Heart of Oak Read Free Page A

think.”
    “Cap’n Bolitho had his last ship taken from him. Paid off. Now
Athena—
God, she’s only a few years old!”
    Tolan watched him. “Launched in 1803, I was told. Sounds old enough to me.”
    Jago exclaimed, “Good Kentish oak, too!” and broke off as if he had just heard the remark. “Not for a
real
ship. Hell’s teeth, Our Nel’s
Victory
was forty years old when she stood in the line at Trafalgar! They don’t know what they’re about, their bloody lordships!”
    Tolan seemed to be considering something. “You care about your captain, don’t you? Something deeper than duty, loyalty. You’re not a man who’s easily taken in. I like that.” He smiled with sudden warmth, like offering a handshake, Jago thought afterwards. Dropping his guard, something rare with him.
    Tolan said, “Now I
will
fetch that drink,” and looked up at the portrait. The young captain…“For both of us.”
    Jago stood at the window, grappling with the words, and what lay behind them.
Deeper than duty, loyalty.
It was not something he would ever consider, if he was being true to himself. After the flogging which had scarred his mind as well as his body, he had made himself shun even the slightest hint of friendship.
    Perhaps it was trust?
    The room was empty once more. He had not even heard Tolan close the door behind him.
    He was on
Athena
’s deck again, as if it were yesterday. Now. The seamen breaking ranks slowly, reluctant to return to their work. The empty grating by the gangway, the unfolded flag barely moving in the breeze, the canvas-wrapped body already on the seabed.
    But all he could see clearly was Adam Bolitho’s face as he had turned away from the side. Their eyes had met, and the words had been quietly spoken, almost an undertone. Excluding every one else.
They’re together now. Nothing can harm them.
    It had troubled him deeply.
    There were sounds, voices, on the stairway: Tolan bringing his master’s wine, or maybe something stronger. He felt his mouth crack into a grin.
    “There’ll be other ships.”
    He realized that he had spoken aloud.
    Just say the word, Cap’n.
    “If you would wait in here, Captain…er…Bolitho.” The Admiralty porter held ths door open. “Should you require any assistance…” He did not finish it, but closed the door silently behind him.
    Adam Bolitho stood a moment to get his bearings, or perhaps to prepare himself. After all the haste and uncertainty, this sudden stillness was unnerving. A table, three chairs and one window: it was more like a cell than a waiting room.
    Like most serving officers, he had not visited this, the seat of Admiralty, more than a few times throughout his whole career, and he had always been impressed by the orderly confusion and purpose. Clerks carrying files of papers, criss-crossing what were still to him a maze of corridors, opening and shutting doors. Some remained closed, even guarded, while strategic conferences were in session; others, partly opened, revealed the materials and tools of command. Huge wall charts and maps, instruments, rows of waiting chairs. It was hard to imagine the immense power, and control of the world’s greatest navy, being wielded from within these walls.
    He walked over to the table. On it was a precisely folded copy of
The Times
and beside it a goblet and carafe of water. So quiet, as if the whole corridor were holding its breath.
    He moved to the window, impatient now, refusing to acknowledge the strain and fatigue of mind and body. He should have known what it would do to him. The bitter aftermath of the action at San José, “skirmish” as one news sheet had dismissed it, and the long passage home. Plymouth and then Portsmouth. He rubbed his forehead. Mere days ago. It seemed like a lifetime.
    The window overlooked an enclosed courtyard, so near the opposite wall that you had to press your head against the glass to see it. The other wall had no windows. Storerooms of some kind? And above, trapped