He glanced at the desk, its polished surface empty. He could feel the little book in his pocket, her last letter tucked inside like a talisman. A link.
The ship seemed quiet again after the usual bustle of cleaning the messdeck and securing unwanted gear. He picked up the old sword and loosened it in its scabbard. So many times. So many hands. And always, you, Uncle. Seeing him in other ships, other cabins. He laid it across the green leather chair, deep in thought, and flinched as eight bells chimed faintly from the upper deck.
He looked again around the cabin, familiar even after so brief an occupation, thought of the room across the water, the expensive telescope at the window. The admiral watching these final preparations with his dandified flag lieutenant hovering at his side, ready to offer some suitable apology if things went wrong. And in London, a note would be made on one of those great charts. Routine. Onward was under orders, to take despatches to the Flag Officer, Gibraltar, and to join the Strait Squadron. Bald and simple on the page.
He recalled the faces at that hastily convened meeting.
Relief, surprise, anticipation, excitement, each man seeing it from the standpoint of his own responsibility. But, for the most part, they were still strangers to him. Some said it was better that way.
Gibraltar. He had last been there in Unrivalled, on passage home after the bloody encounter at Algiers under Exmouth's flag.
He heard the sentry's musket tap quite gently on the grating outside the screen door.
'First lieutenant, sir.'
Something made him pause and turn back, deliberately. He could almost hear Richard Bolitho's voice. They'll expect to see it, Adam.
He picked up the sword and strode toward the door.
He paused at the top of the companion ladder with one foot on the coaming. After the dimness of the cabin, the sky seemed dazzling, making a lie of the keen winter air. He could feel Vincent close behind him, silent now, mentally reprising his report in case he had forgotten some vital detail, like every first lieutenant with a new captain. Lower deck cleared, capstan manned…
Routine. The quarterdeck and both gangways filled with seamen and marines. The capstan with all its bars shipped and ready stood like an intruder.
He saw the sailing master, Tobias Julyan, his feet apart, a telescope tucked loosely under his arm. He was speaking to the helmsmen on either side of the big double wheel, nodding occasionally, outwardly at ease. Adam liked what he had already seen of him. A midshipman, slate held in readiness to jot down a signal or report one from elsewhere, stood nearby.
He had a set, serious face: that was Deacon, the senior 'young gentleman' aboard, and due for examination when the next Board became available. Before this he had been serving in the flagship. He was fortunate to have been given Onward in these uncertain times. Luck, favouritism, skill? We shall soon know.
Adam walked forward, and felt men move aside to clear a space by the quarterdeck rail.
He looked up at the masthead pendant, flapping loosely in the breeze one moment, then taut as a lance the next. Once clear of the land it would be lively enough. He glanced along the deck to the forecastle: more men mustered in parties, each with a senior hand in charge. Landmen and the newly joined, the 'waisters', useful for adding their weight to the braces, or lending another ounce of muscle to the capstan.
And right forward, almost in the eyes of the ship, was Squire the second lieutenant. A true professional, but not an easy one to know. A man for whom charts and navigation were allies and not enemies; it was obvious why he had been given a commission after his service with Sir Alfred Bishop. From the lower deck… the old hands always insisted that it brought out the best, or the very worst.
Vincent was saying, 'Quarter-boat is towing astern, sir, with a crew standing by.'
'Better to be safe, Mark. 'He did not see his surprise at the use of his name. It seemed to break Vincent's concentration.
'I am sorry, sir. I forgot. 'He stared abeam as the guardboat pulled slowly across the bows. 'There was one man missing at the last muster.'
'Deserted? 'Adam concealed his impatience. It was not so long ago that any man would run when a King's ship came into port or dropped anchor close by and the hated press gangs had been put ashore, and a blow over the head was the only conversation. Most of Onward's company, however, were either skilled seamen from other ships, or volunteers, with reasons as varied as their histories.
'A good man. Harris, one of our best coopers. Must have happened during the dog watches.'
'When the last fresh water lighter shoved off. Yes, I heard the commotion. 'He stared at the sea and did not notice Vincent's expression. The Captain's down aft in his cabin. He won't know anything…' List him as missing. The officer of the guard will know what to do.'
He grasped Vincent's arm, suddenly impatient to be gone.
'A fair wind, so let's not waste it! Make our signal to the Flag.'
He saw the bunting jerk up the halliards and break out to the wind; the signal party must have been poised with the flags already joined.
'Your glass, sir?'
Adam turned, the faces and shouts of command held at bay.
It was Napier.
'Well, David?'
The boy waited, frowning slightly with concentration as he took the telescope.
He answered simply, 'I'll not let you down, sir.'
Adam reached out as if to grip his shoulder, but saw his face.
Like a warning. He let his hand fall and said only, 'You will be up forrard with the second lieutenant. Stay close and wait for his orders.'
The midshipman stepped back and touched his hat.
'Aye, aye, sir!'
'Signal from Flag, sir! 'The pencil was squeaking loudly on the slate. 'Proceed when ready!'
Adam walked aft again. 'Man the capstan!'
He shaded his eyes against a shaft of reflected sunlight and looked at the shore, and the overlapping rooftops. The admiral would be observing them, but what of that other captain? Grenville, who gave me this ship.
'Heave, lads! 'Guthrie now. 'Put yer bloody backs into it, heave!'
Sir John Grenville would be there. And he would be alone.
More men ran to the capstan, chests pressed to the bars, arms cracking with strain.
'Heave, lads, heave!'
A gaunt figure in a shabby blue coat had climbed on to a hatch cover, a violin gripped in big, reddened hands. Some one raised a cheer, and Guthrie the boatswain yelled, 'Step out, me lads, an' make yer feet tell!'
Others shouted encouragement, and there was a loud, metallic click as the first pawl fell into place. The capstan was starting to turn. Click. The fiddle brought more shouts, cheers as well, when some of the scarlet- coated marines piled arms and ran to lend their weight.
Adam watched the helmsmen. One was already gripping a spoke, but his foot was tapping the deck in time with the fiddle.
He recognized the fiddler now as Onward's senior cook.
Without his long apron he was a completely different man.
And the tune was familiar, but he could not give it a name. He half smiled. Not 'Portsmouth Lass'. That, he would never forget.
He could imagine the long, sleek hull beginning to move, clink by clink, toward the embedded anchor. Muscle and sweat. A contest known to every deepwater sailor.
And the nippers below in the cable-tier, mere children most of them, guiding and stacking the cable, and trying to clean off the mud and filth as it came inboard.
A ship coming alive. He swung round and saw Vincent bending to speak with some one at the companion.
'Stand by, on deck! 'Sharper than he had intended, but the next few minutes would be vital. There would be many eyes watching today, and many ready to smirk or sneer at Onward's new captain. Afraid of his own shadow. But too much confidence could be a killer. No matter how many times these men had been trained to scramble aloft until they knew every hand and foot hold, and the feel of each sheet and stay, this moment of truth was the real
