He said calmly, “I could arrange a carriage for you. You can pay me back when you feel like it.” He saw the sudden anger fall away, like a cloud passing from calmer water. “For the first part of the journey, at any rate.”
She put her hand to his face, and touched it very gently.
“Forgive me. I am not good company today.” She swung away from him. “Sir Gregory left me well provided. With money.” She seemed to shiver, with either laughter or despair. “To think that I dared to stand on the shore and watch his ship sail away. Say nothing, do nothing, let him fade out of reach!” She turned back, and her composure was gone, her body trembling within the loose gown. “I want to stand beside him with pride, not endless guilt and the terror of what I might do to him. To us.”
Francis Troubridge made up his mind. Stupidly, he remembered what a senior post captain had once told him. Warned him. “A flag-lieutenant does not make decisions. He merely acts on those determined by his betters!”
He said, “Athena cannot sail without her admiral. Sir Graham will not be joining her for ten days. Even then, there will be matters to deal with before we weigh anchor.”
Her eyes filled her face; she was close enough for him to feel her quick breathing, catch the scent of her body.
She said, “What must I do?”
“I am going to Plymouth ahead of Sir Graham.” He swallowed. What are you saying? “Three carriages and a wagon of some kind.” He was seeing it in his mind, and later he might see the risks even more clearly.
“You would do that for me?”
He felt the tension running out, like sand. “For both of you.”
She walked back and forth across the room. “And you ask and expect no reward?” She did not look at him. “Sir Gregory would have approved of you.” She put her hand to her breast and held it there. Recovering herself, like preparing for a painter’s pose, and beyond. The enemy.
Troubridge looked down at his sweating hands, surprised that they appeared normal. Relaxed. He said limply, “It were better that you should have a maid for company.”
Afterwards, Lieutenant Francis Troubridge thought it was probably the first laughter that room had heard for a long time.
Adam Bolitho nodded in passing to the Royal Marine sentry and continued into his cabin. A cold, brilliant morning, everything familiar and yet at once so strange. It was always a demanding time, for captain or newly signed landman alike. The time to up-anchor, to bring the ship to life, so that every block and piece of cordage worked as one: the ship under command.
Bowles’s tall, stooping shadow moved into the sunlight slanting from the stern windows.
“Somethin’ to warm you, sir?”
Adam smiled, and could feel the tightness of his mouth and jaw. He had held a command since he was twenty-three. Surely there was nothing new to catch him unawares. He had seen many eyes darting glances at their new captain, a few threatening fists when this man or that was slow at the braces or running to lend his weight to a capstan bar. There was even a fiddler, although you could hardly pick out the tune above the bang and thunder of released canvas, the rigging creaking as the fresh northeasterly filled sails and heeled Athena hard over to lean above her own reflection.
The harbour mouth, always a challenge with no time for second thoughts. Even Fraser, the sailing-master, had remarked, “Don’t look wide enough to drive a four-in-hand through it!” Outwardly calm, as Adam had always remembered him. Something to cling to when surrounded by faces still mostly unknown, unproved.
He cradled the mug in both hands, relaxing very slowly, his ear still tuned to the thud of the tiller head, the scamper of bare feet overhead, and the occasional bark of commands.
It was strong coffee, some of his own stock which Grace Ferguson had packed for him, in between her farewell sniffs and sobs, laced with something even stronger, and he saw Bowles’s private smile when he nodded his approval.
He thought of Stirling, the first lieutenant. He had handled the chaos of weighing anchor and had directed the seamen to their immediate duties of making sail and then shortening it again in a sudden squall, with apparent ease and confidence. His powerful voice was quick to point out a clumsy mistake or lack of purpose. But rarely it seemed to offer encouragement or praise when they were equally deserved.
Barclay, the second lieutenant, who had first greeted Adam’s arrival, was Stirling’s opposite, never still. He was in charge of the foremast with all its complicated rigging and the ever-busy jib sails, a vital part of any ship’s workings, leaving or entering harbour. Adam put down the mug and stared at it. Or when called to fight.
Athena, like most of the ships he had seen, might never stand in the line of battle again. But the Algiers campaign, and the events leading up to it, had taught him lessons he would, must, never forget. It took more than a flag to determine who was an enemy.
He thought of Plymouth again. How would he feel? What might he find there?
He pictured the chart in his mind. A hundred and fifty miles to go, provided the wind remained steady; “trustworthy,” another of the sailing-master’s descriptions. Once clear of Wight and the Needles they could . . .
He heard the sentry shout, “First Lieutenant, sir!”
Another thing he had learned about Stirling. Always on time. To the minute, no matter what was happening on deck.
He was here now, head bowed beneath the deckhead beams, his heavy features expressionless.
“I think we shall exercise the eighteen-pounder crews before we pipe a stand-easy.” He noticed that Stirling had the red-covered punishment book, and tried to accept it. He had called him to this very cabin after the flogging which had been ordered in his absence. Upholding discipline, as Stirling had insisted.
Adam had always hated it, had almost fainted when he had witnessed his first such punishment. It was necessary, as a final resort . . . He thought of that last flogging, for insolence to Blake, one of Athena’s eight midshipmen. The young seaman in question, Hudson, a maintop man, had been called on deck while he was off watch to stand in for another who had suddenly reported sick. Hudson had been in his hammock, the worse for drink after consuming some extra tots by way of celebration.
It happened; and as a maintop man Hudson was a trained seaman, not some loafer from the local petty sessions. Adam had discovered that Blake was generally unpopular, but was the son of a senior captain, and like most of the other “young gentlemen” was overdue for his examination for lieutenant.
“What is it, Mr Stirling?” He thought of Galbraith in Unrivalled, their gradual understanding of one another despite differences and the barrier of rank. The comparison caught him unprepared, like being stripped. Could he ever call Stirling by his first name, discuss and share their problems here in the great cabin?
Stirling pouted his lower lip.
“The master-at-arms has just reported a man dead, sir. Nothing any one could do. In the main hold, which is open as you know, sir, ready to take on fresh stores when we anchor.”
“It’s Hudson, isn’t it?” He saw the brief start of surprise. “Tell me.”
Stirling shrugged. “Hanged himself. I called the surgeon.”
Adam was on his feet again, and had moved to the leather chair, running his fingers along the back, like holding on to something.
“Hudson was twenty-two years old, a volunteer, and a trained seaman. He was about to be married, and then he was ‘awarded’ punishment.” His voice was quiet, almost lost in the clatter of rigging and the sea alongside. But he saw Stirling flinch with each word, as if he had sworn at him.
“I was left in charge, sir. He was insolent to one of my midshipmen. He had been drinking, too.”
“And you ordered two dozen lashes. Was that not extreme for a normally well-behaved and disciplined hand?” He did not wait for an answer. “You saw his back after the lash had done its work. He was to be married, God knows rare enough in this life we lead. Would anyone want to lie with his new bride, with a back like t
hat?”
Stirling tugged at his neckcloth as if it was suddenly too tight.
“You were in London, sir . . .” His voice trailed away.
“And I supported your decision, Mister Stirling, as is my duty.” He pushed himself away from the chair. “In future, if in any further doubt, ask me!”
He walked to the stern windows, his body angled to the sloping deck.
“We will exercise the upper battery in ten minutes. I intend to time each drill.”
Stirling left the cabin without another word, and Adam knew he had failed. Stirling would never change. Perhaps he did not know how.
A man dead. Like the stroke of a pen in the log, and now in the muster book. D.D. Discharged—Dead. Was that all there was to a life?
He moved to the quarter gallery and let the wet breeze soak his hair and face.
A bad beginning.
The voice seemed to awaken a broken memory. Like a condemnation.
Athena, sir? An unlucky ship!
Calls shrilled and feet pounded on deck as the hands ran to prepare the eighteen-pounders on the lee side for drill.
But the voice remained.
6 DESTINY
CAPTAIN Adam Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck rail, only his eyes moving to watch some landmark or another vessel on a converging tack, while all the time the land continued to reach out as if to engulf the whole ship. During the night and early morning the wind had backed a little, slowing their progress and Athena’s final approach to Plymouth. Adam had been on deck since before dawn, preparing himself for this moment. A captain’s responsibility, when any small oversight or impatience could cause a disaster.
He had thought about it even as he had been swallowing several mugs of Grace Ferguson’s coffee. He had entered and left Plymouth many times, as a junior officer as well as in command of his own ship. And yet this time seemed completely different, even the widening span of the Sound unfamiliar. Hostile.
“Steady she goes, sir, nor’ by west.”
That was Fraser the sailing-master, standing by his chart with one of his mates, ever watchful, one hand hooked into his coat, the fingers drumming soundlessly to show that he was anxious. For his ship or his captain? It was impossible to tell from his rugged features.
Adam had to stop himself from looking aloft as the main top-sail flapped and banged noisily. They were losing the wind, the land acting like a shield.
He heard Mudge the boatswain bawling orders, and bare feet slithering across the damp planking to obey. Blocks squealed, and spray dripped from the braces as more men added their weight to haul round the great main-yard. So close-hauled now that they would appear to be almost fore-and-aft to any observer on the land. Adam recalled Fraser’s words when they had first spoken on this deck.
An excellent sailer, close to the wind even when under storm stays’ls.
Adam watched the pale sunlight flash from something ashore. That was less than two months ago, in this same harbour. When he had lost Unrivalled. How was that possible?
He said, “Let her fall off a point, Mr Fraser.” He held out his hand and felt a midshipman lay a telescope across his palm.
As he raised it to train across the starboard bow he heard Fraser giving his orders, sensed his relief that the captain had noticed the stubborn drift as the wind spilled from the canvas above their heads. Adam steadied the glass and studied the big three-decker, in exactly the same anchorage as when he had first boarded her and had met the famous admiral, Lord Exmouth, in person. When he had told him that he had wanted Unrivalled to be ready to take her place in the van when he commanded the fleet attack on Algiers. That, too, seemed a lifetime ago. Now a rear-admiral’s flag curled from Queen Charlotte’s mizzen, her moment of glory past. Like Unrivalled.
“Guard-boat, sir!” A hoarse voice, one he’d come to recognize among the many still unknown to him: Samuel Petch, Athena’s gunner, who had been at sea since he was nine years old. He talked about his various charges, from the twenty-four-pounders to the lowly swivel guns as if they were alive, each with its own peculiarity or drawback. Petch had been a gun captain aboard the old Bellerophon in Collingwood’s Lee Division at Trafalgar. That made him different. Special. The old Billy Ruffian, as she was affectionately known, was still with the fleet. A survivor, like Petch.
Adam trained his glass again, figures working on the forecastle leaping into focus for just a few seconds. Barclay, the second lieutenant, with his anchor party, was shading his eyes to stare aft at the quarterdeck, waiting for the signal to drop the larboard anchor.
A good officer, Adam had decided, working both with the foremast and its complex spars and rigging, and his own battery of guns. More importantly, with his men.
He heard Stirling shout something to one of the midshipmen, who was hurrying along the starboard gangway. The first lieutenant never seemed to use a speaking-trumpet, or even carry one, unlike most of his trade. He would use just one of his big hands held to his mouth, and his voice carried effortlessly like a foghorn.
Apart from matters of duty and routine they had spoken very little since the discovery of the body in one of the holds. To him it was in the past, no longer important. It was a common attitude among sailors; Adam had known that for a long time. A man existed as a shipmate from the moment he was signed on. When he left your ship, by choice or enforcement, or like the wretched seaman named Hudson, discharged dead, he was written off. Never look back. Never go back.
Adam looked up at the masthead pendant, gauging the wind, the strength of it under the lee of the land.
Sunlight lanced down through the overlapping web of black rigging and made his eye smart.
It is the ship. I am the stranger here.
A frigate was something alive. You could feel her every mood, match it with your ability.
He closed his mind to the doubt.
Any ship was only as good as her company. And her captain.
He heard Fraser say to one of his master’s mates, “About true, I’d say, eh, Simon?”
Adam glanced at him. No words were spoken. None were needed.
“Man the braces—hands wear ship, if you please!”
Stirling’s voice broke the stillness.
“Tops’l clew-lines! Take that man’s name, Mr Manners!”
Adam raised the glass again, watching two slow-moving fishing craft, and a smart schooner spreading sail while she tacked toward the Point and the grey Channel beyond. Then he moved the glass toward the anchored flagship. Beyond her the land was shrouded in mist, where the other fleet still lay. Ghosts, some with great names, remembered for their valour in battle against a common enemy. Hulks now, gunports empty and blind, masts down, decks littered and neglected.
He thrust the telescope away and felt it taken by someone. It was all suddenly sharp and in focus, the faces real, waiting.
He lifted his hand and saw Lieutenant Barclay raise his own in acknowledgment.
“Let go!”
He saw the spray burst over the gilded beakhead as the anchor hit the water, and the cable was controlled by compressor under Barclay’s vigilant eye.
He imagined he could feel Athena slowing, coming to rest, swinging above her own immense shadow.
Men pounded along the deck, hauling ropes or flaking them down in readiness for the next command from aft. High overhead, the big topsails had already been kicked and fisted into submission and were furled or loosely brailed to dry.
Soon boats of every kind would be heading out to meet the new arrival. More stores to be loaded, recruits to be found to fill gaps in the muster logs. To await orders, and their admiral.
Adam unconsciously glanced at the foremast truck where Bethune’s flag would soon be flying. No longer a private ship. How would it be?
He saw Jago standing down by the boat tier pointing out something to one of the midshipmen, probably thinking of young Napier, or wishing he had remained ashore when he had the chance.
He turned and looked across the water, the Ham
oaze, where the river Tamar, his river, separated Cornwall from the rest of England.
It might as well be the moon. He shaded his eyes again. Where she had waited to watch Unrivalled weigh anchor and sail to join Lord Exmouth’s fleet, when she had sent over the little note which was inside his coat at this moment. And that last embrace.
“Officer of the Guard coming aboard, sir!”
“Very well, Mr Truscott, I’ll see him in my quarters.”
He reached out and touched the big double wheel, now unmanned and motionless, but throbbing quietly to the thrust of the current far below. By keeping busy, things would fall into place. A captain had no choice; and he was lucky. There were many others who would be walking the shore and looking out at the ghost ships, and the sea which had rejected them. The only life they knew or wanted.
He glanced down at the boat tier and saw Jago looking up, somehow isolated from the bustle around him. Like those other times, when men had died, and their world had exploded about them. And they had come through it, together.
Jago nodded and then raised one hand slowly; a salute, a greeting, it was more than either.
The ship had reached out. For both of them.
Stirling strode aft and touched his hat. “Ship secured, sir.”
“Thank you. It was well done.”
Stirling said nothing, but stood aside from the companion to allow him to pass.
Past the Royal Marine sentry and through the screen, shining in its new white paint, and into the great cabin.
Bowles was opening the quarter gallery to allow some air into the cabin, but turned and gave a sad smile. “Last time we’ll see old England for a while, sir.”
Man of War Page 10
