“Ready, sir!”
He came out of his thoughts, irritated at being caught unaware. All the forenoon they had been creeping toward this mark on Fraser’s chart, and when he should be at his most alert he had allowed his mind to drift. He’d been sleeping badly, or not at all.
He saw Sam Petch, the gunner, staring up at him, his eyes slits against the relentless sunshine.
Another voice murmured, “Sir Graham’s comin’ up, sir!”
Adam turned and touched his hat.
Bethune looked around casually. “Nothing changes, does it?” He walked to the opposite side of the deck. “Carry on, then, Captain Bolitho.” It sounded like, if you must.
Adam turned his back and gestured to the patient gunner.
The bang of the first shot sounded like a clap of thunder in the broad harbour. Gulls and other birds rose screaming and flapping across the smooth water, the smoke hanging almost motionless below the gangway. He pictured the people ashore seeing this ship, his ship, probably wondering what had brought her to Antigua. Trouble with slavers, pirates . . . Perhaps war had broken out again and this was the first they would know of it. Or, more likely, they would regard her with more than a touch of warmth, even sadness. A ship from England. England . . . for some of them it would seem almost an alien land by now. For some . . .
Petch walked slowly along the deck, measuring the interval between each shot in the salute, pausing briefly inboard of each gun. “Number Three gun, fire!” and doubtless muttering to himself the old trick of timing of his trade. If I wasn’t a gunner I wouldn’t be here. “Number Four gun, fire!” If I wasn’t a gunner I wouldn’t be here. “Number Five gun, fire!”
Each shot echoed across and back over the placid water, so that it was almost impossible to distinguish the salute from the response of the battery ashore.
Adam thought again of the Celeste. Bethune had made a point of reading his report of the unprovoked attack on the brig, and had remarked, “You must emphasize that every effort was made to intercept the vessel described by the one survivor. We had only his word for the description.”
Adam remembered the man’s hard grip on his hand, his mute stare as he died. His last words, most of all. Tell ’em how it was.
He had left the log entry unchanged, and wondered why Bethune had not mentioned it.
He was here now, beside him, composed and apparently untroubled by the heat and the blinding reflections from the harbour.
“Not much of a show of force here today, eh, Adam? Three frigates all told, I am informed. And a whole collection of smaller vessels. Well, we’ll soon change things.” His tone hardened slightly. “Or I shall know the reason!”
He walked toward the ladder, dismissing it from his mind. “I shall want the gig as soon as we’re anchored.” He glanced around the figures on the quarterdeck. “Your fellow—Jago, isn’t it?” He did not wait for a reply.
Adam saw Stirling watching him. “We will anchor directly. Recall the boats but hold them alongside. We can rig winds’ls as soon as the ship is secure.” Stirling looked as if he were about to protest. “It will be foul enough between decks in this heat, Mr Stirling. Our people need some air to breathe in.” He smiled, but the barrier remained, like a breakwater.
Stirling strode away, his heavy voice dropping orders and calling names as he went.
Adam saw the various groups of seamen and marines, waiting, as if Athena herself would decide the time and place to drop anchor.
The starboard anchor was already swaying gently at its cathead, ready to fall, the forecastle party appearing to watch a loitering guard-boat, but more likely their eyes were on the land. Different colours and smells, new faces, not those you were forced to look at every day and throughout each watch. And women, too.
Adam tried to imagine it as it must have been for his uncle when he had anchored here in the old Hyperion. Like this ship, she had worn a vice-admiral’s flag. Sir Richard’s own.
When he had met Catherine again, after losing her. It must have looked very much the same then, that year before Trafalgar . . . How could it be so long ago?
“Standing by, sir!”
Adam glanced up at the loosely flapping topsails, and right forward to the jib sails with Lieutenant Barclay’s anchor party waiting, looking aft at their captain.
He thought, too, of his uncle’s medal, for his part in the Battle of the Nile. Catherine had sent it to him, given it to him, perhaps because it reminded her too much of the man she had loved, and had lost forever.
He looked over at the nearest helmsman, the one with the strange tattoo. Never look back, they always said. That was the oddest part. When he thought of all the faces he had known so well in Unrivalled, most of them had already lost substance, except for the few. They would never leave him.
He stared up through the shrouds and beyond the maintop to the curling pendant.
“Hands wear ship, Mr Stirling.”
Calls trilled and bare feet pounded across the hot planking and the melting tar of the deck seams. The helm was going over, spokes creaking, the seaman with the tattoo very aware of his captain only a few feet away. Who wanted for nothing . . .
Landfall. If only she were here to greet me.
The sun moved across his face, then his shoulder.
“Let go!”
Boats were putting off from the shore now, visitors, sightseers, traders; it was all beginning.
Adam nodded to the sailing-master and walked aft toward the poop. For a moment longer he paused and stared at and beyond the headland. But there was no horizon. Sea and sky were merged in bright blue haze.
England seemed a very long way astern.
Jago brought the gig smartly alongside the jetty’s worn stone stairs and watched the bowman leap ashore to fend off and make the boat fast. Not too bad a gig’s crew, although he would never say as much. Not yet, anyway.
There were soldiers on the jetty, and a tall major waiting to greet the vice-admiral and his aide. Behind the soldiers and some kind of barrier he could see crowds of people, all eager to greet the newcomers. Like any port, when you thought about it.
The midshipman, Mister bloody Vincent, was on his feet, bobbing and raising his hat while the admiral and flag-lieutenant stepped ashore. Jago heard Bethune say, “The boat can remain here. This shouldn’t take too long.”
Jago scowled. The captain never told him what to do. He trusted him. No good officer would leave a boat’s crew sitting here in the heat, sweating it out, while he downed a few wets with the governor or whoever it was.
The major saluted, and Bethune shook his hand, putting him at his ease. Jago swore under his breath. Never volunteer. It was too late now.
He swung round, surprised that he had forgotten the other passenger, the admiral’s servant, Tolan. One who caught your attention, made you wonder. Sharp, and always in control of things. Jago had tried to yarn with him but got nowhere. Bowles had said as much himself, and he could talk the hind leg off a mule if he wanted to.
“Going on an errand, eh?”
Tolan stepped over the gunwale on to the worn stones. He gave Jago a brief, piercing look.
“You might say as much, yes.”
Vincent snapped, “No gossiping in the boat, there!”
Jago contained his anger, and across the midshipman’s shoulder saw the stroke oarsman mouth an unspoken obscenity. It helped.
Tolan reached the top of the stairs and turned to look down at the moored gig; it gave him time to settle his nerves. He could not fathom what had got into him lately, suspicious of the most innocent remark, ever since the incident with the marine’s musket. So face up to it. It’s all over and behind you now. And he liked the captain’s coxswain, what he had seen of him and had heard others say. Tough, competent, reliable. A man with a past; he had seen the savage scars on his back when he had been washing himself under a pump. No wonder he hated officers . . . except, apparently, the captain.
Some children ran up to him, hands out
, all eyes and teeth. The same anywhere, he thought. He ignored them. One sign of weakness and you brought an avalanche down on your head.
In the shade of the first buildings, it seemed almost cool after the harbour and the open boat. He looked around as he walked; it had not changed much, although there were fewer ships and sailors than the last time he had been in Antigua. In the frigate Skirmisher, Bethune’s final command before his promotion to flag rank. A lot of water since then.
A woman carrying a basket of fresh fish walked past him. Tall, dark-skinned, a half-caste of some sort. Probably born of a slave mother. Some traders and planters had the right idea, he thought. Better to breed slaves than run the risk of being caught smuggling them from the other side of the ocean.
He looked at the last house, painted white like the others, a short flight of steps leading up to a balcony which faced the harbour.
He took out the letter from his immaculate coat and studied it for a few seconds. Bethune was a powerful man, and a good one to serve. He had watched him over the years, taking on more authority, and using it without obvious strain or effort. But sometimes he left his guard down, wide open to enemies, and at the Admiralty there would be plenty of those. He knew about Catherine Somervell, had even seen them meet in the park, only a short ride from that elegant office. Beautiful, she was. Hard to accept that she had once been the toast of the country, Sir Richard Bolitho’s mistress. People had short memories, when it suited them. He had seen the vicious cartoon of her in a well-known news sheet. After Sir Richard’s death in action she had been depicted nude, staring out at ships of the fleet, eyes open for the next to share her bed. He could recall Bethune’s fury and dismay, as if it were yesterday.
But mail took a long time to travel. Diverted, lost at sea; there were a thousand reasons. Or, like the brig Celeste, sunk by an unknown enemy. It was not the first letter he had carried for him, but maybe this time he had made a mistake.
He climbed the steps and felt the sun on his face again as he reached the balcony. He saw a telescope mounted on a tripod, an open fan lying on a cane chair. Sir Graham had not made a mistake after all.
She was standing inside an open doorway, her hair hanging down on her shoulders, as if it had just been brushed. Dressed in an ivory gown, her throat and arms bare, she showed no surprise, no emotion at all.
She said, “I remember you. Mr Tolan, is it not?”
Exactly as he remembered her. Poised, striking, and something more. She led the way into a long room, shutters lowered against the glare, a low ceiling fan swaying soundlessly from side to side adding to the feeling of seclusion. She gestured to the telescope.
“I saw the ship come in. I never grow tired of watching them come to anchor.” She looked directly at the letter in his hand. “From Sir Graham, I trust?”
Tolan’s eyes flickered to the ceiling as the fan faltered for a few seconds, as if the unseen hand was listening.
“He asked me to deliver it to you, m’ lady, no one else. In case it got mislaid.”
She did not move. “I destroyed the others. Please return it to your master. I don’t have the time . . .”
Tolan stood fast. Like a drill. He knew enough about women to see past her composure. She had been watching Athena’s slow approach, and had found time to prepare herself. To dress, and be ready. Perhaps she had expected Bethune to come in person. That could be dangerous, for both of them.
He said, “He ordered me not to return to the ship without giving you the letter, m’ lady.”
“And he must be obeyed, is that it?” She put her hand to her side as if to straighten her gown. “I am not at all sure that I . . .”
Another door creaked open and Tolan felt every muscle stiffen. But it was a young girl, a servant, half Spanish at a guess.
He felt his breathing steady again. For a second he had imagined it would be a man, the protector he had heard someone mention.
She said, “Later, Marquita. I shall not be long.” When she looked at him again she was different; the confidence was fading.
“You may leave it if you wish. But I do not promise to read it.” She relented immediately. “That was unfair of me. It is not your place to intercede. Like a second in a duel!”
Tolan knew she was thinking of the clump of dead trees in the park, where so many duels had been fought, mostly by officers from the garrison nearby. Over money, or an insult, or because of a woman. Like this one.
She asked abruptly, “Are you married, Mr Tolan?”
He shook his head. “I’ve not been so fortunate, m’ lady.”
She reached out and took the letter from his hand. Just the faintest hesitation, perhaps doubt, her fingers brushing his. “Maybe it is not too late.” She smiled. “For either of us.”
He turned to leave the room, and she said, “A secret, then?”
He nodded, unusually moved. “Safe with me, m’ lady.”
Tolan had reached the bottom of the steps when it struck him. She had not even mentioned Athena’s captain, who bore the same name as her famous lover.
He looked up, but she had vanished. Maybe it was all in the letter.
He strode along the narrow street. She would not burn it. Nor had she destroyed the others.
A woman you would die for, or spill another man’s blood. And she had treated him with respect, had called him “mister,” not like most of the others who looked right through you.
There was still a little crowd of people loitering above the jetty where the gig’s crew wilted in the heat, watching the comings and goings of the many harbour craft around the anchored two-decker.
Tolan paused by the wall, thinking of the girl he had seen earlier with her basket of fish, the beautiful way she had walked. He was not required on board the ship until dusk, when Bethune was receiving guests.
He remembered a house he had once visited when he had been here before. Like escaping, being himself, without a false identity and the fear of being trapped by some careless remark or deed.
A woman like that would give far more than her body.
He turned as a group of soldiers walked past him. A couple of them glanced at his uniform, uncertain of his rank or status, and one of them, a burly, deeply tanned corporal, gave him a nod and a grin.
Tolan could scarcely breathe, and leaned against the sun-baked wall, his mind reeling while he listened to the soldiers’ boots until they were lost in the noise and movement of English Harbour.
It was not possible. Like the nightmare he had tried to forget. He had seen the polished helmet plates, the familiar Lamb and Star of the Seventieth Foot, known as the Surreys. His old regiment.
He was not free at all.
Commodore Sir Baldwin Swinburne, senior officer of the Leeward and Windward Islands, took a glass from the proferred tray and held it up against the light of the nearest lantern. His forehead was set in a crease which faded as he took a slow sip.
“An excellent Madeira, Sir Graham. It has a ready tongue indeed.” He smiled, and watched Tolan refill his glass. “But then, you always did have the taste for a good wine!”
Adam Bolitho stood by the stern windows, apart from the commodore and the elegant vice-admiral. Swinburne was heavily built, even portly, with a face which was hard to imagine young. Troubridge had told him that Bethune and the commodore had been lieutenants together somewhere along the road to promotion. That was even harder to believe; but Troubridge was never wrong in such matters. Considering he had been Bethune’s flag-lieutenant for such a short time, he had certainly discovered a great deal about his superior.
Bethune had returned on board in a bad mood. The governor had not been there to receive him. An official had explained that he had been forced to keep an appointment with his opposite number in Jamaica. The despatch confirming the flagship’s estimated time of arrival in Antigua must have been destroyed with the ill-fated Celeste, or was now in someone else’s hands. Bethune obviously believed it was the latter.
Adam watched the cabin
servants moving silently in the shadows, and was careful not to leave his own glass unguarded where it might be refilled without his noticing. Bethune was equally abstemious. He and Swinburne were probably the same age. That explained a lot.
Bethune was saying, “Three frigates, and one of them laid up in overhaul, is simply not good enough. I want every patrol area covered, even if local craft have to be temporarily commissioned into the King’s service. I am told that we will never destroy the slave trade—well, I intend to prove otherwise. It is ten years since Britain passed the Abolition Act, and made the slave trade a crime. Other nations have followed, albeit reluctantly. Our new ally, Spain, for instance, has prohibited it, but has left a gap in the net by insisting that the trade is only to be banned north of the Equator. And Portugal is the same.”
Adam watched him with new interest. This was a different side to Bethune, fully informed, and almost passionately concerned with every detail. All those hours, days, sealed up in this big cabin had armed him well. Swinburne looked surprised and off balance; uneasy, too.
Bethune paused to sip his wine. “And where are the biggest slave markets today?” He put down the glass. “Cuba and Brazil, under the flags and protection of those very same countries.”
Swinburne said, “All our patrols are under the strictest orders, Sir Graham. They have caught several slavers, some empty, some not. The commanding officers are very well aware of the importance of vigilance.”
Bethune smiled. “As well they might be. With some eight hundred and fifty captains on the Navy List at last count, each one would be well advised to remember his chance of survival, let alone promotion!”
Adam saw a boat pulling slowly past Athena’s quarter. He could see the phosphorescence trailing from the oars, like serpents keeping pace in the calm water.
He had read enough of the Admiralty reports to know the hopelessness of any attempt to wipe out slavery altogether. While Swinburne had spoken of successful interception and seizure by the patrolling ships, in fact not one in twenty of the slavers was ever captured. No wonder there were men hard and desperate enough to take the risk. A slave bought for less than twenty dollars in Africa would sell for three hundred and more in Cuba. And there had to be big money behind it. To build and equip larger and faster ships, to supply a ready market which was never closed. Regulations and Acts of Parliament were only pieces of paper to the faceless men behind the trade.
Man of War Page 18
