Adam groaned and climbed out of the cot, feeling the deck, angled but steady. 'I've no time for that now, man! '
But the anger refused to come, and eventually he shrugged and said, 'I suppose it makes sense.'
He walked across the checkered deck covering and sat in the chair by his desk, thinking of Bethune somewhere beneath his feet. As refreshed as ever, no doubt. He smiled. What made him a flag officer, far removed from the day to day problems and discomforts of ordinary sailors. The smile grew. Or captains…
Feet thudded overhead and some one shouted. He felt Jago's hand on his shoulder, like a groom quieting a restless horse.
'Easy, Cap'n.' The razor glinted in the solitary light. 'I'll not be long. You take some coffee first.'
Adam leaned back in the chair and thought of the painting in his sleeping cabin. He had been looking at it, at her, when he had fallen asleep, the spiralling lantern keeping watch over both of them.
Where was she now? What was she doing, thinking?
Now that she had had time to consider and remember, how would she see that moment, when they had become one?
Bowles was here, head bowed beneath the deck head beams. 'Clean shirt, sir, and another coat.' He glanced at Jago; he might have winked.
Adam stood up and touched his face. Like the hot coffee, the shave had pushed the tiredness aside.
Jago remarked, 'Lighter already, Cap'n.'
Adam fastened the shirt and tugged the neck cloth into place. He was ready.
'The picture put it somewhere safe, Bowles.'
'All done, sir.'
Adam walked to the chair and touched it. They would never discover the reason for the gunfire and the flashes in those black clouds; this was a vast ocean, with ships tiny by comparison, like drifting leaves on a mill-race.
'I'm going on deck.'
Bowles nodded gravely. Jago waited, seeing the indecision, the doubts.
He left the cabin and walked past the chart room and into the fading shadows. Anonymous shapes moved aside, faces and voices becoming people he had come to know: the morning watch, four o'clock until eight, when the ship, any ship, awoke.
Stirling, as first lieutenant, had the watch, and was already facing aft, as if he had known the captain would choose this moment to come on deck. Instinct.
Adam said, 'A quiet watch, Mr. Stirling.' He moved to the compass box and glanced at the card swaying easily in the small light. West by south. Nothing had changed. He peered up at the topsails, pale but still indistinct, moving occasionally to the thrust of the wind. 'A good man aloft?'
'Sir. I've two up, sir. Although…'
Adam turned to stare out at the sea. 'Although you think there'll be nothing for them to see.'
Stirling stood his ground. 'It's been a while, sir.'
'Yes.' He was right. Any pirate or unlawful trader would have spread every inch of canvas if they thought a King's ship was close by.
He walked to the lee side of the quarterdeck and saw a long feather of spray burst from a patch of dark water. Like a fall of shot. A fish of some kind, a large one too.
He heard the hoarse voice of Henry Mudge, the boatswain. 'Put two good 'ands on this splicin' as soon as it's light, Mr. Quinlan. I shouldn't 'ave to tell you these glarin' faults, eh? If you wants to sit that exam one day, an' Gawd 'elp the rest of us if you does…' His voice faded on the sudden boom of canvas as the driver filled in a gust.
Another face. Quinlan was one of the youngest midshipmen. Feeling his way. Like David Napier.
The two helmsmen pulled down on the big double wheel, one leaning round to watch the compass card, the other staring aloft at the peak of the driver to gauge the wind's strength, and that of the sea against the rudder far below his feet. He had a vivid tattoo on his muscular arm, a wild bird with spread wings, and what looked like a human skull beneath it.
Adam was suddenly alert, and wide awake. Just moments earlier, the sailor had been in complete darkness.
He strode to the rail and watched the sea gaining colour, light spilling from the horizon far astern, giving life to the topsails and driver, shining on spray-dappled planks and gangways. On upturned faces and those working on the yards, and a man in an apron carrying a bucket, pausing to note the wind's direction before heaving its contents over the lee side.
Adam shaded his eyes and looked at the masthead pendant, licking out from the truck, brightly coloured as it caught the dawn and held it. The galley fire was rekindled and there was smoke in the air. The men of the forenoon watch would be going to breakfast, such as it was, probably some of the leavings from the unexpected supper their captain had arranged in a moment of kindness or madness, as the word had it on the mess decks
He walked slowly to the rail again and felt salt like dried sand under his fingers.
And down in his quarters Bethune would be smiling to himself. Shaking his head, wondering if he had made the right choice for his flag captain.
'Deck there! '
All caught like unfinished sketches. The man in his apron, his empty bucket poised in mid air. Two seamen listening to the young midshipman named Quinlan, others frozen as they stared up and through the mesh of rigging, to the invisible lookout in the cross trees
Stirling 's voice echoed above all other sounds.
'I hear you. Where away?'
It seemed an age before the lookout called down again.
'Fine on th' starboard bow, sir! Wreckage! '
Adam snatched up a telescope and trained it beyond the forecastle, to a dark horizon still unwilling to cast the night aside.
'A good lookout indeed, Mr. Stirling. We could have missed it altogether in this light.'
He realized that Troubridge was beside him, wide-eyed, as if he had just been dragged out of his cot.
'Sir Graham heard the noise, sir.' He was almost apologetic. 'He sends his compliments…'
'Tell Sir Graham that we have found wreckage. We were right.'
Troubridge paused at the top of the ladder and turned to look back at him. Very young, like the night they had broken into the studio together.
'You were right, sir.' And he was gone.
Adam saw Jago watching from the poop ladder. At ease now. It was out of his hands.
The light was gaining strength every minute; faces became individuals and the sea on either beam reached away to its horizon. There were groups of seamen, jaws champing on the remains of their breakfast, when normally men strung it out until the last possible moment. Something different. Anything to break the monotony of routine and trimming sails.
The sea was still lively, something that had to be considered from Athena's poop, high compared with that of a frigate.
He raised the telescope which had appeared as if by magic at his elbow. Another midshipman… his mind faltered… Vicary, had been observing him and was ready.
Clearer this time. He squinted and tried again. A living, working ship. Was that all that remained of her?
The lookout was a good one. High above the deck, he had the benefit of the changing colours on the sea's face in the first light of the dawn, and the unbroken crests and long, undulating troughs which were never completely absent in this great ocean.
'Have the jolly boat ready for lowering, Mr. Stirling. Volunteers.'
He felt his fingers tighten on the telescope. Like dust scattered across the blue-grey water. Hundreds of fragments widely spread over a mile or so, maybe more.
He did not see Jago move but heard him murmur, 'I'll take the jolly boat, Cap'n. The gig's still on the tier.' Calm, almost matter-of-fact.
Mudge the boatswain was shouting orders to his men on the main deck, his voice louder than usual in the damp air.
