Not this time.
At Antigua there had been new orders waiting. Sillitoe, a friend of the Prince Regent, it was said, had been handed over into the custody of the commodore there, who had been promoted to rear-admiral while Athena and her consorts had been under fire.
Jago had kept close to his captain throughout the remainder of the campaign; if you could call it that, he thought darkly.
Pulling his company together again, visiting the wounded, and often at odds with Bethune. The latter shouting and thumping the table and drinking beyond his capacity and his normal caution. Some said Bethune had been in love with Catherine Somervell. But Jago knew that she had loved only one man, Sir Richard Bolitho, who had been killed on the deck of his flagship following Napoleon's escape from Elba. Jago had seen her in the old church at Falmouth, when all the flags had been at half-mast, and Unrivalledhad fired a salute. It had been Richard's name she had been calling when she had fallen dead.
More like a greeting than a farewell, or so it seemed, looking back…
Somewhere a clock chimed. Two horsemen were trotting unhurriedly past the house. Dragoons, by their cut, he thought.
Officers. His mouth tightened. Nothing else to do.
There was something else that still puzzled him. Athena had anchored at Plymouth only briefly before proceeding on to Portsmouth, which she had left less than a year ago. Bethune had insisted on breaking the passage, apparently to send some urgent despatches by courier.
Even then, the captain had found time to speak to the men being discharged or put ashore to have their wounds treated.
The lucky ones…
And the boy, now a midshipman, who had somehow managed to swim ashore at San Jose after Audacity had exploded. His own captain had been killed, cut in half by a redhot ball from the battery, but one of his lieutenants had seen fit to write a short report on David Napier's courage and determination in supporting another midshipman and getting him to the beach, where the Royal Marines had found them.
Only Napier had survived.
Napier would be in Falmouth now. At the Bolitho house, with the green hills behind and the sea below. Something Jago had also shared in his own way.
Captain Adam Bolitho was at the Admiralty right now, not all that far from this room. It was hard to fix your position, he thought, here in London anyway. It must be somewhere over and beyond those faceless houses. Bethune lived here when it suited him, and had used to ride across the park in a leisurely fashion to his offices.
Athena was being paid off. Another victim, like Unrivalled after her battle at Algiers. He recalled the silent bundles being slipped over the side for that last journey, and controlled his anger. That was the way it was. The sea was all he knew. He stood up and faced the door. And all he wanted.
But it was not one of the household staff, or even Lady Bethune, not that she would deign to meet him. It was George Tolan, Bethune's servant, although the word didn't do him justice. Always smart and alert in his distinctive blue coat, and obviously at ease with his lord and master. More like a companion or a bodyguard, with the bearing of a soldier or a marine. Jago had seen him in Athena's cabin, pouring wine or something with more bite to it, holding the glass or goblet to study it beforehand. No fuss, not like some. And when the guns had belched fire from Athena's ports and reeled inboard in recoil, he had seen the other Tolan, crouching but unafraid in the fury of battle.
A good man to have beside you, but one you would never know.
Tolan was glancing around the room now, and, Jago guessed, missing nothing.
"I have told the kitchen to prepare a meal for you. A drink would not come amiss, I imagine, after all that bustle."
If he was disturbed or irritated by the long journey from Portsmouth, the storing and checking of Bethune's personal gear at every stop along that endless road, he gave no sign of it. He probably knew Bethune better than any one.
Jago shrugged.
"No telling how long the Cap'n will be with their lordships."
He looked at the portrait on the wall. T can't fathom what there is to yarn about. It's over. We done what we was ordered.
That's it!"
"Not so simple this time, I think."
"Cap'n Bolitho had his last ship taken from him. Paid off.
Now AthenaЦ God, she's only a few years old!"
Tolan watched him. "Launched in 1803,1 was told. Sounds old enough to me."
Jago exclaimed, "Good Kentish oak, too! "and broke off as if he had just heard the remark. "Not for a real ship. Hell's teeth, Our Nel's Victory was forty years old when she stood in the line at Trafalgar! They don't know what they're about, their bloody lordships!"
Tolan seemed to be considering something.
"You care about your captain, don't you? Something deeper than duty, loyalty. You're not a man who's easily taken in. I like that. "He smiled with sudden warmth, like offering a handshake, Jago thought afterwards. Dropping his guard, something rare with him.
Tolan said, "Now I will fetch that drink, "and looked up at the portrait. The young captain…" For both of us."
Jago stood at the window, grappling with the words, and what lay behind them. Deeper than duty, loyalty. It was not something he would ever consider, if he was being true to himself. After the flogging which had scarred his mind as well as his body, he had made himself shun even the slightest hint of friendship.
Perhaps it was trust?
The room was empty once more. He had not even heard Tolan close the door behind him.
He was on Athena's deck again, as if it were yesterday.
Now. The seamen breaking ranks slowly, reluctant to return to their work. The empty grating by the gangway, the unfolded flag barely moving in the breeze, the canvas-wrapped body already on the seabed.
But all he could see clearly was Adam Bolitho's face as he had turned away from the side. Their eyes had met, and the words had been quietly spoken, almost an undertone.
Excluding every one else.
They "re together now. Nothing can harm them.
It had troubled him deeply.
There were sounds, voices, on the stairway: Tolan bringing his master's wine, or maybe something stronger. He felt his mouth crack into a grin.
"There'll be other ships."
He realized that he had spoken aloud.
Just say the word, Cap’n.
"If you would wait in here, Captain… er… Bolitho." The Admiralty porter held the door open. "Should you require any assistance…" He did not finish it, but closed the door silently behind him.
Adam Bolitho stood a moment to get his bearings, or perhaps to prepare himself. After all the haste and uncertainty, this sudden stillness was unnerving. A table, three chairs, and one window: it was more like a cell than a waiting room.
Like most serving officers, he had not visited this, the seat of Admiralty, more than a few times throughout his whole career, and he had always been impressed by the orderly confusion and purpose. Clerks carrying files of papers, criss-crossing what were still to him a maze of corridors, opening and shutting doors. Some remained closed, even guarded, while strategic conferences were in session; others, partly opened, revealed the materials and tools of command. Huge wall charts and maps, instruments, rows of waiting chairs. It was hard to imagine the immense power, and control of the world's greatest navy, being wielded from within these walls.
He walked over to the table. On it was a precisely folded copy of The Times and beside it a goblet and carafe of water.
So quiet, as if the whole corridor were holding its breath.
He moved to the window, impatient now, refusing to acknowledge the strain and fatigue of mind and body. He should have known what it would do to him. The bitter aftermath of the action at San Jose, "skirmish "as one news sheet had dismissed it, and the long passage home. Plymouth and then Portsmouth. He rubbed his forehead. Mere days ago.