Man of War

8. Storm Warning

Adam Bolitho leaned his hands on the chart table and looked down at the sailing master's log. Neat and observant, like the man, he thought. A pair of brass dividers began to slide across the uppermost chart and Adam put them in a small drawer. Around him the ship was coming to life again, timbers murmuring, loose gear clattering, while the sails filled and hardened. He had been on deck when both watches were called to make more sail, and had seen the sea break into long patterns of white horses, then into steep-sided crests, the canvas swelling, holding Athena hard over, the top men skipping about the yards like monkeys, glad to be doing something after the periods of perverse breezes and torrential rain.

He thrust himself away from the table without another glance at Eraser's calculations; he knew them by heart. It was their ninth day at sea, and they had logged barely one thousand four hundred miles, without sighting another vessel of any kind after leaving the coastal waters of Cornwall. It made the Atlantic seem even vaster, and gave many of the younger hands a sense of loneliness they had never experienced before. The sun, when it appeared, was bright but without warmth; that and wet clothing did little for comfort or discipline.

He heard some Royal Marines clumping across the deck for another drill or inspection. Captain Souter, their commanding officer, had organized marksmanship contests with his men divided into squads, one competing against the other. They had lined a gangway and fired at pieces of driftwood thrown outboard from the bows. Apart from good training, it had provided a welcome distraction for seamen off watch, some of whom would doubtless have bets riding on the results. Sailors would bet on almost anything, lawful or not.

But it had not lasted for long. Vice-Admiral Bethune had sent a message requesting that the musketry cease forthwith. It had been disturbing his concentration.

He was about to look aft and changed his mind. He had no idea what Bethune did for most of the day, but he rarely appeared on deck. Adam made his daily reports on progress, and the ship's routine. Usually Bethune was reading his confidential papers, or dictating to his secretary. His smart, impassive servant was almost always present, as if Bethune could not bear solitude.

He walked to the weather side of the quarterdeck, Barclay, the lieutenant who had the watch, moving to the opposite side in the accepted fashion to allow his captain some pretence of privacy.

He looked along the main deck. It was nearly noon; the galley funnel was giving off its usual greasy plume of smoke. And there would be the customary issue of grog. He watched the shark-blue horizon sloping across the beak head and jib sails: no sharp edge, but another hint of mist. He looked across at Fraser; he would have noted it. Rain again before the dog watches. Wet clothing, damp hammocks.

The midshipmen were grouped around the sailing master, each with his own sextant, ready to take the noon sights and check the ship's position. Again. He studied their faces, serious, intent, or anxious, the younger ones at least. Those who were expecting a summons to the examination for lieutenant were more confident, like Vincent, straight-backed, his sextant carelessly held in one hand. Probably very aware of his captain's presence on deck. And another, Rowley, who came from a long line of sailors, handsome until he smiled. He had lost two front teeth, knocked out by a block in a gale before Adam had assumed command.

He thought again of Napier; he had all this and much more to overcome.

Fraser said, "Ready! " and all the sextants swivelled round as eight bells chimed out from the forecastle. The sun was being helpful today, but you could never be sure. It was not unknown for somebody to turn over the half-hour glass too early during each watch, so that a man's time on deck could be shortened with the sand only partly filtered away. "Warming the glass', as it was called, could make a mockery of any calculation.

Fraser and one of his mates were making notes, and one of the youngest midshipmen was holding his hand up to ask a question, as if he were still at school. The noon gun would crash out at Plymouth, and the gulls would rise from the water, screaming and squawking, as if it had never happened before. Adam walked to the hammock nettings and gripped a lashing as the deck tilted over again.

And she would hear it. Perhaps she would picture this ship, further and further away. Perhaps she was regretting it. And suppose…

"Excuse me, sir."

Adam turned abruptly, and for a second imagined he had voiced his fears aloud.

It was Tolan, the admiral's servant, immaculately turned out as always, his calm features without expression.

He always had the feeling that Tolan missed nothing. Bethune relied on him completely. Always on call, Tolan even had a little cabin of his own, screened off from the admiral's pantry.

"Sir Graham sends his compliments, sir, and would you consider joining him in the last dog watch?"

It was not a request. It was an order.

They both turned as there was a sudden confusion on the main deck. A man Adam vaguely recognized as one of the cook's assistants was running wildly after a chicken which must have escaped from the pen on the lower gun deck, 'the farmyard'. It had doubtless been selected for Bethune's table this evening.

There were jeers and hoots of laughter as the man ducked around the breech of an eighteen-pounder and sprawled headlong, his feet caught in his apron.

The luckless bird, unable to fly, seemed to bounce up the quarterdeck ladder in a last attempt to get away.

One of the Royal Marines in the after guard who had just been dismissed from the drill tossed his musket against the hammock nettings and seized the chicken by its legs. To the cook's assistant he called, "Ere, matey, you'll 'ave to do better next time! "

The watch keepers were already being relieved, and Fitzroy, the fourth lieutenant, was about to take over from Barclay, but all Adam saw was Tolan as he reached out and caught the marine by the wrist, and swung him around as if he weighed nothing.

"Don't ever leave a musket like that, you bastard! " He thrust the man aside and snatched it up, turning it to hold it within inches of the marine's face. "See that, damn your eyes? If it had fallen you could have killed somebody! "

Adam called sharply, "Belay that! " He felt the pain in his side, the wound caused by a dying marine dropping his loaded musket. Another inch, the surgeon had said…

"Carry on, Tolan. Tell Sir Graham I shall be delighted."

Strange that he could be so calm after that flash of anger. And something more.

"Everything all right, sir?" It was Stirling, striding through the crowd of watching seamen as if they did not exist.

Adam shrugged. "It passed over." He saw the cook's assistant hurrying away with the chicken, pursued by ironic cheers, hoots and clucking from the remaining onlookers.

Lieutenant Fitzroy had taken over the watch; new lookouts were already perched high aloft. Viewed from the quarterdeck, they looked as if they were about to slide down the horizon.

Fitzroy said dutifully, "Steady she goes, sir. Sou' west by west. Full and by." He touched his hat. "Permission for the cooper to bring new casks on deck?"

"Granted." Adam turned away. Routine had taken over once more. Had saved him.

From what? He saw the sergeant of marines glaring at the man who had so carelessly discarded his firearm. But it was Tolan's anger and swift reaction that lingered in his mind.

Stirling was saying, "That fellow had his wits about him, sir. Not what you'd expect." He straightened up, as if he had gone too far. "I keep thinking I've seen him before somewhere."

Then something caught his eye and he shouted, "Thompson, flake down that line and do your work smartly for a change! " The first lieutenant was back.

Dugald Fraser, the sailing master, folded his arms and stared into the hard glare as if to defy it. He had been at sea all his life and had served in almost every class and size of ship. As master, he was at the top of his profession, something he rarely considered. He did not see the point.

He watched the sea boil along the weather side, bursting occasionally over the gangway, draining along the scuppers and making the guns shine above their buff painted carriages.

The horizon was almost gone, the margin between sea and sky lost in mist and drifting spray.

"The wind's veered a piece, sir." He glanced at Lieutenant Fitzroy by the rail, his body angled steeply against the tilt of the quarterdeck. The helmsmen, too, were clinging to the big spokes, taking the strain of sea and rudder. He tasted the salt hardening on his cracked lips. Fitzroy was young, but he was experienced. He should have acted before this.

Fitzroy looked over his shoulder as Athena gave a great shudder, and more water tumbled over the gangway and sluiced down among the men working on deck. The afternoon watch was not yet over, but it would soon be dark in this weather.

"The captain must be informed." It sounded like a question.

Fraser said, "Aye, " and winced as water splashed his face and neck. Nearly June, and it felt like winter. "We should shorten sail an' let her fall off a point."

He almost grinned at Fitzroy's expression of relief.

A boatswain's mate said, "Cap'n's comin' up, sir."

Fraser watched a working party reel and stagger on the forecastle, making something fast, bare feet slithering on the wet planking, bodies shining, soaked to the skin.

The captain was hatless, hair blowing unheeded in the wind and wearing one of his old seagoing coats, patched and stitched like any common seaman's. Fraser was satisfied. You would still know he was the captain no matter how he was dressed.

Adam was looking at the sky, the masthead pendant whipping out, bar-taut, like a spear. The ship was labouring heavily, but shaking off the crested rollers with each plunge.

"We will alter course two points. Steer west by south." He wiped his face with his sleeve, and smiled. "If we can't fight it, we may as well use it! " He touched Fraser's arm as he gazed at the sea, and waited for the right moment to move to the compass box. Then he said to the helmsmen, "Are you holding her? Another hand on the helm, maybe?"

One of them tore his eyes from the flapping driver and shouted, "Not yet, zur! She'm good as gold! " and they laughed as if it was a huge joke.

Fraser heard it, and inwardly noted it, as he might compose an entry in his log.

When Captain Ritchie had walked this quarterdeck it had been very different. Passing a casual moment with his sailors would have been unheard of. He had been respected, but Adam Bolitho had something Ritchie would never have recognized. The two helmsmen were tough and experienced, had seen it all, or thought they had. But off watch they would be telling their messmates how the captain had asked their opinion, even joked about it… Adam Bolitho did not appear to have changed since the old Achates.

He heard the captain call, "Mr. Fitzroy, you'll need more hands on deck, and lively too! I am not a mind reader, you know! "

Calls shrilled and seamen ran to their stations, ready to wear ship, and, when ordered, take in a reef and bring the canvas under control. "And tell Mr. Mudge to hoist the quarter boat aboard. It will be swamped otherwise."

There was no edge to his tone, but Fitzroy exclaimed, "I had it bailed an hour back, sir! "

Adam regarded him thoughtfully. "Send another man down to bail it, and we will have a burial on our hands, I fear."

The horizon had finally disappeared, a new darkness creeping beneath a bank of clouds like a cloak.

"Steady she goes, sir! West by south! "

A master's mate muttered, "Bloody wind's droppin', Mr. Fraser."

Fraser tightened his coat about his throat. "Rain's back too, I see! " Even above the din of sea and thrashing canvas he could hear the heavy drops, like shot being scattered from a gunner's pouch.

He saw the captain's dark eyes flash as he swung round and pushed the soaking hair from his forehead.

Some one shouted, "Might blow itself out! I was in the Atlantic in ninety-nine when we had the worst storm The voice trailed away as Adam lurched to the rail again and waited for the deck to steady itself. He was drenched, the water like ice on his spine and running down his thighs.

The flashes had died in the mist and advancing rain, but the thunder still hung in the air. And in his memory.

He said, "Pipe all hands. Fetch the first lieutenant directly."

He knew they were staring at him, probably thinking he was losing his nerve.

Fraser saw it as if it was already written in the log. He was too old a hand to forget.

It was not just a storm, and if it was, it would not last.

It was gunfire.

The Royal Marine sentry outside the admiral's quarters brought his heels sharply together and as if by magic the screen door opened, one of Bethune's servants holding it, and bowing his head as Adam entered. Nothing was said. Perhaps Bethune found announcements unnecessary, distracting.

After the squeak of blocks, with seamen scrambling through and over lively halliards and braces, the admiral's quarters were like a sanctuary. It was impossible, but here even the motion seemed less, the shipboard noises subdued. Remote.

The dining space was in darkness, all the candles doused, if they had ever been alight in the first place.

Adam groped his way past unfamiliar furniture toward the day cabin, where Bethune was sitting at his desk, some dishes before him, a bottle of some kind propped upright in an opened drawer. His coat hung on the back of his chair, and his fine waistcoat was unbuttoned. Somehow, Adam thought, he still managed to look elegant and relaxed. Beyond the desk the stern windows were completely black, but in the reflected light he could see water running down the thick panes, rain or spray, probably both.

Bethune put his hand to his lips and pulled a chicken bone from his teeth before tossing it into a bowl at his elbow.

He looked at Adam while he dabbed his mouth with a napkin.

"Anything new to report, Adam?"

"The wind is steady. Fraser thinks it will hold. So do I. Not strong, but it will see us through the night."

"That is not what I asked." Bethune reached for the bottle, but it was empty. "What do you think it was? Really think?"

A shadow emerged from the other cabin and a full bottle was placed in the drawer. It was Tolan, as quiet on his feet as he was quick.

"Gunfire, Sir Graham. Then an explosion." He could feel the weariness closing around him again. What had taken him on deck without waiting for the officer of the watch to call him?

Not the wind or sea. That was experience, standing hundreds of watches in every kind of weather, and almost every ocean.

He was still not used to this ship. It would take more time. Choose the right moment.

He thought of his uncle again. Instinct: if you had it, you had to trust in it.

Bethune was watching Tolan's hands come from the shadows and fill his goblet. "An attack? Pirates? What other seafarers would be ready and eager to fight in these conditions?" He tasted the wine without comment. "They will be up and away by now, whoever they were." Then he said curtly, "I'm told that the galley fire is still alight?"

Adam contained his sudden anger. It sounded like an accusation.

"I knew we would not be going to quarters. Tomorrow?" He would have shrugged, but his shoulders ached too much. "Things may have changed. I considered that the people should have a hot meal while they can."

Bethune smiled. "I was not questioning your judgment, Adam. Far from it." Just as swiftly, he changed tack. "When do you estimate we shall reach English Harbour?"

Adam caught sight of his reflection in the sloping windows. Moving slightly to the vibration of the tiller head, like a spectre looking inboard from this violent ocean.

"The north-east trades will give us a soldier's wind. I'd estimate two more weeks."

"Or thereabouts. What I calculated myself. After that…" Bethune held the glass up to the faint light. "We will discover the latest intelligence from the commodore at Antigua and, of course, the governor. I am sure that our "allies" will do all they can to assist! "

He held one hand to his ear as calls trilled, as if from another world. "You can fill their bellies and warm their souls with rum, but it does not always win popularity."

"They are cold, hungry, and tired, Sir Graham. I owe them that, at least."

"As you say."

Adam left the cabin, the door closing behind him as silently as it had opened.

He rubbed his eyes. Bethune had not offered him any wine.

And he had not waited to share the unfortunate chicken.

He listened to the hiss of the sea beyond the sealed gun ports, and imagined the watch on deck, peering into the darkness, thinking of the echoes of battle, or the death of a ship in distress. Their world.

Jago was louging by the companion ladder, but straightened up as Adam seized the handrail.

He did not need to be told. It was still too close to Algiers and all those other times. When your mind and nerve could become blunted, like a badly used razor.

"All quiet on deck now, sir."

Adam made to pass him. "I'm just going to take a turn around, Luke. It does no harm."

Jago did not budge. "You've not eaten anythin', sir." He saw the keen, warning eyes, but persisted, "Bowles told me. Upset, he was, too."

Adam reached out impetuously and gripped his arm. "One day, you will go too far! " He shook him gently. "Until then… I will go aft. And maybe…"

Jago stood back, and grinned. "Aye, Cap'n. Mebbee that's more like it! "

He watched him climb the companion. A good wet of brandy, or some of that fancy wine the officers gulped down, would do him more good than harm, the mood he was in.

He remembered the painting he had seen, carefully placed where it would be safe even if they ran into a hurricane. Only a picture, but the woman was real enough. Like Unrivalled, second to none…

A corporal of marines marched past him, another bullock close on his heels. Changing the sentries for the middle watch. For tomorrow… no, today.

He saw the white crossbelts crisp and clear against the shadows of the nearest twenty-four pounder. Always the reminder.

He thought suddenly of the vice-admiral: a good reputation, popular too, they said.

Jago walked away, humming silently to himself.

But not one you would ever turn your back on.

The relieved sentry and the corporal marched away to join their companions in the 'barracks'. A hot meal at this hour was unheard of, in the Corps or anywhere else, and a tot as well for good measure. It was not to be missed. Tomorrow could wait.

In the little pantry adjoining the admiral's quarters, George Tolan was standing with a glass in his hand, adjusting to the deck's slow roll and the solitary lantern's beam swinging across his face.

All this time. All those years. I should have been ready. He had trained himself to always be prepared. For the slightest hint, the weak moment which could still betray him.

Very deliberately he filled the glass with wine. He sensed the warning again, like a signal, or a flare in the night. He would have to be doubly careful, even to the amount of wine he drank. Something far stronger would be better, but Bethune would notice. It would destroy everything he had worked for.

His mind hesitated, like a keeper feeling for a trap, before he allowed himself to think it over again. The stupid marine who had tossed aside his musket just to make a fool out of the cook's assistant and his damned chicken. The musket had been at half-cock. Safe, or so the untrained idiot might think. Many had discovered otherwise to their cost; he had heard that the captain had been wounded by such a shot.

His guard must have been down, he thought. He had snatched up the heavy weapon, had caught it perfectly at the point of balance. Just like all those other times, all the drills and the bellowing sergeants. The skill, and eventually the pride at what he was doing. Only a second's carelessness, and he had acted as if he was back in the line. And like that day when he had killed his officer.

He had listened to Bethune talking with the captain. For a moment he had imagined that Bolitho had noticed his reaction, his ease with a musket. Twenty years ago. It could have been yesterday.

He wiped the glass and held it up to the swinging light.

Bethune would be calling him very soon now. His cot was ready, his heavy robe laid out on a chair. They would talk for a while as he helped him into the cot, and perhaps brought him another drink. He talked but never listened, unless he wanted to hear something.

Tolan heard the little bell tinkle from the admiral's quarters. He would not throw it all away now, after twenty years.

He picked up his tray and opened the door.

"Coming, Sir Graham! "

He was safe.

Adam awoke with a start, his eyes hot and sore, his mouth like dust. It was Jago, bending over the coat, one hand shielding the shuttered lantern while he waited for his senses to recover.

Adam struggled into a sitting position, his mind groping for details and sounds. He felt as if he had slept for only a few minutes.

"What's happening?"

Jago watched him impassively, eyes in shadow.

"Dawn comin' up, Cap'n. First light very soon."

"Already?" The cabin seemed to be as dark as ever. Then he smelled fresh coffee, and thought he heard Bowles moving about in the pantry.

Jago added patiently, "There may be trouble we have to deal with today. You said so yourself, Cap'n. They'll be lookin' to you. So I thought a shave might be in order, so to speak."

Adam groaned and climbed out of the cot, feeling the deck, angled but steady. "I've no time for that now, man! "

But the anger refused to come, and eventually he shrugged and said, "I suppose it makes sense."

He walked across the checkered deck covering and sat in the chair by his desk, thinking of Bethune somewhere beneath his feet. As refreshed as ever, no doubt. He smiled. What made him a flag officer, far removed from the day to day problems and discomforts of ordinary sailors. The smile grew. Or captains…

Feet thudded overhead and some one shouted. He felt Jago's hand on his shoulder, like a groom quieting a restless horse.

"Easy, Cap'n." The razor glinted in the solitary light. "I'll not be long. You take some coffee first."

Adam leaned back in the chair and thought of the painting in his sleeping cabin. He had been looking at it, at her, when he had fallen asleep, the spiralling lantern keeping watch over both of them.

Where was she now? What was she doing, thinking?

Now that she had had time to consider and remember, how would she see that moment, when they had become one?

Bowles was here, head bowed beneath the deck head beams. "Clean shirt, sir, and another coat." He glanced at Jago; he might have winked.

Adam stood up and touched his face. Like the hot coffee, the shave had pushed the tiredness aside.

Jago remarked, "Lighter already, Cap'n."

Adam fastened the shirt and tugged the neck cloth into place. He was ready.

"The picture put it somewhere safe, Bowles."

"All done, sir."

Adam walked to the chair and touched it. They would never discover the reason for the gunfire and the flashes in those black clouds; this was a vast ocean, with ships tiny by comparison, like drifting leaves on a mill-race.

"I'm going on deck."

Bowles nodded gravely. Jago waited, seeing the indecision, the doubts.

He left the cabin and walked past the chart room and into the fading shadows. Anonymous shapes moved aside, faces and voices becoming people he had come to know: the morning watch, four o'clock until eight, when the ship, any ship, awoke.

Stirling, as first lieutenant, had the watch, and was already facing aft, as if he had known the captain would choose this moment to come on deck. Instinct.

Adam said, "A quiet watch, Mr. Stirling." He moved to the compass box and glanced at the card swaying easily in the small light. West by south. Nothing had changed. He peered up at the topsails, pale but still indistinct, moving occasionally to the thrust of the wind. "A good man aloft?"

"Sir. I've two up, sir. Although…"

Adam turned to stare out at the sea. "Although you think there'll be nothing for them to see."

Stirling stood his ground. "It's been a while, sir."

"Yes." He was right. Any pirate or unlawful trader would have spread every inch of canvas if they thought a King's ship was close by.

He walked to the lee side of the quarterdeck and saw a long feather of spray burst from a patch of dark water. Like a fall of shot. A fish of some kind, a large one too.

He heard the hoarse voice of Henry Mudge, the boatswain. "Put two good 'ands on this splicin' as soon as it's light, Mr. Quinlan. I shouldn't 'ave to tell you these glarin' faults, eh? If you wants to sit that exam one day, an' Gawd 'elp the rest of us if you does…" His voice faded on the sudden boom of canvas as the driver filled in a gust.

Another face. Quinlan was one of the youngest midshipmen. Feeling his way. Like David Napier.

The two helmsmen pulled down on the big double wheel, one leaning round to watch the compass card, the other staring aloft at the peak of the driver to gauge the wind's strength, and that of the sea against the rudder far below his feet. He had a vivid tattoo on his muscular arm, a wild bird with spread wings, and what looked like a human skull beneath it.

Adam was suddenly alert, and wide awake. Just moments earlier, the sailor had been in complete darkness.

He strode to the rail and watched the sea gaining colour, light spilling from the horizon far astern, giving life to the topsails and driver, shining on spray-dappled planks and gangways. On upturned faces and those working on the yards, and a man in an apron carrying a bucket, pausing to note the wind's direction before heaving its contents over the lee side.

Adam shaded his eyes and looked at the masthead pendant, licking out from the truck, brightly coloured as it caught the dawn and held it. The galley fire was rekindled and there was smoke in the air. The men of the forenoon watch would be going to breakfast, such as it was, probably some of the leavings from the unexpected supper their captain had arranged in a moment of kindness or madness, as the word had it on the mess decks

He walked slowly to the rail again and felt salt like dried sand under his fingers.

And down in his quarters Bethune would be smiling to himself. Shaking his head, wondering if he had made the right choice for his flag captain.

"Deck there! "

All caught like unfinished sketches. The man in his apron, his empty bucket poised in mid air. Two seamen listening to the young midshipman named Quinlan, others frozen as they stared up and through the mesh of rigging, to the invisible lookout in the cross trees

Stirling 's voice echoed above all other sounds.

"I hear you. Where away?"

It seemed an age before the lookout called down again.

"Fine on th' starboard bow, sir! Wreckage! "

Adam snatched up a telescope and trained it beyond the forecastle, to a dark horizon still unwilling to cast the night aside.

"A good lookout indeed, Mr. Stirling. We could have missed it altogether in this light."

He realized that Troubridge was beside him, wide-eyed, as if he had just been dragged out of his cot.

"Sir Graham heard the noise, sir." He was almost apologetic. "He sends his compliments…"

"Tell Sir Graham that we have found wreckage. We were right."

Troubridge paused at the top of the ladder and turned to look back at him. Very young, like the night they had broken into the studio together.

"You were right, sir." And he was gone.

Adam saw Jago watching from the poop ladder. At ease now. It was out of his hands.

The light was gaining strength every minute; faces became individuals and the sea on either beam reached away to its horizon. There were groups of seamen, jaws champing on the remains of their breakfast, when normally men strung it out until the last possible moment. Something different. Anything to break the monotony of routine and trimming sails.

The sea was still lively, something that had to be considered from Athena's poop, high compared with that of a frigate.

He raised the telescope which had appeared as if by magic at his elbow. Another midshipman… his mind faltered… Vicary, had been observing him and was ready.

Clearer this time. He squinted and tried again. A living, working ship. Was that all that remained of her?

The lookout was a good one. High above the deck, he had the benefit of the changing colours on the sea's face in the first light of the dawn, and the unbroken crests and long, undulating troughs which were never completely absent in this great ocean.

"Have the jolly boat ready for lowering, Mr. Stirling. Volunteers."

He felt his fingers tighten on the telescope. Like dust scattered across the blue-grey water. Hundreds of fragments widely spread over a mile or so, maybe more.

He did not see Jago move but heard him murmur, "I'll take the jolly boat, Cap'n. The gig's still on the tier." Calm, almost matter-of-fact.

Mudge the boatswain was shouting orders to his men on the main deck, his voice louder than usual in the damp air.

Stirling said, "Boat's crew mustered, sir." No doubts this time. An order was an order, something he accepted without question.

He heard the young midshipman named Vicary suppress a gasp, and Adam saw that his eyes were wide and fixed, like saucers. And no wonder.

"What is all the excitement about?" It was Bethune, staring around the quarterdeck, then down toward the boat tier where tackles were already being manhandled into position. "I see no need for further involvement." The smile returned. "We've both seen and weathered far worse, eh, Adam?"

Some of the watching seamen grinned like conspirators. They had not set eyes on their admiral since he had joined the ship at Plymouth.

Every available telescope was trained on the pathetic fragments which reached away on either bow, some with shape and meaning now. A mast, or part of it, with sodden canvas still attached, trailing cordage like weed, and a complete portion of grating drifting quite apart, clean in the hard light as if it had just been scrubbed.

"Well, if you need to discuss anything further…" Bethune paused, one hand on the rail, his head half turned as a voice yelled, "Deck there! Larboard bow! " He seemed unable to continue, then, after a moment, shouted, "Bodies, sir! "

Adam strode to the nettings and trained the telescope with great care. It gave him time, allowed his anger to subside. He heard himself say, "I'm lowering a boat, Sir Graham." The glass steadied as Athena'?" hull rode easily over another unending trough. Long enough to see it. Share it, before the picture dropped out of focus. A piece of timber, probably decking, blasted away by the explosion, with two figures clinging or stranded across it. One was all but naked, the other wore uniform, the same as some of those standing around him.

He heard Scollay, the master-at-arms, exclaim, "Ours, by Jesus! "

He glanced across the deck. "Heave to, Mr. Stirling." He sought out the boatswain's rotund figure. "Lower the jolly boat as soon as we come about." He saw Jago pause to stare up at him, then he was gone.

He realized that Bethune had not moved, and was standing with his hand still on the rail, his hair blowing in the wind, as if he could not grasp what was happening.

Adam raised the glass again, feeling the deeper pitch of the deck as, with sails thundering, Athena came heavily round and into the wind. Calls shrilled, and orders were yelled to top men and those manning the braces, but Stirling 's booming voice overrode them all.

Adam looked for the jolly boat. One moment it was being swayed up and over the larboard gangway, then it vanished, only to reappear well clear of the side, pulling strongly for the nearest cluster of flotsam and the two corpses.

He said, There are other bodies close by." He pressed the glass hard against his eye, so that he would not forget. Corpses, pieces of men, rising and dipping as if in some obscene dance.

He said, "Fetch the surgeon."

"Comin', sir! "

Adam moved the glass very slightly and saw Jago's face loom into life, eyes nearly closed against the early sunshine.

"I'm here, sir."

He held the glass steady, waiting for the deck to rise again. He did not turn his head, but knew it was Crawford.

"Have your people ready." He lowered the glass and handed it to Midshipman Vicary, but Jago's face remained; he was standing in the tossing boat, managing to hold up and cross both hands above his head. "There is a survivor. Warn the bosun to be ready. Use my quarters if you wish. It might save time and a life."

Bethune said, "I should not have questioned your judgment, Adam."

Adam had not even seen him move from the rail. "I had a feeling." He shrugged. "I can't explain it, even to myself." He watched the light returning to Bethune's eyes, some of the familiar confidence. But for just that short while he had seen it broken down, as if he had lost control.

Bethune looked up, perhaps at his flag, streaming from the fore.

"Call me if you discover anything. But get under way as soon as possible." Again the slight hesitation. "When you think fit." He strode to the companion without another look at the sea, or the pitching jolly boat floating amongst the thinning carpet of flotsam and death.

Lieutenant Francis Troubridge held the screen door open and tried to summon a smile of greeting as Athena's, captain walked into the admiral's day cabin. As the door closed he heard the bell chime briefly before it separated this world from the rest of the ship.

"Sir Graham is waiting for you, sir." He wanted to say so much more, to share some small part of what had happened. The ship hove to, the tension on deck, all eyes on the jolly boat and the captain's coxswain giving his signals, then returning on board with the one survivor.

And all the while, Captain Bolitho had been on deck, watching, passing orders while he brought the ship under command again, his voice calm enough, but his eyes telling a different story.

Adam glanced around the cabin, with its elegant furniture and fittings. It seemed unreal, but in some peculiar way it helped to steady his nerves. In a ship it was always a matter of time and distance: it began with those simple lessons, grouped around the sailing master; he had seen the midshipmen listening to Eraser. He rubbed his forehead. Only yesterday? How could that be? Shooting the sun, and later, much later, perhaps a star in the heavens. Fixing a ship's position by taking a compass bearing of a landmark, a church tower perhaps. He let his mind wander. Or perhaps St. Anthony's light at Falmouth…

Yesterday. And now it was the last dog watch again, when Bethune had been eating his chicken at that desk.

The servant Tolan appeared out of the shadows, a tray with one goblet balanced on it.

" Cognac, sir."

Troubridge said quickly, "I hope you don't mind, sir. I thought you might care for it."

Adam felt the strain draining away, like sand from the glass.

"Thank you." And to Tolan, "And you, too."

Then he sat down in a chair which had already been prepared for him, like the mariner's eternal puzzle. Time and distance. Bethune was offering him both.

Darkness was already falling over the heaving water, with a few stars pale and clear now that the clouds had dispersed. Athena was on course once more, making good the time lost in their rescue attempt.

The cognac was good. Very good. Probably from that shop in St. James's Street in London where his uncle had often bought wine, and his Catherine had ordered it for him when he was away at sea. And for me… He rubbed his eyes again, trying to clear his thoughts, to see the events in order, neat and helpful. He felt his mouth crack. Like Fraser's log book and his careful notes, day by day. Hour by hour.

The vessel was, had been, the Celeste, a naval courier brig, one of the many which served every fleet and base wherever the Union flag was flown. Overworked and taken very much for granted, these small vessels were the vital link between their lordships at the Admiralty and virtually every captain afloat.

Adam had seen Celeste mentioned several times, in despatches and once or twice in the Gazette. The fleet's apron strings, but never in the vanguard of battle, amid the seeds of glory.

The survivor was the Celeste'?" acting master, a prime seaman named William Rose, who had come originally from the seaport of Hull. Not young, and he had served at sea most of his life, first in a merchantman, but mainly in the navy.

Adam could still hear his hoarse voice, recounting vague fragments about himself. Up there in his own cabin hours ago, watching, listening. The surgeon had been doubtful; he had seen too many men go under. But Rose had great strength, and a determination to match it.

Adam had known sailors plead to be left to die after being wounded in a sea fight, anything but be taken below to the dreaded orlop and the surgeon's saw and knife. He himself had grown to hate the very smell of a sick bay, and the terrors it could hold, even for the bravest. Which was why he had told the surgeon to have Rose taken to his own quarters.

He raised the goblet, and stared at it. It had been refilled; he had not even noticed.

The Celeste had been on the same route as Athena, to Antigua; she had even sailed from Plymouth, two whole days before Athena had weighed. No wonder Bethune had become so agitated when he had been told the vessel's name. She had sailed under his orders, confident that she would reach English Harbour far ahead of any two-decker.

It was like hearing Rose speak again, one strong, rough hand grasped around his own. Describing it. Recalling it, piece by piece. He would occasionally stray from the exact sequence of things, speaking of Hull, and of his father, who had been a sail-maker. Then the hand had tightened, as he had described the sudden squall which had hit them without warning. I told the captain what I thought about it, but he wouldn't listen. Knew it all, he did. Anyways, he was under strict orders to complete a fast passage. Adam had seen a tear at the corner of his eye; pain or despair, who could say? Y'see, our old Celeste could always do better than any other courier!

And pride was there, too.

They had lost the fore topmast, and had been drifting to sea and wind while they had fought to carry out repairs. And then another sail had come in sight. A big barque, and she had stood off the disabled Celeste until they were close enough to exchange signals. A Yankee, she was. Our captain asked if she had a doctor on board, as one of our lads was badly injured by a falling spar.

Adam stared through the salt-caked stern windows. No courier brig should ever heave to or converse with a stranger. It had all been planned, although how and when was impossible to imagine at this stage.

The barque had drawn closer to Celeste and all pretence had ended. He could still feel the grip around his fingers, losing its strength as Rose had gasped, They ran out their guns and fired into us at point-blank range, double-shot ted by th feel of it. His voice had cracked with disbelief, reliving the moment. Our captain was the first to fall, damn his eyes! There had been another tear. But it weren't his fault. They boarded us and cut down every man-jack they could find. The rest of us was driven below while the bastards ransacked the captain's cabin.

There had been a long pause, the silence broken only by Rose's laboured breathing.

Crawford had whispered, "Severe stab wounds. Poisoned, but I can do nothing. He's going."

Rose had spoken once more, his voice easier, perhaps beyond pain.

There was an explosion, sir. A magazine. Don't remember any more. Until… He had stared suddenly at Adam. Tell 'em…

It was over for the only survivor.

He looked up as Bethune entered the cabin and stood, seeming to study him for several seconds.

"So you see, Adam, it was no accidental skirmish. It was prearranged. Some one knew full well what Celeste was carrying: my orders and Admiralty instructions which were to be acted upon without delay. Her commander should have known, damn him! " The mood changed again, and he half smiled. "But you know what they say about the ones who command brigs, like frigates, eh? Faster than anything bigger. Bigger than anything faster! "

He looked around the cabin, as if he were remembering something. "In a moment we shall have a meal together. Just the two of us. The ship can manage her own affairs, for a while, anyway." He seemed to come to a decision. "I wanted this appointment, and I intend to make it succeed to good purpose, come what may." He eyed him calmly. "I have no intention of becoming a scapegoat because of others at this point in my life. We are committed, Adam. Together remember that! "

Tolan and the two cabin servants pulled a screen aside to reveal a candlelit table and two chairs.

Bethune was speaking to Tolan, smiling and gesturing. But his words still hung in the air.

Like a threat.