In the King's Name (30 page)

The captain had gone below to the chartroom with his senior officer, leaving Squire with just a nod: the words, “Call me,” had not needed to be spoken. Unlike some captains he had known, he thought.

He looked toward the land. Hard to believe anything had happened to rouse
Onward
to this state of tension and readiness. A few shots and then the flash, the explosion. It might have been something ashore, but his ears were trained to such things. But where? How?

He saw Vincent by the fore hatch, some seamen gathered nearby, gun captains and quarter gunners, who were each responsible for the responses and efficiency of four of the eighteen-pounders:
Onward
‘s teeth. Any moment now and they would exercise action. And this time it would have a stronger significance for all concerned.

Monteith was walking aft, apparently deep in thought. He had been below with Vincent when the first shots had been heard. Squire did not know the reason, but could guess. He closed his mind to it. Despite his age and seniority, he still felt like a stranger in the wardroom.

He walked to the side and gazed at the sea creaming away from the quarter. Except at times like this, when the ship was his.

He blinked as a bird seemed to drop from nowhere, hit the water and rise immediately, a catch in its beak like a sliver of silver.

“He'll be eating that ashore while we're still pounding along out here!”

Murray was so light on his feet Squire had not heard him crossing the deck. The surgeon was in uniform, but carrying one of his familiar smocks over his arm.

Squire said dryly, “Always prepared, aren't you?”

The hawk-like profile was surveying the deck. “They say sound moves faster over water than land.” He faced Squire. “I've been wanting to talk with you, James. But I was ashore most of the time before we sailed.” He paused. “And I gave my word, you see.”

“You saw Claire. I had a feeling about it. Ever since …” He waited until a seaman coiling a halliard over his arm passed, without appearing to see them. “I've been thinking about her. Quite a lot.”

Murray repeated, “I gave my word.” He crossed himself with his free hand and gave a thin smile. “Until we sailed, at least. She didn't want you to concern yourself.” Then, with a touch of impatience, “It's for your own good, man. She's still reliving her experiences. That's only too common, in my experience, although in my profession we tend to underestimate the damage to the mind.” He fell silent as a bosun's mate walked toward the fore hatch, moistening his silver call with his tongue. Then he said, “Am I wrong about this, Jamie?”

Squire said, staring at the sea, “I have nothing to offer her,” then looked steadily at Murray. “But I've never felt like this about any woman.” He shrugged, trying to dismiss it. “I'll probably never see her again, anyway.”

Murray gripped his wrist with surprising strength. “I
hope you do
. For both your sakes.”

Whatever else he might have said was interrupted by the shrill of the call: “All hands! All hands to exercise action!”

Murray turned to leave the quarterdeck, the white smock streaming from his arm. But he paused long enough to watch the gun crews running to their stations, each man no doubt thinking that the next time would be in deadly earnest.

He had seen too much of it, and there was always the bloody aftermath. He looked aft again but Squire was by the compass box, calling to the two helmsmen. Where he belonged, Murray thought.

Above all of them, David Napier climbed into the foretop and paused to regain his breath. He had already visited the maintop, and had left Midshipman Hotham with another lookout.

Tucker greeted him with a grin and a thumbs-up. “Too much good food, David,” and Napier loosened his shirt.

“Not as young as I was,
David!
”

They both laughed.

Napier looked across the larboard bow, balanced and shading his eyes against the fierce glare. It was an exciting sensation, this towering structure of masts, spars and canvas all quivering with power. He could recall when he had been too scared to release his grip, let alone dare to look down at the ship beneath him.

He asked, “Are you settled now?”

Tucker shrugged. “Now an' then I find meself looking up at the t'gallant yards, an' further!”

Napier felt the barricade press into his hip as the mast leaned over again, thinking of Hotham, who had already been appointed acting lieutenant more than once. He would be the next to confront the Inquisition. And at some time in the future, with luck, it would be his own turn. Once it had seemed impossible: he had not even dared to imagine it. He felt himself smile. Back in those days when Bolitho's cousin Elizabeth had called him his captain's servant.

He realised that Tucker had said something and must have repeated it: he was suddenly tense.

“Could I use your glass?” Tucker pushed some hair from his eyes, and seemed oblivious to the deck and the sea far beneath him.

Napier watched his profile as he adjusted the telescope with strong fingers, pausing only to murmur, “Not a patch on Sir Richard's old glass, eh, Dave?” But he was not smiling.

Tucker handed the telescope back to Napier. “I wasn't sure. It's still too far.”

Napier steadied the glass and knew Tucker was waiting for his reaction. He could see nothing but the glare like metal on the water, and the constant change of colour and movement, the swell steep and angry in the steady wind. There was nothing solid, nothing you could describe or recognise. Only flotsam, fragments driven by wind and tide; it might have covered several miles.

But it had once been a living vessel.

“I'll tell him!” He was halfway into the lubber's hole when Tucker called out, “Slow down! We don't want to lose you!”

Napier hesitated, one foot dangling in the air. “I want the captain to know
you
saw it first!”

He knew Tucker was still gazing after him as his feet found the first ratline.

He was not even breathless when he completed his descent and scrambled onto the starboard gangway. The picture in his mind was as vivid as the moment he had seen it.

The gun drill had stopped or been curtailed, but most of the crew were still at their stations. Those on the starboard side looked up as his shadow passed, and their upturned faces were full of questions. Napier knew the first lieutenant was there, but avoided him and kept his eyes on the quarterdeck at the end of the gangway, his pace steady and unhurried. Something he had learned from experience.

They were all there, as if they had not moved in all the time he had been crouched high above them. The captain came to meet him, the others remaining grouped near the compass and wheel.

“D' you need time for a second wind, David?” He said it kindly, turning him a little away from the others. Napier felt a shiver run through his body, although the sun was hot across his shoulders.

He said, “Wreckage, sir,” and gestured ahead, and saw some seamen turn to scan the empty horizon. “On either bow, sir. Pieces. No part of ship we could recognise.” He faltered, realising that another shadow had joined theirs. It was the flag captain.

He swallowed hard but straightened his back in response as Tyacke smiled and said, “Don't stop, Mr. Napier. I've heard every word so far,” and averted his face slightly, as if he knew that the scars were disturbing Napier.

The boy gulped and pressed on. “The lookout, David Tucker, saw it first, sir. Even without a glass. He knew.”

Tyacke said, “A good man, I hear.”

Napier saw Drummond, the bosun, who was standing with the others, give him a quick nod.
I told you so
.

Napier went on, “A small vessel, sir,” and fell silent as Tyacke turned back, and seemed to measure his response.

“Perhaps. We must do more than hope.” He gazed at the sea, indifferent to the metallic glare. “The wreckage lies across our course.” He looked up at the masthead pendant. “An hour? Two at the most?”

Adam nodded, aware that Vincent had come aft to join them. Even men off watch or excused from deck duty seemed to have gathered, and the cook with one of his assistants was peering out from the galley hatch, probably wondering if it would interrupt his schedule. Lieutenant Devereux was in animated conversation with Sergeant Fairfax, breaking down the inevitable barrier of his predecessor's death. He could sense Tyacke's mind working, his patience perhaps running out.

Adam said, “We shall shorten sail but hold this course, until we can discover more evidence.”

It was enough for the moment. They all had plenty to think about. He looked down over the quarterdeck and saw Jago leaning against the boat tier. “We'll need a boat if we find anything.” Almost as if Jago had put the thought into his mind.

He turned back as Vincent said, “I should like to take the boat, sir.”

“I shall remember that when the time comes, Mark.” He glanced up at the taut canvas. “But shorten sail when you've mustered the hands.”

Vincent half smiled. “Aye, aye, sir!”

Adam saw Midshipman Huxley leading Napier to the companion; Tyacke must have already slipped away unseen to the great cabin. They had not spoken of it, but Tyacke must be wondering what the admiral would have in store for him when they eventually returned to Freetown. And after that?

It was as if the whole ship had been waiting for the word. Drummond did not need to use his call.

“Hands aloft! Move yourselves, there!”

Squire stood beside the wheel and listened to the squeal of tackles as the gig was lowered from the quarter davits. It was never an easy task with the ship at sea, after first manhandling it from the tier below the quarterdeck, and he could hear one of the helmsmen's heavy breathing as he fought to hold the helm steady and the compass under control. Under reefed topsails and jib
Onward
was a different creature, her performance sluggish, at the mercy of the wind instead of commanding it. Jago looked up, waiting, as Vincent judged the right moment before clambering down to join him.

Someone called, “Hope they got strong arms, Luke! It'll be a hard pull!”

Julyan was standing by, and Squire heard him mutter, “Hope they have strong stomachs, more likely.”

Squire stared from bow to bow, feeling the deck shudder to the surge and plunge of the rudder. The gig was moving away, clear of the quarter, oars already lowered and motionless like wings. It was not a light boat but it seemed to move like a leaf on a mill-race, and yet Jago remained on his feet, his hand on the tiller. Vincent was squatting in the sternsheets, hatless, and shielding his eyes from the spray now being thrown up by the blades.

A few strokes while the gig pulled clear, and there were already fragments of wood, badly charred, being carried between them. Further away there were larger pieces which must have been blown from the hull by the explosion. A hatch cover, a few broken gratings, and farther still, a piece of spar. A small vessel then, maybe a cutter or schooner.

He tensed as something gleamed through the swell and vanished. A shark. Vincent might have seen it. He would not need reminding of the last time, when he had boarded the sinking, abandoned
Moonstone
. Jago had been with him then, and Napier also. Like a pattern for the events that followed.

He heard the captain's voice, clear and unhurried. “Tell Mr. Monteith to put more men larboard side forrard!” A pause. “You do it, Sinden.”

Someone shouted from the gangway nearby. Squire knew it was Midshipman Walker, their youngest, and no stranger to action or to danger. But his cry was like that of a girl.

Men were already running to the side, one carrying a grapnel and line. It was a corpse, but someone must have secured him alive to the hatch cover after the explosion, where the shark had reached him. A terrible death.

Squire heard the captain cross to the opposite side of the quarterdeck and thought he heard Julyan's voice. Perhaps asking a question.

And the reply. “No, we'll alter course when I'm satisfied. Not before.”

It seemed an eternity, the sea was almost empty again. It was only one man's decision.
Suppose it was mine?
He thought of Vincent, the expression on his face when he had volunteered for the boat party. He would never admit defeat …

He turned as a shout rang through the chorus of sounds from loose canvas and shrouds.

“Deck there!” It was Midshipman Hotham, still in the maintop with his big signals telescope.

The sun had shifted, or was hidden by a partly reefed sail. Adam stared up at the arm pointing from the top and trained his own glass on the same bearing. A mistake, perhaps? Or Vincent signalling to admit failure and request support for his exhausted oarsmen?

Adam tried again, waiting for the gig to reappear. The swell was deep enough to hide it completely. He held his breath and watched the one upright figure.

Then he lowered the telescope and said quietly, “They've found somebody. Alive.”

“Give way, together!” Jago lurched against the tiller bar, keeping his balance as the oars brought the gig under control. It took all their skill and strength to do it, with the sea rising and sliding away on either beam as if to swallow them.

The gig carried two extra men, standing in the bows with boathooks to fend off any floating debris that might impede the stroke or damage the hull. They had both struggled aft to help haul the survivor inboard, and now he was lying in the sternsheets, his shoulders propped against Vincent; the first lieutenant's breeches were soaked with blood. He was gulping air unsteadily, sometimes rasping and shuddering as if losing the fight.

The stroke oarsman gasped, “Don't give up, matey!” and Jago glared at him.

“Save yer breath, or you'll be the next!” Jago stared at the man they had found clinging face down to a piece of framework, the sort used to separate cargo in a small vessel's hold. It had been intact, not even scorched.