"Sometimes we need to be reminded." He stared up at the old steeple. "Pride. "
One word. It was all that was needed.
Lieutenant Galbraith held his hands out to a crackling log fire. It was about noon but he felt as if he had been on his feet for days, and he was tired, frustrated and disappointed. He nodded to the inn's landlord and took the proferred glass, felt it run like fire across his tongue, and wondered where it had come from. Smugglers would be busier than ever now that the war with France was over. For the moment.
He heard the small squad of Royal Marines which had accompanied the recruiting party, voices loud and untroubled in the other "long room." Corporal Bloxham would make certain that none of his men got drunk or misbehaved; he had an eve for such things. He was the detachment's crack shot. Galbraith recalled that last hour aboard the Triton's scarred and bloodied deck, the captain trying to assist his servant, who had been hit by a wood splinter, and unable to reach the enemy commander who was aiming to kill him.
Like a little tableau, the injured boy cradled in Bolitho's arms, the old sword pointing impotently across the deck, and then Bloxham, quite calm, as if he had been on the range somewhere with his faithful musket.
Yes, Corporal Bloxham would keep an eve on things. He would be thinking of a sergeant's stripes before too long.
He stared around the low-beamed room, with its smokestained pictures and pieces of polished brass. He sighed. One more stop and it was over. He glared at the empty glass. A bloody waste of time. Three men; one man and two boys was closer to the truth. Waste of time.
The door banged open and he tried to relax his mind and body.
There was something about Lieutenant George Varlo which seemed to unsettle him. He scarcely knew him, and accepted that that was mostly his own fault, and yet… Varlo was alert, keeneyed, efficient. Very light on his feet, like a dancer or one used to matching swords for pleasure, or in earnest. Fair hair, short and fastidiously kept, like his clothing: the perfect officer. Galbraith was not normally an intolerant man, but Varlo made him feel clumsy and awkward in almost everything.
Maybe it was because he had served as flag lieutenant to some senior officer. Or maybe you were chosen because of those qualities? But he considered George Avery, who had died when they had boarded the enemy, and his own words to Captain Bolitho. I think he knew he was going to die. He had given up the will to live. No, not like Avery at all…
Varlo glanced around, a small smile on his lips. "I've told Mr Rist to watch the others until we're ready to move."
Galbraith said, "Rist knows what to do!" He was being stupid. Unfair. How could Varlo know what Rist, the best master's mate in the ship, was like? How, on that day when they had launched a boat attack amongst the islands, Rist had been a tower of strength, even when they had landed on the wrong beach.
The landlord had reappeared. "A glass, zur?"
Varlo shook his head. "Later."
Galbraith said, "I will." He sensed the man's resentment and added sharply, "Just what I needed."
He made another attempt. "The next place is in Market Jew Street." He opened his notebook. "Must have had a Jewish community at some time."
Varlo studied him, amused. "Actually, no. It's the old Cornish tongue, marhas you, which means Thursday Market." The smile widened. "Or close enough!"
Galbraith said curtly, "I didn't know."
Varlo shrugged elegantly. "Why should you? Not really our concern, is it?"
There were shouts and cheers from the street. The army recruiting sergeant was returning to his barracks with his haul. Probably too drunk to know what they had done.
He said, "We might have better luck tomorrow."
Varlo said directly, "You've been with Unrivalled since she was first commissioned? With her captain, too?" The little smile again. "A Cornishman, no less."
"Yes."
"What is he like? One hears so many things, as you well know, but if we are to be away from England and the fleet, it is sensible to be prepared."
He was goading him, drawing him out into the open, and enjoying it.
Galbraith said, "The best captain I've yet served. He has high standards, and expects them acted upon." He tried to smile, to put it in perspective. "Even from Cornishmen."
Varlo nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you for the warning. If it was so intended."
Rist, the master's mate, peered in at them. "Ready, sir!"
Galbraith picked up his hat and straightened his sword against his hip. Varlo probably had some influence behind him. A flag lieutenant, and now appointed to a fine frigate when so many were being laid up. Influence. With a view to getting a command of his own? He nodded his thanks to the innkeeper. Like me.
He felt the salt air on his lips. Back to sea. He was eager to leave.
Adam Bolitho ran his hand along the smooth, cold stone of the sea wall, worn away by every sort of weather. Peace or war, it made no difference here.
He felt for his watch and remembered, and thought of the boy who had asked his permission to keep the pieces after the musket ball had smashed it to fragments. It had saved his life. The little mermaid.
Tomorrow they would be leaving here. It was not the voyage to West Africa which disturbed him, or the countless demands and challenges of a ship still undermanned.
It was not that. He had held a command since he was twentythree. He was prepared for most difficulties.
Tomorrow was the problem. Leaving here, where he had been born and brought up by the woman whose name he had touched in the church. A place where he had learned to take care of himself, even as a child, and yet he had never considered it his home. Falmouth, and the great house which was now his by right, no matter what legal arrangements still had to be made, was home, Falmouth and the ocean, wherever it beckoned him.
But not today. With Unrivalled at sea again he would find time to laugh at himself and his sentimentality. It happens, sir. He thought of Jago's words at the church. It's the way of things. He was down there mustering the gig's crew now, and probably questioning his own decision to stay on as coxswain. If he had ever stopped doing so.
He sighed. Galbraith would be returning very soon. They would share a glass once they were aboard. He thought of the cases of wine from the address in St James's Street, Catherine's gift when Unrivalled had been commissioned. A lifetime ago.
He heard Jago's footsteps on the stone stairs. It was time.
But Jago shook his head. "Thought I'd better come and tell you, sir. There's a gentleman who wants to see you." He added bluntly, "Insists, more like."
Adam bit his lip. Another one, like the crippled ex-topman and the spectre on the moored hulk. Too many reminders.
Jago watched him grimly. "He's in the coastguard post yonder, sir. I can tell him to shove off, if you like."
"No. I'll come."
The room was almost dark, a fire dying in the grate.
Adam stepped into a patch of light from the solitary window and said, "I understand, sir…"
The figure sitting by the window was round-shouldered, portly; there were small gold spectacles propped on his forehead.
Adam held out both hands. "Daniel Yovell! Of all people!"
Yovell got to his feet and came to him, dropping his spectacles into place with the gesture Adam remembered. A man of learning, who lived with and by his Bible, once his uncle's clerk and then his secretary and friend. Catherine's, too.
Yovell said, "When you visited Falmouth I was away on business in Bodmin. I only heard when I returned there. Bryan Ferguson was very upset that your stay was curtailed. There was so much, you see…" He did not continue.
"It is good to see you, old friend." Even that reminded him again of Allday.
"I heard that your ship was calling here. You know how news travels, sir, especially amongst sailors."
Anybody less seamanlike was hard to imagine. Stooped, devout and gentle, Yovell had been one of Sir Richard's little crew, as he had called them. He had been given a cottage adjoining the big house and had become a great help to Ferguson, the estate's onearmed steward. Another veteran.