He made to unfasten it, but something stopped him.
The slight tap on the grating.
"Mr. Midshipman Huxley, sir!"
"Enter!"
He was the Captain.
The two midshipmen sat side by side on the forecastle deck watching the lights on the shore; occasionally one moved, like a star fallen on the water. Overhead, if they looked, the converging pattern of shrouds and stays reached to the sky, yards and spars completely still, resting, like the ship.
There had been music, the lively sound of a violin, laughter and what sounded like feet stamping in a jig, but even that had gone silent. It would soon be time to pipe down; some of the hands were already in their hammocks.
Down by the entry port there was still a lantern burning, an intrusion in the darkness. The glint of metal and a moving shadow showed the duty watch was alert, waiting for one of the boats, or the Officer-of-the-Guard on his endless patrol around and between the anchored men-of-war.
David Napier glanced over his shoulder as a solitary figure walked past: one of the anchor watch doing his rounds, although he would hardly be able to see the cable where it reached down into the black water. They might have been completely alone, sitting where they were in the eyes of the ship. Even the figurehead was invisible, reaching out to another unknown horizon.
Soon they would have to return to the midshipmen's berth.
Nothing had been said, and the silence made it worse, if that were possible. They all knew. The whole ship seemed to know.
Once, he had said, "Would it be better if I left you in peace, Simon?"
No words, but he had felt a hand on his arm and known he was shaking his head.
And then, quite suddenly, Simon Huxley had started to talk.
"I knew what had happened. When the Captain sent for me, I knew. I kept going over it, again and again, but I was thinking too much about my own future.
It had been dark, but not enough to hide the tears on his face.
He had shaken off any attempt to restrain or comfort him. Like a flood-gate giving way.
"When I saw him, that last time, in Plymouth, and every one was trying to make things seem better, I should have known.
My father had already condemned himself, no matter what any court martial might decide!"
Huxley had got up suddenly and leaned out across the water, and Napier had stood with him, hardly daring to hold him, afraid of what he would do. But in a calmer voice he said, "Two of his men were drowned within sight of land, and he blamed himself. Even when he was told that the court would find him not guilty, he said, it won't bring them back to life."
They had sat down again, sharing the stillness.
Then Napier had asked, as if he had no control over it, "What did the Captain say?"
Huxley had said nothing, reliving it for a moment. Then he whispered, "He treated me like a man, a friend. I knew he cared. It wasn't just words. "He had been unable to continue.
Some one shouted, and another said, "About bloody time!"
A boat was pulling out of the darkness, the oars trailing living serpents of phosphorescence.
Napier took his friend's arm gently. "Shall we go below, Simon? "and felt him nod.
"I'm ready."
That was all. But enough.
Hugh Morgan was still in his pantry when the last boat came alongside. Here, down aft, you could not hear much of it, but there would be some curses and flying fists if they carried their high spirits down on to the messdeck. The ship's corporal would have to deal with it. Rowlatt, the master-at-arms, was still ashore, "on special duty', they said. He had heard that Rowlatt had a woman in the town. He grinned. She must be blind, or desperate.
He raied his glass and sipped it, savouring it. The good stuff.
… It had been a long day.
He glanced at the open letter laid on his counter. Long and rambling, from his brother in Cardiff. Older than himself, he was a glass-blower, as their father had been; it was a marvel he had any lungs left after all this time. Six children, too; but they would be children no more. He could always picture Cardiff in his thoughts… Be like another world to me today.
It would seem strange to walk those old streets again. But maybe…
He heard a faint shout, then a crack, likely a starter across some one's rump. Otherwise the ship was quiet, the candleflames unmoving. The pantry door was just ajar; he could see the small pool of light over the desk. The captain was still sitting there, a pen grasped in his hand. Like the last time he had crept across the cabin to close the quarter gallery windows. Not much air, but it was better than enduring the insects that tapped against the glass or flickered in the faint glow from astern.
Tomorrow, perhaps, he might go ashore. He had been to Gibraltar a good many times. Different ships and shipmates.
He had a friend who worked in the big chandlery, if he was still there. But you had to know your way around, like any seaport.
He smiled, sipping the rum. Even the "gateway to the Mediterranean'.
Women, too, at a price. He gave them a wide berth.
Otherwise you could find she had left you with something you would regret, long after you had forgotten her face. And she yours.
In a minute, he would make some excuse and disturb the captain, perhaps persuade him to climb into his cot. It was hard to recall the last time the man had been properly asleep.
What drove him? He had known other captains who would have left the work to others, and complained about it afterwards.
He thought of the visit to the flagship; there was always plenty of gossip. How the captain had been kept waiting to see the commodore, after what he had done, and risked, to save the Frenchie from being turned into a giant coffin.
He should be used to it. Morgan had served three captains, and could take the rough with the smooth. This was different.
Like today. Perhaps today most of all.
Something which his brother in Cardiff would never understand, as long as his lungs allowed him to live.
The young midshipman standing in the great cabin, which had been suddenly emptied of visitors. The captain with the letter, which was still lying on his desk. Then his voice, inaudible to Morgan. And the youth, one of my officers, watching him fixedly, even trying to smile later at something the captain had said, with tears running down his face.
They had walked together to the gallery windows, and he had seen the captain pointing out something, his hand on the midshipman's shoulder, like brothers meeting and coming to know one another again.
He tensed. The pantry door moved very slightly. The screen door must have been opened, although there had been no sound, no shout or stamping of boots.
"Still awake, Luke? "Jago was fully dressed, alert. "What is it?"
So it was serious.
"Signal for the Cap'n. "He held up some paper. "Mr.
Monteith asked me to bring itЦ he's a bit busy with a defaulter. "He grinned, but it did not reach his eyes. "Bloody drunk, more like!"
"Can't it wait? "Morgan pushed a glass toward him, and filled it to the brim.
Jago shrugged. "The ink's still wet. Must be important."
They both turned as the pantry door was pulled aside.
"It's impossible to find any peace, even here!"
Then he smiled. Afterwards, Morgan thought it was like seeing a great weight being lifted from him.
"Finish your drinks, please. "He took the signal and opened it unhurriedly. "And pour one for me."
Jago watched him narrowly. So many times.
"Trouble, Cap'n?"
Adam crumpled the signal. He could see the unfinished letter on his desk.
My dearest Lowenna. I dream of you, always…
"I shall need the gig tomorrow, Luke. Flagship at four bells.
Forenoon."
He lifted his glass. It was still only a dream.
Lieutenant Mark Vincent walked along Onward''s larboard gangway, his mind ranging over his list of duties. It was a bright morning, surprisingly free of haze even along the shore, the buildings unusually clear in the sunlight. A steady northeasterly had made all the difference.