In the King's Name (31 page)

He watched Vincent unfastening the sodden coat. It was green, like the uniforms of the “private army,” as he had heard one of the marines call it, which he had seen during their visit to New Haven. He scowled. Who the hell had given it a name like that? He recalled the brief gunfire and later, that one God-awful explosion. Nothing made sense.

Someone said, “Pity our doc ain't with us!”

Vincent did not look up, but snapped, “So pull harder. He could do no better out here!”

Jago would have smiled at any other time.
Bloody officers
. But he reached down from the tiller-bar and gripped the hand which had suddenly returned to life. Weak at first, as if unable or unwilling to find hope, and ice-cold, although the thwarts and bottom boards were bonedry in the sun.

The eyes were suddenly wide open, unblinking, and Jago tightened his grip.

“Steady as she goes, matey. Just a bit longer!”

He had seen a lot of men fighting for life in all the years he had served at sea. And had watched plenty of them give up. The eyes were still on his. Not fear. It was disbelief.

Vincent dragged his hand into the sunlight. Some dried blood, but nothing much. He spoke softly, his voice almost drowned by the creak and thud of oars.

“Broken ribs. The explosion.” He glanced at the oars, slowing now. The breathing was louder. “As soon as we get him aboard …” He did not finish, knowing the man was trying to turn his head to look at his face, or perhaps the uniform.

Vincent leaned over him. There was more blood on his own white breeches. “We're taking you to safety. Try to rest. You're among friends now.”

Jago eased the tiller yet again and watched
Onward
as she appeared to lengthen across the gig's stem. There would be many helping hands once he had managed to work his way alongside, without much of a lurch. He thought of Vincent. Strict but fair, not a hard-horse like some. He tried to smile.
Like most
. But the smile did not come.

He eyed the masts, the poop, the big ensign streaming from the gaff above. Closer now, men on the gangway, some running, tackle being hoisted as a further guide, where the surgeon would be waiting.

“Bows!” Onward
was reaching out to receive them, with extra ladders and rope fenders to cushion the impact as he guided the final few strokes of the sweating oarsmen.
Onward
was rolling, reefed sails still holding the wind, showing her copper one minute and then the reflection of her gunports as she dipped toward him. Jago shut everything else from his mind, conscious of the man's grip on his ankle as he was trying to keep his balance and fix the moment. Nothing else could interfere.

Vincent was calming the survivor, and he was suddenly silent, as if he thought he had imagined the ship so close.

Jago shouted, “Oars!” and as the blades lifted and steadied, showering spray over the men beneath, he was unsettled by the silence. A heaving line snaked out of nowhere and was seized by one of the bowmen.

Vincent must have stumbled or been taken unawares by the motion. The rescued man had dragged himself on to his knees and was staring up at Jago as he eased the tiller for the impact.

His voice was cracked, strangled, but as the stroke oarsman came to Jago's aid he began shouting at the top of his voice. It was garbled, meaningless. Then he stared directly into Jago's eyes again. As if he was judging the moment, holding him: Jago could not look away.

A voice not much different from his own. Loud and very distinct, but only one word.

“Mutiny!”

His eyes were still wide open. But he was dead.

It was not dark in the cabin, but it seemed almost gloomy after the activity on deck.

Adam stood by the stern windows, his hand on the bench, feeling the motion, the regular thud of the rudder. The sea was streaked with gold, the last sunlight, and there seemed no horizon. Behind him Tyacke was sitting at the little desk, his shoeless feet protruding into a slanting patch of coppery light. Someone was hammering overhead, but otherwise the ship noises seemed very subdued.

Tyacke said suddenly, “Tomorrow, then?” and Adam nodded.

“At this rate, some time in the afternoon. Maybe later if the wind drops inshore.” He could picture the chart in his mind. He glanced at the bergère and dismissed the idea. If he gave in now, it would take another explosion to wake him.

He had been on deck again a moment ago. Almost deserted but for the watchkeepers, and a few anonymous figures sitting by the guns or looking at the sea alongside. And the canvas-wrapped body beside one of the eighteen-pounders, not for burial this time.

Tyacke had remarked, “They'll want to know. To be sure.” It was curt, but it made sense.

He had struggled to his feet now and was looking for his shoes. “Your cox'n, Jago—he did well today. I told him so.”

Adam heard the pantry door open perhaps an inch. He recalled Jago's face as Tyacke had spoken to him. And something else. Vincent had said nothing to him. He could imagine Jago's voice.
Bloody officers!

And the surgeon, who had been waiting to examine the dead man when he was hoisted aboard. When Murray had made his report, his hands red from scrubbing, he had said simply, “I don't know how he managed to stay alive.”

Tyacke had replied only, “But now we know
why!
”

He was looking toward the pantry door now, and raised his voice a little. “A lifetime ago somebody suggested that a drink, maybe two, might be forthcoming!”

Morgan padded softly to the table and put two glasses within reach, frowning and tutting as the deck tilted and the rudder groaned in protest. They each took a glass, and Morgan filled them without spilling a drop, murmuring, “Your health, gentlemen.”

Tyacke drank deeply and gestured to Morgan to refill his glass, and said almost wistfully, “Like old times.”

Sir Richard Bolitho's flag captain would never forget.

A
DAM
B
OLITHO PAUSED
near the top of the companion ladder to prepare himself. He felt the air on his face, cool and refreshing, stirring the folds of his clean shirt. The coolness would be brief. The morning watch was only an hour old, the ship almost quiet except for sounds which, like his own breathing, were too familiar to notice.

It had been a moonless night, so that the stars had seemed exceptionally bright, paving the sky from horizon to horizon. He thought he had slept reasonably well in the bergère with his feet propped on a stool which Morgan must have put there, but he had heard Tyacke cry out during the night. Somebody's name: a woman's. But the sleeping cabin door had remained closed, and he had heard nothing more.

He braced his shoulders and mounted the last of the steps. It was always like this at the end of a passage. You could
feel
the nearness of land, even imagine you could smell it. And there was always the doubt. The uncertainty. He touched his chin and smiled ruefully. He had shaved himself, not as well as Jago would have, but if anybody needed rest now it was his coxswain.

Figures were already turning toward him as he stepped on to the quarterdeck. His white shirt would have been like a beacon in the dimness before dawn, and he had always hated stealth, unlike a few officers he could have named.

Vincent had the watch and was standing by the compass box, its tiny flame reflecting in his eyes. He said, “Wind's eased a bit, sir. But I thought I'd wait for some light before sending the hands aloft to spread more sail. Besides …”

“It's better to see than be seen. I agree.” Adam looked at the spread of canvas which seemed to contain their world. The sea on either beam was still black.

Vincent hesitated. “Can we expect trouble when we make a landfall, sir?”

Adam rested both hands on the quarterdeck rail and looked toward the forecastle. Beyond the pale stretch of deck, there was little to see: the vague shadows of hatches and the regular black shapes which were the breeches of the guns, and now an occasional spectre of spray rising, then fading, above a gangway. His brain was shaking off any lingering desire for sleep.

He faced Vincent and said, “I think we always have to expect trouble, Mark. Especially after what you discovered.” He saw him glance in the direction of the guns, where the canvas-wrapped body was stowed. “As soon as we call hands and it's safe enough, I want top-chains hoisted and rigged at the yards.”

Vincent showed his teeth. “Thought you might, sir. If we're called on to fight, there could be casualties enough without falling spars adding to the bill.”

Adam almost smiled. No doubt the admiral would describe them as “unsightly.”

Vincent gestured toward the sea. “Surely they'd never dare fire on a King's ship?”

Somebody called out and another hurried to obey. But Adam was reminded of Tyacke's comment when they had been alone together.
Our flag flies in many lands, but not always by invitation. To most of them, we're still the invaders
.

There was a sudden metallic clatter forward, followed by a familiar bout of coughing. The cook was already up and about, and no matter what might lie ahead, for him the galley came first.

Vincent said, “He was on deck when I took over the watch. Who needs the sand-glass?”

Lynch had spent most of his life at sea in one kind of ship or another. At the first hint of danger the galley fires would be doused to avoid any accident, but Lynch liked to have enough food prepared and ready for the return of what he called “kinder times.”

Vincent turned away to watch a seaman running across the deck, but he was lost in the predawn shadows.

“When the flag captain visits the governor …” He paused. “If he does, will he be taking the gig?”

Adam said only, “You are ahead of me, Mark,” and thought Vincent might have shrugged.

“A cutter might be a better choice, sir.”

“Good thinking. A cutter can mount a swivel if need be. Better safe than swamped!” They both laughed, and a seaman who was taking a mouthful of water from the ready-use cask looked up and muttered, “Not a care in th' bloody world!”

Adam walked slowly aft, past the men at the wheel and Tozer, the master's mate, who had been with him in
Delfim
‘s prize crew. Here it was deserted, only a small part of the ship, the sea astern still in darkness. In another hour or so all hands would be piped, and the land would lie ahead like a barrier.

He slipped his hand inside his shirt and gripped the ribbon. A little worn now, and fraying, but hers.

A precious moment.

“Captain, sir!”

It was over.

Harry Drummond paused by the boat tier and stooped to pick up a piece of codline before tucking it into his belt. It would probably not be needed, but as
Onward
‘s bosun, and even long before, he had learned to make use of almost everything. The miles of standing and running rigging, the massive cables now stowed and drying below deck, were
his
responsibility. He smiled to himself and felt his mouth crack. Next to the first lieutenant, of course.

He stood in the shade beneath the braced canvas and stared disapprovingly at the top-chains on the upper yards: necessary maybe, but unseamanlike. They had rigged them just in time, too. The ship had altered course again and the yards were hard-braced; to a landsman she would appear to be almost fore-and-aft. But every sail was firm and filled. A few seamen were still working aloft, bodies half-naked in the sun. Some might be sorry afterwards: it was going to be one of the hottest days yet.

Drummond looked at the land again, but there had been no change. It reached from bow to bow in an endless green barrier, without shape or identity. Otherwise the sea was empty. No local craft hugging the coast for convenience, nor blackbirder making a run for it with rumours of a man-of-war in the area.

Drummond thought of the drifting wreckage and the human remains, followed always by those accursed sharks, and his eyes rested briefly on the canvas-wrapped corpse near one of the guns. Who would know or care? Better to have put him over the side like the others.

He looked at the land again. Unless the wind picked up they'd be lucky to anchor much before dusk. He had seen the captain with Julyan, the master, comparing notes on the quarterdeck. And the flag captain had shown himself a couple of times, too. A fine-looking man … or had been.

He saw Luke Jago climb from the fore hatch, his old cutlass beneath his arm.

“Taking no chances, eh, Luke?” It was somehow reassuring to see him like this, apparently unmoved by his experience amidst that grisly flotsam, but who could tell? Jago gave nothing away.

He was peering up at the taut canvas. “Pity we can't make more sail,” and Drummond nodded sagely.

“They don't want any one to sight us too soon, I reckon.”

They turned as several loud clangs seemed to shake the deck beneath their feet.

Jago said, “They'll bloody well ‘ear us before that!”

There were shouts and the din stopped. It was one of the gunner's armourers hammering something on the anvil. The watch below had yelled their protests, eating what might be their last meal before they were called to quarters, with a tot for good measure.

Drummond said, “Not many captains would care that much, Luke.” He could share things like that with the burly coxswain, inscrutable though Jago often was. They had little in common except the ship and their friendship, which had only begun when Drummond had joined
Onward
to replace the dead bosun, but the navy was like that. Sometimes there was no reason to consider a man a good mate, but it was a fact.

Then he added hastily, “I'll shove off now. One of your young gentlemen's approaching.” It was Napier.

Unexpectedly Jago said, “Stay, will you?”

Drummond shrugged. “You got the tiller, Luke.”