Relentless Pursuit

15. The Oldest Trick

"BEAT TO QUARTERS and clear for action!"

For an instant longer there was chaos as the men pouring on deck to obey the last order broke into groups, the constant drills taking charge, even as a few stared with disbelief at the other ships.

Adam cupped his hands. "Alter course two points! Steer nor'west by north!"

Men were running past to take station at the braces while gun crews ducked around them, looking for familiar faces, driven to a faster pace by the staccato rattle from the drums of two marines by the mainmast truck.

Adam gripped the rail with both hands, watching the other frigates, the open gun ports, the sudden menace of their black muzzles.

It was too late. Already too late. I should have known, guessed.

"Steady she goes! Nor'-west by north, sir!"

All else was drowned by the rolling thunder of a broadside. Perhaps the other captain had sensed that Unrivalled had been about to spread more sail, and maybe thought it was his only chance.

It was like a wild wind, shots screaming through the rigging and punching holes in topsails and jibs. And the telltale quiver of iron smashing into the hull.

He looked again. One i8-pounder had been flung inboard from its port and a man was pinned under it, his arms reaching out, as if he were drowning. His lower limbs did not move. Nor would they.

Two other seamen lay by the foremast, one cut almost in half by a ball, the other trying to drag himself away. To hide.

Galbraith shouted, "If he'd waited, he'd have dismasted us!"

Adam saw the shattered telescope, broken across one of the guns, and Cousens's body, dislodged from the main-yard as the hands hauled at the braces to fall like a rag doll to the deck.

He felt the grief changing to fury, white-hot, and beyond reason. They died because of me. Not because of the stupid, over-cautious orders, but because of me.

The guns were running out again along the other frigate's side, and he tried to clear his mind. Not quick, but fast enough. There were trained men working those guns: renegades, rebels, whatever he chose to call them was irrelevant. Still on a converging tack, the second vessel still wearing. The frigate mounted 38 guns, so perhaps the barque carried armament of her own. Her master had also expected Unrivalled to change tack, come fully aback perhaps, and leave her stern exposed for just long enough.

"Ready, sir!"

He ignored the faces around him and sought out Varlo at the first division of guns. He was standing motionless, his hanger drawn and across one shoulder as if this were a formal inspection, and one of his boots had left a bloody footprint, from the man pinned under the eighteenpounder.

As you bear! Fire!"

The broadside was well timed, crashing aft along the side, the orange tongues spurting through the dense pall of smoke funnelling inboard through the ports and over the gangway.

The other frigate had the wind-gage but, held over by the same wind, her muzzles high-angled, Unrivalled had the range.

Adam knew the enemy had fired again; cordage, severed blocks and charred strips of canvas fell and scattered across the gun crews who, working like demons with handspikes and rammers, were already responding to the hoarse shouts of command. Unrivalled was alone, and ordered to be so until her mission was completed. If anything vital carried away now, the other vessels would lie off and take their time, until there was no one left alive to prevent a boarding. A slaughter.

He seized Midshipman Deighton's arm and pushed him against the rail, and trained a telescope across his shoulder. The youth was staring at him; he could even feel his breath, his body shaken to another ragged salvo. But his eyes were steady, trying to tell him that he was not afraid.

Adam acknowledged him without speaking and concentrated his gaze on the other frigate. There was a black flag at her peak now, and he recalled with insane clarity the words of the dying renegade captain in that same cabin beneath his feet. In war, we're all mercenaries.

He saw the shot-holes in the sails, raw timbers protruding from a bulwark, a few empty gun ports. He lowered the glass. But it was not enough. Not enough.

He flinched as he felt hands fumbling around his waist, the sudden drag of a sword against his hip. It was Jago, face half shaved, caught by the sudden call to arms.

More shots slammed into the lower hull, each one a body blow. Jago reached out and gripped his arm, unsmiling, and said harshly, "No matter, sir. I'll finish shavin' when we're done with this scum!"

Adam stared at him, and realised, perhaps for the first time, how close he had been to breaking, failing the ship, and the men like Jago who never questioned why they were here, or who would die next.

"We'll hold this course!" He saw Galbraith cup his hand over his ear to listen as the roar of cannonfire drowned out all else. The gun captains, blinded by smoke, were barely able to see their enemy, and yet with practised fingers they gripped their triggerlines even as each carriage lurched up against the side. Fire! Sponge out.' Load' Run out! Fire! If the pattern was broken, they were finished.

A boatswain's mate dropped to the deck without a sound. Unmarked, his face shocked, as if he couldn't accept the haste of death.

The range was down to less than a mile, with both ships firing, the churning fog of gunsmoke hiding everything but the upper yards and punctured sails of the adversaries.

Galbraith yelled, "He's badly mauled, sir! One shot to our two, if that!" He was actually grinning, and waving his hat to the quarterdeck gun crews. Adam walked to the centre of the deck, his legs suddenly able to carry him again.

"Then he'll try to board us, Leigh!" He found he had the sword in his hand. Not his own: Jago must have snatched it from somewhere. There must be no more mistakes. Could not. "All guns double-shotted and with grape. Warn the smashers up forrard to be ready." Over his shoulder he called, "Bring her up a point, Mr Cristie-we don't want to keep him waiting!"

He watched the topmasts of the other ship rising through the smoke, saw small, bright flashes from the tops or yards where marksmen had taken up their most effective positions. Distant, without apparent danger, until you felt the heavy balls thudding into the deck, or gouging up splinters as if raised by some invisible chisel. And that other sound. Lead smashing into flesh and bone, a man's pitiful cries as he was dragged away to the orlop, and the surgeon. A ball ploughed into the boat tier, and severed the bow of the big cutter like an axe. More men fell as the splinters cut amongst them like arrows.

Adam thought suddenly of Napier. That last time. When he swung round he saw the youth on one knee, tying a bandage around a marine's forearm, his fingers red with blood, and with the same serious expression he wore even when preparing a meal for his captain.

"Keep down, David!" Their eyes met, and he thought he heard him reply. It sounded, insanely, like "… a pony ride!"

"Ready, sir!" Every gun captain who was able was peering aft, fist raised. Galbraith had drawn his hanger, and the marines at the packed hammock nettings had already fixed bayonets.

The carronades, too, would he ready. If they failed now…

He shouted, "Stand fast, and take them as they come, lads!" lie saw faces, eyes staring. Wild, fearful, desperate. And they were his men.

He waved the unfamiliar sword. "Remember, lads! Second to None!"

With a shuddering lurch, the enemy's jib-boom and bowsprit drove over the forecastle like a giant tusk. He could hear the crack of muskets, and voices merged above the din of grinding hulls and snapping cordage like a hymn of hate. A severed halliard snaked through the crouching seamen and marines, and had somehow become entangled with Midshipman Cousens's body, so that it swayed upright again, as if to answer the call he had followed without question for most of his young life.

The sword sliced down. "Fire!"

Towards the bows, the gun muzzles must have been overlapping those of the enemy now looming high alongside. At point-blank range, double-shotted and with added grape for good measure, the explosion sounded like a ship being blasted apart. Where seamen had been standing and shaking their weapons, waiting for the moment of impact, there was now a smoking strip of water. Men and pieces of men, the dead and the dying ground together as the hulls were brought to another embrace by the wind.

But a few had taken the risk and had somehow gained a foothold, some by the smoking carronades which had transformed the enemy's foredeck into a bloody shambles.

"Forward, Marines!"

That was Captain Luxmore. Adam could not see him beyond the smoke, but imagined he would be immaculately turned out, as always.

He could hear a new sound, like a horn, rather than a trumpet or bugle. Galbraith was shouting at him. "They're casting off, sir!" His voice was harsh with disbelief. "On the run!"

Adam swung round. "Grapple her!" Galbraith was staring at him, as if he could not understand. "Grapple her."

But it was too late; the hulls were lurching apart, like two prizefighters who had given and taken too much.

Adam gazed up at the sky, clear again now above the smoke, in that other, impossible world.

Where was the barque? Why could Galbraith not understand?

He felt the solitary explosion, and was only partly aware of the deck splintering behind him. Half the double wheel had been shot away; one of the helmsmen still clung to the spokes, but his legs and entrails painted a grisly pattern on the planking.

And above it all he heard the lookout's cry. Far, far away, beyond all this pain.

"Deck there! Sail on th' larboard quarter!"

He felt Jago holding his shoulders, and realised that he had dropped on his knees. And then came the pain. He heard himself cry out; it was like a branding iron. He tried to grope at his side, but someone was preventing it. For some reason he thought of John Allday. When they had last met. Had spoken, and had held hands… as it must have been…

Galbraith was here now, eyes anxious, moving to others around them as if to seek assurance, or grim acceptance.

He heard himself speaking, anguished, incoherent.

"They-broke-off-the-action-because-of-this-newcomer."

He almost bit through his lip as the agony lanced him. "Otherwise…" He could not go on; there was no need.

The smoke was clearing; he heard the guns run out yet again. Someone was calling pitifully, another was insisting, "I'm 'ere, Ted! 'Ang on now!"

He turned his head and saw Napier bending down to wipe his forehead with a cloth.

Cristie's voice. "Surgeon's comin'!"

He tried to rise, but felt the blood running across his side and down his thigh.

"Mr Galbraith." He waited for his face to move into focus. "Get the ship to Plymouth. Those despatches must reach Lord Exmouth."

Galbraith said, "God damn the despatches."

"How many did we lose?" He gripped his sleeve. "Tell me."

"Eight at a count, sir."

"Too many." lie shook his head. "The oldest trick, and I did not see it…" A shadow shut out the misty glare. Small, strong hands for so burly a figure. The Irish voice, calm, taking no nonsense, even from the captain.

"Ah, be still, sir." A pause, and some sharp pain, insistent. Pitiless. "A close thing. I'll deal with it now." The shadow moved away, and he heard O'Beirne murmur, "Marine Fisher was killed. Dropped his musket as he fell, and it fired on impact. It found the wrong target!"

He felt hands lifting him, others reaching out as if to reassure him, or themselves.

Galbraith waited until the little procession had disappeared below, then he looked at the scars and the pitted sails, the drying blood, and the deck where men had died. And more would follow them before they saw Plymouth Hoe again.

He shaded his eyes to look at the other ships, but they had become unreal in the mist and the drifting smoke. Already he could hear hammers and saws, men calling to one another as they worked high above the embattled deck.

How was it that the captain had seemed to know what was happening, at the moment of truth, and later, when the other frigate had tried to free herself from their deadly embrace? And what if the barque's captain had realised that Unrivalled's steering had been disabled by that single shot?

He took a mug of something from one of the wardroom messmen, and almost choked on it. It was neat rum.

And when he had seen the captain stagger and then fall to his knees, he had heard himself speaking aloud. Anyone but him. Please, God, not him!

It was like a voice. Because you could not have done it. Nor will you.

He stared at the flag locker, overturned in that brief but savage encounter.

"Attend to it, Mr Cousens!"

Then he turned away, sickened, remembering, and murmured, "Forgive me."

There was nobody to hear him.

Daniel Yovell critically regarded the nib of a new pen before testing it against his thumbnail. Beyond the white-painted screen he could hear the constant sounds and movements of men working to repair damage, reeving new cordage, or replacing sails which had been shot through in the engagement.

It seemed that the work had never stopped, and it was sometimes difficult to believe that the brief action had been more than four days ago.

It was as if the labour was a need, the only way sailors could put their anger and sadness behind them. Yovell had watched men die, and had been there when they had made their last journey, down into permanent darkness.

He looked across the littered table at the sheaf of notes the captain had used to compile his report. In spite of the wound he seemed unable to rest, or make any allowances for his pain and loss of blood.

Even O'Beirne seemed baffled by the will and determination which was driving him.

He was with the captain now, in the sleeping quarters. They made a good pair, Yovell thought, neither willing to give in to the other.

He saw Napier by the stern windows, watching some gulls swooping across Unrivalled's lively wake, their strident screams lost in this cabin. It was like a haven, separate from the rest of the ship, yet closely linked by the comings and goings of officers and messengers from the working parties, no matter how lowly. The captain had to be informed.

Yovell thought of his own part in it. Assisting the surgeon, seeing men he had come to know suffer and sometimes die, stretched out on that bloodied table. He had held the hand of one seaman and had recited a prayer for him, inserting his own words when he had forgotten some of it, and all the while the dying sailor had been very still, watching him. Finally O'Beirne had pulled the man's hand away and signalled for his assistants.

"Gone, I'm afraid." Almost callous. How else could he do his work?

He thought, too, of the burials, the uncanny silence falling over the ship as if even the dead were listening.

Anonymous canvas bundles, weighted with round shot. But as each name was read out the face would come to mind, with maybe a word or a deed remembered.

Captain Bolitho had insisted on doing that as well, the familiar, much-thumbed prayer book in one hand, this boy, Napier, holding his hat, and Jago standing at his elbow, ready to support him if the pain became too much.

O'Beirne came into the cabin and dragged on his coat; Yovell had already seen the dark stains of blood on his shirt. He did not seem to need sleep, either.

O'Beirne saw Napier pouring a glass of brandy.

"Well trained, boy!" But the usual humour evaded him. He looked at Yovell and waved one hand despairingly. "Can't you do anything about it? The man will kill himself if he keeps to this pace." He swallowed the brandy gratefully and held out the goblet to be refilled. "When we reach Plymouth I shall submit my papers for a transfer, see if I don't!" Then he did grin, very wearily.

They both knew he had no intention of quitting Unrivalled.

Yovell asked quietly, "How is he?"

O'Beirne tilted the goblet in a shaft of sunlight. "Lucky, I would say without hesitation. The musket ball cut across the old wound he received when he lost his other command, Anemone. We'll not know the total damage for a while. I've stitched him up as well as I may under these circumstances. Another inch…" he shook his head, "… and he'd have gone outboard with those other poor fellows."

He closed his worn leather bag with a snap. "I'm away now, before he makes me forget my sacred oath!"

He paused by the screen door. "Napier, come and see me later. I want to have a look at that leg of yours." The door closed behind him.

Yovell sighed. The captain had even found time to tell O'Beirne about the boy's injury.

Adam Bolitho heard the door, and O'Beirne's unmistakable voice as he spoke with the sentry.

With care, he sat on a chest and leaned forward to study himself in the hanging mirror. Calmly and intently, as he might examine some failing subordinate.

He was naked to the waist, his sunburned skin dark against the most recent layer of bandages. Like a tight waistcoat, and a constant reminder, throbbing now after O'Beirne's examination. The bowl was beside the hanging cot, some bloodstained water shivering in time with the dull boom of the rudder-head.

He listened, seeing the ship as she must appear to any other vessel, responding to a freshening wind. It had veered overnight, south-easterly. He found that he was holding his side, reliving it. The closeness of disaster: death had seemed almost secondary.

Tomorrow would see them off Ushant: the Western Approaches, and the English Channel.

But he could find no satisfaction in it. He could only think about the unknown barque; there was no certainty that she was Osiris. But she had made the signal causing the frigate to cast off when they had been about to grapple and board Unrivalled. So that the barque's master could bring his own armament to bear. But for the unexpected sighting of another sail, it could have ended there. The unknown vessel had made off almost immediately, as had their two attackers.

The barque had made the signal. So she must have the authority and the intelligence to plan and undertake so dangerous a venture. His mind repeated it. It could have ended there.

He glanced around the sleeping quarters. Quieter now; a stand-easy must have been piped to allow his men to rest from their countless tasks.

He thought of Jago by his side, dark features grim and challenging as they had buried the dead.

During the action and in the days which had followed they had lost a total of fourteen men. Some others lingered on the verge, but O'Beirne was hopeful. Fourteen, then. Too many.

In his mind's eye he could still see them. Midshipman Cousens racing up the shrouds, the big telescope swaying over his shoulder. So full of life. A boatswain's mate named Selby. Adam had not known much about him; perhaps in some way he had avoided it. Selby had been the alias used by his own father when he had been escaping justice. When he saved my life, and I did not know him. The Royal Marine, Fisher, an old sweat who had never gained promotion in the Corps. But a popular man, who had always been proud to boast of his service in the old third-rate Agamemnon, Horatio Nelson's last command as a captain. It had marked him out, lent him a certain celebrity. He had died without knowing that he had nearly killed his own captain.

He found he was holding his side again. Fourteen men. He stood up slowly and grimaced as the pain seared across his ribs. And Midshipman Sandell.

The hammers had started up once more. Stand-easy was over.

He saw Napier by the door, and that he had a clean shirt over his arm.

Adam smiled. He could not remember the last time he had done so.

"We'll go on deck, David. Are you ready?"

Napier shook out the clean shirt and nodded gravely. It was what he had been waiting to hear.

"Aye, ready, sir!"

Yovell looked up as they entered the great cabin. "Mr Midshipman Deighton was here, sir. I told him it was not convenient…" He saw the clean breeches and shirt and Napier's face.

Adam said, "I sent for him. I am appointing him signals midshipman. He is more experienced than the others, keen too." He raised his hand. "Never fear, my friend, I shall see him directly. On deck."

Yovell pushed the spectacles on to his forehead and gazed at his hands. They felt as if they were shaking. With God's help he could usually conceal emotion. It was not like him at all.

He heard the door close, and the stamp of the sentry's boots.

It was what they all needed.

The captain was back.

The admiral's servant moved the chair a few inches as if to indicate that it had already been selected for the visitor. Adam had noticed that there was little conversation between Lord Exmouth and his personal servant; perhaps they had been together for so long that spoken instruction had become unnecessary.

He lowered himself into the chair, afraid that the pain would return at this moment when he needed to be fully alert. Galbraith had warned him about it, had almost pleaded with him, and Jago had been unable to conceal his indignation.

"What do they expect, sir? You have been wounded-you shouldn't he here at all, by rights!"

Adam thought of Herrick, overcoming his disablement, visiting Unrivalled at Freetown, and the stubborn determination which had made him refuse the offer of a bosun's chair to hoist him aboard.

He had had misgivings of his own as the gig had approached the flagship's side. Like a cliff; he was still not sure how he had reached the entry port without losing his hold and falling headlong, as Herrick would have done but for Jago's swift action.

Jago had touched his hat, standing in the gig while Adam had reached out to pull himself on to the "stairway, " and he had heard him murmur softly, "Nice an' easy does it, sir."

And now he was here, in the admiral's great cabin. The din of his reception had been the worst part, not the calls, or the slap and click of muskets, but the faces on the fringe of the side party and the waiting officers. Curiosity or excitement, he was not certain. Like the silence which had fallen over Plymouth's busy harbour and jetties as Unrivalled was moved slowly to her allotted anchorage. Her company had worked without complaint, for him, for the ship, and for one another, but they could not conceal the scars of battle, and only the most pressing tasks could be accomplished while the ship was still under way.

It was the first anyone had known of the action, and he had sensed the shocked stillness of those same vessels which had seen them depart less than three weeks ago. Some store ships had stopped work when the frigate's shadow had glided slowly abeam, the hoists and derricks motionless, as if it were a mark of respect.

The request for his appearance on board the flagship Queen Charlotte had been brought by the guardboat and not by any signal, and the officer of the guard had signed for and carried the secret despatches to this very cabin.

Lord Exmouth sat back in his chair, outwardly relaxed, but his keen eyes missed nothing.

"I read your report, Bolitho. Very thorough, especially under the circumstances." His hand moved very slightly and a tray with two fine glasses appeared on his table. Another small movement, and the servant began to pour wine. "You might like this. I keep it for myself, usually."

He continued, "I also read other things which you did not put in your report, and I appreciate how you felt, feel, about the sly and unprovoked attack made under false colours." He shook his head. "An old trick. But you were under orders. My orders. Which is why I selected you in the first place. Any other vessel, brig or fast schooner, would have stood no chance at all."

There was a discreet tap on the door and a lieutenant moved soundlessly to the table and placed a note by the admiral's glass. He left the cabin just as quietly, giving Adam only a brief glance in passing.

Lord Exmouth read the note and screwed it into a tight ball.

"It is as I surmised, Bolitho. The Dey has gathered more ships to his flag, like the frigate which attacked Unrivalled. French, Dutch, who can say? But I don't have to explain that to you, do I?" He made another small gesture and the glasses were refilled.

Adam tried to stretch his body in the chair, testing it, feeling the immediate drag of the bandages. He did not remember even drinking the wine. It was almost cool in the great cabin, but he felt as if his body was burning.

The admiral was observing him calmly. "You did not mention that you were wounded. I am not a mind-reader, Bolitho, nor should I have to remind you." Ile did not wait for any reply. "Time is running out. I intend to sail from here at the end of the month. To Gibraltar, where we shall be joined by a Dutch squadron under Baron van de Capellan, an officer who is known to me, and whom I greatly respect." His eyes crinkled in a smile. "In your report you mention that you did in fact see some Dutch ships at the Rock. Very astute of you-perhaps you had already guessed what their purpose might he?"

"I had good cause to remember one Dutch frigate, my lord."

"Indeed, indeed. But as Our Nel was given to say, war makes strange bedfellows. And peace creates even more!"

He glanced at the skylight as the trill of calls drifted down into this remote cabin. The admiral was a great man, but perhaps still a frigate captain at heart. The sound of running rigging in the middle of the night watches… someone calling a command or a warning… Like young Cousens, who had seen the danger before anyone. And had paid for it.

"I have a good squadron already, Bolitho. To say that I need a certain captain is too frivolous a term for my taste. You have the experience and the skill for this venture. I want you in the van when I begin the attack on the Dey's defenses and his ships. If your ship is not in fit repair by the time I make that move, then I will find you another!"

Adam caught his breath, astonished and dismayed.

"She will be ready, my lord! With some local help, I can…"

The admiral held up one hand. "I will arrange that. Shall you be fit enough to follow the flag?"

His whole world was suddenly compressed into this moment, with this famous man, and the threat of losing Unrivalled.

"I will be ready, my lord. You have my word."

The admiral frowned and pressed his fingertips together. "Your word may not be enough. I knew your uncle, and I can see something of him in you. You'd not rest and leave the routine to others."

Adam stared around the cabin, the truth stark and very real. He would lose Unrivalled…

The admiral stood up and walked aft to the tall windows. The big three-decker had plenty of headroom, even for him. Perhaps he was still with his own frigate, somewhere…

He turned swiftly.

"Your first lieutenant, Galbraith. I met him. He seemed competent enough." It sounded like a question. "I read somewhere that you recommended him for promotion, even though you were short of trained people at the time? So you must have confidence in the fellow's ability."

"Yes, sir." Why was it so strange, that he had hesitated? "He is a fine officer."

"That settles it, Bolitho. You will take a week or so, and spend the time ashore. Cornwall is my home too, y' know." He smiled, but his eyes never wavered from Adam's face. "I am not giving you an order, Bolitho. I want you in the van. If you do not think you can do it, then tell me now. I would not hold it against you, not after what you've done."

"I can, my lord. So will Unrivalled."

Discreet voices. It was time.

Adam stood up and gasped involuntarily with pain.

Lord Exmouth held out his hand and took Adam's between both of his own. As Allday had done.

"I will make certain that your ship has all the aid she needs. I may even be able to hurry up the bounty money owed to your people. It will not raise the dead, but it will lift a few spirits, I daresay!"

The flag lieutenant had returned; the door was open and ready.

Then the admiral released his grip and said almost curtly, You will go to your boat by bosun's chair. This time. Pride is one thing, Bolitho, but conceit is an enemy!"

The servant was already leaving with the tray and the two glasses; the next visitor was to receive other than the admiral's own wine. Lord Exmouth smiled, almost sadly.

"He is a good fellow. Lost his hearing back in '93, after we captured the Cleopatre when I commanded Nymphe." He glanced around the spacious cabin, and his eyes were momentarily wistful. "Now, she was a fine little ship."

Adam went on deck, past two other captains waiting to see the admiral. Unbelievably, the great man would have been the same age as himself when he had commissioned Unrivalled

Ile turned and raised his hat to the flag, and to the assembled side party.

Then, hardly trusting himself to hesitate, he walked directly to the group of seamen waiting with the bosun's chair.

One, a boatswain's mate, made a quick adjustment and raised his fist to those handling the tackle.

Only for an instant, their eyes met. Then he whispered, "You showed 'em, Cap'n! Now us'll do it together!" He cupped his hands and yelled, "'Andsomely, lads! 'Gist away, there!"

The marines presented their muskets but he barely noticed. The flagship's people were cheering him as he rose above the gangway and then swung easily above the waiting gig.

Jago steadied the tackle until he had freed himself and reached the sternsheets.

Midshipman Martyns was at the tiller, and looked as if he was about to say something, his face full of excitement and pleasure as the cheers echoed over and around them, as if the whole ship was joining in. But Jago silenced him with a scowl.

Adam felt the gig move away from shadow into sunlight, and thought of the unknown seaman who had spoken to him. Together.

He looked at Jago and shrugged. Like hearing someone else.

"So be it, then," he said.

The girl sat facing the tall mirror, her hand moving steadily up and down, the brush running through the full length of her dark hair. Brush… brush… brush, unhurriedly, in time with her breathing. She wore a long, loose gown; this was a private moment, and there would be no visitors.

Around and beneath her, the old glebe house was very still. Empty. Montagu had ridden into Falmouth to speak with a carpenter there: some work he wanted carried out while they were away.

Away. London again, that endless journey in their own coach. It was Sir Gregory's wish.

She studied herself in the glass, meeting her own gaze like a stranger. Outside the house it would be hot, very hot, the shrubs and flowers drooping in the sun's glare. She would have to arrange for the roses, at least, to be cared for.

The brush stopped, and she thought of the deserted studio directly beneath her feet. The portrait was finished, but Sir Gregory would still not be satisfied until he had given it more time "to settle in." She had looked at it on several occasions. Interest or guilt; she could not describe her feelings. Would not. The brush began to move again, this time the other side, her long hair draped over her shoulder and down to her thigh. Beneath the gown she was naked. Something she shared with no one.

She thought of the portrait again. Anybody who knew Captain Bolitho, Captain Adam as she had heard people call him, would recognise it as fine work. Lady Roxby would be pleased with it. But something was missing. She tossed her hair impatiently. How could she know?

The rose was there in the portrait. Sir Gregory had seemed satisfied with that, if a little surprised.

She tried to think of London and the house, which even the Prince Regent had visited several times.

She plucked at the gown; even the thick walls of the glebe house could not hold the heat at hay. I ter feet were bare, and she rubbed one on the tiled floor as she recalled the stone house where she had last seen Adam Bolitho, and that tense little group, and the courier with the recall to duty.

She had heard the cook talking about a man-of-war which had entered Plymouth a day or so ago. Damaged, as if in battle, although there had been no news of any such event. She put down the brush and shook her hair out. This place was so isolated. She rubbed her thigh with her hand. For my sake.

She looked at the window, the creeper tapping against the dusty glass although there was no breeze.

She stood up and stepped back from the mirror, her eyes never leaving her reflection. She might be asked to sit for Sir Gregory in London, or for one of his students. Why did she do it? He had never insisted. She stared at herself and touched her body, the hand in the mirror like that of a stranger. Because it saved me.

She let the hand fall to her side and turned away from the stranger in the glass. She had heard a horse; Sir Gregory was back, earlier than expected. The house would be alive again. She wondered why he insisted on riding when he could afford any carriage he wanted. The old cavalier. Ile would never change. What will hecome of…

She swung round, startled. Someone was banging on the door. She hurried to the window and looked down. No one was supposed to be coming today…

She saw the horse, tapping one hoof and idly chewing some overgrown grass, then she saw the stable boy, looking straight up at her, his eyes wide with alarm.

"What is it, Joseph?"

"You'd better come, Miss Lowenna! There's bin an accident!"

She almost fell back from the window. The horse. The one he had ridden here. But that was impossible… She dragged a shawl around her shoulders, only half aware of some bottles being knocked from the table. It was suddenly clear, like one of Montagu's quick, rough sketches. There was nobody else. Only the cook, and she was probably asleep at the back of the kitchen.

She flung open the doors and exclaimed, "Where is he?"

The boy gestured towards the gates.

"E be bleedin' bad, miss!"

She ran from the house, heedless of the loose stones cutting her bare feet.

He was sitting on a large piece of slate, part of the original wall when the Church had ruled here.

One leg was bent under him and he was leaning forward, bowing his head, eyes tightly closed, his hair plastered across his forehead. She saw his hat lying in the lane. It was as if she had been there, seen it happen. Then she saw the blood, so bright in the cruel sunshine, on the leg of his breeches. It was spreading even as she watched.

Go now. Leave it. You do not belong here. Go now. It was like some insane chorus. As if all the spirits people had spoken of had come to taunt her. To remind her.

But she said, "Help me, Joseph." She was walking towards him, saw her shadow reaching beyond her, as if the girl from the mirror had taken her place. Then she knelt and put her arms around his shoulders, feeling the sudden, uncontrollable shivering, knowing it was her own.

Joseph was a good, reliable boy. But he was only thirteen.

She heard herself say, "Run to the inn, Joseph, and fetch some men. We must get him into the house." Her mind was reeling. Suppose there were no men at the inn? They might be back in the fields by now. She could not even remember what time it was.

Somehow she steadied herself, and waited for the understanding to show itself on the boy's freckled face.

"Rouse Cook. I want hot water and some clean sheets." She tried to smile, if only to restore his confidence. "Go on, now. I'll stay here until help comes."

She watched him scamper along the pathway. She was alone.

She tried to open his coat, but it was fastened too tightly. There was blood on his shirt also, and it was fresh.

She felt the tremor run through her again. It must have been his ship which had been damaged, the rumour which had eventually reached here all the way from Plymouth. It did not seem possible…

She realised that he was staring at her, moving his head slightly as if to discover where he was, what was happening.

He said suddenly, "Blood-it's on your clothing!" He struggled briefly, but she held him.

She wanted to speak, but her mouth seemed drv and stiff. She made another attempt.

"You're safe here." She held him more tightly as she felt his body clench against the pain. "What happened'"

She looked along the lane, but there was no one. Only his hat, lying where it had fallen. Like a spectator.

He said hoarsely, "There was a fight." His head rolled against her shoulder and he groaned. "We drove them off." It seemed to trigger something in his mind. "Too late. I should have known. "

lie was still staring at her with wide eyes, perhaps only just understanding what had happened. She could feel it; he was momentarily without pain. lie said, "Lowenna. It is you. I was coming…" lie pressed his face into her shoulder again and gasped, "Oh, dear God!"

She took his hand, gripping it tightly. "Help is coining! Soon now!"

She twisted round to stare down the lane again, and felt his hand on her breast. She looked at it, seeing the blood on his fingers, and on her gown where he had touched her. The fear, the scream was rising in her throat. But she did nothing, and watched the hand on her breast, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin material, like fever.

And then, all at once, everyone was here, even the landlord from the inn.

"We'll take Cap'n Adam, miss," and young Joseph was saying, "There was blood on the road, Miss Lowenna, on the horse too. Must've thrown him."

She stood up as two of the men eased Adam into a chair.

"We kin carry un to the inn, missy!"

She looked down at her gown, the bloodstains, and the smudges of blood around her breast. There was blood on her feet also. She felt nothing. Like taking a pose for a painting. Empty the mind. Wipe away the memory.

She scarcely recognised her voice. Perhaps it was the girl in the mirror.

"Carry him carefully-I will show you the room. I must stop the bleeding. Send someone for a doctor. The garrison will send one if you tell them who it's for."

She held the door open wide and the men lurched against her.

She saw his hand reaching for her, although he could not know what was happening. She seized it, holding it against her, ignoring the people all around her, not even aware of them.

"You are safe now, Adam." And she thought she felt his hand respond. She had called him by name.