squeal of tackle. He knew.
'Sir? 'He turned back and saw that, as Deacon pointed out, the flagship should have been flying the colours of a rear admiral. She was not. A commodore's broad pendant had replaced them. Permanent or temporary, but there had been no hint of a change in command when he had spoken with the admiral. Promotion, or away on some diplomatic mission? He looked over at the canvas canopy by the boat-tier. Or, like the murdered cooper Harris, beyond the concerns of this world.
Morgan had come on deck, with the sword and Adam's boat cloak in readiness. He looked like a man who had been offered an affront.
'I'm told it's urgent, see? You would not wish to squander the time donning your best uniform, I thought, sir?'
'Thank you. 'He held out his arms so that Morgan could fasten the belt. The commodore must have had hours to gauge Onward's approach, if he was interested. Was this urgency just a show of authority? Vincent was saying, 'I'll have all boats lowered, sir. Mail ready to go ashore. 'His eyes also moved to the canvas canopy.
'What about Harris, sir?'
Adam brought his mind back with an effort.
'A shore burial will be necessary. 'He gazed up at the towering rock, cloud streaming from its peak. The gateway.
'We could lose a hundred men in the King's name and not raise an eyebrow. But one poor devil…'
'Gig's alongside, sir!'
Adam tossed the boat cloak back to Morgan. 'Not this time.'
He touched one of his epaulettes. They, at least, were still untarnished.
He walked to the ladder, aware of their eyes, some familiar, others still unknown. At the mainmast truck the pendant was coming to life again in a light breeze, and a few small figures were still working in the top, pausing to peer down as he strode toward the entry port. The boatswain was touching his hat, an evil grin on his battered face.
'We'll show the buggers, sir!'
And Rowlatt, the master-at-arms, glaring at such informality.
Two midshipmen. Huxley, who had joined the ship with Napier, and the one called Hotham, whose father was a clergyman. There was a story there, and he could imagine the comments in the gunroom. Or maybe not so much these days.
After all, Nelson's father had been a man of the cloth.
A squad of Royal Marines, and the boatswain's mates by the port, one caught in the act of moistening his call on his tongue.
There were suddenly a dozen things he wanted to point out to the first lieutenant. When I step into the gig, he is in command.
Vincent murmured, 'I have the weight, sir.'
Adam raised his hat, the calls shrilled and the muskets slapped down in salute, within a cloud of pipeclay. Something every captain took for granted. As his right.
He nodded to one of the side-boys as he rested his hand on his shoulder, then stepped out and into the gig.
Jago was standing in the sternsheets, hat in hand, eyes everywhere. He, more than any one, probably knew the truth.
'Cast off, forrard! Out oars! Give way together Jago eased the tiller slightly and watched the oars dipping and pulling, all eyes on the stroke and none on the captain.
Given time, he would knock them into a fair crew. He glanced astern and saw Onward, already bows-on, one of those clumsy-looking local craft with the big lateen sail hovering close by. Ready to barter, or steal anything they could lay hands on.
He looked over the stroke oarsman's head and measured the distance. So many times, but always different. Some could find you dreaming and carry you past the ship or landing stage. Or an oarsman, no matter how experienced, could 'catch a crab' and throw the stroke into a shambles.
He stooped to listen as the epaulettes moved slightly, and he heard the captain remark, 'I can think of better ways to spend the first day in harbour, Sunday or not!'
The stroke oarsman grinned, but kept his eye on the tiller.
Some of the others shared it even if they were out of hearing.
He always seemed to have that way with them. Did he know it, he wondered? He saw the sunlight flashing from the flagship's high stern windows and on the gilt gingerbread scrollwork around her poop. Must have cost a fortune.
Figures on the gangway now, telescopes raised. He scowled. Bloody officers. Are they all blind?
'Boat ahoy?'
He bellowed back, 'Onward!'
He felt almost proud, but it would end up with bloody knuckles if anybody knew what he was thinking.
The bowman had hooked on, and the gig nudged against the rope fenders below the entry port. After Onward, the flagship's side and tumblehome seemed like a cliff.
Only seconds, and their eyes met. The hint of a smile.
'Squalls ahead, Luke.'
Then he was gone.
The lieutenant stood aside, one hand holding the door half open.
'Commodore Carrick will not be more than a few seconds, sir. Something urgent has come up.'
It was only a temporary cabin, with screens to separate it from the admiral's quarters in the poop; there were a few chairs, and an open port that looked across the main anchorage and its array of ships. Onward lay somewhere on the opposite quarter, out of sight, and the knowledge gave him a peculiar sense of loss.
He looked at the deck, where the painted canvas had been rolled back to reveal deep scars in the planking. A gun had once been run out through this port, or been hurled inboard on recoil after firing in drill or deadly earnest. Tenacious was a veteran, at a guess about twenty years old. A third-rate twodecker, with much of the heavier hull structure he had first seen as a midshipman in his uncle's old Hyperion.
The lieutenant had made him welcome enough, but had been careful to keep him apart from the ship's officers after his formal reception on board. He wore the twist of gold lace like Troubridge and was probably the rear- admiral's aide, and he had Troubridge's easy way of making conversation with a stranger. Without listening to or answering direct questions, Adam noticed.
His comment about the new commodore, for instance. When Adam had asked about the suddenness of the appointment he had replied airily, 'A fellow Cornishman, sir. You might know him. 'And that was all.
Of course, the flag lieutenant was probably more concerned about his own immediate future. Commodores were not usually entitled to official aides, during what was often only a temporary promotion. He recalled Troubridge's cheerful warning: the higher we climb…
'Captain Bolitho, sir? 'Some one, the flagship's equivalent of Morgan in a well-cut velvet waistcoat and nankeen breeches, was regarding him from the other door, face sweating in the sunlight from the open port, as if he had been running. But it was humid between decks, and no awnings were rigged on deck, nor windsails to bring some relief to the messes below. Maybe the commodore considered the flagship's outward appearance more important than the comfort of those who served him.
He stopped the thoughts like a cable brake. They had not even met. If it began badly today, it would be of his own doing.
'If you will walk this way, sir.'
A Royal Marine sentry stepped smartly off a grating to open the main door to the great cabin, and Adam was aware of the quick glance. Another visitor, a little piece of news to pass on to his mate in the 'barracks'.
He thought of Onward again. So short a time, and yet he could not imagine going back to another ship of the line like Athena, or this, the flagship.
People ashore might ask him what was the difference.
This is the difference.
Commodore Arthur Carrick was standing with his back to the door. All the screens had been raised, to offer an
