Relentless Pursuit

3. To Serve This Ship

LIEUTENANT Leigh Galbraith paused at the foot of the companion ladder and clung momentarily to the handrails, gauging the mood and energy of the ship and the deck which awaited him. It was four in the morning, or very soon would be, but time seemed to have lost all meaning. Even during the middle watch he had been summoned from his cabin in response to the call for all hands. To shorten sail yet again, the sea a wilderness of leaping spectres, and waves surging along the hull like a tide race.

His whole body ached, and he could not remember being dry and warm. Five days of it, not long when you considered what they had already achieved in this ship. He smiled bitterly, hearing his captain's words. That was then.

Even the handrail was clammy, and his stomach contracted as he heard somebody retching uncontrollably.

He climbed the rest of the ladder and waited for the wind to greet him. A few moments more while his eyes grew accustomed to it: the wet, huddled shapes of the watchkeepers, the three helmsmen joined like statuary as they clung to the big double wheel, eyes seen occasionally in the compass light as they peered aloft at the iron-hard canvas, tightly reefed though it was, fighting their own war with sea and rudder.

Varlo was waiting for him, slim figure angled to the deck as if nothing could shift him.

Galbraith listened to his report, although the chart had been engraved on his mind even in the discomfort of his swaying cot, the boom of the sea alongside.

Nine hundred miles since they had tacked clear of Mounts Bay. It felt ten times that.

Beating clear of Brest and then down into Biscay, the weather following them with barely a let-up. It was surprising that they had got this far without losing a man or sustaining any serious damage. There were injuries a-plenty, especially amongst the landmen, who had never set foot in a ship of any kind before. Brave lunatics, the surgeon O'Beirne had called them. Men thrown from their feet by water surging over the gangways, or flung against stanchions, or worse, one of the guns. Others caught by the unexpected rush of a line snaking through a block to catch the unwary in a noose like a trap. A man could lose fingers in a block, or have the skin scored from his bones by the deadly cordage.

Varlo said, "South by east, sir!" Clipped and formal, perhaps to remind Galbraith that his watch was waiting to be relieved. "Wind's steady as before."

Galbraith winced as spray dashed against his face. On the chart it was clear, certain. Unrivalled was eighty or ninety miles to the northwest of Lisbon, across the fortieth parallel. But even Cristie seemed doubtful, and had muttered, "I'll feel better when we can see something!" It was quite an admission for him.

Galbraith said, "It's easing." Water was still splashing down from the shrouds, but not cutting across the deck like the last time. He groaned. Was that only three hours ago? He waited for the moment and seized the quarterdeck rail. His eyes could make out details now; the deck and rigging was stark against the seething water as it surged abeam.

He pointed suddenly. "Those men. What are they doing?"

Varlo replied offhandedly, "Bailing the boats. Idle bastards, they'll know in future not to drag their feet on my watch!"

Rist, the master's mate of the morning watch, called, "The watch is aft, sir!" A good man. Astute too, and wise enough to have marked the friction between his officers.

Galbraith said, "Most of them are raw, untrained! You can't expect them to learn it all in five days, man!"

"I see no sense in being soft with them, sir!"

"I'll be the judge of that, Mr Varlo! Now carry on, and dismiss those hands." They faced one another like enemies, all else forgotten. "Or bring them aft and charge them. Make it official!"

Varlo turned and walked to the companionway without another word.

Galbraith peered at the swaying compass card, giving himself time. Angry, because he knew he had overreacted, or because Varlo had seemed unmoved by it.

Rist said, "We can get some 'ands aloft at first light, sir. There'll be a bit o' fancy splicing to be done after this little lot."

Doing his best. Bridging the gap.

Galbraith nodded. "Aye, we'll do that. And thank you." He walked to the opposite side, alone again.

Rist sighed. A warrant officer was always in the middle, had to be.

Galbraith was a good first lieutenant, brave too. But Varlo… he was just plain dangerous.

But still, a couple more days and they should sight Madeira, or Mr Cristie would be wanting to know why not.

That would take the edge off things, for a while anyway. Some of that heavy red wine, and bold stares from the women.

Someone called to him urgently and he turned away.

The sailor's dream.

Adam Bolitho put his signature to yet another letter and stared at the pile beside it on the desk, all in Yovell's effortless, round hand.

He was sitting opposite, gold spectacles perched once more on his forehead.

"I thought you were over hasty in offering your services in Penzance. I thought you might well live to regret it." He smiled, the strain already gone. "Now I am only thankful!" His mind returned to Falmouth, the big grey house. "Bryan Ferguson will be cursing me for taking you."

Yovell regarded him thoughtfully. "It was time, sir. I knew that within a few days of my return. I did manage to complete a few details with the lawyers," and glanced away. "It is their world, not mine, I fear."

Adam leaned hack in the chair and felt the sun across his cheek from the stern windows. The glass was thick and the warmth an illusion, but it was enough, after days of wind and angry sea.

He heard muffled shouts from the deck, and the sound of fresh cordage being hauled over the planking, ready to be spliced and then hoisted to the upper yards to repair some of the storm damage.

And tomorrow they would sight Madeira. A first landfall for many of Unrivalled's people. It might make up for the hardship, the knocks and the bruises along the way. At least they had not lost a single man. A real risk on any first passage.

He thought of the letters which would he landed in Funchal to await the next courier to England. Yovell had advised him on some of them. Was there nothing he could not do or understand? Their world, not mine. The estate had to be run, the farms overseen and encouraged. In his mind he had often seen that room overlooking the sea, with its portraits of Cheney and Catherine. A place full of memories and hopes, but an empty house for all that.

Yovell watched him, seeing the changing emotions, recognising some of them as he had known, and perhaps feared he would.

It had not been easy, and on more than one occasion he had found himself questioning his own common sense for putting himself in this position. As Adam had warned him, Unrivalled was no liner, and in the long nights as the ship had reeled and plunged in that invisible sea, he had been close to despair.

He had been surprised how easily he had been accepted in the ship. Perhaps because he was a stranger.

He saw Adam glance at the skylight and tense again, his ear catching some false note in the constant chorus of wind and rigging. Others saw him as the captain, the final authority as far as sailors were concerned, the one man who could promote, reward, flog or destroy any of them, if he chose. It was only at moments like this that one glimpsed the real man. The uncertainties and doubts, that rare wistfulness in his dark eyes when his mind had slipped away from the role he was expected to play at all times.

Yovell was a patient man, and had always been prepared to wait before forming his true opinions.

He turned his head as the door opened and the young servant, Napier, padded into the cabin.

Of Napier Adam had said, almost casually, "He has no father, and I've never been able to discover his mother's thoughts about his future, if she has any. He can read and write, and he has courage, true courage." Yovell had seen that look just now when Adam had been thinking about Falmouth. He had added, "See what you can do for him, will you?"

Just like that. Few would ever see that side of their lord and master.

Napier said, "I've got out your best coat, sir."

Adam looked at him, his mind clearing. "I had all but forgot. I am to sup in the wardroom tonight. Mr Cristie assures me it will remain calm enough for that!"

He glanced at the two of them. "You may make use of these quarters while I am being entertained."

He walked to the stern bench and leaned both hands on it, watching the sea fling spray up from the rudder. A flock of gulls rose and dipped soundlessly, their shapes distorted by the saltstained glass, waiting for scraps from the galley. They probably nested in Madeira.

The youth placed two goblets on the desk beside a bottle, and then quietly departed to the adjoining cabin.

Yovell waited. Somehow he knew this was the real cause of the tension, the quick changes of mood, the eagerness to find some kind of solution in routine ship's affairs. Like all the letters and reports they had gone through together; he had felt it even then.

Something which was holding them apart, like a barrier. And it was the one thing which had first drawn them together.

Adam said quietly, "This is a good ship. I am a lucky man to command her, for so many reasons, but most because I need her." He smiled, but only briefly, so that Yovell saw the youth again, the image of his uncle. "There were so many who were there, that day. I was not one of them."

Yovell sat very still in the chair, feeling it, seeing it.

Adam continued, "Sometimes I feel he is still very close to me." He nodded. "I have known it several times. Always the hand, reaching out. I have spoken of this to no one else, except…" He turned away from the glass. "7e11 me. "

"I was not there, either." Yovell was polishing his spectacles again, probably without realising he had removed them. "I was assisting the wounded. I prayed with some of them. But something made me go on deck, although he always ordered me to stay clear of the guns." He looked at Adam but his eyes were very distant. "They were all cheering, and some were firing their muskets to signal a victory. But on that deck there was utter silence; all the din was outside, somewhere else."

Adam nodded, but did not interrupt.

"It was over. I knelt down on that bloodied deck, and I prayed. Not for him, but for us. I shall never forget."

In the adjoining sleeping cabin, Napier crouched with his ear against the slats of the screen partition, one hand resting on the fine dress coat which had been brought aboard in Plymouth. To replace the one the captain had been wearing when they had boarded the enemy ship, and the splinter had pierced Napier's leg.

The captain could have been killed that day, like the uncle they had just been talking about. But he came to help me. He put me first.

He glanced at the swaying cot where the rebel captain Lovatt had died, thinking I was his son. Captain Bolitho had even cared about that. Just as he had been concerned about his mother's failure to reply to his letters. She had other things on her mind now that he was here in Unrivalled. A man. It had not taken her long to forget.

But how could Captain Bolitho be expected to understand anything so cheap, so heartless?

It could not last forever. Nothing did. His mother had said that often enough. Other ships, and perhaps one day… He almost ran from the screen.

"You called, sir?"

They did not move, and Napier realised they had neither heard, nor called out for him.

He stood quite still, feeling the regular rise and fall of the cabin around him. And he was a part of it.

Lieutenant James Bellairs turned his shoulders into the wind and peered at his list. It had been handed round from watch to watch and was barely readable. Fortunately there were only a few more names left on it. Midshipman Deighton stood close by, frowning with concentration. Learning, listening or merely pretending to be interested, it was hard to tell. Bellairs had been a midshipman himself so recently that he often found himself thinking like one, especially when he was left to explain something.

He knew the old arguments. We had to learn the hard way, so why not them? He might even become like that himself. One day.

He tried again.

"The first lieutenant wants to reduce the number of idlers before we reach our destination. And more hands are needed for gun drill."

I)eighton asked, "What is Sierra Leone like, sir?"

Bellairs tapped one foot impatiently. Deighton was new to the ship but experienced, and had served in another frigate which had since been paid off for refit. At fifteen, his previous service put him ahead of most of the others. Reserved, almost withdrawn, he had proved what he could do under fire. But he rarely smiled, and Bellairs knew it was because of the rumours which surrounded the death of his father, an acting-commodore. Killed in action; he had heard the others talking about it. But it was now said that he had in fact been shot down by one of his own men. Another ship, but Captain Adam Bolitho had been in command of her also.

Ile recalled Deighton's question. "Oh, one of those roughand-ready places, you know." He had never been there.

Deighton saw some figures below the poop. "There they are, sir."

Bellairs waited for the gunner's mate, Williams, to hustle them over. Two men and a youth. The last was not merely pale, his skin was white.

Williams reported, "Cooper, Dixon and Ede, sir."

Bellairs surveyed them. Just three new hands, nothing out of the ordinary. Except… Ile glanced at Williams, but his face gave nothing away.

"You will report to Mr Varlo in the first division tomorrow. Gun drill is essential to a man-of-war, and…" He looked at the white-faced youth. "Are you unwell, Cooper?"

The man at the other end of the group called, "I'm Cooper, sir!"

The third one grinned broadly.

It was a bad start. Bellairs said sharply, "I asked you a question, Ede is-that right?"

Landmen, untrained, and somehow out of place.

Bellairs tried to put it to the back of his mind. He was a lieutenant now. He must look at everything firmly, but fairly.

Even in his own service he had seen most of them. The hard men and the cowards, volunteers and pressed hands, the godly and the liars. But these men stood apart. They had been released from prison only on the understanding that they would redeem themselves by serving in a King's ship. There had been about twenty of them all told, but these last three were still without a proper station in the ship.

Ede said, "I was sick, sir."

Williams said, "Speak up, boy!"

Bellairs peered at his list. "The surgeon has passed you as fit for work."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then." Bellairs looked past him. "Do your work with a will and attend your duties, and you'll have nothing to fear!"

He strode aft and added, "He'll soon learn, Mr Deighton." He caught himself in time. He had almost said, we all had to.

Deighton glanced back at the three figures with Williams. It was strange that the third lieutenant had not noticed it, he thought. The youth called Ede was not merely sick or feeling out of place. He was terrified.

He put it from his mind. They were heading for Sierra Leone, and there was talk of the slave trade. And today he, Midshipman Richard Deighton, was being invited to the wardroom. Perhaps the first step…

He thought of Ede again. Even when these same guns had roared out and men had been cut down in front of him, he had not been afraid. Not as he might have expected. A need to prove something, maybe? No, it went even deeper than that.

But not like the youth named Ede. Deighton had been afraid of only one man. His own father.

He thought suddenly of the way the captain had treated him when he had joined the ship at Malta. It had been like sharing something, as if…

"I trust I am not tiring you too much, Mr lleighton?" Bellairs had turned to watch him.

Deighton touched his hat.

"Ready, sir."

Bellairs strode on. He felt more like a lieutenant again.

The meal in Unrivalled's wardroom was a surprisingly good one. The centrepiece was a saddle of mutton which had been brought aboard at the last moment before sailing, with a remarkably strong sauce which was one of the cook's own inventions. The fresh bread from Devon and Cornwall had already been consumed, but ship's biscuits, cheese and a variety of wines made it a lively occasion.

As a young lieutenant, Adam had often wondered how a captain felt when he was invited to the wardroom. Aguest in his own ship. Even now he was not sure, nor was he used to it. A small brig like his very first command, or an ugly bomb like those he had seen off Algiers was a much closer community. A frigate, despite the lack of space, preserved the same barriers and distinctions as a lordly ship of the line.

Only at times like these, with the wine flowing at will, did you see the other side of the coin, the men behind the allotted ranks and roles. As varied as Cristie the sailing master, the true professional whose family had been raised in the same humble street as Lord Collingwood. O'Beirne the surgeon, stabbing the air through the drifting pipe smoke to emphasise the point in some Irish story he had been telling. He was a good surgeon, who had proved his worth several times over, after and during action at sea, or when dealing with the hundred and one accidents that befell even the most experienced seaman going about his work.

Adam eased his back against the chair and knew he had eaten too much. It was nothing compared with his companions, more out of habit. As captain he could choose what and when he ate. Consuming too little was as dangerous as drinking too much, when there was nobody to enchourage or restrain you.

He glanced down at his new coat, made by the same Plymouth tailor as the one he'd worn when Unrivalled had been commissioned. The one he had worn for that last fight with Triton. Part of the Bolitho legend, or a reckless indifference which might one day kill him?

Either way, it was loose around his body, even though the softtongued tailor had insisted it had been cut to the original measurements. He had made it sound almost inconvenient.

He heard shrill laughter from one of the three midshipmen, who had been invited for this special evening while their captain was present. It was the youngest, Hawkins, who was twelve years old. Unrivalled was his first ship. The son of a post-captain, grandson of a vice-admiral. He thought of Napier. At least Hawkins would have no doubts about his future.

He stared at his goblet, but could not recall when it had last been filled. It would soon be time to make his excuses and leave. Galbraith would go on deck and check the watchkeepers, wind and weather, and that would give the others a chance to speak out, to discuss what they chose without fear of crossing that forbidden bridge, the chain of command.

"May I ask you something, sir?"

It was Varlo, who had been silent, almost detached, for most of the evening.

He kept a good watch, and had never failed to request permission to reef or shorten sail if he considered it necessary. Some lieutenants would rather tear the sticks out of a ship than disturb their captain, for fear of showing a lack of ability or confidence. And yet…

He said, "Fire away, Mr Varlo."

Varlo leaned forward, his neat hair glossy in the lantern light.

"Slavery is illegal, sir. Most of the world powers are agreed on it. I read in the Gazette that even the Portuguese have accepted that the Equator shall be the boundary line of the trade." He glanced along the table, one hand in the air. "But how can we enforce such a ruling? We shall have fewer ships, and less senior officers with the authority and experience to carry out anything so widespread."

Adam said, "That is what we must discover-the purpose of this mission, as I see it."

Varlo smiled, quickly. "Many people in England do not agree with the ruling, sir. They were and still are against the Bill as it went through Parliament…"

Captain Luxmore leaned forward and slopped some wine down his sleeve. Fortunately, it matched the scarlet well.

"No more speeches, George! Leave that to the damned politicians!"

Adam said, "I take your point, Mr Varlo. Some people do not understand. Others perhaps see slavery as the only way to work and produce from those lands for which we are responsible. It is an old argument, but loses its strength when set against the act of enslavement itself."

Galbraith said, "I have heard it said that Negroes are far better off working in a Christian country than being left in their native barbarism." His face was troubled. "But it will be hard to contain, no matter what the true rights and wrongs of it."

Varlo nodded, satisfied. "An enormous task, as I have said. And a proportionate responsibility for any captain."

He stopped, his hand still in mid-air as Adam brought his knife down on the table.

"We have a proud ship, Mr Varlo." He looked along the table. This was not as he had intended it to be. "And now, thanks to all your efforts, we have men to serve her. It can be said that conditions in the navy have at times been little better than slavery." He glanced at his goblet. It was empty. But he could not stop now. "Things will be different, eventually. A man becomes a sailor for all sorts of reasons. Because he is hungry and unemployed, or unemployable. He may be on the wrong side of the law." He saw Cristie nod. "He may even be driven by dreams of glory. Our company is probably no better and no worse than any you have known, but it will be up to us to mould them into something of true value. To serve this ship."

Varlo smiled. "Thank you, sir."

Adam held his hand over the goblet as a messman hovered beside him. It was time. Varlo, by design or accident, had made his point. Few people today cared about the rights and wrongs of slavery. It was a fact of life. So long as they were not ill treated. He had heard James Tyacke on the subject. He was back on antislavery patrol duty, where it had all started for him. Where he had first met Richard Bolitho, and his life had been changed. He could hear him now. He gave me back my pride. My will to live. Another face. Another unbroken link with the past.

He was at the wardroom door; faces were beaming, some shining in the damp air. All the toasts, the stories, the small, tight world which was theirs. And mine.

Galbraith followed him and said, "It was good of you to come, sir." He gave a crooked smile. "Sorry about the second lieutenant. Some of it was my fault." He did not explain. "I'll be glad when we've got some real work to do!"

Adam nodded to the marine sentry and entered his cabin. Only two lanterns were still alight. He saw his boatcloak hanging near the sleeping quarters, and remembered the girl who had left a lock of hair in the pocket. Where was she, he wondered. Laughing now at that brief but dangerous liaison in Malta. He must have been mad. It could have cost him dearly. Cost me this ship.

But he had kept the lock of hair.

He saw a goblet wedged in a corner of the desk, the dark cognac tilting and shivering to the thrust of wind and rudder.

He touched the locket beneath his shirt before looking around the cabin, as if he expected to see or hear someone.

Then he raised the goblet to his lips and thought of the toast they had avoided calling in the wardroom. To absent friends.

Don't leave me. But the voice was his own.

The afternoon sun was poised directly above the mainmast truck, the glare so hard that it seemed to sear the eves. The forenoon watch had been relieved and were now below in their messes for a meal, and the smell of rum was still heavy in the air. During the day the wind had veered slightly and dropped, so that the ship appeared to be resting, her decks quite dry, for the first time since leaving England. To any landsman the activity on the upper decks might appear aimless and casual, after the urgency and constant demands which time and time again had dragged all hands to their stations for shortening sail, or for repairing damage aloft.

But to the professional sailors the deck was often "the marketplace," and any trained eye would soon pick out the many and varied activities which were all part of a ship's daily life.

The sailmaker and his crew sat cross-legged like tailors, needles and palms rising and falling in unison. No canvas was ever wasted. Sails had to be repaired and wind damage made good before the next gale or worse. Scraps were used for patching, for crude but effective pouches, for making new hammocks. For burying the dead.

The boatswain's various parties moved through the hull, greasing block sheaves, replacing whipping on strained or worn ropework, repairing boats, touching up paintwork wherever needed.

Occasionally men would shade their eyes and peer across the bows to the low, undulating humps, purple and dark blue against the horizon's hard edge. Like very low clouds, except that there were no clouds. It was land.

The shift of wind, with courses and topsails hard put even to remain filled, had changed things. The old hands understood well enough. No captain would want to skulk into a foreign port under cover of darkness without showing his flag. The wiser ones realised that Madeira consisted of five islands, with all the extra hazards of a final approach for the captain to consider.

It would be tomorrow.

"Stand to your guns!"

In the meantime, work and drill would continue.

Only two guns were being used to instruct some of the new hands, the first pair right forward on Unrivalled's larboard side. She carried a total of thirty i8-pounders, her main armament, divided along either beam. They also made up the biggest topweight, quick to make itself felt in any sort of heavy swell. When the ship had first been laid down, the designers in their wisdom had ordered that the eighteenpounders be cast a foot shorter than usual, in the hope that the decreased weight would assist stability in bad weather and, more important to their lordships, in action.

At the first gun, its captain Isaac Dias wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and glared at the next group of men. Dias was thickset and deep-chested, a gun captain of long standing both in Unrivalled and in other ships before that. His gun was in the first division, and as such was usually the earliest to engage the enemy. He wore his shaggy hair in an old-style pigtail, and stripped of his shirt his body was scarred in several places from splinters and from brawls ashore and afloat, and like his massive arms was thick with hair. Fiercesome and incredibly ugly, he was also the best gun captain in the ship, and he knew it.

He squinted up at the topgallant mast and noted the lie of it toward the horizon. The windward side of the ship. Not much of a blow, but still a muscle-tearing sweat to haul the gun up to the open port. lie ran his eyes over the waiting hands. You were born a gunner. You didn't just become one because some poxy officer said it was to be.

Someone murmured, "'Ere comes trouble, Isaac."

Dias grinned. It made him look even uglier. "Goin' to tell us what to do, ch?"

The trouble in question was Midshipman Sandell, walking as he always did, with his dragging springy step, as if he was already strutting his own quarterdeck, Dias thought.

But Dias was an old hand. He knew about the young gentlemen and how far you could go. Not like some of them, Sandell actually enjoyed being hated, and hated he was. When he was eventually commissioned lieutenant he would make life hell for everyone. It was to be hoped he would be killed before that happened.

Sandell stood, hands on hips, his lips pursed in what might have been a smile.

"You know your places. When I give the word, go to them, roundly so."

The last words came out sharply and he turned to point a finger at one who had been startled.

"Name?"

It was the youth Ede, even paler in the harsh glare.

" Ede, sir."

Sandell regarded him keenly. "I remember. Yes. The one who would not go aloft when ordered!"

Ede shook his head. "No, sir, I was excused at that time."

Sandell nodded. "Of course. Afraid of heights, someone said." He glanced round; some men had stopped work to watch or listen, and Midshipman Deighton was at the second gun with more untrained hands. Sandell was beginning to enjoy the audience.

He snapped, "Gun captain, take your station now! Facing the port!"

Dias said, "I know my station, Mr Sandell!"

Sandell flinched. "Sandell, damn you! I shall be watching you, Dias, old Jack or not!"

Dias looked away to hide his grin. It was so easy with this little maggot.

Sandell cleared his throat. "Now take stations!" He flicked the starter he always carried across a man's bare shoulder, and added, "In action you might find yourself in charge, everyone else killed, think on that, you oaf?"

The man's name was Cooper. He had been picked from Bellairs' list along with Ede. They had been in the same prison together.

Cooper ducked down and seized the handspike nearest him. Sandell was already snapping at someone else and did not see the fire in his stare. Almost to himself, he muttered, "And you'll be the first to get it!"

The drill continued, with some of the regular gun crews going through every move before handing over to the others.

Sandell had seen Dias looking at the foremast and said, "Prepare to run out!"

Dias stooped over to add his weight but stood aside as Sandell shouted, "Not you, Dias. You were just killed!"

It was heavy going, backs and muscles unused to handling a great gun, bare feet slipping on the deck as it tilted over yet again, the eighteenpounder dragging at its tackles to make their efforts seem puny.

At the second gun Deighton shouted, "Together, lads! Heave!"

The two guns trundled up to their ports and groaned into position.

"Point! Ready! Fire!" Sandell was beating time with his starter as if he alone could see and hear this empty gun in action.

He lashed out again at the one named Ede. "Don't let go, you idiot! Put your weight on it!" He struck him again and Ede slipped and fell, his legs beneath the truck.

"Belay that!" The voice was sharp, incisive. "Secure the gun!"

It was Lieutenant Varlo, his eyes everywhere as he walked along the gangway and stopped directly above the first gun.

Sandell exclaimed, "It was deliberate, sir!" He gestured towards Ede. "Nothing but trouble since we began!"

Varlo said, "Stand up, Ede." Then, "Had this gun been in action it would have recoiled inboard when fired and you would have had both legs crushed." He watched him calmly, but his voice was meant for the midshipman. "Do you understand?"

Ede nodded shakily. "Yes, sir."

Varlo looked at the foremast. "Afraid of heights, eh? That won't do. This is a fighting ship. We depend on one another." He glanced coldly at Sandell. "We have no choice."

A boatswain's mate touched his forehead. "Cap'n's compliments, Mr Varlo, sir, you can dismiss the drill now."

Varlo nodded. "Carry on." He looked at Ede again. "No choice. Remember that."

The others gathered round, the regular gun crews peering at everything as if their own smartness and efficiency was being questioned. Isaac Dias spat on his hands.

"Come on, show 'em how it's really done, eh?"

The laughter seemed to break the spell, although nobody looked at Sandell as he strode aft, barely able to contain his fury.

Only Ede remained, one hand on his arm where Sandell's rope starter had left its mark.

Deighton was about to leave when something made him say, "I was scared of going aloft." He checked himself What was the matter with him? But he added, "For a long time. But I learned a lot from the old Jacks, watched how they did it. One hand for the King, they always said, but keep one for yourself. "

Ede was staring at him, as if he had just realised he was there.

"But… you're an officer, sir…" He stared aft, watching for Sandell.

Deighton said, "It makes no difference, up there." He thought suddenly of his father's intolerance. "Come up with me in the dog watches." The youth was still staring at the criss-cross of rigging, the aimlessly flapping foretopsail, and he recognised the fear and something more.

"Would you, sir?" Almost pleading, almost desperate. "Just the two of us?"

Deighton grinned, relieved, but for whom he did not know.

"I'll try, sir, if you think…" He did not go on.

Deighton touched his arm. "I'm sure." Then he walked away, into the marketplace.

He did not know how gratitude would look, but now he knew how it felt.

He thought of the captain's words in the wardroom. Things will be different. Eventually.

For both of them it was a challenge.

After the blinding glare of the sun, the dazzling reflections thrown up from a clean blue sea, the night was like a cloak.

Galbraith moved occasionally from one side of the quarterdeck to the other, and was surprised that it could still hold him, move him, after all the watches he had worked, all the sea miles logged. A ship at her best. He looked up and through the rigging at the batlike shadows of the topsails, barely moving in a soft, steady breeze. No moon, but the stars stretched from horizon to horizon. He smiled to himself. And he was not yet used to it.

He glanced at the helmsmen, one at the wheel, the other standing by. Joshua Cristie, the master, took no chances; he had only just gone below himself. It was as if it was his ship. Like the gun captains he had watched at the drills. Possessive, resentful of unnecessary interference. He had spoken about the new midshipmen, one in particular, the youngest. Cristie had been instructing them, taking the noon sights, and it would be some time before they satisfied him. Of Midshipman Hawkins he had remarked, "Should be at home playing with his toy soldiers! Did you see the sextant his parents gave him? A beauty. Not something for a twelve-year-old child to cut his teeth on!"

Galbraith had said, "You were about that age yourself when you were packed off to sea, or have you forgotten?"

Cristic had been unmoved. "That was different. Very different. For us."

He felt the deck tremble and saw the wheel move slightly. The helmsman was watching the little dogvane, a tiny pointer made of cork and feathers perched on the weather side of the quarterdeck rail. On a dark night and with such light airs, the dogvane was a trained helmsman's only guide to the wind's direction.

Trained: that summed it up, he thought. Like the drills, sails and rigging, guns and hoatwork. It took time for raw recruits. It was different for the old hands, like that brute Campbell, and the gun captain he had seen glaring at Sandell behind his hack; they might not see the point of it any more, now that there was no real enemy to face and fight, no cause to recognise, no matter how uncertain.

It could change tomorrow. They had already seen it for themselves, when Napoleon had broken out of his cage on Elba. He glanced at the dimly lit skylight; the captain was still awake. Probably thinking about it too. His uncle had been killed then. A cross on a chart, nothing more. No better and no worse, he had said of Unrivalled's company. Galbraith thought of Varlo's comment about a captain's responsibility. Why should that have touched me as it did? Varlo never seemed to make casual remarks. Everything had to matter, to reflect.

He lifted a telescope from its rack and levelled it across the empty nettings.

Over his shoulder he said quietly, "We'll warn the middle watch, Mr Deighton. Those lights are fishermen, if I'm not mistaken." He heard the midshipman murmur something. Tiny lights on the water, miles away, like fireflies, almost lost among the stars. It would be a safe bet to say that every one of them would already know about Unrivalled's steady approach. He added, "Remind me to make a note in the log."

"Aye, sir."

He liked Deighton, what he knew of him. He had more than proved his worth in battle, and the captain had remarked on it.

Galbraith put it from his thoughts. As my captain wrote of me when I was recommended for command.

He heard the midshipman speaking to the boatswain's mate of the watch, and he thought of what he had seen during the dog watches when Deighton had gone aloft with the young landman who had been terrified.

Nobody else took much notice, but Galbraith had watched and remembered his own first time, going aloft in a Channel gale. He smiled. A million years ago.

And he had seen them return to the deck. They had climbed only to the foretop, and had avoided the puttock shrouds which left a man hanging out over the sea or the deck below, with only fingers and toes to keep him from falling.

A voice murmured, "Cap'n's coming up, sir."

Some would never tell an officer, warn him. When it came down to it, it was all you had to prove your worth.

He was surprised to see the captain coatless, his shirt blowing open in the soft wind.

The helmsman reported, "Sou'-sou'-east, sir!"

Galbraith waited, sensing the energy, the restlessness of the man, as if it was beyond his control. Driving him. Driving him.

Adam said, "A fine night. The wind holds steady enough." He turned to look abeam and Galbraith saw the locket glint in the compass light. He could see it in his mind. The bare shoulders, the dark, challenging eyes. Why did he wear it, when Sir Richard's flag lieutenant, Avery, had brought it to him? Before he himself had been killed, on this deck.

The captain would be about his own age, and the lovely woman was older, beyond his reach, if that was the force which was tearing him apart.

Adam said, "Call all hands at first light. I expect this ship to look her best. If and when we are given the time I want more boat drill. The waters we are intended for are not suitable for a man-of-war."

Galbraith waited. He was thinking ahead. Going over his orders again, sifting all the reasons, and the things unsaid. For the Captain's discretion.

Adam said suddenly, "I was pleased about young Deighton's work today. A good example. God knows, some of these poor devils have little enough to sustain them." He turned and Galbraith could almost feel his eyes in the darkness. "I'll not stand for petty tyranny, Leigh. Attend to it as you see fit."

Galbraith heard his shoes crossing to the companionway. He missed nothing. But what was driving him, when most captains would have been asleep at this hour?

He was pacing the deck when the middle watch came aft.

He noticed that the cabin skylight was still glowing, and his question remained unanswered.