The shock of recognition had saved him. The fury, and the true realization of danger, had ended it. The other lover had lain dead and bleeding outside the door.
But there had been a witness, who had been working ashore at a local alehouse, repairing casks for the landlord. The witness had been Ned Harris, the cooper.
Lloyd looked down at his hands. Only she knew, and had seen it happen. He had thought about it today while the captain had been reading from his prayer book, before they had tipped the three bodies over the side.
If a cruel twist of fate had not brought him to the house that night, he would have been standing there today, in Captain Bolitho's place.
And now, only she would know this dangerous secret. It would be safe with her. Had to be. They must never meet again.
He smiled. It was better, safer to look ahead. He found he was humming a little tune to himself. One of those his friend used to whistle, before they buried him at sea.
Murray walked past. 'All done? Good lad.'
Jeff Lloyd heard him leave the sick bay, and call out to some one in the passageway. Another officer.
He could not help it, but he was rocking back and forth on the deck, and shaking with uncontrollable laughter.
David Napier sat at the table and stared at the writing paper by his elbow. There were only two small lanterns alight in the midshipmen's berth, and the air was stifling. It was about midnight, but he was not tired, nor even remotely sleepy. There was no point in worrying about it, he thought, he would be called in a few hours for the morning watch. And no sense in slinging a hammock; all hands would be called early this coming day, and the nettings would have to be secured and shipshape before dawn.
He looked over to the opposite end of the mess. Midshipman Deacon was sitting in the other small pool of light, his official diary wide open and his folder of notes and diagrams weighed down with a pair of brass dividers. Not that there was much motion to dislodge them. He had already noticed that Deacon's pen also lay untouched.
He listened to the hull murmuring around him. So familiar now, the memories of Audacity softened and no longer lying in wait, except perhaps at moments like these.
The ship seemed so quiet, with only an occasional intrusion, some one coughing, or rope being hauled through a block and made secure enough to satisfy the officer of the watch, or one of his subordinates, who could find no peace with his thoughts.
It was very dark on deck. No moon to mark the sea breaking away from the bows, or touch the figurehead's outthrust trident.
Simon Huxley was on watch now, with Monteith as his lord and master. At least he would have little time to brood. Young Walker would be up there with him. That should help…
Tomorrow would be Walker's birthday. Thirteen years old.
And he was full of high spirits at the prospect.
Napier sat thinking quietly over the day's events. Watching the schooner parting company, a prize crew waving and cheering. A stark contrast to the three burials. It had come to him then, like a shock. Half of Onward's company had not seen men buried who had been killed by the violence of the enemy, or ever been under fire themselves.
They would have felt it today. Clearing for action, rigging nets to repel boarders, gun drill, all timed to the minute by Maddock and the first lieutenant.
The old hands bided their time. I'll believe it when I sees it! Or Don't they know the war's over? Afterwards, Napier had seen Maddock the gunner, making his way to the narrow passage that led only to the magazine. He had been carrying the thick felt slippers he would wear if Onward was called to action. Down there in his world of fuses and packed charges, it only needed a single spark to turn the ship into an inferno, or blast her apart.
Napier had heard one of his friends ask Maddock why he had chosen his trade, if it meant being trapped below amongst all the powder and fuses.
He had grinned and retorted, 'I can't stand the noise on deck!'
But that was then.
He shivered, but not from cold.
He stared at the paper swimming in the dim light, and touched it. It was still hard to accept, but he could see the old grey house quite clearly. The faces, some of them familiar, the horses nodding from their boxes when he passed, or taking apples from his hand. The staircase and the portraits. And the admiral's sister. Aunt Nancy.
He touched his face, his mouth. And Elizabeth.
He wanted to stop, to laugh at himself. She would not even do that
He felt a hand on his shoulder, firm, insistent.
'Rise an' shine, sir! 'The face seemed to be floating above the table, and he knew he had fallen asleep.
He got to his feet and saw the man grinning, satisfied that he was awake.
'Like a millpond up top, sir. No war today! 'He hurried into the shadows, laughing.
Napier looked around, feeling his pockets, ensuring he would not forget anything. Deacon had disappeared, his diary and papers packed away. Unable to work, or to sleep.
He realized that a tankard was standing in the foul-weather slot beside him. It was Deacon's: he had seen it often since he had joined Onward, and it had his initials engraved on the side.
It was half full. Deacon must have put it down carefully, so that he would not wake him, or need to explain. It was cognac.
Preparing him, and perhaps himself.
Napier sipped it slowly and stared at the blank sheet of paper on the table.
Feet were thudding overhead, but his hand was quite steady.
Dear Elizabeth…
He swallowed the rest of the cognac and reached for his hat.
It was today.
Adam stood in the centre of the cabin and watched the empty darkness of the sea astern, in marked contrast to the deckhead skylight, where the first red rays gave colour to the shrouds, and the hint of canvas above. He stretched until his fingers could feel the movement, the life of the ship, lifting and plunging gently as she headed into an early dawn.
It seemed quiet after the bustle of hammocks being stowed, and the shouts hurrying along some one who had not heard the pipe, or had forgotten that today was different. Because the Captain had decided, and demanded, as much.
He touched the back of the chair, where he had been attempting to sleep. He had gone over it again and again.
Suppose he was mistaken? The whole ship's company keyed up for possible action, only to find that their captain had made an error of judgment. Lost his nerve…
Perhaps the French government had rescinded the order to hand Nautilus over to the Aboubakr rulers, or no such order had yet been received by Capitaine Marchand and his company. In which case… He shrugged. Better to be a laughing-stock than allow people to die for no purpose.
He recalled the faces of his officers, in this cabin, when he had explained his reasons and his intended course of action.
Squire had said, 'If these rebels, whoever they are, were ruthless enough to try and sink Nautilus before she could act as French guardship, there'll be no stopping their next attempt to control the coast. All the way to Algiers, if need be!'
Vincent had said only, 'We have no choice. It's too late for us to wait for assistance.'
Julyan had offered even less. 'That's nothing new!'
A door closed and Adam heard Jago speak briefly to somebody in the lobby.
He felt his chin: a smooth shave, as only Jago could give, and without fuss or argument, no matter the time of day or night, in storm or flat calm. Always ready.
He glanced around the cabin. His coat, hanging near the quarter windows, swaying to the easy motion, buttons and lace catching the strengthening light. Waiting for Morgan to stow it away once the crisis was over.
Like Jago, he had already been and gone. The breakfast, which he had prepared even before all hands had been piped, still lay untouched on the table.
