In the King's Name (4 page)

Vincent waved and said, “Carry on.” He was merely a visitor.

He walked to the lee side of the quarterdeck and stared at the gleaming expanse of sea, empty as a desert, the horizon unbroken by cloud or shadow. He considered himself an experienced sailor, and never took the sea and its moods for granted. The last few days had tested those beliefs to the extreme. The weather had worsened as soon as they had cleared the Western Approaches and left the land astern. The wind had stayed in their favour, but had often been too strong to spread more canvas and run before it.

Four days of it: this was the fifth since
Onward
had weighed at Plymouth. He felt the planking beneath his shoes, quite dry now—on the quarterdeck at least. Some of the newly joined hands must have been wondering what had made them quit their homes in the first place. And not just the inexperienced. He had heard Julyan, the master, admit, “More than once on the fringe of Biscay, I thought we were going to lose our sticks!”

Vincent shaded his eyes and stared along the upper deck. Repairs were still being carried out. The sailmaker's crew huddled below the starboard gangway, busily cutting and stitching a torn sail, while a gunner's mate was testing the breeching on one of the eighteen-pounders. Splicing where necessary; then it would be checked again before another drill. Trust and blame went hand in hand.

He looked up at the taut spread of canvas; the captain had hinted that they would get the topgallant sails on her soon, probably during this watch. It was Bolitho's decision. The nagging thought was always there.
Suppose it was mine?

And how did Bolitho really feel about leaving the land so soon after the
Nautilus
mission, and, more importantly, his bride?

Vincent had remained with
Onward
while her repairs were being completed, in command, and so unable to attend the wedding at Falmouth. But he had heard enough about it, and the rest he could imagine. Lowenna was not someone you could easily forget.

“Ah, I thought I would find you here, Mark. Always busy, keeping us all afloat, eh?”

It was Murray, the surgeon, so light on his feet, like a dancer or a swordsman, although he was neither, as far as Vincent knew. Outwardly easy-going, and popular with most of the ship's company, which was rare enough in his profession. For the most part surgeons were feared, even hated.
Butchers
…

Murray was smiling quizzically. “And if it's not too late to say it, a very Happy New Year to
you!
” They solemnly shook hands. He had a grip like steel, Vincent thought.

Murray turned to gaze abeam, apparently untroubled by the hard sunlight. He had pale blue eyes, which seemed almost colourless in the glare, and his profile was narrow-featured with a prominent hooked nose.

“Where are we, Mark? I'm damned if I know.”

Vincent had to smile. Rapier-straight, that was Murray's way. In the wardroom, and amidst the casual chatter and banter between various duties and watches, he would always come directly to the point.

But his attention had been diverted as a seaman hurried by, and the moment was past.

“How's the knee, Slater?”

The man stopped as if startled, then he grinned. “Good as new, an' thankee, sir!”

Murray walked to the companion. He had some notes to make, and in any case Vincent was already pointing out something to another working party, the first lieutenant once more.

He thought of the seaman to whom he had just spoken—Slater. Murray had always had a good memory for names, and was grateful for it. Some never seemed to acquire the ability, never bothered or did not care, but he knew from experience that it was often the only link they had. Slater had injured his knee in a fall during one of the sudden squalls off Biscay. It might have been a lot worse, and he might not have recovered.

Just a name
. Even if you had to take off his leg.

Midshipman Huxley scuttled past him with a folded chart, doubtless on some mission to see the captain. Another two weeks before landfall, maybe more. Bolitho left nothing to chance.

Murray paused at the ladder and looked up as he heard feet thudding across the deck above. Probably a marine, he thought. Then someone shouted, “He's just gone below!”

He waited, suddenly tense, and a pair of legs appeared on the ladder, blotting out the glare.

“Beg pardon, sir, there's bin an accident in the galley! I was told—” He fell silent as Murray waved his hand.

“I'll fetch my bag.”

It would only be a bruise or a burn.
But just in case
… He found that it amused him. He was more like the captain than he had believed.

Tobias Julyan, the sailing master, watched as the captain, who had been leaning over the chart table, straightened his back and jabbed his brass dividers into a piece of cork. It would prevent them sliding away into some hidden corner if
Onward
was hit by another fierce squall.

Adam said, “If the weather holds we should be able to fix our position.” A quick, impetuous grin. “And our progress, with more certainty.”

Julyan glanced around the small chartroom. A world apart. Without it, all the sweat and tears expended elsewhere would amount to nothing. No matter what the old Jacks liked to think. “This
is
the Atlantic, sir. I think she's done us proud.”

“And so have you.” Adam dragged the heavy log book into a shaft of sunlight and did not see Julyan's pleasure. He turned a page. The first day of the new year of 1819. It was a Friday. Strange that so many sailors, and not just the older ones, regarded Fridays as unlucky. He had never discovered why.

Luke Jago had reminded him this morning as he had been finishing his shave. “They said I was born on a Friday, so that should tell us somethin'!”

Jago seemed to live one day at a time. Always ready. Perhaps because he had no one and nothing to leave behind, or come home to. The sea and the navy were his life, until the next horizon.

Like the severed epaulette.
Always ready
.

Adam heard a tap, and the chartroom door opened a few inches. He thought it would be Vincent, impatient to begin making more sail. But Julyan said, “Your cox'n, sir.” He picked up some notes and pulled the door wide. “I shall be standing by, sir.”

The door closed behind him and Jago stood with his back against it.

Their eyes met, and Adam said quietly, “Trouble, Luke?”

“A short fuse if you asks me, Cap'n.” He scowled. “Someone a bit too handy with a blade. In the galley, of all places!”

Adam reached for his hat. “I'm going on deck.”

Jago watched him leave and swore silently.

Bloody Fridays!

Hugh Morgan, the cabin servant, heard the screen door slam shut and waited warily as the captain strode aft to the quarter. Morgan had served several captains, and Bolitho was the best so far. Old enough to have borne the full weight of responsibility, young enough to consider those less fortunate and still finding their way. But there were bad days, too. This was likely to be one of them, New Year or not.

“Can I fetch you something to eat, sir? You've touched nothing since they called all hands.”

Adam pushed himself away from the bench beneath the stern windows with their gleaming panorama of water, greyer now than blue.

He said, “I apologise. There was no need to bite
your
head off!” Then, “I'm expecting the first lieutenant directly. Maybe the surgeon, too. The meal can wait.” He tossed his hat onto a chair and asked abruptly, “How well d'you know Lord, one of the cook's mates?”

“The one who was stabbed, sir?”

Adam sat down as if something had been cut. If Morgan knew, the whole ship would know.

Morgan watched the signs. It was bad all right. “Brian Lord. Good lad to all accounts. The cook speaks well of him. Not
too
well, of course!”

Adam smiled and felt his jaw crack. “You should be a politician.”

Morgan relaxed a little. “Too honest, sir!”

Adam looked astern again, at the regular array of a following sea, marked by the shiver and thud of the rudder. At any other time he would have been satisfied. Proud. Instead, he kept remembering the anger on Jago's face; he knew the course of events better than any one. The man could have died but for Murray's prompt action, and could still die. There had been blood everywhere.

The deck tilted suddenly and he saw Morgan pivot round to stare at the pantry door behind him. Someone must have lost his balance; there was an audible gasp and a sound of breaking glass.

Morgan waited for a few more seconds, and said, “Not one of my best goblets, I hope?”

The door swung open. The new mess boy was getting to his feet, some shards of glass in his hands.

Morgan said reprovingly, “There's clumsy you are, boy, like an ox in a chapel!” He was dangerously calm, and his Welsh accent was more pronounced.

Adam reached out and took the boy's arm. “Watch your step, my lad. The surgeon has enough to do just now.”

Morgan shook his head. “This is my new helper, sir. Chose him myself, too!” He nudged the broken glass delicately with his shoe. “I am not usually so mistaken.”

Adam said to the boy, “What's your name?”

The boy looked from him to Morgan, who repeated, “Chose him myself, sir. From your own part of the world, see.”

The boy seemed to find his voice. “Tregenza, zur. Arthur Tregenza. From Truro, zur.”

His round, open face was a mass of freckles, which matched his ginger hair.

It was a small thing, Adam thought, not even worth his attention. Morgan would deal with it. But for some reason it was important. The boy's first ship … And from Truro, only a dozen miles from the old grey house in Falmouth. Where she would be waiting, wondering …

Adam said, “You must tell me about yourself when we have more time. But take care until you know
Onward
‘s moods a little better. She can be a lively ship when she chooses!”

Morgan was looking meaningly at the screen door, and the boy retreated.

“We'll leave you in peace, sir. Maybe you'll care to eat later?”

“Thank you. I would appreciate that.”

Morgan was opening the door even as the Royal Marine sentry was lifting his musket to rap on the grating. Interrupted, he said awkwardly, “The first lieutenant,
sir!
”

Morgan stood aside for Vincent to pass and shut the door behind him.

Vincent said, “I just left the surgeon, sir.” He touched a stain on his sleeve. “Lord has lost a deal of blood. Even now …” He broke off, and added bitterly, “After all we've been through!”

Adam sat down again. “Tell me, Mark. In your own time.”

Vincent stared unblinkingly up at the skylight. “Lord had been sent to the galley to fetch something—he doesn't remember what. Instead, he found the man—Lamont—stealing meat, putting large pieces into a bag. He was using one of the cook's own knives.” He looked across the cabin for the first time. “You could shave with one of them.”

Adam pictured the cook, Lynch, who had played his fiddle as
Onward
weighed anchor.
Sharp knives meant less waste
.

Vincent held up his right forearm and ran a finger down it. “He cut Lord from wrist to elbow. Somebody wrapped a shirt round it. Then the surgeon came.”

“And the one responsible—this man Lamont?”

“Joined us at Plymouth, just before we left. Transfer from a ship awaiting overhaul. Or demolition. Able seaman, ten years' service. It was all rather vague.”

Adam watched the sea catching the sun again. A hard light, with no hint of warmth. “Lamont? Did you see him?”

Vincent looked past him as spray spattered across the glass. “I was off watch at the time, sir. But someone heard Lord scream. The bosun was the first to reach the galley, and he called the surgeon. Otherwise …” A pause, then, as if to emphasise it,
“Aye
, I questioned Lamont. The master-at-arms was also present. Lamont claimed it was self-defense. I cautioned him. I knew you would want to know all the details.”

“You did right, Mark. You can carry on with your routine until we learn something useful.”

Vincent picked up his hat. “I feel it was partly my fault, sir. I had no time to test Lamont's worth when he was signed on.”

The door closed and Adam stood watching the sea once more. Prepared, or resigned, and with an overriding sense of disappointment. He gazed around the cabin where he still sometimes relived the last fight, the thunder and crash of cannon and the crack of muskets. Men calling out in pain or in rage, helping one another. Dying. All that, and yet the barrier between himself and Vincent remained, an unseen enemy.

He thought of Thomas Herrick, his uncle's oldest and dearest friend, and his words on one occasion.
Command is complete or worthless
.

The door creaked. It was Morgan. “I thought you called, sir?”

Adam let his arms fall to his sides. Perhaps he had spoken aloud.

But he was ready.

The two midshipmen sat facing one another across the table. Around them their mess was quiet and deserted, although not for much longer: there had been a shrill of calls on deck, and a smell of food if they needed reminding. Midshipmen never did.

David Napier touched the bruise on the back of his hand, left by a rope clumsily dragged when they had been shifting one of the boats on deck. The salt air had made it sting like a burn. One of the new men had been too eager, or preoccupied.

Midshipman Huxley gestured with a spoon. “Put some grease on it.”

Napier smiled. “Won't get any sympathy, will I?”

“If we lower the jolly-boat later, you'd better stand clear! You might lose the other one!”

Just words, but they were friends, and had been since they had joined
Onward
together on the same day, Napier recovering from injuries and the loss in action of his last ship, and Simon Huxley struggling to accept the suicide of his father following a court-martial, although he had been found not guilty and cleared of all blame. It was a quiet, unquestioning friendship neither ever tried to explain. They only knew that it mattered.