elbow.
He looked at Adam while he dabbed his mouth with a napkin.
'Anything new to report, Adam?'
'The wind is steady. Fraser thinks it will hold. So do I. Not strong, but it will see us through the night.'
'That is not what I asked.' Bethune reached for the bottle, but it was empty. 'What do you think it was? Really think?'
A shadow emerged from the other cabin and a full bottle was placed in the drawer. It was Tolan, as quiet on his feet as he was quick.
'Gunfire, Sir Graham. Then an explosion.' He could feel the weariness closing around him again. What had taken him on deck without waiting for the officer of the watch to call him?
Not the wind or sea. That was experience, standing hundreds of watches in every kind of weather, and almost every ocean.
He was still not used to this ship. It would take more time. Choose the right moment.
He thought of his uncle again. Instinct: if you had it, you had to trust in it.
Bethune was watching Tolan's hands come from the shadows and fill his goblet. 'An attack? Pirates? What other seafarers would be ready and eager to fight in these conditions?' He tasted the wine without comment. 'They will be up and away by now, whoever they were.' Then he said curtly, 'I'm told that the galley fire is still alight?'
Adam contained his sudden anger. It sounded like an accusation.
'I knew we would not be going to quarters. Tomorrow?' He would have shrugged, but his shoulders ached too much. 'Things may have changed. I considered that the people should have a hot meal while they can.'
Bethune smiled. 'I was not questioning your judgment, Adam. Far from it.' Just as swiftly, he changed tack. 'When do you estimate we shall reach English Harbour?'
Adam caught sight of his reflection in the sloping windows. Moving slightly to the vibration of the tiller head, like a spectre looking inboard from this violent ocean.
'The north-east trades will give us a soldier's wind. I'd estimate two more weeks.'
'Or thereabouts. What I calculated myself. After that…' Bethune held the glass up to the faint light. 'We will discover the latest intelligence from the commodore at Antigua and, of course, the governor. I am sure that our 'allies' will do all they can to assist! '
He held one hand to his ear as calls trilled, as if from another world. 'You can fill their bellies and warm their souls with rum, but it does not always win popularity.'
'They are cold, hungry, and tired, Sir Graham. I owe them that, at least.'
'As you say.'
Adam left the cabin, the door closing behind him as silently as it had opened.
He rubbed his eyes. Bethune had not offered him any wine.
And he had not waited to share the unfortunate chicken.
He listened to the hiss of the sea beyond the sealed gun ports, and imagined the watch on deck, peering into the darkness, thinking of the echoes of battle, or the death of a ship in distress. Their world.
Jago was louging by the companion ladder, but straightened up as Adam seized the handrail.
He did not need to be told. It was still too close to Algiers and all those other times. When your mind and nerve could become blunted, like a badly used razor.
'All quiet on deck now, sir.'
Adam made to pass him. 'I'm just going to take a turn around, Luke. It does no harm.'
Jago did not budge. 'You've not eaten anythin', sir.' He saw the keen, warning eyes, but persisted, 'Bowles told me. Upset, he was, too.'
Adam reached out impetuously and gripped his arm. 'One day, you will go too far! ' He shook him gently. 'Until then… I will go aft. And maybe…'
Jago stood back, and grinned. 'Aye, Cap'n. Mebbee that's more like it! '
He watched him climb the companion. A good wet of brandy, or some of that fancy wine the officers gulped down, would do him more good than harm, the mood he was in.
He remembered the painting he had seen, carefully placed where it would be safe even if they ran into a hurricane. Only a picture, but the woman was real enough. Like Unrivalled, second to none…
A corporal of marines marched past him, another bullock close on his heels. Changing the sentries for the middle watch. For tomorrow… no, today.
He saw the white crossbelts crisp and clear against the shadows of the nearest twenty-four pounder. Always the reminder.
He thought suddenly of the vice-admiral: a good reputation, popular too, they said.
Jago walked away, humming silently to himself.
But not one you would ever turn your back on.
The relieved sentry and the corporal marched away to join their companions in the 'barracks'. A hot meal at this hour was unheard of, in the Corps or anywhere else, and a tot as well for good measure. It was not to be missed. Tomorrow could wait.
In the little pantry adjoining the admiral's quarters, George Tolan was standing with a glass in his hand, adjusting to the deck's slow roll and the solitary lantern's beam swinging across his face.
All this time. All those years. I should have been ready. He had trained himself to always be prepared. For the slightest hint, the weak moment which could still betray him.
Very deliberately he filled the glass with wine. He sensed the warning again, like a signal, or a flare in the night. He would have to be doubly careful, even to the amount of wine he drank. Something far stronger would be better, but Bethune would notice. It would destroy everything he had worked for.
His mind hesitated, like a keeper feeling for a trap, before he allowed himself to think it over again. The stupid marine who had tossed aside his musket just to make a fool out of the cook's assistant and his damned chicken. The musket had been at half-cock. Safe, or so the untrained idiot might think. Many had discovered otherwise to their cost; he had heard that the captain had been wounded by such a shot.
His guard must have been down, he thought. He had snatched up the heavy weapon, had caught it perfectly at the point of balance. Just like all those other times, all the drills and the bellowing sergeants. The skill, and eventually the pride at what he was doing. Only a second's carelessness, and he had acted as if he was back in the line. And like that day when he had killed his officer.
He had listened to Bethune talking with the captain. For a moment he had imagined that Bolitho had noticed his reaction, his ease with a musket. Twenty years ago. It could have been yesterday.
He wiped the glass and held it up to the swinging light.
Bethune would be calling him very soon now. His cot was ready, his heavy robe laid out on a chair. They would talk for a while as he helped him into the cot, and perhaps brought him another drink. He talked but never listened, unless he wanted to hear something.
Tolan heard the little bell tinkle from the admiral's quarters. He would not throw it all away now, after twenty years.
He picked up his tray and opened the door.
'Coming, Sir Graham! '
He was safe.
Adam awoke with a start, his eyes hot and sore, his mouth like dust. It was Jago, bending over the coat, one hand shielding the shuttered lantern while he waited for his senses to recover.
Adam struggled into a sitting position, his mind groping for details and sounds. He felt as if he had slept for only a few minutes.
'What's happening?'
Jago watched him impassively, eyes in shadow.
'Dawn comin' up, Cap'n. First light very soon.'
'Already?' The cabin seemed to be as dark as ever. Then he smelled fresh coffee, and thought he heard Bowles moving about in the pantry.
Jago added patiently, 'There may be trouble we have to deal with today. You said so yourself, Cap'n. They'll be lookin' to you. So I thought a shave might be in order, so to speak.'
