Catherine had been here. For a few days, before she had been forced to take passage back to England.
The last time, the last place she had seen his uncle. He tried to turn aside from the thought. The last time they had been lovers.
Cristie called, “Ready, sir!”
Adam walked to the rail and stared along the length of his command. The anchor swaying slightly to the small movement, ready to let go, men at halliards and braces, petty officers staring aft to the quarterdeck. To their captain. He saw Galbraith on the opposite side, a speaking-trumpet in his hands, but his eyes were on Wynter, the third lieutenant, who was up forward with the anchor party. Galbraith had intended to take charge himself, and Adam had been surprised by this discovery, more so because he had not noticed it earlier. A strong, capable officer, but he could not or would not delegate, as in the matter of Bellairs and the wreckage, the pathetic corpses, the screaming gulls.
He said, “Carry on, Mr Galbraith!”
“Lee braces, there! Hands wear ship!”
“Tops’l sheets! Tops’l clew lines!”
Galbraith’s voice pursued the seamen as they hauled and stamped in unison on the sun-dried planking, waiting to belay each snaking line of cordage.
“Helm a’lee!”
Adam stood very still, watching the land pass slowly across the bowsprit and the proud figurehead.
“Let go!” Galbraith nodded curtly and the great anchor hit the water, flinging spray over the bustling seamen.
The Jack broke from the bows almost immediately, and he saw Midshipman Bellairs turn to smile at one of his signals party. But he had not forgotten the man they had plucked from the sea, only to surrender him again. Adam had seen the boy when they had cleared lower deck for the ceremony. Even the wind had dropped.
It had been strangely moving for new hands and old Jacks alike. Most of them had seen men they knew, and had shared their meagre resources with in one messdeck or another, pitched outboard like so much rubbish after a battle. But for some reason the burial of this unknown sailor had been different.
He had known Galbraith was watching him as he had read from the worn and salt-stained prayer book. He smiled. His aunt Nancy had given it to him before he had joined Hyperion.
Take good care of it, Adam. It will take good care of you.
It was the only thing he still possessed from that day, a lifetime ago.
He looked up now at the monkey-like figures of seamen securing sails, and freeing the boat tackles. How long this time? What orders? His mind refused to submit. And what of a ship named La Fortune?
The dying man might have been mistaken, his reeling mind betraying him, clinging perhaps to a memory which, like him, was now dead.
But suppose? There had been many French ships at sea when Napoleon had abdicated. The two frigates which had engaged Frobisher on the day of his uncle’s death had not come from nowhere.
“Orders, sir?”
“Post sentries, Mr Galbraith. I don’t want any unlawful visitors. And have a boat prepared for the purser-he’ll need to go ashore to look for fruit.”
Even a man-of-war invited attention when she lay at anchor. With gunports left open to afford some relief to men off watch, there was easy access for dealers and women, too, given half a chance. He smiled again, privately. Especially a man-of-war.
A boatswain’s mate called, “Guard-boat coming alongside, sir!”
Galbraith seemed to come abruptly out of his habitual reserve.
“Letters from home, maybe, sir? We might learn what’s happening!”
Adam glanced at him, this Galbraith who was still unknown to him.
“Passenger on board, sir!” He thought Bellairs sounded disappointed. “A lieutenant, sir!”
Adam walked to the entry port, and saw the officer in question shaking hands with the Royal Marine lieutenant who was in charge of the boat. A tall man, dark hair streaked with grey. Adam clenched his fist without realising it. It had to come. But not now, not like this. He was unprepared. Vulnerable. Perhaps Bethune had been trying to warn him at Gibraltar.
Galbraith said uncertainly, “I do not recognise him, sir.”
“Why should you?” He touched his arm, aware of the sharp sarcasm. “Forgive me. My rank does not afford me a licence to insult you.” He stared at the entry port. “He is-was-my uncle’s flag lieutenant. And friend.”
Then he walked to meet his visitor, and all he could feel was envy.
Lieutenant George Avery seated himself in a high-backed chair and watched as the cabin servant placed two goblets of wine on a table. The chair felt hard, unused, like the ship herself.
Strange how it became with ships, he thought. In a King’s ship you always expected to see a familiar face, catch a name you had once known. The navy was a family, some said; you were always a part of it.
He had been introduced to the senior lieutenant, a powerfully built man with an honest face and a firm handshake. But he was a stranger. He studied the captain. He had been prepared for this meeting, although he guessed Adam Bolitho had been disconcerted by it.
But it was not that. He observed him now, in profile as he wrote briefly on a pad for a small, sickly-looking man who must be a clerk.
They had met several times, and Avery had always remembered his quick, observant approach to his work and the people he met, in retrospect always youthful, always restless. Like a young colt, Richard Bolitho had once said.
The resemblance was there, to the portraits in the house in Falmouth. And, above all, to the man he had served, and had loved.
We are about the same age, but whereas he has his career and his future ahead like a beacon, I have nothing. Adam Bolitho and his uncle had been kept apart far more than they had been together, and yet, in his mind, Avery had always thought of one as being in the mould of the other. It was not so. Adam had changed in some way, matured as was inevitable for any man of his rank and responsibility. But it went far deeper. He was guarded, withdrawn. Perhaps still unable or unwilling to accept that the cloak, the guardian presence, was gone, that there was not even a shadow. Adam was looking at him now, holding out the goblet.
“You will like this.”
But he was not telling him; he was asking him to share something.
Avery held up the goblet, and thought of the wines she had sent aboard for Richard Bolitho.
“I am told that you saw Lady Somervell when you were in England, sir? Before you sailed.”
“Aye. She was concerned that I would not care enough to order some wine for myself!” Then he did smile, and, only briefly, he was the young, headstrong officer Avery had first met.
Avery said, “She never forgets,” and the smile faded. Like sunlight dying even as you watched, he thought.
“We were at Falmouth… I pray to God she is able to come to terms with this terrible loss.” He changed tack swiftly, in the manner Avery remembered. “And what of you? Shall you remain here in Malta?”
Avery put down the goblet. It was empty, and he could taste the wine on his lips, but he did not recall drinking it.
“I am able to elaborate on the information already to hand, sir.” He hesitated. “Sir Richard had cause to meet Mehmet Pasha, the man who commands and governs in Algiers. I was with him, and was privileged to share the intelligence we gained there. If I may be of help?”
He moved his shoulder and Adam saw him wince: the old wound which had brought him down and had cost him his ship. We have so much in common. He had seen his own flag cut down in surrender when, like Avery, he had been too badly wounded to resist. And he also had been a prisoner of war, before making his escape. A court martial had cleared and had praised him. The verdict could just as easily have destroyed him.
He said, “I would be grateful. Sir Graham Bethune has very little on which to proceed.”
Above and around them the anchored frigate was alive with shipboard sounds, and once during their conversation he got up and closed the cabin skylight against them. As if, for these moments, he wanted to share it with nobody else.