In the King's Name (10 page)

Adam stared along the length of the ship and felt the wind, slight as it was, pressing the shirt against his back. Like the air, his skin was already warm and clammy. As Jago had remarked over his razor, “Best to keep dressed down while you can, Cap'n.”

Most of the men working on or above deck were stripped to the waist, some badly burned by sun and wind, and despite the early hour there were several of them loitering on the gangways, peering ahead, or pointing at the vast span of land that reached out on either bow as far as the eye could see. At first only a long unwavering shadow, unmoving, beyond reach, but now, after two days of doubt and uncertainty, it was reality. Measureless. Not merely land, but a continent.

Adam glanced at the sails again, and thought he saw one of the topmen pointing at something, grinning or swearing, he could not tell. But he felt it. Shared it.
At moments like this, we are one company
.

He knew that Vincent was standing with his arms folded, observing the men around the wheel and compass box. It was his watch, although he and his captain had met a few times when every one had been mustered for another alteration of course. Like strangers in the night. This was different. As first lieutenant, Vincent would be on his feet and dealing with everything from mooring the ship to any ceremonial required.

Vincent turned now as someone gave a quiet cheer, but seemed to visibly relax as men moved aside to let another find a place at the nettings. It was the young assistant cook, Lord, with one of the surgeon's crew hovering at his side. The bandages gleamed in the hot sunlight, and Adam could sense his surprise, even confusion, as the way was cleared for him. There were grins and jokes, too. Lord looked steadily at the land, unable to respond. Perhaps the emotion was too much. It was his first day on deck since the stabbing.

It gave Vincent time to cross the quarterdeck and touch his hat to Adam. “Holding steady, sir. West nor' west. We'll anchor in the forenoon if this holds.” He glanced at the thin plume of greasy smoke from the galley funnel. “Good thing we piped all hands an hour early!”

Adam smiled. “They've done well.” He saw some of the first to be called appearing on deck, yawning and looking curiously at the land as they began to stack their rolled hammocks in the nettings, a bosun's mate making sure that there were no errors to spoil the array. He added quietly, “And so have you, Mark.”

Vincent walked to the compass box and back, and said only, “D' you know the admiral at Freetown, sir?”

Adam saw a fish leap in the ship's shadow, not a shark this time. He was still thinking of the stricken schooner
Moonstone
. Maybe Vincent was, too.

“Rear-Admiral Langley? Only by name, I'm afraid. There have been several changes since I was last here, to all accounts.”

Vincent nodded slowly. “They'll all be hungry for news. Wanting to know what's happening at home.”

Adam looked toward the spreading panorama of green and felt the sun on his neck, like a hot breath. And this was early.
News from home
.

The admiral might be watching
Onward
right now through his telescope, if he allowed himself to appear so eager. He thought of the sealed orders.
With all despatch
… And after their delivery, what next? Take on supplies and fresh water, and then back to Plymouth?

He saw the cook's assistant looking at the galley funnel, and the surgeon's mate shaking his head.
Not yet
. You didn't have to hear them speak. He looked again: most of the hammocks had been lashed and stowed, and one of the last men to stand away from the nettings was throwing his head back and giving a huge yawn. He froze as he realised that he was eye to eye with his captain.

Adam raised a casual hand and smiled, and saw the seaman abruptly bob his head before hurrying away.

The calls shrilled: “Hands to breakfast and clean!”

Adam shaded his eyes and said, “You go below too, Mark. We'll all be busy enough soon.”

He saw Vincent rub his chin and then nod. “Thank you, sir. I'll not take a moment. If you're sure.”

Adam heard the companion close, and walked to the quarterdeck rail, gazing toward the shore. Even without a telescope he could see some small local vessels, far away, like dried leaves floating against the unmoving backdrop. One day, Vincent would understand that at a moment like this a captain needed to be alone. With his ship.

The two midshipmen stood side by side on the forecastle as the land, now alive with detail, continued to reach out and embrace the ship. Despite the sounds of spars and rigging, which most sailors took for granted as part of their daily lives, the silence was unnerving, and a moment before, someone had gasped with alarm as the first strokes of eight bells had sounded from the nearby belfrey.

David Napier nudged his friend's arm with his elbow and felt him respond.

Lieutenant Squire stood stolidly with his hands clasped behind him, big feet apart, watching the guardboat which had pulled out to greet
Onward
on her final approach and had taken station directly ahead. The wind had held after all, but the pace seemed painfully slow under the lee of the land.

The gunner had already been on deck, but no salute was required. He had grinned. “They're not out of their sacks yet!” Even his voice had seemed louder than usual.

Midshipman Huxley murmured, “There's the flagship, Dave.”

His Britannic Majesty's ship
Medusa
was a smart third-rate, a two-decker of seventy-four guns. She did not compare with the massive ships of the line, but here she seemed to dominate the anchorage. Most of the other vessels were much smaller: cutters, two brigantines, and one schooner.

Napier heard Huxley mutter, “She's like—”

He did not finish. Neither of them needed reminding, especially Napier. The memory of
Moonstone
still took him unawares, in the night watches or when some casual remark brought some part of it back to life. Like now.

He looked aft and saw the first lieutenant standing by the captain, pointing up at the topsail yards, where seamen stood ready to shorten or make more sail if the wind roused itself or dropped altogether. Did Vincent ever think about it? That more could have been done? If anything, he had avoided mentioning it.

Napier thought of the captain. He had seen the sharks, and signalled the recall immediately. But for that …

He cupped his hands over his eyes and stared across the water toward
Medusa
. She was moored alongside a pier or wooden jetty, the rear-admiral's flag drooping from her mizzen, and he could see a few figures working on deck and the sun reflecting on a telescope.

Lieutenant Squire said suddenly, “We shall rig winds'ls as soon as we anchor. Be like an oven ‘tween-decks otherwise.”

“Is that what the flagship's doing, sir?” That was Huxley, as serious as ever.

Squire grunted. “Not sure.”

Napier looked away from the slow-moving schooner. “Maybe
Medusa's
preparing for sea?”

Somebody yelled from aft and Squire strode to the side and gestured to some of the anchor party. But he still managed to crack a grin.

“If the flagship went to sea, that whole bloody pier would collapse!” He clapped one of the seamen on the shoulder as he was gaping at the great anchor hanging from its cathead. “Ready for a run ashore, Knocker? Or are you too young for it?”

There were several raucous laughs, and one of the younger seamen took up Squire's mood. “Wot are the girls like ‘ere, sir?”

Squire looked at the two midshipmen and winked. “Only one way to find out!” Just as quickly, he was serious again. “Stand by forrard, and warn the hands below!”

Napier saw the guardboat turning slightly, oars motionless, and someone holding up the blue flag. He thought of the charts, the countless pencilled calculations, the hundreds of miles logged and recorded, all culminating in this final position, marked by a blue flag.

He nudged Huxley again. “It's probably still snowing in Falmouth!”

Huxley gave a rare smile. “My father always said …” He stopped and withdrew into silence, a habit Napier had noticed that very first day when they had joined
Onward
together, he still recovering from the loss of his ship and Huxley brooding over his father's court-martial and suicide.

He said gently, “Tell me, Simon. What
did
your father used to say?” and for a moment he thought he had broken an unspoken promise.

Then Huxley answered steadily, “My father said a good navigator measured distance by the number of ship's biscuits consumed each day …” He faltered, but he was smiling. “Sorry about that!” And the smile remained.

Napier stared up at the yards and the topmen spread out along them, and guessed his newly promoted friend, Tucker, would be watching them, too.

Lieutenant Squire was saying, “Quiet enough. Must all be asleep aboard the flagship.” He beckoned to Napier. “My respects to the first lieutenant, and tell him …” He stopped as another voice came from aft.

“Signal from Flag, sir!
Captain repair on board!
”

“Let go!”

Squire leaned over the side as
Onward
‘s anchor dropped from its cathead and felt the spray across his face like rain; it was almost as cold on his heated skin. Mud and sand swirled to the surface as the cable took the strain.

He signalled to the quarterdeck and saw Vincent acknowledge it. It was over, but Squire knew from long experience that it was also just beginning.

“Attention on the upper deck! Face to starboard!”

Then the prolonged trill of calls in salute for the captain, and, seconds later or so it seemed, the gig pulled smartly away from the side. Squire straightened his back automatically and felt Napier move up beside him. He saw the sun glinting on the oars and then on the captain's gold epaulettes as he sat stiffly upright in the sternsheets. He seemed to be looking up at
Onward
‘s figurehead, or the men on the forecastle. Maybe at Napier.

It must be difficult for both of them, captain and “middy.” More than any one. To show any sign of friendship or familiarity would be seen as favouritism or bias by those eager to seize on such things.

Squire peered across at the flagship and thought he heard the blare of a trumpet. Neither captain was wasting any time.

At the gig's tiller, Luke Jago watched the steady stroke of oars and waited for it to settle into a rhythm that satisfied him. Everything smart and clean, the crew dressed in their chequered shirts and straw hats. He envied them; he was wearing his jacket with the gilt buttons, and was already sweating badly. He glanced at the captain in his best uniform; even the proud epaulettes looked heavy on his shoulders.

Jago stared past the stroke oarsman's head at the flagship's mainmast, alert for any drift that might require a shift of rudder. There was none. A good crew. He grinned to himself.
An' a good coxswain
.

He thought of Lieutenant Monteith, who had been pompously inspecting all the boats' crews as soon as the anchor had hit the seabed. “Always remember, a ship is judged by her boats. Skill and smartness speak for themselves!”

Jago had heard a seaman mutter,
“Then let ‘em!”
But he had pretended not to hear. The third lieutenant seemed to thrive on his unpopularity, and Jago suspected that it was not only with the lower deck.

He felt the captain shift his position and knew he was looking astern at his ship.

A strange feeling: it always was. Adam Bolitho shaded his eyes with one hand against the fierce glare reflecting from the anchorage. He could still see the tiny figures working aloft on
Onward
‘s upper yards, ensuring all the sails were neatly furled to Vincent's satisfaction. He half smiled.
And to his captain's
.

He tried not to pluck his damp shirt away from his skin. It was the same one he had been wearing when they had begun the approach to Freetown. Even his slight unsteadiness climbing down into the gig had warned him. He would have to watch his step when he went ashore. It would be the first time since Plymouth. He glanced at the stroke oarsman and saw him look away hurriedly.
And before that, Falmouth. If only
…

He looked ahead to the flagship,
Medusa
. Not unlike
Athena
, in which he had been Bethune's flag captain, smartly painted in her black and white livery and shining like glass in the glare. All her gunports were open, but without windsails hoisted there would be little ventilation between decks with the ship not even swinging at anchor. Maybe she was preparing for sea. He dismissed the idea. There were several lighters alongside one another, and he could just see a small stage, a “flake,” hanging over the quarter, probably so that some repairs could be carried out.

He murmured to Jago, “We've done this a few times, Luke,” and his voice was almost lost in the regular creak of oars. But Jago never seemed to miss anything. Unless he wanted to.

He did not take his eyes from the approach; he had seen a telescope or two being trained on his gig.

Jago answered calmly, “Be doin' it when it's
your
flag up there bein' saluted, Cap'n.” He sounded completely serious.

The cry echoed across the water. “Boat ahoy?”

Jago judged the moment, then cupped his hands, his elbow on the tiller-bar.
“On-ward!”

Adam felt the sword hilt pressing against his leg. It had been polished by Morgan, the cabin servant, and, like his dress uniform coat, had been waiting for him. He had told himself that he must never take these small acts beyond the call of duty for granted. Too many were guilty of that.

“Oars!”

Adam shifted the sword again. He had never forgotten the tale of a captain who had tripped over his own sword under similar circumstances and had fallen into the sea. He had been a midshipman at the time, and they had all laughed uproariously about it.