He said quietly, "I'll be here. Be certain of it."
He listened to the uneven breathing. Wanting it to stop, to end his suffering. He had done enough; this hard, rough hand said it all. The countless leagues sailed, ropes fought and handled, sea, wind, and now this.
He could hear Tyacke's words. Bitter, scathing. And, for what?
Polglaze said suddenly, "I wanted to tell you about Paradox, Cap'n. How it was, what they did. A fine little craft she was."
Adam tried not to swallow or move. Did he know what had happened in the end? The rising pall of smoke.
"It was all planned, see, the boats was put down, and some of our best men sent aboard." His voice seemed stronger. Reliving it. "Our Mr Hastilow was ready, too. He'd done it often enough, see.
He broke into a fit of coughing. A hand came from the shadows with a cloth to dab his mouth. There was blood on it when it withdrew.
Polglaze groaned and then said, "We was too far off, an' the wind too hard on 'em. I thought mebbee we should have waited 'til the others came. An' then the lieutenant orders a change of tack. I dunno why, exactly."
Adam recalled Cristie's surprise. The wrong bearing. And the schooner's ragged sailors, their obvious hostility. But as a company they were as one. Polglaze could not even remember the lieutenant's name. He had replaced the luckless Finlay, but he was not one of them. Now he never would.
Polglaze gave a great sigh. "An' then we struck. Nobody's fault, we was just obeyin' orders." He sighed again, but the grip was just as strong. "We never carried a senior officer afore, see?"
Adam bowed his head to hear other, unformed words. Turnbull must have ordered the change of tack, and the new lieutenant would obey; he did not know that coast like the others.
Polglaze was looking at him intently. "The winter'll be lettin' go in Cornwall now, I reckon?" His head fell forward and he was dead.
O'Beirne stooped to prise the fingers from Adam's hand.
"Yes, it will." Adam stood, his hair brushing a deckhead beam, the cool timber quietening him, sustaining him, although his mind was still blurred with anger and with sorrow.
He said, "Thank you for fetching me. It was something he needed to tell me, to share, in his own fashion." He knew O'Beirne's men were lurking in the shadows, ready to carry the dead boatswain to the sailmaker. For his last voyage, as one captain had described it.
And one day perhaps, in the tiny village of St Keverne, where the land looked out over those treacherous rocks, the Manacles, if there was still anyone who cared, the man named Polglaze would be remembered, he hoped for his courage and his loyalty.
He turned to leave, to face Galbraith's unspoken questions.
But he paused and looked down again.
You were murdered.
O'Beirne watched him go. I Ic had not caught what the captain had just murmured, but he had seen the dark eyes in the lantern's glow, and believed he knew him well enough to guess.
He recalled the sights which had confronted him upon his visit to the slaver Intrepido. Spanish, but she could have been under any flag. Only a brig, yet she had carried over six hundred slaves crammed into her holds, packed so tightly that they could barely breathe. In a hold filled with women, like Albatroz, one had already died and others were in a terrible state, corpse and dying chained together amongst the ordure.
He signalled to his men. Sailors like the dead boatswain endured much on this godforsaken coast. They obeyed orders. He thought of Adam Bolitho's face. Sometimes it was not enough.
At nightfall, that same captain read the familiar lines from his prayer hook, and they buried his fellow Cornishman with full honours.
The last voyage.
Leigh Galbraith walked to the entry port, wincing as he left the shadow of one of the awnings. Freetown was unchanged, except that it seemed even hotter, as if all the air had been sucked out of that wide harbour, up as far as the majestic Lion Mountain.
Even the excitement of their return had dimmed. He shaded his eyes and looked across at the two anchored prizes, Intrepido and Albatroz, abandoned now but for a few red uniforms, under guard to await developments. Galbraith recalled the wild cheering from some of the ships when they had come to their anchorage, the slaves being ferried ashore, laughing, sobbing, and confused. They were free. But how they would manage to return to their villages or settlements was difficult to understand, and, far worse, some would doubtless be trapped and returned to one of the barracoons along that same hostile coast to await the next ship, and another buyer.
Unrivalled had been at anchor for two days, and only the purser's crew and two working parties had been allowed ashore. To await orders. He heard the bell chime from forward. And that was today.
The brig Kittiwake had taken on stores and had departed almost immediately. Commodore Turnbull was with the Crown Agent. Galbraith had sensed the disappointment and resentment amongst Unrivalled's people. Two slavers as prizes. There would have been none but for their action, anchored or not.
A courier brig had arrived, but no mail had been delivered to them. Galbraith was not expecting any, but hope was always contagious.
Adam Bolitho's friend, and his uncle's last flag captain, James Tyacke, was still at sea. In case the missing slaver attempted to return to the inlet, which seemed unlikely, or to continue with another endless patrol.
I hate this place. He wiped his face and tried to dismiss it. Better here than on half-pay in some place full of others rejected by the one life they knew. Needed. Slavery was evil. Weighed against that, their presence here was necessary, if colonies were to survive against peacetime conditions. It still did not make sense…
He had heard some of the older hands talking about it. A few had boasted of their liaisons with women like those they had freed only days ago. Campbell, it would he him, insisted there was nothing to touch them. Nice bit o' black velvet to get you goin"
Midshipman Cousens called, "Boat shoving off from the jetty now, sir!"
Always alert, perhaps thinking of his hoped-for promotion.
"My respects to the captain. Would you tell him?" He beckoned to a boatswain's mate. "Pipe for the guard, Creagh, then man the side."
He relented; his voice had been sharper than he intended. It was affecting him more than he had believed. Maybe it was only the heat. And all for just another official visit, this time the Crown Agent.
He thought of the captain's expression, the last time they had been here. RearAdmiral Herrick had been his uncle's oldest friend; he had heard that several times, but when Bolitho had returned on hoard it was as if they had met as strangers.
The Royal Marines were already falling in by the entry port, Sergeant Everett checking the dressing, watching for any flaw in the pattern. There was none. Guard of honour or shooting down an enemy, it seemed to be one and the same to this elite corps. The seamen often joked about it; it made no difference. Captain Luxmore was also present, his face almost matching his tunic. Galbraith turned to watch for the boat. An ornate affair, almost a barge, it belonged to the governor, and was manned by seamen "borrowed" for His Excellency's convenience.
He refrained from using a telescope; the rearadmiral would know. He half-smiled. They always seemed to know such things.
He heard the captain's step on the companion ladder and said, "Clear all idlers off the upper deck, Mr Cousens." He turned and touched his hat. "Right on time, sir."
Adam glanced along the main deck. Galbraith had done well. Everything was in its place. Ready for sea.
Herrick would miss nothing. He had once been Richard Bolitho's first lieutenant, a lifetime ago. He wondered if he still remembered.
Galbraith said, "I spoke with the purser, sir. There is ginger beer in the cabin." He did not think it was the time to mention Tregillis's list of complaints after he had returned with his crew from the stores.