Relentless Pursuit

2. The Finest In The Fleet

CAPTAIN Adam Bolitho loosened the collar of his heavy boatcloak and tugged his hat down more firmly on his dark hair as he paused at the street corner. To recover his bearings or to prepare himself, he was not certain which.

The wind off Mounts Bay was still like ice, but had dropped considerably since Unrivalled had made her final approach two days earlier, buffeted this way and that, her reefed canvas cracking and banging in protest. It had been a relief to hear the anchor splash down, and see the town of Penzance, bright and sharp in the wintry glare.

A relief, or a warning? He shook himself angrily. Ile would go through with it. lie could hear his coxswain breathing heavily, as if unused to the exercise and the steep ascent from the harbour. Curious or secretly amused, it was hard to tell with Luke Jago, the man who had always hated the navy in general, and officers in particular. And yet he was still here; after the fighting and the madness of battle, he had stayed. And he was a friend, a good one.

Adam turned as two young boys ran past, one carrying a crudely fashioned model boat, the other a pirate's flag, laughing and pushing each other, without a care in the world on this bitter forenoon with Christmas only a week away.

One paused, staring at the two blue-clad figures, hats tilted against the wind.

He called, "You want a good ship, Cap'n, zur?"

Jago shook his fist. "Little buggers!" And they both ran off.

Adam gazed after them, seeing himself. More ghosts…

Like this street, so strange and yet so familiar. He had almost expected to see faces, hear voices he knew. He should turn and leave right now. Galbraith was ashore with his recruiting parties, not an enviable task at the best of times. Everybody remembered the press gangs, men being snatched from the streets, even from their homes, if an officer was afraid to return to his captain emptyhanded.

Like Falmouth, Penzance lived off and from the sea: you could smell the fish, and on hot days the nets hanging out to dry. Hemp, tar, and always the sea. Waiting.

He had been only a boy like those who had just passed when he had left Penzance, clutching a scrap of paper which he was to give to the people he must find in Falmouth. He had never returned, except once, when he had ridden here on one of the Bolitho estate's horses, twenty miles from Falmouth and back again. As that young boy, the twenty miles had been endless and punishing. And two days ago, with the proud silhouette of St Michael's Mount across the starboard bow, he had returned once more. Not the nervous boy, but as the captain of a frigate.

He thought of the orders he had received almost as soon as Unrivalled's anchor had hurled spray over the beakhead. So why waste time? Why rouse the old doubts and painful memories?

He turned, and was about to speak when he saw the tall steeple, clear and sharp against the washed-out sky. St Mary's Chapel. Like feeling a hand on the shoulder… He remembered hearing the old men talk about that steeple, so fine and slender, so delicate on this storm-lashed coast of England. They used to wager on its chances when every new season of gales arrived. The old men were long dead. St Mary's Chapel and its steeple were still standing.

There were not many people about. It was market day, so most of those who ventured out would be hunting for bargains in Jew Market Street.

"This way." He glanced at the nearby houses, small details apparent, recalling what he had heard, and what his mother had told him in childhood. Ships had come to Penzance to load cargoes of copper, tin and granite. They had frequently come from Holland, and unloaded their ballast of Dutch sandstone before their return voyages. Nothing was wasted, and even now he saw the facings of houses built with Dutch sandstone and not the usual granite.

On his way from the harbour he had seen few of the notices Galbraith had posted. Some had been torn down, others removed perhaps as souvenirs. He had caught the glances too: this was a seaport, and every one would know of the powerful frigate lying at her cable. Looking for men. Had it ever been different? And they would know he was her captain.

He should have remembered that it was market day, a most unlikely time for a man to sign his life away in a King's ship. And an army recruiting party had been here also; he had seen a sergeant outside one of the local inns, persuading men who had already drunk too much ale for their own safety to make their marks, to be gone for a soldier.

Galbraith had found twenty new hands so far, almost half of them from the local magistrate's court. Better than prison or deportation, seemed to be their reasoning. Reality might come as something of a shock. He had heard Cristie the sailing master say scornfully, "Gallows bait, the whole lot of 'em!"

He stopped outside the church and looked up at the weather vane. South-easterly wind. Perfect for sailing. Leaving here.

Jago hesitated and then removed his hat as Adam stepped through the tall, weather-worn doors. "Shall I come, sir?"

Adam hardly heard him. "If you wish."

The church was empty but for two old women sharing a pew; they both wore the traditional cowls he remembered from his childhood. Young or old, women carried huge baskets of fish, supported by strengthened bands around their heads, to settlements around the town, or sold it fresh from the sea from little donkeys in the streets. Neither of the women looked up as their shoes rang on the tiled floor.

Jago paused by a bust of what he supposed was some local dignitary, and watched and waited.

Adam halted beneath one of the windows and stared at the memorial plaque. He knew now that she had been beautiful. But for years he had remembered only that final day when she had pushed him away, pleading with him to leave her and find his way to Falmouth. Sick, dying, but as always she had put him first. Just as she had sold herself for him. He shivered, aware of the silence, of the streets he had just walked. Like the houses, they seemed so much smaller than he had remembered.

He reached out impetuously, as Jago had seen him do many times, to a friend, to a subordinate. To me.

The plaque was plain and simple. Even that had been something of a struggle with the stonemason and the church.

But it was done.

In loving memory of Kerenza Pascoe, who died in 1793.

Waiting for his ship.

That was all. The most they would condone for a woman of her reputation.

Adam touched it and smiled. Surprised that it was not difficult.

"I came, Mother. God bless you."

Then he turned and walked toward the doors again.

Jago glanced at the tablet. No title, no details. Just a woman's name and something about a ship. He was sometimes glad that his father had forced him to learn to read and write when he had been a boy, working in the schooner running out of Dover. With clips around his ears if he did not apply himself. Looking back now, it was all he could find to thank his father for, a bully who had died after falling drunk into a dock. So they said.

But reading gave you an edge. As the captain's coxswain he was privileged to walk the decks as much as he chose, to the annoyance, he knew, of some of the senior rates and little squirts like Midshipman Sandell. A glance at the chart or one of the log books kept him informed. When, where, how. Some of the hands aboard ship were just ignorant hawbucks, bumpkins; the ship could be on the moon for all they knew.

He thought of the two old women at prayer, fishwives as they were called round here, and wondered what comfort it gave them. He had heard prayers at sea, when some poor Jack was stitched up in his hammock and tipped over the side like so much rubbish. Where was the sense in that?

He felt the breeze across his face as they stepped on to the street once more and saw the captain square his shoulders, but not, he guessed, against the wind.

The woman who was remembered in the church had been Captain Bolitho's mother. Jago knew much of the story, and guessed the rest. Bolitho was a lucky man. A good family, and an uncle who would live in sailors' legends as long as Nelson, some said. But lucky above all else. He had risked his ship, his reputation, maybe his career by flying in the face of an admiral's orders, and all because of that woman they had carried in Unrivalled. He had seen her crossing swords, and glances, with the captain.

And lucky to have a ship, with the navy being cut down in numbers daily, their companies thrown ashore to fend as best they could. Until the next bloody war, he thought. Then it would be soft words and the like, to get poor Jack back to sea again.

He looked up at the houses as they walked. Most captains would try to forget their pasts if it left a gap in their defences. Like Sir Richard and his lady, and his brother who had deserted the navy to fight for the Americans, Hugh Bolitho, who had fathered Unrivalled's captain. The last of the family, they said.

But not this one. He shied away from any sort of unfounded trust; it was something he could never accept.

Adam Bolitho had taken him to the church with him. And for some reason, it mattered.

They had reached a place where the sea opened up to greet them again, like polished pewter, hard on the eyes, Adam thought, even for men like Unrivalled's most experienced lookout, Joseph Sullivan, whose uncanny skill had found him the Triton. Sullivan was one of the older hands, respected by everyone, not least because he had been at Trafalgar, although he rarely spoke of it, and Adam was grateful that he had stayed with the ship.

Sullivan had regarded him with those clear eyes, like the eyes of a much younger man looking out of his weathered face.

"Where else would I go, Cap'n?"

And there was the ship, like glass from this vantage point. Strange to think that Bellairs, the youngest lieutenant, was the only officer aboard until the recruiting venture was over and the anchor was hove short again. Doing what he had always dreamed of. Like most of us. Luck, dead men's shoes, who could say? Massie, the second lieutenant, had been killed. The third lieutenant, Daniel Wynter, had left the ship to follow his late father into politics. The member of Parliament had always hated his son's career in the navy and had made no secret of it. In death he had apparently succeeded in getting his own way.

The new lieutenant, Varlo, seemed experienced and came from a naval background. He had also been flag lieutenant for a few months to a rearadmiral at the Nore.

Galbraith had had little to say about him, other than mentioning his duties. He was keeping his distance until matters had settled down. As his captain had once tried to do.

It was impossible.

Adam turned and stared at the ship until his eyes watered. He should have remained on hoard. There was more than enough for him to do before sailing. So why…?

He heard Jago say casually, "Now who's this, then?"

Something in the tone, even the suggestion of a hand loosening the short, wide-bladed dirk he always wore. A hint of danger, like those other times. But he was mistaken. There was no threat in the two figures who were waiting by a pair of opened gates.

The man was tall, and well built, but for the way he twisted his shoulders. About his own age, but wearing an eye patch which did not conceal the terrible scar that clawed down his face and neck. One eye must have been torn out, and the flesh opened to the bone. He had only one arm.

His companion was a young woman, who wore a cap and apron. She was holding the man's arm, and her face was hostile.

Jago said, "What is it, matey?" He stood as if very relaxed, one hand resting on his belt.

The man took half a pace forward and tried to say something. His voice was confused, almost strangled, but he would not stop.

The girl cut in, "I said you should stay away! They don't care! I told you!" But she was sobbing, the anger a mask for something else.

Adam said, "It's all right. My fault-I was many miles away just then."

He moved nearer, but felt as if he were frozen to this place. A man of his own age, crippled, half-blind, barely able to speak. Not just a survivor, but a victim.

He said quietly, "John Powers, foretopman." He held out his right hand, but changed it to suit the onearmed man.

The head twisted round still further, so that the eye seemed to fill his face. Then he spoke, slowly, with painful gaps between each word, and all the while the girl held his arm, watching his face, sharing the anguish, as she must do every day.

"Not… killed… sir." He nodded slowly, remembering it, seeing it. "I… was… told you… was… 'ere." There were more deep scars on his throat. "… 'Ad… to… come… an'… be sure…"

Adam said to Jago, "John Powers served in my Anemone, when we lost to the Yankee. A day I'll never forget."

The girl reached up to brush her companion's hair from his face.

She pleaded, "Let's get back, Johnny. They will be lookin' fer us, eh?"

Adam said, "Where do you work?"

She gestured over her shoulder. "At the inn. We got a place to sleep. Don't need nobody else!"

The crippled man, who had been one of the best topmen in Anemone's company, said, "Wash… pots… an'… things… sir.

Adam put his hand to his pocket but she snapped, "I brung 'em, cause he wanted it! We don't need yer money, sir!"

She dragged him round and pushed him towards the opened gates. From a small window Adam could see faces watching, tankards poised with interest.

The man named Powers tried again. "Anemone was the finest in the fleet!" He did not stammer once.

Jago stared after them and then at his captain and shrugged, his hand slipping away from the dirk. "It happens, sir. We'll always see it. It's the way of things." He felt he wanted to reach out, to touch his arm as he had seen him do so often, and reassure him in some way.

Adam looked at him, his dark hair blowing in the wind although he did not recall having removed his hat.

"Sometimes we need to be reminded." He stared up at the old steeple. "Pride. "

One word. It was all that was needed.

Lieutenant Galbraith held his hands out to a crackling log fire. It was about noon but he felt as if he had been on his feet for days, and he was tired, frustrated and disappointed. He nodded to the inn's landlord and took the proferred glass, felt it run like fire across his tongue, and wondered where it had come from. Smugglers would be busier than ever now that the war with France was over. For the moment.

He heard the small squad of Royal Marines which had accompanied the recruiting party, voices loud and untroubled in the other "long room." Corporal Bloxham would make certain that none of his men got drunk or misbehaved; he had an eve for such things. He was the detachment's crack shot. Galbraith recalled that last hour aboard the Triton's scarred and bloodied deck, the captain trying to assist his servant, who had been hit by a wood splinter, and unable to reach the enemy commander who was aiming to kill him.

Like a little tableau, the injured boy cradled in Bolitho's arms, the old sword pointing impotently across the deck, and then Bloxham, quite calm, as if he had been on the range somewhere with his faithful musket.

Yes, Corporal Bloxham would keep an eve on things. He would be thinking of a sergeant's stripes before too long.

He stared around the low-beamed room, with its smokestained pictures and pieces of polished brass. He sighed. One more stop and it was over. He glared at the empty glass. A bloody waste of time. Three men; one man and two boys was closer to the truth. Waste of time.

The door banged open and he tried to relax his mind and body.

There was something about Lieutenant George Varlo which seemed to unsettle him. He scarcely knew him, and accepted that that was mostly his own fault, and yet… Varlo was alert, keeneyed, efficient. Very light on his feet, like a dancer or one used to matching swords for pleasure, or in earnest. Fair hair, short and fastidiously kept, like his clothing: the perfect officer. Galbraith was not normally an intolerant man, but Varlo made him feel clumsy and awkward in almost everything.

Maybe it was because he had served as flag lieutenant to some senior officer. Or maybe you were chosen because of those qualities? But he considered George Avery, who had died when they had boarded the enemy, and his own words to Captain Bolitho. I think he knew he was going to die. He had given up the will to live. No, not like Avery at all…

Varlo glanced around, a small smile on his lips. "I've told Mr Rist to watch the others until we're ready to move."

Galbraith said, "Rist knows what to do!" He was being stupid. Unfair. How could Varlo know what Rist, the best master's mate in the ship, was like? How, on that day when they had launched a boat attack amongst the islands, Rist had been a tower of strength, even when they had landed on the wrong beach.

The landlord had reappeared. "A glass, zur?"

Varlo shook his head. "Later."

Galbraith said, "I will." He sensed the man's resentment and added sharply, "Just what I needed."

He made another attempt. "The next place is in Market Jew Street." He opened his notebook. "Must have had a Jewish community at some time."

Varlo studied him, amused. "Actually, no. It's the old Cornish tongue, marhas you, which means Thursday Market." The smile widened. "Or close enough!"

Galbraith said curtly, "I didn't know."

Varlo shrugged elegantly. "Why should you? Not really our concern, is it?"

There were shouts and cheers from the street. The army recruiting sergeant was returning to his barracks with his haul. Probably too drunk to know what they had done.

He said, "We might have better luck tomorrow."

Varlo said directly, "You've been with Unrivalled since she was first commissioned? With her captain, too?" The little smile again. "A Cornishman, no less."

"Yes."

"What is he like? One hears so many things, as you well know, but if we are to be away from England and the fleet, it is sensible to be prepared."

He was goading him, drawing him out into the open, and enjoying it.

Galbraith said, "The best captain I've yet served. He has high standards, and expects them acted upon." He tried to smile, to put it in perspective. "Even from Cornishmen."

Varlo nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you for the warning. If it was so intended."

Rist, the master's mate, peered in at them. "Ready, sir!"

Galbraith picked up his hat and straightened his sword against his hip. Varlo probably had some influence behind him. A flag lieutenant, and now appointed to a fine frigate when so many were being laid up. Influence. With a view to getting a command of his own? He nodded his thanks to the innkeeper. Like me.

He felt the salt air on his lips. Back to sea. He was eager to leave.

Adam Bolitho ran his hand along the smooth, cold stone of the sea wall, worn away by every sort of weather. Peace or war, it made no difference here.

He felt for his watch and remembered, and thought of the boy who had asked his permission to keep the pieces after the musket ball had smashed it to fragments. It had saved his life. The little mermaid.

Tomorrow they would be leaving here. It was not the voyage to West Africa which disturbed him, or the countless demands and challenges of a ship still undermanned.

It was not that. He had held a command since he was twentythree. He was prepared for most difficulties.

Tomorrow was the problem. Leaving here, where he had been born and brought up by the woman whose name he had touched in the church. A place where he had learned to take care of himself, even as a child, and yet he had never considered it his home. Falmouth, and the great house which was now his by right, no matter what legal arrangements still had to be made, was home, Falmouth and the ocean, wherever it beckoned him.

But not today. With Unrivalled at sea again he would find time to laugh at himself and his sentimentality. It happens, sir. He thought of Jago's words at the church. It's the way of things. He was down there mustering the gig's crew now, and probably questioning his own decision to stay on as coxswain. If he had ever stopped doing so.

He sighed. Galbraith would be returning very soon. They would share a glass once they were aboard. He thought of the cases of wine from the address in St James's Street, Catherine's gift when Unrivalled had been commissioned. A lifetime ago.

He heard Jago's footsteps on the stone stairs. It was time.

But Jago shook his head. "Thought I'd better come and tell you, sir. There's a gentleman who wants to see you." He added bluntly, "Insists, more like."

Adam bit his lip. Another one, like the crippled ex-topman and the spectre on the moored hulk. Too many reminders.

Jago watched him grimly. "He's in the coastguard post yonder, sir. I can tell him to shove off, if you like."

"No. I'll come."

The room was almost dark, a fire dying in the grate.

Adam stepped into a patch of light from the solitary window and said, "I understand, sir…"

The figure sitting by the window was round-shouldered, portly; there were small gold spectacles propped on his forehead.

Adam held out both hands. "Daniel Yovell! Of all people!"

Yovell got to his feet and came to him, dropping his spectacles into place with the gesture Adam remembered. A man of learning, who lived with and by his Bible, once his uncle's clerk and then his secretary and friend. Catherine's, too.

Yovell said, "When you visited Falmouth I was away on business in Bodmin. I only heard when I returned there. Bryan Ferguson was very upset that your stay was curtailed. There was so much, you see…" He did not continue.

"It is good to see you, old friend." Even that reminded him again of Allday.

"I heard that your ship was calling here. You know how news travels, sir, especially amongst sailors."

Anybody less seamanlike was hard to imagine. Stooped, devout and gentle, Yovell had been one of Sir Richard's little crew, as he had called them. He had been given a cottage adjoining the big house and had become a great help to Ferguson, the estate's onearmed steward. Another veteran.

"How can I help you?"

Yovell smiled, and it was like a cloud clearing from the sun.

He said, "I have a letter for you. I fear it has taken its time finding its way to Falmouth."

Adam took it, seeing the marks and the official signatures. From Catherine.

"I thought to send it across by the boat, but I judged it best to see you first."

Adam turned the letter over in his hands. She hadn't forgotten.

Jago was still standing by the door, arms folded, face expressionless. Yovell regarded him sternly. "This fellow said I should take cover in here, better for one of my age, indeed!"

Jago grinned. "No disrespect, sir!"

Adam turned, angered by the interruption. Galbraith was shouting to his men, and there were other voices, loud and excited.

Jago said patiently, "I was about to say, Cap'n. We seem to have gathered some recruits. Volunteers!"

Yovell was watching him, his eyes both warm and sad. "I meant no harm. But these men came across in the packet from Falmouth. With me."

"Do I know any of them?"

"Perhaps not. All of them served under Sir Richard."

"My God." Adam looked past him, knowing, understanding what it must have cost Yovell, a man closer to his uncle than almost any one.

And now there was a letter from the woman who had loved him.

He said, "I shall go out to them," and walked blindly across the familiar cobbles. Like part of a dream. The lifeline.

Yovell polished his spectacles with a handkerchief and remarked, "It seemed the thing to do, you see. The letter gave me the idea." He didn't add that Allday had known nothing about it.

Adam came back, inexplicably disturbed and moved. Hard hands reaching out as he had passed among them, tattoos and weathered faces, every one a prime seaman.

It was as if he had known all of them, but in his heart he knew that they had seen and heard another Bolitho when he had spoken to them.

He said quietly, "That was a fine thing you did." And to Jago, "Gig ready?"

Jago nodded. "Say the word, sir."

Adam looked at the round-shouldered man who, in his own quiet way, had changed everything.

"Will you stay in Penzance a while?"

Yovell shrugged, and seemed almost apologetic.

"I have some things with me, sir. I had heard that you lost your clerk recently, so I thought I would offer my services until something better presents itself." He was smiling, but there was no doubt of his sincerity. His need.

"Are you sure, man? She's no ship of the line, you know!"

Yovell said severely, "I was Sir Richard's clerk before becoming his secretary. I can adapt, even for one of my age."

Jago picked up the newcomer's chest and followed them out into the keen air. lie had seen his captain's face when those men had crowded around him, as if it was the start of some big and glorious venture, just as he had seen it in that church nearby.

He was reminded of the handshake which, for him, had decided things. And he was glad of it.

Adam rested his hand on the breech of one of the eighteenpounders which shared his quarters and sensed the movement under his palm. Something he had never grown used to, never truly accepted, that a ship was alive and responding in her own way.

He shook his head, dismissing the notion, and glanced around the cabin. Young Napier had been busy; there was nothing lying about, everything was in its place.

How many in Unrivalled's company were feeling regret and anxiety, he wondered. It was easy to laugh it off, for the old hands to brag about it after a few tots of rum on their messdecks. But that was then. Unrivalled was ready to leave. Alive.

The wind had backed a little, which might allow some of the new men time to become accustomed to the complications of getting under way. You never forgot the first time. Everyone else seemed to know exactly what was expected of him.

He heard the shrill of a call; the ship was restless, straining at her cable, her fully laden hull matched against the men labouring at the capstan bars. Yes, there would be a few faint hearts on this cold December forenoon.

He stood away from the gun as if he had heard someone speak, and patted his worn, seagoing coat to make certain he had everything he needed, and glanced at the small desk where he kept his personal log book. He had placed Catherine's letter carefully between its pages to press out the wear and tear of its journey.

My dear Adam. He could hear her voice, had tried to picture her writing it. How she felt, what she was doing. How she looked.

She had mentioned George Avery, and had thanked him for writing to her of his death. She had touched only briefly on its effect on Sillitoe, Avery's uncle.

But it was clear enough; she was with Sillitoe. She had spoken of his strength, his protection, and that she was accompanying him on some business venture.

Adam was still surprised by his own foolishness, his naivete. After what she had endured, the grief and the enmity, it was a wonder she had written at all.

He half-listened to the sudden thud of feet overhead, the shouts as a petty officer chased some confused newcomer to his right station. They would learn. They had to.

fie recalled the dry wording of his final orders.

You are to repair in the first instance to Freetown, Sierra Leone, and avail yourself ' of the latest intelligence concerning the forts and settlements on that coast. You will reasonably assist the senior officer of the patrolling squadron in whatever way you consider conforms with these said orders.

But on passage Unrivalled would call into Funchal, Madeira, to replenish stores, and perhaps make more sense out of such vague instructions.

The slave trade was a fact, although banned officially by Britain. A felony, to the delight of the antislavery movement in Parliament and elsewhere.

A show of strength, then. He wondered how Galbraith and the others regarded it. They were safe, lucky to be employed; they had seen that for themselves in Plymouth and Penzance.

For the practical ones, like Cristie, the master, it was all a matter of sea-miles logged, favourable winds and faith in the stars. To Tregillis the purser, it was food, drink, and a minimum of waste for every one of those miles, with enough left over for emergencies.

He plucked at his shirt and felt the locket against his skin. The bare throat and shoulders, the high cheekbones… it was over because it had never begun. Nor would it. They might never meet again. Perhaps she only truly existed in this locket.

Napier came in from the sleeping quarters, careful, he noticed, to walk lightly on the restless deck.

He could see it now. The boy on Triton's deck, falling with a jagged splinter deep in his thigh like some obscene dart. Triton was like many Dutch vessels; her builders had used a lot of teak, something hated by English sailors. The splinters were known to poison and cause gangrene to spread at an alarming rate. Even O'Beirne had been troubled about it, and had wanted to put the boy ashore at Gibraltar where he might have received better attention.

Napier had insisted that he wanted to stay with the ship. He had suffered for it, and would carry the scars of O'Beirne's surgery until his dying day.

O'Beirne had said severely, "You'll always have a limp, my boy!"

Napier had been equally stubborn. And he seemed to be overcoming his limp.

Adam had written to the boy's widowed mother. She should be proud of the child she had allowed to be signed on without, it seemed, much hesitation.

He touched the locket again and carefully released it. Catherine had sent no address. It was as if she simply needed him to know that she was there. Like the day at the memorial service at Falmouth, when Galbraith had asked to join him.

He looked at Napier. "It's time." He had heard the muffled chimes of eight bells, and beyond it the slow, regular clank of the capstan pawls.

He thought of the men who had come with Yovell to sign on. How were they now?

And Yovell himself. He had settled down as if he had never left the sea. He was sharing a tiny cabin space which also served as a store for the purser's records with Ritzen, the purser's assistant, a Dutchman who had played an unlikely but vital part in discovering the role and purpose of Triton in that last battle. Adam sensed that Yovell had needed to get away from his hardwon security, if only to hold on to something far more precious.

Napier said, "Can I come up with you, sir?"

Adam smiled. "Regrets?"

The youth thought about it, his face serious. "My place, sir."

They walked through the screen door, where the marine sentry was already stiffly at attention, and probably wishing he was on deck with his mates.

Adam touched his hat to the figures by the quarterdeck rail and looked at the slowly revolving capstan; its twin would be keeping time below decks. The fiddle was going, the shantyman beating time with his foot, his voice all but lost in the creak and rattle of blocks and rigging.

They were all here, Cristie with his master's mates, Galbraith by the rail, and young Bellairs at the foot of the towering mainmast. Here the marines, their coats very bright in the hazy light, waited with the afterguard to control the mizzen sheets and braces. The simplest mast in the ship, all they were any use for, as the old Jacks proclaimed. And right forward, one arm outstretched and dwarfed by the beautiful figurehead, was the new lieutenant, Varlo, watching the jerk of the incoming cable.

And young Midshipman Cousens with the big signals telescope turned toward the land. He was Bellairs' successor, and the next obvious candidate for promotion when the opportunity offered itself. If he was lucky.

Adam nodded to Galbraith. "The wind's steady. Stand by." He even recalled his own words that day before the fight. Trust me. So many times.

Another midshipman's voice. That was Martyns, the one who had been with Jago in the gig.

Anchor's hove short, sir!" Repeating Varlo's call from the beakhead, his voice broke in a shrill squeak.

Adam saw one of the helmsmen glance away from the flapping masthead pendant just long enough to grin at his companion.

"Stand by, the capstan!"

More calls and running feet. "Loose th' heads'ls!"

Adam tensed. This was the moment.

"Hands aloft and loose tops'ls.!"

The cable was coming home, much faster now. Or was it his heart? He looked toward the shore, hardly another sail moving. But many eyes would be watching today. Some relieved, others already feeling the ache of separation.

He thought of the crippled seaman who had served with him in Anemone, the ship which had begun so much, and had opened the way for him. A shattered man, who lived from day to day with his woman, two lost souls, each needing the other.

They would be there today.

Men scurried past him, one pausing to stare at him. The captain. What's he like?

The yell from forward. 4nchors aweigh, sir!"

He felt the deck stagger, and dashed spray from his face as the ship appeared to ride her bowsprit up and over the timeless barrier of St Michael's Mount.

Small details stood out. Cristie's hand gesturing at an extra man to throw his weight on the wheel as the helm went down. Hoarse cries from overhead as the sails broke free, then filled and bellied out to the wind. Blocks squeaking, men hauling on the braces to drag the great yards round still further, to capture the wind, so that the rudder-head sounded like a drumbeat.

"Steady she goes!"

Adam looked again. That would be Newlyn village over there as Unrivalled continued to pivot round, but it was lost in haze and drifting spray.

"Sou'-west by south, sir!"

Galbraith, his hands cupped to make his voice carry. "More men on the weather forebrace, Mr Partridge! Lively there!"

Adam gripped the quarterdeck ladder rail, reminded of the night Napier had come to tell him of the girl who was lying just there.

And what had happened later, in Malta… A dangerous madness, potentially no less lethal than a teak splinter, or the shots which had cut down so many over the months… the years.

He pushed away from the rail and walked stiffly up to the weather side. tic knew Jago was watching him, standing near the signals party in case he was needed, but careful not to show it. Perhaps that was his strength…

He said, "Steer sou'-west until we weather the headland, Mr Cristie!" and saw his approval.

To Galbraith he shouted, "We'll get the fore and main courses on her directly!"

The ship heeled still further, some bare feet sliding, a few men sprawling, too concerned with watching the land which was already fading away.

There were kicks and curses too. Leadership and knowledge would follow.

"Steady she goes, sir! Full an' bye."

He considered the calculations he had made and compared with the taciturn sailing master.

With a pause at Funchal, Unrivalled could complete her passage to the Windward Coast in about a month. Less.

He looked up as more shouts came from the maintop.

Galbraith was peering aloft also, but seemed satisfied. Drill, drill and more drill; there were no passengers in a King's ship.

Time to train and to prepare. Adam shaded his eyes and stared across the quarter, but the land was just a blurred, misshapen barrier.

He touched the locket beneath his sodden shirt.

And time to forget.

He was free.