reassure himself that
And tomorrow they would be buried. Someone would remember them.
Adam spread the letter on the desk but could not focus on the words. He had already read it in minutes snatched between one duty and another, all the demands which had awaited him on board; he had even found time to call young David and tell him Elizabeth had asked to be remembered to him. Just a brief contact, captain with midshipman.
He felt the hot air stir against his skin, and heard the quiet Welsh voice. “Shall I fetch another brandy, sir?” Adam saw Morgan’s eyes flicker to the discarded coat, probably noting his unshaven face as well.
“Another?” he said.
Morgan smiled gently. “With all respect, sir, I think you should try to sleep a while.”
The door closed, and he tried to focus on the writing, hearing her voice in the words.
Later, when Hugh Morgan returned to the great cabin under protest, to report that Sunset had been piped, he found his captain asleep across the desk, the brandy untouched. He thought of the lovely girl in the painting in the adjoining cabin. “Flaunting herself,” as his old mother in Wales would have called it.
And aloud, he said quietly, “Not for a while yet, Captain. We need you right now!“
12 VOICE FROM THE PAST
ADAM BOLITHO WALKED OUT on to the dusty road and heard the graveyard gates clang shut behind him. He had already noticed that they had not been painted for a long time, and were showing rust.
He looked toward the harbour and the tight cluster of masts, a few moving, taking advantage of a slight but steady breeze, others anchored or alongside, their work done for the day. Beyond the sheds and slipways he could see the flagship’s masts and spars rising above the rest, with all her canvas furled and still, no “unsightly” windsails to offend the admiral.
He knew it was wrong, but he was glad to be alone, if only for a short while. The burial service had been brief, almost impersonal, but how could it be otherwise? It had been conducted by a senior chaplain with a hollow, monotonous voice, but in fairness he had known none of the men being buried this day. How could he?
Faces in battle, or laughing together at some well-worn sailor’s joke. Or seen across the table, for promotion or punishment.
Their personal possessions would be collected and auctioned; the wardroom, too, would donate something. As usual, time and distance were the enemy. How long would it be before their relatives and loved ones were told?
How would Lowenna have been told? A courier or some local authority, maybe an incoming ship, or by the official letter.
He stopped and looked down at his feet; they were covered with mud, and some of it had spattered his stockings. The ground had been soaked with water before the burial, to the point of being almost awash. The gravediggers would have been helpless otherwise: the sun-baked earth was like rock.
The sight of his shoes transported him to somewhere else a world away: Cornwall and the coast he knew so well. Walking along one of those narrow country lanes after a downpour. Where you could still smell, among the fragrance of the fields, the sea, and taste its salt on your mouth when you spoke, or laughed with the woman you loved.
He was conscious of the clip-clop of hooves and the scrape of wheels, and realised he had been hearing them for some time beyond his thoughts. He moved to the side of the road, but the vehicle was slowing. Stopping.
“Well met, Captain Bolitho! For a moment I thought I had taken the wrong turning.”
It was a small carriage drawn by two horses, probably because of the steeper inclines of the road. And despite the familiarity of the greeting, the face staring from the open window was that of a stranger, lean and narrow with deepset eyes, the hair completely grey, the voice confident and cultured.
“I understand you’re heading for the harbour?” The door creaked open. “I’m going that way. Please join me.”
Adam shook his head. “I cannot. My shoes are …”
The man pushed the door back as far as it would go and held up one of his feet. “Mine too. But I’m glad I was there.”
And Adam remembered seeing him in the graveyard, almost hidden among the officials and visitors, but somehow remaining remote, apart from them all.
He thrust out a hand as hard and lean as himself. “I’m Godden, by the way.” He smiled, and seemed younger. “I was hoping to meet you, but time ran out. Today changed that.” He slid across the bench seat so that Adam could climb in beside him. The coachman who had jumped down to hold the horses was waiting silently. “Carry on, Toby!”
The carriage turned back on to the road, and Adam’s mind groped with the sudden shift of events. The man sitting beside him was not merely “Godden.” He was the Honourable Sir Charles Godden, the admiral’s “important guest,” who had had every one on the move since his arrival in Freetown.
Godden said, “I have been hearing quite a lot about you, Captain Bolitho. This recent venture must seem a reward for all the work supported by Rear-Admiral Langley and his staff. Do you see any end to the slave trade in view? It is illegal in most countries, but the business goes on, although the admiral seems to think it is already in decline … almost finished except in name.”
Adam hesitated. This meeting was no accident, and it was more than a mere courtesy.
He said carefully, “There are always men willing to take the risk, if the money is ready and sufficient. Slaves are being taken from these shores as far away as Brazil and Cuba, despite the efforts of the patrols and the threat of punishment if caught.”
He stared through the window next to him. Even so diplomatic a comment sounded disloyal, against the code of duty and loyalty as a sea officer.
Godden said, “Politics and the navy have much in common,” and tapped some dried mud from his shoe. “Robert Walpole is regarded as Britain’s first true prime minister.” He paused. “Except by the Irish, of course!” He became serious again. “Walpole was a man I would have dearly liked to know. We could all still learn from his example. His family motto, for instance. The part I remember is,
He rapped the inside of the roof. “Here, Toby!”
The carriage juddered to a halt, dust settling around it in a yellow cloud. Godden turned easily in his seat, his eyes in shadow. “I know a good deal about you, and I have learned more since I arrived here.” He seemed to sense a challenge, and added, “Not from staff officers.”
He tapped his chest. “Or politicians like me. But from ordinary, decent men like the ones you lead. Who trust you.”
Adam opened the door and said sharply, “And who die because of me!”
He stepped down into the road so that
They shook hands, but only their eyes spoke. Then Adam turned toward the steps to the jetty. His arrival would already have been reported.
But the words were still ringing in his mind:
Lieutenant James Squire halted in a patch of shade by an unfinished wall and looked across the graveyard,
