it makes me sick! '
Then Scully, anxious. Worse, he was terrified. 'I pressed them like you said! '
Something hit the table. 'Sir! Say sir to me, eh?'
The lid of Napier's sea chest was still raised. Neither of them had seen him.
Boyce seemed to be humming to himself.
Then he said quite calmly, 'You know what I told you before?' The sound again. 'Bend over that chest. Do it! '
Napier rose on one knee, the scene fixed in his mind. As if there was not another soul in the whole ship.
The mess boy was bending over the chest, unfastening and dragging down his breeches, sobbing or pleading it was impossible to tell.
Napier said, 'Stand up, Scully. Cover yourself! ' He saw the rattan cane in Boyce's hand. He had also seen the purple weals across the boy's buttocks before he could hide them.
Boyce was staring at him, his heavy features contorted as if he was going to choke.
'Spying, were you? I'll make you regret the day you ever…' He gaped, as Napier tore the cane from his hand. 'What are you doing?'
'We are going on deck to see the first lieutenant.' He did not take his eyes off him, but said to the cowering mess boy, 'And you will tell him what happened, now and at any other time. I will stand by you! '
He felt numb, but able to grasp that his voice sounded steady, resolute. Like somebody else. And it mattered so much. Maybe too much. It was all here and now. The shop in Plymouth, the tailor peering through his spectacles, the same way that Daniel Yovell did. Looking at the captain and beaming. Oh, not for you, sir? The young gentleman this time!
It mattered. He himself had worked in Unrivalled's cockpit and had seen the other side of her 'young gentlemen'. He had soon learned that there were bullies on every deck, but in a small ship it was rarely tolerated for long.
Boyce shrugged. 'I shall explain.'
They all looked up as calls trilled through the mess decks overhead.
'All hands! All hands to quarters and clear for action! '
Napier closed and locked his chest, still unable to believe that he was so calm.
He was vaguely aware of Boyce's face flashing in the reflected light as he clipped the dirk to his belt.
A surgeon's mate ran past and Napier recalled that the sick bay and surgeon's quarters were directly adjoining the berth.
When he turned again, Boyce had disappeared, and the mess boy was gripping the offending shirts in both hands.
He pleaded, 'Don't tell anybody, sir. I don't want no more trouble! '
How often had he said that?
Screens were being pulled down and feet pounded loudly overhead. Exercise or false alarm, he found he did not care. He felt as if he had suddenly grown up. Then he was running with all the others.
Captain Adam Bolitho sat in the tall-backed chair and folded the letter he had reread with such care. From Nancy, and it had been like hearing her voice, her quick laugh. All this time, and he had not known about it.
Even if I had… The courier, a brig from Plymouth, had brought more despatches for Bethune. Nancy 's letter had eventually reached Antigua by a longer route, and two different vessels. The last mail bag had been stamped ' Gibraltar '. And there had been two letters from Lowenna.
Loud thuds sounded throughout the ship. Stores; and perhaps the purser had managed to obtain some more fruit.
He stared through the stern windows. A few local craft were skimming the flat water, so there had to be some kind of wind. Here in the cabin, even with skylight and quarter windows open, it was completely airless. And Athena was still at anchor, as if she would never move again. The strain on the sailors was showing itself in the punishment book, the first sign in any ship. Flogging never cured anything, but neither did boredom.
He looked at the sky; angry was the word for it. But this was the hurricane season, and September was always the worst month. How could it be September?
He opened Lowenna's letter again. She had included a sketch drawn by his cousin Elizabeth. They were seeing quite a lot of each other. He felt more than relief. He was strangely grateful.
More shouts: a boat coming alongside. But still no frigates had arrived to reinforce the squadron, and to give the commodore any extra resources for casting his net around the slave routes.
The screen door opened and closed: it was Luke Jago. He was no longer announced by the sentry, a privilege he never abused.
'You wanted me, Cap'n?' His eyes flicked to the open letters. He was ready.
'Bryan Ferguson you remember him, don't you?'
Jago nodded, seeing the office, the stable yard, and Grace, always planning and arranging things.
'We got on well last time we was in port.'
'He died. Heart gave out. He was never all that strong, though he'd be the last to admit it.'
Jago said, 'He'll be sorely missed, I reckon.'
'I heard a boat alongside?'
Jago walked to the quarter windows and grimaced at the sky.
'In for a blow by the makin's of it.' He recalled what Adam had said. 'Sir Graham's servant, sir.'
Adam said, 'He's been ashore for a few hours.'
'On an errand, I believe.' His eyes creased in a smile. The Captain didn't miss much even if he was always busy as hell.
Adam looked at the little sketch. Two mermaids this time, waving to an incoming ship. If only it were true.
Jago gauged the moment. 'Strange when you thinks of it, Cap'n. Us stuck in harbour, while young Mister Napier is out there, showin' us all what to do! '
Bowles had appeared soundlessly from his pantry.
'May I pour something, sir?'
Adam shook his head. 'Not yet. Sir Graham has been sitting with all those official envelopes. I think I had best be ready.'
Somewhere a door slid shut and Bowles nodded gravely. He knew every sound in the poop like his own body.
'I think that is probably wise, sir.'
Adam glanced at his coat, hanging from a door. It was barely moving. Lowenna had been in London, and had seen some lawyer who was dealing with Montagu's affairs. It had been raining there. She had returned to Falmouth, to Nancy. He thought of Ferguson, who had lost an arm at the Saintes, a lifetime ago. The house would be missing him. So would poor Grace.
'Flag lieutenant, sah! '
Troubridge entered the cabin but shook his head when Bowles offered to take his hat. He looked strained, even irritated, and said, 'I can't stay.' He joined Adam, looking briefly at the letters on the table. 'Sir Graham is sending for the commodore. I'm off to fetch him. May I use the gig?'
Jago was already by the door. 'Ready when you needs me, sir.'
Adam asked quietly, 'Is it trouble?'
Troubridge did not answer directly. 'How soon can you get under way, sir? They say there's a storm in the offing.' He looked very young, and vulnerable.
Adam saw Bowles reaching for his coat. 'Tell me.' And all the while, like other times, different places, the mechanics of his mind were clicking into place. How many officers were ashore? Which working parties could be found and recalled to the ship; how long would it take?
Troubridge sighed. 'Sir Graham had his response from the Admiralty. No more frigates, not yet in any case. One will eventually be coming direct from Freetown, otherwise…' He shrugged. 'The other thing is that we received a report about San Jose. Most of it is owned by a renegade Portuguese named Miguel Carneiro. Came to Cuba from Brazil after causing some embarrassment to the government there, and to greater powers in Lisbon. Claims to have some connection with the Portuguese royal family. It's all getting rather beyond me.'
