Man of War

3. Absent Friends

The coach jerked violently as the brake was applied and came to a swaying halt, the horses stamping on cobbles, very aware that their journey to Portsmouth was ended. Adam Bolitho eased forward on the seat, every muscle and bone offering a protest. He had only himself to blame; he had insisted on leaving his temporary lodgings the previous evening, at an hour when most people would have been thinking of a late supper or bed.

But the coachmen employed by the Admiralty were accustomed to it. Driving at night, the wheels dipping and grinding in deep ruts, or through rain-flooded stretches of the long Portsmouth Road, two stops to change horses, another to wait for a farm wagon to be moved after it had cast a wheel. They had paused at a small inn in a place called Liphook, to drink tea by candlelight before starting on the final leg of the journey.

He lowered the window and shivered as the bitter air fanned across his face. First light, or soon would be, and he felt like death.

He heard his companion twist round beside him and say cheerfully, "They're ready for us, it seems, sir! "

Lieutenant Francis Troubridge showed no trace of fatigue. A youthful, alert man, ever ready to answer Adam's many questions, he had displayed no resentment or surprise at the call for a coach ride through the night. As Vice-Admiral Bethune's flag lieutenant, the most recent of several to all accounts, it was something he probably took for granted.

Adam looked toward the tall gates, which were wide open.

Two Royal Marine orderlies were nearby with a porter's trolley, and an officer in a boat cloak was observing the coach without impatience.

Even that was hard to accept. On the roof of the Admiralty above Bethune's handsome room was the first link in a chain of telegraph stations which could pass a signal from London to the tower over the church of St. Thomas almost before a courier could find, saddle and mount a horse. News, good or bad, had always moved with the speed of the fastest rider. Not any more, and provided visibility was good the eight or so telegraph stations could send word well ahead of any traveller.

Adam climbed down on to hard ground, and felt it rise to meet him. Like a sailor too long in an open boat in a lively sea, he thought. He shivered again and tugged his own heavy cloak around him. He was tired, and throbbing from too much travel: Falmouth, Plymouth, London, and now Portsmouth.

He should have slept throughout the journey instead of trying to study his orders, or glean fragments of intelligence from his lively companion.

He had the feeling that the young lieutenant was watching him now, discovering something, for reasons of his own. He had certainly gone to a lot of trouble to find out about the officer put into his care. At one point, when they had stopped to change horses, Troubridge had remarked, "I was forgetting, sir. You were flag lieutenant yourself some years ago." Not a question; and Adam thought that he could have given the exact year when he had been his uncle's aide.

He saw that the other officer had thrown back his cloak to display the epaulettes of a post captain, like his own.

"Welcome, Bolitho! " His handshake was firm and hard. The dockyard captain, who probably knew more about ships and the demands of the fleet than any one.

They fell into step, while the marines began unloading chests and baggage from the carriage; they did not speak, nor so much as look at the new arrivals.

The dockyard captain was saying, "Athena is anchored, of course, but she's awaiting more ballast and stores. My clerk has left a full list for your attention." He shot him a quick glance. "Have you met up with Athena before?" A casual comment, but it was typical. In the 'family' of the navy it was common enough for a sailor to cross paths with the same ship throughout the years of his service at sea.

"No." He pictured the spidery writing, which he had read by the light of a small lantern while the coach had juddered and rolled through the darkness.

Built at Chatham in 1803, just two years before Trafalgar; not an old ship by naval standards. He had found that he was able to smile. Maybe Troubridge had seen that too. 1803, the year he had been given his first command, the little fourteen-gun brig Firefly. He had been just twenty-three years old.

Laid down and completed as a third-rate, a seventy-four gun ship of the line, Athena's role had changed several times, as had her station. She had served in the second American war and in the Mediterranean, in the Irish Sea, and then back to the Channel Fleet.

Now, out of nowhere, she was to be Sir Graham Bethune's flagship. Her artillery had been reduced from seventy-four to sixty-four, to allow more accommodation. No other reason was given.

Even Bethune had been vague about it. "We shall be working with our "allies", Adam. My flagship is not to be seen as a threat, more as an example." It had seemed to amuse him, although Adam suspected Bethune was almost as much in the dark as himself.

He said, "She has a full ship's company?"

The other captain smiled. "All but a few. But these days it's easier to find spare hands, with no war at the gates! "

Adam quickened his pace. Here there was activity, even at this ungodly hour. Heavy, horse-drawn wagons, filled with cordage and crates of every size. Dockyard workers being mustered for a new day's repairs, perhaps even building. Unlike the empty gun ports at Plymouth. Unlike Unrivalled.

The other captain said suddenly, "You'll be more used to a fifth-rate, Bolitho. Athena's a good ship, in structure and condition. The best Kentish oak maybe the last of it, from what I hear! "

They halted at the top of some stone stairs, and as if to a signal a boat began to pull away from a cluster of moored barges, the oars rising and falling with mist clinging to the blades like translucent weed.

Adam saw his own breath drifting away, hating the cold in his bones. Too long on the slave coast, or clawing up and down off the Algerian shoreline… It was neither. A new ship, and one already destined for some ill-defined task. The West Indies, with a vice-admiral's flag at the fore: probably Bethune's last appointment before he quit the navy to serve in some new capacity where there was no more war, no more danger. When they had stopped at Liphook to take tea Troubridge had mentioned his own father, an admiral at the end of his service, but now he had been given an important role in the growing ranks of the Honourable East India Company, where, no doubt, he would want his son to join him after this latest stepping-stone which might eventually lead to oblivion.

Easier to find spare hands. The dockyard captain's words seemed to hang in the air like his breath. Like many of Unrivalled'?" people, those who had cursed the unyielding discipline, or simply the petty-mindedness of those who should have known better in the close confines of a King's ship. Those same men might now be seeking a ship, any vessel which would give them back the only life they fully understood.

"There have been one or two accidents, of course, quite common when refitting, and when every one wants it done in half the time." He shrugged heavily. "Men lost overboard, two falling from aloft, another rigger too drunk to save himself in the dark. It happens."

Adam looked at him. "Her captain was relieved of his command. He faces a courtmartial, I'm told."

"Yes." They watched the boat come alongside, two young seamen leaping ashore to fend off the stairs.

He found himself holding his breath. His uncle had warned him about joining a new ship, especially as her captain. They will be far more worried about you, Adam. But he thought of the old clerk at the Admiralty, who had lingered in Bethune's room after the vice-admiral had gone to speak with one of his superiors.

"Your uncle, Sir Richard, was a fine man, sir. A great man, given the chance." He had stared at the door, as if afraid of something, and blurted out, "Take care, sir. Athena'?" an unlucky ship! " He had scuttled away before Bethune had returned.

A lieutenant, impeccably turned out, eyes fixed on a point above Adam's left epaulette, raised his hat smartly and said, "Barclay, second lieutenant, sir, at your service! "

An open face, but at this moment giving nothing away. One of many he would come to know, and know well if he had learned anything since Firefly, all those years ago.

He looked around, almost expecting to see Napier hovering there in his blue coat and clicking shoes. Or Luke Jago, watchful and cynical, an eye on this boat's crew for instance, already judging the ship. His ship. Troubridge was climbing into the boat, preceeding Adam in the correct manner. The dockyard captain stepped back and touched his hat.

Adam returned the salute and nodded to the lieutenant… he frowned, and the name came to him. Barclay.

The boat's crew, smartly dressed in matching shirts and tarred hats, faced aft, eyes unmoving, but fixed on the new captain. Wondering. Assessing. Adam stepped into the stern sheets the old sword pressed hard against his hip.

The ship, any ship, was only as good as her captain. No better. No worse.

He sat down. So be it.

"Cast off! "

He tugged his hat more firmly on to his head as the boat pulled away from the jetty, and into a cold breeze which he was beyond feeling. At any other time it was easy to lose yourself in your thoughts, allow the boat's crew and its routine carry on without you. This was different. Unlike Unrivalled, when he had commissioned her at Plymouth; he had been there when most of her company had arrived on board, while the builders and riggers were still putting the finishing touches to their new frigate. Or even Anemone, which had gone down after a bitter action against the Americans, and he had been wounded, and taken prisoner…

He saw a guard boat pulling between two moored transports, the oars tossed as a mark of respect, an officer standing in the stern sheets to raise his hat.

Adam reached up to drop the boat cloak from his shoulders, so that both epaulettes could be seen. The guard boat had known of his arrival; perhaps everybody did. Nothing remained confidential for very long in the 'family'.

The stroke oarsman's eyes had moved for the first time to watch what he had done, his loom rising and falling steadily, unhurriedly as before.

One of my men. What is he thinking at this very moment? Or young Troubridge, whose father had flown his own flag as an admiral; was he aware of the significance of this day and what it meant to the frigate captain at his side? The officer who had been singled out for praise for his behaviour at Algiers by Lord Exmouth himself?

He tensed, the sword gripped between his knees, cold and discomfort forgotten. As if he were some one else. A spectator.

Slowly at first, then more deliberately as the boat turned slightly into the first true daylight, the ship was already taking shape, her tracery of spars and black rigging rising above the indistinct shapes of other moored vessels. It might not have been Athena, but he knew that it was.

The bowman had boated his oar and was standing, facing forward with his boat hook and Adam had not seen him move.

The boat's coxswain swung the tiller bar, but hesitated as the lieutenant held up his hand. Anxious, nervous of making the wrong impression on the new captain.

Adam found that he could spare a thought for the man he was relieving, a man he did not know, had never met. Stephen Ritchie, a senior captain on the Navy List, who had commanded Athena for three years, in war and in peace, was now jawaiting the convenience of a court-martial' as it had been euphemistically described in the Gazette. Troubridge had been sparse with his information, but Ritchie had evidently been in serious debt, not unusual in the navy, and had made the grave mistake of falsifying accounts to obtain further credit. He must have been in very deep trouble to take such risks. He was paying for it now.

He glanced up as the bowsprit and long tapering jib boom reached up and over the boat like a lance. The figurehead, clad in armour, was still hidden in shadow.

Adam caught a slight movement above the beak head a face withdrawing, some one posted to give the first warning.

It came immediately.

"Boat ahoy! "

The lieutenant was on his feet again, hands cupped.

"Athena! " The waiting was over.

Adam felt the ship rising over him, the fresh paint reflected on the sluggish current like white and black bars, with the gun ports creating their own checkered pattern. Masts and standing rigging, hammock nettings all neatly packed and covered; they must have piped all hands long before dawn. As a midshipman he had done it himself, going without breakfast in order that some great man would find all to his liking when he stepped aboard.

The boat was coming alongside, oars tossed and dripping, while the bowman and some figures clinging beneath the ship's entry port eased the hull into the remaining shadows.

Not much longer than Unrivalled, but she was a two-decker and seemed to tower above him like a cliff.

He had crammed his mind with the basic details. Now they seemed to revolve in confusion. One hundred and sixty feet in length, and of one thousand four hundred tons. A frigate was always busy, always crowded. It was hard to accept that Athena, when fully manned, would carry five hundred souls, officers, seamen, and a contingent of Royal Marines for good measure.

There was a sudden silence, or so it seemed. The lieutenant was facing him, pleased, worried, or merely relieved that his part was over; it was hard to tell.

Adam looked up at the ship's side, the tumble home curving away to reveal the 'stairs', and the entry port which looked a cable's length away. He was reminded of his visit to Lord Exmouth's flagship Queen Charlotte at Plymouth, when the admiral, knowing he had been wounded, had ordered him to use a bosun's chair as he left, and the sailors had cheered him for it. As Exmouth had said, "Pride is one thing, Bolitho, but conceit is an enemy! "

He reached out for the guide rope, but turned his head as he did so, and stared over the brightening expanse of Portsmouth Harbour. Some moored ships, still merged together in the retreating shadows, and land beyond. That would be Gosport. The small note, still folded in his pocket. I was here. I saw you. God be with you.

He knew that one of the side-boys, sent down in his white gloves to offer a helping hand if need be, was staring at him, mouth half open.

Adam nodded to him and began to climb. Lowenna. If only… He heard the slap of muskets being brought to the present, a far-off bark of commands.

Then the long, drawn-out trill of calls. A salute to the captain, on this day.

The first few moments as he stepped through Athena's entry port and raised his hat to the quarterdeck and the ensign lifting lazily above the taffrail were blurred, swift impressions. The marines stiffly paraded as if on a barrack square, the pipe clay from their slings

still drifting above their leather hats, their officer with drawn sword at the present. The fading twitter of calls, Spithead Nightingales as sailors called them, and the rattle of a solitary drum.

A lieutenant, taller and older than Adam had expected, stepped from the rank of waiting officers and said, " Stirling, sir. I am the senior here." A hesitation. "Welcome aboard Athena."

They shook hands, pausing while the marines brought down their muskets in unison.

He walked slowly along the line of assembled officers, shaking hands with each one of them. Athena carried six lieutenants in all; Barclay had remained in the boat alongside, so the introductions did not take long. Young for the most part, and for the present merely faces. There were two scarlet-coated marine officers, a captain, and a lieutenant who was in charge of the guard of honour. The eight midshipmen were held at bay by a rank of senior warrant officers; as Adam had heard his uncle say more than once, the backbone of any ship.

He could feel Troubridge keeping close behind him, perhaps less assured hemmed in by this press of strangers.

Stirling, the big first lieutenant, watched each face as he made his introduction, with an occasional mention of a particular duty or part of ship.

Adam thought of Leigh Galbraith, Unrivalled'?" first lieutenant. He had been a big man too, but light on his feet at sea or in action. Never look back. It seemed to mock him.

He knew something about Stirling. He had been in Athena for three years, like her disgraced captain. Old for his rank, passed over for promotion, partly because he had been a prisoner of war in Spanish hands until that country's change of fortune, but also because he apparently had made no effort to obtain it. Unlike Galbraith.

He realized that some one had spoken his name.

It was the sailing master, a man with such a weathered face that his eyes seemed snared by the crows feet and lines of many leagues in every kind of sea. A strong face, the eyes bright blue, the mouth breaking into a smile.

Adam gripped his hand, the years falling away.

"Fraser, isn't it?"

The smile widened into a grin. "Fancy you rememberin', sir." He almost glanced at the other warrant officers. Almost. "Few years that goes back, when I was master's mate in the old Achates, sixty-four, Cap'n Valentine Keen, so it was! "

"You've done well, Mr. Fraser."

Fraser released his hand. "I saw you leave Achates to take your first command, sir. I often think of them days."

They moved on, but Adam could still feel the handshake. Was that all it took?

They had reached the quarterdeck rail; his shoes were clinging to fresh pitch, and he saw where tools and paint brushes had been hastily hidden under strips of old canvas. Paint, pitch and tar, spun yarn and hemp. The sailor's lot.

The big double wheel, motionless and unmanned, the compass box shining in the growing light. Marines, fifers and drummers, seamen and petty officers, midshipmen and ship's boys, all packed into this unfamiliar hull.

Thank you, Mr. Stirling. Have all hands lay aft, if you please."

One of the young midshipmen sneezed and ducked his head to hide his embarrassment. Probably about Napier's age. He had a sudden flash of memory: the tailor's old-fashioned shop in Plymouth, Napier's face when the tape had been stretched across his slight shoulders for the first time, and the tailor had called measurements and meaningless advice to some hidden assistant. It was something he would never forget: it had been like seeing himself.

He looked up and around at the assembled ship's company. On the gangways on either side of the maindeck, above the batteries of black-muzzled eighteen pounders clinging to the ratlines and shrouds, some even standing on the boat tier and its newly painted hulls. It was hard to imagine how all these men and boys could find space to live and hope as individuals.

He stared along the length of the ship to the Union flag flying above the beak head and the armoured shoulder of the goddess Athena. Again he felt the prick of uncertainty, almost guilt. He could still see Unrivalled'?" lovely figurehead, like the girl in the studio.

"Ship's company, uncoverV

Officers and seamen alike removed their hats, while others seemed to lean out and down from their various vantage points to watch each move, hear every word which would make this man their captain. The one man who held the power of life and death, misery and happiness, over every soul aboard.

Adam had removed his hat and tucked it beneath his arm. He took out the familiar roll of parchment and stared unseeingly at the beautiful copperplate script: some one else's words, somebody else's voice reading them.

It was addressed to Adam Bolitho, Esquire, the commission which appointed him to the Athena, willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain in her accordingly…

Some he remembered from other ships. Some he knew almost by heart. Many of the men assembled here today would have heard the same words many times, if they had served long enough.

He cleared his throat, and knew that Stirling was gazing at him with scarcely a blink.

'… hereof, nor you nor any of you may fail as you will answer the contrary at your peril."

Like Unrivalled, and Anemone. And like the little brig which had been his first command, and had been brought back to life by the hard handshake of Athena's sailing master just minutes ago.

Stirling was nodding, but watching some of the assembled hands as if to discover the true feeling of the ship. His ship, for three years.

Troubridge murmured, "I can take you to your quarters, sir. They are all but ready for use." He was mentally ticking off his flag lieutenant's ever-present list. "A cabin servant has been appointed. He served the previous captain." He frowned as somebody gave a cheer. "He requested to remain on board."

Adam turned as the lines of seamen and marines began to break up and separate into groups.

He said, "An issue of rum would not come amiss, Mr. Stirling."

Stirling bit his lip. "I'm not sure that the purser has arranged it, sir."

The purser. The man who usually counted every coffee bean and biscuit as if it were his own. He could vaguely recall a limp handshake, and an Irish name. It would come back to him.

He said, "Then tell him, if you please." He saw a barge full of dockyard workers poling abeam, some of the men giving another cheer as they passed.

A new beginning for the ship. He followed Troubridge aft and beneath the shadow of the poop. A bigger ship, but still he had to duck his head to avoid the first deck head beam.

There was no sentry at the screen door, and the air was heavy with fresh shipboard smells. The cabin seemed larger, unlived in. When he made to open one of the sloping stern windows, there was wet paint on his fingers.

A captain's retreat. He looked at the new black and white checkered deck covering beneath his shoes. Except that Bethune and his staff would be right there, below him. A private ship no longer.

In a day or so Luke Jago would arrive with some of the things which had been taken to Falmouth. He eyed the space near the bench seat across the stern. The chair would be right there… He gazed at the harbour shimmering beyond the thick glass windows. Provided Jago had not changed his mind. Taken his bounty and prize money and swallowed the anchor.

He looked up at a skylight, then deliberately removed his dress coat and hung it from the latch, where it would swing to the harbour's easy motion. Like that day when he had received his orders. When he had been told he was losing Unrivalled. Just like that.

Defiance; anger; he found it was neither.

He said abruptly, "I would like a shave, and a bath of some sort."

Troubridge exclaimed, "I doubt if the ship is quite ready, sir." The flag lieutenant was never far away. "I could call away a boat, and have you in the George at Portsmouth Point in no time."

Adam moved to the opposite side, and the screen across the sleeping cabin.

"Too many ghosts." He did not explain. "Find that servant you mentioned, and then…"

Troubridge was opening a cupboard and taking out a finely cut goblet.

He smiled, almost shyly. "I did arrange a small welcome for you, sir."

Feet stamped beyond the screen door, and Adam heard a corporal reading out the standing orders to the marine sentry. More stamping, then silence.

He sat on the bench seat and looked around the bare cabin.

"Then you will join me, eh?"

There was a muffled burst of cheering and Troubridge could not contain a grin. "Ahah. The rum has been issued, sir."

Adam took a goblet and glanced at the breech of a twelve-pounder which shared his quarters, and would be one of the first in action if this ship was ever called upon to fight.

It was cognac. Probably some of Bethune's.

He stood, and raised the goblet. "To the ship! "

Troubridge was young but he was quick to learn, and he felt that he knew this captain better than he had expected he would ever do after so brief an acquaintance.

He lifted his own goblet and said simply, "And to absent friends, sir."

It was done.

Bryan Ferguson stood by the window of his cramped estate office and watched the horses being manoeuvred toward the carriage in the centre of the stable yard. The sky was a clear, pale blue, the air like ice, but it was likely to remain dry for the journey to Plymouth. Young Matthew and his lads had made a fine show with the carriage, he thought. You could see your face in it; even the harness shone like black glass.

A special day, but he was also saddened by it. He heard Yovell speaking to somebody in the passageway and was suddenly grateful that the portly secretary was coming back here when he returned from Plymouth. From his mission, as he had put it. Yovell was good company, and a great help with the never-ending work connected with the estate, and anyway, Ferguson had told him frankly, was too old for a seagoing existence.

He glanced down at his empty sleeve. He was grateful, something he had not been able to admit before, not even to his beloved Grace. He was the one who was getting too old for this work, the estate, the tenant-farmers and stock holders who knew his shortcomings. Yovell was a kindly soul, but nobody's fool, and he had a mind like quicksilver. And in any case…

He turned as Yovell came in, carrying his heavy coat with its attached cape. He was rarely seen without it, and today he would need it.

"The tailor has gone, Daniel. At long last."

Yovell studied him gravely. "I shall deal with him when I'm in Plymouth. I have a few matters to attend to for Captain Adam. You have quite enough to do here." He counted off points on his plump fingers. "The Captain's personal baggage has gone ahead." He smiled gently. "The chair also. It might take the edge off his new responsibilities. But knowing him as I do, I doubt it."

Ferguson looked out at the carriage again. The horses were standing peacefully in the traces, harness adjusted, a stable boy giving them a last currying before departure. Local people would see the carriage and its familiar crest, and maybe they would wonder. Not a Bolitho this time; the old grey house was empty again.

He saw Luke Jago crossing the yard and knew he would miss him also. Jago had a strange, blunt way of making friends. A bad enemy if you crossed him, he thought.

Every landsman's idea of the true sailor. In his fine jacket with its gilt buttons, flared neckerchief and nankeen breeches, he would give any one confidence. He thought of John Allday, and the moment when the two coxswains had met for the first time.

Allday was his best friend, and they shared an inseparable past, even though Ferguson 's seagoing life had ended when he had lost his arm in battle. Most people might envy the big, shambling man who had been Sir Richard's coxswain, who had been with him at the end, and had held him as he died. Now Allday was happily married to his pretty Unis, and together they managed a successful inn, The Old Hyperion, over in the village of Fallowfield. They had a little daughter named Kate. Not many Jacks who had stepped ashore had found such satisfaction.

But Ferguson had seen the truth in those blue, honest eyes which could rarely hide a secret.

Allday envied Jago, because of the other life which had been taken away.

Jago pushed noisily through the door and dropped his chest on the floor.

Time to shove off, then?" He nodded to Yovell. "Thanks for finding a place to lay my head."

Ferguson swung round. "Not visitors! Not now! "

Yovell patted his arm.

"Easy, Bryan. I think it's Lady Roxby. I rather thought she might call."

The other carriage turned in the yard and a boy ran to calm the horses.

Grace was here now, hurrying to greet her as she was assisted down. Ferguson saw that the girl Elizabeth was with her.

He heard Jago remark, "Break somebody's heart, that one will, if I'm any judge."

Ferguson also noticed that his wife had been crying, as he had known she would.

But she was smiling now, gesturing to each of them in turn. "Come into the house, will you? I only wish Captain Adam could be here! "

They walked up the broad steps and into the familiar hallway. The study door was open, a fire burning cheerfully. Almost as if one of those faces in the portraits would be there. Waiting.

They were a very mixed group, the one-armed steward and the plump Yovell, who had become so much a part of their lives. Jago, at ease but never relaxed, soon to join his captain, and questioning even that. The two women, and the slim, upright girl with the chestnut hair.

Nancy heard one of the servants give an excited hand clap and some one call out something from the broad landing. Very quickly, she made her decision.

She saw Jago turn and stare at her, his usual composure, sometimes hostility, gone as she grasped his hand in hers. It might be the worst thing she could do But she said abruptly, "I know you, Luke Jago. My nephew trusts you, and so must I."

She thrust an envelope into his fist and felt his fingers close round it like a trap. "Give him this. Tell him…" She broke off as Ferguson called, "Well done! Well done! "

Jago stared past the woman he knew to be Captain Bolitho's aunt. He knew, too, that she was more than merely that. It was enough. The envelope was in his jacket pocket.

"Good as done, m' lady."

Nancy turned away, angry that tears might spoil this day.

She walked to the foot of the stairs and opened her arms, holding him as she had once held Adam, a lifetime ago.

The youth Elizabeth had described as "the captain's servant" had gone. In his new midshipman's uniform, with the single-breasted tailed coat and white collar patches which still haunted her memory, he was some one else.

She embraced him and thought she heard Grace Ferguson sobbing, as if she, too, was losing somebody dear to her.

"He would be so proud of you, David." His slight shoulders were rigid under the new blue coat, as if he were still trying to come to terms with it. "It is what he wanted for you."

David Napier swallowed hard and gazed past them at the big doors, standing open to the cold air. The wall, the curving drive, that line of trees. And the sea.

He was going to another ship; he could feel the stiff document folded inside the pocket of the coat. He stared at the gilt buttons on each sleeve and saw himself as he had just seen his reflection in the mirror on the landing.

He thought his hands were trembling, but when he held one out to the sunlight it was quite steady.

He had no right to think of this house as his home, but the feeling would not change, or go away. He looked at their faces, each one in turn, so that he should not forget: Grace, wiping her eyes and trying to smile, her husband, who had done all he could to make him feel welcome, and Yovell, the man who had shared so much with him in Unrivalled, and had taught him about things and deeds he would never otherwise have known. And the lady who had just hugged him. Part of a great family. How can I leave them now?

It was Luke Jago who cut the cable.

"Here now, Mister Napier, we'd better get a-moving if we're to get you on board today! "

As he climbed into the carriage Napier paused to look at the house, and to wave, although he could see very little in the hard light.

But he thought of his mother. Might she have been proud, too?