Aunt Nancy, Richard Bolitho’s youngest sister, was the last person from whom he had been expecting to hear, and yet in his heart he knew there was none better suited to this task.
He walked to the stern windows and stared across at Halcyon, swinging to her cable and surrounded by harbour craft, with scarlet coats on her gangways to deter unwanted visitors. He had sent Captain Christie a copy of his report. Halcyon had done well, and between them they had lost only four men.
He looked at the letter again, as if his mind were refusing to lose itself in matters concerning the ship and the squadron. That other world seemed very close: rugged cliffs, treacherous rocks, and in contrast rolling hillside pastures and great, empty moors. A county which had produced many fine sailors, probably more than any other part of England. He could see Falmouth in his thoughts… the people, the quality of strength in its seamen and fisher folk.
Where Belinda, whose hand had once rested on his cuff as he had led her up the aisle to marry Falmouth ’s most famous son, had been killed. Thrown from a horse. Killed instantly, Nancy had written. And yet he could not come to terms with it. Perhaps he had never really known Belinda, or been close enough to understand what had destroyed his uncle’s marriage; she had always been beautiful, proud, but distant. She had been at the old house, and Adam could guess why, although the family lawyer had touched only in passing on it. Not wishing to trouble a King’s officer, fighting for his country’s rights.
And there was his cousin, Elizabeth. She would be about twelve or thirteen by now. She would stay with Nancy until things were “more settled.” Adam could almost hear her saying the words.
Nancy had also written to Catherine. The mare given to her by his uncle was now stabled at the Roxby house. Adam had known instantly that Belinda had been riding Tamara at the time of the accident.
The letter ended, “You must take good care of yourself, dear Adam. Here is your home, nobody can ever deny you that.”
The ink was smudged, and he knew she had been crying as she wrote, doubtless angry with herself for giving into it. A sailor’s daughter, and the sister of one of England ’s finest sea officers, she had had plenty of experience of separation and despair. And now that her husband was dead she was alone once again. Elizabeth would be a blessing to her. He picked up the letter, and smiled. As you were to me.
Catherine was in London. He wondered if she was alone, and was surprised by how much it could hurt him. Absurd… He glanced at the skylight, hearing voices, Jago’s carrying easily as he called out to the gig’s crew. Vivid memories: the leadsman’s chant, the closeness of danger on all sides, Massie and Wynter, and the boy who would rather risk death than take refuge below when the iron began to fly.
And he thought of Falmouth again. The house. The grave portraits, the sea always out there, waiting for the next Bolitho.
He turned almost guiltily as someone rapped at the door. It was Bellairs, who was assisting Wynter as officer of the watch.
“Yes?”
Bellairs glanced around the cabin. His examination was in orders, here in Malta. The next step, or the humiliation of failure.
“Mr Wynter’s respects, sir, and a new midshipman has come aboard to join.” He did not blink, although he must have been recalling his own time as a young gentleman.
“Ask Mr Galbraith…” He held up his hand. “No. I’ll see him now.”
Bellairs hurried away, mystified that his captain, who had just inflicted a crushing defeat on some Algerine pirates, should concern himself with such trivialities.
Adam walked to one of the eighteen-pounders which shared his quarters and touched the black breech. Remembering; how could he forget? Anxious, worried, even defiant because he had imagined that his first captain, his uncle, would find fault or cause to dismiss him on that day which was so important to him.
He heard the marine sentry say, “Go in, sir.” Guarded, yet to be proved. A midshipman was neither fish nor fowl.
He saw the newcomer standing by the screen door, his hat beneath his arm.
“Come over here where I can see you!” Again the assault of memory. They were the very words his uncle had used.
When he looked again, the youth was in the centre of the cabin, directly beneath the open skylight. Older than he had expected, about fifteen. With experience he could be very useful.
He took the envelope and slit it with the knife he had used earlier, feeling the midshipman’s eyes watching every move. As I did. All those years ago.
He was not new, but had been appointed from another frigate, the Vanoc, which had been temporarily paid off for a complete overhaul. His name was Richard Deighton. Adam raised his eyes, and saw the youth look away from him.
“Your captain speaks well of you.” A young, roundish face, dark brown hair. He would be fifteen next month, and was tall for his years. Serious features. Troubled.
The name was familiar. “Your father was a serving officer?” It was not a question. He could see it all more clearly than the chebecs of only three days ago.
The youth said, “Captain Henry Deighton.” No pride, no defiance.
That was it.
“Commodore Deighton hoisted his broad-pendant above my ship, Valkyrie, when I was with the Halifax squadron.” So easily said.
The midshipman clenched one fist against his breeches. “The rank of commodore was never confirmed, sir.”
“I see.” He walked around the table, hearing Jago’s voice again. He had been there too on that day when Commodore Deighton had been shot down, it was thought by a Yankee sharpshooter. Except that after the sea burial the surgeon, rather the worse for drink, had told Adam that the angle of entry and the wound were all wrong, and that Deighton had been killed by someone in Valkyrie’s own company.
The matter had ended there. Deighton had already been put over the side, with the boy John Whitmarsh and others.
But the faces always returned; there was no escape. The family, they called it.
“Did you ask for Unrivalled?”
The midshipman lifted his eyes again. “Aye, sir. I always hoped, wanted…” His voice trailed away.
Bellairs was back. “Gig’s alongside, sir.” He glanced at the new midshipman, but only briefly.
Adam said, “Take Mr Deighton into your charge, if you please. The first lieutenant will attend to the formalities.”
Then he smiled. “Welcome aboard, Mr Deighton. You are in good hands.”
As the door closed he took out the letter once more.
It was like seeing yourself again… something you should never forget.
He picked up his hat and went out into the sunshine.
Captain Victor Forbes leaned back in Bethune’s fine chair and raised a glass.
“I’m glad you chose to come ashore, Adam. I’ve been reading through your report, Christie’s too, and I’ve made a few notes for the vice-admiral to read on his return.”
Adam sat opposite him, the cognac and the easy use of his first name driving some of his doubts away. The flag captain was obviously making the most of Bethune’s absence, although it was apparent from the occasional pause in mid-sentence to listen that, like most serving captains, he was ill at ease away from his ship.
Forbes added, “I still believe that raids on known anchorages, though damn useful and good for our people’s morale, will never solve the whole problem. Like hornets, destroy the nest. Time enough later to catch the stragglers.”
Adam agreed and tried to recall how many glasses he had drunk as Forbes peered at the bottle and shook it against the fading sunlight. “I’d have given anything to be there with you.” Then he grinned. “But with any luck Montrose will be a private ship again quite soon!”
“You’re leaving the squadron?”
Forbes shook his head. “No. But we are being reinforced by two third-rates, and about time too. Sir Graham Bethune will likely shift his flag to one of them. A damn nice fellow,” he grinned again, “for an admiral, that is. But I believe he is eager to leave, to get back to a stone frigate, the Admiralty again, most likely. I’ll not be sorry. Like you, I prefer to be free of flag officers, good or bad.”