He had been pulled around the ship an hour earlier in the jollyboat, to study the trim as she lay motionless above her own reflection. She had been in commission for five months, and with her rigging and shrouds blacked-down, each sail neatly furled to its yard, she was a perfect picture of the shipbuilder’s art. Even her figurehead, the naked body of a beautiful woman arched beneath the beak-head, hands clasped behind her head, breasts thrust out in a daring challenge, was breathtaking. Unrivalled was the first to carry that name on the Navy List, the first of the bigger frigates which had been hastily laid down to meet the American threat, which had cost them dearly in a war neither side could win. A war which was already becoming a part of history.
Galbraith plucked his uniform coat away from his chest and tried to push the resentment aside. He was lucky. The navy was all he knew, all he wanted. He must remember that at all times.
He heard the Royal Marine sentry’s heels click together as he approached the screen door to the aftermost cabins.
“First lieutenant, sir! ”
Galbraith gave him a nod, but the sentry’s eyes did not waver beneath the brim of his leather hat.
A servant opened the door and stood aside as Galbraith entered the captain’s quarters. Any man would be proud, honoured to have her. When Galbraith had stood watching with the assembled ship’s company and guests as the ship’s new captain, her first captain, had unrolled his commission to read himself in and so assume command, he had tried to banish all envy and accept the man he was to serve.
After five months, all the training and the drills, the struggle to recruit more landmen to fill the gaps once the pressed hands had been discharged, he realised that Captain Adam Bolitho was still a stranger. In a ship of the line it might be expected, especially with a new company, but in frigates and smaller vessels like his Vixen it was rare.
He watched him warily. Slim, hair so dark it could have been black, and when he turned away from the stern windows and the reflected green of the land, the same restlessness Galbraith had noticed at their first meeting. Like most sea officers, he knew a lot about the Bolitho family, Sir Richard in particular. The whole country did, or seemed to, and had been stunned by the news of his death in the Mediterranean. Killed by a marksman in the enemy’s rigging, the very day Napoleon had stepped ashore in France after escaping from Elba. The day peace had become another memory.
Of this man, Sir Richard Bolitho’s nephew, he had heard only tidbits, although nothing remained secret for long in the fleet. The best frigate captain, some said; brave to a point of recklessness, others described him. He had been given his first command, a brig like Galbraith’s, at the age of twenty-three; and later lost his frigate Anemone fighting a vastly superior American force. Taken prisoner, he had escaped, to become flag captain to the man who was now Flag Officer, Plymouth.
Adam was looking at him now, his dark eyes revealing strain, although he was making an effort to smile. A youthful, alert face, one which would be very attractive to women, Galbraith decided. And if some of the gossip was to be believed, that was also true. Galbraith said, “The gig is lowered, sir. The crew will be piped at four bells, unless…”
Adam Bolitho moved to the table and touched the sword which was lying there. Old in design, straight-bladed, and lighter than the new regulation blades. It was part of the legend, the Bolitho sword, worn by so many of the family. Worn by Richard Bolitho when he had been marked down by the enemy.
Galbraith glanced around the cabin, the eighteen-pounders intruding even here. When cleared for action from bow to stern Unrivalled could present a formidable broadside. He bit his lip. Even if they were so badly undermanned. There were cases of wine waiting to be unpacked and stowed; he had seen them swayed aboard earlier, and knew they had come from the Bolitho house here in Falmouth, which would be the captain’s property now. Somehow it did not seem to fit this youthful man with the bright epaulettes. He noticed, too, that the cases were marked with a London address, in St James’s Street.
Galbraith clenched his fist. He had been there once. When he had visited London, when his world had started to collapse.
Adam forced his mind into the present. “Thank you, Mr Galbraith. That will suit well.” He waited, saw the questions forming in the first lieutenant’s eyes. A good man, he thought, firm but not impatient with the new hands, and wary of the old Jacks who might seek favours from an unknown officer.
He could feel the ship moving very gently beneath his feet. Eager to move, to be free of the land. And what of me, her captain?
He had seen Galbraith looking at the wine; it was from Catherine. Despite all that had happened, her despair and sense of loss, she had remembered. Or had she been thinking of one who had gone?
“Is there something else?” He had not meant to sound impatient, but he seemed unable to control his tone. Galbraith had not apparently noticed. Or had he simply become accustomed to the moods of his new lord and master?
Galbraith said, “If it is not an imposition, sir, I was wondering…” He hesitated as Adam’s eyes settled coldly on him. Like someone watching the fall of shot, he thought.
Then Adam said, “I am sorry. Please tell me.”
“I should like to pay my respects, sir. For the ship.” He did not flinch as a voice on deck yelled obscenely at a passing bumboat to stand away. “And for myself.”
Adam dragged out the watch from his pocket and knew Galbraith had noticed it. It was heavy and old, and he could recall exactly the moment when he had seen it in the shop in Halifax. The ticking, chiming clocks all around him, and yet it had seemed a place of peace. Escape, so many times. At the change of duties on deck, reefing or making sail, altering course, or entering harbour after a successful landfall… The old watch which had once belonged to another “seafaring officer.” One thing had made it different, the little mermaid engraved on the case.
He said, “If you think we can both be spared from the ship?” It was not what he had meant to say. It was the mermaid which had distracted him, the girl’s face, so clear, as in the shop. Zenoria.
Then he said, “I would take it kindly, Mr Galbraith.” He looked at him steadily and thought he could see a momentary warmth, something he had tried not to encourage. “Impress on the others, extra vigilance. We are under orders. I don’t want any deserters now. We’d not have enough to work ship, let alone fight.”
“I shall deal with it, sir.” Galbraith moved towards the door. It was not much, but it was the closest they had yet been.
Adam Bolitho waited for the door to close, then walked to an open quarter window and stared down at the water rippling beneath the counter.
A beautiful ship. Working with the local squadron, he had felt the power of her. The fastest he had known. Soon the anonymous faces would become people, individuals, the strength and the weakness of any ship. But not too close. Not again. As if someone had whispered a warning.
He sighed and looked at the cases of wine. How would Catherine manage, what would she do without the man who had become her life?
He heard three bells chime faintly from the forecastle.
It was going to be hard, even harder than he had imagined. People watching him, as they had watched his beloved uncle, with love, hatred, admiration and envy, none of them ever far away.
He knew Galbraith’s background, and what had smashed his chance of promotion to the coveted post rank. It could happen to anybody. To me. He thought of Zenoria again, and of what he had done, but he felt no shame, only a deep sense of loss.