Monteith thrust his hands behind him, another little habit Vincent tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore. It usually happened when he was speaking pompously with a seaman, no matter how experienced he might be.
"The captain has a fine reputation. I've met several officers who have served with him. Wounded, taken prisoner by the Yankees and escaped, and then there was the time…" He swung round. "Don't you know better than to interrupt an officer when…"
Jago stood his ground, and spoke to Vincent as if Monteith were invisible.
"The Cap'n sends his compliments, sir, an' would you join him when you are able?"
"I'll come directly. "There was an outburst of angry shouts from forward and he added, "Deal with it, Mr. Monteith. Call me if you need me."
Monteith would rather choke, he thought, and knew he was being unfair.
He fell into step with the coxswain. A hard man to all accounts, he sensed, but a good one to have protecting your back. Such a short time aboard, and he had already made his mark.
"You've been with Captain Bolitho a long time, I believe?"
He felt Jago's cool gaze. "A while now, sir. This ship an" that."
Curt enough, but characteristic. Vincent smiled privately.
They had a saying about it, like everything else in the fleet.
Between every captain and his ship's company stood the first lieutenant. And his coxswain.
Down the companion ladder, his eyes noting the changes. A Royal Marine at the screen door, boots coming together smartly as they moved into the lantern light. Newly spliced hand-ropes, a reminder that even this would be a lively expanse of decking in any sort of sea.
The sentry tapped his musket on a grating.
"First lieutenant, sir!"
He could not remember the marine's name. Not yet…
The great cabin had completely changed, and with the dividing screens folded away seemed much larger. Most of the piled books and papers had gone, and an opened log or diary lay on a small desk Vincent had not seen before.
There were furtive noises coming from the hutch-like pantry that adjoined the captain's sleeping quarters: it would be the cabin servant, Morgan. Vincent had made that choice himself.
"Thought you might need an escape before the others joined us."
Bolitho came out of the shadows and stood framed against the stern windows, flickering lights passing back and forth across the sea behind him like moths.
The same warm handshake, as if they had just met. He gestured to the table.
"Some cognac, will that suit? "He grinned as Morgan hurried from his hiding place, a tray balanced in both hands. "I feel as if I could sleep for a week!"
Vincent watched the cognac swirl and move to the motion.
He had chosen Morgan with care. A man of some experience, but still human enough to hear and report any conversation which might be of interest elsewhere.
"Can I help in some way, sir?"
Bolitho faced him again, his eyes in shadow.
"You have, Mark. You do. "He picked up a goblet. "As always, this is the hardest step."
There were candles on the cabin table and he held the goblet to their light, hesitating, his mind still lingering on questions and doubts. Then the strain seemed to fall away. "To us, Mark.
And those we are leaving behind."
They touched glasses, but Vincent barely noticed the taste.
Leaving behind? They had not even finished with the watch and muster bills yet.
"I did hear that you were about to be married, sir. "He broke off. "My apologies, sir. I did not intend…"
"It does you credit. Here, in this cabin, you may speak as you will. No misunderstandings! "He looked toward the darkening windows and said, "God willing, I will marry soon. It asks so much of any woman. And in exchange…" He said nothing for a moment. "About tomorrow. I should like to walk through the ship with you. Before the admiral comes aboard. "He moved across the cabin, speaking his thoughts aloud. "To the people, I am still a stranger. That will change. Any ship's company deserves to share the pride as well as the responsibility.
Pride, MarkЦ what we can create together."
The mood changed. "I looked at the punishment book today.
A captain I once served told me that it reveals the true strength or weakness of any ship's company, and in particular her officers."
He looked at the screen door.
"You've done well during your time aboard. Not an easy role in a new ship, with a company as mixed as flags in a locker."
He smiled again. "Let's have the others join us."
Vincent saw Morgan hovering, half in and half out of the pantry. He, at least, was ready; Vincent had not realized that, during their conversation, the other lieutenants and warrant officers had been waiting.
Adam called, "MorganЦ you're from Swansea, right? "He was looking critically around the main cabin. "More candles, I think, can you do that?"
Morgan seemed surprised or pleased, it was hard to tell.
"Good as done, sir!"
In the growing light Vincent noticed a tall-backed chair facing aft by the stern windows; it must have come aboard in one of the last boats. Not new, quite the opposite: he could see scars and stains on the green leather. Well used, a place to rest between watches, even snatch an hour's sleep when you were expecting to be called. A captain's chair; Bolitho's chair.
He became aware that Adam Bolitho was watching him, waiting, but relaxed. Then he smiled, as if recalling something private, intimate.
"So let's be about it, shall we?"
Midshipman David Napier found himself crossing an enclosed courtyard, and heard a gate clang behind him. Around the corner of the guardhouse would be the jetty, and then he would see the ship. As he had pictured it in his mind, again and again, as if to reassure himself. He wanted to stretch his arms until the muscles screamed, stamp his numbed feet, anything to drive away the strain and confinement of the journey from Falmouth.
It had rained all the way without pause. Like being shut in a box, reeling from every rut and jolt between Cornwall and Plymouth.
He looked at the sky, now hard and clear, without warmth.
Somewhere along the way the road had been flooded: another delay while Francis had searched for an alternative route, little more than a cart track. Ex-cavalryman though he was, even he had been at a loss for curses.
He had recovered by the time they had reached the last barrier, and found a porter to carry the midshipman's chest.
Just a grin, and a pat on his shoulder. Maybe Francis understood better than many what it meant. The need to make it brief. No time to brood or regret.
"Can I "elp youЦ sir?"
A tall Royal Marine, scarlet tunic unnaturally bright in the harsh sunlight, had appeared from nowhere.
Napier held out the creased warrant, his fingers stiff from clenching it in his pocket.
"I'm joining Onward.'"
He felt the marine's eyes giving him a quick, disinterested look from beneath the brim of his smart leather hat. Just another middy. Be giving all of us hell before you know it.
"If you'll just wait "ere, sir. I'd best tell the sergeant."
Somewhere there was a clock striking. It went on and on, and Napier thought he could smell cooking. He swallowed hard.
"Well, where the hell has he been? On the moon?"
Then the sergeant stepped into the courtyard, the same warrant gripped in his hand.
"You were logged to arrive earlier, Mister Napier."
It sounded like an accusation.
"The road was flooded."
The sergeant brushed biscuit crumbs from his immaculate tunic with the warrant.
"We've all been on the hop since dawn. The admiral, see? Nothing but the best! "He relented slightly. "There's another young gentleman waitin "to join Onward. Tell the piermaster."
Then, brusquely, "Best we can manage till we get the word."
Napier felt his ankle turn on a loose cobble, expecting the pain, the warning. Nothing happened.
And he had not even thought about it. All those miles. The lurching and the unending rain…