Heart of Oak by Alexander Kent Page A

here and there, and once a hand reached out as they passed.
    “I shall not forget that, Adam.” She turned and looked at the moored vessels, and the brig, which was under more sail and leaning slightly on a new tack. “And neither will they.”
    Together they paused to look up the slope toward the town. The square tower of the church was just visible above the surrounding roofs.
    Adam thought of the imposing curate and said, half to himself, “God and the Navy we adore.”
    She pressed his arm.
    “I cannot wait. Is that so wrong?”
    They walked back along the jetty. The onlookers had vanished.
    Absent friends.
    David Napier walked steadily toward the house, his feet avoiding the loose cobbles by instinct; they were already familiar, after so short a time. He paused, noting the wind’s direction as sunlight lanced off the Father Tyme weathervane. He had walked as far as the little coastguard cottage where a dog always rushed out to bark at him, and there had been no more pain in his leg. He had not even been out of breath. He had seen a few people on his way, most of whom he had come to recognize, or thought he did. It was wrong to pretend, deceive himself, but he could not help it. While he lived here, it was his home. His life.
    It could have been so much worse.
But every day it was getting better. He raised his foot and took his weight on it. Surely by now…
    “I ’eard tell you was up an’ about when the cock crowed, young David. You’m missing walking that deck, my son!”
    Old Jeb Trinnick was standing at an open stable door, a mug of something gripped in his hand. Tall and fierce-looking, with only one eye, he would take no arguments from any one. But this morning his habitual grimace seemed to be a smile.
    A boy called something and he turned away, scowling now. “Never gets a bloody minute!”
    Napier smiled. Jeb Trinnick would have it no other way, from what he had seen and heard. Perhaps it was the best way. When you were trying to forget, afraid of what might lie in wait. Crying out in the night, even here, where there was nothing to fear.
    Our secret.
    He had never known any one like her. Lowenna meant “joy” in the old Cornish tongue.
    What must it be like? Really like? When they were together…
    He looked up toward the windows of the estate office. Yovell never probed or asked questions, and might even be called secretive, but he cared enough about those he worked for. He could almost hear him saying it.
Otherwise, my boy, I wouldn’t be here.
    It was warm in the office, but not the oven it had been when Jago had been acting the barber. The cat was back in its usual place, and Yovell was at his desk.
    “Ah, here he is. Mister Midshipman Napier in person!” He said it lightly, but Napier was staring at the man with him, a courier, booted and spurred and dressed in a heavy riding coat. He must have ridden up to the house from the main road. “He has a letter for you.” He peered over the spectacles at the courier. “And Mrs Ferguson will no doubt give
you
something to keep out the cold.”
    The courier grinned at Napier. “I’d take kindly to that,” and walked to the door, spurs jingling, his duty done.
    “A letter—for me?” He tried again. “Is it—my mother?”
    Yovell said kindly, “Sit you down. It might be a mistake.” He slid the letter across the desk, his hand resting on it, as if to give him time. “But it’s addressed to you right enough.”
    Napier took the letter and the knife he had always seen Yovell use, here and aboard
Unrivalled.
So long ago. There were several addresses and directions, all scored out, the final one reading
In the care of Captain Adam Bolitho, Falmouth.
    Yovell said, “Open it, David.” His spectacles had slipped, but he did nothing to adjust them. “I shall be here.” He did not elaborate.
    Napier slit open the envelope and pulled out the letter. His mind barely kept pace with the meaningless details, the lines of copperplate script and the