In the King's Name (12 page)

Adam had already noticed that Langley's skin was quite pale, with little hint of colour, although Tyacke had said he had become flag officer at Freetown three months ago. Long enough to have felt the sun of Africa.

Langley said suddenly, “I'm glad to welcome you under my command, albeit temporarily. I have no doubt you'll be eager to return to England without unnecessary delay.” He frowned as someone tapped at the door. “We will talk again. Possibly tomorrow. I have heard a good deal about you. And I shall discover what I can about
Moonstone
. And when I do—”

The door opened and Tyacke was standing outside, his hat beneath his arm. Langley gave the gentle smile again.

“Right on time!”

Tyacke strode into the great cabin, but perhaps because of the gloomy interior after the fierce sunlight on deck he did not appear to see Adam as he passed.

A different lieutenant was waiting to escort Adam to the entry port where the gig was waiting.
About time, too
. He could almost hear Jago saying it. A squad of Royal Marines presented arms and officers saluted, but there was no piping of the side as Adam left the ship. The admiral was in conference.

Tyacke had kept his promise: the gig's crew looked refreshed and rested, and when Jago stood in the sternsheets to greet him he could smell the rum.

Then, as the gig pulled out and away from
Medusa
‘s shadow, Adam suddenly got to his feet and gazed astern, and he saluted, not the flag this time, but James Tyacke, brave and defiant. And very much alone.

L
IEUTENANT
M
ARK
V
INCENT
half closed his eyes against the sun as he watched yet another work boat pull away from
Onward
‘s side, and stifled a yawn. It seemed he had been on his feet since they had anchored yesterday. It felt longer. Fresh water, food and general supplies all had to be checked and signed for, and supervised in stowage by the master and the purser to their satisfaction or otherwise.

Vincent did not have to turn his head to know that the windsails were barely moving. They gave some relief between decks, but not here. He had already heard one working party complaining to the bosun about it.

“In a few weeks' time, if we're still in this godforsaken place, you might have somethin' to moan about!” Drummond had laid his hand on the breech of the nearest eighteen-pounder. “You'll be able to fry an egg on this beauty!”

And how long
were
they going to be here?

Vincent looked across the water toward the flagship. Bolitho had reported to the admiral and delivered the despatches, and Vincent had seen the flag captain through a telescope for the first time. He had felt both revulsion and pity at his hideous disfigurement.
Suppose it had happened to me?
Maybe James Tyacke had obtained no higher command because of it, despite everything he had done, and this was the end of the road …

He heard Lieutenant Monteith's curt tone as he finished his instructions to the midshipmen on harbour routine. Vincent was the first lieutenant and could show no favour or prejudice toward any one. They shared the same wardroom, and at sea worked watch by watch. But that was all, and his dislike of the third lieutenant remained intense. He was still ashamed that when Monteith had been wounded during the fight with
Nautilus
he had felt no sympathy, only sorrow for those who had died.

He turned quickly as he heard the captain's voice from the open skylight. How must
he
feel? Being kept here awaiting orders, and probably thinking all the time of the woman he had left behind in Falmouth? Vincent himself had had only one serious affair, which could have ended in disaster. She had been a married woman, and had proved an experienced lover, but she was the wife of a senior officer. A damned close-run thing. He had never forgotten. He almost smiled.
But I'll wager she has
.

Drummond, the bosun, crossed the hot deck and touched his hat. “‘Bout ready to secure, sir. Still some new cordage to come aboard, but the lads ‘ave done well.”

He assessed Vincent, making up his mind. Saint or tyrant? The first lieutenant was neither. Drummond continued cautiously, “Rear-Admiral Langley, sir …” He did not look toward
Medusa
. “I had a mate who served under ‘im before ‘e came ‘ere.” He paused. He had only known Vincent since the old bosun had been killed. And maybe …

Vincent said testily, “Come along, man. Speak up.”

“‘E was commodore then, sir. Used to carry out inspections, no warning. Often with a newly joined ship.”

Vincent was staring at the open skylight. “Well, well. I wonder if—” Then the dark face lit with a grin. “Thank you. I'll not forget this. That would be all I'd need!”

Drummond hoped he masked his surprise. It was taking him longer to understand the first lieutenant than he had expected when he had joined
Onward
. Vincent could be strict, but not aggressively so, like some Drummond had known, and he was always ready to listen when advice was required. But beyond that, he seemed to remain aloof, even in the wardroom from what Drummond had heard.

This was a small thing, but Vincent's gratitude was like a door opening. Close co-operation between first lieutenant and bosun was essential. Together, they
were
the ship. He had seen Vincent look toward the cabin skylight. Only the captain was truly alone. Drummond glanced along the upper deck and was satisfied. Smart and tidy enough again for any admiral.

He looked at Vincent's profile, edged with hard sunlight. A strong face, alert and intelligent: it was said that he had been in line for command when
Onward
had commissioned. Was he still thinking about that lost chance, still hoping? The hope might be in vain, especially these days with the fleet being cut down.

He tugged out his silver call and held it in the palm of his hand, where it looked no bigger than a toothpick.

“Just say the word,
Mister
Vincent!”

He saw Vincent walking toward the companionway, maybe to pass on to the captain the news about the admiral's little foible. Monteith's sharp voice intruded into his thoughts, impatient and sarcastic. There would be no tears if
he
fell overboard one dark night.

And there was Walker, their youngest midshipman, nodding obediently and repeating something for Monteith's benefit, while Monteith stood, hands behind his back, feet flexing up and down in their brightly polished shoes.

“I shall not ask you again, Mr. Walker!”

Drummond quickened his pace. Young Walker might make a good officer one day, given the right example to follow. Strange to realise that when he himself had been serving aboard the seventy-four gun
Mars
at Trafalgar, in the thick of the fighting in which his own captain had been killed, young Walker would have only just been born. If then. It was a sobering thought.

He gritted his teeth and felt sand or dust grate between them, but there seemed to be no wind to have carried it. He licked his lips.
Maybe cooler down in the mess
.

He heard Monteith's voice again, rising almost to a scream. “So you think that's a joke, do you? Made you smirk, did it? Then go to the maintop and stay there until I recall you!”

One of the seamen who was coiling some new rope nearby muttered, “Poor little bastard'll burn alive up there.” His friend saw Drummond and spat, “Bloody officers!”

Drummond heard both of them, and was reminded of his own remark.
This godforsaken place
. Now it was mocking him, like the old warning.
Stay out of it!

He saw the midshipman climbing slowly up the starboard ratlines, slight body framed against the sky. Monteith had already disappeared, no doubt to the cooler air of the wardroom, where he would be having a wet before making someone else's life a misery.

Drummond made his decision. He took a water flask from behind the flag locker where it was kept hidden for the watchkeepers, although everybody knew about it, and strolled unhurriedly to the mainmast shrouds.

He stared across the water toward the flagship, but nothing seemed to have changed. No boats at or near the entry port, but maybe there were some tied up against or beneath the pier. Obviously the admiral had more sense than to venture out in an open boat with the sun at its zenith.

He could feel his shirt clinging to his shoulders like a damp skin, and the sweat already running down his ribs and hips. A few faces turned curiously in his direction, but just as quickly avoided his eyes. He seized the ratlines.
In case I might find some more work for them to do
.

He stared up at the maintop, black against the burning sky. He had been at sea all his life, probably longer than any one else aboard, except for a few like Lieutenant Squire and Jago, the captain's coxswain.

He had never forgotten that one time when he had been ordered aloft by an officer. Not calm like today, but in a raging gale with a full sea running. He must have been about Walker's age. He had nearly fallen. A few seconds. A lifetime.

He could recall the comment by the tough, hard-bitten seaman who had saved his life.
When a bit of gold lace tells you to jump, look first!
He had even been able to laugh about it.

He leaned back and began to climb.

He had the sun behind him, but knew he needed to keep a sharp lookout when he reached the shade and comparative safety of the top. He held his breath and halted as something struck his shoulder from above and bounced off the ratlines. He did not need to look. It was a shoe. He wanted to call out to the boy, but the distraction could be fatal. Walker was already climbing again.

In no time, or so it seemed, Drummond had reached the futtock shrouds where it was necessary to rely on feet and hands to take the weight and to work your way out and around the fighting top, before you could begin the next stage. It was the mark of a good seaman. Drummond could feel his weight dragging at his fingers, his shoes slipping on every ratline. Not like those early days hanging out over the sea, never daring to look down.

He was pleased that he was not even breathless. It would be something to tell them in the mess at the end of the day …

He had reached the barricade, and gripped one of the iron mountings for a swivel gun to pull himself the last few feet. He was slow when compared with the sure-footed topmen who could make or shorten sail in minutes, and seemingly without effort. Like young Tucker, his new mate. A far cry from the poor, frightened devils who used to be dragged aboard by ruthless press gangs, never having set foot aboard ship before.

The midshipman was sitting on the edge of the lubbers' hole to avoid the hazards of the futtock shrouds. Always risky, but with Monteith watching or yelling threats from below, it was a wise precaution. Walker gazed up at him, one leg dangling through the hole as he tried to fan his streaming face with his hat.

He said quietly, “I almost slipped.” He was shaking, but trying to conceal it.

Drummond knew the signs. The boy was no coward; he had proved that under the guns, and when others were falling around him. And when men had cheered him for his birthday, while hell had been exploding across these same decks.

“Stay where you are.” Drummond knelt beside him. “An' take a swig of this.” He grinned and felt his jaw crack. “Didn't do me no good, neither!”

He watched the boy swallow, some of the water running down his chin and neck. It would be stale after lying sealed up since … since when? But at this moment it would match the best wine in the fleet.

“I'll get someone to see you down to the deck. A bowline round the waist would be a good idea.”

Walker seized his wrist and stared up at him imploringly.
“No!”
He faltered and tried again. “I don't want to let them think …”

He stopped as Drummond said, “Don't you start givin' me orders,
Mister
Walker. Not yet, anyways.” He attempted to shift his own position and felt the pain jab through his muscles.

He looked across the anchorage to give them both time to recover. An entire area was filled with lifeless, abandoned vessels, masts and yards awry, untended. Awaiting sale or disposal elsewhere. Maddock, the gunner, had told him that most of them had been part of the trade. Slavers, which had been caught by some of the patrols before or after they had attempted to break out and escape.

Why any one would want to use one of them after what they had done was hard to imagine.

“They should burn the bloody lot of ‘em. Their crews, too,” he said now. Walker had managed to lean on his elbows, the leg still dangling toward the deck below. “You feelin' any better?”

Walker did not reply directly. “What is that boat doing there amongst them?”

Drummond wiped his eyes and squinted. Then he gripped Walker's bony shoulder. “Nothin' wrong with
your
eyesight, thank God!” He gestured through the lubbers' hole. “We're goin' down now, nice an' easy, one step at a time, see?”

Walker nodded like a puppet. “But Lieutenant Monteith ordered me to …”

Drummond peered down at the deck. Nothing had changed. A Royal Marine was walking slowly along the starboard gangway, keeping pace with a small craft paddling a few yards away from the frigate's side. A normal precaution: it was common enough for a would-be thief to slip aboard through one of the open ports if nobody was watching.

Everybody else would be looking at the flagship.
As I was
.

He said, “Never mind that. I want you to find the first lieutenant, an' don't take
no
from any one!”

Walker had lowered his legs, one foot shoeless, over the edge of the platform. “What shall I tell him?” He sounded calmer now, under control, but Drummond wanted to be sure.