shining on the clean sea in the sunlight like a perfect symbol, Wolsey had turned and disappeared. Back to the mission, his only home.
Lieutenant Squire was standing on the gangway; perhaps he had asked to perform this duty. For a second or so, their eyes met. Like that final moment of decision.
The combined shrill of calls broke the stillness and Squire dropped his hand, the signal for which the burial party had been waiting. Napier heard an improvised grating being raised and tilted, and then a second, and when he looked again, the flags were empty and rippling in the light wind. It was over.
A solitary call followed: he knew it was Drummond the bosun.
Some of the men on deck were going below to their messes; others seemed reluctant to leave and stood in silence by the same gangway. Squire glanced down at his own uniform. He was wearing his best coat, at odds with his breeches, which were still badly stained from the ordeal ashore. Maybe there was a tailor at Freetown where he could replace the coat used to cover the missionary’s daughter.
He looked toward an open hatch. She might have heard the brief ceremony, despite her pain and hideous memories, and understood that they were honouring the dead in the navy’s way.
He thought of the old coat again and knew he would never discard it.
Nor would he forget her.
There were only two lanterns burning in the great cabin, but compared with the complete darkness of the previous night it seemed like broad daylight. Adam Bolitho could see himself mirrored in the stern windows among the familiar items of furniture, old friends in this sanctuary.
He was very tired, drained, but his mind refused to relax. He thought of the entire ship in darkness when they had come about to head for that little-known beach where they had landed the boats. Stealth had seemed impossible. Even the small compass light, shaded though it was, had seemed as blinding as a beacon.
Astern now, the sea was black; only the reflections in the salt-stained glass seemed real.
He braced his legs as the deck tilted slightly. Perhaps the wind had freshened, although he doubted it. There was an empty plate and a wine glass on the table. He could scarcely remember anything about either, except for Morgan’s persistence and concern.
Tomorrow, unless the wind and weather turned against them, they should sight their new landfall around noon. Julyan was optimistic, but even he had seemed subdued after the sea burials. Maybe he was like his captain. No matter how many you witnessed, each one seemed like the first.
He made an effort to concentrate. It would mean anchoring, and the depths in this area were uncertain. As the approaches to Freetown must have been years ago.
Tomorrow he would finish writing his report, when his mind was clear again. He thought of the seaman who had gone over the side, McNeil. He had always seemed in good spirits. One of Squire’s men. His entry would be the briefest.
He felt the air stir slightly as the door opened, and knew it was Jago. Apart from cabin servants he was the only one never announced by the Royal Marine sentry.
Jago closed the screen door behind him, and looked at him questioningly.
“I was told you wanted to see me, Cap’n?” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the sleeping cabin. “Thought you’d be countin’ sheep by now!”
Adam gestured to a chair. “We’ll all be busy enough tomorrow. There’s something I want to discuss. To
Jago sat down on the edge of the chair, eyes expressionless. He said, “I see you didn’t call me for a shave, Cap’n,” and rubbed his own jaw. “Needs a trained fist!”
Adam had cut himself. Even the hand guiding the razor had been weary. But he knew that Jago was ahead of him.
“I heard what you did ashore, Luke. It was what I’ve come to expect of you.”
Jago leaned forward in the chair, and Adam could see the strain as well as the strength. The man who should hate and offer no loyalty to any officer. An official pardon could never wipe away the scars, mental or physical, of an unjust flogging.
Jago said, “I think I knows what you mean to ask, Cap’n. A road we’ve been down afore, as I recalls.” Then he smiled, for the first time since returning aboard. “Remember what I said when we went over to th’ flagship. I wants to see
Adam shook his head. “You deserve it.”
Jago turned as if he had heard something, and said quietly, “An’ so do you, Cap’n.”
There was a tap at the door.
“Surgeon, sir!”
Morgan was halfway there, muttering, “Don’t they realise! We’ve not had a moment!” and sighed as Adam said, “I was expecting him.” Then, “Give my cox’n a wet, will you?”
Murray stalked into the cabin, very hawkish and alive. “I apologise for keeping you waiting, sir. I was not sure. And I still am not.” He was wearing one of his stained surgery smocks.
Adam said, “How is she?”
“Recovering. It’s still too early to judge. But she’s young and she’s strong. Given time …” Murray held up his hands and stared at them. “These are supposed to heal, but every time I touch her she must relive the ordeal. Beaten into submission, abused and violated. The damage to her mind may never mend.” He looked up, his eyes calm again. “I told her that you wished to visit her. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.”
“I’ll be guided by you. The last thing I want is to jeopardise her recovery.”
The cabin skylight was still open and they heard someone call out and laugh.
Murray said curtly, “The best sound I’ve heard since we up-anchored!”
Jago said, “I’ll wait here, Cap’n,” and picked up Adam’s coat from a chair and held it out for him. “So she’ll know.”
Murray opened the door. “She’s in my cabin.” Impatient or apprehensive; it was hard to know. Adam had already heard about the cabin: Vincent had told him. It would be quieter, safer.
One of Murray’s loblolly boys was sitting outside, and he got to his feet as they appeared in the narrow passageway. Murray’s cabin adjoined the sick berth, but was not a part of it.
Murray murmured something and the man shook his head.
“We cannot stay too long.” Murray paused. “She may have changed her mind.” He regarded Adam steadily. “Trust me.” He opened the door.
There was one small light but, like the sick quarters, everything was painted white. It was enough.
She was lying on a cot covered by a sheet which she was holding closely beneath her chin. One arm was bare, the linen bandage around her wrist livid against her tanned skin, hiding the rope burns where she had been tied and dragged. She turned her head toward the door, eyes open and unblinking.
Murray said, “I’ve brought the captain to see you, Claire. Remember how we talked about it. Only a short visit. Then perhaps you’ll go to sleep.”
She turned her head away slightly, her profile in shadow.
Murray repeated, “Captain Bolitho. He commands here.”
Her lips moved as if they were forming the name. But her eyes were shut.
Adam saw the dark hair was clinging to the pillow. Still damp; it had been washed. And on the one visible hand the nails were clean. When he had seen her carried aboard they had been black with dried blood, probably from the face of one of her attackers.
She said, “Bo-lye-tho.” Her eyes were open again. “I wanted to see you.” There was another pause.”To thank you. He said you would come.”
Adam glanced at Murray and saw his almost imperceptible nod. She was talking about her father.
She tried to twist her head to gaze at him again, but pain seemed to prevent it. The sheet had slipped from her
