When, eventually, they stood again at the shuttered doors the shadows were deeper, and the old dog had disappeared. Together they drank the wine, neither noticing that the glasses were hot from the sun.
She put her arm around his shoulder, and did not look away when he turned his head to see her more fully.
"I know, dearest of men. I know."
He felt her move against him, and the need of her again.
She tossed the mood aside. "I am out of practice! Come, my love… I shall do better this time!"
Faint stars were in the sky when they finally fell asleep, in one another's arms.
There was a smell of jasmine in the room. The miracle was complete.
16. Lifeline
Captain Adam Bolitho walked slowly to the quarterdeck rail and, for only a few seconds, laid his hand upon it. Like the rest of the ship, it was cold and damp, and he felt a shiver run down his spine like some ghostly reminder. He was very aware of the crowded main deck, the upturned faces, still anonymous and unknown to him, the swaying lines of scarlet-coated marines, the blue and white groups of officers and those of warrant rank. Soon to be a ship's company. His ship's company. People, individuals, the good and the bad, but on this bitter December day they were strangers. And Captain Adam Bolitho was quite alone.
On the lively passage back from Halifax to England, he had still imagined that he would be replaced at the last moment. That his one hope would be gone.
It was not a dream. It was not a reward. It was now, today. What his uncle had sometimes described as the most coveted gift was his by right. His Britannic Majesty's Ship Unrivalled, a fifth-rate of forty-six guns, was in almost every sense ready to join the fleet and perform whatever task might be ordered. So fresh from the builders' hands that in places below decks the paint was not yet dry, but up here, even to the inexperienced eye, she was a thing of beauty. She moved restlessly on the current, her holds and stores yet to be filled, like her magazines and shot-lockers, to give the graceful hull stability and purpose.
It was an important day for all of them. The fruitless, bitter war with the United States was all but over. Unrivalled was not only the first ship of her name on the Navy List,
but also the first to be commissioned under the promise of peace.
Adam glanced at the taut shrouds and blacked-down stays, the new cordage touched with frost like entwined, frozen webs, and he saw the breath of one seaman hanging over him like smoke.
It was misty, too, and the houses and fortifications of Plymouth were still blurred, like a glass out of focus.
He felt the ship move again, and pictured the Tamar River which he had seen when he had first arrived. Beyond it was Cornwall, his home, his roots. He had heard that Catherine had gone to Malta to visit his uncle, and it had seemed pointless to challenge the rutted, treacherous roads merely to visit an empty house. Even more so to venture further, perhaps to Zennor.
He pushed the thought away, and drew the scroll from inside his damp coat. This was all that mattered, all that counted now. There was nothing else, and he must never forget that.
He looked steadily at the assembled company for the first time. The seamen were uniformly dressed in new clothing from the purser's slop chest, cheque red shirts and white trousers. A new beginning.
Unlike any other ship in which he had served, Adam knew that Unrivalled carried not a single pressed man. The ship was under manned and some of her company he knew were felons from the assizes and local courts who had been given a choice: the King's service or deportation. Or worse. There were seasoned hands too, a tattoo or some skilled piece of tackle to mark them out from the rest. With ships and men being paid off with unseemly haste, why did some choose to remain in this harsh world of discipline and duty? Perhaps because, despite whatever they had sacrificed or endured, it was all they trusted.
Most of them would have heard other captains read themselves in at some time in their service, but as always it was a moment of significance for every one. The captain, any captain, was their lord and master for as long as the commission dictated.
Adam had known good captains, the best. He had also known the tyrants and the petty-minded, who could make any man's life a misery, or just as easily take his life from him.
He unrolled the scroll, and saw men leaning towards him to hear more clearly. There were visitors as well, including two vice admirals and a small group of burly men in rougher clothing. They had been surprised to be invited, and proud, too; they had built this ship, had created her, and had given her life.
The commission was addressed to Adam Bolitho Esq, in large, round copperplate writing; it could have been Yovell's, he thought.
"Willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you charge and command of captain in her accordingly."
It was like listening to someone else, so that he was able both to speak and take note of individual faces: Vice-Admiral Valentine Keen, now the port admiral at Plymouth, and, with him, Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune, who had come from the Admiralty in London for the occasion.
He recalled the moment when he had been pulled around the ship, and she had been warped to her first mooring. The figurehead had intrigued him: a beautiful woman, her nude body arched back beneath the beak head her hands clasped behind her head and beneath her long hair, her breasts out-thrust, her eyes looking straight ahead, challenging and defiant. It had been made by a well-known local carver named Ben Littlehales, and was said to be the best work he had ever done. Adam had heard some of the riggers saying that Littlehales always used living models, but none of them knew who she was, and the old carver would never tell. He had died on the day Unrivalled had first quit the slipway.
Adam saw Bethune and Keen exchange glances as he drew near to the end of the commission. Strange to realise that both of them, like himself, had been midshipmen under Sir Richard Bolitho's command.
If only he were here today…"…hereof, not you nor any of you may fail as you will answer to the contrary at your peril." He pulled his hat from beneath his arm and raised it slowly, saw their eyes following it. So many strangers. Even the gunner's mate, Jago, who had accepted the invitation to become his coxswain, looked like a different man in his new jacket and trousers. Jago was probably more bemused than anyone at the turn of events.
He thought suddenly of the boy, John Whitmarsh, who had died in that brief, bloody fight. He would have been here, should have been here…… and Anemone, the ship he had loved more than any other. Could this ship, and this new beginning, replace either of them?
He called. "God Save the King!"
The cheering was loud, unexpectedly so, and he had to fight to contain his emotion.
He thought again of the figurehead; the old carver had chiselled an inscription at the foot of his creation. Second to None. He would have to entertain his guests in the great cabin. It seemed so large and so bare, devoid of every comfort, and occupied at the moment only by some of the frigate's armament.
Valentine Keen stood back as the builders and senior carpenters crowded round Unrivalled's first captain. Adam had done well today. Keen had sensed the thoughts possessing him, the memories, on this bleak morning.
So very like his uncle; changed in some inexplicable way from the flag captain he had left in Halifax. The confidence and resolve remained, but there was a new maturity in Adam. And it suited him.
And what of me? It was still all so new, and a little overwhelming at times. Keen had a full staff, two captains, six lieutenants and a veritable army of clerks and servants.
Gilia had surprised him with her grasp of this new life, her ability to win hearts, and to be equally firm when she thought it was necessary. With each passing day the old shipboard life seemed to fade further into the distance; perhaps eventually, he thought, he would be like Bethune, with only a painting or two of a ship or a battle to remind him of the life he had known, for which he had bitterly fought his father, and now had, voluntarily, given up.