Alexander Kent - Man of War

Jago did not wait for an answer. "They've fixed me up with a room in Bryan Ferguson's cottage. Grace is goin' to bake some-thin' special tonight, just for me."

Napier was always surprised that Jago could accept or overcome almost anything. He spoke of the steward and his wife as if he had known them for years. A hard man, dangerous if crossed, but always fair. A man without fear, and, he thought, a man you would never really know.

Napier said, "I'm looking at the horses."

Jago peered at his pipe. "Bryan an' me will take a walk down to a little inn he's told me about. Might get Mr. Yovell to toddle along too." It seemed to amuse him. "Though the Bible's probably more to his taste! "

They both turned as another horse was led out of the stables.

Jago remarked, "Dirty weather for somebody to be out on the roads."

Napier saw the groom adjust the reins, and test the girth straps while the horse stamped impatiently on the cobbles. Even in the dying light he could see the dark blue saddle cloth, the gold wire crest in one corner.

"The Captain's horse." He thought of the girl in the wine-red habit. It was a strange time to go out riding, with his aunt and his young cousin to welcome him home.

Napier said softly, "He's badly troubled. Losing the ship…"

Jago was watching him curiously. "Not all he's bothered about from what I've heard, my lad." He grinned. "Sorry. Before too long now I'll have to call you "mister", 'ow about that, eh?"

Napier did not respond to his raillery. "But we'll work some-thin' out, if you does as I tells you! "

Napier looked at him.

"I want to do the right thing, you see…" and Jago knew it was serious. The danger, his wound, which should have cost him a leg, would have with most seagoing sawbones he had known, were nothing compared with this next challenge.

He put one hand on the boy's shoulder, and said, "Keep yer nose clean, an' do right by the lads who will have to look up to you, God 'elp 'em." He shook him gently and added, "You'll be on the quarterdeck afore you knows it! "

They heard boots on the cobbles and Adam Bolitho paused to look at them, walking toward the restive horse.

The groom called, "Keep an eye open on them roads, Cap'n Adam, zur. War or no war, there still be footpads about! "

Adam showed his teeth in a smile, but Napier recognized the anger in his eyes.

To Napier he said, "Feel like testing Jupiter, David? Tomorrow, perhaps? I thought I might ride over to Fallowfield, see John Allday and his family."

"I could ride Jupiter now, sir." But he knew that the Captain was not hearing him; his mind was elsewhere.

Then he was up and mounted, an old boat cloak flapping like a banner in the wet breeze. He swung round and looked up at a window, Napier could not see which one, and shouted, "I shall be back in time tell the kitchen! " Then he was away, the hooves striking sparks from the worn cobbles.

Jeb Trinnick had joined them, soundlessly for a big man with a limp. When he saw Jago's pipe he pulled a pouch from beneath his leather apron.

"Try some o' this. Got it off a Dutchie trader last week. Seems fair enough."

Jago brightened. Another bridge crossed.

"That's matey of you! "

Napier asked, "Is the Captain going far?" He wiped some droplets of rain from his face, like tears. Like that day, all those months ago, when he had seen him with that beautiful woman, driving a smart little pony and trap.

He heard Jeb Trinnick say dourly, "If I'm any judge he'll be makin' for the Old Glebe House." He nodded, the single eye gauging the trail of smoke rising from Jago's pipe. "Evil it is, or was. My youngest brother used to live over Truro way, afore he went over the side after Camperdown. Full o' spirits, he said. Even the Church was glad to rid itself of the place to the first buyer it could get. Old Sir Montagu, that was."

Jago puffed out more smoke. "Good baccy, Jeb."

Somehow, Napier knew it was because of that same woman; he remembered the Captain's face when he had read the little note she had sent out to Unrivalled before they had sailed to join the admiral.

Jeb Trinnick made up his mind. "All the same, I'll send one of my lads after 'im." He grinned. "Just to be on the safe side! "

Napier watched him limp into the shadows. A man who could deal with everything that came his way. He felt despair closing around him again. Better to be like Trinnick, or Jago. Not to care…

Suddenly he heard the snap of Jago's delicate-looking pipe, which he had carried so carefully and filled for the first time with Trinnick's Dutch tobacco. It lay in fragments on the ground, rain splashing over it, dousing the smoking ash.

It mattered to Jago too, more than he would ever allow himself to show. He had hardened himself against it, perhaps because of other captains he had served. Looked up to, admired, hated; and one he had described as second only to God.

But this one mattered. And to David Napier, who was all but fifteen years old, it was a lifeline.

The courier arrived at the old grey house around noon, a week almost to the hour since Unrivalled had dropped anchor in Plymouth.

Ferguson had been in the stable yard, watching Napier riding the pony Jupiter slowly but confidently, back and forth, 'gaining an understanding' as Grace had put it.

The courier was known to Ferguson, as he was to many sea officers who lived around Falmouth. Ferguson had reached out to sign for the canvas envelope, but the courier had said almost curtly, "Not this one. Captain Bolitho himself, or I shall have to wait until he returns."

Ferguson heard his wife call, "Tell the captain, Mary! " She would stay with him until they all knew. She never changed; nor would she.

The courier relaxed and climbed down from his mud-spattered horse. All the way from Plymouth, and before that; how far had that envelope travelled, Ferguson wondered?

The wheels had probably started to turn when a guard ship or keen-eyed coast guard had reported Unrivalled beating her way up Channel A sight of home.

Grace Ferguson said, "You've time for a glass, or a hot posset afore you leave?"

The courier shook his head. "No, ma'am, but thank you. I've another call yet. Old Cap'n Masterman's place at Penryn. Bad news, I'm afraid. His son is reported missing. His ship foundered on a reef, I'm told."

Ferguson turned, hearing the step on the cobbles. It was a familiar enough story in Cornwall.

Adam Bolitho took it in at a glance: the courier standing with his mount, Young Matthew who had been supervising Napier with the pony, Ferguson and Grace the housekeeper, and Yovell who had stopped in his tracks by the gate to the rose garden. Catherine's roses, or soon would be again.

Like badly rehearsed players, but joined by something which none of them properly understood.

The courier had produced a small writing tablet from beneath his stained cloak, the pen already dipped. What Lowenna must have used that day when she had been there to see Unrivalled weigh and stand out to sea.

He thought of the Old Glebe House, how it had looked that night when he had ridden over to see it. How the horse had whinnied and shied, perhaps because of the stench of sodden ashes and charred timbers. Or because of something more sinister. The burned-out windows, stark and empty against the racing clouds, of the room where she had kept her harp, next to the roofless studio where he had first seen her chained to the imaginary rock. The sacrifice…

He had gone back again in daylight. It had been even worse. He had wanted to go alone but Nancy had accompanied him, had insisted, as if she needed to share it.

The main part of the house was too unsafe to explore. Ashes, blackened glass from those tall windows he remembered so vividly, broken beams jutting like savage teeth. A few charred canvases. Impossible to tell if they had been empty or partially finished when the fire had raged into the studio.