Catherine clasped her round the shoulders and pressed her face into the fair hair. Richard’s sister had told her that Melwyn meant honey-fair in the old Cornish tongue.
“You’re no mere servant, Melwyn.” She embraced her again. “Tomorrow, then.”
The girl said, “Sir Richard will expect it.”
Catherine nodded very slowly. She had nearly given in, broken down, unable to go through with it. She lifted her chin, felt the anger giving way to pride.
She said, “He will, indeed,” and smiled at a memory the girl would never know or understand. “So let’s be about it, then!”
4. New Beginning
CAPTAIN Adam Bolitho ran lightly up the companion ladder and paused as the bright sunshine momentarily dazzled him. He glanced around the quarterdeck, fitting names to faces, noting what each man was doing.
Lieutenant Vivian Massie had the afternoon watch, and seemed surprised by his appearance on deck. Midshipman Bellairs was working with his signals party, observing each man to see if he was quick to recognise every flag, folded in its locker or not. It was hard enough with other ships in company, but alone, with no chance to regularly send and receive signals, there was always a danger that mistakes born out of boredom would be made.
Four bells had just chimed from the forecastle. He looked up at the masthead pendant, whipping out half-heartedly in a wind which barely filled the sails. He walked to the compass box. East-by-south. He could feel the eyes of the helmsmen on him, while a master’s mate made a business of examining a midshipman’s slate. All as usual. And yet…
“I heard a hail from the masthead, Mr Massie?”
“Aye, sir.” He gestured vaguely towards the starboard bow. “Driftwood.”
Adam frowned and looked at the master’s log book. Eight hundred miles since leaving Gibraltar, in just under five days. The ship was a good sailer despite these unreliable winds, conditions which might be expected in the Mediterranean.
No sight of land. They could be alone on some vast, uncharted ocean. The sun was hot but not oppressively so, and he had seen a few burns and blisters amongst the seamen.
“Who is the lookout?”
He did not turn, but guessed Massie was surprised by what seemed so trivial a question.
He did not recognise the name.
“Send Sullivan,” he said.
The master’s mate said, “He’s off watch below, sir.”
Adam stared at the chart. Unlike those in the chartroom, it was stained and well used; there was even a dark ring of something where a watch keeper had carelessly left a mug.
“Send him.” He traced the coastline with his fingers. Fifty miles or so to the south lay Algiers. Dangerous, hostile, and little known except by those unfortunate enough to fall into the hands of Algerine pirates.
He saw the seaman Sullivan hurrying to the main shrouds, his bare feet hooking over the hard ratlines. His soles were like leather, unlike some of the landsmen, who could scarcely hobble after a few hours working aloft, although even they were improving. He heard Partridge, the ship’s barrel-chested boatswain, call out something, and saw Sullivan’s brown face split into a grin.
He knew that Cristie, the master, had arrived on deck. That was not unusual. He checked his log at least twice in every watch. His entire world was the wind and the currents, the tides and the soundings; he could probably discover the exact condition of the seabed merely by arming the lead with tallow and smelling the fragment hauled up from the bottom. Without his breed of mariner a ship was blind, could fall a victim to any reef or sandbar. Charts were never enough. To men like Cristie, they never would be, either.
Adam shaded his eyes and peered up at the mainmast again.
“Deck, there!”
Adam waited, picturing Sullivan’s bright, clear eyes, like those of a much younger man peering through a mask.
“Wreckage off the starboard bow!”
He heard Massie say irritably, “Could have been there for months!”
Nobody answered, and he sensed that they were all looking at their captain.
He turned to the sailing-master. “What do you think, Mr Cristie?”
Cristie shrugged. “Aye. In this sea it could have been drifting hereabouts for quite a while.”
He was no doubt thinking, why? To investigate some useless wreckage would mean changing tack, and in this uncertain wind it might take half a day to resume their course.
The master’s mate said, “Here’s Sullivan, sir.”
Sullivan walked from the shrouds, gazing around the quarterdeck as if he had never seen it before.
“Well, Sullivan? A fool’s errand this time?”
Surprisingly, the man did not respond. He said, “Somethin’s wrong, sir.” He looked directly at his captain for the first time. Then he nodded, more certain, knowing that the captain would not dismiss his beliefs, his sailor’s instinct.
He seemed to make up his mind. “Gulls, sir, circlin’ over the wreckage.”
Adam heard the midshipman of the watch suppress a snigger, and the master’s mate’s angry rebuke.
A shadow fell across the compass box. It was Galbraith, the first lieutenant.
“Trouble, sir? I heard what he said.”
Gulls on the water meant pickings. Circling low above it meant they were afraid to go nearer. He thought of the boy John Whitmarsh, who had been found alive after Anemone had gone down.
“Call all hands, Mr Galbraith. We shall heave-to and lower the gig.” He heard the brief, almost curt orders being translated into trilling calls and the responding rush of feet. What’s the bloody captain want this time?
He raised his voice slightly. “Mr Bellairs, take charge of the gig.” He turned to watch the hands rushing to halliards and braces. “Good experience for your examination!” He saw the midshipman touch his hat and smile. Was it so easy?
He saw Jago by the nettings and beckoned him across. “Go with him. A weather eye.”
Jago shrugged. “Aye, sir.”
Galbraith watched the sails thundering in disorder as Unrivalled lurched unsteadily into the wind.
He said, “I would have gone, sir. Mr Bellairs is not very experienced.”
Adam looked at him. “And he never will be, if he is protected from such duties.”
Galbraith hurried to the rail as the gig was swayed up and over the gangway.
Did he take it as a slight because one so junior had been sent? Or as a lack of trust, because of what had happened in his past?
Adam turned aside, angry that such things could still touch him.
“Gig’s away, sir!”
The boat was pulling strongly from the side, oars rising and cutting into the water as one. A good boat’s crew. He could see Jago hunched by the tiller, remembered shaking hands with him on that littered deck after the American had broken off the action. And John Whitmarsh lay dead on the orlop.
“Glass, Mr Cousens!” He reached out and took the telescope, not noticing that the name had come to him without effort.
The gig loomed into view, up and down so that sometimes she appeared to be foundering. No wonder the frigate was rolling so badly. He thought of Cristie’s comment. In this sea.
He saw the oars rise and stay motionless, a man standing in the bows with a boat-hook. Jago was on his feet too, but steadying the tiller-bar as if he was calming the boat and the movement. The hard man, and a true sailor, who hated officers and detested the navy. But he was still here. With me.
Bellairs was trying to keep his footing, and was staring astern at Unrivalled. He held up his arms and crossed them.
Massie grunted, “He’s found something.”
Cristie barely spared him a glance. “Somebody, more like.”
Adam lowered the glass. They were pulling a body from the sea, the bowman fending off the surrounding wreckage with his boat-hook. Midshipman Bellairs, who would sit for lieutenant when the admiral so ordered, was hanging over the gunwale vomiting, with Jago holding his belt, setting the oars in motion again as if all else was secondary.