhaps she was regretting it. And suppose…
'Excuse me, sir.'
Adam turned abruptly, and for a second imagined he had voiced his fears aloud.
It was Tolan, the admiral's servant, immaculately turned out as always, his calm features without expression.
He always had the feeling that Tolan missed nothing. Bethune relied on him completely. Always on call, Tolan even had a little cabin of his own, screened off from the admiral's pantry.
'Sir Graham sends his compliments, sir, and would you consider joining him in the last dog watch?'
It was not a request. It was an order.
They both turned as there was a sudden confusion on the main deck. A man Adam vaguely recognized as one of the cook's assistants was running wildly after a chicken which must have escaped from the pen on the lower gun deck, 'the farmyard'. It had doubtless been selected for Bethune's table this evening.
There were jeers and hoots of laughter as the man ducked around the breech of an eighteen-pounder and sprawled headlong, his feet caught in his apron.
The luckless bird, unable to fly, seemed to bounce up the quarterdeck ladder in a last attempt to get away.
One of the Royal Marines in the after guard who had just been dismissed from the drill tossed his musket against the hammock nettings and seized the chicken by its legs. To the cook's assistant he called, 'Ere, matey, you'll 'ave to do better next time! '
