Heart of Oak

1. Face to Face

The Falmouth-bound coach hesitated at the brow of a low hill, its wheels jerking and spinning against yet another ridge of frozen mud. The horses, four-in-hand, took the strain, stamping with frustration, their breath steaming in the pale, misty sunlight. They, more than any, were aware that their part of the journey was almost over.

It was February and still bitterly cold, as it had been since this year of 1818 had first dawned. Longer than that, many would say along Cornwall's southern approaches. Trees like black bones, as if they would never throw a leaf or bud again; slate walls and the occasional farm roof like polished metal.

The coachman, big and shapeless in his heavily caped coat, flicked the reins. No urgency, no haste; he knew his horses and the road as he knew his own strength. His passengers and baggage took second place.

At the rear of the coach, the guard, equally unrecognizable under layers of clothing and an old blanket, wiped his eyes and stared across the straining horses and saw a flock of gulls rise from somewhere, circling, perhaps looking for food as the vehicle rolled past. The sea was never far away. The horses were changed at the authorized stables, but he and the driver had been with the coach all the way from Plymouth. He shifted his buttocks to restore the circulation to his limbs and felt the pressure of his gun beneath the blanket. The coach carried mail as well as passengers, and the crest emblazoned on either door proclaimed risk as well as pride.

Up and around the bleak waste of Bodmin Moor he had seen a few ragged, scarecrow figures still hanging at the roadside.

Left to rot and the ravages of the crows as a warning to any would-be robber or highwayman. But there would always be some one.

He saw the coachman raise his fist. Nothing more. No more was necessary.

Another stretch of broken track. He swore under his breath.

Somebody should get the convicts out of their warm cells to repair it. There were no longer any French prisoners of war for such work. Waterloo was almost four years ago, becoming nothing more than a memory to those who had been spared the risk and the pain.

He banged on the roof. " 'old on below!"

One of the passengers was a young woman. The violent motion of the coach, despite its new springs, had made her vomit several times. It had meant stopping, much to the annoyance of the man with her, her father. She was with child.

Lucky to have got this far, the guard thought. The horses were slowing their pace, ears twitching, waiting for a word or a whistle. He saw some farm gates, one sagging into the ground.

Did the farmer not know, or care? He loosened the case containing the long horn, to announce their approach. The last leg

There was a frantic tapping on the roof. She was going to be sick again.

The horses were getting back into their stride, the wheels running more smoothly on the next piece of road. They would be thinking of their stables. The tapping had stopped.

He raised the horn and moistened it with his tongue. It was like ice.

Inside the coach it was not much warmer, despite the sealed windows and the blue leather cushions. There were blankets too, although with the motion it had been hard to keep them in place.

Midshipman David Napier wedged his shoulder into his seat and watched the passing trees reaching out as if to claw at the window, the paler shapes of a house or barn looming in the background.

It was not his imagination: the sky was already darker. He must have fallen asleep, despite his troubled thoughts and the swoop and jerk of the vehicle. He had forgotten how many times they had pulled off the road, to change horses and take a few steps to ease mind and body. Or to allow the young woman who sat opposite him to find refuge behind a bush or tree.

And her father, his impatience, even anger at each delay.

They had stopped overnight at a small inn somewhere outside St. Austell. Even that seemed unreal. A hard bench seat and a hasty meal, alone in a tiny room above the stableyard. Voices singing, and drunken laughter, ending eventually in a mixture of threats and curses, which had only added to Napier's sense of loss and uncertainty.

He winced, and realized he had been gripping his leg beneath the blanket. The deep wound was ever ready to remind him. And it was not a dream or a nightmare. It was now.

More houses were passing, some in shadow. A harder, firmer road, the wheels clattering evenly, and then the sudden blare of the horn. Louder this time, thrown back from solid walls.

He licked his lips and imagined they tasted of salt. Twice he had seen the glint of water, the land folding away, final.

The other passenger, who had scarcely spoken all the way from Plymouth, jerked upright in his seat and peered around.

"Are we there? "He sniffed and stifled a cough. A thin, stooped figure, dressed in black: a lawyer's senior clerk, he had disclosed. He carried a leather case, heavily sealed, probably documents, and obviously not intended even for his own eyes.

"Coming into Falmouth now. "Napier watched the buildings, some already showing lights.

The clerk sniffed again. "Of course, you sailors always know your way about, don't you? "He chuckled, but seized the case as it threatened to slip from his lap.

Napier stared through the window. The coach had passed a church in Plymouth; he vaguely remembered it from that last visit, when their ship, the frigate Unrivalled, had come home to carry out repairs, battle damage from the Algiers attack, and to be paid off. And forgotten, except by those who had served in her. Those who had survived.

Like her captain, Adam Bolitho, who, despite the strains of combat and command and the stark news of dismissal, had kept the promise he had made that day in Plymouth.

Fore Street, and the tailor's establishment, where Napier had barely been able to believe what was happening. The tailor beaming and rubbing his hands, asking the captain what he required.

Your services for this young gentleman. Measure him for a midshipman's uniform. So calmly said, but with one hand on Napier's shoulder, which had made it a moment he would never forget.

This was not the same uniform; he had been fitted out again in Antigua, where the old Jacks said you could get all you needed, if you had the money in your purse.

His first ship as a midshipman, the frigate Audacity, had been blown apart by heated shot from the shore artillery at San Jose. The memories were a blur. The roar of gunfire, men screaming and dying… then in the water… the madness, men still able to cheer as the flagship had closed with the enemy. To attack. To win. Captain Bolitho's ship.

He had scarcely had time to get to know most of Audacity's company. Like a family. The navy's way. Those you would fight for… he thought of the dead midshipman on the beach, when he had dragged him ashore after the bombardment. And those you would always hate.

He closed his mind to it, like slamming a door. It was in the past. But the future?

The coach was slowing, taking a wide bend in the road. In his mind's eye he could see the old grey house, anticipating the warmth and the welcome. Wanting to feel a part of it, like one of them. Like a dream.

He touched his leg again. Suppose a dream was all it had been?

Doors opening, horses stamping on cobbles, snorting as men ran to unfasten the harnesses, some one waving, a woman hurrying to throw her arms around the girl who had been so sick. The lawyer's clerk gesturing to the guard, saying something about baggage, but still clinging to his sealed case.

Napier peered up at the inn sign. The Spaniards. Again, like a voice from the past.

The horses were gone, the coach standing abandoned. He saw his midshipman's chest on the cobbles with an inn servant stooping to look at the label.

The guard joined him. His burly companion had already vanished into the taproom.

"End o' the road. For us, it is. "He glanced around. "You being met? It's no place to stand an' freeze!"

Napier felt in his pocket for some coins.

"No. Can I leave my chest here?"

He did not hear the answer. He was trying to think, clearly, coldly. He would walk to the house. He had done it with Luke Jago, the captain's coxswain. The hard man, who had taken him out to Audacity, and shouted his name as if he were enjoying it. "Come aboard to join!"

He felt now for the warrant with its scarlet seal of authority, which the young flag lieutenant had given him as he left the ship at Plymouth two days ago.

"Come along. We haven't got all day!"

Napier turned and saw the foul-tempered passenger beckoning to his daughter. He had remarked loudly on Napier's arrival that it was hardly fitting for a mere midshipman to travel in the same coach. The coachman had been unable to conceal his satisfaction when Napier had showed him the warrant bearing the vice-admiral's seal.

The girl brushed some hair from her forehead and smiled at him.

"Thank you again for your kindness. I shall not forget. "She reached out and put her gloved hand on his arm. "I am glad you are safe."

She could not continue, but turned away and walked deliberately past her father.

"No need fer me to fret about you, zur." The guard dragged off his battered hat, his weathered face split into a grin. Something to tell the lads…

A smart carriage, almost delicate compared to the stage, had halted, and a woman was stepping down, assisted by her own straight-backed coachman. People were turning to watch as she, slim and elegant in a dark red cloak, hurried to greet the midshipman.

Napier felt the arms around his shoulder, a hand on his face, his mouth. The tears against his skin.

She was saying, "A tree across the road… Francis had to fetch help. I prayed you'd still be here! "She tossed her head like a girl, but the laugh he had always remembered would not come.

Napier could feel the warmth of her embrace, her pleasure and her sadness. He wanted to tell her, to explain, but his voice came out like a stranger's.

"Lady Roxby, it all happened so quickly!"

But her hand was touching his mouth again and she was shaking her head, her eyes never leaving his. "Aunt Nancy, my dear. Remember? "She kept her voice level as she called to the coachman, "A hand here, Francis. Easy, now."

But Francis needed no such caution. He had served in the cavalry, and had not forgotten what the exhaustion of war looked like. And he had already seen the dark stain of blood on the midshipman's white breeches.

She stood by the carriage while Napier climbed with effort to the step. She was aware of the faces at the inn windows and on the street, discussing and speculating, but they could have been completely alone. She had last seen him as a boy, proud but shy in his new uniform, before he had left to join his ship.

She had learned most of what had happened from the letter which had reached England in a fast courier brig from the Caribbean; the rest she could guess or imagine. She was a sea officer's daughter, and the sister of one of England's most famous sailors, and had soon learned that pain and glory usually walked hand in hand.

Napier was gazing back at her, his eyes filling his face.

"Im I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it to be…" But Francis had edged past her and was easing the boy into a seat.

"He'll be all right now, m'lady."

She nodded. "Thank you, Francis. You may take us home."

Home.

Luke Jago, Captain Adam Bolitho's coxswain, stood beside one of the tall windows and stared down into the street. The carriage, and a carrier's cart which had brought him and some personal belongings here had already departed, and after the endless journey from Plymouth it was like being abandoned, cut off from everything he knew or could recognize.

The street was deserted and, like this house, too quiet to be alive. The buildings directly opposite were faceless and imposing. He took his hand from the curtain and heard it swish back into position. Like the room itself: everything in its place.

Overpowering. The ceiling seemed too high, out of reach. He thought of the flagship, Athena; even in the great cabin aft, you had to duck your head beneath the deckhead beams. Below on the gun decks it was even more cramped. How could these people ever understand what it was like to serve, to fight?

He relaxed very slowly, caught unaware by his own resentment.

The house felt empty, probably had been for most of the time. Everything in its place. The fine chairs, glossy and uncreased, a vast marble fireplace, laid with logs but unlit.

There were some flowers in a vase by another window. But this was February, and they were made of coloured silk.

Above a small inlaid desk there was a painting; he was surprised it had escaped his notice as he had entered the room.

A portrait of a sea officer holding a telescope. A young captain, not yet posted, but Jago could still recognize Sir Graham Bethune, Vice-Admiral of the Blue, who had left his flagship in Portsmouth in such haste, as if staging a race with the devil.

He sat down very carefully in one of the satin chairs, and tried once again to marshal his thoughts. Jago had a keen brain and usually a memory to match it, but after the battle with the slavers at San Jose and the murderous battering from their shore-sited artillery, one event seemed to merge with another.

Leading his boarding party to retake the schooner, and seeing the woman standing on the scarred deck staring past him at Athena, as if she were beyond pain, and her blood had been unreal. In action, memory can play many tricks. But Jago could still hear her calling out, as if with joy, in those last seconds before she fell dead.

The return to Antigua, the victors with their prizes, and the total, unnerving silence in English Harbour which had greeted them. Some of their people had been killed in the action and been buried at sea; others had been landed at Antigua and were still there under care.

Jago was hardened to sea warfare and its price. The long years of war with France and Spain were only a memory now, and they were at peace, although some might not see it that way. To the ordinary Jack, any man was an enemy if he was standing at the business end of a cannon, or holding his blade to your neck.

But that passage to Antigua still haunted Jago's mind.

A calm sea and light winds, lower deck cleared, and all work suspended on spars and rigging alike.

Jago had been in all kinds of fights, and had seen many familiar faces, some good, others bad, go over the side. But this was different. Her body stitched up in canvas, weighted with round shot, and covered with the flag. Our flag. Even some of the wounded had been on deck, crouching with their mates, or propped up against the hammock nettings to listen to the captain's voice, speaking the familiar words which most of them knew by heart.

And yet so different…

Even the regular thump of the pumps, which had not stopped since the first crash of cannon fire, had been stilled.

And Bethune, their vice-admiral, had stood facing the infamous Lord Sillitoe. A victim or a culprit; it remained undecided, and somehow unimportant at that time and place Jago had later seen recorded in the master's log. The date and their position in the Caribbean when Catherine, Lady Somervell, was buried at sea.

He remembered Adam Bolitho's face when the grating had been raised, and they had heard the splash alongside. Sailors often thought about it, even joked about it on the messdeck.

Not this time.

At Antigua there had been new orders waiting. Sillitoe, a friend of the Prince Regent, it was said, had been handed over into the custody of the commodore there, who had been promoted to rear-admiral while Athena and her consorts had been under fire.

Jago had kept close to his captain throughout the remainder of the campaign; if you could call it that, he thought darkly.

Pulling his company together again, visiting the wounded, and often at odds with Bethune. The latter shouting and thumping the table and drinking beyond his capacity and his normal caution. Some said Bethune had been in love with Catherine Somervell. But Jago knew that she had loved only one man, Sir Richard Bolitho, who had been killed on the deck of his flagship following Napoleon's escape from Elba. Jago had seen her in the old church at Falmouth, when all the flags had been at half-mast, and Unrivalledhad fired a salute. It had been Richard's name she had been calling when she had fallen dead.

More like a greeting than a farewell, or so it seemed, looking back…

Somewhere a clock chimed. Two horsemen were trotting unhurriedly past the house. Dragoons, by their cut, he thought.

Officers. His mouth tightened. Nothing else to do.

There was something else that still puzzled him. Athena had anchored at Plymouth only briefly before proceeding on to Portsmouth, which she had left less than a year ago. Bethune had insisted on breaking the passage, apparently to send some urgent despatches by courier.

Even then, the captain had found time to speak to the men being discharged or put ashore to have their wounds treated.

The lucky ones…

And the boy, now a midshipman, who had somehow managed to swim ashore at San Jose after Audacity had exploded. His own captain had been killed, cut in half by a redhot ball from the battery, but one of his lieutenants had seen fit to write a short report on David Napier's courage and determination in supporting another midshipman and getting him to the beach, where the Royal Marines had found them.

Only Napier had survived.

Napier would be in Falmouth now. At the Bolitho house, with the green hills behind and the sea below. Something Jago had also shared in his own way.

Captain Adam Bolitho was at the Admiralty right now, not all that far from this room. It was hard to fix your position, he thought, here in London anyway. It must be somewhere over and beyond those faceless houses. Bethune lived here when it suited him, and had used to ride across the park in a leisurely fashion to his offices.

Athena was being paid off. Another victim, like Unrivalled after her battle at Algiers. He recalled the silent bundles being slipped over the side for that last journey, and controlled his anger. That was the way it was. The sea was all he knew. He stood up and faced the door. And all he wanted.

But it was not one of the household staff, or even Lady Bethune, not that she would deign to meet him. It was George Tolan, Bethune's servant, although the word didn't do him justice. Always smart and alert in his distinctive blue coat, and obviously at ease with his lord and master. More like a companion or a bodyguard, with the bearing of a soldier or a marine. Jago had seen him in Athena's cabin, pouring wine or something with more bite to it, holding the glass or goblet to study it beforehand. No fuss, not like some. And when the guns had belched fire from Athena's ports and reeled inboard in recoil, he had seen the other Tolan, crouching but unafraid in the fury of battle.

A good man to have beside you, but one you would never know.

Tolan was glancing around the room now, and, Jago guessed, missing nothing.

"I have told the kitchen to prepare a meal for you. A drink would not come amiss, I imagine, after all that bustle."

If he was disturbed or irritated by the long journey from Portsmouth, the storing and checking of Bethune's personal gear at every stop along that endless road, he gave no sign of it. He probably knew Bethune better than any one.

Jago shrugged.

"No telling how long the Cap'n will be with their lordships."

He looked at the portrait on the wall. T can't fathom what there is to yarn about. It's over. We done what we was ordered.

That's it!"

"Not so simple this time, I think."

"Cap'n Bolitho had his last ship taken from him. Paid off.

Now AthenaЦ God, she's only a few years old!"

Tolan watched him. "Launched in 1803,1 was told. Sounds old enough to me."

Jago exclaimed, "Good Kentish oak, too! "and broke off as if he had just heard the remark. "Not for a real ship. Hell's teeth, Our Nel's Victory was forty years old when she stood in the line at Trafalgar! They don't know what they're about, their bloody lordships!"

Tolan seemed to be considering something.

"You care about your captain, don't you? Something deeper than duty, loyalty. You're not a man who's easily taken in. I like that. "He smiled with sudden warmth, like offering a handshake, Jago thought afterwards. Dropping his guard, something rare with him.

Tolan said, "Now I will fetch that drink, "and looked up at the portrait. The young captain…" For both of us."

Jago stood at the window, grappling with the words, and what lay behind them. Deeper than duty, loyalty. It was not something he would ever consider, if he was being true to himself. After the flogging which had scarred his mind as well as his body, he had made himself shun even the slightest hint of friendship.

Perhaps it was trust?

The room was empty once more. He had not even heard Tolan close the door behind him.

He was on Athena's deck again, as if it were yesterday.

Now. The seamen breaking ranks slowly, reluctant to return to their work. The empty grating by the gangway, the unfolded flag barely moving in the breeze, the canvas-wrapped body already on the seabed.

But all he could see clearly was Adam Bolitho's face as he had turned away from the side. Their eyes had met, and the words had been quietly spoken, almost an undertone.

Excluding every one else.

They "re together now. Nothing can harm them.

It had troubled him deeply.

There were sounds, voices, on the stairway: Tolan bringing his master's wine, or maybe something stronger. He felt his mouth crack into a grin.

"There'll be other ships."

He realized that he had spoken aloud.

Just say the word, Cap’n.

"If you would wait in here, Captain… er… Bolitho." The Admiralty porter held the door open. "Should you require any assistance…" He did not finish it, but closed the door silently behind him.

Adam Bolitho stood a moment to get his bearings, or perhaps to prepare himself. After all the haste and uncertainty, this sudden stillness was unnerving. A table, three chairs, and one window: it was more like a cell than a waiting room.

Like most serving officers, he had not visited this, the seat of Admiralty, more than a few times throughout his whole career, and he had always been impressed by the orderly confusion and purpose. Clerks carrying files of papers, criss-crossing what were still to him a maze of corridors, opening and shutting doors. Some remained closed, even guarded, while strategic conferences were in session; others, partly opened, revealed the materials and tools of command. Huge wall charts and maps, instruments, rows of waiting chairs. It was hard to imagine the immense power, and control of the world's greatest navy, being wielded from within these walls.

He walked over to the table. On it was a precisely folded copy of The Times and beside it a goblet and carafe of water.

So quiet, as if the whole corridor were holding its breath.

He moved to the window, impatient now, refusing to acknowledge the strain and fatigue of mind and body. He should have known what it would do to him. The bitter aftermath of the action at San Jose, "skirmish "as one news sheet had dismissed it, and the long passage home. Plymouth and then Portsmouth. He rubbed his forehead. Mere days ago.

It seemed like a lifetime.

The window overlooked an enclosed courtyard, so near the opposite wall that you had to press your head against the glass to see it. The other wall had no windows. Storerooms of some kind? And above, trapped above the two walls, was the sky.

Grey, cold, hostile. He stepped back and looked around the room. A cell indeed.

A carriage had been sent to Bethune's house to collect him for the journey to and along Whitehall. He was met by a clerk who had murmured polite comments about the weather and the amount of traffic, which, he was told, often delayed important meetings if senior officers were trapped in it. The constant movement, the noise. Like a foreign country. Because I am the stranger here.

From there he had been handed over to the porter, a towering, heavy man in a smart tailed coat with gleaming buttons, whose buckled shoes had clicked down one passageway after another as he led the way. Like a ship of the line, with lesser craft parting to let them through.

There was one picture on this otherwise bare wall. A twodecker, firing a salute or at an unseen enemy. Old, and probably Dutch. His mind was clinging to the inconsequential detail. Holding on.

All those faces, names. Not even a full year since Athena had hoisted Bethune's vice-admiral's flag. And I became his flag captain. And now she was paid off, like all those other unwanted ships. Their work, and sometimes their sacrifice, would soon be forgotten.

He recalled the longer waiting room he had seen briefly in passing. So like those redundant ships that seemed to line the harbours or any available creek: a final resting place.

Officers, a few in uniform, waiting to see some one in authority. Need, desperation, a last chance to plead for a ship.

Any ship. Their only dread to be discarded, cast from the life they knew, and ending on the beach. A warning to all of them.

There were nine hundred captains on the Navy List, and not an admiral under sixty years of age.

Adam turned abruptly and saw his own reflection in the window. He was thirty-eight years old, or would be in four months.

What will you do? He realized that he had thrust one hand into his coat, the pocket where he carried her letters. The link, the need. And she was in Cornwall. Unless… He jerked his hand from his coat.

"If you would follow me, Captain Bolitho?"

He snatched up his hat from the table with its unread newspaper. He had not even heard the door open.

The porter peered around the room as if it were a habit.

Looking for what? He must have seen it all. The great victories and the defeats. The heroes and the failures.

He touched the old sword at his hip. Part of the Bolitho legend. He could almost hear his aunt reminding him of it when they had been looking at his portrait; he had been painted with a yellow rose pinned to his uniform coat. Lowenna's rose.

… He could see her now. Andromeda. He heard the door close.

Cornwall. It seemed ten thousand miles away.

There were fewer people in this corridor this time, or perhaps it was a different route. More doors. Two officers standing outside one of them. Just a glance, a flicker of eyes.

Nothing more. Waiting for promotion, or a court martial…

He cleared his mind of everything but this moment, and the man he was about to meet: John Grenville, still listed as captain, but here in Admiralty appointed secretary to the First Lord.

He remembered hearing Bethune refer to him as "second only to God'.

The porter stopped and subjected him to another scrutiny, and said abruptly, "My son was serving in Frobisher when Sir Richard was killed, sir. He often speaks of him whenever we meet. "He nodded slowly. "A fine gentleman."

"Thank you. "Somehow it steadied him, like some one reaching out. "Let's be about it, shall we?"

After the cell-like waiting room, this one seemed enormous, occupying an entire corner of the building, with great windows opening on two walls. There were several tables, one of which held a folding map stand; another was piled with ledgers.

Captain John Grenville was sitting at a vast desk, his back to one of the windows, framed against the meagre light. He was small, slight, even fragile at first glance, and his hair was completely white, like a ceremonial wig.

"Do be seated, Captain Bolitho. "He gestured to a chair directly opposite. "You must be somewhat weary after your travel. Progress has cut communication time to a minimum, but the human body is still hostage to the speed of a good horse!"

He sat cautiously, every muscle recalling the journey from Portsmouth. During the endless halts to change horses or rest them, he had seen the new telegraph system, mounted on a chain of hills and prominent buildings between the roof above their heads to the final sighting-point on the church by Portsmouth dockyard. A signal could be transmitted the entire distance in some twenty minutes, when visibility was good. In less time than it would take a courier to saddle and mount.

The winter light was stronger, or his eyes were becoming used to it. He was aware, too, that they were not alone. Another figure almost hidden by a desk on the far side of the room stood up and half-bowed, the light glinting briefly on spectacles perched on his forehead. Like Daniel Yovell, he thought.

Grenville said, "That is Mr. Crozier. He will not disturb us."

He leaned forward in his chair and turned over the papers arranged before him in neat piles.

Adam forced himself to relax, muscle by muscle. There was no tiredness now, no despair. He was alert. On guard. And he was alone.

"I have, of course, read all the reports of the campaign conducted under Sir Graham Bethune's command. Their lordships are also informed of the operational control of the commodore, Antigua, "one hand moved to his mouth, and there might have been a trace of sarcasm. "Now rear-admiral, Antigua. It slipped my mind!"

Adam saw him clearly for the first time. A thin face, the cheekbones very prominent and the skin netted with tiny wrinkles, perhaps the legacy of some serious fever early in his service. Keen-edged, like steel. Not a man who would make a mistake about somebody's promotion. Especially at Antigua.

"As flag captain, were you ever concerned that the conduct of operations might not be completely satisfactory?"

So casually said. Adam felt the clerk's close attention, and sensed his pen already poised.

"I have submitted my own report, sir. Athena's log will confirm the ship's total involvement."

Surprisingly, Grenville laughed.

"Well said, Bolitho, like a good flag captain! "He leaned back in his chair, the mood changing again. "You are not under oath, nor are you under suspicion for any cause or reason. "He held up one hand as if expecting an interruption; like his face, it was almost transparent. "We are well aware of your record as a King's officer, both in command and while serving others.

You are not on trial here, but we are dealing with diplomacy, something more nebulous than the cannon's mouth, or the rights and wrongs of battle."

"No captain can be expected to contradict… "Adam broke off, and continued calmly, "Given all the circumstances, the vessels at our disposal, and the weather, I think we acted in the only way possible. Good men died that day at San Jose.

Slavery is an evil and a brutal thing. But it is still highly rewarding for those who condone it. "He turned unconsciously toward the half-hidden desk. "And it costs lives, even if it is dismissed as a skirmish by those who apparently know otherwise!"

The bony hand came up slowly. "Well said, Bolitho. I hope your ideals reach Parliament. Eventually."

He turned over more papers, and when he spoke again it was as if his thoughts had been rearranged with them.

"Athena is paid off, and her people moved to other ships when suitable, or to continue their lives ashore. As is the way of the navy. Your first lieutenant has elected to remain with Athena until she is given over to other work, "a cold eye briefly across the desk, "or disposed of."

Adam said nothing, recalling the stern, unsmiling features of Stirling, the first lieutenant. Unmoved, unshaken even in the heat of battle. A man he had never understood. But was I to blame? Grenville stood up suddenly and walked to the nearest window. He wore a plain, perfectly cut blue coat, and it was easy to see him as a captain again.

Over his shoulder he remarked, almost offhandedly, "You had Lady Somervell buried at sea. That was your decision, I believe?"

Bethune must have told him, or the First Lord.

Adam stared past him at the overcast sky. He could see them now, as if it had only just happened. Bethune and Sillitoe staring each other down. The hatred, and something that was stronger than both of them.

He said, "She's free now, sir."

He looked over at the clerk. The pens were still in their standish. Unused.

He said quietly, "What of Sillitoe, sir?"

Grenville's shoulders lifted slightly.

"Others, far higher than their lordships, will have the disposal of him. Be sure of that. "He turned and regarded him steadily. "And what of you, Bolitho? Do you have plans?"

Adam was on his feet without realizing it. "Another ship, sir. "Like all those others in that waiting room. Refusing to admit any doubt.

Grenville looked at a clock on the mantel as it chimed delicately. He pulled out his watch, as if it were a signal. The clerk had risen from the desk and his eyes were on the door.

Grenville smiled, but his eyes gave nothing away.

"I heard that you intend to be married?"

"IЦ am hopingЦ "He stared down as Grenville seized his hand. The fingers were like iron.

"Then do it. Bless you both. "He turned away. "Be patient, Bolitho. A ship will come."

The door was open, and instinct told him another visitor was waiting for an audience with this man, so frail and so powerful.

Always on call to the First Lord himself; he would forget this meeting before that clock chimed again.

He saw that Grenville had turned his back on the door and was looking directly at him. He could feel the force of his gaze like something physical.

He said, "I hold a certain authority here in Admiralty. Some would describe it as influence. But I have never forgotten the truths that make a sailor. "He gestured around the room, dismissing it. "To walk my own deck, to hear the wind's voice above and around meЦ nothing can or will replace that. "He shook his head, impatient or embarrassed. "I had to know, Bolitho, to be certain. Now be off with you. The chief clerk will take care of your requirements."

Adam was in the passageway, and some one was handing him his hat.

"This way, sir. "A different porter, and the door was shut. As if he had imagined it.

But the words lingered in his memory. had to know, to be certain.

He touched the sword, pressing the weight of it against his hip. He did not see the same two officers turn as he passed them.

The old captain had seen all the faces of command.

The blame and recrimination as well as the huzzas of triumph when an enemy's flag dipped through the smoke of battle. And when pride vanquished the doubt, and the fear.

He could still feel the iron grip on his hand. Then do it! To see her again, to be with her. Walk with me.

It seemed to take an eternity before the chief clerk was satisfied. Questions, answers, papers that needed a signature.

Then it was done. On his way to the entrance hall, he passed the main waiting room again.

All the chairs were stacked at one end, and two men were mopping the floor in readiness for another day. A door opened and slammed, but neither looked up from his work.

The doors of Admiralty were opened, and the air like ice. It was pitch dark on the street outside. But there were carriages, and men's voices passing the time of day. One would take him to Bethune's house.

But all he saw was the officer who had just emerged from the sealed room. The last interview of the day. One of many…

Perhaps after the long wait, he had been offered some hope. How many times? Then suddenly he swung round and stared at Adam's uniform and the gold lace, caught momentarily in the light from the porters "lodge, and then, openly, at his face. Not envy.

It was hate, like a raw wound.

"This way, Captain Bolitho!"

He followed the porter down the steps and into the cold darkness. Like a brutal warning. Something he would never forget.

The coachman jumped down from his box and lowered the step with a flourish.

"Ere we are, sir. "Nother cold night, by the feel of it!"

Adam stamped his feet, looking up at the house. The coachmen employed by the Admiralty certainly knew their business: he would never have found his own way back to this place. Even so, it seemed to have taken far longer than his journey to Whitehall. Perhaps the coachman had taken a more indirect route, on the off-chance that his passenger might request some amusement after his day's dealings with their lordships.

It had been another world. Glimpses of a London he would never know: people standing around braziers in the street, waiting for their employers or merely for companionship. On one corner a whore, on another a tall, ragged man reciting poetry, or preaching, or perhaps singing. No one had appeared to be listening.

He felt for some coins, fumbling; he was more weary than he had thought. There were lights in most of the surrounding windows, but not at this house.

"Thank 'ee, sir! "The coachman's breath was like smoke in the lamplight. "I 'ope we meet again!"

Adam turned as the front door swung open. He must have handed him more than he knew.

"Welcome back, sir! I was beginning to think you had been held up somewhere! Perhaps literally!"

It was Francis Troubridge, Bethune's young flag lieutenant, still impeccably dressed, his uniform as neat as when he had boarded the stage at Portsmouth.

There was something odd about the house, though; something wrong. Baggage in the entrance hall, still covered with a waterproof sheet.

He swung round and saw Jago emerging from the shadows beneath the great, curving staircase, grim-faced, eyes steady.

Anticipating the worst and ready for it.

"No squalls, Cap'n? "And then, reading his expression, "I knew it, an' I told 'em as much!"

They shook hands, a hard grip, as if to settle something. Like those other times, when even survival had been in doubt.

"No ship yet, Luke. But no squalls either."

Troubridge watched and listened and made a mental note of it. The captain and his coxswain; but it went far deeper than that. He had learned a lot. He was still learning.

Adam was looking up the stairs.

"It's very quiet. Where is everybody?"

Troubridge said, "Sir Graham has gone. To join Lady Bethune… It was all very sudden."

Adam rubbed his cheek with his knuckles. Not like their arrival: Bethune had slammed through the house as if fired by some demonic energy, barking instructions and questions at Troubridge or his frog-like secretary and rarely waiting for a reply from either. More like the vice-admiral Adam had come to know and not the moody, despairing man, often the worse for drink, who had spent most of his time in his own quarters during Athena's final passage to Portsmouth.

"Did he leave word for me? I am relieved of duty until further orders, but he must have known that."

"He knew. "Troubridge bit his lip. "Lady Bethune left before him. I thought she was pleased at the turn of events."

Adam sat down on a carved, uncomfortable chair, and thought of the slight, white-haired Grenville. Some would describe it as influence.

He looked directly at the flag lieutenant.

"Forgive me. I intended to ask. What will you do?"

Troubridge looked vaguely around the gracious hallway.

"I am going to visit my father. He will doubtless know soon enough what has happened."

So many memories. Troubridge, the aide who so adroitly fended off any problem or difficulty that might trouble his superior, any day, at any hour. And the Troubridge who had become a true friend in so short a time. Here, in London, when he had been at Adam's side as they had burst into that sordid studio where Lowenna was fighting off an attack. Jago had been with them. What had Sir Richard called his closest friends and companions? My little crew. Or as he had heard another describe them, We Happy Few.

Troubridge had referred to "my father'. He was Admiral Sir Joseph Troubridge, well known and respected in the navy. A veteran of The Saintes and the Glorious First of June, as a lieutenant he had been a friend of the young Horatio Nelson.

And now he was leaving the Navy List to take up a prestigious appointment with the Honourable East India Company, "John Company "as it was nicknamed.

Troubridge's future would be in safe hands.

But like the Admiralty waiting room, it was no solution.

Troubridge smiled for the first time.

"I will let you know. I once asked that you might accept my service in the future, if there was any chance."

Adam gripped his arm.

"You will always be my friend, Francis. Be sure of that. And Lowenna's, too."

A door opened and Tolan appeared in the hallway.

He said to Troubridge, "Your carriage is here, sir, "but he was looking at Bolitho. "I have already had your things taken down."

Troubridge sighed.

"They are closing the house, Captain Bolitho. Sir Graham will no longer be staying in London, I fear. "He added briskly, the flag lieutenant again, "You are leaving tomorrow. I had word from Whitehall. I wish you Godspeed and good fortune."

And to Jago, "Keep a weather eye on the Captain, will you?"

They shook hands again.

"Until the next horizon, Francis."

They heard the sharp clatter of wheels, and Adam imagined the eyes at other windows along this quiet street.

Jago said, "There'll be some grub soon, Cap'n. You must be fair starvin'."

Adam turned from the door. Troubridge had been waiting for him. In case he was needed.

He saw that Tolan was still standing by the stairs.

"When are you joining Sir Graham? "He must be truly drained. Otherwise he would have understood.

Jago said harshly, "The vice-admiral's lady told him to sling his hook! That's the bald truth of it!"

Tolan said, "I can deal with it."

Adam sat again. The floor had shifted like a heaving deck, and his legs had almost buckled beneath him.

It was over. He tested each thought before it took shape. Tomorrow I will go home. To Falmouth. To Lowenna. If… He stopped it right there.

"I would relish something to drink, if you please. To swallow today's doubts, and the regrets. "He paused. "If you care for it, Tolan, we can make you welcome at Falmouth."

Jago was nodding, unsmiling. Tolan could only stare at him with incomprehension, his normal composure shaken.

Then he said, "I'll make sure you never regret it."

Jago had recognized the signs.

"I'll go with him, an' bear a hand."

Adam barely heard him. He would fall asleep here and now unless he took a grip of himself.

So quiet. No call to arms, no rattle of drums and stampede of running feet. The knot twisting in your stomach. And the fear you could never show when you were most needed.

He touched the letters inside his coat. Spoke her name.

He knew that somehow she would hear him.