The watch keepers were already being relieved, and Fitzroy, the fourth lieutenant, was about to take over from Barclay, but all Adam saw was Tolan as he reached out and caught the marine by the wrist, and swung him around as if he weighed nothing.
'Don't ever leave a musket like that, you bastard! ' He thrust the man aside and snatched it up, turning it to hold it within inches of the marine's face. 'See that, damn your eyes? If it had fallen you could have killed somebody! '
Adam called sharply, 'Belay that! ' He felt the pain in his side, the wound caused by a dying marine dropping his loaded musket. Another inch, the surgeon had said…
'Carry on, Tolan. Tell Sir Graham I shall be delighted.'
Strange that he could be so calm after that flash of anger. And something more.
'Everything all right, sir?' It was Stirling, striding through the crowd of watching seamen as if they did not exist.
Adam shrugged. 'It passed over.' He saw the cook's assistant hurrying away with the chicken, pursued by ironic cheers, hoots and clucking from the remaining onlookers.
Lieutenant Fitzroy had taken over the watch; new lookouts were already perched high aloft. Viewed from the quarterdeck, they looked as if they were about to slide down the horizon.
Fitzroy said dutifully, 'Steady she goes, sir. Sou' west by west. Full and by.' He touched his hat. 'Permission for the cooper to bring new casks on deck?'
'Granted.' Adam turned away. Routine had taken over once more. Had saved him.
From what? He saw the sergeant of marines glaring at the man who had so carelessly discarded his firearm. But it was Tolan's anger and swift reaction that lingered in his mind.
Stirling was saying, 'That fellow had his wits about him, sir. Not what you'd expect.' He straightened up, as if he had gone too far. 'I keep thinking I've seen him before somewhere.'
Then something caught his eye and he shouted, 'Thompson, flake down that line and do your work smartly for a change! ' The first lieutenant was back.
Dugald Fraser, the sailing master, folded his arms and stared into the hard glare as if to defy it. He had been at sea all his life and had served in almost every class and size of ship. As master, he was at the top of his profession, something he rarely considered. He did not see the point.
He watched the sea boil along the weather side, bursting occasionally over the gangway, draining along the scuppers and making the guns shine above their buff painted carriages.
The horizon was almost gone, the margin between sea and sky lost in mist and drifting spray.
'The wind's veered a piece, sir.' He glanced at Lieutenant Fitzroy by the rail, his body angled steeply against the tilt of the quarterdeck. The helmsmen, too, were clinging to the big spokes, taking the strain of sea and rudder. He tasted the salt hardening on his cracked lips. Fitzroy was young, but he was experienced. He should have acted before this.
Fitzroy looked over his shoulder as Athena gave a great shudder, and more water tumbled over the gangway and sluiced down among the men working on deck. The afternoon watch was not yet over, but it would soon be dark in this weather.
'The captain must be informed.' It sounded like a question.
Fraser said, 'Aye, ' and winced as water splashed his face and neck. Nearly June, and it felt like winter. 'We should shorten sail an' let her fall off a point.'
He almost grinned at Fitzroy's expression of relief.
A boatswain's mate said, 'Cap'n's comin' up, sir.'
Fraser watched a working party reel and stagger on the forecastle, making something fast, bare feet slithering on the wet planking, bodies shining, soaked to the skin.
The captain was hatless, hair blowing unheeded in the wind and wearing one of his old seagoing coats, patched and stitched like any common seaman's. Fraser was satisfied. You would still know he was the captain no matter how he was dressed.
Adam was looking at the sky, the masthead pendant whipping out, bar-taut, like a spear. The ship was labouring heavily, but shaking off the crested rollers with each plunge.
'We will alter course two points. Steer west by south.' He wiped his face with his sleeve, and smiled. 'If we can't fight it, we may as well use it! ' He touched Fraser's arm as he gazed at the sea, and waited for the right moment to move to the compass box. Then he said to the helmsmen, 'Are you holding her? Another hand on the helm, maybe?'
One of them tore his eyes from the flapping driver and shouted, 'Not yet, zur! She'm good as gold! ' and they laughed as if it was a huge joke.
Fraser heard it, and inwardly noted it, as he might compose an entry in his log.
When Captain Ritchie had walked this quarterdeck it had been very different. Passing a casual moment with his sailors would have been unheard of. He had been respected, but Adam Bolitho had something Ritchie would never have recognized. The two helmsmen were tough and experienced, had seen it all, or thought they had. But off watch they would be telling their messmates how the captain had asked their opinion, even joked about it… Adam Bolitho did not appear to have changed since the old Achates.
He heard the captain call, 'Mr. Fitzroy, you'll need more hands on deck, and lively too! I am not a mind reader, you know! '
Calls shrilled and seamen ran to their stations, ready to wear ship, and, when ordered, take in a reef and bring the canvas under control. 'And tell Mr. Mudge to hoist the quarter boat aboard. It will be swamped otherwise.'
There was no edge to his tone, but Fitzroy exclaimed, 'I had it bailed an hour back, sir! '
Adam regarded him thoughtfully. 'Send another man down to bail it, and we will have a burial on our hands, I fear.'
The horizon had finally disappeared, a new darkness creeping beneath a bank of clouds like a cloak.
'Steady she goes, sir! West by south! '
A master's mate muttered, 'Bloody wind's droppin', Mr. Fraser.'
Fraser tightened his coat about his throat. 'Rain's back too, I see! ' Even above the din of sea and thrashing canvas he could hear the heavy drops, like shot being scattered from a gunner's pouch.
He saw the captain's dark eyes flash as he swung round and pushed the soaking hair from his forehead.
Some one shouted, 'Might blow itself out! I was in the Atlantic in ninety-nine when we had the worst storm The voice trailed away as Adam lurched to the rail again and waited for the deck to steady itself. He was drenched, the water like ice on his spine and running down his thighs.
The flashes had died in the mist and advancing rain, but the thunder still hung in the air. And in his memory.
He said, 'Pipe all hands. Fetch the first lieutenant directly.'
He knew they were staring at him, probably thinking he was losing his nerve.
Fraser saw it as if it was already written in the log. He was too old a hand to forget.
It was not just a storm, and if it was, it would not last.
It was gunfire.
The Royal Marine sentry outside the admiral's quarters brought his heels sharply together and as if by magic the screen door opened, one of Bethune's servants holding it, and bowing his head as Adam entered. Nothing was said. Perhaps Bethune found announcements unnecessary, distracting.
After the squeak of blocks, with seamen scrambling through and over lively halliards and braces, the admiral's quarters were like a sanctuary. It was impossible, but here even the motion seemed less, the shipboard noises subdued. Remote.
The dining space was in darkness, all the candles doused, if they had ever been alight in the first place.
Adam groped his way past unfamiliar furniture toward the day cabin, where Bethune was sitting at his desk, some dishes before him, a bottle of some kind propped upright in an opened drawer. His coat hung on the back of his chair, and his fine waistcoat was unbuttoned. Somehow, Adam thought, he still managed to look elegant and relaxed. Beyond the desk the stern windows were completely black, but in the reflected light he could see water running down the thick panes, rain or spray, probably both.
Bethune put his hand to his lips and pulled a chicken bone from his teeth before tossing it into a bowl at his
