In the King's Name (17 page)

L
IEUTENANT
M
ARK
V
INCENT
turned away from the group of men around the wheel as he heard the captain's voice. Or perhaps someone had prodded him warningly. He must have been half asleep on his feet.

He touched his hat. “South by east, sir. Full and by.”

Adam walked to the compass box but did not consult it. Instead, he stared up at the spread of canvas, almost fully braced to contain the wind and hold
Onward
on course. The wind had backed slightly so that the deck was tilting to leeward, but only enough to allow them to gain more sea room. He looked at the masthead pendant: it was streaming, although the air across his neck was clammy.

He looked at the foredeck, seeing it as it had been a few hours before: boats being hoisted, exhausted sailors being lifted bodily over the side, too weary or subdued to respond to their welcome. Hard to believe they had watched those same two boats vanish into the darkness before dawn this very day.

He recalled the gig returning from the beach, and Jago's grim description of the sequence of events. And later, when the bosun's chair had been hoisted aboard, the girl in Squire's coat losing her self-control as hands had reached out to carry her below. Murray, the surgeon, had been with her from the first.

Someone had asked Jago if he wanted anything, and he had retorted, “Just get me away from that hell-hole!” He spoke for all of them.

Adam gazed forward along the full length of his ship. Beyond the quarterdeck rail, every space seemed to be full of silent people.

Vincent said quietly, “As ordered, sir. Lower deck cleared.”

Adam nodded. “Better now than later.”

He moved to the centre of the rail and felt for the small prayer book inside his coat. It would be pitch black within a couple of hours. The sea was darker, almost bronze toward the horizon, and the land was already losing shape and definition.

He could see the bosun with some of his men on the larboard gangway, bare-headed and looking aft toward their captain. And the two flag-draped corpses. Adam thought of the dead man's daughter, lying down below at this moment. Would she ever be allowed to forget, let alone forgive?

He knew Squire was standing close by, and Monteith, the latter strangely withdrawn since he had climbed aboard. David Napier seemed composed enough.

Another shadow merged with Adam's own. He knew it was Jago.

They had shaken hands when he had returned with the gig, and the news. Jago had gauged the moment, as usual. “You'll be needin' a shave, eh, Cap'n?” But the strain was very evident.

Squire had described Jago in stronger terms. “He was like the Rock of Gibraltar! Right from when we cast off!”

Jago murmured, “Got the book, Cap'n?”

Adam glanced at him and smiled. “Thank you.” He pulled it out of his pocket. All those other times. Faces, memories, pain.

He heard Vincent call,
“Uncover!”

Most of them had already removed their hats. Others were still half-dressed from working ship, getting
Onward
under way again.

He thought again of the girl named Claire. She was about the same age as Lowenna. It never left him. How it must have been, for the one he loved.

In spite of the silence the ship became a part of it, the sound of the wind, canvas, loose tackle, but Adam's voice carried and every word was clear.

United again, all six of
Onward
‘s midshipmen were mustered on the larboard side of the quarterdeck with Hotham, the senior, in charge. He was finding it difficult not to look around as he listened to the captain's voice speaking the familiar words. It was unusual to see the entire ship's company gathered together all at once, except when they were at action stations or on occasions like this, which fortunately were rare.

Faces he knew well, others hardly at all. Voices and accents from every part of Britain. When he wrote to his father he would attempt to describe his emotions, before and after he had sighted the flashing reflection which, in turn, had caused the captain to alter course and send a landing party to investigate. People had died as a result, including one of their own, and Hotham felt a deep sense of guilt because of it. If he had kept quiet, would they still be alive? Would it have made any difference?

And there was an intense pride, rivalling the uneasy guilt. From the moment the boats had cast off and pulled away into darkness, an eternity before sunrise or so it had seemed, he, Charles Hotham, clergyman's son, had been appointed acting lieutenant, until the two lieutenants who had gone with the boats returned.

He had not been called upon to perform any duty which was foreign to him, and those around him had barely noticed his temporary promotion. But he had
felt
it, the weight of honour and responsibility. And he still did.

Hotham looked around at his fellow midshipmen, some of whom looked even younger without their hats. Radcliffe, their newest member, had already shown his disrespect by offering a sweeping bow and addressing him as “sir.”

But one day, maybe soon, he might be summoned to face the Board—the Inquisition, as they called it—and gain the glittering prize of promotion, a commission. The events of this day might just tip the balance in his favour.

David Napier was standing nearby, Huxley beside him. Napier could see the captain's dark hair catching the last of the bronze sunlight as he looked keenly across the crowded deck and the full length of the ship. He was holding the prayer book and speaking the words, but Napier had not seen him consult it.

Napier did not look toward the land. It was shadowed by the twilight, and he wanted to shut it out of his mind and never see it again. But he knew he never would. Small, stark pictures burned like flames in the darkness of his thoughts: Jago pushing Monteith off balance and hacking down the attacker in the shadows.
But it was my life he was saving
.

And the strange, ragged man named Wolsey, who had risked everything to come to them for help, and had chosen a midshipman to be his companion even to the mission. Mission of death …

And yet, just when the boats were about to leave the beach and return to
Onward
, shining on the clean sea in the sunlight like a perfect symbol, Wolsey had turned and disappeared. Back to the mission, his only home.

Lieutenant Squire was standing on the gangway; perhaps he had asked to perform this duty. For a second or so, their eyes met. Like that final moment of decision.

The combined shrill of calls broke the stillness and Squire dropped his hand, the signal for which the burial party had been waiting. Napier heard an improvised grating being raised and tilted, and then a second, and when he looked again, the flags were empty and rippling in the light wind. It was over.

A solitary call followed: he knew it was Drummond the bosun.

Carry on
.

Some of the men on deck were going below to their messes; others seemed reluctant to leave and stood in silence by the same gangway. Squire glanced down at his own uniform. He was wearing his best coat, at odds with his breeches, which were still badly stained from the ordeal ashore. Maybe there was a tailor at Freetown where he could replace the coat used to cover the missionary's daughter.

He looked toward an open hatch. She might have heard the brief ceremony, despite her pain and hideous memories, and understood that they were honouring the dead in the navy's way.
Our way
.

He thought of the old coat again and knew he would never discard it.

Nor would he forget her.

There were only two lanterns burning in the great cabin, but compared with the complete darkness of the previous night it seemed like broad daylight. Adam Bolitho could see himself mirrored in the stern windows among the familiar items of furniture, old friends in this sanctuary.

He was very tired, drained, but his mind refused to relax. He thought of the entire ship in darkness when they had come about to head for that little-known beach where they had landed the boats. Stealth had seemed impossible. Even the small compass light, shaded though it was, had seemed as blinding as a beacon.

Astern now, the sea was black; only the reflections in the salt-stained glass seemed real.

He braced his legs as the deck tilted slightly. Perhaps the wind had freshened, although he doubted it. There was an empty plate and a wine glass on the table. He could scarcely remember anything about either, except for Morgan's persistence and concern.

Tomorrow, unless the wind and weather turned against them, they should sight their new landfall around noon. Julyan was optimistic, but even he had seemed subdued after the sea burials. Maybe he was like his captain. No matter how many you witnessed, each one seemed like the first.

He made an effort to concentrate. It would mean anchoring, and the depths in this area were uncertain. As the approaches to Freetown must have been years ago.

Tomorrow he would finish writing his report, when his mind was clear again. He thought of the seaman who had gone over the side, McNeil. He had always seemed in good spirits. One of Squire's men. His entry would be the briefest.
D.D
. Discharged—dead.

He felt the air stir slightly as the door opened, and knew it was Jago. Apart from cabin servants he was the only one never announced by the Royal Marine sentry.

Jago closed the screen door behind him, and looked at him questioningly.

“I was told you wanted to see me, Cap'n?” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the sleeping cabin. “Thought you'd be countin' sheep by now!”

Adam gestured to a chair. “We'll all be busy enough tomorrow. There's something I want to discuss. To
ask
. Before I write my report for the admiral.”

Jago sat down on the edge of the chair, eyes expressionless. He said, “I see you didn't call me for a shave, Cap'n,” and rubbed his own jaw. “Needs a trained fist!”

Adam had cut himself. Even the hand guiding the razor had been weary. But he knew that Jago was ahead of him.

“I heard what you did ashore, Luke. It was what I've come to expect of you.”

Jago leaned forward in the chair, and Adam could see the strain as well as the strength. The man who should hate and offer no loyalty to any officer. An official pardon could never wipe away the scars, mental or physical, of an unjust flogging.

Jago said, “I think I knows what you mean to ask, Cap'n. A road we've been down afore, as I recalls.” Then he smiled, for the first time since returning aboard. “Remember what I said when we went over to th' flagship. I wants to see
your
flag up there at the mast'ead, when I'm
an admiral's coxswain
. Then, if you offers me promotion …” It was a broad grin now. “Time to ask me again!”

Adam shook his head. “You deserve it.”

Jago turned as if he had heard something, and said quietly, “An' so do you, Cap'n.”

There was a tap at the door.

“Surgeon, sir!”

Morgan was halfway there, muttering, “Don't they realise! We've not had a moment!” and sighed as Adam said, “I was expecting him.” Then, “Give my cox'n a wet, will you?”

Murray stalked into the cabin, very hawkish and alive. “I apologise for keeping you waiting, sir. I was not sure. And I still am not.” He was wearing one of his stained surgery smocks.

Adam said, “How is she?”

“Recovering. It's still too early to judge. But she's young and she's strong. Given time …” Murray held up his hands and stared at them. “These are supposed to heal, but every time I touch her she must relive the ordeal. Beaten into submission, abused and violated. The damage to her mind may never mend.” He looked up, his eyes calm again. “I told her that you wished to visit her. I'm sorry it's taken so long.”

“I'll be guided by you. The last thing I want is to jeopardise her recovery.”

The cabin skylight was still open and they heard someone call out and laugh.

Murray said curtly, “The best sound I've heard since we up-anchored!”

Jago said, “I'll wait here, Cap'n,” and picked up Adam's coat from a chair and held it out for him. “So she'll know.”

Murray opened the door. “She's in my cabin.” Impatient or apprehensive; it was hard to know. Adam had already heard about the cabin: Vincent had told him. It would be quieter, safer.

One of Murray's loblolly boys was sitting outside, and he got to his feet as they appeared in the narrow passageway. Murray's cabin adjoined the sick berth, but was not a part of it.

Murray murmured something and the man shook his head.

“We cannot stay too long.” Murray paused. “She may have changed her mind.” He regarded Adam steadily. “Trust me.” He opened the door.

There was one small light but, like the sick quarters, everything was painted white. It was enough.

She was lying on a cot covered by a sheet which she was holding closely beneath her chin. One arm was bare, the linen bandage around her wrist livid against her tanned skin, hiding the rope burns where she had been tied and dragged. She turned her head toward the door, eyes open and unblinking.

Murray said, “I've brought the captain to see you, Claire. Remember how we talked about it. Only a short visit. Then perhaps you'll go to sleep.”

She turned her head away slightly, her profile in shadow.

Murray repeated, “Captain Bolitho. He commands here.”

Her lips moved as if they were forming the name. But her eyes were shut.

Adam saw the dark hair was clinging to the pillow. Still damp; it had been washed. And on the one visible hand the nails were clean. When he had seen her carried aboard they had been black with dried blood, probably from the face of one of her attackers.