There was a loud thud from the main deck and Tomlin's voice shattered the air with a stream of curses.
"Very well, Mr. Inch. Send the young gentleman in, and then go and watch over the commodore's possessions, eh?" He smiled dryly. "It would be an even worse beginning if they were damaged."
He turned back to his orders again, thinking of what lay ahead, and of the remarks Vice-Admiral Cavendish had privately voiced to him.
New methods, and a new type of sea officer. It was strange but true that men like Rodney and Howe, names once revered throughout the Navy, were now openly criticised by younger and more zealous officers. Like the young Captain Nelson whom Bolitho had seen over a year back off Toulon, whose personal initiative and daring had taken Bastia from under the very noses of the French army.
At the right age and at the right time, Cavendish had said. Bolitho shut the desk drawer and locked it firmly. We shall see, he thought.
There was a hesitant tap at the door, and when he swung round in the chair Bolitho saw the new midshipman standing uncertainly at the far end of the cabin.
"Come over here so that I can see you." Bolitho could hardly spare the time to meet the newcomer, but knew from bitter experience what it was like to join a ship already in commission, alone and with no familiar faces to ease the first jolts and scrapes.
The boy stepped forward and halted within feet of the desk. He was tall for his age, slim and dark eyed, with hair as black as Bolitho's. He had a wild, restless appearance about him, which reminded Bolitho of an untrained colt.
He took the heavy envelope from the midshipman's hands and slit it open. It was from the Port Admiral at Plymouth, with the bare facts of the approved appointment to the Hyperion. The boy's name was, it appeared, Adam Pascoe.
Bolitho looked up and smiled. "A fellow Cornishman, eh? How old are you, Mr. Pascoe?"
"Fourteen, sir." He sounded taut and on guard.
Bolitho studied him. There was something strange about Pascoe, yet he could not place it. He noted the poor quality of the boy's uniform coat, the cheap gilt on his dirk.
Pascoe did not falter under his scrutiny but dived one hand inside his coat and produced another letter. Quickly he said, "This is for you, sir. I was told to give it to no one else."
Bolitho slit open a crumpled envelope and turned away slightly. It was common enough to get a private letter under these circumstances. An unwanted son being sent away to sea, a request for special privilege, or merely a fond mother's personal plea for his care in the world she could never share.
The paper quivered in his fingers as he gripped it with sudden force. The letter was from his own brother-in-law, Lewis Roxby, Falmouth landowner and magistrate, and married to Bolitho's younger sister. The sprawling writing seemed to swim as he read the middle.paragraph for the second time.
When the boy came to me for my protection it was of course necessary to investigate the value of documents he brought with him. There is no doubt that the claims made on his behalf are genuine. He is the son of your late brother Hugh. There are letters from him to the boy's mother, whom it appears he had some intent upon marrying before he quit the country. He never saw his father of course, and lived until recently with his mother, who was little more than a common whore to all accounts, in the town of Penzance.
There was more, quite a lot more, all of which spoke of excuses and reasons for getting the boy away from Falmouth without delay.
Bolitho swallowed hard. He could well imagine the consternation the boy's sudden appearance must have caused. He did not really like Roxby, nor could he ever understand his sister's choice for a husband. Roxby loved a good rich life, with all the hunting and bloodsport he could find to fill his day with others of the county whom he might consider as his equals. The thought of being involved with a reborn local scandal would be more than enough to move him to write this letter and send the boy packing to sea.
He turned and looked again at the young midshipman. Letters of proof, Roxby had said. But just to look at him should have been enough. No wonder he had seemed strange. It was like looking at himself as a boy!
Pascoe met his gaze; his expression drawn between defiance and anxiety.
Bolitho asked quietly, "Your father, boy, what do you know of him?"
"He was a King's officer, sir, and was killed by a runaway horse in America. My mother often described him to me." He faltered before adding, "When she was dying she told me to make my way to Falmouth and seek your family, sir. I-I know my mother never married him, sir. I have always known, but…" His voice trailed away.
Bolitho nodded. "I understand." What a lot had been left unsaid. How the boy's mother had managed to keep and clothe him, to protect him from the truth that his father had desertedd the Navy and had fought against his country, spoke volumes, and moved Bolitho to say, "As you must know, your father was my brother." He looked away and hurried on, "And you lived in Penzance, you say?"
"Yes, sir. My mother was sometimes a housekeeper for the squire. When she died I walked to Falmouth."
Bolitho studied his face thoughtfully. Twenty miles on foot, alone and with no knowledge of what might be waiting for him in a strange town.
The boy said suddenly, "Aunt Nancy was most generous, sir. She took care of me," he dropped his gaze, "while they were looking into things."
"Aye, she would." Bolitho recalled his sister with sudden clarity, how she had nursed and mothered him when he had lain half dying with fever after his return from the Great South Sea. She would look after the boy better than anyone, he thought.
It was strange to realise that all these years he had been living a bare twenty miles from Falmouth, and the house, which if not for this cruel twist of fate, would have been his own property one day.
Pascoe said quietly, "When I was in Falmouth, sir, I went to the church and saw my father's plaque there. Beside all those others…" He swallowed hard. "I liked that, sir."
There was a tap on the door and Midshipman Gascoigne stepped carefully into the cabin. Gascoigne was seventeen and the ship's senior midshipman. In the coveted post of looking after the Hyperion's signals, he was next in line for promotion to acting lieutenant. Also, he was the only midshipman who had been at sea before in a King's ship.
He said formally, "Mr. Inch's respects, sir, and the barge is putting off from Indomitable with the commodore on board." His eye strayed to the new midshipman, but did not even flicker.
Bolitho stood up, groping for his sword. "Very well, I'll come directly." He added sharply, "Mr. Gascoigne, I will place Mr. Pascoe in your charge. See that he is allotted a station and keep a careful eye on his progress."
"Sir?" Gascoigne looked inscrutable.
Bolitho hated favouritism of any kind, and despised those who used it to grant or receive advancement or special treatment. But it seemed little enough now. This poor, wretched boy who was grateful for a chance to make good when he was entirely blameless for the fate which had left him without a father or his proper name, was now in his ship, and from what he could gather from Roxby's letter, likely to have nowhere else to go in the whole world.
He said calmly, "Mr. Pascoe is my, er, nephew."
When he looked again at the boy's face he knew he had been right.
Unable to watch the torment in his dark eyes a moment longer he added harshly, "Now be off with you! There's more than enough work as it is!"
Minutes later as he stood by the entry port to receive the commodore, Bolitho found himself thinking of what the boy's arrival might come to mean. As he glanced casually at the other officers he wondered just how much they knew or considered their captain's background and the one flaw in his family's record.
But their expressions were mixed. Excitement at the voyage ahead, troubled by the thought of leaving someone dear even further astern, the faces were as varied as their owners. Maybe they were just relieved at being spared from the boredom of blockade, and did not yet fully comprehend the enormity of the ship's true mission. The sudden change- of orders seemed to have driven the horror of the hangings, the sharp and fierce clash with the frigate from their minds. Even the handful of seamen killed in the one-sided fight, who had been buried at sea almost before their blood had been scrubbed from the planking, appeared to have faded in memory. Which was just as well, he thought grimly.