staring into the darkness, listening to the occasional tread of a watch keeper the angle and bearing of each sound still unfamiliar. Or the movement of rigging, the slap of water alongside, two decks down now.
Jago grinned. ”You too, Cap’n. I see the chair got aboard safely?”
”Have a tot and tell me about everything. I want to hear it.” He sat down on the stern bench, his legs apart, his hands clasped, the young captain again.
Jago held up his fist. ”Two fingers of grog, an’ one of water, if it’s clean!”
Adam smiled. ”You will soon get used to my cox’n, Bowles.”
Bowles nodded doubtfully. ”And a cognac for you, sir.”
The door to the pantry clicked shut.
Jago glanced at the chair again, at the broad, curving deck beams and the glistening paintwork; felt the slow movement of the hull.
”No fifth-rate, sir. Bigger than we’re used to.” He half-listened to the squeal of calls, and the clatter of tackle as more stores were hoisted inboard to be stowed away.
Then he said lightly, ”She’ll suit, sir. ”I’ll something better is offered!”
Adam felt his muscles relax, and accepted, perhaps for the first time, how deeply the change had affected him.
”And what about young David? Did it go off all right? I wish I could have been there.”
Jago thought about it, recalling the final handshake, the sudden anxiety, the ship rising above the boat he had unofficially borrowed for the occasion. He still found it hard to believe that he had even cared. That he still did. It went against almost everything he knew.
The challenge yelled down from the ship’s side, and his own firm and immediate response.
”Mr. Midshipman Napier, sir! Coming aboard to join!”
Just another ‘young gentleman’.
But he said, ”I was proud of him, an’ that’s a fact.”
He took the glass from Bowles as he stooped over them and added, ”An’ he got his frigate, which is more than some can say!”
Bowles returned to his pantry as the cabin echoed with laughter.
Things might be very different, he thought as he polished glasses. They needed to be.
Jago wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
”Almost forgot, sir.” He groped into his jacket. ”Lady, er, Roxby, give me a letter for you.”
Adam put down his glass, his bowels like ice.
Jago was saying, ”I’ve ‘eard you’ll be goin’ up to London again .. . ?”
Adam flattened the paper on the bench and read it slowly. Some one had printed an address in large capitals. Almost a child’s writing.
He heard himself answer, ”Yes. Two days’ time. The Admiralty. Final instructions, I believe.” His brain refused to concentrate. Even Nancy’s scribbled words made no sense.
It is all I was given. I am still not sure I should have told you.
Adam was on his feet without realizing it, one hand on the back of the chair.
”I am still a stranger to London. I marvel that people there can find their way from one street to another.” He was making a fool of himself. ”The place they call Southwark? All I know of it is an inn called the George I took the coach from there to the George here in Portsmouth. That’s all I can remember.”
Bowles walked from the little pantry, his head lowered as if he had been listening to something elsewhere in the poop. ”I knows Southwark, sir.” He pronounced it ”Sutherk”. ”I knows it, sir.” He moved one of the empty glasses, his mind far away. He was thinking of the tavern where he had once worked and had a room of his own. Of the din and upheavals when sailors came ashore from the ships moored on the great river, looking for drink and willing company. And the crimes committed in those parts, the ragged corpses which dangled from the gibbets at Wapping and Greenwich as grim reminders. ”It is changing with the times, I believe, sir. Not always for the best.” Even the hated press gangs had trod warily where he had lived by the Thames. ”Some parts, sir .. .” He raised his eyes, gauging the captain’s mood. ”It’s not safe to walk alone or unarmed.”
Adam nodded slowly, moved by his cautious sincerity.
”Thank you, Bowles. That was well said.”
He walked to the stern windows and looked down into a lighter which was being warped beneath the counter. Faces peered up at him. There was a woman, her legs uncovered, displaying a basket of bright scarves, grinning broadly. They could have been invisible.
Nancy was afraid of offering him hope. But suppose her information held the truth? That for some reason Lowenna needed him?
Tonight he was being entertained by his officers, in his own ship, as was the time-honoured custom. Two days from now he would be in London, with Bethune. More secrets, although Jago had heard about the trip within an hour of stepping aboard.
He turned his back on the glittering water and overlapping masts and said, ”Can you read this, Bowles?” He held out the letter.
”Sir?” His eyes merely blinked, but it sounded like of course.
Adam cursed his own impatience. ”I meant no disrespect.”
The big nose trained round again. ”None taken, sir.” He almost smiled. ”In my old trade, the merchants I dealt with would rob you blind if you couldn’t read and unravel their accounts!”
He held the letter to the reflected sunshine. ”I knows that street, sir. Some wealthy folk lived there, but they fell on hard times. I’m told that things is very different now. There was some talk that a new dock was to be built close by.” He handed back the letter and added apologetically, ”Unless you needs to go, sir .. .” He did not finish.
Adam moved restlessly across the cabin. Suppose he had not been going to London at Bethune’s request? Nobody could say when Athena would be ready for her passage to the West Indies, or even if the orders had been changed by some higher authority.
There would be no other opportunity. No chance to discover the value of this small, crudely printed note.
He had a command, a ship when so many others had nothing. Not Unrivalled, but a ship .. .
He knew what Nancy feared most, about him and for him. To her, those brief meetings with Lowenna might not be enough. They would still be strangers, and his visit could do more harm than good. He touched his coat, as if to feel the yellow rose he had seen in the portrait at Falmouth. Bethune or not, he knew he would have gone.
Unless you needs to go .. .
Jago interrupted his thoughts. ”I’ll be with you, Cap’n.” Suddenly alert, tense, like all those other times. But there was something else, almost a warning.
Adam looked at him, knowing he should refuse. It was something personal, not a reason to involve him in something unlawful, dangerous.
Jago, the man who hated officers and all those who abused authority, who had been wrongfully flogged, and, although declared innocent, would carry the scars of the cat until his dying day.
The same man had made certain that David Napier had been delivered safely to his new ship with the warrant of midshipman, a breed he had been known to dismiss with contempt on many occasions. And lastly, the man who had waved aside the chance of being paid off, the opportunity of living as he chose, and traded it for this.
He said, ”Can’t be no worse than Algiers, sir!”
Adam smiled. ”I take too much for granted, Luke. Thank you.”
Bowles said, ”The first lieutenant will be here shortly, sir.”
Adam nodded. He had told Stirling that he wanted to go through the muster books and the watch bills, also the red punishment book, often the best gauge of any ship, and especially her officers.
Stirling would probably prepare him for the wardroom invitation to dinner, the individuals behind the uniforms he would be meeting.
He thought of the other note which was folded so carefully in his pocket. Almost falling apart now, but all that he had of hers. What might the formidable Stirling say if he knew his captain’s secret fears?
He smiled a little. No wonder
dear Nancy was troubled about him.
”First lieutenant, sir!”
Bolitho turned to face the screen door. The flag captain.
Lieutenant Francis Troubridge smiled regretfully, and said, ”You will not be kept longer than necessary, sir. I am afraid this room is in a state of chaos.”
Adam Bolitho tossed his hat on a vacant chair and looked around the big room he remembered so well from his previous visit. It looked as if it had been hit by a whirlwind. All the paintings, including Bethune’s frigate engaging the two Spaniards, were arranged in a rank along one wall, numbered for removal to his house, or perhaps destined for another room in the Admiralty. Boxes and ledgers in other piles; even Bethune’s handsome wine cooler was covered with a grubby sheet.
Troubridge was watching him, one hand still resting on the door handle.
”The higher we climb, the more precarious the perch, sir.”
Bethune was leaving, going to an important post in the West Indies. And already another was taking his place, like a door closing behind him.
Troubridge was in his element here, Adam thought. At ease with the senior officers they had met, always ready to remind Bethune of any small detail some one else had overlooked.
A civilian member of the Board of Admiralty, a personal friend of the First Lord as Troubridge had recalled, had explained some of the complications which had followed the various acts of Parliament and treaties to control and then abolish the slave trade, once and for all. There had been an Anglo-Portuguese treaty which still allowed Portugal to continue loading slaves in her own ports, and another which made Portugal ban the trade north of the Equator, but allowed her the freedom to continue trading below it. And the same with Spain, which, to Adam, made a mockery of the original resolutions. Spain and Portugal were still able to trade freely south of the Equator, where even a simple sailor man could appreciate was the richest harvest both in the Indies and the Americas.
In Britain the slave trade was a felony. Elsewhere it was still able to make a fortune for those daring and ruthless enough to risk seizure and punishment.
Bethune’s command was to be a fluid one. To co-operate with the ships of other nations, but to ensure that regular patrols continued on and around the most likely shipping routes so that any vessel carrying slaves, or fitted and equipped with the means of restraining them, could be arrested, and the owners or masters brought to trial.
Troubridge was followed by two clerks who were making copious notes about everything. They would find life aboard a King’s ship very different when they joined Athena at Portsmouth.
Adam had also seen a file marked Rear-Admiral Thomas Herrick. His uncle’s old friend. He recalled his visit to Unrivalled in Freetown, that melting pot of the anti-slavery patrols, where some terrible scenes had ensued when overloaded slavers had been escorted into harbour, their human cargoes more dead than alive after being crammed into conditions which were like vignettes of hell.
Maps, charts, signals, information; it would be easy to lose his way in minutiae. Adam kept his mental distance, or tried to. A captain’s viewpoint had to take priority: time and distance, the most favourable routes, the anchorages and safest channels, and the reliability or otherwise of charts where an unmarked reef could rip out a ship’s timbers like a knife through butter. Fresh water, stores, medical supplies, and a routine which kept men fit and ready to fight if the need arose.
It was difficult to see those aspects clearly in the Admiralty’s map room, impressive though it was.
If Bethune had any doubts he did not show them; he was easy-mannered, almost casual at times. Maybe that came with flag rank, too.
Another door opened and two workmen entered, an oil painting held carefully between them. Bethune and another officer, a rear-admiral, followed them.
Adam had already been introduced to the rear-admiral, Philip Lancaster, whose exploits during the second American war had brought him to their lordships’ notice.
Bethune said, ”I hope you’ll be comfortable here, Philip.” He was looking at the picture of his frigate, and it was then that Adam saw the first hint of uncertainty, perhaps dismay. He was leaving this secure world for the unknown. A ship instead of power, strategy, and ambition. Lancaster pointed to the opposite wall, by accident or choice, Adam wondered. It was where the frigate had hung, guns blazing, colours streaming above the smoke of battle.
”There, I think.”
It was a full-length portrait of the man who had just spoken. It was a good likeness, a quietly determined face, with an anonymous sea as a background.
Bethune licked his lips, and smiled. ”You must get it brought up to date, eh, Philip?”
In the portrait, Lancaster wore the uniform of a post captain.
It was something to say, to break the silence.
”I intended to, Sir Graham. It was all arranged.” He stopped, frowning, as a servant came to stand just inside the doors, and announced, ”The First Sea Lord is ready to receive you now, sir.”
Bethune relaxed slowly. In charge again. ”Well, what happened?”
They were picking up their hats, looking around the disturbed room; only the ornate clock had not been moved.
Lancaster adjusted his dress coat and shrugged. ”It was in the Times. The artist I intended fell down dead the other day.” He strode past the servant, adding, ”Most inconsiderate, don’t you know!” He laughed.
Troubridge waited. ”Are you ready, sir?”
But Adam scarcely heard him. He wanted to go closer to the portrait, but could not. Dared not.
He did not need to examine the artist’s signature. It would be the same hand which had painted the empty sleeve on the portrait of Captain James Bolitho, and the portrait of Sir Richard. He was touching his lapel. And the yellow rose on mine.
He thought suddenly of Athena’s wardroom, brightly lit by candles and shining with the mess silver. The faces, some sweating badly by the end of the evening, the loud laughter at some joke made by Tarrant, the young third lieutenant. A ponderous speech by Stirling. Looking back, it seemed more a homage to the previous captain than one of welcome.
And the long journey from Portsmouth to the Admiralty, Jago sitting with him in the coach, more ill at ease than he could ever recall.
Now here. And now this.
Troubridge had moved and was facing him.
”If I may help in any way, sir?” The admiral had already been dismissed from his thoughts. This, the present moment, was suddenly important, although he could not determine why.
Adam said, ”The artist he mentioned. Do you know his name?”
”Yes, sir. He once did a portrait of my father. It was Montagu ... Sir Gregory. It was very sudden, I believe, sir.”
The Admiralty servant coughed politely and Troubridge said, ”We must go, sir. The First Lord dislikes being delayed.”
Their feet made the only sound in the long corridor. Occasionally they passed a window, where carriages in the distance and, once, a troop of dragoons gave a touch of normality.
She was in that house. Like Andromeda. Helpless and alone.
The tall doors were just a few paces away: the room where the great news had broken. Trafalgar. Waterloo. And Algiers.
Troubridge said suddenly, ”You can trust me, sir.”
Afterwards he knew he would never be able to forget Captain Bolitho’s expression. His eyes. Nor want to.
The great doors had opened as though to some signal, but Adam turned abruptly and gripped the flag lieutenant’s arm as if nothing else mattered.
”I am not sure I can trust myself!”
The journey seemed endless, and Adam had lost count of the streets and squares, the gleam of water whenever the coach drove close to the river. It was late, and pitch dark, and yet there seemed to be people everywhere, and when he lowered a window he could hear the clatter of wheels and horses, smell woodsmoke and the occasional aroma of cooking whenever they passed yet another tavern. Did nobody ever sleep in the capital?
>
The coachman showed no uncertainty, and Adam guessed he was used to these journeys with little notice or none at all; Troubridge had said as much. He was often employed by senior officers not wishing to draw attention to themselves. Troubridge had learned fast since his appointment as Bethune’s aide.
Adam wished he knew what Jago was thinking, up there beside the coachman, probably wondering what had made him insist on joining them.
Troubridge was thinking aloud.
”Getting close.” He was peering through the opposite window. ”That looks like the church.” He hesitated. ”I was here once before.”
Adam saw some glowing braziers beside the road, dark figures crowded around them for warmth and companionship. Coachmen, grooms, servants, it was hard to tell. Waiting for their masters to become tired or bored with whatever pastime or indulgence had brought them here.
The houses were higher now, several storeys, some with windows lighted, chandeliers giving a hint of the district’s original luxury. Much as the solemn Bowles had described. Other houses were in total darkness, shutters closed, walls neglected and flaking in the carriage lanterns.
Troubridge murmured, ”Number Eighteen, sir. We’re passing it now.”
Adam felt even more uneasy. Cheated. It was no different from all the others.
Troubridge said doubtfully, ”Looks deserted.” He leaned out of the window. ”Some lights up there, sir.”
The coachman said nothing, and had climbed down to attend to his horses.
”What kind of people, I wonder
, Troubridge shrugged, and Adam thought he heard the clink of steel.
”Gaming rooms.” Again the hesitation. ”Brothels. I did hear that artists come here to earn their keep.”
Jago was by the door, although he had made no sound. He said, ”Some one comin’ now, sir.”
A group of men, perhaps six in all, one calling back to a coachman, telling him to wait without fail. A loud, slurred voice. One used to being obeyed.
They were going toward the house, Number Eighteen. One of them was laughing; another called, ”Put it away, John, you can have all you want to drink inside!”
Alexander Kent - Bolitho 26 Page 7
