desperate.
He raied his glass and sipped it, savouring it. The good stuff.
… It had been a long day.
He glanced at the open letter laid on his counter. Long and rambling, from his brother in Cardiff. Older than himself, he was a glass-blower, as their father had been; it was a marvel he had any lungs left after all this time. Six children, too; but they would be children no more. He could always picture Cardiff in his thoughts… Be like another world to me today.
It would seem strange to walk those old streets again. But maybe…
He heard a faint shout, then a crack, likely a starter across some one's rump. Otherwise the ship was quiet, the candleflames unmoving. The pantry door was just ajar; he could see the small pool of light over the desk. The captain was still sitting there, a pen grasped in his hand. Like the last time he had crept across the cabin to close the quarter gallery windows. Not much air, but it was better than enduring the insects that tapped against the glass or flickered in the faint glow from astern.
Tomorrow, perhaps, he might go ashore. He had been to Gibraltar a good many times. Different ships and shipmates.
He had a friend who worked in the big chandlery, if he was still there. But you had to know your way around, like any seaport.
He smiled, sipping the rum. Even the 'gateway to the Mediterranean'.
Women, too, at a price. He gave them a wide berth.
Otherwise you could find she had left you with something you would regret, long after you had forgotten her face. And she yours.
In a minute, he would make some excuse and disturb the captain, perhaps persuade him to climb into his cot. It was hard to recall the last time the man had been properly asleep.
What drove him? He had known other captains who would have left the work to others, and complained about it afterwards.
He thought of the visit to the flagship; there was always plenty of gossip. How the captain had been kept waiting to see the commodore, after what he had done, and risked, to save the Frenchie from being turned into a giant coffin.
He should be used to it. Morgan had served three captains, and could take the rough with the smooth. This was different.
Like today. Perhaps today most of all.
Something which his brother in Cardiff would never understand, as long as his lungs allowed him to live.
The young midshipman standing in the great cabin, which had been suddenly emptied of visitors. The captain with the letter, which was still lying on his desk. Then his voice, inaudible to Morgan. And the youth, one of my officers, watching him fixedly, even trying to smile later at something the captain had said, with tears running down his face.
They had walked together to the gallery windows, and he had seen the captain pointing out something, his hand on the midshipman's shoulder, like brothers meeting and coming to know one another again.
He tensed. The pantry door moved very slightly. The screen door must have been opened, although there had been no sound, no shout or stamping of boots.
'Still awake, Luke? 'Jago was fully dressed, alert. 'What is it?'
So it was serious.
'Signal for the Cap'n. 'He held up some paper. 'Mr.
Monteith asked me to bring itЦ he's a bit busy with a defaulter. 'He grinned, but it did not reach his eyes. 'Bloody drunk, more like!'
'Can't it wait? 'Morgan pushed a glass toward him, and filled it to the brim.
Jago shrugged. 'The ink's still wet. Must be important.'
They both turned as the pantry door was pulled aside.
'It's impossible to find any peace, even here!'
Then he smiled. Afterwards, Morgan thought it was like seeing a great weight being lifted from him.
'Finish your drinks, please. 'He took the signal and opened it unhurriedly. 'And pour one for me.'
Jago watched him narrowly. So many times.
'Trouble, Cap'n?'
Adam crumpled the signal. He could see the unfinished letter on his desk.
My dearest Lowenna. I dream of you, always…
'I shall need the gig tomorrow, Luke. Flagship at four bells.
Forenoon.'
He lifted his glass. It was still only a dream.
Lieutenant Mark Vincent walked along Onward''s larboard gangway, his mind ranging over his list of duties. It was a bright morning, surprisingly free of haze even along the shore, the buildings unusually clear in the sunlight. A steady northeasterly had made all the difference.
He licked his lips, tasting the strong coffee which had been his only breakfast. A wise decision, he thought.
The cook must have broken open a new cask of salted pork for their first day in port. Some people never seemed to heed a warning. A line-up for the 'seat of ease 'in the forecastle had resulted, or more drastic measures for those unable to wait.
Pumps and brooms had been busy at first light.
He glanced at the empty boat-tier. The boatswain needed no reminder: all the boats were in the water. Clinker-built craft, especially new ones, opened out very quickly if left high and dry.
He stopped and stared toward the main anchorage, and behind him the accompanying footsteps halted also: Midshipman Walker, ready to run with a message, or scribble something on his slate. The youngest member of his mess, and in fact the whole ship, Walker had changed more than any one. He seemed far more self-assured, serious, and more to the point, he had not been seen crouched over a bucket, spewing up his guts. Not even after the pork. Maybe the encounter with the schooner had left its mark. There was always a first time.
He saw Midshipman Deacon with some of his signals team standing by the flag locker, pointing to something and grinning. He held a telescope, although he would be hard put to see the flagship with other vessels anchored across his line of sight, among them a smart-looking brig, undoubtedly a courier, which had anchored very late, when the lights had been showing ashore and the water was like black silk. Skilled or reckless, her commander had taken a calculated risk.
Once again, Vincent asked himself, what would I have done, if…? There was always if.
The captain's gig would be hooked on and ready; Jago had already gone down to keep an eye on that. A man you might never really know, unless he chose. But if you were in a tight corner, he would always be there.
Vincent ran a finger around his neckcloth. The air was warmer, despite the north-easterly wind. The captain would be speculating about his summons to the flagship. New orders? Running more errands for their invisible superiors? Not like last time, I hope.
He took his mind from it and returned to his list. Some defaulters. Nothing very serious, mostly too much to drink. A few hours 'extra work would be enough, without any one thinking the first lieutenant was going soft.
Walker said loudly, 'Boat heading this way, sir!'
Vincent turned. 'Are you sure?'
Deacon had also seen it and was training his telescope, without undue excitement. It was not difficult to see him as a lieutenant, when opportunity and luck came his way.
Pulling smartly. Not a casual visitor this time. He walked to the ladder.
'Boat ahoy?'
The reply came back just as smartly. 'Merlin!'
Midshipman Walker called, 'The brig that came in last night, sir! It's her captain!'
Vincent swore under his breath. 'Man the side. 'Some one had handed him a telescope. Now, of all times. He adjusted it and saw the boat leap into view, the crew pulling strongly, bowman standing and lifting the boathook.
He settled on the solitary passenger, and tensed. A young face, very young. But in command.
