The Darkening Sea

16. Captains All

Yovell leaned slightly to one side as Bolitho ran his eyes over the orders he had just completed. Around them the big frigate groaned uneasily as she lay hove-to while Laertes's captain came over in his gig.

Two days had passed since the landing party had entered the monastery and had rescued Herrick.

There had been others found there in the same spartan captivity. Apart from the remainder of the monks they had discovered some twenty masters and other officers from the many prizes taken by Baratte and his ships.

Bolitho had listened with great care to each of the prisoners and had built up a much clearer picture in his mind of the enemy's strength. Baratte had employed many small vessels for his attacks, and had fitted out some of his captures as privateers and for spying on ships sailing alone.

Baratte was both well-informed and prepared for any attempt by the military to deploy their transports, without which they would be beaten before they had even started.

Major-General Drummond's force was the obvious target. Baratte would know the strength of the Cape Town squadron, which even with Keen's support would be at great risk.

Bolitho had already dispatched the brig Orcadia with all the information he could muster, and had told Jenour to tell Keen to press the army to hold fast until Baratte's ships could be dealt with.

Jenour had seemed listless and tired, and Bolitho had wished that he had had more time to speak with him. But time was slipping away, and with Thruster gone and Jenour sent to find Keen's ships he was well aware of the need for action. James Tyacke had come aboard only briefly at Bolitho's request, and had confirmed that the unknown English captain had to be a former sea-officer, who had commanded a small frigate in the King's navy until he had been court-martialled for cruelty to enemy prisoners-of-war. He was exactly the kind of unscrupulous character who would fit Baratte's requirements. A man who had recruited a company of scum, most of whom would hang if brought to justice. His name was Simon Hannay: privateer, pirate and murderer, who had for too long struck fear into the hearts of ship masters who sailed alone on the great ocean.

Tyacke had come up against him when he had been controlling a large flotilla of vessels which had preyed regularly along the African coastline. When slavery had been outlawed and the patrols had been strengthened Hannay had discovered that the Arab slave-traders were more frightened of the Devil with half a face than they were of him. Not for the first time he had offered his services to the French, and according to one of the freed prisoners he had been given a thirty-two gun frigate appropriately named Le Corsaire. Baratte flew his flag in another frigate, Chacal. She was new, but little was known about her. Baratte had many other small vessels, brigs, brigantines and former coastal schooners.

Bolitho walked away from the table and stared thoughtfully at the shimmering ocean. It was noon, and by now Tyacke would have clawed his way up to windward, ready to dash down on the two frigates if any strange sail was sighted.

He heard the stamp of feet and the shrill twitter of calls as Captain Dawes of the Laertes was piped aboard. Avery was up there to welcome him with Captain Trevenen.

Bolitho thought of the powerful emotions he had seen on Avery's introspective face when they had buried the two women and the elderly abbot among the wild flowers on the hillside. He himself had been shocked when he had seen the murdered women. Both were young, the wives of fishermen. They had been spared nothing, even the mercy of a quick death. One of the released sailors had told him about the night when the guards had been mad with drink, and their wild cries had mingled with the screams of the women. Simon Hannay had not been there, but he might as well have been. And he would pay for it.

The monks had been almost harder to understand, Bolitho thought. They had displayed neither gratitude nor anger, and had shown little grief at the death of their abbot. Perhaps life on that pitiless islet had destroyed their capacity to feel the normal, worldly emotions of ordinary men.

He thought of Herrick down below in the sickbay, watched over by George Minchin the surgeon. Herrick had suffered greatly, and Minchin had insisted that he be left alone until some progress had been made.

Bolitho could still hear him calling him by name in that filthy cell.

There was a tap at the door and Trevenen, followed by Avery and Captain Dawes, came into the cabin. Dawes was young, about Adam's age, but had the severe deportment of a much older man. Perhaps he already saw himself as an admiral like his father.

Yovell moved to a corner where he could make notes if required, and

Ozzard stood with a napkin over his arm while he waited to serve refreshments.

Trevenen sat down heavily. He had almost shown surprise when he had seen the man who had posed as the abbot and who had broken Herrick's hand with a rock shot to death by the captain of marines.

He had said in his harsh voice, "It was quite unexpected, Sir Richard."

Bolitho had faced him calmly, the dead women's contorted features still clear in his mind.

"I do not enjoy seeing a man die, even scum like that one. I simply could not think of a reason for allowing him to live."

While Avery held the chart, Bolitho discussed the despatch he had sent with Jenour.

"Although it depletes our strength still further, it may prevent a greater loss of life."

Dawes peered at the chart. Two frigates, Sir Richard?" His eyes sharpened. He was already seeing fame and prize money. "We can manage to dish them up! "

Trevenen said doubtfully, "The renegade, Simon Hannay -what do we know of him?"

"Commander Tyacke knows him as well as anyone, but stories of his bloody career are legion."

Why was Trevenen so unwilling to take Tyacke's word? He seemed to sift every event as if looking for flaws. Or what he considered to be a waste. Like the rescued mariners and the prisoners, for instance. Bolitho had seen him complaining to the purser about the extra mouths he would have to feed. It was as if it would all come out of his own pocket.

He said quietly, "The real puzzle remains the role of the American, Unity. Without her interference we can tackle Baratte, and win."

Trevenen interrupted, "He'd not risk war, Sir Richard! " He sounded outraged.

"He might have a plan." Bolitho studied them, and wished Adam were present. "His government did not send their most experienced captain in their greatest frigate merely to show the flag. In his place I know what I would do. I would provoke an argument. It is nothing new in war, or in peace either, for that matter."

Trevenen was unconvinced. "Suppose Baratte has more men-of-war than we know of?"

"I'm sure he has. But the main force sailing from India will be heavily escorted. There will even be some of John Company's ships taking part. My guess is that Baratte will deploy his strength in their direction." He looked at Dawes. "Remember, your ship was once his, and I am his most hated enemy. Both good reasons for engaging us, eh?"

He heard the sentry murmuring outside the screen door and saw Ozzard scurry over to open it.

Bolitho's heart sank. It was Minchin, the surgeon. He said, "If you will excuse me, gentlemen. Take some wine before we eat." He spoke so easily that neither of the captains would have recognised his anxiety.

Minchin waited for the door to close. "I'd not disturb you, Sir Richard, but…"

"Is it Rear-Admiral Herrick?"

The surgeon ran his fingers through his untidy grey hair.

"I'm troubled about him. He's in great pain. I'm only a ship's surgeon butchers they call the likes of us…"

Bolitho touched his arm. "Have you forgotten Hyperion so soon? But for you, many more would have died that day, "

Minchin shook his head. "Some would have been better off if they had."

They walked to the lower companionway and Bolitho saw Allday sitting on an upturned water cask working on one of his carvings. He glanced across, his eyes full of understanding, as if he had spoken aloud.

Deeper into Valkyrie's great hull to the orlop deck below the waterline. Here all sounds of sea and wind were muted, with only the timbers murmuring like voices in the depths of the ocean itself. Here were stores, cordage, tar and paint, the canvas lockers and the hanging magazine. The very stuff of the ship herself.

They entered the sickbay, spacious and well-lit in contrast to most of those Bolitho had seen. The surgeon's mate closed a book he had been reading and glided past.

Herrick was staring at the door as they entered, as if he had known they were coming.

Bolitho leaned over the cot. "How are you, Thomas?"

He was afraid that Herrick might forget what they had shared, that he might turn against him again.

Herrick studied him, his eyes very blue in the fixed lanterns. "It plagues me, Richard, but I have had a lot of time to think. About you, about us." He tried to smile but his face was stiff with agony. He said, "You look tired, Richard…" He made as if to reach out, then suddenly screwed his eyes tightly shut and said quietly, "I'll lose my hand, won't I?"

Bolitho saw the surgeon nod. It was almost curt, as if he had already decided. He looked at Minchin. "Well?"

The surgeon sat down on a chest. "It has to be done, sir." He faltered. To the elbow."

Herrick gasped. "Oh, my God! "

"Are you certain?" Bolitho glanced at the surgeon's reddened features.

Minchin nodded. "As soon as possible, sir. Otherwise…" He did not need to continue.

Bolitho put his hand gently on Herrick's shoulder. "Is there anything I can do?"

Herrick opened his eyes and said, "I have failed you."

Bolitho tried to smile. "No, Thomas. Think of yourself. Try to hold on."

Herrick stared up at him. He had been washed and shaved and to a stranger would appear quite normal. He peered at the blood-stained bandages on his broken hand.

"Send the telescope to my sister… if I can't fight it, Richard."

Bolitho looked back from the door. "You will fight it. And win, too."

The walk to the cabin seemed endless. To Allday he said, "I have a favour to ask, old friend."

Allday nodded his shaggy head, and rolled up the leather cloth in which he carried his knives and the sail maker twine he used for rigging his ship models.

"Never fear, Sir Richard, I'll stay with him." He watched the pain in Bolitho's eyes. "I'll tell you if anything happens."

"Thank you." He touched his powerful arm but was unable to say more.

Allday watched him approach the door, where the sentry was already as stiff as a rammer in spite of the heavy motion.

Once through the door, face to face with his assembled captains, he would show nothing of his private despair. Allday was certain of it. What did they know? All they wanted was glory and someone to lead and protect them.

Ozzard came through the door and Allday said roughly, "You got some brandy, Tom? The best stuff?"

Ozzard studied him. Not for himself then. This was different.

"I'll fetch it for you, John."

"I'll have a wet me self afterwards."

Afterwards. The finality of the word seemed to linger long after Allday had gone below.

Captain Adam Bolitho glanced at his reflection in the cabin mirror and frowned as he tugged his waistcoat into place and adjusted the sword at his hip. Anemone was plunging badly in the quarter-sea, and the cabin's heavy humidity warned of rain quite soon. Not rain as over the fields and villages of Cornwall, but heavy, mind-dulling deluges which could often pass away from a ship before any worthwhile drinking water had been saved. But he could leave that to his first lieutenant.

Adam Bolitho hated the ritual of a flogging, although to most sailors it was something that could never be permanently avoided. Perhaps this one had been the result of the endless patrols, sighting nothing unless it was a courier-brig or some trader trying to stay friendly. with both sides in a war he did not understand. Boredom, disappointment after losing their prizes to the enemy when before they had cheered, a close company at least until the news had been passed to them by a naval cutter on the anti-slavery patrol: Anemone's people were restless and surly. Sail and gun drills could no longer contain their frustration, and their eager expectation of close combat with the real enemy had given way to a sullen resentment.

The man in question had struck a petty officer after an argument about a change of duties. At other times Adam would have demanded an enquiry into the incident, but in this case the petty officer was an experienced and unusually patient seaman. Adam had known the reverse many times, when authority was abused even by officers, and the resulting discipline was unjust although administered in the name of duty.

The sailor was a land man one of those pressed off Portsmouth Point who, despite several threats, had remained a rebel, a lower-deck lawyer as Adam had heard his uncle describe such men.

There was a tap at the door and the first lieutenant looked into the cabin, his expression vaguely surprised, as if he had almost forgotten what his captain looked like in full uniform.

"Yes, Aubrey, what is it?" He regretted his curtness immediately. "Are you ready?"

Martin said uncertainly, "I believe this was my fault, sir. As the senior aboard I should have foreseen it. Nipped it in the bud."

As if to mock his words they heard the trill of calls, the sudden scamper of bare feet.

"All hands! All hands lay aft to witness punishment! "

Adam answered, "In a way I can understand how they feel, but empathy is a luxury in which no captain should indulge for long. We are always at risk, Aubrey, even with those we think we know. I have heard of it many times. When the ship is a tinderbox for whatever reason, even understanding can be mistaken for weakness."

Martin nodded, and guessed the captain had learned much of what he said from Richard Bolitho.

He asked, "Any further orders, sir?"

Adam looked away. He was showing that same weakness even by discussing it. He said, "Both watches at six bells this afternoon. We will alter course again, the next leg of our patrol." He tried to smile but the effort was too much. "In two days, maybe three, we should sight the commodore's convoy. There will be plenty to do for all of us then! " He was conscious that he had not mentioned Keen by name. Was that all part of his guilt?

They went on deck together, the sun high overhead making each set sail appear transparent against the taut black rigging.

The Royal Marines were lined up across the quarterdeck with their lieutenant, Montague Baldwin. The curved sabre he favoured was already drawn and resting across his shoulder. Lieutenant Dacre was the officer-of-the-watch and stood beside Partridge the sailing master, youth and old age together. The midshipmen and other warrant ranks stood by the quarterdeck rail, while on the gun deck, the gangways, and clinging to the shrouds the bulk of Anemone's company watched in silence.

Martin saw the captain nod and give his own signal for the ritual to begin. The prisoner was brought up, a tall erect figure, head upheld like some well-known felon going to the gallows, flanked by Gwynne the boatswain and one of his mates, and followed by McKillop the surgeon and by the master-at-arms. Then there was complete silence, and even the bellying canvas seemed still.

"Uncover! " The few present wearing hats removed them.

Some men watched the prisoner, who had been generally disliked until now; the rest kept their eyes on the slim, dark-haired figure with the gleaming epaulettes, surrounded by his officers, protected by the double rank of marines, and yet completely alone.

Adam removed his hat and tugged the Articles of War from his coat. As he did so he looked at the prisoner. Of one company, he thought, yet a thousand miles apart.

His voice was steady and without emotion, so that many of the assembled seamen and marines barely heard him. Not that it mattered: the old Jacks at least knew the relevant articles by heart. Adam even imagined that he saw the carpenter nudge one of his mates when he reached the last line… Or shall suffer death as is hereinafter mentioned." He shut the folder and added, "Given under my hand in His Britannic Majesty's Ship Anemone." He replaced his cocked hat. "Carry out the sentence."

The grating had already been rigged against the gangway, and before he could resist the prisoner was stripped to the waist and seized up, arms apart, with further lashings to hold his legs so that he was spreadeagled.

Adam saw the youngest midshipman closing and opening his fists, but not out of pity. His eyes were fixed on the man's muscular back with the expression of a stag-hound approaching a kill.

Adam snapped, "Carry on, Mr. Gwynne."

Somebody shouted, "You show 'em, Toby! "

Lieutenant Baldwin said calmly, "Steady, marines."

It reminded Adam of Keen when he had served under him. He had used the same tone in moments of great tension, like a groom calming a nervous mount.

"Take that man's name! "

Gwynne the boatswain, who was completely deaf in one ear after close action with a French man-of-war, called, "How many, sir?"

Adam moved up to the rail and looked at the prisoner, who had twisted his head around so that he could see him.

"Three dozen! "

The prisoner yelled, "You bloody bastard, you said two dozen! "

Adam said, "I changed my mind."

The drums rolled, and down came the lash across his shoulders. The master-at-arms called, "One! "

The first half dozen lashes made a crisscross of bloody stripes like the claw marks of a savage beast.

The prisoner began to gasp as the punishment continued, his face almost purple when the boatswain handed the cat-of-nine-tails to his mate.

The master-at-arms counted hoarsely, "Twenty-six! "

The surgeon held up his hand. "He has fainted, sir! "

"Cut him down! " Adam watched as the man fell to the deck into his own blood. He was picked up and carried below to the sickbay. A man of his obvious strength would soon recover after he had had his back cleansed with salt water and his stomach lined with as much rum as he could swallow. But the marks of the cat he would carry to his grave.

The first lieutenant watched him warily. This was a mood he did not recognise.

Adam said, There will be no martyrs in my ship, Mr. Martin." He gave a tired smile as the men dispersed to their duties or their messes. "There is more to command than prize money, believe me! "

He had scarcely gone below to change out of his uniform when the rain tore into the ship like a waterfall.

Adam glanced at himself in that same mirror. What would she think of me now, if she saw me?

He walked to the stern windows and thrust one open to stare at the horizon. The rain was already passing over: it would leave the decks cool, the sails hardened to receive the next wind. He looked at his coat, lying on a chair with its epaulettes glinting dully. He had been so proud when he had been posted. Now he held out his hands and felt something like sickness in his throat.

Three dozen lashes. Was that all? As captain I could have run him up to the main yard for striking a petty officer. The realisation of his power over these men had never failed to shock and awe him. But not now. It was his right.

He must have come a long, long way…

In the afternoon while he sat at his table with a plate of tasteless salt-beef barely touched nearby, he thought again about the letter, and wondered if she had received it, or even read it if she had.

If only they might meet as if by accident, on some winding track like the place where he had given her the wild roses. And she had kissed him…

He sat bolt upright as the lookout's voice pealed down from the masthead.

"Deck there! Sail on th' lee bow! "

Adam jumped to his feet. That was more like it. There was nothing between Anemone and his uncle's ships. The prospect of action would make all the difference and bring them together again. Cleansing, like the rain that had washed the blood from the grating.

The quarterdeck was crowded when he reached it.

Lieutenant Dacre touched his forehead, then pushed the wet hair from his eyes.

"I'm not yet certain, sir. The lookout says there's some mist to lee'rd might be more rain."

"We'd not find him if that happened." He hurried to the chart as the master's mates uncovered it.

Partridge said, "Might be a slaver, sir. Can't think o' nothing else this far out."

"My thoughts, Mr. Partridge! Call both watches and get the t'gallants on her. She'll likely show her heels when she sights us! "

Men poured on deck to the shrill of calls. Adam assessed their mood as they hurried past and below him. Some would still be thinking of the flogging, but by now others would be accepting it. He had brought it on himself. Or, what can you expect from a bloody officer? They could hate him when they felt like it; or perhaps when he deserved it. But fear him? That must never happen.

He saw Midshipman Dunwoody staring at him. "Aloft with a glass. I can use your eyes today! " He watched him swarming up the ratlines, a long telescope bouncing across his buttocks with every step.

Martin had joined him now, his face eager and excited. As I once was, Adam thought.

"Set the main course, Aubrey. I want her to fly before they can lose us! "

They grinned at one another, all else forgotten.

Anemone was riding it well. With the wind across the quarter she was taking each long trough and roller like a thoroughbred horse jumping hedges. Spray was bursting over the figurehead in solid sheets, and as each sail was set and sheeted home it hardened as if being squeezed by giants, with the rain that had soaked the canvas flying over the struggling seamen to rush into the scuppers like small brooks.

Dunwoody's voice was practically muffled by the din of canvas and clattering rigging.

"Deck, there! Two masts, sir! I think she's seen us! "

Adam wiped his face with his shirt sleeve and realised he was soaked to the skin.

"If the rain holds off it will do them no good! "

He walked across the deck, at times barely able to prevent himself from being flung against the guns as his ship pointed her jib-boom at the sky, catching the returning sunlight like a golden lance. Then down again, the hull crashing into another trough, the timbers jolting as if they had hit a sandbar.

It was the lookout again. Perhaps Dunwoody was too choked by spray to call out.

"Deck there! She's a brig, sir! Can't make it out! "

Adam said, "Use your speaking trumpet, Aubrey. Bring Dunwoody down. None of this is making any sense! "

Dunwoody arrived on deck, shivering badly in spite of the steam that was rising from his dripping shirt.

Adam asked, "What ails you, Mr. Dunwoody?" He was surprised that he could sound so calm, yet feel only apprehension.

Dunwoody stared down at the deck and would have fallen in the next wild plunge but for Bond, a master's mate, catching his arm. The boy turned his head to gaze across the water as if he could still see it.

"She's no slaver, sir. She is one of ours, the brig Orcadia, "

Adam turned to Martin.

"Is she mauled?" He squeezed the boy's arm very gently. "Tell me. I need to know! "

Dunwoody shook his head, unable to accept it. "She is out of command, sir, but she has not a mark on her! "

Martin persisted, "Adrift? Abandoned? Speak out, man! "

Adam swung into the lee shrouds and began to climb, each ratline scraping at his fingers while the ship rolled from side to side.

He had to wait a long time for the ship to steady herself enough on one crested roller, and for the glass to clear while he rested against the shrouds.

Orcadia was pitching and rolling very badly, the sunlight sweeping across her stern windows and gilded gingerbread so that the cabin looked as if it were on fire. The quarter boat was still in place, but another was dangling from some loose tackles alongside, upended and smashing against the brig's side.

Not abandoned then. He waited for the next up-thrust beneath the keel and tried again. Orcadians ensign was tangled in the rigging. Adam could feel the upturned faces below him willing him to tell them, just as he could sense the apprehension which had banished their sudden excitement. Another look through the dripping telescope, although he knew what he had seen. He lowered himself more quickly. Very soon everybody else would see it.

He found his lieutenant and Partridge waiting together. There was no sense in delaying it.

He faced them and said simply, "Muster the after guard and then arm yourselves, gentlemen." He held up his hand as Lieutenant Lewis began to hurry away. "She is Orcadia." He wanted to lick his dry lips but dared not. "She flies the Yellow Jack."

Lewis croaked, "Fever! "

"As you say, Mr. Lewis." His voice hardened. "Feared and hated by sailors even more than fire."

Lieutenant Baldwin came on deck, his eyes everywhere as he buttoned his scarlet coat.

Adam said, "We will bear up to wind'rd of her and lower a boat." He saw the quick exchange of glances. "I shall call for volunteers and go across myself."

"You'll not put aboard her, sir?" Dacre was staring around as if he could see the horror of it already in this crowded frigate.

"I will decide later."

Marines were emerging from below deck, all armed, ready to fight and kill if necessary to retain order.

Martin watched the realisation running through the ship as the fear became a certainty.

He said, "Her commander is a friend of Sir Richard's, I believe?"

"Mine too." He was thinking of the Jenour he had known, trusting, loyal and likeable. Adam had thought him dead with all the others when he had gone to the memorial service at Falmouth. When his first lieutenant, Sargeant, and this same Aubrey Martin had galloped all the way from Plymouth to tell him the people most dear to him had survived. When he had lost Zenoria for all time.

"Will you take her in tow, sir?"

When Adam faced him again Martin was shocked to see tears in his eyes, running uncontrollably down his face to mingle with the spray.

"In God's name, Aubrey, you know I dare not! " It was another captain whom Martin had never seen.

Adam turned to Dunwoody, oblivious to those nearby. "But Jenour comes from my uncle. It must be important." He stared hard at the distant brig until his eyes were too blurred to see.

He heard Martin call, "Hands aloft! Shorten sail, Mr. Lewis! "

But only Dunwoody heard his captain's voice as he whispered, "Dear God, forgive me for what I must do."

Closer, and closer still to the stricken Orcadia until every telescope on the Anemone's quarterdeck would recognise the vessel's absolute desolation: the double wheel untended and jerking this way and that while the brig drifted and rolled to the pressure of sea and wind. Near the compass box Adam saw two men lying as if asleep, their bodies moving only to the brig's violent motion. There was another corpse trapped by a line against the splintered boat alongside, and as Anemone worked nearer, her yards braced almost fore-and-aft as close-hauled as she could respond, he saw the other spray-soaked bundles who had once been Orcadia's company.

He heard the surgeon say, "It must have been of the worst kind, sir. In a small vessel like her it would spread like wildfire."

Adam did not reply. He had heard of such virulent plagues in these waters, but had never seen them. Men falling at their stations, some dying before they had realised what was happening. The infection could have begun anywhere, in a vessel suspected of slavery perhaps. It had not been unknown for such ships, crammed to the deck beams with human cargo by captains who had put numbers before all else, to arrive at their destinations with most of the slaves dead and many of the crew soon to follow.

He said, "Near enough, Mr. Martin." He sounded clipped and, to those who did not know him, without emotion.

Both watches were standing-to, some staring at the deserted brig as if it had harboured some kind of destructive force. A ghost-ship returned to avenge some past horror.

Several faces turned aft as Adam called, "I want volunteers to crew the gig."

He watched the mixed expressions: fearful, hostile, some filled with an overriding dread.

Nobody moved as he continued, "She is one of us, as was the Thruster. Orcadia is a victim of war as much as any who fall to the enemy's iron. I have to know if anybody is left alive." He saw McKillop the surgeon give a brief shake of his head. It only added to his sense of hopelessness, and his own profound foreboding.

"Orcadia was sailing with despatches for the squadron. They must be vital or my unc… or Sir Richard would not have spared her. Her captain was a friend to all of us. Must this suffering be for nothing?"

His coxswain George Starr said bluntly, "I won't leave you, sir."

Another shouted, "Put me down! " It was Tom Richie,

Eaglet's boatswain, who had changed sides despite the risk to himself.

Adam said coolly, "Still with us, Richie?"

A seaman whose name he could not remember banged his big hands together and even managed to grin. "Never volunteer, they said! Look where it got me! "

Nervously, defiantly, one by one they came aft until Starr whispered, "Full crew, sir."

Adam turned as Dunwoody said, "I'll come, sir." He lifted his chin but it made him appear even younger.

Adam said gently, "No. Stay with the first lieutenant. He'll need your loyalty."

He looked over to Martin. "Still want a command, Aubrey?" He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

My ship. My lovely Anemone… and I am leaving you.

He watched the gig being lowered and brought alongside under the frigate's lee.

Several men gasped at the sound of a single shot. Others flung their heads up as if expecting to see a hold punched in the reefed topsails.

Adam remarked to no one in particular, "Yes, I think I would end it like that." He touched the pistol in his belt, wondering how it would be.

Starr called, "Ready, sir! "

Adam left the quarterdeck and walked to the port. He stopped as some sailors reached out to touch him. As if they were seeing him for the last time.

"Good luck, sir! "

"Watch out if they tries to board you, sir! " That from an older seaman, who could judge the real danger of close contact. He had made Orcadia seem like one of the enemy in just a few simple words.

"Out oars, shove off forrard! Give way all! "

Adam thought of Allday as the boat turned away and came under command. There was another shot, and the stroke was momentarily lost as one of the oarsmen peered nervously over his shoulder.

But the man Richie called between pulls, "They tells me you're a pretty good shot with a pistol, Cap'n?"

Adam looked at him. Glad he had thrown the cutlass, the evidence, into the sea. It felt like a thousand years ago.

He said, "When provoked! "

Then he gripped Starr's sleeve. "Under her stern, but don't stand in too close. We could be dragged against her rudder by the undertow." All the while he had the feeling that Anemone was close by, watching their progress, and when he turned in the stern sheets he was shocked to see that when she dipped into a deep trough she appeared to be a great distance away, the sea rising to her gun ports as if to swallow her.

He took a speaking trumpet. "Orcadia, ahoy! This is Captain Bolitho of the Anemone. He felt sick as he cried out, as if he were betraying them by offering hope when there was none.

Starr muttered, "No use, sir. You done your best."

"Round again." He did not even try to conceal his distress. Then we'll go back."

He saw two of the oarsmen glance uneasily at one another. The fire of volunteering was sifting away. His words had given them the relief they needed.

Starr thrust over the tiller bar, then exclaimed, "Look, sir! In the cabin! "

The gig rose and fell in deep, nauseating swoops, the oars barely able to keep steerage way.

But Adam forgot the danger as he stared at the open stern window. The cabin was probably a twin of the one in his first command, the fourteen-gun Firefly.

There was someone there, a shadow more than any human form, and Adam felt something like fear as it moved very slowly towards the salt-caked glass. Whoever it was, he must have heard his voice through the speaking trumpet, and the sound had penetrated the mists of agony and disgust enough to rouse him to consciousness.

Adam knew it was Jenour without understanding why he did. Dying even as he sheltered there, dying as his little brig had battled on while men dropped until the last helmsman abandoned the wheel. Some must have tried to get away in the capsized boat: there may even have been a last attempt to restore order when it was already too late.

A seaman gasped, "A bag, sir! " His eyes were almost starting from his head as he stared at the small leather satchel suddenly dangling from the cabin.

It must have taken all his strength: maybe his last, and if it fell now it would be lost forever.

"Hold on, Starr! "

Adam clambered forward over the looms, gripping a shoulder here and there to prevent himself from being hurled outboard. He could feel their fear at even so brief a contact.

As he reached the bows he seized the bag and tugged it over the gunwale.

"Back water! Together! " Starr was watching the bag, the brig's counter rising over the boat ready to smash it to fragments in the next trough. He thought afterwards that it was fortunate the boat's crew had their backs to the stricken vessel. Whoever it was must have tied the bag to his wrist, and the force of Adam's grip on the line had dragged him almost over the sill.

Like Adam, he could only stare at it. A commander's single epaulette, but surely nothing human and still alive?

Like something rotten. A face from the grave.

Adam cut the line and saw the figure vanish into the cabin.

He called out, "God be with you, Stephen! " But only the scream of gulls came back to mock him.

Starr swung over the tiller bar once more and breathed out very slowly as Anemone'?" topsails rose to greet him.

But Adam was staring at the Orcadia, and said brokenly, "God? What does he care for the likes of us?"

He barely remembered their return to Anemone's lee. Many hands reached out to help him, and someone raised a cheer for him, or for the volunteers, he did not know.

And then it was dark, and the deck was steady again under the pressure of more canvas.

Lieutenant Martin sat with him in the cabin, watching his captain drink glass after glass of brandy without any apparent effect. The leather satchel still lay on the table unopened, like something evil.

The second lieutenant entered the cabin and after a questioning glance at Martin said, "We've lost her, sir. In these waters she could be adrift for months, years even."

Adam said, "Open the despatches." He stared at his empty glass but could barely remember drinking from it. Like that time when she had come to him in the night at Falmouth. And had stayed with him.

Martin unfolded the crisp despatch, and Adam recognised Yovell's familiar round handwriting.

This was for Commodore Keen, sir. He was to find you and to tell the squadron to delay sailing. Sir Richard believes that Baratte is on the move."

"Jenour found us after all." He tried to thrust the memory from his mind. "And there is no time to make contact with the commodore." He stared at the stern windows, at the swirling phosphorescence from the rudder and the beginning of a moon on the water.

Perhaps there never had been enough time.

He said, "We will rejoin Sir Richard. Instruct Mr. Partridge to lay off a new course and have the hands change tack." He said nothing more, and eventually his head lolled, and he did not feel the others lift his legs on to the bench seat. Nor did he hear Martin murmur, "I will deal with that, my captain. Just this once, you come first."