Relentless Pursuit

1. No Turning Back

PLYMOUTH, always one of England 's most important and strategically situated seaports, seemed strangely quiet, subdued. Even Plymouth Sound, notorious for its fast tides and unexpectedly fierce squalls, was almost still but for some cruising cat’s paws from a light offshore breeze.

But it was cold, the air bitter like a knife edge, and only a few small local craft seemed willing to contest it.

It was mid-December, six months to the day since the news had broken of the victory at Waterloo, and the final surrender of the Corsican tyrant who had held power for so long. Boys had grown to manhood in the course of that same conflict, plough hands and stable lads alike had been transformed into sailors and soldiers.

Now it was over, and seaports like Plymouth which had given so much and so many were still numbed by the reality of peace and its aftermath.

Even when the noon gun shattered the silence and rolled its echoes from the Hoe to the old battery at Penlee Point, only a few gulls rose screaming from the water, the spirits of dead Jacks, the sailors called them. Maybe they felt it too.

From here great fleets and powerful squadrons had weighed anchor, and had headed out to every part of the world where England's enemies were at large, and famous names, the Nile, Copenhagen, Trafalgar, had filled the hearts and minds, particularly of those who did not have to fight, and had no loved ones facing the merciless broadsides which took the lives of volunteers and pressed men without discrimination.

At the end of the war the fleet had been at its strongest, with 240 ships of the line, some 317 frigates and countless other smaller vessels, ready and able to perform whatever task their lordships of Admiralty might dictate.

There were ships here now, plenty of them. It was a Sunday, but in those other times it would have made no difference when the noon gun was fired. There had been signals to be exchanged, chronometers to be checked: the daily routine continued.

But today many of those same ships were like ghosts, some with upper yards sent down and boats removed for storage ashore, and in some cases the scars of a last, desperate sea fight still unrepaired, as if their companies had been spirited away. Ships already laid up in ordinary, some waiting to be hulked or used for storing unwanted equipment; a few would become floating prisons. And some, perhaps, would live on to fight again.

Only one small craft moved with any apparent purpose and direction. It was a gig, oars rising and falling precisely and unhurriedly, the crew smartly turned out in tarred hats and matching blue jackets, a coxswain with one hand on the tiller bar, a midshipman beside hire, eyes on the passage among the silent ships, the phantom fleet.

And in the sternsheets, boatcloak thrown back over his shoulders to reveal his gleaming epaulettes, was the captain, who needed no reminding of the significance of this day.

Captain Adam Bolitho did not glance at the passing ships, but it was a moment he would never forget. He would know the names of some, even of many of them. Silent and deserted now, their gun ports empty like staring eyes, but he would hear the cries and the wild cheering, still audible amidst the darker memories of war at sea.

The seaports were full of reminders, men crippled and blinded and others left to beg on the streets. And there would be many more now, thrown on the beach while the fleet was cut to the bone, their courage and sacrifice forgotten. Adam gripped the old sword beneath his cloak until his fingers throbbed. Emotion, pride, anger, it was all there on this bitter, cleansing day.

He turned and looked up as the gig passed through the shadow of an anchored seventy-four, an old two-decker like Hyperion. Against the bleak, cloudless sky he saw a solitary figure standing on a gangway to watch the gig as they pulled past.

Then very slowly he raised his hat, and held it above his head in salute until the jutting stern hid him from view. A watchman? Someone still finding refuge in the world which had rejected him? Or just another ghost?

He heard the midshipman clear his throat. He was new; they had met for the first time when the gig had picked him up at the Queen's Stairs. Another young hopeful, nervous with his captain in his care.

Adam had seen the wary glance from Luke Jago, his coxswain. He would allow nothing to go wrong. No matter what he thought or said, he would know what this day meant to his captain. Just as Jago would have known where and when to collect him without a signal having been made, or any instructions given.

He felt the tiller move slightly and looked along the boat, over the heads of the oarsmen, their breath hanging in the cold air like steam. Like that first day, just over a year ago, in this same place. He stared at his ship.

When I took command.

He had been away from the ship for two weeks and had barely had time to think over and remember that past year. The sea fights, the triumphs and the pain, official visits and others no less important, to him at least. And all the while he had looked forward to this moment. Coming back. Like being made whole again.

It was something like a shock, nevertheless. The ship had been moved during his absence and now lay at her cable, well clear of all the other vessels, and even her appearance came as a surprise. The familiar huff paint around her hull had been replaced by white, so that her strakes and black gun ports along either side made an even sharper, chequered pattern, clean and fresh against the stained and deserted hulks nearby.

His Britannic Majesty's frigate Unrivalled of 46 guns was one of the first to wear the new peacetime colours. She was also the first ship of her name on the Navy List.

He stood up in the boat as the hull rose above the tossed oars. And he was her first captain.

It was enough. There was nothing else.

The bowman had hooked on, and the side party would be waiting, faces, new or old, ready to receive him.

What had I expected? That they would take her from me?

He glanced at the midshipman, but the youth's name would not come.

"That was well done."

The boy blushed, and Jago remarked, "Mr Martyns is learning fast, sir."

Adam nodded. It was Jago's way. He would remember next time.

The calls squealed and he heard the slap of muskets as the Royal Marine guard presented arms in salute.

It was all as he had expected. The ensign curling against the cold sky, the seamen, faces still tanned from Unrivalled's service in the Mediterranean. The smell of fresh paint, like that other December day a year ago.

He saw none of it.

Being hack was enough.

Lieutenant Leigh Galbraith strode in from beneath Unrivalled's poop and ran his eyes over the main deck. Everything was in order. He had made certain that nothing had been left to chance. Today the captain was returning; his own period of temporary command would soon be over.

He frowned as the hard light reflected from the water. He had been pulled around the ship as soon as the hands had been piped to work, and had still been surprised by her appearance. The white paint took some getting used to, almost frivolous compared with the moored hulks nearby, and only the experienced eye could discern the new timbers which had repaired damage suffered in their savage exchange with the frigate Triton only months ago. Some of the repairs had been carried out at Gibraltar and the rest here at Plymouth, where Unrivalled's life had begun. Where Galbraith himself had been given another chance. He was lucky and he knew it. And with the whole fleet being cut down, halved, some said, he should count his blessings and leave the bitterness to others less fortunate.

Galbraith was 31, and he had spent nineteen years of his life in the navy. He knew and had wanted nothing else, except a command of his own. And that he had been granted. His previous captain had given him the highest recommendation, and his reward had been the little brig Vixen. Not a fifth-rate like Unrivalled, but his own, and the first step to the coveted post rank.

He saw Partridge the boatswain, big fists on his hips as he explained forcefully what work he needed done in the foretop. Thank God for men like Partridge, he thought. The backbone of any man-of-war, they were the true professionals, Partridge, Stranace the gunner, probably the oldest man aboard, and Joshua Cristie the sailing master, the best Galbraith had known. A man who never wasted words, but when he spoke it was with authority and a complete understanding of the tides, stars and winds which were his world.

As the frigate's first lieutenant, Galbraith was most aware of and concerned with the shortages. They were more than fifty men under strength, despite their presence in this naval harbour. He smiled grimly. Or perhaps because of it.

Apart from those they had lost, killed or badly wounded in the last battle, some had been paid off or had gone to other ships. But a few of the old hands had remained, even some of the hard men like Campbell, who had paid for his insolence and contempt for authority with several floggings in this commission alone. He seemed to find some brutal satisfaction in displaying his scarred back, which looked as if it had been clawed by some savage beast. A dangerous man, and yet he had been one of the first to volunteer for the attack on the corsair's chehecks when they had pulled alongside with enough explosives to kill every one of them. Campbell had been a tower of strength, but he would sneer openly at anyone who suggested he had acted out of a sense of duty or discipline.

There were others like Campbell. Men who claimed to hate everything the navy represented, and more especially the officers who upheld it.

So why did they stay, when they now had the chance to quit?

Galbraith saw Luxmore, the captain of the Royal Marine detachment, speaking with one of his sergeants. Whatever went on around them, no matter how cramped the ship, they somehow remained a separate entity. Even their quarters were called "the barracks." Luxmore had seen plenty of fighting, and he had a good rapport with his marines. Maybe that was enough. Galbraith looked away. Or was he congratulating himself on his advanced promotion? The debonair Captain Bosanquet had been killed that day. Like me, then. Thankful to have survived, and to have a ship, because of fear of the unknown.

He saw the boy Napier, the cabin servant, pausing to stare at the land. He probably knew the captain's thoughts better than anyone. Fourteen years old, serious and hard-working, and obviously devoted to Captain Adam Bolitho. An unusual relationship, he thought. Bolitho was not always the easiest man to understand, and had sometimes apologised for his own intolerance. As if something or somebody was driving him, forcing him on.

And yet with Napier he always seemed to have time to explain, to describe, to elaborate. The only way he'll learn, he once said. As if he saw something of his own youth in him. That must have been stormy enough, from what Galbraith had heard, and had seen for himself. Like that last engagement, when Bolitho had given chase to the enemy frigate captained by the renegade Spaniard, Martinez. He had deliberately misinterpreted their admiral's signal to remain on station and leave the pursuit to a smaller frigate which had been outgunned and outsailed from the start, and they had saved the merchantman Aran more, which had been carrying important passengers. He glanced at the companion ladder and remembered Bolitho holding the woman's hand, kissing it. They could have been quite alone.

Galbraith began to pace the deck, his hands clasped behind him. Was it that as well? Had she reminded him yet again of the girl he had hoped to marry, and had lost when he had put his brief command first?

He thought too of Bolitho's reluctance to become close to anyone in his new command. He had lost a frigate, Anemone, fighting a more powerful American ship, had been taken prisoner and had escaped. It was as if he had found it impossible since then to reach out, to accept, and to trust.

And there was yet another side to the man, a stark contrast. Cristie had told Galbraith about the day when he had openly disagreed with his captain. For Cristie it was a thing almost unheard of. Galbraith's raiding party had been amongst littleknown islands, and the master had advised that it was unsafe to take Unrivalled through a channel which was virtually uncharted, and which might rip out the ship's keel. A captain's total responsibility…

Cristie had confided after the successful recovery of the raiding party, "Fair mad he was. I'll roust in hell htfore I leave Galbraith to die in their hands, he said. I don't go much for praying, but I tell you, I nearly did that time!"

And when they had stood together in the church at Falmouth, the first time Unrivalled had dropped anchor there. The church full of people, the streets also, and total silence for the man who had died at sea, the captain's famous uncle, Sir Richard Bolitho.

Lady Catherine Somervell had been there with them. So beautiful, so alone despite the crowds. Where was she now? What would become of her? The woman who had defied society and had been Sir Richard's lover and inspiration, and had won the heart of the country.

The deck moved slightly, and he saw the ship in his thoughts as clearly as he had this morning. A thoroughbred. Like the carved inscription beneath her figurehead. Second to None.

Unrivalled was eager to move. The first and perhaps the last of her kind: in the yard where she had been laid down, built and launched, Galbraith had seen her only sister ship. The same fine lines, the pride of any craftsman. But abandoned. Unfinished. Dead.

lie stared along the deck, at the two lines of eighteenpounders, their tackles and hreechings taut and neat, and recalled Massie, who had been the next senior in the wardroom. A flag officer's son and a gunnery man to his fingertips, not one you would ever know. Quiet and self-contained even on the day he had been killed, shot down as he had rallied his people.

He had been replaced here in Plymouth by Lieutenant George Varlo, a complete contrast. Lively, talkative, and in his mid-twenties, he must have had some influence; every appointment now was like pure gold. Galbraith had decided that he would hide his time with Varlo. I le almost smiled. Maybe he had got that from the captain.

He turned in his pacing as the noon gun echoed mournfully across the water and the watching veterans. Even without the large, old-fashioned watch he had always carried, Captain Bolitho would be right on time.

He heard Midshipman Sandell's sharp, petulant voice, berating one of the new men. They were over fifty hands short of approved complement. Petty tyrants like Sandell would be no loss at all.

"Gig's in sight!" That was Bellairs, the third lieutenant, who had been the senior midshipman when Unrivalled had commissioned. It would be a challenge to him, Galbraith thought. Some of the old Jacks would recall him as just another "young gentleman," neither fish nor fowl, and still look for some weakness to exploit. But he was a popular choice and had settled into the wardroom well, and seemed grateful for his change of circumstance.

He smiled again and walked to the entry port. The marines were fallen in and dressed in two impeccable ranks, swaying very gently to the ship's quiet motion.

He saw O'Beirne, the portly surgeon, hurrying to the companion, down to his own world on the orlop, where some had died and others had survived.

He watched the gig returning, pulling around one of the abandoned ships. Bolitho's coxswain was another rebel, or so it had first appeared.

The boat was turning toward the main chains, the bowman already standing with his hook raised.

"Royal Marines, ready."

The boatswain's mates moistened their silver calls on their tongues and gazed at the entry port.

Galbraith gripped his sword and pressed it to his side.

For two weeks he had been in charge of this ship and every hour of her routine. Completing repairs, taking on stores and fresh water, powder and shot. Men to be sworn in and issued with clothing. It was a far cry from some ships he had known, when some of the poor wretches dragged aboard by the press gangs had worn their own clothes to shreds before a grasping purser could be persuaded to dole out garments from his slop chest.

And now that responsibility was over. The captain had returned.

Galbraith stepped forward, his hand to his hat as the calls shrilled in salute and the marines went through their drill.

He watched the captain as he climbed through the entry port, eyes moving quickly over and above his ship. At moments like this, a stranger again.

Adam took his hand and shook it.

"A long two weeks." I le glanced at the other officers and then forward, the length of the ship.

Galbraith waited, feeling it all again. They had done so much in a year of action and triumph, disappointment and grief.

He was surprised, ashamed even. This man, who could be so youthful one moment, so grimly determined when he had made a decision which might affect each one of them, was still so distant, so unknown.

Galbraith recognised it, the old enemy which he had thought laid to rest. Envy.

"Welcome aboard, sir!"

It was done.

Adam Bolitho walked to the sloping windows of the stern cabin and stared out at the anchorage. The other ships looked even more desolate through the wet, misty glass. And it was cold, only to be expected in December, but a far cry from the Mediterranean, Malta or Algiers. Unrivalled was a big frigate, but the only heat came from her galley stove.

He should he used to it, able to accept or ignore it. He knew Galbraith was watching him, his tall frame slightly angled between the deck beams. The boy Napier was just inside the sleeping compartment; he could see his shadow moving up and down as he unpacked one of his captain's chests, doubtless with a ready ear cocked in case he was needed.

"You've done well, Leigh." He turned away from the damp glass in time to catch the expression on the strong features. Galbraith still found it hard to accept a captain's use of his first name. In his absence the barrier had returned. Perhaps it had never truly gone away. "Are the new people settled in?"

Galbraith seemed to consider it, as if taken aback by the question when all he and most of the others had been concerned about were their orders, their place in things, their world.

"I've warned the officers to be ready in the wardroom."

"Yes, I shall want to speak with them." He shivered and moved restlessly to the opposite quarter. Strain, excitement, or the fact that he had not had more than a few hours' sleep for days. He thought of Galbraith's words. In the wardroom. He had noticed the plume of smoke from the galley funnel, had caught the heavy smell of rum even as he had been piped aboard. Small, real things. They also reminded him that he had not eaten since yesterday.

He said abruptly, "Men. We must get more hands. We can train them." Almost bitterly it came out. "We shall have all the time we need!"

"I've done what I can with the watch bills, sir. A mixture of old and new hands in each part of ship."

Adam said, "I am told that we may attract some experienced hands in Penzance." He looked at the stern windows again, trying to accept it. "One of the big packet companies has been forced to give way to competition. With so many trained seamen tossed on the beach they can pick and choose, it would seem!" He made another attempt. "I have obtained some posters. Usher can deal with it."

He stared at the small empty table by the screen door, where Usher his clerk had always sat, quiet and attentive, making notes and copying letters and orders, a handkerchief always balled in one fist, trying valiantly to stifle the coughs. A nervous man who had once been a purser's assistant, he had seemed totally out of place in the crowded confines of a fighting ship.

His lungs had been diseased, all too common in a man-of-war. As the surgeon had put it, Usher had been dying a day at a time.

"Forgive me." It was as if he had spoken to the little clerk, who had finally died on their passage hack from Gibraltar, within a day's sighting of the Cornish coast.

They had buried him at sea. There were no details of home or relatives. lie stared at the curved beams and the reflection of the black and white checkered deck covering. This ship had been Usher's home, too.

lie thought suddenly, painfully, of the big grey house in Falmouth, people crowding around, kindness, warmth, and curiosity.

I le touched the sword at his hip and then unclipped it. The constant reminder, if he had needed one, like all the old portraits in the house, the watching faces, some with ships in the background, some not. But always the sword.

Flow empty the house had seemed. Bryan Ferguson had been overjoyed to see him, and had tried not to disturb him with the signing of papers relating to the estate and the farms, the people who had always known there was a Bolitho to care for them, or his lady when he was at sea. Now there were only memories.

He had intended to make the journey to Fallowfield to visit the little inn, The Old Hyperion, but Ferguson had persuaded him against it. The roads were deeply rutted, unsafe; he had seen ice for himself in the place where roses would bloom again in the new year. Catherine's roses.

Or had Ferguson been afraid of the effect on Alldav if the' had met so unexpectedly, Or on me?

Galbraith saw the play of emotions on his captain's face. Like a young colt, someone had once described him. Hair so dark that it was almost black, a mouth which could be determined, even hard. Equally, it could show a rare sensitivity. As it had now, at the mention of Usher's name. That was the true difference. He cared for these people he led and commanded; in some ships Galbraith had known, it was not always the same thing. Abrupt, impatient, stubborn, Adam Bolitho had revealed each mood throughout the months they had served together. But Galbraith felt privileged to have sometimes seen the other side to this youthful copy of the famous Richard Bolitho, and to have shared it.

Adam said, "I shall leave you to take charge of recruiting parties. Remember, we are looking for men, not begging for them." He smiled quickly. "That was unnecessary, Leigh. I am bad company today."

Galbraith was about to reply when he sensed something like an unspoken warning. Adam Bolitho had originally come from Penzance, or very close to it. Was that the reason for his dismissal of the task?

He said, "I can deal with it, sir. Our marines will put on a good display."

Adam scarcely heard him. "I saw the Flag Officer, Plymouth. Twice, in fact."

"Vice-Admiral Keen, sir. You have known him a long time, I believe."

"Yes." He saw the boy watching from the screen and said, "Fetch me something hot, will you?" He laid the sword on the bench seat. "Some cognac too, I think."

The door closed. Only the marine sentry stood between them and the whole ship.

"In confidence." He raised his hand, as if to dispel something. "But it must be between ourselves." He glanced toward the table again, as if expecting the cough, or one of Usher's usual meticulous explanations of what he was doing. "We shall leave Plymouth tomorrow." He gazed at Galbraith directly. "Does that present a problem?"

Galbraith said, "No, sir," and saw the dark, restless eyes return to the old sword.

"After Penzance, where additional orders will be waiting for us, we shall proceed to Gibraltar." He attempted to smile. "Better weather, with good fortune!" But it eluded him.

Galbraith was suddenly tense. No routine orders; they were not rejoining the fleet or one of the local squadrons. He considered all the laid-up ships. What was left of them.

Adam said quietly, " Sierra Leone. I shall receive full instructions when their lordships believe me fit and ready to proceed."

Galbraith waited. Like a burning fuse: that day among the islands, the charges exploding in what might have been a suicide attack, a reckless and ambitious operation. He recalled once more what Cristie had told him. I'll roast in bell before I leave Galbraith to die in their hands!

Sierra Leone. To Galbraith and most other sea officers it meant the slave trade. He could dismiss that idea; Unrivalled was too big and powerful to he wasted on hit-and-miss antislavery patrols. Schooners and brigs were the usual choice.

He was surprised to find that he did not care. The ship, their ship, was to go into service again. They were fully repaired and supplied. And if they could get a few volunteers, they would be ready. A fighting ship once more.

"I would sail her single-handed, sir, just to get away from this graveyard!"

Adam smiled. It was far better to be like Galbraith. He was reminded suddenly of Keen, in that spacious house commanding the sea and the countryside in one unending panorama. Where he himself had walked with Keen's wife Zenoria, for so short a time before her tragic death.

Keen's second wife Gilia had been there this time, and had made him more than welcome, and her pleasure had matched only Keen's pride in the revelation that a child was expected in the spring.

It was obvious that Gilia had never told Valentine Keen what she knew of Adam's love for her predecessor, who had thrown herself from a clifftop after her son by Keen had died.

If Keen suspected, he hid it well. He had confined their conversations to Unrivalled's return to duty, and her performance against the renegade frigate Triton.

Only once, Adam had sensed something, as Keen had remarked on the "fine piece of work" when they had caught and destroyed the big ex-Dutchman. By rescuing Aranmore, the government had been saved the embarrassment of having to parley with the Dey of Algiers for the release of hostages. One glowing report of the chase and action had been sent by Sir Lewis Bazeley, one of the passengers and, it was said, a friend of the prime minister.

Keen's wife had commented, "Bazeley? He has a very pretty young wife, I believe," and Keen had said, "You carried them earlier to Malta, Adam."

An admiral's discretion, or was he still a friend? Once Sir Richard Bolitho's flag captain, and one of his midshipmen. Like me.

Galbraith probably knew or had guessed some of it.

He made up his mind. "I recommended you for a command again, Leigh."

"I did not know, sir."

Adam shrugged. "Someone might take notice." He glanced at the door as Napier opened it with one foot. He had even discarded the squeaky shoes for this special day. "I'll come to the wardroom in an hour."

Galbraith strode from the cabin, and gasped as his head banged against a deckhcad beam as if someone had shouted at him.

The captain needed every trained man that he could get. The second lieutenant was as yet an unknown force; Bellairs had scarcely settled into his rank. The most important officer in the ship to any captain under these circumstances was the first lieutenant, especially one so experienced.

Galbraith rubbed his head and grinned ruefully.

"But he'd have let me go if a ship was offered!"

The marine sentry's eyes moved briefly beneath the brim of his leather hat.

Officers talking aloud to themselves. And they had not even upanchored yet!

He relaxed again. It was something to tell the others.

Galbraith thrust his way into the wardroom and tossed his hat to a messman. They were all looking at him, while pretending to be disinterested.

I will never be of erect a command. He repeated it in his mind. But the envy was gone.

Vice-Admiral Valentine Keen pulled the heavy curtain aside and stared out at the restless waters of the Sound. The sea would be livelier beyond in this steady north-easterly, and it would still be light when Unrivalled cleared the anchorage and found her way into open water. fie thought of the growing ranks of paid-off ships and men. She would be better off at sea. Any sea.

Somewhere in this big house he had heard voices, laughter, people to be entertained, encouraged or held at hay, as circumstances dictated. There were still times when it was almost impossible to accept. He was the youngest vice-admiral since Nelson, with two captains, six lieutenants and a veritable army of clerks and servants to do his bidding, probably more if he raised the matter with the Admiralty.

But like the captain who was uppermost in his thoughts on this cold December afternoon, the final responsibility was his and his alone.

It was to be hoped that Unrivalled's visit to Penzance would bring a few more men forward to be signed on. Men who had possibly imagined that the only life worth living was outside the harsh and demanding world of a King's ship.

He thought of Sir Graham Bethune, who held the same rank as himself. They had both served as midshipmen under Sir Richard Bolitho. Keen had been promoted lieutenant aboard Bolitho's frigate Undine when they had set sail for India and a world unknown to him. Without question or hesitation, like the newly commissioned officer he had seen aboard Unrivalled. His mind fastened on the face and name. Bellairs. He should do well, if Adam Bolitho could put the pain behind him. He had much to live up to. He thought of Penzance, what it might mean to Adam. And much to live down.

The navy would have to change, adapt to this new, uneasy peace and brittle relationship with allies who had been enemies for so long. He felt the wind buffet the windows, but it was warm even in these huge rooms. Warm and safe…

He thought of the countless reports and accounts he had studied since he had become a flag officer. It was still impossible for him to remain uninvolved. Always he had felt himself to be a part of it, fleet action or ship-to-ship like Adam's fight with the renegade Triton. He had defied Rhodes ' orders, but success protected the brave. Sometimes. Admiral Rhodes' attempt to destroy the Dey's batteries had been a costly failure. The capture of hostages would have made future dealings with the Dey impossible.

A fresh attack was already being planned, by a fleet this time, and a horn fighter, Lord Exmouth, had already been selected to command it, if rumour was to be believed. But Rhodes would not forget. Like an evil web. Rhodes ' cousin had died in an asylum, driven mad by the syphilis which had destroyed his chance to be Sir Richard's flag captain in Frohish. er Keen frowned. It had all been buried. Rhodes had seen to that. But he would never forget.

And the admiral whose son had been it midshipman under Adam's first lieutenant during his first and only command… The youth had caused the death of a seaman, and Galbraith had put him ashore to await an enquiry. That too had been buried, and the midshipman appointed to another ship, forgotten. Except by his father. But Galbraith would never get another ship of his own now, unless some miracle happened. He recalled the intensity of Adam's eyes, his plea for Galbraith. As a captain, in these circumstances, would I have done it?

He heard a door open, the rustle of her gown against the furniture, and felt her hand on his arm. So much a part of it. And now there was the child to consider.

She asked, "Have you seen her yet, Val?"

Few called him that. Only Richard and his Catherine, and Zcnoria.

He covered her hand with his own and smiled. "Is it so obvious, Gilia?"

She looked toward the sea. That, too, she could share. She had sailed many miles with her father, a renowned ship designer. It was good that he was not here to see all those fine vessels, like veterans begging on the streets.

"He will be all right, Val. I feel it."

"I know. One of our best frigate captains, and a fighter." He tried to dismiss it. Adam would have to learn. We all did. "I am no longer sure myself any more."

He felt her fingers tighten on his arm. "Look, Val, there she. is!"

They waited in silence, watching the cruising patterns of whitecaps, hearing that same wind probe beneath the eaves of Boscawen House.

And there she stood, her topsails and courses almost pink in the fading light.

Adam was taking advantage of the wind to carry him clear of the headland before he set more canvas. Even from here the occasional feathers of spray were visible, bursting up and over her beakhead and jib sails. But Keen saw it all with great clarity, as if he were there. The lovely figurehead, the naked girl with her hands locked behind her head and mane of hair, her breasts thrusting toward the horizon.

He would have liked to have seen the anchor break from the ground and rise swiftly to her cathead. There would probably have been a fiddler, keeping time for the stamping feet, some inexperienced, on that slippery planking.

As we did together so many times, so many seas. The greatest moment, until the landfall.

Some out there would be feeling the first pangs of regret. It would be Christmas before they knew it…

He could feel her hand gripping his arm, and knew what she was thinking. That they were together, and with God's grace she would never have to watch his ship leaving like this. Never knowing when or if he would return. Like so many others. Like Richard and Catherine.

And now Adam, who was alone.

There were more voices. Intruders.

"I'll go down, Val. You stay a while longer."

He hugged her. She always knew. Just as she had taken over this great house as if she had been bred to it.

lie looked again. "No, Unrivalled's cleared the point. Adam will be eager to make more sail now."

They walked arm in arm to the door, past the great dark paintings of ships at war, smoke, flames and proud flags. But no pain, no blood. The vice-admiral, the youngest since Nelson, and his lovely wife, ready and prepared for another kind of duty.

But once, as the wind rattled a shutter, Keen did look back, although he knew that Unrivalled was now out of sight.

And he was with her.