Ritchie's worn face split into a grin. "Of course, sir."
George Minchin was a surgeon of the old school, one of the butchers. And yet, even sodden with rum, he had probably saved more lives in his brutal trade than others more mindful of the risks. He had been Bolitho's surgeon in the old Hyperion when she had fought her last fight. Drink should have sent him aloft long since, Adam thought, but he was still with them. He could understand Ritchie's reluctance to fall into his hands.
He saw Ritchie turn his head slightly. "He's one of the walking dead if ever I saw one, sir!"
The man in question was tall, narrow-chested and bony, like a living skeleton. Except that Adam had seen him carry Captain Deighton's chest and other gear up from a boat alongside with neither a tackle nor another hand to aid him; he had muscles of steel. He was Deighton's personal servant and went by the name of Jack Norway. If that was indeed his name.
When spoken to, he would listen attentively, his gaunt head slightly on one side, his gaze never leaving the speaker. Dyer had remarked irritably, "Never says a word, damn his eyes! More like a bodyguard than a servant, if you ask me!" He had shown no interest in mixing with those around him, and the others seemed content to keep it so.
Adam tugged out his watch and flicked open the guard. Then he turned it slightly to catch the sun's reflection on the engraved mermaid, which had immediately attracted him in the shop in Halifax. Chiming clocks, watches of every kind, and this one. His old watch had gone missing after he had been wounded in Anemone, or had been stolen during his imprisonment. The little mermaid. Like the one which was said to visit the church in Zennor, where Zenoria now lay. Or did she…?
"We shall exercise the starboard battery after the hands have been fed, Mr. Ritchie." He could smell the heady aroma of rum in the warm air, another part of a ship's daily life. Mine, too.
He saw one of the midshipmen cleaning his sextant, then turning away as Deighton appeared on the quarterdeck.
He glanced at the men working on deck, the sail maker crew with their needles and palms, stitching and repairing, letting nothing go to waste. Fasken, the gunner, was bending over one of the larboard carronades, watched anxiously by Lieutenant Warren, who until recently had been a midshipman. There were probably about forty years between them.
Deighton remarked, "Some experienced men, Captain Bolitho, but some very young ones, would you agree?"
Adam said, "The ship has a good backbone of seasoned men, warrant officers and the like. I have been lucky. Some of the others are quite young, and I'm still short-handed despite volunteers from Halifax, but even the young ones have experience enough of battle."
He studied Deighton's profile, the short ginger hair, the ever restless eyes.
Almost to himself, Deighton added, "Keep them busy, drive them hard, that's the answer. But I'm sure you know that, eh?"
"This is not a ship of the line, Captain Deighton. We are often engaged in chasing enemy vessels, with a prize or two at the end of the day. We always need extra hands to crew the prizes, when and where we can find them."
Deighton nodded slowly. "And you have been more than successful, I hear."
Adam gestured over the starboard side. There are prizes a-plenty out there for those who will run them to earth."
Deighton took a telescope from the rack and scanned the horizon immediately ahead of the ship, pausing at each transport, and the hazy frigate beyond.
"She must be Wildfire. Captain Price."
Adam half-smiled. Price, the wild-eyed Welshman. But all he said was, "A good officer."
"Yes, yes. We shall see."
The afternoon watch had taken over its various stations, the men glancing at the other captain as they trooped aft, their eyes curious, perhaps hostile.
Adam wondered why. Because Deighton was a stranger? But then so was I.
Deighton asked abruptly, "And who is thatT
Adam saw the boy, John Whitmarsh, pausing by the boat tier to stare at the sea.
"My servant."
Deighton smiled, for the first time. "A damn sight prettier than mine!
Where did you find him?"
He was surprised that Deighton could rouse such resentment in him.
"He was one of the few to survive when my ship was sunk." He turned and looked at him directly. "I am putting him up for advancement."
"I see. Is he from a good family? His father, has he…?"
Adam replied shortly, "His father is dead. He has no means of support."
"Then I don't understand." He touched Adam's sleeve. "Or… perhaps I do."
A squad of marines had lined the quarterdeck nettings, and a sergeant was inspecting their muskets. At a signal from forward, some old pieces of boxwood were hurled outboard by the carpenter's mates.
"Marines, ready!"
Adam beckoned to the lieutenant of marines. "Carry on!"
The pieces of woodwork floated past, and as the order rang out each marine fired his musket in turn. There were a few grins and some derisive cheers from idlers on the gundeck as splashes burst around the makeshift targets.
Adam reached out and took the marine officer's pistol, and tested the weight in his palm; it was heavier and clumsier than his own. He climbed up on to some bollards and took aim. The driftwood was further away now, and he heard Deighton remark, "Not much chance there!"
"I think, Captain Deighton, that you were right the first time. You don't understand."
He felt the pistol buck in his grip and saw one of the wood fragments splinter. Then he handed the pistol to the marine lieutenant, and said, "Now, I think we all do."
4. The Longest Day
Catherine carefully raised the window catch, and paused to glance over her shoulder at their bed. The curtain around it was partly drawn to shield his face from the first light; he was asleep, one arm flung out toward her pillow, at peace, perhaps his only refuge.
She opened the window and looked down at the garden, the rich colours of her first roses. The sun was warm on her skin even so early in the morning, the air clean, and bearing only a hint of salt from the sea.
If she had leaned out, she would have seen the blue-grey water of Falmouth Bay beyond the headland. But she did not lean out. Today, of all days, the sea was an enemy.
Her gown had fallen open and she felt the breath of that sea on her skin. There was no one to see her. The estate workers were in the fields, and she could hear the faint sound of hammers chipping on slate. She had once believed she would never get used to this place, or call it home, and now it was a part of herself.
She touched her breast as he had done, could still feel the depth of his embrace and his desire. As if he had only just withdrawn from her.
How quickly time had passed since their return from London. Riding, walking, and being alone with each other.
Now the house was so quiet, as if it was holding its breath. George Avery had visited them several times, and with Richard had gone through the canvas pouches which arrived regularly from their lordships. She had listened to them, trying to share it, to make it last. Like Richard's new flagship, Frobisher. They discussed the ship like the professional sailors they were, as a she were human, a living creature.
Avery had stayed at the inn at Fallowfield, perhaps to allow them as much time as possible alone together, and also to ponder over his rejection by Susanna Mildmay. She knew it had saddened Richard; he had blamed himself, because Avery had put loyalty before his own personal happiness. If she was really the woman for him…… She watched a pair of wagtails darting amongst the flowers. Is that not what society said about me?
She pressed her hand to her side, feeling the ache, the heaviness, the pain which today would bring.
They had dined alone last night, although neither of them remembered the meal which had been so carefully prepared.
She had told him she wanted to ride with him all the way to Portsmouth, where Frobisher lay waiting to receive him. Like the other times, like the last time when she had climbed up Indomitable's side. It was not to be. Richard had said that he wanted to take his leave of her in this house. Where I always think of you.