Man of War

7. Under the Flag

John Bowles, the cabin servant, walked to the sloping stern windows and opened the dress coat which he had just finished pressing, held it carefully in the harsh glare of reflected sunlight, and made sure that it was perfect. Beyond the screen door and beneath his feet the ship was unusually quiet. Sometimes it was hard to believe that the hull held nearly five hundred human beings. He gave a slow grin. If you could call some of them that. It had been rather different earlier in the day, since dawn when all hands had been piped to work ship, and prepare for the arrival of the great man himself. Extra care with the rigging, standing and running alike, more hands sent aloft to check each lashing, and no loose ends, "Irish pennants', the Jacks called them, to offend the vice-admiral's eye. There was still a hint of cooking in the air, the heady aroma of rum, Nelson's Blood, but the ship was ready.

He had glanced into the spacious cabin beneath this one, and watched it being transformed into something almost palatial. Rich and very costly furniture had appeared as if by magic, even a few paintings in the admiral's sleeping quarters. If they ever had to clear for action some one would have to keep a close eye on those as everything was dragged below and the screens were torn down to strip Athena to her true identity, a fighting ship. He had seen the vice-admiral's servant supervising every aspect of the transformation, a smart looking man, utterly unmoved by the bustle and confusion around him. Bowles had tried to make conversation, but the man, Tolan, had seemed withdrawn, disinterested in anything that might distract him from his purpose.

He gave the dress coat a final examination. First impressions. He almost smiled. It was something the previous captain, Ritchie, had often said. He had served him a long time, but looking back, it was as if he had never really known him. Now awaiting a court-martial. That, too, had surprised Bowles. It was said that Adam Bolitho had been court-martialled a year or so ago, after losing his ship to a Yankee and being taken prisoner. He gave the coat a quick shake. There was a lot he had yet to discover about his new master. Who, for instance, would gallop overland in his best uniform, as if he did not have a care in the world?

He peered across the cabin and saw him now at his desk, his chin resting on one hand, still writing. Today, of all days, when Athena was to become flagship to an admiral about whom most of them knew nothing, the captain could still find the time to put pen to paper.

In an opened shirt, dark hair dishevelled as he ran his fingers through it, as if it were an ordinary day. The small book he carried in his coat lay beside him on the desk, and the well-worn letter he always kept folded inside it. A dreamer one moment, restless and alert the next. Quick to intervene when he thought Stirling had overlooked something. Bowles nodded slowly to himself. In battle or a raging storm, Stirling was like a rock. Duty was duty; like the Articles of War, it was enough.

Adam Bolitho had been well known for his exploits as a frigate captain; a few of the ship's company had served with him in the past, some even under his famous uncle. Perhaps Athena'?" next commission was not going to lead them to another backwater after all… "Boat ahoy?"

The challenge was clear and loud, and Bowles could almost feel the panic it would cause the watch keepers and, more especially, the first lieutenant. The vice-admiral had changed his mind, and was already heading out to his flagship. Catch every one unprepared. He had heard the flag lieutenant, Troubridge, discussing it with the captain. Sir Graham Bethune was to dine with the port admiral at his residence ashore; his host would have his own barge collect and bring him to Athena at four bells of the afternoon watch.

He cocked his head to listen as somebody replied to the challenge.

"Aye! Aye! " So, an officer on board, but nobody important. Probably some mail for Athena, the boat coming early to avoid involvement with the admiral.

He realized with a start that the captain had turned in his chair.

"Nervous, Bowles?"

Bowles held out the coat. "I did wonder, sir." He looked at the desk again. Dark blue silk, shining in the filtered sunshine. He had had little to do with the quality, but he recognized a lady's garter. So that was where the captain had been, the sudden need for urgency.

Adam stood up. It was almost time. Pipe all hands, band and guard to man the side. The band would consist of small drummers and fifers; they had been drilling when he had returned aboard. He walked aft to the windows and rested his palms on the sill; it was warm from the deceptive sunlight. Yesterday. Was it only that? The ship had swung still further to her anchor, but he could imagine the road, the sloping hillside, the Tamar. He thought of those last minutes. Seconds. The final touch.

And tomorrow, or a few days at the most, this ship would weigh and put to sea, like all those other times. But so different.

"I'd better get ready, Bowles." He wondered how Bethune was feeling about this day. No regrets? No doubts?

He heard the sentry tap his musket on the grating outside the screen door.

"Captain's cox'n, sir! "

Jago was exercising his privilege of coming and going as he chose, no doubt to voice his resentment that Athena'?" gig, his gig, was not being used today to collect the vice-admiral.

If we 'ad our own barge, I'd have 'em in shape in a week, sir!

It was the closest he would come to pride.

Jago stepped through the door, his hat in one hand, his tanned features unable to contain a grin.

"Visitor, sir." He stepped briskly to one side. "Special visitor! "

They stood facing one another, the captain in his shirtsleeves, with dishevelled hair, and the young midshipman, very erect, but all confidence gone now that his determination had deserted him.

"Good God, David, it is you! Come over here and let me look at you! "

Napier said, "We anchored this morning, sir." He gestured to the stern windows. "The lower anchorage. I asked for permission…" His voice trailed away as Adam seized him by the shoulders and exclaimed, "You'll never know…" He saw the gleaming midshipman's dirk. "It suits you, David." He shook him gently. "It does indeed suit you! "

Napier nodded, his eyes very serious. "For my fifteenth birthday. You remembered. I had no idea."

Adam walked with him to the stern windows, his arm around his shoulders.

"Is everything all right, David? The ship? Everything?"

The youth turned and looked up at him. No words, just the look, then he said, "I have settled in, " and forced a smile. "The captain remembers my name now." He could not keep it up. "I miss looking after you, sir."

Jago said, "I think the boat is waitin', sir."

"I'll see you over the side, David."

Napier shook his head. "No, sir. You know what they would say. Favouritism."

"So my uncle taught me." They stood by the open door, Jago, Bowles, the ship, another world.

Adam said, "If ever you need anything, write to me. One day we'll serve together again."

Napier looked slowly around the great cabin, as if he wanted to forget nothing.

Jago cleared his throat. "I'll take you on deck, Mister Napier, sir! "

But this time it did not work.

Bowles watched it all in silence. No matter what task they were called upon to perform, and how this unknown captain would deal with it, he knew that this was the man he would always see and hear.

He realized that the door was closed, and that his captain was by the desk again, fastening his shirt.

He said, "A fine young man, sir."

Adam did not hear him. It had been like seeing himself.

The admiral's barge pulled purposefully between the anchored ships, the oars rising and falling like polished bones. If any other boats or small craft appeared to be on a converging course, or about to cross her path, the sharp eyed lieutenant who remained standing beside the coxswain would merely raise one hand in the air, and the tiller would stay where it was.

Seated in the stern sheets Lieutenant Francis Troubridge felt the excitement running through him, and it was all he could do to contain it, sitting as he was within a few feet of his superior. It was like nothing he had experienced before. Even the barge crew was smartly turned out, matching shirts and tarred hats, lying back on their looms, eyes astern, but never on the admiral.

Occasionally they swept past a boat which had stopped to allow them to pass unimpeded. All oars tossed, an officer standing, hat raised in salute. Some of the local craft carrying passengers or working parties from the docks also showed their respect: cheers echoed across the choppy water, and aboard one harbour boat women waved scarves and aprons, their voices lost in the timed creak of oars.

Troubridge glanced covertly at Bethune. Not to be in an office or visiting some large man-of-war in one port or another, but at sea. What he had always wanted, and this time with the status and privilege of being the admiral's personal aide.

Bethune was sitting very upright on a cushion, one foot quietly tapping on the bottom boards, his handsome profile completely at ease, a slight smile never far away whenever another boat stood clear to allow the barge to pass.

That was something Troubridge had soon learned about his admiral. Unlike so many he had seen at the Admiralty or on ceremonial occasions, he had never allowed himself to be visibly drunk. He had seen the port admiral stagger as he had waited on the stone stairs, while Bethune stepped almost casually into the waiting barge. Self-discipline, or something even stronger.

"Ah, there she is! " Bethune had pulled out his beautiful watch. "Right on time, eh, Flags?"

Troubridge flushed. He had intended to point out Athena for the admiral's benefit. Bethune had beaten him to it.

"She looks well, Sir Graham." He saw the slight smile again. Like a rebuke.

Athena seemed to tower over them, as if they had covered the last cable in seconds. Rigging blacked down, each yard and spar perfectly set, White Ensign curling from her poop and the Union flag in the bows, her new paintwork shining in the sunlight like glass.

Troubridge thought suddenly of his father, how proud he would be of his youngest son, and felt some of the tension draining away. This was what he wanted.

"Boat ahoy?"

He smiled despite the solemnity of the occasion. Everybody in Plymouth would know this barge, and its purpose here today. The navy never changed.

The big coxswain looked swiftly at Bethune's shoulders and cupped his hands.

"Flag! Athena! "

Troubridge watched the scarlet line of Royal Marines, the blues and whites of the assembled officers and lesser ranks, warrant officers and the rest. The mass of the ship's company was crammed into the main deck and between the gangways, others on the forecastle and aloft on the fighting tops where a man could find space to stand.

He saw faces duck down out of sight at one of the gun ports as the barge altered course and headed for the main chains and the freshly gilded entry port.

The lieutenant in charge gave his orders, but Troubridge heard none of it, staring at the black and white hull rising above him. The bowmen had shipped their oars and were facing ahead, their boat hooks held in readiness. Side-boys were already positioned on the bottom stairs, to take the lines, or fend off the barge to avoid an unseamanlike collision.

There was a bosun's chair just in sight above the nettings. The anchorage was choppy, and it was not unknown for a senior officer to

escape falling overboard by that less dignified route.

Another order, and the oars were tossed and held steady in two dripping ranks; the barge had been made fast.

But Troubridge was remembering the tales he had heard as a boy, from his father or some of his friends. Of Nelson, "Our Nel', leaving England in Victory for the last time; walking the deck of his flagship with his young flag lieutenant, Pasco, while the enemy had spread and filled the horizon, and together they had composed the signal every true Englishman still knew by heart.

"Are you ready, Mister Troubridge?" Bethune was standing upright, holding out his expensive boat cloak not even using a seaman's shoulder to steady himself against the motion. "They are waiting for us, as you see! " He was actually laughing.

Then he reached out, pausing only to add, "You did as I asked?"

Troubridge swallowed. "Aye, Sir Graham." He should not have been staring aimlessly around. In a moment he would be sick.

Then the air quivered to the bark of commands, the crack and slap of muskets being brought to the present, pipe clay drifting above and around the twin ranks of gleaming bayonets.

Calls trilled, and to another shouted command the small section of fifers and drummers broke into Heart of Oak.

Troubridge scrambled up and over the steep tumble home and almost pitched headlong through the finely carved entry port.

He recovered himself and dragged off his hat in salute. The din of fifes and drums stopped, and a solitary call shrilled loudly in the silence as Bethune's flag lifted and broke free at the mainmast truck.

He saw the captain step forward from among the other officers, the formality broken by a sudden handshake, and Bolitho's smile, which he felt he had come to know better than anything else about him.

Bethune had been about to receive the usual introductions before he was released to the peace and privacy of his new quarters, when he stopped and pointed at some seamen below the boat tier.

That man! You! "

People swung round and stared, and a lieutenant almost ran to seize the offender who had caught the admiral's eye.

Troubridge relaxed, muscle by muscle. He had been through the muster book and ship's records and had discovered one man who had actually served with Bethune when he had been a captain. The man in question was standing exactly where he had been told, still unaware of the reason.

Bethune swung round and exclaimed, "Grundy? Tom Grundy, isn't it? In the old Skirmisher, remember?"

The man was grinning, as others craned forward to witness this extraordinary encounter.

"Yes sir, that's me! God bless you, sir! "

Bethune patted his arm. "Good to see you again, Grundy! " He strode on, smiling and nodding to the assembled officers.

Troubridge watched the ranks breaking up, crowding around the astonished Grundy to slap him on the back, or share a grin or a joke with the one seaman who had been recognized by the admiral.

Troubridge gazed up at the new flag whipping out at the fore.

There was a lot they all had to learn about the man who flew it.

Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlocked behind his head while he surveyed the broad expanse of his day cabin. His secretary, Edward Paget, sat opposite him behind a little table, his pen poised by the pile of letters already completed.

Bethune said, The last is for the First Lord's eyes only, Paget. You know what to do." He frowned as something clattered across the deck, accompanied by the squeal of a block as the unknown object was hauled away. It seemed to take a long time. He would have to get used to it. He glanced over his shoulder at the hazy green of the land, a sail passing between it and the anchored flagship like the fin of a shark.

His servant Tolan had entered by another door, a list in one hand.

"All the wine is stowed, Sir Graham. Separate from the special delivery which came aboard in Portsmouth."

Paget looked up severely.

"All checked? Good wine can easily walk in a ship this size, you know! "

Tolan ignored him. Paget was good at his work; he would not still be serving Bethune otherwise. He was short and had a low forehead, and an unusually wide mouth; Tolan had long ago decided that he must have been a frog in a previous life.

He said, The captain is coming aft to see you, Sir Graham."

"I know. I'm ready, " and to his secretary, "I want all those sent ashore today, no matter what time you've finished them."

Paget's wide mouth opened and closed without comment. He was used to it.

Bethune sighed and rubbed his stomach.

"Well, Tolan, any regrets?" He did not expect an answer. "We sail tomorrow, come what may. The Indies again. Antigua." Seeing it in his mind. No more walks in the park, or riding his favourite mount down to the river. Where he had last seen Catherine Somervell. Where he had felt like a conspirator. But he must be careful. Very careful.

The screen door was open and Captain Adam Bolitho was standing by an empty gun port where an eighteen-pounder had once been positioned. Much had changed during Athena's last refit, less armament giving more room for storage. And additional space for an admiral's quarters.

"Ah, Adam. I trust you satisifed the curiosity of the wardroom? We shall weigh at high water. Your sailing master Impatiently, he snapped his fingers.

Adam said, "Fraser, Sir Graham."

"Of course." He grinned at his flag lieutenant. "Another Grundy, eh?"

Adam said, "I just heard about Captain Ritchie. The verdict at his court-martial

"I intended to mention it, Adam. But things have been moving quickly since I came aboard yesterday." He pressed his fingertips together, his head slightly on one side. "Does it disturb you?"

"The verdict was not proven, Sir Graham. That means he may be entirely innocent of the charges."

He saw Troubridge half raise a hand, as if to warn him. Bethune smiled.

"Equally, it might mean he was guilty as charged."

Adam persisted, "But he would still be in command of this ship! "

"While you, Adam, would be on the beach, with no ship at all."

That is not what I meant, Sir Graham."

Bethune stood up without effort, his hair almost brushing the deck head

"When I was given this mission, for that is what it is fast becoming, I wanted a good flag captain. I can think of another one or two, but I wanted you, do you understand? Your record is enough, but there are other reasons, too. I will not insult you by parading them for inspection." He had raised his voice slightly, but appeared calm, even relaxed. "As far as I am concerned, Captain Ritchie can '

He swung round as Tolan said, "Beg pardon, Sir Graham, but there is a message for the captain."

Bethune nodded slowly, in control again.

"Very well."

It was Evelyn, the sixth and most junior lieutenant, his hat crushed under one arm, trying not to be seen staring at the admiral and the splendid cabin.

"I am s-sorry, sir." He gulped. "But I was told that you wanted to know immediately when Audacity was shortening her cable."

Bethune remarked, "The old frigate Audacity I thought she was due for the ship breakers! " He chuckled, and added, "Captain Munro. Friend of yours, is he?" And waved his hand. "I was forgetting. You sponsored a midshipman for Audacity. Somebody's favourite son, was he?"

Adam said, equally casually, "He served with me in Unrivalled." Like walking into a trap. Bethune knew all about it, just as he knew about Athena's last captain.

Bethune was opening another sheaf of papers.

"Carry on, Adam. You will be dining with me tonight, eh?"

"Thank you, Sir Graham."

Troubridge followed him to the door and out.

"I am very sorry for that, sir."

Adam touched his arm. "Rest easy."

On deck, it seemed cool after the admiral's cabin. He loosened his neck cloth and drew several deep breaths. This was a Bethune he did not recognize.

He glanced at the flag above the foremast and took a telescope from the midshipman of the watch.

For an instant their eyes met. A young, pouting face with an upturned nose… it fell into place. He was Blake, an admiral's grandson, who had been at the centre, if he was not the actual cause, of Hudson 's flogging. And his death.

I should have known. Prevented it.

Lieutenant Evelyn called, "Starboard quarter, sir! " He seemed quite recovered from his attack of nerves in the cabin.

Adam waited for his breathing to steady, and watched the other ships leap into focus as he trained the glass over and beyond the anchorage. No difference, and then the slightest movement, other masts turning, coming into line, yards and rigging suddenly hidden by clouds of filling canvas as Audacity, of twenty-four guns, broke out her anchor and gathered way. They would all be busy, too busy to stare around at the bigger ships of war as they tacked toward the open sea.

He said, "Make to Audacity, good luck." That would set them guessing. But some one might tell David. It was a small ship. A frigate…

"From Flag, sir?"

Adam kept the glass to his eye. "No. Make it from Athena."

He heard the flags flap out from the yard and imagined some one calling Audacity's captain, and the curiosity it would arouse.

The frigate had almost completed her manoeuvre when Lieutenant Evelyn shouted, "Acknowledged, sir! "

Adam returned the telescope, and walked to the opposite side of the quarterdeck.

He knew Stirling was observing him from beside the compass box, and said, "I shall be doing Rounds in the first watch, Mr. Stirling." He saw the immediate caution. "Last night in port. Captain's privilege, or should be."

Stirling hesitated. "I'd like to accompany you, sir."

Adam smiled. "Thank you. That suits me well." He turned toward the anchorage again, but there was no more movement.

If I was wrong and he hates his new life, then he will come to hate me. He thought of the silk garter now locked in his cabin. And if I have wronged her, I will never forgive myself.

He could still feel Stirling watching him as he returned to the companion way.

A small step. But it was something.

Luke Jago held the razor up to the light and tested the blade with his thumb before folding it away in its worn case.

The captain never seemed to need much of a shave. If he left his own face unshaven for more than a day, it felt more like a piece of sword-matting than skin.

He looked over at him now, knowing him in almost every mood, something he had once thought he would never be able to do again. With an officer.

He saw all the signs. Only half of John Bowles' coffee was gone, and the breakfast remained untouched.

He tuned his ear to all the other sounds, men moving about the hull, wedges being tapped home, loose gear stowed away, all boats secure on their tier, except one which would tow astern once Athena was at sea. A last chance for any one who went overboard. It happened, although not as often as you might expect. Jago's mouth twisted into a smile. Especially after last night. The hoarded rum, and the unexpected issue of the coarse red wine the lower deck called Black Strap.

Sailing day.

He glanced again at the captain, still in a clean shirt and breeches, his coat hanging on the door of his sleeping quarters. Once at sea he would be changing into one of his weather-stained coats and the white trousers favoured by most officers. He thought of the admiral: it was hard to imagine Bethune ever having been other than what he was now. At least he spoke to the men who served him. Unlike some. Unlike most.

Jago thought of the days, and weeks, ahead. Antigua he knew well enough. A friendly place, but that was when it was threatened with war: the old enemies, France and Spain, even the Dutch. It was a long haul, nearly four thousand miles to all accounts. It would sift out the seamen from the 'passengers', the braggarts from those with brains.

And he thought of Napier. Mister Napier. Make or break, they all said. He would be all right, if little pigs like Midshipman Blake and the haughty Vincent left him alone. There were Blakes and Vincents in every ship Jago had ever known. Napier was a good lad, but it took more than a fancy new uniform or a smart dirk to make an officer.

He heard voices, and then the sentry's call. "Midshipman o' the watch, sir! "

Bowles was there, the door half open, as if he too was very aware of the captain's mood.

Jago sucked his teeth. Speak of the devil. It was Mister bloody Vincent.

"Guardboat alongside, sir. Request for last mail." He stood very erect, only his eyes moving as he watched the captain, silhouetted now against the stern windows, one hand resting on the tall-backed chair.

"On the desk." Adam turned to look at them, as if undecided. Now that it was too late. "Just those. Thank you."

He had already seen the guard boat pulling around the anchored Athena; even without a glass he had recognized the officer in charge. The same

man who had come aboard Unrivalled and had brought his new orders, and told him that he was losing his ship.

Two letters, one to his Aunt Nancy; a proper epistle this time, he hoped. Usually when he wrote to her a single letter could take weeks to finish, with sea miles covered, interruptions of every kind, and war. But she understood. She had good cause.

And the other… He did not have the words. It was not like seeing her again. Holding her. Seeing her emotions, her fears. He was sailing in a few hours' time, and he would be away for months. Or longer. Who could tell?

He seemed to hear Bethune's words. This mission, for that is what it is fast becoming. What did he have to offer her? Why should she wait? She had lost enough of her life already.

He looked back at the desk. The letters and Vincent had gone.

He picked up his little book and glanced at the coat on the door; it was no longer still, but swaying slightly. The wind was back. He pictured the different faces he had come to know in so short a time, reacting. Fraser the sailing master watching the masthead pendant, getting the feel of the wind's power, how it would affect his calculations, and his captain. Stirling, eyes aloft on spars, yards, and rigging, all the possible dangers for the top men making sail, fisting hard canvas, careful of each hand and foothold. Old Sam Fetch, the gunner; he would check each weapon and its breeching rope to make sure nothing would break adrift if the weather worsened in open water.

He heard Bowles refilling his coffee cup, reading the signs.

Too much brandy, perhaps? He thought of the contrasts when he had done Rounds the previous evening. From one end of the ship to the other, with Stirling thudding behind him and a midshipman preceding, without the usual formality of a ship's corporal or the master-at-arms. He had seen their expressions when he had removed his hat each time he had entered a mess or walked through one of the crowded gun decks Surprise,

appreciation, amusement, it was hard to tell. But it was always there, the lesson Richard Bolitho had drummed into his nephew when he had been new and green, as green as David Napier. Show respect. It is their home too, remember that. He had felt Stirling following his example, perhaps for the first time in his service.

The warrant officers in their own mess had been at ease, even with their captain. Ready to answer a casual question, and to offer one. Do you miss Unrivalled, sir? And without thinking, he had replied, I miss a part of each ship I've ever served. Curiously, it was the first time he had put it into words.

Then the Royal Marines' mess deck The 'barracks'. Everything in its place, an air of soldierly camaraderie which marked them out from all those crowded around them.

The midshipmen's gunroom, untidy despite their hasty efforts to prepare for his visit. Living day to day like every midshipman, thinking only of reaching the final step in the ladder, the examination for lieutenant, and only then becoming a King's officer. Few ever considered that the step from gunroom to quarterdeck was merely the beginning.

Had Luke Jago been with him, he would have seen it with different eyes, the potential tyrants and bullies, the toadies and the failures. And, just occasionally, the one who would listen and learn, and deserve his new authority. He had been more often right than wrong.

And Rounds had taken him to the sick bay on the orlop deck, below Athena's waterline, where George Crawford the surgeon and his mates had to deal with every kind of ailment and injury from gunshot to a fall from aloft, fever to the aftermath of a flogging.

Crawford was a wiry, quietly spoken man, with very clear eyes and a voice which was neither incisive nor callous when he talked of his trade. A far cry from Unrivalled's big, witty Irishman, Adam thought.

In an hour's time he would report to the vice-admiral. They had dined together; Troubridge and Henry S outer, the captain of the Royal Marines detachment, had also been there. The conversation had been light, and untainted by duty, or as much as it could be. And the wine, as Adam had guessed, was predictable. Too many glasses. Only the vice-admiral had seemed unimpaired. Adam had been almost grateful when he had been called away to carry out Captain's Rounds.

He wondered if Bethune had remained in his cot since the dinner.

He smiled. Jago probably had an answer to that, too.

The sentry shouted, "Officer o' the watch, sir! "

It was Barclay, the second lieutenant.

"The officer of the guard has left a package for you, sir. There is no address or superscription. I am not certain I should have accepted it."

"Who gave it to the guard boat Mr. Barclay?"

The lieutenant might have shrugged, but suppressed it. "Somebody from a local boatyard…"

Adam saw the house, white against the trees and the Tamar. Empty, but for two people.

"Show me."

Jago took it from the lieutenant and carried it into the main cabin.

"Down here, sir?"

It was square, and wrapped in pale canvas, like a tray. Adam shook his head. His mouth was dry.

"No, Luke. On the chair."

Jago stood it upright against the chair back and regarded it suspiciously. Bowles bent as if to unfasten it but Adam said, "I'll do it."

It was a frame; it must have been freshly made, perhaps only a day or so ago, the wood smooth but unpainted. From the boatyard.

He did not recall unwrapping it, or how long it took. He stood back and looked at the portrait, hardly daring to breathe or move. He knew that Jago and Bowles had gone, and the screen door was shut.

It could have been that day. The eyes, arff the arms pinioned to the rock. The hint of the monster about to break surface. He reached out to touch it, and saw that the smoke stains had been cleaned away.

He had written to her. She would not receive his letter until after Athena had set sail.

But she had already answered him.

Andromeda.