The surgeon, rarely at a loss for words, had been strangely taciturn. Perhaps when he had fallen unconscious again he had said something, revealed the despair which had tormented him for so long.
O’Beirne had said only, “You are in luck, Captain. Another inch, and I fear the ladies would have been in dire distress!”
He looked up now and saw the flagship towering above them, the gig’s bowman already standing with his boat-hook, and prepared himself for the physical effort of boarding. Seeing his eyes on the ship’s massive tumblehome, the “stairs” up to the gilded entry port, Jago said quietly, “Steady she goes, sir!”
Adam glanced at him, remembering his face when he had torn open his breeches to deal with the wound. Poor Homey’s blood and brains had made it look worse than it was.
He seized the handrope, gritting his teeth as he took the first step.
An unknown voice sang out, “Cap’n comin’ aboard! Stand by… pipe! ”
Adam climbed, step by step, each movement bringing a shaft of pain to his thigh.
The calls shrilled, and as his head rose above the sill he saw the scarlet-coated guard, the seemingly vast area of the flagship’s impeccable deck.
The guard presented arms, and a duplicate of Captain Bosanquet brought down his blade with a flourish.
The flag captain strode to greet him. Adam held his breath. Pym, that was his name. The pain was receding, playing with him.
“Welcome aboard, Captain Bolitho! Your recent exploits had us all drained with envy!” He looked at him more closely. “You were wounded, I hear?”
Adam smiled. It seemed so long since he had done that. “Damaged, sir, nothing lasting!”
They walked together into the poop’s shadow, so huge after Unrivalled. He allowed his mind to stray. Or Anemone…
The flag captain paused. “Rear-Admiral Marlow is still studying your report. I have had your despatches transferred to a courier-she will leave this afternoon. If there is anything else I can do to assist you while you are here, you have only to ask.” He hesitated. “Rear-Admiral Marlow is newly appointed. He still likes to deal with things at first hand.”
It was as good as any warning. Captain to flag rank; he had seen it before. Trust nobody.
Rear-Admiral Elliot Marlow stood with his back to the high stern windows, hands beneath his coat-tails, as if he had been in the same position for some time. A sharp, intelligent face, younger than Adam had expected.
“Good to meet you at last, Bolitho. Take a chair. Some wine, I think.” He did not move or offer his hand.
Adam sat. He knew he was strained and tired, and unreasonable, but even the chair seemed carefully placed. Staged, so that Marlow’s outline remained in silhouette against the reflected sunlight.
Two servants were moving soundlessly around the other side of the cabin, each careful not to look at the visitor.
Marlow said, “Read your report. You were lucky to get the better of two enemies at once, eh? Even if, the perfectionists may insist, you were at war with neither.” He smiled. “But then, I doubt that the Dey of Algiers will wish to associate himself with people who have failed him.” He glanced at his flag captain, and added, “As to your request respecting the son of that damned renegade, I suppose I can have no objection. It is hardly important…”
Pym interrupted smoothly, “And Captain Bolitho has offered to pay all the costs for the boy’s passage, sir.”
“Quite so.” He gestured at the nearest servant. “A glass, eh?”
Adam was glad of a chance to regain his bearings.
He said, “With regard to the prizes, sir.”
Marlow subjected his glass to a pitiless scrutiny. “The prizes, yes. Of course, their role may also have changed in view of the French position. I have heard it said that frigate captains sometimes see prize-money as the price of glory. A view I find difficult to comprehend.”
Adam realised that his glass was empty, and said bluntly, “The Dey of Algiers had three frigates at his disposal, sir. With the reopening of trade routes, those ships could have been a constant threat. That threat was removed, and at some cost. I think it fair enough.”
Captain Pym adroitly changed the subject.
“How long will your repair take, d’ you think?”
Adam looked at him and smiled thinly.
“We did much of it after the fight.” He considered it, seeing the dangling cordage, the limping wounded, the canvas bundles going over the side. “A week.”
Marlow waved one hand. “Give him all the help you can…” He pointed at the table. “That despatch from the Admiralty, where is it?”
Adam relaxed very slowly. The real reason for his visit. Not to congratulate or to crucify him. That was Bethune’s domain. Marlow had not even mentioned his use of the prisoners to fill the gaps in Unrivalled’s company.
Marlow put his glass down with great care and took some papers from his flag captain.
“You are instructed to take passengers when you return to Malta. Sir Lewis Bazeley and his party, of some importance, I gather. It is all explained in the orders.”
Captain Pym said hastily, “Because of the danger from corsairs and other renegades, a man-of-war is the only safe option.” He gave a tight smile. “As your own recent fight against odds has proved. I am sure that Vice-Admiral Bethune would have chosen your ship, had he been consulted.”
Adam found he could return the smile. He could understand why Pym was a flag captain.
“Anything else?” Marlow stared at him. “Now is the time to ask.”
“I have a midshipman named Bellairs, sir. He is due for examination shortly, but in the meantime I would like to rate him acting-lieutenant, and pay him accordingly. He has done extremely well during this commission.”
He had not seen Marlow all aback before, and neither, he suspected, had Pym.
“Bellairs? Has he family? Connections?”
“He is my senior midshipman, sir. That is all that concerns me.”
Marlow seemed vaguely disappointed.
“You deal with it.” He turned away, dismissing him. “And, er-good fortune, Captain Bolitho.”
The door closed behind them.
Pym grinned widely. “That was damned refreshing! Leave it with me!”
He was still grinning when the calls trilled again, and Adam lowered himself into the waiting gig.
“Bear off forrard! Give way all!”
Bellairs stood to watch a passing trader, ready to warn them away if they came too near.
Adam said, “By the way, Mr Bellairs, you will be moving shortly.”
Bellairs forgot his poise in the captain’s gig, and said, “Move, sir? But I hoped to…”
Adam watched Jago’s face over the midshipman’s shoulder.
“To the wardroom.”
It was only a small thing, after all. But it made it seem very worthwhile.
Catherine, Lady Somervell, moved slightly in her seat and tilted her wide-brimmed straw hat to shade her eyes from the sun. With the windows all but closed it was hot, and her gown was damp against her skin.
The City of London had never featured largely in her life, and yet in the past few months she had come here several times. It was always busy, always teeming. The carriage could have been open, but she was constantly aware of the need for discretion, and had noticed that the coachman never seemed to use the same route; today, as on those other visits, the vehicle was unmarked, never the one Sillitoe had been using on the day of the service at St Paul ’s. She had seen the cathedral this morning, dominating its surroundings as it had on that day, which she would never forget nor wanted to relinquish.
She looked at the passing scene; the carriage was moving slowly in the congestion of the road. Grey-faced offices, one of which she had visited with Sillitoe when he had kept an appointment with some shipping agent; she had been politely entertained in another room.
There were stalls here, flowers and fruit, someone elsewhere making a speech, another drawing a crowd with a performing monkey.
Now they were returning to Sillitoe’s house in Chiswick. Never once had he forced his presence on her, but he was always ready to help her, to escort her, or if necessary to give his opinion on her decisions for the immediate future.