Heart of Oak (20 page)

“Run out!”

Maddock’s drills had not been in vain. Along
Onward
’s starboard side, the eighteen-pounders thudded against their ports. Showing her teeth…

Maddock was staring aft, one hand raised against the pitiless glare, the other on the shoulder of his senior gun captain.

Adam watched the schooner, almost abeam now as
Onward
settled on her new course. It was as if
Nautilus
, and the headland, did not exist.

“On the uproll!” Like counting the seconds.
“Fire!”

The forward gun recoiled, its crew leaping aside, hand-spikes and sponge ready, as if they had been doing it all their lives.

The crash of gunfire was still echoing over the water. A jagged burst of spray showed the fall of shot, directly across the schooner’s bows.

Vincent said sharply, “
Nautilus
is making more sail!”

“That woke ’em up!” Jago’s voice. Adam scarcely heard them. Men were running along the schooner’s deck, and some were already down in the boat alongside.

He raised the telescope, cursing the time it took to focus. The schooner was still under way. The solitary figure in uniform was standing where he had last seen him. Closer now, but partly obscured by drifting gunsmoke.

The image seemed to hold him in a vise. The man by the helm had not moved because he was tied upright, helpless. Probably dead. And it could not be gunsmoke at that range.

He leaned on the rail and saw Maddock turn.

“Fire!”

Maddock might have hesitated, but only for a few seconds. Then he was stooping at the second gun, gesturing almost unhurriedly to his crew, until he was satisfied.

Some one gave a wild cheer as the ball slammed into the schooner’s side. More smoke, and Maddock’s voice, strong and clear.

“Lay for the foremast an’ fire on the uproll!
Ready!
”

Adam did not hear the order to fire. It was as if the sea had exploded in his face. But the picture remained starkly before his eyes, as it had been when the telescope was jolted from his hands.

Men in the boat, struggling, fighting to cast off from the schooner’s side, knocked over by others leaping down to join them in a panic which distance could not hide. One figure running in the last moment of sanity before bursting into a human torch, arms and legs flailing as he pitched into the sea alongside.

And then the explosion, bursting through the schooner’s deck: a giant fireball blasting masts and sails into ashes, the heat enough to sear the skin at a cable’s distance.

Fragments were splashing around the stricken vessel, some ablaze and breaking up, burning on the water so that the sea became a final torment for those still alive.

Men stood by their guns staring at the smoke, the debris still falling so near. Some one cried out as another explosion rebounded against the hull, like a ship running aground. Final. But muffled this time, no searing glare.

The schooner, or what remained of her, was on her way to the bottom. And through it all the wind was holding, cool after the inferno.

Adam picked up his telescope and cradled it in his arm.

“We will heave to, Mr Vincent.” He rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Fall out guns’ crews.” To his own ears, he sounded like a stranger. Calm. Dispassionate.

“Boat’s crew, sir?” Guthrie, the boatswain.

Adam licked his lips. They tasted of smoke and sudden death.

“Have them standing by.” He raised the glass with both hands, knowing that others were watching him. “But there’s little chance.”

He felt the deck tilt uneasily as
Onward
turned into the wind, headsails flapping and filling again in confusion.

He moved the telescope slowly, giving himself time, allowing his hand to steady. And there was
Nautilus
, topsails braced and full on a fresh tack, gangway and lower shrouds alive with tiny figures. Gunports still closed, as Maddock and his crews would notice. The silent witness.

He thought of the French captain, Marchand. How he must be feeling even as he watched the ever-spreading litter of charred remains and ashes. Seeing again the fireball which would have been
Nautilus.
His ship, his men. Himself.

Vincent was beside him. “No survivors, sir.” His voice seemed hushed, as if he were dazed by the swiftness of near disaster.
Treachery.
Perhaps the commodore was right. “But for you…”

He said nothing more.

“There’s your answer, Mark.” He did not trust himself to raise the telescope.

Midshipman Deacon shouted, “
Nautilus
is dipping her ensign, sir!” He was staring around at the others. “The Frenchman’s saluting
us!
”

There were cheers from the upper deck. Adam turned deliberately toward the other frigate and raised his hat in acknowledgment. Marchand would see, and understand.

Vincent asked, “Shall we go ahead?”

Adam held the hat to shade his eyes. Or hide them.

“As ordered. Under two flags.”

Lieutenant James Squire reached the quarterdeck and paused to stare abeam at the land: no longer lines and figures on a chart, but real and alive. He prided himself on his vision, and even without a glass could see the shades and depths of colour of the coastal waters, spray shining on a spur of rock or fallen cliff which marked the entrance to the bay; tiny figures by the water’s edge; a track or rough road leading inland; and a lone horseman raising a trail of yellow dust, soon lost from view over a ridge or bare hillside.

Local people, caught in the crossfire of war or revolution, and hardened enough to gather and watch a vessel blowing apart, destroyed in its own trap.

He glanced across the deck where the marines of the afterguard, some by the hammock nettings, were leaning on their muskets. Grim-faced after what they had witnessed, contemplating the fate they might have shared. The senior midshipman by the flag locker, silent and unsmiling: the same one who had shouted with such wild excitement to the deck at large when
Nautilus
had dipped her ensign in salute. And the young topman who had been sent for by the captain, cornered now by some of his mates, grinning, but still mystified by whatever he had said which had proved so significant. He looked aft again, and saw the captain with the master and his crew by the compass box, and another midshipman writing on a slate, teeth gritted against the sound of the squeaking pencil.

He saw the land moving aside, the bay slowly opening beyond the bows. Some small houses, white and hazy in the sunlight. He pictured the chart, and the captain’s own rough map; how he had made light of the possible inaccuracies and flaws in their information, even if it had come from the admiral. And all the time he must have been confronting the real danger, which only at the last minute they had all glimpsed for themselves. And he had still found time to thank a common seaman. For doing his duty, many would say.

Squire heard some one laugh and thought,
And we are alive.

“Boat’s crew mustered—sir.”

It was Fowler, boatswain’s mate, tough, experienced, and ruthless. Years had passed since they had served together, yet it was all so clear. Even just glancing around, here and now. Stowing hammocks together. Hauling on the braces or lying back with all their strength to run out a gun, like today.

Then he had taken the irrevocable step from messdeck to wardroom, and even fame in a minor way when he had been chosen to join the voyage of exploration under Sir Alfred Bishop. And then
Onward
, a new frigate when so many shipyards were empty, and men crying out for work. And a captain of repute: who would not envy him?

When Bolitho had assigned their duties upon arrival here, and given him charge of the cutter as guardboat and liaison with the French, Squire had been pleased and surprised.

But Fowler couldn’t leave it at that.
Gave it to you to spare his precious first lieutenant, or one of his favourites. Can’t you see that?

Their eyes met, and Squire said, “I didn’t know you were coming.”

Fowler looked over at some seamen by the boat-tier. “I ‘volunteered.’ Need somebody to keep an eye on you!” And he laughed.

“You watch what you’re saying. Or one of these days—”

“You’ll
what?
”

“Bosun wants you!” A seaman was peering up from the gangway.

Fowler grunted. “Tell ’im I’m with the second lieutenant!”

Squire walked to the side again as more of the bay opened out across the bow. The fortress above the anchorage reminded him more of an old monastery than a place fought over for more than a hundred years.
Nautilus
was turning into the wind, her anchor catted and ready to let go.

There were people on and above an embrasured wall. The battery. The captain had been right, and brave to follow his instinct.

He heard Fowler threatening some one who was too slow for his taste.

It went through his mind yet again.
He saved me from disgrace. I was a coward, and others paid for it.

“Ready below, Mr Squire!”

He raised his hand and smiled, outwardly at ease.

But the other voice persisted.

I want him dead.

Lights were already burning in the great cabin, although it had been daylight when he left the upper deck. Adam rubbed his eyes and threw his hat on to a chair. Men were still working throughout the ship, replacing screens, dragging chests and furniture from the holds. The cook was trying to rekindle his galley fire; the anchor was down and there were lights across the water, above the ancient fortress and its battery.

Just in time.

He had passed a party of seamen restoring hammocks to the messdecks. Some had grinned, and one had called after him, “You showed ’em, Cap’n!”

And yet, only hours ago, he had seen the cold hostility in their eyes as one of their number had been flogged.

Morgan was here, as if he had never moved. “Visitor, sir.”

It was Murray, the surgeon, come to make his own report. “No injuries, sir. A few cuts and bruises, but only from preparing for the worst.” The keen eyes were assessing him. “Dare I suggest that our captain find time to rest his limbs? Richly deserved, if I may say so.”

Adam knew that Morgan was already nodding on his feet.
If I close my eyes…

“I have to visit
Nautilus
before nightfall. I don’t want to be fired on by one of the guardboats, especially ours!”

He heard the clink of glass. Morgan had roused himself and was preparing his own remedy. But if he gave in to it now…

“How is—” He had to grope for the name; he was in worse condition than he thought. “Dimmock?”

“He’ll live.” Murray might have smiled; it was difficult to see in the half light. “Slept like a log throughout the whole episode, too full of grog to know or care.”

Adam heard voices, Jago talking to the sentry. What did he think about being called at this hour to take the gig across to
Nautilus?
He had not left his side all day, except when he had been here with young David.

“Midshipman Napier…”

Murray was ready for that. “I’m satisfied. Surprised, too, I must confess. A word of advice for some one, however. If a masthead lookout is required urgently, let young Napier wait a while before he puts up his hand again.”

Adam felt his dry lips break into a smile. “I’m grateful. For all you’ve done.”

Murray looked toward the stern windows. The sea was flat and unmoving, molten gold in the dying light. “I keep thinking of those poor devils today. My trade requires of me both impartiality and compassion.” He turned back, his face in shadow. “But I thank God for our survival, and the quick wit of the man who kept us alive.” He thrust out his hand. “Be proud!”

Adam could still feel the palm, as rough as any seaman’s, long after the door had closed behind him.

The cabin seemed to swim in the dimness. What of tomorrow? And the next decision? He could see his small desk, replaced exactly where it had stood; Morgan might have measured it. The blank sheet of paper was lying in the centre as before. He could almost see the words flowing from his pen.

The door opened and he turned away, abandoning her once more.

“Are you ready, Luke?”

“Gig’s alongside, Cap’n.”

Proud.

G
EORGE
T
OLAN EASED HIS BACK
against the hard seat and felt the cart swaying around a bend in the lane, like a jolly-boat in a lively sea. Every muscle ached; he had given up counting the days and the miles. And the doubts.

He glanced sideways at the driver. His name was Dick, and he had described himself as a carter. He must have overheard him asking directions to the Bolitho house when he had been left by the coach at the Spaniards Inn.

Friendly enough. “I’m goin’ that way m’self. Tes some far to walk with that great bag!”

Captain Bolitho might have been making a gesture, nothing more, no matter what his coxswain had insisted. They would both be at sea now in any case. And this was Cornwall, not London or some familiar port. Even the air was different: clean, indefinably tinged with the sea. He watched the passing colours in the hedgerows, foxglove, vetch, campion; the carter named them for him. Then, “You’ll be a stranger in these parts?” Tolan had felt the warning. It had never left him, despite moments when he had begun to believe that he was safe. Out of reach.

He thought of Sir Graham Bethune, the vice-admiral he had served from his time as captain. Servant, aide, unofficial bodyguard: as close as any one could hope to be, while he had still been needed.

“Workin’ up at the old house, then?”

Tolan said, “I think so, yes.”

He nodded. “Be seein’ Mister Yovell, I s’pect. Nice old stick, but sharp as a tack, so watch out!” He laughed and flicked the reins. “Don’t tell he I said so. I does a good bit o’ trade at the Bolitho house!”

Tolan loosened his coat. The sun was warmer than he had expected,
or is it me?
They might slam the door in his face, of course, as if he were some vagrant. Bolitho would have forgotten all about their last meeting, although the flag lieutenant, Troubridge, had done his best, providing Tolan with a warrant for travel by coach as far as Plymouth, and even for the final leg of the journey as an outsider with a few other passengers, swooping along narrow roads with branches almost brushing their heads.