Heart of Oak (14 page)

He shook slightly, but the laughter remained silent.

Adam waited, trying to read Murray’s face: strong features dominated by a hooked nose, and piercing, pale eyes. Hair flecked with feathers of white, as if he had dodged through a flurry of snow. Murray looked directly at the pantry door and said loudly, “Would you fetch my bag from the sick bay?”

As Morgan departed, he added, “Not for me to give orders to your servant, sir!”

Adam said, “Tell me.”

Murray turned on his chair and looked over at Vincent. “You reported a man missing, just before we weighed.”

“Ned Harris. It’s in the log. Have you heard something about him?”

“More to the point, Mark, I have found him, or two of my people did. Came straight to me.” He moved a hand dismissively. “Be all over the ship before a dog can bark. I did what I could.”

Adam said, “Where?” And the inner voice.
You knew.

Murray turned back, his nose training around like one of those guns. “Sail room, sir. I wanted some spare canvas. Harris was out of sight…and down on the orlop, there are many other smells.”

Vincent exclaimed, “How did it happen, for God’s sake?”

“He was stabbed.” The pale eyes remained very steady. “Five times, to be precise.”

Vincent returned to the stern windows and rested his hand on the salt-patterned glass. “He was a good man, what I knew of him. Popular, too.”

Maddock said, “So the killer is still among us.”

Adam stood up, fatigue gone, a new, grim energy coursing through him. Whatever the cause, greed, debt, a moment’s uncontrollable fury, a man was dead. Unknown to some, a messmate to others. “Clear lower deck, Mark. I’ll speak to all hands.”

It was little enough, but it was right that they should know. And the one man among them who would stand alone.

Morgan had returned. “They said you had your bag with you, sir.” But he was looking at Adam.

Vincent said, “Had he been robbed?”

“Searched, I believe, but nothing taken.” And to Adam, “No sign of struggle.”

Adam looked toward the screen door as if it were invisible, seeing the ship in his mind. Afternoon watchkeepers at their stations on and above the deck, the men they had relieved hastening to their messes, eager for a hot meal, gossiping about the day’s events, and most of all the prospect of landfall. No longer a rumour or a pencilled cross on the sailing master’s chart, but the conclusion of their first passage as one company.

Vincent asked, “Shall I pass the word, sir?”

Adam listened to the murmur of sea and wind, the occasional thump of the tiller-head. “Let them eat first.” He looked at the others. “Thank you, all of you, for your help.”

He walked aft again and watched the broken crests following in silent procession. Then he said, “Can’t you tell? They know already.”

But he was alone.

He stood by the quarterdeck rail in the last moments of
Onward
’s final approach, tasting the smoke on his lips. The silence of the anchorage after her salute and the measured response from the battery ashore was profound, almost unnerving. The gulls settled again on the water.

He looked at the anchored men-of-war, their paintwork and checkered gunports reflected with the gulls; some had already spread awnings against the hard sun. Fewer than on those other visits, but impressive enough. The pale buildings ashore were partly hidden in mist or gunsmoke; impossible to compare this to the wind and chilling rain of England’s winter.

He had seen the gunner pacing slowly inboard of each port as the salute had shattered the morning stillness, mouth barely moving in the chant he used to time every explosion, hand ready to signal instantly to the next crew if there was a misfire. There was not. Maddock might well be smiling now, he thought. Between the bangs he had thought he heard what sounded like church bells.

He shaded his eyes, and saw the anchor party standing together, the new hands staring at the towering Rock, others doubtless trying to identify the ships.

The wheel moved slightly; even that seemed loud.
Onward
was barely making headway, with all her sails clewed up except topsails and jib.

“Guardboat, sir!”

“Very well.” The flash of a glass, somebody watching their approach. Like so many others for whom
Onward
would represent news from England, from families, from a lover. Births, deaths, promotion, hope, disillusionment. The guardboat had slowed above its own image, oars tossed.

“Stand by forrard!”
He heard the order being passed, the voice cracking, bringing a grin from the second helmsman. It was Midshipman Walker, the one who had been seasick since they had weighed at Plymouth. There was hope for him yet.

He saw Lieutenant Squire by the cathead, gesturing sharply, no time left for errors. David Napier would be with him, the whole panorama of ships and craggy landscape laid at his feet.

It felt like that for me.

He turned and gazed up at the masthead pendant, moving listlessly now, and his eyes passed over the Royal Marines paraded by the quarterdeck carronades, their officer, Lieutenant Gascoigne, standing rigidly, staring straight ahead. A splash of colour aboard
Onward
for the telescopes…

“Lee braces there! Hands wear ship!”

More shouts, and somebody laughed or coughed.

“Tops’l clew lines!”

Adam heard the slap of canvas, and a few curt words from the boatswain. He saw the cook, in his apron and without the fiddle, stooping to duck out of sight.

“Helm a-lee.”
And she was turning, very slowly, the long, tapering jib-boom like a pointer, the masts and yards of the nearest ship passing across it.

Another voice, not loud but terse, and the obedient response from the boat-tier. Luke Jago would not be distracted. The gig would be out and alongside as ordered. No matter what.

Adam faced forward again, felt the air like warm breath on his face as
Onward
turned into the wind.

“Let go!”

He thought he saw Squire’s hand slice down, then the burst of spray as the anchor hit the water, men running while the cable quivered in pursuit.

The compressor was already checking it, slowing and taking the strain.

The yards were secured, all canvas brailed or furled, seamen scurrying down the ratlines, the less cautious sliding straight down backstays.

Vincent was with him now. “All fast forrard, sir!” He was grinning, as if all strain had dropped away with the anchor.

Another voice: Deacon, the senior midshipman, grim-faced, and very conscious of the moment. “Signal, sir!” He had to clear his throat. “From
Flag!
”

Adam heard Julyan the master remark, “He’s in a bit of a bloody hurry.” He looked away as Adam walked past him.

“What is it, Mr Deacon?” Some one had handed him a telescope.

Deacon said steadily, “From Flag, sir.
Captain repair on board.
”

Adam trained the glass, taking extra seconds to refocus it. The flagship swayed across the lens and steadied, her name,
Tenacious
, clearly visible across her counter.

He said quietly, “Thank you, Mr Deacon. That was perceptive of you.” He heard Jago shouting orders, the squeal of tackle. He knew.

“Sir?” He turned back and saw that, as Deacon pointed out, the flagship should have been flying the colours of a rear-admiral. She was not. A commodore’s broad pendant had replaced them. Permanent or temporary, but there had been no hint of a change in command when he had spoken with the admiral. Promotion, or away on some diplomatic mission? He looked over at the canvas canopy by the boat-tier. Or, like the murdered cooper Harris, beyond the concerns of this world.

Morgan had come on deck, with the sword and Adam’s boat cloak in readiness. He looked like a man who had been offered an affront. “I’m told it’s urgent, see? You would not wish to squander the time donning your best uniform, I thought, sir?”

“Thank you.” He held out his arms so that Morgan could fasten the belt. The commodore must have had hours to gauge
Onward
’s approach, if he was interested. Was this urgency just a show of authority?

Vincent was saying, “I’ll have all boats lowered, sir. Mail ready to go ashore.” His eyes also moved to the canvas canopy. “What about Harris, sir?”

Adam brought his mind back with an effort. “A shore burial will be necessary.” He gazed up at the towering rock, cloud streaming from its peak. The gateway. “We could lose a hundred men in the King’s name and not raise an eyebrow. But one poor devil…”

“Gig’s alongside, sir!”

Adam tossed the boat cloak back to Morgan. “Not this time.” He touched one of his epaulettes. They, at least, were still untarnished.

He walked to the ladder, aware of their eyes, some familiar, others still unknown. At the mainmast truck the pendant was coming to life again in a light breeze, and a few small figures were still working in the top, pausing to peer down as he strode toward the entry port. The boatswain was touching his hat, an evil grin on his battered face.

“We’ll show the buggers, sir!”

And Rowlatt, the master-at-arms, glaring at such informality.

Two midshipmen. Huxley, who had joined the ship with Napier, and the one called Hotham, whose father was a clergyman. There was a story there, and he could imagine the comments in the gunroom. Or maybe not so much these days. After all, Nelson’s father had been a man of the cloth.

A squad of Royal Marines, and the boatswain’s mates by the port, one caught in the act of moistening his call on his tongue. There were suddenly a dozen things he wanted to point out to the first lieutenant.
When I step into the gig, he is in command.

Vincent murmured, “I have the weight, sir.”

Adam raised his hat, the calls shrilled and the muskets slapped down in salute, within a cloud of pipeclay. Something every captain took for granted. As his right.

He nodded to one of the sideboys as he rested his hand on his shoulder, then stepped out and into the gig.

Jago was standing in the sternsheets, hat in hand, eyes everywhere. He, more than any one, probably knew the truth.

“Cast off, forrard! Out oars! Give way
together!
”

Jago eased the tiller slightly and watched the oars dipping and pulling, all eyes on the stroke and none on the captain. Given time, he would knock them into a fair crew. He glanced astern and saw
Onward
, already bows-on, one of those clumsy-looking local craft with the big lateen sail hovering close by. Ready to barter, or steal anything they could lay hands on.

He looked over the stroke oarsman’s head and measured the distance. So many times, but always different. Some could find you dreaming and carry you past the ship or landing stage. Or an oarsman, no matter how experienced, could “catch a crab” and throw the stroke into a shambles.

He stooped to listen as the epaulettes moved slightly, and he heard the captain remark, “I can think of better ways to spend the first day in harbour, Sunday or not!”

The stroke oarsman grinned, but kept his eye on the tiller. Some of the others shared it even if they were out of hearing. He always seemed to have that way with them. Did
he
know it, he wondered? He saw the sunlight flashing from the flagship’s high stern windows and on the gilt gingerbread scrollwork around her poop.
Must have cost a fortune.

Figures on the gangway now, telescopes raised. He scowled.
Bloody officers. Are they all blind?

“Boat ahoy?”

He bellowed back,
“Onward!”

He felt almost proud, but it would end up with bloody knuckles if anybody knew what he was thinking.

The bowman had hooked on, and the gig nudged against the rope fenders below the entry port. After
Onward
, the flagship’s side and tumblehome seemed like a cliff.

Only seconds, and their eyes met. The hint of a smile.

“Squalls ahead, Luke.”

Then he was gone.

The lieutenant stood aside, one hand holding the door half open.

“Commodore Carrick will not be more than a few seconds, sir. Something urgent has come up.”

It was only a temporary cabin, with screens to separate it from the admiral’s quarters in the poop; there were a few chairs, and an open port that looked across the main anchorage and its array of ships.
Onward
lay somewhere on the opposite quarter, out of sight, and the knowledge gave him a peculiar sense of loss.

He looked at the deck, where the painted canvas had been rolled back to reveal deep scars in the planking. A gun had once been run out through this port, or been hurled inboard on recoil after firing in drill or deadly earnest.
Tenacious
was a veteran, at a guess about twenty years old. A third-rate two-decker, with much of the heavier hull structure he had first seen as a midshipman in his uncle’s old
Hyperion.

The lieutenant had made him welcome enough, but had been careful to keep him apart from the ship’s officers after his formal reception on board. He wore the twist of gold lace like Troubridge and was probably the rear-admiral’s aide, and he had Troubridge’s easy way of making conversation with a stranger. Without listening to or answering direct questions, Adam noticed.

His comment about the new commodore, for instance. When Adam had asked about the suddenness of the appointment he had replied airily, “A fellow Cornishman, sir. You might know him.” And that was all.

Of course, the flag lieutenant was probably more concerned about his own immediate future. Commodores were not usually entitled to official aides, during what was often only a temporary promotion. He recalled Troubridge’s cheerful warning:
the higher we climb…

“Captain Bolitho, sir?” Some one, the flagship’s equivalent of Morgan in a well-cut velvet waistcoat and nankeen breeches, was regarding him from the other door, face sweating in the sunlight from the open port, as if he had been running. But it was humid between decks, and no awnings were rigged on deck, nor windsails to bring some relief to the messes below. Maybe the commodore considered the flagship’s outward appearance more important than the comfort of those who served him.