Man of War

10. Chasing Shadows

Adam Bolitho moved his shoulders very slightly and winced as the heat seared his skin, as though he were naked, or his coat had been hanging on the door of a furnace. He had been on deck since first light, when the sun had found them and pinned the ship down as if motionless. It was now almost noon and he felt he had scarcely moved from his place by the quarterdeck rail, watching the land, which never seemed to draw any nearer.

A landfall was always exciting, to land man and old Jack alike. Few sailors ever questioned how or why it was achieved, or even the reason for arriving in a different place or harbour.

Adam glanced up at the topsails, barely filling with wind, and flattened occasionally against stays and yards, the flags all but unmoving. English Harbour, Antigua, was the most important headquarters for the fleet which served the Caribbean far beyond these Leeward Islands, a fine, sheltered harbour with a dockyard which could accommodate even the larger men-of-war like Athena.

Adam shaded his eyes and studied the white buildings beneath the shadow of Monk's Hill, all shimmering in a heat haze, and small local craft, like insects on the milky blue water.

June was almost gone, and this was now the hurricane season: old Caribbean hands would know it well. Becalmed one minute and then caught in a roaring gale, with waves which could swamp any lesser vessels or run them ashore.

Both of Athena's cutters were in the water, one on either bow, ready to take their parent ship under tow, if only to maintain steerage way should the wind desert them altogether. As it was, she was scarcely moving.

Adam plucked at his shirt. Like another skin. A good landfall, nevertheless.

He saw the officer in the starboard cutter stand to peer at the land as it moved out on either beam. It was Tarrant, the third lieutenant. Stirling had detailed him for the task, just in case something had gone amiss on their final approach. He had put an experienced leadsman in the chains for the same reason. Athena might be taken by a freak wind where she was denied the room to manoeuvre or change tack. It would not look well if Bethune's flagship ran into shallow water within sight of the anchorage.

Stirling had even checked each flag before dawn had opened up the horizon, fresh and clean to replace the ones worn by weather which they had hoisted the first day out of Plymouth.

Details, great or small, made up the first lieutenant's life. Caution, perhaps, was his true strength.

Adam said, "My respects to Sir Graham, and please inform him that we are about to begin the salute."

He heard the midshipman mumble something and rush away to the ladder, and imagined Troubridge bearing the news to his lord and master. He studied the land again and saw tiny, blinking lights on the foreshore and near some of the buildings, like fireflies braving the harsh glare: sunlight reflected from a dozen or more telescopes. Athena's arrival would not be unexpected, but her timing would cause some confusion. He thought of the courier brig Celeste, which had blown to pieces, and her sole survivor, the acting sailing master named Rose, who had come from Hull. They had buried him at sea. Adam had never known Athena so quiet; every man in her company had been present. On gangways and in the shrouds, shoulder to shoulder on the main deck. Perhaps the closest in spirit they had yet been.

Celeste would have been carrying all the details of Bethune's arrival, both for the governor and the commodore in charge.

Adam touched the rail, like heated shot, his mind lingering on the burial. He wondered why he had never become used to it. Hardened. He had seen plenty of them, and as captain had committed more men to the deep than he could name or remember. But he was always moved by it, by the sense of community. Of one company.

"Ready, sir! "

He came out of his thoughts, irritated at being caught unaware. All the forenoon they had been creeping toward this mark on Eraser's chart, and when he should be at his most alert he had allowed his mind to drift. He had been sleeping badly, or not at all.

He saw Sam Fetch, 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…

Fetch walked slowly along the deck, measuring the interval between each shot in the salute, pausing briefly inboard of each gun. "Number Three gun, fireV 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, ire If I wasn't a gunner I wouldn't be here. "Number Five gun, fir el

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 Is 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 Hyper ion. Like this ship, she had worn a vice admiral 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 had 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 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 some one 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 preferred 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 some one 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. Swinburne had spoken of successful interception and seizure by the patrolling ships, but 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.

He wanted to pinch himself to stay alert. It was dark beyond the tall windows, with just the lights from the houses on the shore and the

moored vessels nearby. Almost as dark as when he had been called to go on deck, only this morning…

Bethune must have made some sort of signal. Tolan and the cabin servants had disappeared, and Troubridge was standing, framed against the screen door, like a sentinel.

Bethune said quietly, "Lord Sillitoe is here, in the Indies. Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick. Why was I not told?"

Swinburne stared at him. As if he were hearing a foreign language.

"I had no instructions, Sir Graham! He is a man of influence, once the Prince Regent's Inspector General."

Bethune did not hide the sarcasm. "And his good friend, too, as I recall."

Swinburne made another attempt. "He is here to conduct enquiries, matters which concern his business, and the City of London." He ended lamely, "The governor left no instructions."

Bethune said, "He is a very dangerous man, and his father was the most successful slaver on record."

Swinburne picked up his glass. It was empty. "I know that Lady Somervell was with him. But I thought…"

Bethune actually smiled. "You hold a good appointment here. Others might be envious. Think on it, eh?" He snapped his fingers. "Now we can sup in peace."

Troubridge had left the screen door and stood right aft by the stern windows.

"Your first lieutenant wishes to speak with you, sir." He glanced at the servants, who were arranging chairs again, lighting candles on the table. In the flickering light his young features looked suddenly grave, angry. "And, no, sir. I did not know that Lady Somervell was here in Antigua."

Adam looked past him. "I shall not be a moment, Sir Graham." But Bethune was lifting the silver cover from the dish and gave no sign of having heard him. He touched Troubridge's sleeve. "Thank you for that." He saw Tolan bringing more wine from the pantry. "I thought I was the only one who didn't know! "

He found Stirling waiting by the companion ladder, his head bowed beneath the deck head beams. There was probably ample room to stand upright, Adam thought; it was merely habit, born of a lifetime at sea in every class of ship.

"I am sorry to disturb you, sir." His eyes glinted in the swaying watch light as he glanced at the white-painted screen, and the Royal Marine sentry at the door to the admiral's quarters. In the dim light, the scarlet uniform looked black.

Stirling lowered his voice.

"The sloop Lotus anchored an hour or so back, sir. Her commander is come aboard to report an action with a slaver."

"Why so long?" It gave him time to mark down the sloop, like an entry in the log. She was one of the commodore's chain of patrolling vessels. But that was all.

"He went to the commodore's residence first. Said he knew nothing about Athena's arrival here. All aback, he was." He turned again as the sentry shifted his boots. "I put him in the chart room and told him to wait."

"You did right. I'll see him now." He thought he heard a glass shatter beyond the screen, and somebody laugh. It sounded like Swinburne.

They climbed the companion ladder together, Stirling breathing heavily, but, Adam felt, glad to have shifted the responsibility so quickly.

On the quarterdeck the air was cool, clean, after the admiral's cabin. A few figures stood grouped by the starboard nettings. Beyond and below them Adam could see a boat, almost motionless, hooked on to the main chains.

Stirling paused outside the chart room, one large hand on the clip.

"His name is Pointer, sir. First command, apparently, six months on this station."

"Thank you. That's a big help, believe me."

"Sir?" He could feel Stirling peering at him through the darkness, as if he was expecting or searching for a trap.

It seemed unusually bright in the chart room after the quarterdeck and its silent watch keepers

Pointer, Lotus's commander, was tall and thin with a narrow, bony face and clear, intelligent eyes. Still only a lieutenant, but already after so short a spell of command he carried an air of quiet authority.

Adam held out his hand, and saw a brief start of surprise.

"I'm Bolitho. I command here. Flag captain."

Pointer grasped his hand firmly; the grip was bony, too. "Yes, sir, I just heard." He looked at the unsmiling first lieutenant. "And about Sir Graham Bethune. I have been out of contact with the commodore, you see. We did not know."

Stirling said impatiently, "The courier was blown up."

Adam gestured to the rack of charts, all neatly folded, numbered and in order: knowing Dugald Fraser, they would be. Like his notes and personal log, even the gleaming dividers and rules were each in its place.

"Show me."

Pointer opened a chart and flattened it on the table.

"Two weeks ago, it was, sir." His forefinger touched the chart. "I was in my usual patrol sector. I've had it since I commissioned Lotus, so I think I have the feel of it by now." The finger moved. "The sector runs from the Bahama Bank, westward to the Florida Straits. A regular run for slavers if they can slip past us."

Adam sensed his pride, in what he was doing, more so perhaps in his command. He could easily picture the small ship, quite alone in that great span of islands and the countless channels that separated them. You could hide a fleet there, if the need arose.

Pointer said, "We had been working the Straits for some time. The bigger slavers cross from Cuba to Florida to unload their cargoes before heading out into the Atlantic again. Some of them are large vessels, new and fast. They can often outrun our patrols." The pride again. "But not Lotus'

Pointer had pulled a ragged pad from his coat. This he laid on the chart. There were scribbled calculations and compass bearings, but Adam's gaze settled on the date, June sixth, the day after they had sifted through Celeste's pathetic remains and had found her only survivor.

He stared at the chart and the outline of Cuba, but for only a few seconds he saw Falmouth. June the sixth was his birthday, and it had completely slipped his mind.

Pointer had not noticed his expression. "A big barque, she was, standing out of Havana, probably heading for Florida, under a full press of canvas. Sighted us and broke out the American flag, so I ordered her to heave to and await a boarding party." He smiled and the strain showed itself for the first time. He was speaking to himself, reliving it. As if there was nobody else here.

"They often do that. The Yankees make such a huff-and-puff about any foreign officers trying to board one of their ships, and it often works, so the slaver gets clean away." He peered at the charts again. "So I ran out my guns and fired a couple of shots to warn him that I meant business." He nodded slowly. "I was ready for him. I'd heard about the heavy pieces some of those slavers carry. He went about and ran for the shore, back to Havana. He had the wind under his coattails and I could scarcely keep pace with him, the crafty bastard! " He stared at Adam, and but for his tanned skin might have blushed. "I beg your pardon, sir! "

The door opened two inches. It was Troubridge. "I'm sorry, sir, but Sir Graham has asked me…" He fell silent, as if he were gripped by the tension and could not proceed.

Pointer said, "I followed him into the harbour, and I anchored Lotus and was boarded by an army of officials. I insisted that the barque was a slaver, and that under the Agreement I wanted to search her and confirm this. It is well known amongst our patrols that the Spanish captain-general in Havana is quite prepared to accept false papers and offer clearance to a ship's master, even if he is a known slaver. A lot of money must change hands in the process."

"But you found nothing?"

He shrugged. "I was treated with every courtesy, but I was not allowed to search the ship. The captain-general's aide was surprised that I should imagine that in a civilized city like Havana slaves could be landed and moved elsewhere without the authorities knowing. A day later I was allowed to put a party on board. They found nothing, and the flag was Spanish by that time. I can still hear the jeers and the curses as we weighed and put to sea."

"Perhaps you were lucky. An "accident" might have been arranged for you and your Lotus'

Together they walked from the chart room, and into the shadows. Pointer stopped momentarily and looked up into the darker patterns of shrouds and stays.

"If this ship had been there, they would have sung a different tune! " Yet he said it without bitterness, as if it was he who had failed in some way.

Almost as an afterthought, he dragged a canvas envelope from his coat. "My full report, sir." The smile returned. "Addressed to the commodore, of course."

He was almost asleep on his feet. He must have driven his ship without a break, a passage of some fourteen hundred miles. Adam could still recall when he had commanded a vessel not very different in size and performance, in which her captain was always the last to go off watch.

Troubridge took the envelope. "I'll tell Sir Graham, sir." But he was regarding the bony lieutenant with barely disguised awe.

He was back in a few minutes, or so it seemed.

"Sir Graham's compliments, and would you return to your ship and remain ready to proceed to sea…" He faltered, sharing Pointer's exhaustion. "Tomorrow, before sunset, as ordered by the Flag."

Adam walked with him to the entry port where Lotus'?" boat was already preparing to cast off.

"I am glad we met. I shall see you now when I hear the name of your command."

They shook hands, and Pointer said, "I remember when I was chasing a slaver, months ago, just before all the new rules had been agreed upon. I was almost up to him when he began pitching his slaves over the side. He did not have many left, but there were enough. The sharks were in a frenzy, and I shall never forget those last screams, and the silence."

Adam touched his hat and watched him clamber down the side and into his boat.

He walked aft again, shadowy figures turning to watch him as he passed.

He could even feel the sentry's eyes beneath his leather hat as the door was opened for him.

Bethune sat at the table, Lieutenant Pointer's report carelessly spread across his knees.

He gestured with a knife. "Didn't wait for you. Sir Baldwin must return to his headquarters. He has a lot to do because of this." His tone hardened slightly. "Some of it won't wait until tomorrow."

Adam looked at the empty dishes and patches of spilled wine, like blood. He thought of Unrivalled, and the long patrols off the slave coasts of Africa. Freetown, and the bodies packed so tightly in the holds of captured ships that they could scarcely move or breathe. Human cargo. Like Pointer, he would never forget either.

The commodore came through the other door, Tolan and one of the servants at his elbows.

Bethune smiled, but did not stand up. "Go with Sir Baldwin, will you, Flags? Explain to his duty officer what is required for tomorrow."

Troubridge snatched up his hat and followed the swaying trio from the cabin.

Jago was already there, a bosun's chair rigged and ready for lowering the commodore into the gig alongside. He glanced sharply at Adam.

"You all right, Cap'n?"

Adam said only, "When you get back aboard, lay aft to my cabin and have a wet with your captain."

Jago bared his teeth, but did not smile. "O' course, Cap'n, if the tackle was to run free while the commodore was bein' swayed outboard, I could be there all the faster! "

It had been a close thing. Adam gripped his arm.

"This is not what we have learned to accept, Luke, or been trained to fight. It's like chasing shadows." He half turned as if to listen to the Lotus's boat pulling away from the side. "I almost envied that officer just now, at least for his freedom to act as he thinks fit! "

Jago relaxed slightly as the mood changed.

Adam stifled a yawn and grinned. "Almost."