Calls trilled, and to another shouted command the small section of fifers and drummers broke into “Heart of Oak.”
Troubridge scrambled up and over the steep tumblehome and almost pitched headlong through the finely carved entry port.
He recovered himself and dragged off his hat in salute. The din of fifes and drums stopped, and a solitary call shrilled loudly in the silence as Bethune’s flag lifted and broke free at the main-mast truck.
He saw the captain step forward from among the other officers, the formality broken by a sudden handshake, and Bolitho’s smile, which he felt he had come to know better than anything else about him.
Bethune had been about to receive the usual introductions before he was released to the peace and privacy of his new quarters, when he stopped and pointed at some seamen below the boat tier.
“That man! You!”
People swung round and stared, and a lieutenant almost ran to seize the offender who had caught the admiral’s eye.
Troubridge relaxed, muscle by muscle. He had been through the muster book and ship’s records and had discovered one man who had actually served with Bethune when he had been a captain. The man in question was standing exactly where he had been told, still unaware of the reason.
Bethune swung round and exclaimed, “Grundy? Tom Grundy, isn’t it? In the old Skirmisher, remember?”
The man was grinning, as others craned forward to witness this extraordinary encounter.
“Yessir, that’s me! God bless you, sir!”
Bethune patted his arm. “Good to see you again, Grundy!” He strode on, smiling and nodding to the assembled officers.
Troubridge watched the ranks breaking up, crowding around the astonished Grundy to slap him on the back, or share a grin or a joke with the one seaman who had been recognized by the admiral.
Troubridge gazed up at the new flag whipping out at the fore. There was a lot they all had to learn about the man who flew it.
Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlocked behind his head while he surveyed the broad expanse of his day cabin. His secretary, Edward Paget, sat opposite him behind a little table, his pen poised by the pile of letters already completed.
Bethune said, “The last is for the First Lord’s eyes only, Paget. You know what to do.” He frowned as something clattered across the deck, accompanied by the squeal of a block as the unknown object was hauled away. It seemed to take a long time. He would have to get used to it. He glanced over his shoulder at the hazy green of the land, a sail passing between it and the anchored flag-ship like the fin of a shark.
His servant Tolan had entered by another door, a list in hand.
“All the wine is stowed, Sir Graham. Separate from the special delivery which came aboard in Portsmouth.”
Paget looked up severely.
“All checked? Good wine can easily walk in a ship this size, you know!”
Tolan ignored him. Paget was good at his work; he would not still be serving Bethune otherwise. He was short and had a low forehead, and an unusually wide mouth; Tolan had long ago decided that he must have been a frog in a previous life.
He said, “The captain is coming aft to see you, Sir Graham.”
“I know. I’m ready,” and to his secretary, “I want all those sent ashore today, no matter what time you’ve finished them.”
Paget’s wide mouth opened and closed without comment. He was used to it.
Bethune sighed and rubbed his stomach.
“Well, Tolan, any regrets?” He did not expect an answer. “We sail tomorrow, come what may. The Indies again. Antigua.” Seeing it in his mind. No more walks in the park, or riding his favourite mount down to the river. Where he had last seen Catherine Somervell. Where he had felt like a conspirator. But he must be careful. Very careful.
The screen door was open and Captain Adam Bolitho was standing by an empty gunport where an eighteen-pounder had once been positioned. Much had changed during Athena’s last refit, less armament giving more room for storage. And additional space for an admiral’s quarters.
“Ah, Adam. I trust you satisfied the curiosity of the wardroom? We shall weigh at high water. Your sailing-master—” Impatiently, he snapped his fingers.
Adam said, “Fraser, Sir Graham.”
“Of course.” He grinned at his flag-lieutenant. “Another Grundy, eh?”
Adam said, “I just heard about Captain Ritchie. The verdict at his court martial . . .”
“I intended to mention it, Adam. But things have moved quickly since I came aboard yesterday.” He pressed his fingertips together, his head slightly on one side. “Does it disturb you?”
“The verdict was not proven, Sir Graham. That means he may be entirely innocent of the charges.”
He saw Troubridge half raise a hand, as if to warn him. Bethune smiled.
“Equally, it might mean he was guilty as charged.”
Adam persisted, “But he would still be in command of this ship!”
“While you, Adam, would be on the beach, with no ship at all.”
“That is not what I meant, Sir Graham.”
Bethune stood up without effort, his hair almost brushing the deckhead.
“When I was given this mission, for that is what it is fast becoming, I wanted a good flag-captain. I can think of another one or two, but I wanted you, do you understand? Your record is enough, but there are other reasons, too. I will not insult you by parading them for inspection.” He had raised his voice slightly, but appeared calm, even relaxed. “As far as I am concerned, Captain Ritchie can—”
He swung round as Tolan said, “Beg pardon, Sir Graham, but there is a message for the captain.”
Bethune nodded slowly, in control again.
“Very well.”
It was Evelyn, the sixth and most junior lieutenant, his hat crushed under one arm, trying not to be seen staring at the admiral and the splendid cabin.
“I am s—sorry, sir.” He gulped. “But I was told that you wanted to know immediately when Audacity was shortening her cable.”
Bethune remarked, “The old frigate Audacity —I thought she was due for the ship breakers!” He chuckled, and added, “Captain Munro. Friend of yours, is he?” And waved his hand. “I was forgetting. You sponsored a midshipman for Audacity. Somebody’s favourite son, was he?”
Adam said, equally casually, “He served with me in Unrivalled.” Like walking into a trap. Bethune knew all about it, just as he knew about Athena’s last captain.
Bethune was opening another sheaf of papers.
“Carry on, Adam. You will be dining with me tonight, eh?”
“Thank you, Sir Graham.”
Troubridge followed him to the door and out.
“I am very sorry for that, sir.”
Adam touched his arm. “Rest easy.”
On deck, it seemed cool after the admiral’s cabin. He loosened his neckcloth and drew several deep breaths. This was a Bethune he did not recognize.
He glanced at the flag above the foremast and took a telescope from the midshipman of the watch.
For an instant their eyes met. A young, pouting face with an upturned nose . . . it fell into place. He was Blake, an admiral’s grandson, who had been at the centre, if he was not the actual cause, of Hudson’s flogging. And his death.
I should have known. Prevented it.
Lieutenant Evelyn called, “Starboard quarter, sir!” He seemed quite recovered from his attack of nerves in the cabin.
Adam waited for his breathing to steady, and watched the other ships leap into focus as he trained the glass over and beyond the anchorage. No difference, and then the slightest movement, other masts turning, coming into line, yards and rigging suddenly hidden by clouds of filling canvas as Audacity, of 24 guns, broke out her anchor and gathered way. They would all be busy, too busy to stare around at the bigger ships of war as they tacked toward the open sea.
He said, “Make to Audacity, good luck.” That wou
ld set them guessing. But someone might tell David. It was a small ship. A frigate . . .
“From Flag, sir?”
Adam kept the glass to his eye. “No. Make it from Athena.”
He heard the flags flap out from the yard and imagined someone calling Audacity’s captain, and the curiosity it would arouse.
The frigate had almost completed her manoeuvre when Lieutenant Evelyn shouted, “Acknowledged, sir!”
Adam returned the telescope, and walked to the opposite side of the quarterdeck.
He knew Stirling was observing him from beside the compass box, and said, “I shall be doing Rounds in the first watch, Mr Stirling.” He saw the immediate caution. “Last night in port. Captain’s privilege, or should be.”
Stirling hesitated. “I’d like to accompany you, sir.”
Adam smiled. “Thank you. That suits me well.” He turned toward the anchorage again, but there was no more movement.
If I was wrong and he hates his new life, then he will come to hate me. He thought of the silk garter now locked in his cabin. And if I have wronged her, I will never forgive myself.
He could still feel Stirling watching him as he returned to the companion-way.
A small step. But it was something.
Luke Jago held the razor up to the light and tested the blade with his thumb before folding it away in its worn case.
The captain never seemed to need much of a shave. If he left his own face unshaven for more than a day, it felt more like a piece of sword-matting than skin.
He looked over at him now, knowing him in almost every mood, something he had once thought he would never be able to do again. With an officer.
He saw all the signs. Only half of John Bowles’s coffee was gone, and the breakfast remained untouched.
He tuned his ear to all the other sounds, men moving about the hull, wedges being tapped home, loose gear stowed away, all boats secure on their tier, except one which would tow astern once Athena was at sea. A last chance for anyone who went overboard. It happened, although not as often as you might expect. Jago’s mouth twisted into a smile. Especially after last night. The hoarded rum, and the unexpected issue of the coarse red wine the lower deck called Black Strap.
Sailing day.
He glanced again at the captain, still in a clean shirt and breeches, his coat hanging on the door of his sleeping quarters. Once at sea he would be changing into one of his weather-stained coats and the white trousers favoured by most officers. He thought of the admiral: it was hard to imagine Bethune ever having been other than what he was now. At least he spoke to the men who served him. Unlike some. Unlike most.
Jago thought of the days, and weeks, ahead. Antigua he knew well enough. A friendly place, but that was when it was threatened with war: the old enemies, France and Spain, even the Dutch. It was a long haul, nearly four thousand miles to all accounts. It would sift out the seamen from the “passengers,” the braggarts from those with brains.
And he thought of Napier. Mister Napier. Make or break, they all said. He would be all right, if little pigs like Midshipman Blake and the haughty Vincent left him alone. There were Blakes and Vincents in every ship Jago had ever known. Napier was a good lad, but it took more than a fancy new uniform or a smart dirk to make an officer.
He heard voices, and then the sentry’s call. “Midshipman-o’-the-Watch, sir!”
Bowles was there, the door half open, as if he, too, was very aware of the captain’s mood.
Jago sucked his teeth. Speak of the devil. It was Mister bloody Vincent.
“Guard-boat alongside, sir. Request for last mail.” He stood very erect, only his eyes moving as he watched the captain, silhouetted now against the stern windows, one hand resting on the tall-backed chair.
“On the desk.” Adam turned to look at them, as if undecided. Now that it was too late. “Just those. Thank you.”
He had already seen the guard-boat pulling around the anchored Athena; even without a glass he’d recognized the officer in charge. The same man who’d come aboard Unrivalled and had brought his new orders, and told him that he was losing his ship.
Two letters, one to his Aunt Nancy; a proper epistle this time, he hoped. Usually when he wrote to her, a single letter could take weeks to finish, with sea miles covered, interruptions of every kind, and war. But she understood. She had good cause.
And the other . . . He did not have the words. It was not like seeing her again. Holding her. Seeing her emotions, her fears. He was sailing in a few hours’ time, and he would be away for months. Or longer. Who could tell?
He seemed to hear Bethune’s words. This mission, for that is what it is fast becoming. What did he have to offer her? Why should she wait? She had lost enough of her life already.
He looked back at the desk. The letters and Vincent had gone.
He picked up his little book and glanced at the coat on the door; it was no longer still, but swaying slightly. The wind was back. He pictured the different faces he had come to know in so short a time, reacting. Fraser the sailing-master watching the masthead pendant, getting the feel of the wind’s power, how it would affect his calculations, and his captain. Stirling, eyes aloft on spars, yards, and rigging, all the possible dangers for the topmen, making sail, fisting hard canvas, careful of each hand and foothold. Old Sam Petch, the gunner; he would check each weapon and its breeching rope to make sure nothing would break adrift if the weather worsened in open water.
He heard Bowles refilling his coffee cup, reading the signs.
Too much brandy, perhaps? He thought of the contrasts when he had done Rounds the previous evening. From one end of the ship to the other, with Stirling thudding behind him and a midshipman preceding, without the usual formality of a ship’s corporal or the master-at-arms. He had seen their expressions when he had removed his hat each time he had entered a mess or walked through one of the crowded gun-decks. Surprise, appreciation, amusement, it was hard to tell. But it was always there, the lesson Richard Bolitho had drummed into his nephew when he had been new and green, as green as David Napier. Show respect. It is their home too, remember that. He had felt Stirling following his example, perhaps for the first time in his service.
The warrant officers in their own mess had been at ease, even with their captain. Ready to answer a casual question, and to offer one. Do you miss Unrivalled, sir? And without thinking, he had replied, I miss a part of each ship I’ve ever served. Curiously, it was the first time he had put it into words.
Then the Royal Marines’ messdeck. The “barracks.” Everything in its place, an air of soldierly camaraderie which marked them out from all those crowded around them.
The midshipmen’s gunroom, untidy despite their hasty efforts to prepare for his visit. Living day to day like every midshipman, thinking only of reaching the final step in the ladder, the examination for lieutenant, and only then becoming a King’s officer. Few ever considered that the step from gunroom to quarterdeck was merely the beginning.
Had Luke Jago been with him, he would have seen it with different eyes, the potential tyrants and bullies, the toadies and the failures. And, just occasionally, the one who would listen and learn, and deserve his new authority. He had been more often right than wrong.
And Rounds had taken him to the sick bay on the orlop deck, below Athena’s waterline, where George Crawford, the surgeon, and his mates had to deal with every kind of ailment and injury from gunshot to a fall from aloft, fever to the aftermath of a flogging.
Crawford was a wiry, quietly spoken man, with very clear eyes and a voice which was neither incisive nor callous when he talked of his trade. A far cry from Unrivalled’s big, witty Irishman, Adam thought.
In an hour’s time he would report to the vice-admiral. They had dined together; Troubridge and Henry Souter, the captain of the Royal Marines detachment, had also been there. The conversation had been light, and untainted by duty, or as much as it could be. And the wine, as Adam had guessed, was predictable. Too many
glasses. Only the vice-admiral had seemed unimpaired. Adam had been almost grateful when he had been called away to carry out Captain’s Rounds.
He wondered if Bethune had remained in his cot since the dinner.
He smiled. Jago probably had an answer to that, too.
The sentry shouted, “Officer o’ the Watch, sir!”
It was Barclay, the second lieutenant.
“The officer of the guard has left a package for you, sir. There is no address or superscription. I am not certain I should have accepted it.”
“Who gave it to the guard-boat, Mr Barclay?”
The lieutenant might have shrugged, but suppressed it. “Somebody from a local boatyard . . .”
Adam saw the house, white against the trees and the Tamar. Empty, but for two people.
“Show me.”
Jago took it from the lieutenant and carried it into the main cabin.
“Down here, sir?”
It was square, and wrapped in pale canvas, like a tray. Adam shook his head. His mouth was dry.
“No, Luke. On the chair.”
Jago stood it upright against the chairback and regarded it suspiciously. Bowles bent as if to unfasten it but Adam said, “I’ll do it.”
It was a frame; it must have been freshly made, perhaps only a day or so ago, the wood smooth but unpainted. From the boatyard.
He did not recall unwrapping it, or how long it took. He stood back and looked at the portrait, hardly daring to breathe or move. He knew that Jago and Bowles had gone, and the screen door was shut.
It could have been that day. The eyes, and the arms pinioned to the rock. The hint of the monster about to break surface. He reached out to touch it, and saw that the smoke stains had been cleaned away.
He had written to her. She would not receive his letter until after Athena had set sail.
But she had already answered him.
Andromeda.
8 STORM WARNING
ADAM BOLITHO leaned his hands on the chart table and looked down at the sailing-master’s log. Neat and observant, like the man, he thought. A pair of brass dividers began to slide across the uppermost chart and Adam put them in a small drawer. Around him the ship was coming to life again, timbers murmuring, loose gear clattering, while the sails filled and hardened. He had been on deck when both watches were called to make more sail, and had seen the sea break into long patterns of white horses, then into steep-sided crests, the canvas swelling, holding Athena hard over, the topmen skipping about the yards like monkeys, glad to be doing something after the periods of perverse breezes and torrential rain.
Man of War Page 13
