Rowlatt waited for the lieutenant to look up from the cargo list, and touched his hat. Vincent was probably glad of the interruption. Pinchgut Vicary, as the purser was known, was not the liveliest company on any day.
“All aboard?”
“Mr. Squire is returning with the guardboat, sir.”
Vincent made a non-committal noise. Squire must have remained to the end, while the captain presented himself as ordered to the admiral. He yawned, irritated that he was too tired to control it. But he knew there was a deeper reason. It was envy.
He saw Midshipman Walker loitering, gazing intently at a small boat pulling unnecessarily close along the larboard side. A Royal Marine was keeping pace with it on the gangway, but when he waved for the helmsman to stand clear he was given a huge grin and a display of cheap ornaments.
Vincent glanced at the nearest pile of stores. That must be stowed away without delay. “Mr. Walker, find some spare hands.”
He saw him hurry away. Walker must have had his hair cut: it made him look younger than ever. Thirteen, or was he fourteen now? The boy who had been forever seasick, even in a flat calm. The other midshipmen had tired of making jokes about it, and of cleaning him up. Now it was unknown.
Rowlatt asked, “Th’ cap’n, sir-is he due back on board soon?”
Vincent nodded. Rowlatt always had a reason. He was never lacking when it came to discipline and routine. A first lieutenant’s right arm, and usually hated because of it.
“I want a close watch kept.” He gestured in the direction of the flagship. “He’ll want some rest after all this.” Rowlatt said nothing, and he thought, and so shall I!
Vincent thought longingly of the wardroom. But if he went below now … He swung round, startled, as the cry came from forward.
“Boat ahoy?”
Rowlatt snapped, “Must be a mistake, sir!”
But the reply was clear enough. “Aye, aye!”
A visitor. An officer.
Vincent swore under his breath. “Who the hell?”
Midshipman Walker hurried over, holding a telescope outstretched, and Vincent took it, calm once more. He should have known. He trained the glass with care, the fixed grin of the would-be trader leaping out at him until he found the other boat, bows on, filling the lens. One of Medusa‘s own gigs, the flagship’s distinctive markings unmistakable in the sunlight. And one passenger, wearing the scarlet uniform of the Royal Marines. More to the point, there was a pile of kit in the sternsheets, some of it personal.
Images of the wardroom flooded Vincent’s mind again, and the habits and characters of the men who lived there. Robert Sinclair had been buried today: no time wasted. This must be his replacement arriving. He saw the newcomer being met at the entry port by Monteith, who had appeared a few seconds earlier, and who was now directing him aft. Sergeant Fairfax was nearby, but keeping his distance. His life, too, would now be changed.
The first few moments were always the worst.
The marine, a lieutenant, strode aft, his eyes not leaving Vincent until he had halted smartly and saluted. An open, youthful face, the hair beneath his hat fair and neatly trimmed. The scarlet uniform was well-cut but looser than some, as if he had lost weight since he had last visited a tailor. The sword, too, was well-worn, even tarnished. He was older than he looked, Vincent thought.
He returned the salute. About my age.
“Lieutenant Devereux, sir, come aboard to join. Regret the delay. All boats in use.” He held out the familiar stamped and sealed envelope. Good or bad, a new beginning.
Vincent offered his free hand. “I’m the senior here. Welcome aboard.”
The smile, like the handshake, was firm but unconsciously so, not done to make an impression.
“The captain is not aboard at present. But you probably know that.”
Devereux nodded, and winced slightly, touching his face. “I know, sir. I caught sight of him just before I came over.”
Vincent waited, giving himself time. The gesture had drawn his attention to a deep scar on the left side of Devereux’s face, not large but deadly, an inch or less above the jawbone.
Devereux said lightly, “Sun’s a little hotter than usual,” but the smile was gone.
Vincent said, “Did you get that out here?” and Devereux lowered his hand.
“No-back home. In Chatham, as it happens.”
Vincent gazed along the main deck, where a few men were still clearing up from the day’s work. “I hope she was worth it?”
Devereux looked at him in silence, then said abruptly, “I thought so.” His jaw lifted, so that the scar seemed to speak for him. “It was self-defense, of course.”
Vincent touched his arm. “I’ll have your kit taken below.” He glanced at the official envelope. “Paul, isn’t it?” He gestured toward the companion ladder. “I’ll show you our quarters. The formalities must wait until the captain returns.”
Even now he could feel the stab of resentment.
• • •
The flag lieutenant paused outside Medusa‘s great cabin as Adam wiped the last of the dried mud from his shoes on to a rope mat.
“Don’t trouble yourself about that, sir. You’re here, that’s the main thing!” He nodded to a Royal Marine sentry, and added in an undertone, “He will see you now.”
Once through the screen door, the cabin was much as Adam remembered it, well furnished, spotless, and somehow unlived-in. At the far end, in the centre of the broad stern windows, Rear-Admiral Giles Langley stood with his back to the gleaming panorama of water and moored vessels, his fair hair almost touching the deckhead.
As Adam walked aft Langley seemed to come to life, and strode to meet him.
“Good to see you again, Bolitho. Only sorry I had to drag you aboard without giving you time to breathe.” He gripped Adam’s outstretched hand and stared intensely at him, his pale eyes unblinking. “You look damn well despite it all. Proud of you.” Then, “Pity I couldn’t have joined you at the sad but necessary ceremony.” He waved vaguely around the cabin. “I’m sure you understood.”
He waited as a servant darted forward and moved his chair away from a shaft of sunlight. So that was what was different. The curtains which had covered the stern windows, obscuring the impressive view of Freetown, were gone. Perhaps the admiral had become more accustomed to the searing light and the climate.
They sat facing one another, a small table between them, while the servant spoke to someone else in hiding beyond the same door. There was a clink of glasses, and Adam found time to wonder what was keeping him alert. And for what?
Langley said bluntly, “I hear you fell in with Sir Charles Godden.”
“Apparently he was at the funeral service, sir, although he did not announce himself.”
Langley smiled coldly. “He was in a carriage. But I doubt it was by coincidence. Not in his nature.” He turned his head and rapped out, “I shall send word if I need you, Flags.”
Adam had not realised that Langley’s aide was still in the cabin. No wonder he looked so hunted. And where was Tyacke?
Langley asked, just as brusquely, “What did you make of Godden?” and did not wait for an answer. “Had everybody jumping here from the minute he stepped ashore. He and his little group of cronies-they’ve done well for themselves. I can’t even guess what the bill will come to! And he was here looking for ways to save money!” He laughed, almost jovially, but his eyes were very keen. “Well? Did he impress you? A few minutes beside someone in a carriage you had never met before. Or are likely to meet again.”
“I think he was sincere-even eager to learn how we feel about our role here.”
Langley snapped his finger and thumb. “What we’re costing his precious government, more likely! Better friend than foe, in my opinion.”
He leaned over and tapped the little table. “Don’t take all day, man!”
Adam could smell the brandy from where he was sitting.
Langley took out a handkerchief and dabbed his face. “But he’s nobody’s fool. I can see why he’s got where he is. Knows about our antislavery patrols and the results, good or bad. Knows of our co-operation with the ship-owners and traders here.” He winked. “Or lack of same!” He shifted in his chair as the servant approached with a tray and a full decanter, and two fresh glasses. There were wet rings on the tray left by previous ones.