Allday heard someone bringing glasses. He thought of Unis, how lucky he was to have her.
Tyacke was speaking again, with no discernible emotion in his voice.
“It would not have worked, you see. The two children…” He touched his scarred face, reliving it. “I can understand how they felt about it.”
Allday watched him sadly. No, you don’t.
Tyacke gestured to the unknown servant.
“Nelson’s blood, am I right?”
Allday saw the servant give him a quick glance, and was glad he had put on his best coat today. As if he had known.
“It will do me good to get away from all of it. There’s nothing for me here. Not any more.” Tyacke took a full goblet. “It’s something we shared, were a part of. Nothing can alter that.” He swallowed some of his drink, his blue eyes very clear.
Then he said, after a silence, “He gave me back my pride, my hope, when I had thought them gone forever. I’ll never forget him, and what he gave to me.” He smiled briefly. “It’s all we can do now. Remember.”
He poured another generous measure of the rum and thought of Marion, her face when he had left the neat house, the children hiding in another room. Another man’s home, another man’s children.
Then he stared around the cabin and knew it was what he wanted. It was the only life he knew, or could expect.
Back to the anti-slavery patrols where he had been serving when he had first met Richard Bolitho. The trade was more extensive and more lucrative than ever despite all the treaties and promises; the slavers would have the pick of the ships as soon as this war was finally ended. Like the ones which had been there that day. When he had seen him fall, and this big, shambling man with the goblet almost lost in one of his hands had held him with a tenderness which few could imagine. Unless they had shared it. Been there. With us.
He smiled suddenly. And he never had told Marion about the yellow gown which he had always carried in that old sea-chest.
Later in the afternoon they went on deck. There was a hint of mist below Pendennis Castle, but the glass was steady and the wind was fair. Kestrel would clear harbour before most good people were awake and about their business.
Allday stood by the entry port, feeling the ship stir slightly beneath his fine shoes. He was surprised that he could accept it, without pain and without pity. He would never lose it, any more than the tall captain with the burned and melted face would forget.
The jolly-boat was already coming alongside, and the same midshipman was at the tiller. For some reason Allday was glad of it.
They faced one another and shook hands, each somehow knowing they would not meet again. As was the way with most sailors.
Tyacke waved to the boat, and asked, “Where to now, old friend?”
Allday smiled. “Goin’ home, Cap’n.”
Then he walked to the entry port, and paused and touched his forehead to the quarterdeck, and to the great ensign curling lazily from aft. For John Allday, admiral’s coxswain, it would never end.
He climbed down into the boat and grinned at the young midshipman. The worst part was behind him.
The midshipman eased over the tiller-bar and said shyly, “Will you, sir?”
Allday nodded, and waited for the bowman to cast off.
“Bear off forrard! Out oars! Give way together!”
It would never end.
10. Captain to Captain
LUKE JAGO made his way unhurriedly aft, his lean body angled easily to the deck. Unrivalled was heading west again, steering close-hauled on the starboard tack under topsails and topgallants, the wind light but enough to hold her steady.
Here on the ship’s messdeck the air was heady with rum, and the smell of the midday meal. Unlike a ship of the line, there were no guns on this deck. Each mess was allotted a scrubbed table and bench seats, with hooks overhead where the hammocks would be slung when the ship piped down for the night. In larger vessels the guns were a constant reminder to seamen and marines alike, when they swung themselves into their hammocks, and when they were piped on deck for any emergency. Their reason for being.
Jago glanced at the tables as he passed. Some of the men looked at him and nodded, others avoided his eye. It suited him well enough. He recalled that the captain had said he could use the little store which adjoined the cabin pantry for his meals, but he had declined. He had been surprised by Captain Bolitho’s offer, and that he should even care about it.
He half-listened to the loud murmur of voices and the clatter of plates. The forenoon watchkeepers were already tucking into their boiled meat, and what looked like oatmeal. The new cook was far better than his predecessor; at least he was not so mean with his beef and pork. And there was bread, too. The captain had sent a working party to one of the garrisons in Malta: the army always seemed to live well when it was not in the field. And there was butter, while it lasted. When the purser had supervised the issue to all the messes, you would have thought he was parting with his own skin. But they were always like that.
To these men, experienced or raw recruits, such small items, taken for granted by those ashore, were luxuries. When they were exhausted it would be back to iron-hard ship’s biscuits, with slush skimmed off the galley coppers to make them edible. He grinned inwardly. A sailor’s lot.
He saw the glint of metal and scarlet coats, marine sentries, and, crowded together while the food was ladled out, the prisoners from the ill-fated Tetrarch. Jago had seen them eating so voraciously when they had been brought aboard that it seemed they had not been properly fed for years. Now some were even working with the various parts of ship, under supervision of sorts. But Jago thought that no matter what lay ahead for these men, they were somehow glad to be back in the world which had once been their own.
The admiral at Malta, Bethune, had wanted to get rid of them as quickly as possible, the British ones at any rate. Someone else would have to decide their fate. Would anybody bother to investigate the circumstances, he wondered? Mutineers, deserters, or men who had been misled? The end of a rope was the usual solution.
He thought of the captain again. He had given orders that these men were to receive the same rations as the ship’s company. Troublemakers would be punished. Instantly. He could see Bolitho’s face as he had said it. Jago knew that most captains would have kept these men on deck in all weathers, and in irons. As an example. As a warning. And it was cheaper, too.
He paused by one of the tables and studied a finely carved model of a seventy-four. Unrivalled had been in commission for only six months, and during that time he had watched this superb carving take on meaning and life.
The seaman raised his head. It was Sullivan, the keen-eyed lookout.
“Almost done, ’Swain.”
Jago rested one hand on his shoulder. He knew the history of the modeclass="underline" she was the Spartiate, a two-decker which had been in Nelson’s Weather Division at Trafalgar. Sullivan kept to himself, but was a popular man by any standard. Trafalgar: even the word gave him a sort of presence. He had been there, in the greatest naval battle of all time, had cheered with all the others when they had broken through the French line, only to be stunned by the signal that Lord Nelson, “Our Nel,” had fallen.
When Jago had watched the captain he had found himself wondering if he ever compared the death of his uncle, Sir Richard Bolitho, a man who had been as well liked and respected as Nelson, but had been killed in what might have been an accidental engagement. In the end, it was the same for both of them.
He looked over Sullivan’s head at the next mess, where the ship’s boys were quartered. Signed on by parents who wanted to be rid of them, and others like Napier, who had been appointed the captain’s servant, living in the hope of outside sponsorship, and the eventual chance of a commission. He remembered the captain’s face when he had told him that the boy John Whitmarsh had been killed. He had intended to sponsor the boy as midshipman, and all the while Whitmarsh had wanted only to remain with him.