Adam saw all this, and that her eyes were blue, and also that she was angry. He made another attempt. ‘We were not forewarned of your arrival, otherwise you would have been offered more assistance.’ He gestured wordlessly at the disordered cabin. ‘Your father said nothing to me about all this!’
She seemed to relax slightly, and sat on the deck looking up at him.
‘Sir Lewis is my husband, Lieutenant. That you should have been told.’
Adam could feel the other woman watching him, and, he thought, enjoying his discomfort.
‘I am Captain Adam Bolitho, ma’am.’
She stood lightly and pushed the hair from her forehead, all in one movement.
‘There now, Captain. We all make mistakes, it would seem!’ She looked around the cabin. ‘Yours, I believe.’ It seemed to amuse her. ‘We are honoured.’
The other woman had managed to remove her shoe, and was staring glumly at her swollen foot. Lady Bazeley said gravely, ‘This is Hilda. She takes care of everything.’
She laughed, and the other woman’s face responded as if she had never learned to resist the sound.
The girl moved just as swiftly to the stern windows and looked at the panorama of masts and colourful lateen sails, then she faced him again, her body outlined against the blue water. ‘And this is a man-of-war.’ She sat on the bench seat, the hair falling across her bare shoulder. ‘And you are her captain.’
Adam wondered at his own silence, his inability to answer, to be himself. She was laughing at him, teasing him, and probably very aware of the effect it had on him and anyone else she cared to confront.
She pointed at the adjoining sleeping cabin. ‘I see you are not married, Captain.’
He said coolly, ‘You have a keen eye, ma’am.’
‘And that surprises you? Perhaps you take a dim view of a woman’s place in the scheme of things!’ She laughed again, and did not wait for a reply. ‘You have been in a battle, I understand, and you have been injured?’
‘Many were less fortunate.’
She nodded slowly. ‘I am sorry for it. I have not experienced war at close quarters, but I have seen what it has done to people. Those close to me.’ She tossed her head, the mood passing as quickly. ‘Now you really must excuse me, Captain. I must prepare myself.’ She walked past him, and he could feel the impact of her presence as if they had touched. She was lovely, and she would know it, and that alone must act as a warning, before he made a complete fool of himself. Bazeley was not the sort of man who would forgive even a casual offence.
‘If you will excuse me also, m’ lady, I must prepare the ship for leaving harbour.’
She regarded him steadily, her eyes much darker in this confined space. Violet.
He glanced at the sleeping cabin, where his cot had already been folded away. Where he had dreamed, and remembered. He turned away from it. Where Lovatt had coughed out his life . . .
‘My servant will assist you. He is a good lad. If you require anything else, my officers will do their best to make your stay aboard as comfortable as possible.’
‘In the Cumberland, the captain said I was to ask him. Are the King’s ships so different?’
She was playing with him again. Was she so young that she did not understand what she could do, was doing? Or did she not care?
He answered, ‘Then ask me, m’ lady, and I will try to oblige you.’
She watched him, one hand resting on the empty sword rack, her eyes thoughtful.
‘A duty, then?’
He smiled and heard the sentry move away from the door. To offer every facility.
‘I hope it may also be a pleasure, m’ lady.’
He turned to the door and the pain hit him again like a bullet.
A reminder; if so, it was just in time. He walked quickly to the companion ladder, his mind clearing as the pain retreated.
Galbraith was waiting for him, with one of his lists already in his hands.
He said, ‘I’ve spread Sir Lewis’s people as evenly as possible amongst the warrant officers. Two will be in the wardroom.’
Rank and status. Always separated, no matter how small the ship. He heard her voice again, mocking him. Are the King’s ships so different?
Galbraith said, ‘Lady Bazeley is a very striking woman, sir. I shall endeavour to make certain that she is not offended by some careless word or deed.’
He was so serious that Adam wanted to laugh, and did, at the sheer absurdity of it.
‘And that includes the captain, I take it?’
Acting Lieutenant Bellairs heard him laugh, and saw the surprise and bewilderment on Galbraith’s face.
He thought of the lovely woman in the cabin; she had smiled at him.
And he was a part of it.
Adam Bolitho tried to ease the discomfort in his legs on the makeshift mattress and stared at the spiralling lantern above the chart table. It was an effort to think clearly, to determine each sound and movement. Here, in the chart room, it even felt different. Like another ship.
He rubbed his eyes, and knew he would get no more sleep. He had already been on deck when Unrivalled had shortened sail for the night, and had sensed the growing strength of the wind, holding the ship over; the darkness had been filled with flying spray.
It had done something to clear his head. But not much.
He heard the muffled sounds of blocks, the stamp of bare feet somewhere overhead; even that seemed strangely distorted.
It was useless. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress and felt the ship rising, rising, before ploughing down again. He could see it in his mind, as clearly as if he were up there with Massie. He licked his dry lips. The middle watch. How much wine had they had?
The three lieutenants, and O’Beirne the surgeon, sitting around the table in his cabin. Lady Bazeley’s servant Hilda had supervised the flow of dishes and wines, assisted by young Napier. Bazeley himself had been in good form, recounting his various trips, visits to other countries, and, in passing, his building of fortifications and harbour facilities under government contract. Most of the wine had been his, and he had insisted that they should try whatever they fancied.
Adam had been very conscious of the young woman opposite him, her eyes giving little away while she listened to each officer in turn. He had been conscious, also, of the lack of personal comforts in the great cabin; no wonder she had guessed he was unmarried. The women had probably laughed about it when they had been left alone together.
He felt for a beaker of water but it was empty. And there would be more incidents like the one which had so unreasonably disturbed him. Bazeley had left the table to select a particular bottle of wine, and had paused by one of the cabin lanterns to show them his own name, engraved on the medallion around its neck.
‘A Château Lafite, 1806. Now this will appeal to you, Captain.’
The ship had been close-hauled, the deck rising and shuddering to the pressure of sea and rudder. Adam had seen Bazeley put his other hand on his wife’s shoulder as if to steady himself as he had stressed the significance of that particular chateau or vintage, Adam could remember neither. He had been watching the hand gripping her naked shoulder, the strong fingers moving occasionally like a small, private intimacy.
And all the while she had been looking at him across the table; her eyes had never left his. Not once did she glance up at the man by her chair, nor had she responded to his touch. Perhaps it meant nothing, although he had heard that they had been married for only six months.
He had tasted the claret; it meant nothing to him. It might as easily have been cider.
He had seen her hand move only once, to readjust the gown across her shoulder. And even then she had looked at him.
He saw the old sword hanging beside his boat cloak, swaying with the heavy motion. Was he so stupid that he could not recognise the danger? A single wrong move, and he would lose everything. He reached out and touched the damp timbers. The ship was everything.
He st
ood slowly, waiting for the pain, but it did not come. He spread his hands on the chart table and stared at Cristie’s scribbled notes and the soft cloth he used to polish the ship’s chronometer, something he entrusted to no one but himself. A man who had grown up in the same streets as Collingwood; what would he think of his captain if he knew his weakness? Like a false bearing or sounding on a chart. Not to be trusted.
There was a tap on the door: someone needing to examine the chart, to make some new calculation. If in doubt, call the Captain. That, too, seemed to mock him.
But it was the boy Napier, his shirt soaked with spray, carrying his shoes in one hand.
‘What is it?’ Adam seized his wet arm. ‘Where have you been?’
Napier said quietly, ‘I – I thought I should call you, sir.’ He swallowed, perhaps already regretting that he was here. ‘The lady –’
‘Lady Bazeley? What’s happened?’ His mind was suddenly quite clear. ‘Easy, now. Tell me – take your time.’
The boy stared at him in the swaying light. ‘I heard somethin’, sir. I was in the pantry, like you told me.’ He stared out into the poop’s inner darkness. ‘She were out there, sir. I tried to help, but she wouldn’t move. She was sick, sir.’
Adam snatched his boat cloak and said, ‘Show me.’
Once outside the chart room the sound of sea and banging canvas was almost deafening. The deck was streaming with water, shipped each time Unrivalled ploughed into the heavy swell.
‘Here, sir!’ His voice was full of relief, that he had told his captain, that she was still where he had left her.
She was below the quarterdeck ladder on the leeward side of the upper deck; seamen on watch could have passed without seeing her. She could have fallen against one of the tethered eighteen-pounders, broken a rib or her skull. It happened even to experienced sailors.
Adam crouched under the ladder and gathered her into a sitting position. She felt very light in his arms, her hair hiding her face, her feet pale in the darkness. She was wet to the skin and her body was like ice.
‘Cloak, here!’ He held her again, feeling her shivering, with cold or nausea, it could be either.
He dragged the cloak round her shoulders, wrapping it with great care as more spray rattled against the ladder and drenched his shirt. He felt her body contract in another spasm and saw Napier with a sand bucket under the ladder.
‘Easy, easy!’ He did not realise he had spoken aloud. ‘I’ll bring some help.’
She seemed to understand then what he had said. Who he was. She tried to turn, to struggle round, one hand pushing the hair from her face. As he restrained her he felt the coldness of her skin. She was naked under the dripping gown.
She gasped, ‘No.’ But when he pulled away she shook her head and said, ‘No! Don’t go.’
He said, ‘Get someone, fast!’ But Napier had already disappeared.
Slowly and carefully, he began to drag the girl from beneath the ladder. At any second now someone would come, perhaps call Massie, who was in charge of the watch. And then Bazeley.
She lolled against him and he felt her grip his hand, pulling it against her, across her. She would remember none of it. The rest did not matter.
He felt someone kneel beside him, caught the rich tang of rum. It was Jago, the boy Napier hovering behind him like a nervous ghost.
Jago said between his teeth, ‘Trouble, sir?’ He did not wait for or seem to expect a reply. ‘All women is trouble!’
They guided and half-carried her into the poop again, the sounds becoming muffled, insignificant.
The wardroom door was closed, and there was no sentry at the cabin screen. Jago muttered, ‘Just to be on the safe side, sir.’
They found the woman Hilda in a state of anxiety and disbelief.
Adam said, ‘Dry her, and get her body warm again. D’ you know what to do?’
She took the girl in her arms and led her to the couch which had been prepared in the sleeping cabin. There was no sign of Bazeley, nor were his clothes anywhere to be seen.
She said, ‘Too much wine. I tried to warn her.’ She combed the wet hair from the girl’s face with her fingers. ‘You should go now. I can manage.’ She called after them, ‘Thank you, Captain!’
Outside, it was as if nothing had happened. The sentry had reappeared at the screen, but stood aside as they passed. A ship’s boy was climbing the companion ladder, carrying a tarpaulin coat for one of the watchkeepers.
Adam stared at the deckhead, measuring the sounds of rigging and canvas. They would have to take in a reef if the wind did not cease.
‘In for a squall.’ He had spoken aloud, unconsciously.
Jago thought of the girl sprawled on the couch, the gown plastered to her body, hiding nothing.
Half to himself, he murmured, ‘It’ll be a bloody hurricane if this little lot gets out!’
Adam reached the chart room and paused. ‘Thank you.’ But Jago was already melting into the darkness.
He closed the door and stared at the chart, and then down at his shirt and breeches, dark with spray and probably vomit, still feeling the fingers, cold on his wrist where she had pressed his hand against her. She would not remember. And if she did, her shame and disgust would soon change to affront and worse.
He heard footsteps clattering on a ladder: the midshipman of the watch coming to tell his captain that the wind was rising, or it had veered, or it was lessening. And I shall deal with it.
He sat on the mattress and waited. But this time the footsteps scurried past.
He lay back and stared at the lantern. And just as they had left the great cabin he had heard the woman Hilda speaking quietly, firmly.
Lifeline or death wish, it no longer seemed to matter.
Her name was Rozanne.
Tomorrow, today, it would be all through the ship. And yet, he knew it would not.
A dream then, soon over, and best forgotten.
When Galbraith came aft to relieve the middle watch, he found his captain fast asleep.
The echoes of the gun salute rolled across the crowded harbour like dying thunder, the smoke barely moving while Unrivalled crept to her allotted anchorage preceded by the guardboat, and let go.
Adam Bolitho tugged at his shirt beneath the heavy dress coat and watched the pale buildings of Malta’s shoreline shimmering in haze like a mirage. How different from the brusque and fickle winds on their passage from the Rock, and the exhilaration of changing tack in time to outwit every trick.
And then, almost becalmed, they had crawled the last miles to this anchorage, with courses and topsails all but flat against the rigging.
The guardboat was pulling for the shore now, to warn Bethune of his visitors, he thought. Bethune was welcome to this part of it.
He walked to the opposite side of the quarterdeck and saw a few traders already idling nearby, holding up their wares, probably the very same oddments they had offered Unrivalled on her first visit here.
Chests and baggage were already being hauled on deck, and cargo nets were laid out in readiness to lower them into the boats. Partridge and his men were swarming around the boat-tier, doubtless speculating on their chances of getting ashore, being free from routine and discipline, perhaps to lose themselves in some of the island’s more dubious attractions.
He saw the cabin skylight open and remain so. Lady Bazeley would soon be leaving. He could see it now as it was, in its true perspective, as he might assess the evidence of some offender brought before him for sentence. He had scarcely seen her since that first night. She had been on deck once or twice, but always with the woman Hilda, and once the surgeon, for company.
She had remained for the most part in the great cabin, and had had all her meals sent there. Napier confided that very little had been eaten.
Their eyes had met only once, when he had been standing by the foremast discussing some final repairs with Blane, the carpenter. She had seemed about to raise her hand to him, but had used it instead to adjust the br
im of her hat.
Bazeley had spoken to him hardly at all, and then only on matters relating to their progress, the ship’s time of arrival, and aspects of her routine. He had made no mention at all of his wife’s behaviour, or her illness. Galbraith had solved one mystery. Bazeley had been drinking with some of his companions in the warrant officers’ mess when she had left the cabin in her night attire, apparently the worse for drink.
Whenever Bazeley did mention her it was as though he were speaking of a possession. Like the hand on her shoulder that night at the table, it was deliberate. He could not imagine Bazeley doing anything on a whim.
He moved into a patch of shade, angry at himself. Like some moonstruck midshipman . . . It was unlikely that they would ever meet again, and it was just as well. He had been mad even to think about it. And it was dangerous.
Bellairs called, ‘They’re about to leave, I think, sir.’
Adam watched her stepping through the companion hatch; she even did that gracefully, in spite of her gown. For a moment she stood alone by the untended wheel, looking around, at the men working on deck and up in the yards, and then towards the land, veiled in its dusty heat. And then, finally, at him.
Adam crossed the deck and removed his hat. ‘I hope you are feeling well, m’ lady?’
He saw her eyes flash. Then she said, ‘Better. Much better. Thank you, Captain.’
He relaxed a little. Either she did not remember, or she wanted only to forget.
She said, ‘So this is Malta. A place worth fighting and dying for, I’m told.’ There was no contempt or sarcasm; if anything, it was resignation.
‘Shall you be here long, m’ lady?’ A voice seemed to warn him. Stop now.
‘Who can tell?’ She looked at him directly, her eyes changing again. Like the sea, he thought. ‘And you, Captain? Some other port, perhaps? Some new adventure?’ She tossed her head, impatient with the game. ‘Some adoring woman?’
Galbraith called, ‘Sir Lewis insists that our boats will not be required, sir.’
Adam stared at the shore, and saw several boats pulling smartly towards them. Bazeley was obviously a man of influence. Even Vice-Admiral Bethune was apparently eager to make his acquaintance.
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