In the King's Name (26 page)

Godden said, “I have been hearing quite a lot about you, Captain Bolitho. This recent venture must seem a reward for all the work supported by Rear-Admiral Langley and his staff. Do you see any end to the slave trade in view? It is illegal in most countries, but the business goes on, although the admiral seems to think it is already in decline … almost finished except in name.”

Adam hesitated. This meeting was no accident, and it was more than a mere courtesy.

He said carefully, “There are always men willing to take the risk, if the money is ready and sufficient. Slaves are being taken from these shores as far away as Brazil and Cuba, despite the efforts of the patrols and the threat of punishment if caught.”

He stared through the window next to him. Even so diplomatic a comment sounded disloyal, against the code of duty and loyalty as a sea officer.

Godden said, “Politics and the navy have much in common,” and tapped some dried mud from his shoe. “Robert Walpole is regarded as Britain's first true prime minister.” He paused. “Except by the Irish, of course!” He became serious again. “Walpole was a man I would have dearly liked to know. We could all still learn from his example. His family motto, for instance. The part I remember is,
Fari quae sentias.”
He twisted round and gripped Adam's arm.
“Speak as you feel!”

He rapped the inside of the roof. “Here, Toby!”

The carriage juddered to a halt, dust settling around it in a yellow cloud. Godden turned easily in his seat, his eyes in shadow. “I know a good deal about you, and I have learned more since I arrived here.” He seemed to sense a challenge, and added, “Not from staff officers.”

He tapped his chest. “Or politicians like me. But from ordinary, decent men like the ones you lead. Who trust you.”

Adam opened the door and said sharply, “And who die because of me!”

He stepped down into the road so that
Medusa
seemed to be towering over him. Solid, real.

They shook hands, but only their eyes spoke. Then Adam turned toward the steps to the jetty. His arrival would already have been reported.

I should have walked
.

But the words were still ringing in his mind:
Speak as you feel
.

Lieutenant James Squire halted in a patch of shade by an unfinished wall and looked across the graveyard, deserted after the orderly departure of the uniforms and the local people who had occupied most of the spare ground, watching curiously. Now it was over, the graves neatly marked and numbered to await the stone or wooden crosses. He stretched and felt his tendons crack. By which time
Onward
should be at sea again.
Never look back
. He had seen a lot of good men die over his years at sea, and a few he still remembered.

He heard two of the gravediggers talking to one another, one of them smoking a well-used pipe. To them it was just a job of work, and rightly so.

He felt in his pocket to ensure he had the signed papers Bolitho had told him to collect while he was reporting to the admiral. He felt his sunburned face crease into a frown. The admiral should have been the first here to show his respect. Gratitude. He thought of Luke Jago, and what he might have said.
That will be the bloody day!

He glanced down at his shoes; the mud had dried on them like iron. He recalled that the senior chaplain had been careful to stand on a rug throughout the service. He thought by contrast of the sea burials, the captain speaking the familiar words.

He turned, caught off-guard by a woman's voice.

“Over here, if you're certain …”

Two of them, one who was still pointing toward the graves, dressed in a white cape like a nun or a medical attendant, round-faced, smiling tolerantly. The other was Claire Dundas. Her arms were full of blossoms, a splash of colour against her plain gown. Her companion was carrying a kind of frame of neatly tied canes.

Claire looked across directly at him, her face partly hidden by flowers. “I thought we were too late.”

Squire heard the other woman say, “Don't forget, Claire dear, the doctor wants to see you on the hour.”

The girl ignored her. “I saw you sail into harbour.” She did not look at him. “I had a telescope.”

Squire strode across the uneven ground and reached without thinking for her hand. The blossoms remained between them like a barrier.

She said quietly, “I prayed for you,” and gazed away, almost guiltily. “For … all of you.”

“I haven't forgotten. I was hoping to see you somehow …” Squire broke off awkwardly and touched the ribbon around the flowers. “These are fine. Are they lilies?”

She smiled for the first time, perhaps with relief that he had changed the subject. “No, only vines. Bleeding Heart, they're called here.” She shook them gently, and only then looked at him. “They will not last long, but I just thought—” She did not go on.

He knew he was staring at her but could not help himself, as if the woman in white and the gravediggers were invisible, remembering how she had struggled and fought to free herself as he had tried to carry her to safety, her nakedness scarcely covered by his uniform coat. He could see the scar on her wrist, fading, but still visible enough to remind her. And although she had arranged her hair differently, he could still see the dark bruise on her forehead.

He said, “I must see you. Not here.” He took her wrist and felt her tense. “Not like this, Claire.”

The other voice intruded. “We really must leave now. They will be expecting you.”

He released her wrist and stooped to pick up some of the vines which had dropped between them. “I've been so worried about you.” He looked up into her face, in shadow against the clear sky.

She said, “You saved my life.” She broke off, and took a few paces as if to join her companion. “I will never forget … Jamie.”

Squire watched them leave. She did not look back, and the vines lay where they had fallen.

A voice muttered, “‘Ere, sir, I'll put ‘em on show,” and there was an intake of breath as Squire thrust some coins into his fist. It must have been more than he realised.

It was over. It had never begun.

Rowlatt, the master-at-arms, watched impatiently as the harbour launch thrust away from
Onward
‘s side and headed toward the shore, faster this time, having unloaded the seamen and marines from the funeral muster. Then he strode aft toward the quarterdeck where the first lieutenant was inspecting an unexpected delivery of purser's stores. So much for a day of mourning …

Rowlatt waited for the lieutenant to look up from the cargo list, and touched his hat. Vincent was probably glad of the interruption. Pinchgut Vicary, as the purser was known, was not the liveliest company on any day.

“All aboard?”

“Mr. Squire is returning with the guardboat, sir.”

Vincent made a non-committal noise. Squire must have remained to the end, while the captain presented himself as ordered to the admiral. He yawned, irritated that he was too tired to control it. But he knew there was a deeper reason. It was envy.

He saw Midshipman Walker loitering, gazing intently at a small boat pulling unnecessarily close along the larboard side. A Royal Marine was keeping pace with it on the gangway, but when he waved for the helmsman to stand clear he was given a huge grin and a display of cheap ornaments.

Vincent glanced at the nearest pile of stores. That must be stowed away without delay. “Mr. Walker, find some spare hands.”

He saw him hurry away. Walker must have had his hair cut: it made him look younger than ever. Thirteen, or was he fourteen now? The boy who had been forever seasick, even in a flat calm. The other midshipmen had tired of making jokes about it, and of cleaning him up. Now it was unknown.

Rowlatt asked, “Th' cap'n, sir—is he due back on board soon?”

Vincent nodded. Rowlatt always had a reason. He was never lacking when it came to discipline and routine. A first lieutenant's right arm, and usually hated because of it.

“I want a close watch kept.” He gestured in the direction of the flagship. “He'll want some rest after all this.” Rowlatt said nothing, and he thought,
and so shall I!

Vincent thought longingly of the wardroom. But if he went below now … He swung round, startled, as the cry came from forward.

“Boat ahoy?”

Rowlatt snapped, “Must be a mistake, sir!”

But the reply was clear enough.
“Aye, aye!”

A visitor. An officer.

Vincent swore under his breath. “Who the hell?”

Midshipman Walker hurried over, holding a telescope outstretched, and Vincent took it, calm once more. He should have known. He trained the glass with care, the fixed grin of the would-be trader leaping out at him until he found the other boat, bows on, filling the lens. One of
Medusa
‘s own gigs, the flagship's distinctive markings unmistakable in the sunlight. And one passenger, wearing the scarlet uniform of the Royal Marines. More to the point, there was a pile of kit in the sternsheets, some of it personal.

Images of the wardroom flooded Vincent's mind again, and the habits and characters of the men who lived there. Robert Sinclair had been buried today: no time wasted. This must be his replacement arriving. He saw the newcomer being met at the entry port by Monteith, who had appeared a few seconds earlier, and who was now directing him aft. Sergeant Fairfax was nearby, but keeping his distance. His life, too, would now be changed.

The first few moments were always the worst.

The marine, a lieutenant, strode aft, his eyes not leaving Vincent until he had halted smartly and saluted. An open, youthful face, the hair beneath his hat fair and neatly trimmed. The scarlet uniform was well-cut but looser than some, as if he had lost weight since he had last visited a tailor. The sword, too, was well-worn, even tarnished. He was older than he looked, Vincent thought.

He returned the salute.
About my age
.

“Lieutenant Devereux, sir, come aboard to join. Regret the delay. All boats in use.” He held out the familiar stamped and sealed envelope. Good or bad, a new beginning.

Vincent offered his free hand. “I'm the senior here. Welcome aboard.”

The smile, like the handshake, was firm but unconsciously so, not done to make an impression.

“The captain is not aboard at present. But you probably know that.”

Devereux nodded, and winced slightly, touching his face. “I know, sir. I caught sight of him just before I came over.”

Vincent waited, giving himself time. The gesture had drawn his attention to a deep scar on the left side of Devereux's face, not large but deadly, an inch or less above the jawbone.

Devereux said lightly, “Sun's a little hotter than usual,” but the smile was gone.

Vincent said, “Did you get that out here?” and Devereux lowered his hand.

“No—back home. In Chatham, as it happens.”

Vincent gazed along the main deck, where a few men were still clearing up from the day's work. “I hope she was worth it?”

Devereux looked at him in silence, then said abruptly, “I thought so.” His jaw lifted, so that the scar seemed to speak for him. “It was self-defense, of course.”

Vincent touched his arm. “I'll have your kit taken below.” He glanced at the official envelope. “Paul, isn't it?” He gestured toward the companion ladder. “I'll show you our quarters. The formalities must wait until the captain returns.”

Even now he could feel the stab of resentment.

• • •

The flag lieutenant paused outside
Medusa
‘s great cabin as Adam wiped the last of the dried mud from his shoes on to a rope mat.

“Don't trouble yourself about that, sir. You're here, that's the main thing!” He nodded to a Royal Marine sentry, and added in an undertone,
“He
will see you now.”

Once through the screen door, the cabin was much as Adam remembered it, well furnished, spotless, and somehow unlived-in. At the far end, in the centre of the broad stern windows, Rear-Admiral Giles Langley stood with his back to the gleaming panorama of water and moored vessels, his fair hair almost touching the deckhead.

As Adam walked aft Langley seemed to come to life, and strode to meet him.

“Good to see you again, Bolitho. Only sorry I had to drag you aboard without giving you time to breathe.” He gripped Adam's outstretched hand and stared intensely at him, his pale eyes unblinking. “You look damn well despite it all. Proud of you.” Then, “Pity I couldn't have joined you at the sad but necessary ceremony.” He waved vaguely around the cabin. “I'm sure you understood.”

He waited as a servant darted forward and moved his chair away from a shaft of sunlight. So that was what was different. The curtains which had covered the stern windows, obscuring the impressive view of Freetown, were gone. Perhaps the admiral had become more accustomed to the searing light and the climate.

They sat facing one another, a small table between them, while the servant spoke to someone else in hiding beyond the same door. There was a clink of glasses, and Adam found time to wonder what was keeping him alert. And for what?

Langley said bluntly, “I hear you fell in with Sir Charles Godden.”

“Apparently he was at the funeral service, sir, although he did not announce himself.”

Langley smiled coldly. “He was in a carriage. But I doubt it was by coincidence. Not in his nature.” He turned his head and rapped out, “I shall send word if I need you, Flags.”

Adam had not realised that Langley's aide was still in the cabin. No wonder he looked so hunted. And where was Tyacke?

Langley asked, just as brusquely, “What did you make of Godden?” and did not wait for an answer. “Had everybody jumping here from the minute he stepped ashore. He and his little group of cronies—they've done well for themselves. I can't even guess what the bill will come to! And he was here looking for ways to
save money!”
He laughed, almost jovially, but his eyes were very keen. “Well? Did he impress you? A few minutes beside someone in a carriage you had never met before. Or are likely to meet again.”