He held out his arms and allowed the servant to help him into his coat.
"Take care, Adam, and watch your hack." He shouted, "Enter:'"
The screen door opened instantly; it was Fairhrother, the captain's coxswain.
"Unrivalled's gig is alongside, sir."
"Very well, Eli, we shall he up in a moment."
Adam grinned. The story had gone around the squadron when Tyacke had chosen his new coxswain. "Fairhrother? What sort of a name would that be in half a gale, man?" So it was left at Eli. Adam wondered how John Allday had got along with him, in the flagship together.
Raven, the first lieutenant, was waiting with the side party. He shook hands too, as if they were old friends. As it should he, in frigates.
Adam looked over to his own ship, and another prize which Kestrel had brought in with her. A small schooner or, as Tvacke had described the capture, "Just a rabbit sneaking out when it believed all the foxes had gone elsewhere." The rabbit had carried a hundred slaves nevertheless.
As the gig pulled slowly amongst the anchored shipping, Adam sat with one hand on the sun-heated thwart, and tried to assemble the events and his reactions into some sensible pattern.
The orders were precise but suitably vague. Four months since they had left Penzance, with a long commission the only likely outcome.
They would be home in the spring. Like the words of Paradox's dying boatswain… But he recalled Tyacke's flat statement. Never go back… they re never the same as you chose to remember.
Jago saw his sun-browned hand grip the edge of the thwart and wondered what was going through his mind. The captain, who had everything. He watched a boat pulling across the channel, and scowled.
Back to some other squadron with another admiral who probably didn't recognise his backside from his elbow. Officers.
Adam was aware of the scrutiny, but was glad of it. Something honest, even if you were never quite sure what he might come out with.
What might be waiting this time? He allowed his mind to explore it. Falmouth, perhaps. The empty house. More memories.
Perhaps there would be a letter waiting for him. He touched the locket beneath his damp shirt.
He said, "What d'you think about our returning to Plymouth?" As Tyacke had remarked, the news was all over the station.
Jago kept his eyes on the water ahead of the gig's raked stem.
"So long as I've got 'baccy in my pouch, an' a wet when I needs one," he gave the smallest hint of a grin, "an' a few coins to jangle in the right direction, then I'm not too bothered, sir!"
Adam saw the stroke oarsman contain a smile. We are all deluding ourselves.
"Bows!"
He glanced up at the ship's curved tumblehome, the faces at the entry port.
Lieutenant Varlo met him with the side party, and he recalled that Galbraith was ashore to offer support to the purser.
He looked at the masthead. A fair breeze, but the air was like an opened oven. Would it last?
Varlo said, "Some mail came aboard, sir." His face was full of questions. "Official, for the most part."
Adam walked aft, seeing their expressions, hope, expectation, anxiety. The sailor's lot.
He strode into his cabin and tossed his hat on to the chair Napier had offered to Herrick. The chair. He smiled a little. Sparse, for the captain who had everything.
He heard a quiet cough and saw Yovell waiting by the pantry door.
"Well, I expect you know all about it, but…" He stopped, his troubled mind suddenly alert. "What is it?"
Galbraith would leave everything in order, and Varlo had said nothing. He asked again, "Something troubles you. Tell me."
It was unusual to find Yovell so hesitant, unsure of himself.
– There was a letter, sir. Some people might say it was not important, that it was not our concern…"
Adam sat down, slowly, to give Yovell time to compose himself.
He said, "If it concerns you, or anyone in my ship, then it matters. To me."
Yovell removed his spectacles and polished them on his coat.
"The letter was for your servant. The boy, Napier, sir. From his mother. He asked me to read it."
Adam said, "But he reads well…"
"He was too distressed to read anything after that, sir."
"She's getting married again."
Yovell cleared his throat. "Is married again, sir. They are going to America -her husband has work offered there."
It was not uncommon. Boys signed on for the fleet or some particular ship, but always with a link to sustain them. Then a new marriage, and the new husband or "friend" would consider the youth in question to be so much inconvenience, a burden.
Adam was on his feet without knowing it. It had been right here when Herrick had asked him the question, and Napier, in his own serious fashion, had replied without hesitation, "We take care of each other, sir." And the same boy, with a jagged teak splinter spearing his leg, concerned only with helping his captain.
Yovell went to the door and brought Napier right aft to the stern windows. He saw Napier's chin go up, with defiance, or a determination not to give in; he might even regard Yovell's behaviour as some sort of betrayal. It only made him appear younger. Defenceless.
Adam said, "We'll not talk on this, David. But I know. We weigh anchor during the morning watch, so I shall want to be up and about early."
He saw the boy nod, not understanding.
"Unrivalled will be in Plymouth in June, earlier with fair winds. Think of that."
Napier stared at the deck; he had even forgotten to remove the offending shoes.
"I know, sir."
Adam did not look at Yovell. He dared not, but put his hands on Napier's slight shoulders and said, "After that, my lad, you are coming home. With me." He swung away and added abruptly, "Some cognac for myself and Mr Yovell. I have some letters to dictate."
The boy paused by the pantry and looked back. It was enough.
Yovell said gently, "We have no letters, sir."
It was a day he would never forget.
11. Home From The Sea
ADAM BOLITHO winced as his elbow slipped from the window rest and he was tossed against the carriage side. lie was astonished that he could have fallen asleep, when every bone in his body ached from the lurching motion. The roads were dry, the ruts left by the last rainfall iron-hard, a match for even an expert driver like Young Matthew. He looked out at the passing countryside, the contrasting greens, the rugged stone walls, which were so familiar. And so alien.
It was hard to recall Unrizvalled's return to Plymouth, or even set each event in its true order.
Plymouth, in contrast to their last departure, was no longer full of ships laid up in ordinary, or stripped and forlorn, awaiting the ignominy of being hulked or broken up. It was alive with men-of-war, from towering liners to seventy-fours, and support craft of every shape and size. But not many frigates, he noticed. Not a full fleet, but it soon would he, from what he had been told.
He glanced at Yovell, sitting opposite him, filling both scats and fast asleep despite the sickening motion, gold spectacles still on the top of his head.
Yovell had the gift of acceptance. Ile had been neither surprised nor excited by the prospect of their return. As if it was ordained.
He heard the boy Napier's voice above the clatter of wheels and harness, and the steady thud of hooves on the narrow road. I le had wondered about the impulse, if that was what it had been, which had compelled him to tell Napier he was coming with him to Falmouth. Not any longer. He could hear Young Matthew, the Bolitho coachman, answering his many questions, laughing at some of them, but enjoying his new companion.
Young Matthew: even that was part of the story which went with the old grey house. His grandfather had been Old Matthew, the head coachman for many years. The boy's father had been lost at sea in one of the famous Falmouth packet ships, so it had seemed only natural that the name should remain, even though he must be over forty by now.