In the King's Name (19 page)

A smart salute, and a voice as English as one of his own seamen's barked, “On behalf of the Governor, sir, I am to bid you welcome!” He waited for Monteith to join them. “If you will step this way, sir?”

Adam looked back at the gig and saw Jago nod. That was all.

They walked along the pier. Some of the timber was scarred and well-used; other sections looked freshly laid. Across from the anchorage, there were low sheds along the distant waterfront: slipways for building and launching coastal craft. In a few years' time, this might become another Freetown.

He quickened his pace. Their guide was keeping well ahead of them, perhaps deliberately.

There were others working beneath the pier. A guard, too, with a whip dangling across his shoulder.

The guide said, “Felons, sir,” and almost smirked. “No different from England!”

They had reached the main building. Like the pier, it must have seen faces from every part of the world.

“Your boat's crew, sir? They'll not be coming ashore, will they?”

“I don't intend to keep them waiting.” It came out more sharply than he had intended, and Adam saw the man flinch. Perhaps Monteith was not the only one.

“If you'll come this way, sir.” The guide broke off, obviously disconcerted as someone stepped from the shadow of the broad entrance and came striding toward them. “My apologies, Sir Duncan—I brought them along the pier!”

Adam was not sure what he had been expecting, but Sir Duncan Ballantyne was not it.

Tall and lean, he strode toward them, both hands outstretched. “I should have sent one of our boats, and not forced you to drag all the way along that relic!”

He grasped Adam's hand and shook it vigorously, apparently untroubled by the sun in his eyes. “Captain Bolitho!” He nodded toward the water. “And His Majesty's Ship
Onward
—a frigate, no less. We are indeed honoured!”

Ballantyne slipped his arm familiarly through Adam's. “Something to kill our thirst would be in order.”

He paused to say something to one of his men and Adam took the opportunity to study him more closely. The eyes were, and the hair had once been, as dark as his own. He was said to be sixty years old, but he had the bearing and agility of one much younger. He was casually but, Adam guessed, expensively dressed in riding breeches, with tall boots that shone like glass, and a silk cravat tucked into a matching shirt.

But the face told another story, deeply tanned, dominated by a strong nose and a beard, neatly trimmed to contain the grey. A face it would be impossible to forget. It reminded him of some of the old paintings he had studied as a boy, portraits of those who had defeated the Armada.

Ballantyne glanced casually at Monteith. “You are welcome too, of course. You can amuse yourself while we talk.” And to Adam, “Something tells me that your visit will be a short one.” He took his arm again. “Maybe next time, eh?”

Inside the building he turned to face them. “I heard about the mission, and I have sent some men to investigate the matter. I knew William Dundas, of course. Not well, but as much as he would allow. His kind are always at risk, as I'm sure you know.”

He pushed open another door. Here it was cooler, and a long bamboo-mounted fan was moving slowly back and forth on the ceiling.

Ballantyne sat down and waved Adam to another chair. He said, “News travels fast in these parts,” and stamped one booted foot. “By horse and by coaster.” He waited while a black servant knelt to tug off his boots.

Adam held out the envelope. “I was told to give this to you personally, Sir Duncan,” and Ballantyne wagged a finger at him.

“Not here, together. Plain ‘Duncan' will do well enough!” He laughed. “I'm not even used to the title myself yet.” He was turning over the envelope. “I can guess the contents. For an admiral and the like, Freetown has become a stepping-stone …” The silken shoulders lifted in a shrug. “To promotion or oblivion!” He leaned forward as another African entered, carrying a silver tray and a pair of glasses. The servant must have caught his foot on the carpet, and the glasses clinked dangerously. “Easy, Trusty! Take your time!”

Adam realised that he was quite young, perhaps the same age as David Napier. He was nodding and smiling now, the glasses safely deposited on a heart-shaped wooden table. An older man brought the wine. Adam rubbed his forehead. He was still tired; he had not even noticed Monteith being shown to another, adjoining room.

Ballantyne sipped the wine slowly. “Fair enough. Under the circumstances.”

When they were alone again, Adam said, “How did he come by a name like ‘Trusty'?” and for a moment he thought Ballantyne would choke on his wine.

He laughed and dabbed his mouth. “He's a good fellow. Obedient, loyal, and usually careful.” He recovered. “I gave him the name. Trusty was my little pony, given me by my old father when I was a lad. I never forgot him. I probably couldn't pronounce
his
real name, even if I knew it.”

Adam had noticed how Trusty had watched Ballantyne's mouth, and Monteith's too as he had left the room. “Can he neither hear nor speak?”

Ballantyne was studying his glass. “He was involved in some kind of family feud in a village not far from here. From which I rescued him.”

He seemed to recall the question. “I believe him to be deaf. And they tore out his tongue.” He turned, frowning as someone else appeared in the doorway, then he rose and strode across to him. “What is it now?”

The newcomer was in uniform and, Adam thought, senior to the man who had met them on the pier. He could not hear what was being said, but Ballantyne was obviously displeased.

“Of course I have not forgotten! I have been busy, too!” and then, “No, the captain will
not
be involved.” He waited for the door to close. “I sometimes have to ask myself …”

Then he smiled. “I must leave you and change,” he looked down at his immaculate breeches, “into something more formal. I am required to attend an execution. No time to show you the welcome I would have wished!”

Adam saw the boy, Trusty, hurrying to find Monteith, responding to some signal from his master. Perhaps Ballantyne really had forgotten his grisly appointment, but it seemed unlikely. He was regarding the empty glasses on the table, and the admiral's sealed envelope, still unopened beside them.

“I can't tell you how much I regret this interruption.” He tapped the envelope. “I shall, of course, reply to
this
when I have given it some thought.” He paused. “Rivalry is no bad thing. It can often be the spur, when one is needed.” He reached out and took Adam's hands in a grip like iron. “Meeting you, albeit briefly, has meant so very much to me. I hope it will not be long before we greet one another again. This is not a race: we're on the same journey!” He laughed. “Given the chance!”

They walked out into the sunlight and Adam was surprised to see that the gig had moved to a smaller jetty almost hidden by the line of guns.

Ballantyne said, “I sent word to your crew. One walk along our pier is enough for anybody. Next time, Adam, remember.”

Adam walked slowly toward the jetty, strangely unwilling to leave, without understanding why. So many questions remained unanswered, and he knew they were both to blame.

Monteith hurried from somewhere to join him. He sounded out of breath. “Only just told you were leaving, sir!”

Adam shaded his eyes to gaze up at the flag again, and beyond to the clouds gathering on the horizon. A chance not to be missed, for several reasons.

“We will up-anchor directly and be clear of the land before dark.”

He could still hear Ballantyne's words.
This is not a race
. He had known of William Dundas's death at the mission, but had not mentioned his daughter, Claire.

Neither did I
.

He stared across the burning water and saw
Onward
for the first time. He must find time to prepare himself. Langley would want all the details. And the results, if any. And his impressions of Sir Duncan Ballantyne, too, more formally dressed as he watched an execution.

Jago was on his feet, hat in hand, the gig's crew sitting with their arms folded. He swore under his breath as Monteith hesitated and almost stumbled while he moved aside for the captain. Didn't he know after all this time that a captain was always the last to enter, and the first to leave his boat? Maybe he'd been having a few too many wets ashore.
Not likely. A real drink might kill him
.

But he forgot Monteith as he watched Bolitho pause and look back at the thatched building with the flag flying above it. They had been together longer than many. He thought back over their talk about promotion, a conversation they had had more than once, and about the life they shared.

Luke Jago was sharing it now. He could see it on the captain's face, like all those other times.

“Out oars!”

Adam turned toward him until their eyes met.

Another bloody Friday, Jago thought.

H
UGH
M
ORGAN
, the cabin servant, lurked behind his pantry door and watched his captain's shadow move past, pacing toward the stern windows again. After all their months together he thought he knew most of Bolitho's moods: with
Onward
cleared for action and shuddering to the crash and thunder of a broadside, or reeling through a storm in Biscay or the Western Approaches. Or simply waiting, like this, on edge without knowing why.

They had entered harbour quite early, in the forenoon watch, with all the usual bustle and what seemed conflicting orders, to the stamp of feet and sound of gear being hauled across the deck above and other shouted demands. Now it was afternoon, and would soon be the first dog watch. Morgan's ears recorded these things without careful attention; they were part of his daily life.

He had been on deck when they had entered harbour. The experience was always different. Even the harbour itself and the anchorage seemed larger than when they had left it for the outpost optimistically called New Haven. He had already heard several of the sailors suggesting other, less pleasant names for it.

The guardboat had guided them to their new anchorage, closer to the moored flagship,
Medusa
. Morgan had heard Luke Jago remark that it would be harder for the admiral to launch another surprise attack without being spotted by the duty watch. He had said a few other things too, less polite. Jago might be a brave and loyal friend to his captain, but he would never be asked to wait and serve at the table.

The officer in the guardboat had apparently brought word from the flagship requesting Bolitho's presence aboard during the afternoon watch. The admiral was otherwise engaged with “important visitors.”

He clucked with disapproval. What did the admiral think he was saying? The landing party, the slaughter at the mission, the sea burials, and the captain was still waiting. Dress uniform coat folded over a chair, sword and belt lying across the bergère where the admiral had sprawled during his visit.
I'll wager his servant could tell a few tales if he ever got the chance
…

The shadow stopped moving, and Morgan opened the pantry door.

“Can I tempt you with something, sir? A glass, maybe?”

Adam shook his head, although he appeared more relaxed. “I expect the admiral is reading my report. Unless the officer of the guard dropped it overboard!”

Morgan sniffed and brushed some invisible dust off the small desk. More likely the admiral was still enjoying a lavish meal with his guests. Morgan had made a habit of studying the various officers he had served over the years and considered himself to be quite an expert at it. When he had been on the quarterdeck briefly this morning it had been a case in point. A new frigate was anchored in
Onward
‘s previous place, a fifth-rate of thirty-eight guns. So new, in fact, that she was not yet fully registered in the Navy List, described only as
Portsmouth, building
. Her name,
Zealous
, was shining in the early sunlight. He had heard Bolitho say, “A fine command for somebody. A lucky man, whoever he is!”

Julyan, the sailing master, was more outspoken, as usual. “Has a friendly hand on his shoulder, if you ask me!”

Morgan had seen the first lieutenant's face at that moment, clearly recalling how close he might have come to being given command of
Onward
.

Adam walked to the centre of the cabin and glanced up at the partly opened skylight. He could smell fresh paint: one of the cutters was being freshened up after running aground during the landing, Drummond, the bosun, silencing a few audible grumbles with, “Keep you out of trouble for a bit longer, eh?”

So unlike New Haven. Here, the local boats pulled and paddled as close to the warships as they dared, displaying their wares and offering their services. In a couple of craft, each with the sternsheets protected by screens, there had been women, reclining and smiling.

Drummond had said, “You'll get more than a smile if you take a run ashore with any of that lot!”

Adam had reached the stern windows again, and stared across the water toward the other frigate. To casual onlookers she might appear a twin of
Onward
. He could remember …

Morgan called, “The surgeon, sir!”

The sentry was holding the screen door wide open, and Adam could see members of a working party lingering and watching as Murray took the young woman's hand to guide her over the coaming.

Murray said, “I was just told, sir,” and stood aside for her to enter the cabin. “Otherwise I would have waited.”

Adam held out his hands. “A boat has arrived for you. I sent word earlier.” He felt her hands close around his. They were warm now, but she was shivering. “It
is
what you wanted, isn't it?”