Cross of St George by Alexander Kent Page B

really his ship, nor had he attempted to make her so. His ship lay on the seabed, her beautiful figurehead staring into the deeper darkness, so many of her company still with her.
    The midshipman in charge of the jolly-boat was very aware of his passenger’s rank and reputation: even the name of Bolitho had sent a flood of rumours through the ship.
    Adam looked at the chests at his feet. All new, everything, even the fighting sword he had purchased with such care. The rest lay with Anemone .
    He glanced at his small companion. John Whitmarsh, who had been the only one saved from the sea, had served in Anemone for almost two years before she foundered. A mere child. He had been “volunteered” by an uncle, if uncle he was, after the boy’s father, a deep-water fisherman, had drowned off the Goodwins. John was to be his servant. Adam had never seen such pride or such gratitude when he had asked him. The boy still did not understand the lifeline had been for his captain, and not the other way round.
    The midshipman said stiffly, “There she lies, sir.”
    Adam tugged down his hat. She was the Wakeful ,a 38-gun frigate, hard-worked and in constant demand like most of her breed. Now she was completing the last tasks before sailing, taking on fresh water, fruit if there was any available, and, of course, men. Even the most dedicated press-gang would be hard put to find any suitable hands in a naval port.
    He looked at the boy again. Not much different in spite of his smart new jacket and white trousers. Ozzard had taught him some of it; the rest he would learn quickly enough. He was bright, and if he was nervous or still suffering from his experiences and the memory of seeing his best friend, another ship’s boy of the same age, drift away beyond help, he did not show it.
    Adam had sent a letter to the boy’s mother. Had she asked for his return, he would have put him ashore and made certain that he reached her safely. She had not acknowledged the letter. Perhaps she had moved from the area, or taken up with another “uncle.” Either way, Adam thought his young charge had been quietly pleased about it.
    He ran his eye critically over the frigate. Rigging well set up, sails neatly furled. She was smart enough. He could see the scarlet and blue of the receiving party by the entry port. He knew nothing of her captain, other than that this was his first command. He found he could shut it from his mind. It was not his concern. He, like Rear-Admiral Valentine Keen, who was arriving tomorrow, was a passenger. He smiled briefly. An inconvenience.
    He thought with affection of his uncle, and how close they had been after his escape from the Americans. They would all meet again in Halifax. He still did not know why he had accepted Keen’s offer. Because of guilt? To allay suspicion? He knew it was neither. It was simply a feeling, like someone or something leading the way. He recalled Zennor, the quietness of the place, the hiss of the sea on the rocks beneath the cliff. Her grave. He had touched it, and had felt her spirit watching him. The little mermaid.
    â€œBows!” The midshipman’s voice was loud. Perhaps he had taken Adam’s silence for disapproval.
    The bowman was on his feet, boat-hook poised as rudder and oars brought the boat hard round toward the main chains. The oars were tossed, showering the seamen with salt water as the boat swayed and bounced alongside.
    He looked at the midshipman. “Thank you, Mr Price. That was well done.”
    The youth gaped at him, as if surprised that his name was known. He thought once more of Bolitho, all the lessons learned. They have names. He could almost hear his voice. In this life we share, it is often all they do have.
    He stood up, ensuring that the new sword was safely in position on his hip. He had never forgotten Bolitho’s cautionary tale of the senior officer who had fallen headlong over his sword, in full view of the side