one of his sergeants. Half of Athena's marines had been sent over to the Villa de Bilbao as part of the attacking force. Kirkland was no doubt pondering what would happen if his superior, the debonair Captain Souter, failed to return from the proposed venture.
Adam took a few paces to the weather rail and back again. The slavers might already have quit San Jose; what would Bethune do then? And how, in such a crowded ship, could the vice-admiral manage to remain so distant? The optimism was no longer evident, and his manner was more abrupt, especially toward his young flag lieutenant.
He loosened his fingers, which had once more clenched into fists. It was a wild scheme, but all they had. He thought of their reunion with the prize ship and the frigate Audacity. A wild scheme, maybe, but so far time and weather had been on their side.
He wondered what Audacity's captain was thinking as he waited for the first light of dawn. And young David Napier in his new role.
What he wanted, or was it for my own satisfaction?
His fingers brushed against the gold lace on his sleeve. It was his best coat, from the same tailor in Plymouth who had helped transform an eager boy into a King's officer.
He paced slowly along the deck, his feet avoiding tackles and ring bolts without conscious effort.
There would be no line of battle. No heavy ship-to-ship encounter like those other times.
Something his uncle had told him. 'They will want to see you,
Adam. Their captain. To know you're there with them when the iron begins to fly.'
He touched the lace again and felt his jaw tighten. Pride or conceit? He could almost hear James Tyacke's voice. And for what?
He felt some one move past him and knew it was Jago.
'I never care for the waiting, Luke.'
Jago watched him in the darkness. So he feels it too. The ship rising above them, the clatter of blocks and rigging, the occasional crack of canvas in a gust of wind over the quarter. Like sailing a ghost ship into nowhere. But Jago used his freedom to come and go as he pleased to keep note of such things: the lines on the chart, the quiet discussions between the sailing master and his mates, and the captain. It would probably all blow over. Jago was sickened by the way he had seen slaves treated. But it was a fact of life. It was not a sailor's concern, nothing to die for. Or was it?
He thought of young Napier, somewhere up ahead in the little Audacity. He had done well, to all accounts, and he had only been aboard for a dog watch. He smiled to himself. Mister Napier indeed!
Adam called, 'Take over, Mr. Stirling. I am going below for a while.'
He hesitated, and heard Stirling answer, 'I'll know where you are, sir.'
Adam turned on his heel.
'Come with me.'
Jago followed him to the companion way. The same ship, but so different. He should be used to it. How many fights? Sometimes all the ships and the people seemed to overlap in his memory. The din and excitement of battle; and always the pain. There was never time for fear. He grinned. The bloody officers saw to that!
Adam walked past the guns, hearing the faint squeak of breeching ropes as the hull tilted to wind and sea, the water slapping beneath the sealed ports. Tiny, shuttered lanterns gave light to the lounging figures of the waiting crews. The air was close and humid between decks, and he saw that most of the men had already stripped off their shirts, their bodies shining faintly in the feeble lights like statuary.
Feet shuffled, and faces came into the glow as men realized their captain was on one of his unheralded rounds. Some wondered why he bothered, when his word was the law which meant life or death to any one he chose. And why he was wearing his dress uniform when it would mark him out to any sniper if the time came, as it had done for others, among them his famous uncle, and Nelson himself.
A voice called, 'Think us'll fight, zur?'
Adam stopped. 'Fellow Cornishman, eh?'
The man snowed his teeth in a broad grin. 'Helston, zur, not too long a walk from your part o' God's county, zur! '
Jago leaned forward to listen, to share it in some way. Like that time at Algiers, when he had watched his face after the fight, and had seen through and beyond the thing they called courage.
Adam looked past the line of black breeches, the powder and shot. Gone were the mess tables which were normally fixed between each pair of guns. Everyday things, the hooks where a man could sling his hammock: overcrowded, and yet each man an individual.
Now there was no war, and the enemy was unfamiliar. But to the ordinary Jack, it made no difference when the guns were run out.
Jago thought of the men put ashore, unwanted in peace. He had seen plenty of them on pier and jetty, watching the ships, and 'swinging the lamp' with each mug of ale.
Did they remember, he wondered, how they had cursed the navy and the masters who walked the quarterdeck in their fine uniforms?
Adam said quietly, 'I think we shall fight. The enemy flies no flag, nor does he uphold any cause except greed and tyranny over the helpless. So when the time comes, think well on that! '
The man from Helston called after them, 'Us Cornish lads'll show 'em, Cap'n! '
There was a burst of cheering, joined by seamen at the guns on the opposite side, few of whom could have heard what their captain had said.
A midshipman dodged around the guns until he had caught Adam's eye.
'Beg pardon, sir, but Sir Graham sends his compliments, and would you join him aft?'
'Thank you, Mr. Manners. I'll come directly.' A young, eager face. Uplifted, as if he had just been told something inspiring.
Jago walked with him to the main companion. Beyond the small lights, the ship was still in darkness. Waiting.
He realized that Bolitho had turned to face him, as if they were quite alone, the ship deserted.
'Is that all it takes, Luke? These men don't even know what we are doing here, or why some will die, as surely they will! '
Jago stood his ground, knowing it was important, for both of them.
'You spoke fair, Cap'n. Somebody's got to do it, an' if it wasn't us it would be some other poor Jack. That's the way it goes, an' nothing'll ever change it! '
He stared down as Adam grasped his arm, and for an instant thought he had at last gone too far.
But Adam let his hand fall to his side, and said, 'So let's be about it, eh?' As if another voice had spoken.
The ship was ready. Choice did not come into it.
Lieutenant Francis Troubridge winced as his shin scraped against a cask propped by a hatch coaming to catch the unwary. He had heard the first lieutenant giving orders for every available barrel or bucket to be filled with sea water in case of fire. Even the empty boat tier had been lined with canvas, and more water pumped into it as a precaution.
He had mentioned it to Fetch, the gunner. Had it been light enough to see his weathered face, he might have discovered amusement there. Or pity. Old Fetch, who had been at sea all his life, since the age of nine it was rumoured, had been present at several major battles, and had been a gun captain in the Bellerophon at Trafalgar, in the thick of it.
Fetch would be down there in the main magazine now, slopping about in his old felt slippers, so as not to make a spark or two, as he often said. One spark would be enough; the whole ship could be blasted apart.
'Them buggers might 'ave furnaces goin' when we gets there.' He had shaken his grey head. 'Bated shot can be very nasty, sir.'
Troubridge had already served in a ship of the line, the Superb, under the famous Captain Keats. He had never forgotten the first time they had cleared for action, the exhilaration, nerves tingling, as if he were being caught and carried on a tide race. Men running to their stations, commands barked from every side, the squeal of calls, but above all the urgent, insistent rattle of the drums beating to quarters.
Fetch and some of the others had experienced it many times, seen the faces of messmates and gun crews, seamen and marines, all welded into a single force, like a weapon. Troubridge had been only a midshipman in the Superb, but he had never forgotten the thrill and indescribable awe of that moment.
