'Lieutenant Squire sent for me.'
The messman looked over his shoulder.
'He can't see you just yet, Mr. Napier. If you wait, I'm sure he'll not be long.'
Napier nodded. He could hear voices, one raised. The deck tilted sharply and a tankard slipped from the messman's hand and clattered across it.
Napier stooped instinctively and retrieved it.
'No damage.'
The messman gave him a long, measuring look.
'Thank you, sir. You shouldn'tЦ'
Napier wondered what he would think if he knew he was speaking to some one who had been a cabin servant, and had waited at table. But the messman had disappeared.
He heard Squire say something and then the other voice.
'Thought you should be told, that's all! Some might think you'd forgotten you was one o 'them, and not that long ago, neither!'
The speaker strode past Napier without a glance. If he even saw me.
Squire came to the door.
'Ah, there you are, boy. Come in and rest easy. We'll be changing tack soonЦ all hands again, eh?'
Napier followed him, still thinking about the man who had just pushed past him. He had seen him about the deck often enough, a burly, hard-faced boatswain's mate. Fowler: the name had stuck in his mind for some reason.
Some one who must have known Squire while he was still on the lower deck. An old grievance, or perhaps he wanted a favour…
'I've changed your present duties for gunnery drill. Mr.
Maddock agrees. Starboard battery. All experience is needed in a new company like ours. 'He seemed unperturbed by whatever had happened. 'The captain intends to increase the gun drill. He's not satisfied, as it stands. 'He opened a pad and studied it.
Napier was gazing around the wardroom, home to the officers, with its spartan comforts, small, screened sleeping quarters, chairs and tables: their only private space and refuge after long hours on watch or handling the ship under every imaginable condition, even in the heat of action. He felt his skin crawl. Like that last time. Beat to quarters. The squeal of trucks, the guns being run out. Ready to fire.
He clenched his fingers into fists.
'How's the leg, by the way?'
'It's fine, sir. 'As if he had read his thoughts. His fears.
Squire gestured vaguely. 'Lady Luck was with you that day.'
Napier watched him, head bent over the pad, scratching notes, apparently relaxed. No secrets in a frigate, they said, and it was true.
He heard the familiar trill of calls, the thud of feet in that other, real world.
'All hands! All hands!'
They left the wardroom together and almost collided with another messman.
Squire asked, 'Where are you going? Didn't you hear the pipe? 'and the man lifted a bucket.
'Young middy's spewin ''is guts up again, sir!'
'He'd better get over it. Otherwise…' He left the threat hanging in the air as he strode heavily to the ladder.
Afterwards, Napier wondered if he had welcomed the interruption.
Adam Bolitho leaned back in the chair and stretched both arms above his head. Had he been alone he would have allowed himself to yawn, but his mind was still clear and alert. It was almost noon, and the shipboard sounds were intruding once more after the squeal of trucks and gun tackles from the starboard-side eighteen-pounders. With the hull still tilting under a brisk north-westerly, it had taken every muscle to haul each gun up to its port, and he had not needed to be within earshot to be aware of the curses aimed in his direction as they had obeyed each command of the drill.
Rammers and sponges, and more sweat with handspikes to train or traverse toward an invisible enemy. He had not forgotten, and he had probably cursed his captain then as bitterly as the rest of them.
He saw a shadow fall across the table as Lieutenant Vincent moved away from the stern windows. After the gales and roiling cloud it was almost unreal to see the sun, and feel a hint of warmth through the thick glass. Not that either of them could see very much through the layers of caked salt.
He could picture the chart, the calculations, and the nagging doubts that stayed in company. He should be armoured against them, but wind and sea were always waiting to ambush an arrogant captain.
Vincent said, 'We'll sight the lights of Cadiz tomorrow. The next landfall will be the Rock.'
The other figure stirred at the table, closing his much thumbed log book.
'Sunday, praise the Lord, we can celebrate in church! 'Tom Maddock, Onward's gunner, gave a rare grin. 'With plenty of time for more drills!'
Adam heard sounds from the pantry. Morgan would be standing by; he was getting used to his ways, knowing his captain was eager to meet his officers to discuss, and perhaps criticize, their progress in working up this new company.
And it had not been easy. In the Bay of Biscay they had been forced to hoist and manhandle the quarter-boat inboard to avoid it being swamped or torn adrift in a steep following sea, 'as solid as a cliff, one topman had observed. Guthrie the boatswain had left no room for doubts. 'If you goes overboard in that, you'll need to swim the rest of the way to Gib!'
But nobody did, although a good many had taken a thrashing from Onward for their efforts. A sailor's lot. A bandage, a tot of rum and a slap on the back cured many ills.
Morgan had come into the cabin, a tray with four glasses already prepared. Adam rubbed his eyes, the fatigue washing over him.
'Gentlemen, I forgot. I've asked the surgeon to join us.'
Maddock said, 'I'd best get back to my duties, sir. I have to fix the skead on one of my carronades.'
Adam waved him down with a smile. My carronades.
'Take a glass beforehand.'
Maddock sat and opened his log book again.
It was nothing personal. Maddock shared the wardroom with Murray the surgeon, but their shipboard work, and their worlds, kept them apart much of the time. Most sailors felt the same. Share a tot and a joke together and then one day there was the barrier, and the dread.
He returned his thoughts to Gibraltar. Ten days since they had left Plymouth. Not like the last time in Unrivalled, when they had returned there after Algiers. Only eight days from the Rock to Plymouth Sound. But that had been different…
He said suddenly, 'You were at Trafalgar, I believe?'
Maddock looked up.
'Aye, sir, gunner's mate in the old Spartiate, seventy-four, Cap'n Laforey. 'His eyes crinkled. 'Different times then.'
Reading his mind.
He watched Morgan pouring the wine, deep red and tilting in the glass, then holding quite still before moving again. From the Last Cavalier.
Sunday, when the anchor dropped, what would she be doing? Thinking? Walking near the old church, or along the headland. Waiting for a ship. Never sure.
Morgan murmured, 'He's here now, sir.'
Gordon Murray, the surgeon, glanced around the great cabin.
'Celebration, is it? 'A quick nod to Morgan, and he sat down, a trim, slightly built figure, unlike so many of his calling, and light on his feet like a dancer, or a swordsman. 'I was delayed, sir. 'The fourth glass was being filled, tilting to the motion. 'Hard to think with all the damned din on deck.
Two men injured. 'His eyes flicked to Maddock. 'But they'll live. I hate to think what they would do if those guns ever fired in anger.'
