And how did Bolitho really feel about leaving the land so soon after the Nautilus mission, and, more importantly, his bride?
Vincent had remained with Onward while her repairs were being completed, in command, and so unable to attend the wedding at Falmouth. But he had heard enough about it, and the rest he could imagine. Lowenna was not someone you could easily forget.
“Ah, I thought I would find you here, Mark. Always busy, keeping us all afloat, eh?”
It was Murray, the surgeon, so light on his feet, like a dancer or a swordsman, although he was neither, as far as Vincent knew. Outwardly easy-going, and popular with most of the ship’s company, which was rare enough in his profession. For the most part surgeons were feared, even hated. Butchers…
Murray was smiling quizzically. “And if it’s not too late to say it, a very Happy New Year to you!” They solemnly shook hands. He had a grip like steel, Vincent thought.
Murray turned to gaze abeam, apparently untroubled by the hard sunlight. He had pale blue eyes, which seemed almost colourless in the glare, and his profile was narrow-featured with a prominent hooked nose.
“Where are we, Mark? I’m damned if I know.”
Vincent had to smile. Rapier-straight, that was Murray’s way. In the wardroom, and amidst the casual chatter and banter between various duties and watches, he would always come directly to the point.
But his attention had been diverted as a seaman hurried by, and the moment was past.
“How’s the knee, Slater?”
The man stopped as if startled, then he grinned. “Good as new, an’ thankee, sir!”
Murray walked to the companion. He had some notes to make, and in any case Vincent was already pointing out something to another working party, the first lieutenant once more.
He thought of the seaman to whom he had just spoken-Slater. Murray had always had a good memory for names, and was grateful for it. Some never seemed to acquire the ability, never bothered or did not care, but he knew from experience that it was often the only link they had. Slater had injured his knee in a fall during one of the sudden squalls off Biscay. It might have been a lot worse, and he might not have recovered.
Just a name. Even if you had to take off his leg.
Midshipman Huxley scuttled past him with a folded chart, doubtless on some mission to see the captain. Another two weeks before landfall, maybe more. Bolitho left nothing to chance.
Murray paused at the ladder and looked up as he heard feet thudding across the deck above. Probably a marine, he thought. Then someone shouted, “He’s just gone below!”
He waited, suddenly tense, and a pair of legs appeared on the ladder, blotting out the glare.
“Beg pardon, sir, there’s bin an accident in the galley! I was told-” He fell silent as Murray waved his hand.
“I’ll fetch my bag.”
It would only be a bruise or a burn. But just in case… He found that it amused him. He was more like the captain than he had believed.
Tobias Julyan, the sailing master, watched as the captain, who had been leaning over the chart table, straightened his back and jabbed his brass dividers into a piece of cork. It would prevent them sliding away into some hidden corner if Onward was hit by another fierce squall.
Adam said, “If the weather holds we should be able to fix our position.” A quick, impetuous grin. “And our progress, with more certainty.”
Julyan glanced around the small chartroom. A world apart. Without it, all the sweat and tears expended elsewhere would amount to nothing. No matter what the old Jacks liked to think. “This is the Atlantic, sir. I think she’s done us proud.”
“And so have you.” Adam dragged the heavy log book into a shaft of sunlight and did not see Julyan’s pleasure. He turned a page. The first day of the new year of 1819. It was a Friday. Strange that so many sailors, and not just the older ones, regarded Fridays as unlucky. He had never discovered why.
Luke Jago had reminded him this morning as he had been finishing his shave. “They said I was born on a Friday, so that should tell us somethin’!”
Jago seemed to live one day at a time. Always ready. Perhaps because he had no one and nothing to leave behind, or come home to. The sea and the navy were his life, until the next horizon.
Like the severed epaulette. Always ready.
Adam heard a tap, and the chartroom door opened a few inches. He thought it would be Vincent, impatient to begin making more sail. But Julyan said, “Your cox’n, sir.” He picked up some notes and pulled the door wide. “I shall be standing by, sir.”
The door closed behind him and Jago stood with his back against it.
Their eyes met, and Adam said quietly, “Trouble, Luke?”
“A short fuse if you asks me, Cap’n.” He scowled. “Someone a bit too handy with a blade. In the galley, of all places!”
Adam reached for his hat. “I’m going on deck.”
Jago watched him leave and swore silently.
Bloody Fridays!
Hugh Morgan, the cabin servant, heard the screen door slam shut and waited warily as the captain strode aft to the quarter. Morgan had served several captains, and Bolitho was the best so far. Old enough to have borne the full weight of responsibility, young enough to consider those less fortunate and still finding their way. But there were bad days, too. This was likely to be one of them, New Year or not.
“Can I fetch you something to eat, sir? You’ve touched nothing since they called all hands.”
Adam pushed himself away from the bench beneath the stern windows with their gleaming panorama of water, greyer now than blue.
He said, “I apologise. There was no need to bite your head off!” Then, “I’m expecting the first lieutenant directly. Maybe the surgeon, too. The meal can wait.” He tossed his hat onto a chair and asked abruptly, “How well d’you know Lord, one of the cook’s mates?”
“The one who was stabbed, sir?”
Adam sat down as if something had been cut. If Morgan knew, the whole ship would know.
Morgan watched the signs. It was bad all right. “Brian Lord. Good lad to all accounts. The cook speaks well of him. Not too well, of course!”
Adam smiled and felt his jaw crack. “You should be a politician.”
Morgan relaxed a little. “Too honest, sir!”
Adam looked astern again, at the regular array of a following sea, marked by the shiver and thud of the rudder. At any other time he would have been satisfied. Proud. Instead, he kept remembering the anger on Jago’s face; he knew the course of events better than any one. The man could have died but for Murray’s prompt action, and could still die. There had been blood everywhere.
The deck tilted suddenly and he saw Morgan pivot round to stare at the pantry door behind him. Someone must have lost his balance; there was an audible gasp and a sound of breaking glass.
Morgan waited for a few more seconds, and said, “Not one of my best goblets, I hope?”
The door swung open. The new mess boy was getting to his feet, some shards of glass in his hands.
Morgan said reprovingly, “There’s clumsy you are, boy, like an ox in a chapel!” He was dangerously calm, and his Welsh accent was more pronounced.
Adam reached out and took the boy’s arm. “Watch your step, my lad. The surgeon has enough to do just now.”
Morgan shook his head. “This is my new helper, sir. Chose him myself, too!” He nudged the broken glass delicately with his shoe. “I am not usually so mistaken.”
Adam said to the boy, “What’s your name?”
The boy looked from him to Morgan, who repeated, “Chose him myself, sir. From your own part of the world, see.”
The boy seemed to find his voice. “Tregenza, zur. Arthur Tregenza. From Truro, zur.”
His round, open face was a mass of freckles, which matched his ginger hair.
It was a small thing, Adam thought, not even worth his attention. Morgan would deal with it. But for some reason it was important. The boy’s first ship … And from Truro, only a dozen miles from the old grey house in Falmouth. Where she would be waiting, wondering …