He thought of Hastilow, experienced and eager to avenge his men and his friend. How much might he be influenced by a senior officer like Turnbull, whose last command at sea had been a ship of the line?
"By th' mark thirteen!"
Adam imagined the leadsman, up there in the gloom, hauling in his line and feeling for the telltale marks, bunting, pieces of leather or simple knots. Strong, tarred fingers, an expert in his work.
Thirteen fathoms. Cristie would be making calculations. Unrivalled drew three. A safe margin, but with so many sandbars and unmarked spits you could never be confident.
He heard something fall heavily on deck, and an instant mouthful of curses from whoever was in charge.
The anchor party was in position, poised and ready to let go. As soon as they were anchored Galbraith would supervise the running out of a stern rope, right round the ship and then fastened to the mooring cable. An anchored man-of-war, even one as powerful and well-drilled as Unrivalled, was almost helpless to defend herself against oared vessels which could work around a ship's stern and fire directly into it. The chebecks had reinforced that lesson, and it was not one he would forget, no matter what Galbraith thought about it.
He saw the chart in his mind again. So many channels which led from the main river and into the first open water.
"By th' mark ten!"
Galbraith had joined him. "Soon now, sir." It sounded like a question.
Adam did not reply directly. If they anchored too far out, there might be a dozen passages of escape for any slaver which slipped past Turnbull.
"Not yet." He walked to the compass box and peered up at the maintopsail. He could see the entire span of it now. The sun would appear over those hills which Cristie had noted so carefully. After that…
"An' deep eight!" Not so bored now.
It was not difficult to imagine the seabed rising relentlessly to greet Unrivalled's keel.
He peered at the little dogvane, and knew the helmsmen were watching him intently.
Cristie said meaningly, "Wind's freshened a bit, sir."
Adam considered it. Cristie never wasted time with idle comment. And he could feel the strengthening offshore breeze, hear it in the sails. It would be hard work for Turnbull's boats, pulling directly into it. The slavers, if any were still there, would use it to advantage. Perhaps Turnbull had already decided to wait and allow their quarry to make the first move. At the same time, he knew he would not.
He recalled something he had heard his uncle say, as if he had spoken the words aloud. The only thing a captain can take Jr granted is the unexpected!
fie was surprised that he could sound so calm.
"Bring her about, Mr Galbraith. We will anchor."
Orders were passed with no more than necessary noise, and men who had tripped and fumbled with every move only months, weeks ago, scampered to sheets and braces as if they had been doing it all their lives.
"Lee braces, there! Hands wear ship!"
Adam reached for the locket beneath his shirt and was surprised that it was missing. He had left it in his strongbox, where it would remain until this episode was just another entry in Cristie's log.
But it felt strange, different. The ship cleared as if for action, but none of the main armament loaded. Over cautious? Or losing it, as the old Jacks termed it.
He listened to the rebellious canvas as the seamen kicked and fisted it into submission.
He saw the two Royal Marine officers by the boat tier, every feature so much clearer now.
The leadsman coming aft along the starboard gangway, his line neatly coiled over one shoulder.
Midshipman Deighton standing beside Galbraith… thinking what?
"Let go!"
He saw the spray burst up beneath the larboard cathead, heard Varlo calling out somebody's name.
Then he saw the land, swinging slowly past the bows, the beautiful figurehead's naked shoulders suddenly etched against the hills which were still in deep, purple shadow.
"All fast, sir!"
Adam saw Napier speaking with the other youth, Ede, gesturing as if to explain something which was happening by the capstan. One with a mother who no longer wrote to inquire after her son's well-being, the other, so deft and gentle with his hands, who had tried to murder his employer.
So he was being over cautious this time. It was his decision.
He smiled briefly. And they were ready.
Daniel Yovell stood below one of the quarterdeck ladders, his hat pulled down to shade his eyes from the first fierce glare of sunlight. He disliked the heat, but made no allowance for it in his dress. His father had been much the same, as far as he could remember. What keeps out the cold, keeps out the heat had been a rule with him. He knew it was a source of amusement to Unrivalled's ship's company, but he was used to that too.
He took a deep breath as he watched the golden glow spreading across the choppy water, giving life to the shoreline with its hills and the darker green of forest further inland. It was a time of day he tried never to miss. He had no responsibilities, no duties; he could merely observe and enjoy it. He had grown used to avoiding the normal rush and urgency of a man of war, without being a part of it.
Like now, he thought. One of the boats had been pulling a long rope from aft and had hauled it beyond the bows to lash it to the anchor cable. He had heard that it was to swing the ship if need be, to train the guns when there was no other way.
He heard partridge the boatswain bawling at some men on the capstan bars.
"'Ard work, did you say, Robbins? If the wind gets any, livelier it'll he a bloody sight 'arder!"
Without turning or looking up, Yovell could hear Captain Bolitho speaking with one of his officers. Calm, unruffled. But in the great cabin Yovell had seen the other side of him. Not the captain, but the man, who cared, and was often hurt because of it.
Like the time he had returned on board after his visit to the headquarters at Freetown, after he'd met RearAdmiral Herrick. Yovell knew a good deal about Herrick, and had served with him when he was Sir Richard Bolitho's secretary. Stubborn, pigheaded, with a fine edge between right and wrong. He had known of Herrick's refusal to accept Lady Somervell… Catherine… to see her true strength and value as more than merely Bolitho's lover.
He felt privileged to have shared it. He had seen Catherine's courage in the open boat after the loss of Golden Plover. Unable to conceal her discomfort, her borrowed sailor's garb barely hiding her body from a boat full of men, she had still managed to inspire and encourage them all. Most of them had given up any hope of survival. Yovell had taken comfort from his Bible, but even he had had moments of doubt.
He had heard Adam Bolitho refer to the navy as a family. Richard Bolitho had done so as well. It was no mere coincidence that the other frigate anchored at Freetown when they had arrived had been under James Tyacke's command. Tyacke in his brig Larne had found that open boat and saved them from certain death.
And now there was Thomas Herrick. To Yovell it seemed only yesterday since he had accompanied Catherine to Herrick's house in Kent, where they had found his wife in the grip of typhus. Sir Richard's wife Belinda had been there but had left immediately when she had realized the nature of the illness.
He had heard that Herrick had asked for forgiveness for his behaviour after that. Yovell was ashamed that he found it hard to believe.
Galbraith strode aft and paused to say, "Nothing to see, I'm afraid." He glanced at the partly-manned capstan. "But there's still time, I suppose."
He half-turned. "You going up, Sullivan?"
The seaman nodded. "Cap'n asked me, sir." He sounded troubled. "I hate this place. I was here before, once. Long time ago." His clear eyes were distant, reminiscent. "We was ashore on a waterin' party, and them devils took one of our lads. The cap'n sent th' marines ashore, but they was too late. They'd cut off his eyelids so that he couldn't close them against the sun, then they pegged him out on an anthill an' watched him die. It must have taken a long time, sir."