He reached out impetuously, as Jago had seen him do many times, to a friend, to a subordinate. To me.
The plaque was plain and simple. Even that had been something of a struggle with the stonemason and the church.
But it was done.
In loving memory of Kerenza Pascoe, who died in 1793.
Waiting for his ship.
That was all. The most they would condone for a woman of her reputation.
Adam touched it and smiled. Surprised that it was not difficult.
"I came, Mother. God bless you."
Then he turned and walked toward the doors again.
Jago glanced at the tablet. No title, no details. Just a woman's name and something about a ship. He was sometimes glad that his father had forced him to learn to read and write when he had been a boy, working in the schooner running out of Dover. With clips around his ears if he did not apply himself. Looking back now, it was all he could find to thank his father for, a bully who had died after falling drunk into a dock. So they said.
But reading gave you an edge. As the captain's coxswain he was privileged to walk the decks as much as he chose, to the annoyance, he knew, of some of the senior rates and little squirts like Midshipman Sandell. A glance at the chart or one of the log books kept him informed. When, where, how. Some of the hands aboard ship were just ignorant hawbucks, bumpkins; the ship could be on the moon for all they knew.
He thought of the two old women at prayer, fishwives as they were called round here, and wondered what comfort it gave them. He had heard prayers at sea, when some poor Jack was stitched up in his hammock and tipped over the side like so much rubbish. Where was the sense in that?
He felt the breeze across his face as they stepped on to the street once more and saw the captain square his shoulders, but not, he guessed, against the wind.
The woman who was remembered in the church had been Captain Bolitho's mother. Jago knew much of the story, and guessed the rest. Bolitho was a lucky man. A good family, and an uncle who would live in sailors' legends as long as Nelson, some said. But lucky above all else. He had risked his ship, his reputation, maybe his career by flying in the face of an admiral's orders, and all because of that woman they had carried in Unrivalled. He had seen her crossing swords, and glances, with the captain.
And lucky to have a ship, with the navy being cut down in numbers daily, their companies thrown ashore to fend as best they could. Until the next bloody war, he thought. Then it would be soft words and the like, to get poor Jack back to sea again.
He looked up at the houses as they walked. Most captains would try to forget their pasts if it left a gap in their defences. Like Sir Richard and his lady, and his brother who had deserted the navy to fight for the Americans, Hugh Bolitho, who had fathered Unrivalled's captain. The last of the family, they said.
But not this one. He shied away from any sort of unfounded trust; it was something he could never accept.
Adam Bolitho had taken him to the church with him. And for some reason, it mattered.
They had reached a place where the sea opened up to greet them again, like polished pewter, hard on the eyes, Adam thought, even for men like Unrivalled's most experienced lookout, Joseph Sullivan, whose uncanny skill had found him the Triton. Sullivan was one of the older hands, respected by everyone, not least because he had been at Trafalgar, although he rarely spoke of it, and Adam was grateful that he had stayed with the ship.
Sullivan had regarded him with those clear eyes, like the eyes of a much younger man looking out of his weathered face.
"Where else would I go, Cap'n?"
And there was the ship, like glass from this vantage point. Strange to think that Bellairs, the youngest lieutenant, was the only officer aboard until the recruiting venture was over and the anchor was hove short again. Doing what he had always dreamed of. Like most of us. Luck, dead men's shoes, who could say? Massie, the second lieutenant, had been killed. The third lieutenant, Daniel Wynter, had left the ship to follow his late father into politics. The member of Parliament had always hated his son's career in the navy and had made no secret of it. In death he had apparently succeeded in getting his own way.
The new lieutenant, Varlo, seemed experienced and came from a naval background. He had also been flag lieutenant for a few months to a rearadmiral at the Nore.
Galbraith had had little to say about him, other than mentioning his duties. He was keeping his distance until matters had settled down. As his captain had once tried to do.
It was impossible.
Adam turned and stared at the ship until his eyes watered. He should have remained on hoard. There was more than enough for him to do before sailing. So why…?
He heard Jago say casually, "Now who's this, then?"
Something in the tone, even the suggestion of a hand loosening the short, wide-bladed dirk he always wore. A hint of danger, like those other times. But he was mistaken. There was no threat in the two figures who were waiting by a pair of opened gates.
The man was tall, and well built, but for the way he twisted his shoulders. About his own age, but wearing an eye patch which did not conceal the terrible scar that clawed down his face and neck. One eye must have been torn out, and the flesh opened to the bone. He had only one arm.
His companion was a young woman, who wore a cap and apron. She was holding the man's arm, and her face was hostile.
Jago said, "What is it, matey?" He stood as if very relaxed, one hand resting on his belt.
The man took half a pace forward and tried to say something. His voice was confused, almost strangled, but he would not stop.
The girl cut in, "I said you should stay away! They don't care! I told you!" But she was sobbing, the anger a mask for something else.
Adam said, "It's all right. My fault-I was many miles away just then."
He moved nearer, but felt as if he were frozen to this place. A man of his own age, crippled, half-blind, barely able to speak. Not just a survivor, but a victim.
He said quietly, "John Powers, foretopman." He held out his right hand, but changed it to suit the onearmed man.
The head twisted round still further, so that the eye seemed to fill his face. Then he spoke, slowly, with painful gaps between each word, and all the while the girl held his arm, watching his face, sharing the anguish, as she must do every day.
"Not… killed… sir." He nodded slowly, remembering it, seeing it. "I… was… told you… was… 'ere." There were more deep scars on his throat. "… 'Ad… to… come… an'… be sure…"
Adam said to Jago, "John Powers served in my Anemone, when we lost to the Yankee. A day I'll never forget."
The girl reached up to brush her companion's hair from his face.
She pleaded, "Let's get back, Johnny. They will be lookin' fer us, eh?"
Adam said, "Where do you work?"
She gestured over her shoulder. "At the inn. We got a place to sleep. Don't need nobody else!"
The crippled man, who had been one of the best topmen in Anemone's company, said, "Wash… pots… an'… things… sir.
Adam put his hand to his pocket but she snapped, "I brung 'em, cause he wanted it! We don't need yer money, sir!"
She dragged him round and pushed him towards the opened gates. From a small window Adam could see faces watching, tankards poised with interest.
The man named Powers tried again. "Anemone was the finest in the fleet!" He did not stammer once.
Jago stared after them and then at his captain and shrugged, his hand slipping away from the dirk. "It happens, sir. We'll always see it. It's the way of things." He felt he wanted to reach out, to touch his arm as he had seen him do so often, and reassure him in some way.
Adam looked at him, his dark hair blowing in the wind although he did not recall having removed his hat.