Heart of Oak (25 page)

“When we last met, Bolitho, you reported that one of your company had been murdered.” He studied his goblet. “Some petty dispute, maybe? I take it there were no developments.” He did not seem to expect an answer. “No matter. If I shouldered the blame for every soul who’s gone aloft under my command, I would be as sick as my admiral!”

He stood up. Abruptly, like most of his gestures and words. “I will read your full report, and discuss it with the governor. The next move will be…” He frowned as the flag lieutenant appeared at the door. “What is it now?”

“You have a meeting with—”

Carrick waved him into silence. “Slipped me mind, dammit!” He turned toward Adam just as easily. “We will meet again soon. You will be informed.” He held out his hand. “Now, I am certain you have a great deal to do.”

It was a dismissal, and Adam was glad of it. Carrick called after him, “Your boat’s crew should be well rested by now for their pull back to
Onward
, don’t you think?”

He strode from the cabin, the flag lieutenant hard put to keep up with him.

“I sometimes wonder why I worry myself sick, when…” He broke off. It was not the lieutenant’s fault.

Two seamen seemed to be waiting for them. One of them, a bosun’s call hanging around his neck, blurted, “Cap’n Bolitho, sir? You won’t remember me, but…”

Adam reached out impetuously and gripped his arm. “Logan. Spike Logan. You were with me in
Unrivalled.
Maintop.”

The man and his companion were both grinning and nodding, and some others were loitering nearby, listening.

They walked on toward the entry port, where the side party was waiting. The flag lieutenant spoke at last, in an undertone, touching his hat. “Now you know
why
, sir.”

Adam climbed down the side and stepped into the gig, which was already in position, as if it had never moved. He looked around at the crew, sitting smartly upright, arms folded, as if the flagship, towering over them like a cliff, did not exist.

His eyes met Jago’s and he smiled, surprised that it came so easily. “No squalls, Luke.” He sat down facing the stroke oarsman. “Not yet, anyway.”

Jago tilted his hat slightly against the reflected glare. “After what
we
done?” He said no more. There was a faint smell of rum on his breath.

Then, “Shove off, forrard!” He could see faces watching from the high poop with the gilded gingerbread he remembered so well from their arrival here. The flagship’s officers.
What the hell do they care?
“Out oars!”

He counted the seconds, standing with his fingers just touching the tiller bar, as if unconcerned. He contained a grin.
If only they knew.
“Give way together!”

He waited until he could see
Onward
’s masts, almost delicate against a big two-decker nearby, and eased the tiller until they had moved into line. Then he sat down and watched the stroke, the captain’s gold epaulette near enough to touch.

He tasted the grog on his lips. It was good to have mates.

He looked away.
Even in a flagship.

Lieutenant James Squire walked aft from the companion ladder, his eyes still dazzled by the sun and the vivid panorama of the harbour. He had visited Gibraltar several times in different ships, but he never grew tired of its life and colour.

Within minutes, or so it seemed, of dropping anchor and the captain’s departure in response to the usual impatient signal,
Onward
had been hemmed in by boats ready to sell, buy or steal anything available. The master-at-arms and a full squad of marines had their work cut out to keep the decks clear of invaders, however friendly they might appear.

He had heard the boatswain telling some of the youngsters, “If you gets to step ashore, keep yer ’ands on yer money belt, or it’ll go. They can take a tattoo off a man’s skin and ’e wouldn’t feel it!” From what he had heard, old Josh Guthrie would be one of the first ashore. He could take care of himself.

Morgan the cabin servant stood facing him by an open gunport. Even that was guarded by a spread of netting.

“Do you wish to see the captain, sir?” Self-possessed as always, but sweating slightly. “He is very hard-pressed just now, only returned aboard a moment ago.”

Squire said patiently, “It’s my watch.
I
received him on board, remember?”

Morgan let out a sign. “My apologies, sir. We are busy, too.”

Squire stared through the open doors, and beyond the sentry who was peering past the companion ladder, as if he expected to see some intruder trying to reach the lower deck without being seized.

“Guardboat just brought some mail. Mostly official, had to be signed for.” He looked again at the cabin. “So I must…”

The purser and one of his assistants were there, unrolling a mass of documents, and Prior the clerk, with a ledger almost as big as himself, was edging his way toward the captain. Even the surgeon was present. But it was nothing serious; he was laughing at something the coxswain, Jago, was telling him.

The captain had seen him. “Mail, James? I saw the guardboat pulling away. I wondered…”

Squire carried the canvas bag into the cabin.
I wondered, too. We always do. And hope.

They walked aft together. The stern windows were open and the shutters drawn, the wind warm but refreshing. There was haze closer inshore, and dust from the town. Everything else was dwarfed by the Rock.

“I had to sign for these, sir.”

But the captain had not heard him. Adam was not listening.

A heavy sealed envelope, the contents probably written or dictated weeks ago.
I am directed by my lords commissioners of Admiralty…
And one bearing the familiar anchor and crossed swords, put aboard a courier in Plymouth. The admiral’s seal was still bright in the filtered sunlight. He put them on the bench seat and picked up an envelope uncluttered by seals or official sanctions.

As if the cabin was suddenly empty, the view astern from these windows quite still. She was here, with him. Like coming alive, all tiredness gone. He touched it again. So many miles, days, weeks.

Always waiting.

Vicary the purser said, “If you could just glance at these, sir. They will require your approval before I take them ashore.”

Adam laid the letter on the bench seat and reached for the knife Morgan had placed where he could see it.

“A moment.” He slit open the heavy envelope and glanced across each separate section. He could still recall his first command, and the introduction to documents like these; it had been like reading a foreign language. It seemed a long time ago. He looked at the date, and the perfect script. Official, enclosing a shorter letter, its contents very much to the point. He remembered the face behind the writing, one of the admiral’s aides at Plymouth.

More voices. Vincent was here now; he had been occupied with a supply lighter when Adam had returned from
Tenacious.

“I’m a bit adrift, sir.” He hesitated. “Is something wrong?”

Adam folded the letter. “Midshipman Huxley. Where is he, d’ you know?”

“Lowering the jolly-boat, sir—I’ve watched him do it before. I thought…”

“I want to see him immediately. This concerns his father.”

Vincent lowered his voice. “The court martial, sir?”

“Not guilty.” He wanted to hit out, smash something. Prevent this from happening. “They were too late. He was found dead in his quarters. Hanged himself.”

Vincent said, “I’ll fetch him. I have always found him easy enough to talk to.” He faltered. “It’s no use, is it, sir?”

Adam picked up the other letter. Her letter. Later…

“Thank you, Mark. But he is one of
my
officers.” He turned and faced the others. “If you will excuse me, the first lieutenant can deal with the issue of signatures.”

They filed out of the cabin and Vincent closed the door as they left. The surgeon had been the last to leave.

“If you need me?” He knew, or guessed.

Morgan had been waiting by his pantry, sensing the change in atmosphere, wanting to do something. This was his place. But he gathered up the empty glasses and headed for the screen. He would be ready when called. And the captain would know it.

Adam stood by the open stern window and saw another boat pulling slowly beneath the counter, some one holding up shawls or bright clothing, undeterred by shouts from the deck. It was hot, and he was still wearing the dress uniform coat in which he had boarded the flagship. He made to unfasten it, but something stopped him. The slight tap on the grating.

“Mr Midshipman Huxley,
sir!
”

“Enter!”

He was the Captain.

The two midshipmen sat side by side on the forecastle deck watching the lights on the shore; occasionally one moved, like a star fallen on the water. Overhead, if they looked, the converging pattern of shrouds and stays reached to the sky, yards and spars completely still, resting, like the ship.

There had been music, the lively sound of a violin, laughter and what sounded like feet stamping in a jig, but even that had gone silent. It would soon be time to pipe down; some of the hands were already in their hammocks.

Down by the entry port there was still a lantern burning, an intrusion in the darkness. The glint of metal and a moving shadow showed the duty watch was alert, waiting for one of the boats, or the Officer-of-the-Guard on his endless patrol around and between the anchored men-of-war.

David Napier glanced over his shoulder as a solitary figure walked past: one of the anchor watch doing his rounds, although he would hardly be able to see the cable where it reached down into the black water. They might have been completely alone, sitting where they were in the eyes of the ship. Even the figurehead was invisible, reaching out to another unknown horizon.

Soon they would have to return to the midshipmen’s berth. Nothing had been said, and the silence made it worse, if that were possible. They all knew. The whole ship seemed to know.

Once, he had said, “Would it be better if I left you in peace, Simon?”

No words, but he had felt a hand on his arm and known he was shaking his head.

And then, quite suddenly, Simon Huxley had started to talk. “I knew what had happened. When the Captain sent for me, I
knew.
I kept going over it, again and again, but I was thinking too much about my own future…” It had been dark, but not enough to hide the tears on his face. He had shaken off any attempt to restrain or comfort him. Like a flood-gate giving way.

“When I saw him, that last time, in Plymouth, and every one was trying to make things seem better, I should have known. My father had already condemned himself, no matter what any court martial might decide!”

Huxley had got up suddenly and leaned out across the water, and Napier had stood with him, hardly daring to hold him, afraid of what he would do. But in a calmer voice he said, “Two of his men were drowned within sight of land, and he blamed himself. Even when he was told that the court would find him not guilty, he said,
it won’t bring them back to life.
”

They had sat down again, sharing the stillness.

Then Napier had asked, as if he had no control over it, “What did the Captain say?”

Huxley had said nothing, reliving it for a moment. Then he whispered, “He treated me like a man, a friend. I knew he cared. It wasn’t just words.” He had been unable to continue.

Some one shouted, and another said,
“About bloody time!”

A boat was pulling out of the darkness, the oars trailing living serpents of phosphorescence.

Napier took his friend’s arm gently. “Shall we go below, Simon?” and felt him nod.

“I’m ready.”

That was all. But enough.

Hugh Morgan was still in his pantry when the last boat came alongside. Here, down aft, you could not hear much of it, but there would be some curses and flying fists if they carried their high spirits down on to the messdeck. The ship’s corporal would have to deal with it. Rowlatt, the master-at-arms, was still ashore, “on special duty,” they said. He had heard that Rowlatt had a woman in the town. He grinned. She must be blind, or desperate.

He raised his glass and sipped it, savouring it. The good stuff…It had been a long day.

He glanced at the open letter laid on his counter. Long and rambling, from his brother in Cardiff. Older than himself, he was a glass-blower, as their father had been; it was a marvel he had any lungs left after all this time. Six children, too; but they would be children no more. He could always picture Cardiff in his thoughts…
Be like another world to me today.

It would seem strange to walk those old streets again. But maybe…

He heard a faint shout, then a crack, likely a starter across some one’s rump. Otherwise the ship was quiet, the candleflames unmoving. The pantry door was just ajar; he could see the small pool of light over the desk. The captain was still sitting there, a pen grasped in his hand. Like the last time he had crept across the cabin to close the quarter gallery windows. Not much air, but it was better than enduring the insects that tapped against the glass or flickered in the faint glow from astern.

Tomorrow, perhaps, he might go ashore. He had been to Gibraltar a good many times. Different ships and shipmates. He had a friend who worked in the big chandlery, if he was still there. But you had to know your way around, like any seaport. He smiled, sipping the rum. Even the “gateway to the Mediterranean.”

Women, too, at a price. He gave them a wide berth. Otherwise you could find she had left you with something you would regret, long after you had forgotten her face. And she yours.

In a minute, he would make some excuse and disturb the captain, perhaps persuade him to climb into his cot. It was hard to recall the last time the man had been properly asleep. What drove him? He had known other captains who would have left the work to others, and complained about it afterwards.

He thought of the visit to the flagship; there was always plenty of gossip. How the captain had been kept waiting to see the commodore, after what he had done, and risked, to save the Frenchie from being turned into a giant coffin.