She had even mentioned the house in Plymouth. Boscawen House. It had been all he could do to hide his emotion.
It had been at the port admiral's house that he had met Zenoria, purely by chance. She had dropped a glove while alighting from her carriage. It had been the last time he had seen her, before she had taken her life. She had been in Plymouth to visit Boscawen House, accompanied by a London lawyer.
Had Keen, in fact, bought it as long ago as that? Did it signify nothing more to him than a suitable house for a senior officer and his wife?
Like yesterday… Zenoria in the admiral's house, surrounded by other officers and their wives, and yet completely alone…… And her glove, which he had been carrying when the American broadsides had done for his Anemone. That, too, was another fragment of this undying pain.
Her voice. "Keep it for me. Think of me sometimes, will you?"
He would never forget.
He jerked around in the chair. "Who is that?"
It was John Whitmarsh, his servant. Another reminder. He had been the only survivor from Anemone, except for those men who had surrendered when they had seen their captain fall. Just a boy, who had been 'volunteered' by an uncle when his father had been drowned off the Goodwins. He could have been no more than ten or so when he had been sent to sea in Anemone.
"Me, zur." He stepped carefully into the circle of light. "I thought you would likely be staying ashore, zur."
Adam ran his fingers through his dark hair. He must not go on like this. He would destroy himself, and those who depended on him.
"I considered it." He gestured to his cupboard. "A glass of cognac, if you please, John Whitmarsh." He watched him bustling about, always so content, so eager. When Adam had offered him the position of servant the boy had treated it with open delight, as if he had been thrown a lifeline. How could he know that he, in turn, had offered the same to his captain?
And now, all the changes. What might happen next? He looked at the boy grimly. He had nobody. Father dead, and no word from his mother, although Adam had written in an attempt to discover her whereabouts, and her interest, if any, in her son. He was thirteen years old. As I once was.
He took the goblet and held it to the lamplight.
"Stay a while, John Whitmarsh. I have been meaning to speak with you."
"Is something wrong, zur?"
"Have you thought about your future, in the navy, or beyond that?"
He frowned. "I – I'm not sure, zur."
Adam studied him for several seconds. "I received no reply from your mother, you see. Someone must decide for you."
The boy seemed suddenly anxious. "I'm very happy here, zur. You've taught me so many things, how to read an' write…"
"That was not all my doing, John Whitmarsh. You are a quick learner." He looked at the goblet again. "Would you consider being sponsored as midshipman, or transferred as a volunteer to some ship more suitable for advancement? Have you thought of that?"
The boy shook his head. "I don't understand, zur. A midshipman… wear the King's coat like the young gentlemen, like Mister Lovie who was killed?" He shook his head again, determination making him suddenly vulnerable. "I shall serve you, zur, an' one day perhaps I'll become your cox'n like old Mister Allday does for Sir Richard!"
Adam smiled, and was strangely moved. "Never let Allday hear you describe him as old, my lad!" He became serious again. "I believe you could be a midshipman, and eventually a King's officer, with some education and the right guidance.
And I would be prepared to sponsor you." He saw that he was achieving nothing. "I shall pay even your mother cannot object to that!"
The boy stared at him, his eyes filling his face. It was all there, despair, anxiety and disbelief.
"I want to stay with you, zur. I don't want anybody else."
Overhead feet moved back and forth, the watch changing. It must be four o'clock. But to this boy it meant nothing; all he saw was the one life he knew being taken from him.
"I shall tell you a story. There once was a young boy who lived with his mother in Penzance. They did not have much money, but they were happy together. Then his mother died, and this boy was left with nothing. Nothing but a piece of paper and the name of his uncle, whose home was in Falmouth."
"An' be that you, zur?"
"Aye, John Whitmarsh, it was. I walked all the way to Falmouth. Not as far as India, but far enough, and there I was taken in and protected by the lady I grew to know as my Aunt Nancy. I could have stayed with her, and I would have had no fear of want again. But I waited until my uncle's ship returned to Falmouth. He was her captain." He was surprised at his own voice. Pride, love for the man who was one of England 's greatest admirals.
The boy nodded gravely. "An' you became a midshipman, zur." There was a silence, then he said, "When I met Sir Richard that day, when he asked about you, an' what I saw when our ship went down, I felt it. How he felt, what you meant to him, just like me an' my father."
"So think about it, for your own sake. And for mine. We take much from this strange life we lead. It is sometimes a comfort to put something back into it."
The boy picked up the empty goblet but Adam shook his head, and he left it.
Then he said, "I only ever had one real friend, zur, that was Billy, an' he was lost that day."
Adam stood up and yawned. "Well, now you have another, so be off and catch some rest before they pipe the hands."
He turned to watch as the slight figure melted into the shadows, and was pleased by what he had done.
They were two days out of Halifax on passage for the Bermudas once again, and Valkyrie, with her heavily laden charges, had barely logged five hundred miles. Long, monotonous days when some of the hands had to be chased even to their routine duties watch by watch.
In other circumstances it might have been ideal. There was a light northeasterly wind, enough to fill the sails and no more, with clear skies and sun to drive away the memories of winter cold and darkness.
At noon Adam stood by the quarterdeck rail and shaded his eyes to watch the three heavy transports lying downwind, with the outline of Wildfire, a smaller twenty-eight-gun frigate, almost invisible in a shimmering heat haze.
He heard the murmuring voices of the midshipmen, who were gathered with their sextants to estimate and compare their calculations from the midday sights, while Ritchie and one of his mates moved amongst them with the tired patience of schoolmasters. Lieutenant Dyer was with the boatswain by the foremast, discussing work to be done on the cross trees although Adam guessed that he had chosen the moment merely to keep out of his way.
This endless convoy work, soldiers and guns, stores and ammunition; it might be necessary, but it was not a life he cared for. A slow passage and limp canvas when he was more used to questions of whether to reef or not, with spray bursting over the beak head to send the unwary flying.
He glanced at the skylight. He had scarcely seen Captain Deighton since he had come aboard. He was down there now, using the large stern cabin. Deighton was probably relishing it, thinking of the moment when it would be his steppingstone to higher rank.
He glanced at the masthead. At least there was no broad pendant yet. This is still my ship.
Ritchie was writing in his log, and looked up as Adam's shadow fell across it.
The sea was empty, a glittering, blinding desert, and yet in his mind's eye he could see the land, exactly as Ritchie's spidery calculations and estimated position described it. New York lay some hundred and fifty miles to the west. Ships, movement, the enemy. But for how much longer?
"How are you feeling, Mr. Ritchie?"
He saw the immediate alarm, the anxiety. Like the boy, when he had asked him about his future.
"Fair enough, sir." He sighed. "Some days is better'n others."
Adam regarded him gravely. Take heed of the bad times, Mr. Ritchie. Have a word with the surgeon, perhaps?"