came his way. Captain Bolitho might not get another ship. He would not need a coxswain.
He was sharply reminded of the captain's face when he had returned from seeing the port admiral. He frowned. That had been yesterday. Jago had had the gig at this same jetty, the boat's crew in their smartest rig, as always. A ship is always judged by her boats, some one had once said. He was right, whoever he was. And a captain's crew had to be the best of all. It was not even Unrivalled's proper gig; that had been too badly smashed by canister and musket fire to warrant repair. Like some of her original crew.
It suddenly hit him. Captain Bolitho had walked down those same stone stairs. Millions of sea officers must have come and gone that way, to promotion, a new ship, to accept orders or face a court-martial. It was easy to imagine. But yesterday the captain had called him aside on this jetty, to tell him that he was being relieved of his command, and was awaiting fresh orders. Not the first lieutenant, or any of the other officers. He told me first.
He said abruptly, 'How's the leg, David?'
The boy looked at him, surprised by the use of his name. Like the captain.
'It's getting better.' He walked carefully to the edge of the jetty, his eyes on the gig, the same one which had brought them and their kit ashore.
Yovell was on his feet too, watching Jago, remembering their first meeting last year, when Jago had suggested that he was too old for a seagoing job of any kind. They had become friends since then, although neither would ever understand the other. Except today.
Yovell had been there as Captain Adam Bolitho had gone through the final tasks before departure. Papers to be signed and witnessed by Lieutenant Galbraith before he assumed temporary command, probably the only command he would ever hold, although Yovell knew from the dictated letters that the captain had never stopped requesting it on Galbraith's behalf.
He had seen the other side of things when some post had been brought aboard from a courier brig, letters they might have missed several times in the Mediterranean. But not letters he had been expecting, hoping for. Like the small scrap of paper he kept in his personal log book, from the girl he had met on that last visit to Plymouth.
He had never spoken her name. But Yovell had seen her just once, when he had been at the old Bolitho house in Falmouth, and a courier had come with orders for Unrivalled and her captain. In a little pony-drawn trap, side by side before she had driven away alone. He had seen him kiss his own wrist, where some tears had splashed down. Like lovers, he had thought. Perhaps another dream?
He put his hand on Napier's shoulder and said, 'The hardest part.'
Who was he speaking to?
He saw the gig turning slowly toward the jetty steps. At another time it might have been manned entirely by captains of the fleet or squadron. But today, only the abandoned hulks were the spectators.
Jago's lip curled. 'What a crew! ' He almost spat on the cobbles. 'Officers! '
The lieutenants Galbraith, Varlo, and young Bellairs, who had been a midshipman when Unrivalled had first commissioned. Luxmore, the captain of marines, Partridge the boatswain, even Old Blanc the carpenter. Midshipmen too, with Deighton at the tiller by the captain's shoulder.
The bowman, another midshipman, shipped his oar and scrambled into the bows with his boat hook but almost pitched headlong.
'Toss your oars! '
In the sudden silence there was cheering, unbroken but faint in the cold offshore breeze.
Yovell felt the boy's shoulder shiver under his hand. He was an imaginative youth; perhaps he was thinking the same. That the cheers might have come from those listless, empty ships.
Captain Adam Bolitho stood up carefully and waited for the gig to come fast against the stairs.
He heard and saw none of it. It was like a confused dream, and yet each phase stood out as a separate picture. Handshakes, faces thrusting through a mist to speak, to call something, a fist reaching out as he had found his way to the entry port. Even the shrill of calls had sounded different, as if he were an onlooker, somewhere else.
If he had given in… He gripped his sword more tightly. He had seen it happen to others, and it had happened to him.
He glanced through the tossed oars and saw the ship. His ship.
The cheering did not stop. All those faces. But this was not the moment. Turn away. Do not look back. How it was. Had to be in the navy, if you wanted to survive. And now emotion was the greatest enemy.
He stepped on to the jetty. Nobody spoke. The boat cast off.
Never look back. But he did, then he raised his hat, not soon enough to shield his eyes from the hard glare. They were smarting anyway. Do not look back. He should have known.
Jago was here. 'You decided then, Luke?'
Jago watched him impassively, then thrust out his hand. 'Like before, eh, Cap'n?'
Adam nodded to the others. The carriage would be here from Falmouth; the admiral had made the arrangements, barely able to conceal his relief that their brief meeting was over.
He looked again, but the gig was hidden by the jetty wall. Tonight Galbraith would sit in the great cabin and drink alone.
In the same breath, he knew he would not.
He looked at Napier and was moved by his obvious distress.
He gripped his shoulder. 'Get some hands to carry our gear, eh?'
He saw Yovell half lift one hand, as he usually did when he wanted to remind him of something.
He shook Napier's shoulder and said, 'I had not forgotten.'
Had he really expected that the lovely girl called Lowenna would somehow be here to see the ship come to anchor, as she had watched them leave? After all the months, and the news of the battles, had he still believed in miracles?
He realized that Napier was looking at him, and had asked him something. He tried again, but all he could hear were the flag lieutenant's words.
He said quietly, 'We must look to a new horizon together.' They began to climb the stairs. Jago waited until some seamen ran down to collect the baggage and the captain's sea-chest. Only then did he turn his back on the sea. And the ship.
2. Their Lordship's Command
Nancy, Lady Roxby, stood very still by the open door of the study, wanting to go to him, but afraid to move or touch him.
She had forgotten how long it had been since the coach had rattled
around the drive, the horses steaming after their journey from Plymouth. Now the coach stood as if abandoned in the stable yard, the horses gone to the comfort of their stalls. It was raining, the sky beyond the familiar line of bare trees dull and threatening. And yet her nephew was still wearing his coat, the shoulders black with rain, his boots muddy. He was even still holding his hat, as if he were unprepared to stay, to accept what had happened.
She waited while he strode to the portrait, which was hanging in its new place by the window opposite the broad staircase. It would catch the light there, but be sheltered from glare and damp. She doubted if he had seen it.
He said suddenly, 'Tell me again, Aunt Nancy. I had no news, no letters at all except yours. You never forget, no matter how it may damage your peace of mind.'
Then she saw him reach up and touch the portrait, his fingers gently tracing the single yellow rose which the painter had added after the girl Lowenna had pinned it on his coat. She moved closer and studied him. The same restlessness, which her brother Richard had likened to that of a young colt. The youth was still there, the ghost of the midshipman, and the young sea officer who had gained his first command, a brig, at the age of twenty-three. But there were lines, too. Strain, authority, danger, perhaps fear also. Nancy was a sailor's daughter, and the sister of one of England 's most famous. Loved. Without turning or breaking this precious contact, she could feel all the familiar faces, paintings, watching from the stairwell and the dark landing. As if to judge this latest portrait of the last Bolitho.
