Strange that they should have sighted a homeward-bound packet while they had been beating up the Channel to Plymouth. Long enough to close with the other vessel, and pass a message to her master.
Ferguson would have seen to the rest. Young Matthew had been in Plymouth waiting for him when he had left Unrivalled. For ten days… He had never been absent from his ship for any such length of time. He had wanted it more than he had realised. Needed it. But his other self had forcibly opposed it.
He thought now of Vice-Admiral Keen. When you were at sea only the ship mattered; it had to be so, for any captain. You tended to believe that everything else would remain the same in your absence, like a familiar landfall, or the face of a friend.
He had realised what was happening as soon as he had gone ashore to make his report to the Flag Officer, Plymouth, at the magnificent Boscawen House, with its sweeping views of sea and coastline.
Furniture "all anyhow," as Jago would put it, packing cases and bustling servants, Keen's flag lieutenant with what appeared an armful of lists. He seemed barely able to remember that Unrivalled had anchored that morning; he had had more important matters to deal with, and a new flag officer was arriving the following day.
Keen accepted it. He was appointed to the Nore, the Medway, and a whole new dockyard with facilities for the next generation of ships, and men. It was important, and he had the knowledge that his immediate future was secure. He might even rise to the rank of admiral. It did not seem possible; physically he had changed hardly at all, and only once did an inner disappointment reveal itself.
"Each command their lordships pass my way takes me further and further from the sea. In many ways I envy you, Adam. You'll never know how much."
His wife Gilia had been there too, and had added her insistence to Keen's on the subject of taking leave from duty while there was still time.
Keen had said, "You've been at sea almost continuously for years! The longest time you had ashore was when you were a prisoner of the Yankees, and even they couldn't hold you!"
And there was the child. Only a month old, squawking in the arms of a nurse and barely larger than a woollen glove, he had thought.
They had named her Geraldine, after Keen's mother.
When Keen had been called away to deal with something which one of his staff found beyond his abilities, Gilia had spoken with the same candour and sincerity as when Adam had confessed his love for Zenoria.
"He loves the child, of course, Adam." She had rested one hand on his sleeve, like that other time. "But it's the navy. He wants a boy, to carry on the tradition he began."
Adam knew Keen's father had done everything within his power to persuade his son to quit the service, and take up more important work in the City, like himself, or even in the Honourable East India Company.
Then she had said, "I shall miss this place. So many memories. But, as Val is constantly pointing out, I've travelled with my father almost as much as any sailor!"
Yovell said, "We're slowing down." He put his head on one side. Like a wise owl, Adam thought. "Stopping, in fact."
He was suddenly alert, the dreams and uncertainties scattered. It had been a long, long drive, with halts from time to time for the horses to rest and water, all of fifty miles or so from the Tamar to this place, on a road somewhere in Cornwall. For much of it they had been out of sight of the Channeclass="underline" hills, fields, pastures and men working in the sunshine, hardly glancing at the smart carriage with the Bolitho crest on each door, well coated with the dust of travel. They had stopped for a meal at an inn at St Austell, and more notice had been taken of them there. They were an oddly assorted group, he supposed, a sea officer and a large, benevolent figure who might have been almost anything. And the boy, proud, and showing it, of his new single-breasted blue jacket with its gilt buttons, which Adam had obtained from the tailor he occasionally used in Plymouth.
So many memories. He thought of Gilia again and smiled. Like Galbraith's repeated assurances that he would keep good charge of the ship while his captain was away, and the surprise which even he had been unable to conceal when Adam had responded, "It is my behaviour I care about, not yours, Leigh."
The carriage quivered to a halt, the leathers creaking in time with the horses stamping on the hard ground. They knew better than anyone; they would be in their stables within the hour.
He heard someone jump down and knew it was Napier. Perhaps his confidence was running out. Like mine.
So young, and yet so adult in many ways. At the inn at St Austell, when some old man, probably a farmer, had scoffed, "Bit young for a King's man, bain't 'ee? Lucky th' war's over, I say!"
Adam had turned from speaking with the landlord, ready to intervene, but had said nothing.
Napier had bent over and unhurriedly pulled up the leg of his new white trousers. In the filtered sunshine the jagged wound left by the splinter had been stark and horrific.
He had answered simply, "Not too young for this, sir."
The door opened and Napier resumed his seat beside Yovell, who had made room for him.
He looked at Adam and asked naively, "Almost there, sir?"
Adam pointed at a slate wall which was turning to follow the narrow track, downward now, all the way to the sea.
He said, " Hanger Lane, they call this, David. In the old days you were mad to walk here alone without one on your belt." He recalled the ragged corpses hanging in irons by the roadside when they had skirted the moor. It was not very different today.
Yovell readjusted his spectacles. "After six hours in this seat, I feel as if I've been round the Horn!"
It was a casual comment, to break some indefinable atmosphere. lie was not certain if this youthful man, who seemed to have been born to his captain's uniform, was suffering some lastminute misgivings.
Napier said quietly, "You said we'd be back in England by June, sir." lie glanced up at Yovell. "We were faster than that!"
Yovell saw Adarn clench a fist against the worn leather.
It was the first of June, 1816. It would he his birthday next week; he had heard Sir Richard speak of it on several occasions.
Adam was thinking of Unrivalled lying at anchor. She was in good hands. He had heard Galbraith mention the risk of men deserting, and Cristie's gruff response. "We'll not lose a soul, sir, which is a pity in a few cases I can think of! But 'til their lordships see fit to pay them their share of prize-an' bounty-money, you can sleep safe on it!"
And he thought of Luke Jago. What would he do? Who did he care about, if anyone?
And his characteristic answer when Adam had suggested he spend some time at the house in Falmouth.
"Not for me, sir! A few wets ashore an' mebbee a lass when I feels like it, that'll do me fairly!" Ile had laughed at the idea. And yet… Adam shook himself and leaned out of the window. The smell of the land, but above it the sea was there. Waiting.
"Drive on, Young Matthew! Before I change my mind!"
Young Matthew peered down at him, his face like a polished red apple beneath his hat.
"Then us'd be real sorry, zur!" He flicked the reins and clicked his tongue. The carriage rolled forward.
Adam leaned back in his seat and looked at Napier. Was that it? Was he trying to emulate his uncle's "little crew"? Jago another John Allday, and this grave-eyed youngster perhaps as he had once been himself.
The sound of the wheels changed, and he looked out as the carriage rattled past a pair of cottages.
Two women were talking by a gate, and he saw them point, then wave. Smiling as if they knew him.
He raised his hand in greeting and felt Yovell watching him.
The crest on the carriage door would tell them. A Bolitho was back.