Heart of Oak (11 page)

Adam opened it and saw the ribbon, the same colour as the one she had given him, and her writing, like the letter he always carried.
From the Last Cavalier.
There was a smudge, kiss or tear. She was with him.

“Thank you.” He looked away sharply at the water astern, still reflecting the hard light. A few boats were moving or loitering nearby, friends, relatives, hoping for a glimpse or a wave. It would only make it worse when the anchor broke free and
Onward
put to sea. Worse than this? How could that be?

The sentry tapped his musket beyond the screen.

“Officer o’ th’ watch,
sir!
”

“That’ll be Mr Monteith, sir.”

Adam saw Morgan’s reflection briefly in the sloping glass windows. He was scowling. Then he hurried to the door.

He picked up the card and read it again before slipping it into his pocket.

Voices now beyond the screen. Monteith…When he had boarded
Onward
, the young lieutenant had been with the side party. And yesterday here in this cabin, with his fellow lieutenants and all the senior warrant officers. Young and very attentive, eager to answer questions about his duties, and today when he had been introduced to the admiral, different again. Anxious, almost shy.

He put down the goblet; it was empty. Monteith presented another face completely in the punishment book. There were several entries, mostly for trivial offenses, when a sharp reprimand from a senior seaman or a quick slap when nobody was looking would have sufficed. Nothing serious, but wrongly directed they could end at the gangway with two dozen lashes. Or worse. Vincent must have been aware of it, but had offered no comment when they had discussed the ship’s affairs.

Charge and command of captain.
It would always be the invisible line between them.

He shook himself mentally. He was letting it grow out of all proportion. He was too tired to think clearly.

“Mr Monteith wishes to have a word with you, sir.” Morgan was holding the door half open. It sounded like “insists.”

“My apologies, sir. I understood that the first lieutenant was here.” He bit his lip. “He left word that I was to call him if—”

Adam said, “As you can see, Mr Vincent is
not
here. Can I help?”

Morgan strode past, heading for his pantry, and said meaningfully over his shoulder, “If you need me, sir?”

Monteith pulled out the papers. “Two midshipmen have just come aboard.” He frowned slightly, his head on one side. “To join. They were overdue, and the first lieutenant wanted to be told when—
if
they made an appearance.”

Adam turned away. David had done it. After his experience he might have been forgiven for not wanting to return to sea. But he had recovered his strength and his resolve.

“I understand one of them has served with you before, sir?”

Adam took the papers and opened them. He could feel Monteith’s eyes flicking around the cabin, noting his captain’s untidy appearance, the empty glass on the table.

He knew he was being unfair, and said abruptly, “There has been flooding in Cornwall, roads blocked. It does happen.”

“Quite so, sir.” A pause. “But the other midshipman was already
in
Plymouth.”

Adam looked up from the papers, the fatigue suddenly gone. This visit was no accident. “Midshipman Huxley was delayed for personal reasons. The first lieutenant will know that.”

“As I thought, sir.” He dropped his eyes confidentially. “But as officer of the watch I considered it my duty to confirm it. The word is that Midshipman Huxley’s father is awaiting court martial.”

Beyond the door the sentry rapped his musket again.

“First lieutenant,
sir!
”

Morgan bustled past. “No peace, sir.”

The door opened on a separate little drama. A seaman below the companion, a mop in his hands, a marine checking his musket in readiness to relieve the sentry. And Lieutenant Vincent staring into the cabin, barely able to contain his anger.

Monteith finished, “For losing his ship!”

Vincent cut in, “I am very sorry, sir. I was in the sick bay—one of the new hands has had a fall. Not serious, but—” He controlled his voice. “I
left word
where I would be.” He had not looked at Monteith. There was no need.

Adam unclenched his hand slowly, deliberately, and withdrew it from his pocket. A small thing which should never have happened. And tomorrow it would be all through the ship.

He said quietly, “Losing a ship is an indescribable experience, because it never leaves you. It happened to me.” He barely recognized his own voice; it was cool, almost matter of fact. “Like a terrible storm. You ride it or you go under, with the ship. But you never forget.”

“Boat ahoy!”
The challenge from the maindeck was faint, almost inaudible amongst the shipboard sounds. It could have been an echo of those lost voices.

Then he heard the shrill of a boatswain’s call, and running feet, very much alive.

“Carry on, Mr Monteith.” He did not look at him. “
Onward
is a private ship, no admiral’s flag flying at our masthead, no chain of command while we wait to be told what to do. We depend on ourselves.” He felt the deck tilt very slightly beneath him, as if she were stirring. “Upon each other.”

When he turned Monteith had gone, almost running to deal with the arrivals.

Vincent said, “The wardroom has asked if you will be our guest,” and faltered. “If you would feel inclined to…”

The tension had gone; it was like being set free.

“I will be honoured, Mark, although I have a feeling that it might be delayed a while.”

Vincent thought he understood. The captain was back.

In his little pantry Morgan waited until the screen door had closed, then poured himself a small tot of rum and sipped appreciatively.

Tomorrow it
would
be all through the ship.

L
UKE
J
AGO CLIMBED DOWN
from the boat-tier and examined the gig closely. His gig. Oars stowed, lashings in place,
equal strain on all parts.
Probably its first time out of the water since leaving the builder’s yard.

“Fair enough, Robbins. You can fall out now.”

The big seaman knuckled his forehead, grinning. Praise indeed from the captain’s coxswain, who was impossible to please.

Jago hardly noticed. Just words, but they mattered. Anybody could pull an oar after a few attempts, and a threat or two. But the gig was special.

He stared along the maindeck, quieter now after all the working parties and inspections, as if a King’s ship had never weighed anchor and put to sea before. All those years, different ports or anchorages he could no longer name or recall, and you never got used to it. Doubt, anxiety, resentment. All and none of them.

He saw Joshua Guthrie, the boatswain, indicating something on the mainyard, jabbing the air with a massive fist to make his point to one of the new hands. A born sailor, Guthrie had entered the navy at ten. Now he seemed ageless, scarred and battered, his nose shapeless from fights ashore as well as in the line of duty. He could control the deck with a minimum of effort, using only a powerful, carrying voice and a cuff if the offender was near enough. His girth had increased over the past few years but only a fool would see it as a soft plank.
Like punching a bloody oak tree
, as one seaman had discovered.

But even Guthrie could not hide his mood, and to those who knew him well, his excitement.

It had started this morning, even as both watches of the hands were mustering for working ship, the stink of the galley funnel carrying on a fresh north-easterly. A few lights still twinkling from the dark mass of land, faint shouts and calls from other ships nearby. Another day.

Then the challenge from the gangway.
“Boat ahoy?”

Early, but not unknown in Plymouth, major naval port that it was.

Jago had recognized the boat immediately: the same one which had brought him and the captain out to
Onward
for the first time, with that senior officer from the Admiralty. But it was not stores, or some officer begging a free passage after a night ashore with one of the Plymouth whores. He had seen the sudden activity at the entry port; even the first lieutenant had been there.

Guthrie had been close by with one of his working parties and had called back softly, “The admiral’s speaking trumpet is among us!”

The flag lieutenant had come aboard, a tall, foppish young officer who seemed to wear a permanent look of disdain and impatience. It was hard to picture him serving in any seamanlike capacity. “Flags” had walked past the side party and marines without even a glance and continued aft with Lieutenant Vincent beside him.

Jago contained a smile. All the bluff and tight lips meant nothing if you had trust. The launch had been coxswained by the same man as before. He had followed the flag lieutenant up to the entry port and seen Jago, and remembered him. Just the hint of a grin, mouth barely moving, eyes still on the officers. “Sailin’ orders, matey! Best o’ luck!” And he was gone.

Secret orders, like the heavily sealed envelope he had seen in the flag lieutenant’s hand, never remained confidential for long in the “family.” The conference of officers and senior warrants called unexpectedly in the great cabin, and an announcement by the first lieutenant, had confirmed it.

Tomorrow forenoon
Onward
would be leaving Plymouth. Senior hands of messes would report for instructions.

Jago had heard one of the seamen joke, “Write your wills, while you still can!”

It was all they had been told. All they needed to know.

He looked aft and astern past the great ensign curling lightly in the breeze.
Onward
was swinging to her cable, so that the land seemed to be edging out around the quarter, like a protective arm. Secrecy meant very little in a seaport like this one. People would know. Some worrying, dismayed at the news. And others who would see it as a release, or an escape.

Jago rarely thought beyond the moment, taking it at face value.

He saw Morgan, the cabin servant, standing by the quarterdeck rail, something white in his hand. A letter, or letters, for that last boat ashore. Jago eased his shoulders, and straightened the smart blue coat with its gilt buttons. For him there would be no letters. He had nowhere else to go.

But it felt so different. In war, every flag was an enemy, each encounter a chance of battle or worse.

He turned and saw three midshipmen up on the larboard gangway, watching an old schooner passing slowly abeam. One of them was David Napier, his teeth flashing white in a grin. No regrets in that one. Glad to be leaving. Would he change with maturity, and become just another officer? It was stupid, absurd. As if it mattered. He must be losing his grip. Getting past it…

The bell chimed out from the forecastle, and his mind responded automatically. Time to report to the carpenter to settle the question of some boat repairs. One of the busiest men in any new ship, he hated to be kept waiting.

It was as if he had spoken his thoughts aloud.
Past it…
Napier must have run from the gangway to reach him so quickly. No sign of discomfort, let alone pain, a far cry from those early days of his recovery. And so at ease now in his uniform. Hard to remember him as the attentive, often overserious cabin servant in
Unrivalled.

“Settled in, have you?” Jago gestured toward the slow-moving schooner. “I seen you with your mates, getting along—or can’t you tell yet?”

Napier shrugged. “We’re all finding our way.” He was frowning now. “I’ve been wondering about you, Luke.
Onward
’s not a big ship, not like
Athena
—but I never seem to see you. And we’re sailing tomorrow. I wanted to ask you…” He halted, and touched his long-buttoned coat. “It’s not because of
this
, is it?”

Jago hesitated as two seamen hurried past, unwilling to be overheard, angry with himself for not anticipating this.
Never get too close to them. You of all people shouldn’t need to be told.

He looked at him steadily, giving himself time. What he said now would matter. Napier was not just another “young gentleman,” thinking only of himself, reckoning his chances.

“The Cap’n came down and spoke to all of you midshipmen, right?” He said it slowly, wanting it to reach him. “
All
of you, David. But don’t you think he was wanting to share the moment just with you. ’Cause you’re special?”

Some one called, “Mr Falcon is yellin’ out for you, ’Swain, you’d better jump about!”

It had slipped Jago’s mind. He reached out roughly and gripped Napier’s arm, and felt him start a little with surprise.

“No favours, David—leastways you never show ’em, or you’re finished. Others look to
you
, or very soon will…” He shook his arm, hating his inability to express it, as if they were strangers. “Think on it, David. One day you’ll meet some fine well-bred young lady who’s got her eye on a likely King’s officer. She might even be an admiral’s kin, no less.” He waited for a smile, a flicker of understanding. There was neither.

“I’ve been looking for you, man!” The carpenter.

Napier watched them go to the boat-tier, Falcon gesticulating with some sort of rule, perturbed about something.

He touched his sleeve, still feeling Jago’s grip: strong, like his presence and his convictions. Always at a distance of his own making, but he could see right through things. When others turned aside, or spluttered excuses.

“Are you coming, David?” That was Huxley. He must have seen Jago speaking with him, might even think it was gossip about his father and the forthcoming court martial.

He began to climb back to the gangway, his mind lingering on Jago and what he had been trying to say. He had seen and done so much, and had suffered in some unknown way which had scarred him as deeply as blade or ball. Maybe only the captain knew.

Jago understood the necessity of distance.
No favourites.
He stood on the gangway and felt the ship moving beneath him, as if eager to leave. To be free.