Heart of Oak

5. "Under my Hand"

Lieutenant Mark Vincent crossed the quarterdeck and gripped the hammock nettings firmly with one hand. The splicing, like the cordage, was hard and new. Untried, like the ship. He stifled a yawn, not daring to calculate the hours he had walked, measuring every inch of planking with his footsteps, on this day alone.

He stared through the shrouds toward the shore. Seven bells of the afternoon watch had just chimed from the forecastle, but it could have been night, the land already a shapeless dark blur, interspersed with tiny lights and the stronger glow of a beacon.

Only the sea gave any sign of movement, with an occasional boat making slow progress against the restless current.

Plymouth: at the end of another long day, it could have been almost anywhere.

Vincent squared his shoulders and moved away from the nettings. He was tired and could admit it, but a first lieutenant was never free to reveal it. Not a good one, anyway. He smiled to himself. Like hearing a lecture from the past.

How different Onward had looked when he had been pulled around her yet one more time. Fully rigged, and every stitch of canvas neatly furled, she was a living ship now, after the months of endless work and inspection. A few blows, too, when nobody had been watching. A man-of-war any one would be proud to serve. To command…

He heard another boat thrashing away from the side, the oars cutting the water, raising small spectres of foam. Voices called out, some almost regretful; friendships had been made among riggers and dockyard hands and the ever-growing numbers of seamen and marines.

He could hear the sharper tone of Rowlatt, the master-at arms, no doubt keeping a watchful eye open for any petty theft.

Souvenirs, the dockyard mateys might call them; Rowlatt's vocabulary was less euphemistic. How easily the name fitted the voice now. Vincent could remember when he had started with a list and trained himself from that first day aboard, putting faces to names and eventually a name to each voice.

Somebody yelped with pain in the gathering darkness. Most of them, anyway.

He faced aft and stared up at the mizzen yards and standing rigging. He could walk this deck now without even glancing down for the treacherous cleat or coaming that could lay anybody, officer or man, ignominiously on his face. He had laughed at so many others in his early days with the fleet… Vincent was twenty-seven years old. A lifetime ago.

A boatswain's mate was pacing slowly back and forth, his silver call glinting in the glow from the cabin skylight. Captain Adam Bolitho was down there in his quarters, with his piles of signals and books, wading through them, interrupting Vincent only with brief questions or scribbled notes.

Captain Richmond's personal belongings, which had never been unpacked, had gone ashore. Dead man's shoes, he had heard old sailors call themЦ and more of Bolitho's gear had been brought aboard. Vincent still found it difficult to accept the inevitable. Richmond had scarcely visited the ship since she had been commissioned; Vincent had been in charge from that first handing-over signature, had even seen himself there in the great cabin. In command.

Onward was a fine ship; Bolitho was damned lucky to have her.

"Boat ahoy? "The challenge rang loud and clear. Vincent walked to the quarterdeck rail and peered down at the entry port. Another visitor, even now…? The reply echoed back across the water. Wo, no! "and he relaxed slightly. No officers aboard, then, so probably only stores. It was a wonder the boatswain and his working parties could find any more space.

Another voice. "You, there! Take these new hands to their messes if the purser has finished with them!"

"Been done, sir! "It was tired and resentful.

"Why wasn't I told? I'm not a mind-reader!"

Vincent swore under his breath. Hector Monteith was Onward's third and youngest lieutenant. We all had to begin somewhere… but was I like that at his age? He moved into deeper shadow. At his age. Seven years ago; but at moments like this, it could have been only last week. It was even the same month, but bright sunlight had been turning the sea to glass, and the enemy sails had filled the horizon.

They called it the battle of Lissa now: the last sea fight against such formidable odds.

1811, and he had been serving in the frigate Amphion, his first ship as lieutenant. How they had survived, let alone scored a decisive victory against a force of French and Venetian menof-war, seemed a miracle.

Many had fallen that day, friend and foe, but he had lived.

And relived it, again and again, the fire and thunder of those rapid broadsides. Eighteen-pounders, like these shining new guns lining Onward's sides, which might never fire a shot except in training and drills. And always uppermost in his memory: I felt no fear.

He heard quick, light footsteps across the new planking and brought himself back to the present.

Monteith was slim, with a round, boyish face. But for his uniform, he could still be a midshipman.

"More stores coming aboard, sir. And three items of baggage for the captain. "He waited, his head to one side, a habit he no longer noticed.

"Have the baggage taken aft immediately, if you please. We don't want some ham-fisted Jack dropping it between decks."

"I've details the hands already, sir."

The formality irritated Vincent, although he could not have said why. A first lieutenant was not at liberty to cultivate favourites or offer privileges.

One ship. One company…

He was reminded of the second lieutenant, James Squire.

The contrast was complete. Big and powerfully built, he was some years older than Vincent and had risen from the lower deck, an achievement still rare even after all the years of war.

Squire had been serving as a master's mate when he had been chosen to join a surveying vessel under the charge of the famous explorer and navigator Sir Alfred Bishop. He had obviously more than proved his worth and ability. Promotion had followed.

It was hard to draw him out on the subject of his experiences, or the skill of transmuting unknown depths and treacherous waters into the distances and soundings on a chart. Squire was strong and confident, but remained at a distance, perhaps still feeling his way. Like the rest of us.

"The captain wants us all aft as soon as the hands are dismissed. It's the last chance we'll have before the admiral and his merry men come aboard, so if you can think of anythingЦ"

Monteith thrust his hands behind him, another little habit Vincent tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore. It usually happened when he was speaking pompously with a seaman, no matter how experienced he might be.

"The captain has a fine reputation. I've met several officers who have served with him. Wounded, taken prisoner by the Yankees and escaped, and then there was the time…" He swung round. "Don't you know better than to interrupt an officer when…"

Jago stood his ground, and spoke to Vincent as if Monteith were invisible.

"The Cap'n sends his compliments, sir, an' would you join him when you are able?"

"I'll come directly. "There was an outburst of angry shouts from forward and he added, "Deal with it, Mr. Monteith. Call me if you need me."

Monteith would rather choke, he thought, and knew he was being unfair.

He fell into step with the coxswain. A hard man to all accounts, he sensed, but a good one to have protecting your back. Such a short time aboard, and he had already made his mark.

"You've been with Captain Bolitho a long time, I believe?"

He felt Jago's cool gaze. "A while now, sir. This ship an" that."

Curt enough, but characteristic. Vincent smiled privately.

They had a saying about it, like everything else in the fleet.

Between every captain and his ship's company stood the first lieutenant. And his coxswain.

Down the companion ladder, his eyes noting the changes. A Royal Marine at the screen door, boots coming together smartly as they moved into the lantern light. Newly spliced hand-ropes, a reminder that even this would be a lively expanse of decking in any sort of sea.

The sentry tapped his musket on a grating.

"First lieutenant, sir!"

He could not remember the marine's name. Not yet…

The great cabin had completely changed, and with the dividing screens folded away seemed much larger. Most of the piled books and papers had gone, and an opened log or diary lay on a small desk Vincent had not seen before.

There were furtive noises coming from the hutch-like pantry that adjoined the captain's sleeping quarters: it would be the cabin servant, Morgan. Vincent had made that choice himself.

"Thought you might need an escape before the others joined us."

Bolitho came out of the shadows and stood framed against the stern windows, flickering lights passing back and forth across the sea behind him like moths.

The same warm handshake, as if they had just met. He gestured to the table.

"Some cognac, will that suit? "He grinned as Morgan hurried from his hiding place, a tray balanced in both hands. "I feel as if I could sleep for a week!"

Vincent watched the cognac swirl and move to the motion.

He had chosen Morgan with care. A man of some experience, but still human enough to hear and report any conversation which might be of interest elsewhere.

"Can I help in some way, sir?"

Bolitho faced him again, his eyes in shadow.

"You have, Mark. You do. "He picked up a goblet. "As always, this is the hardest step."

There were candles on the cabin table and he held the goblet to their light, hesitating, his mind still lingering on questions and doubts. Then the strain seemed to fall away. "To us, Mark.

And those we are leaving behind."

They touched glasses, but Vincent barely noticed the taste.

Leaving behind? They had not even finished with the watch and muster bills yet.

"I did hear that you were about to be married, sir. "He broke off. "My apologies, sir. I did not intend…"

"It does you credit. Here, in this cabin, you may speak as you will. No misunderstandings! "He looked toward the darkening windows and said, "God willing, I will marry soon. It asks so much of any woman. And in exchange…" He said nothing for a moment. "About tomorrow. I should like to walk through the ship with you. Before the admiral comes aboard. "He moved across the cabin, speaking his thoughts aloud. "To the people, I am still a stranger. That will change. Any ship's company deserves to share the pride as well as the responsibility.

Pride, MarkЦ what we can create together."

The mood changed. "I looked at the punishment book today.

A captain I once served told me that it reveals the true strength or weakness of any ship's company, and in particular her officers."

He looked at the screen door.

"You've done well during your time aboard. Not an easy role in a new ship, with a company as mixed as flags in a locker."

He smiled again. "Let's have the others join us."

Vincent saw Morgan hovering, half in and half out of the pantry. He, at least, was ready; Vincent had not realized that, during their conversation, the other lieutenants and warrant officers had been waiting.

Adam called, "MorganЦ you're from Swansea, right? "He was looking critically around the main cabin. "More candles, I think, can you do that?"

Morgan seemed surprised or pleased, it was hard to tell.

"Good as done, sir!"

In the growing light Vincent noticed a tall-backed chair facing aft by the stern windows; it must have come aboard in one of the last boats. Not new, quite the opposite: he could see scars and stains on the green leather. Well used, a place to rest between watches, even snatch an hour's sleep when you were expecting to be called. A captain's chair; Bolitho's chair.

He became aware that Adam Bolitho was watching him, waiting, but relaxed. Then he smiled, as if recalling something private, intimate.

"So let's be about it, shall we?"

Midshipman David Napier found himself crossing an enclosed courtyard, and heard a gate clang behind him. Around the corner of the guardhouse would be the jetty, and then he would see the ship. As he had pictured it in his mind, again and again, as if to reassure himself. He wanted to stretch his arms until the muscles screamed, stamp his numbed feet, anything to drive away the strain and confinement of the journey from Falmouth.

It had rained all the way without pause. Like being shut in a box, reeling from every rut and jolt between Cornwall and Plymouth.

He looked at the sky, now hard and clear, without warmth.

Somewhere along the way the road had been flooded: another delay while Francis had searched for an alternative route, little more than a cart track. Ex-cavalryman though he was, even he had been at a loss for curses.

He had recovered by the time they had reached the last barrier, and found a porter to carry the midshipman's chest.

Just a grin, and a pat on his shoulder. Maybe Francis understood better than many what it meant. The need to make it brief. No time to brood or regret.

"Can I "elp youЦ sir?"

A tall Royal Marine, scarlet tunic unnaturally bright in the harsh sunlight, had appeared from nowhere.

Napier held out the creased warrant, his fingers stiff from clenching it in his pocket.

"I'm joining Onward.'"

He felt the marine's eyes giving him a quick, disinterested look from beneath the brim of his smart leather hat. Just another middy. Be giving all of us hell before you know it.

"If you'll just wait "ere, sir. I'd best tell the sergeant."

Somewhere there was a clock striking. It went on and on, and Napier thought he could smell cooking. He swallowed hard.

"Well, where the hell has he been? On the moon?"

Then the sergeant stepped into the courtyard, the same warrant gripped in his hand.

"You were logged to arrive earlier, Mister Napier."

It sounded like an accusation.

"The road was flooded."

The sergeant brushed biscuit crumbs from his immaculate tunic with the warrant.

"We've all been on the hop since dawn. The admiral, see? Nothing but the best! "He relented slightly. "There's another young gentleman waitin "to join Onward. Tell the piermaster."

Then, brusquely, "Best we can manage till we get the word."

Napier felt his ankle turn on a loose cobble, expecting the pain, the warning. Nothing happened.

And he had not even thought about it. All those miles. The lurching and the unending rain…

"This way, sir, "the marine was muttering. "Probably all over by now. "He did not offer an explanation.

Napier took off his hat and loosened his hair. He could smell perfume on his cuff. Elizabeth. He flinched almost guiltily, as if he had spoken her name aloud.

The room was long and narrow, and had been used for stores. There was a solitary, barred window at one end, with a shaft of sunlight playing across a few crude chairs and an empty bookcase, which did nothing to make it welcoming. He realized that some one was standing beside the window, half hidden in shadow, his elbow resting on the sill.

Napier heard the marine's boots clicking away, then there was silence.

He said tentatively, "I was told that you're joining Onward. So am I. But I got here so lateЦ it was not my fault. The weather…" He moved closer to the window. "I'm Napier. David Napier."

"I was delayed, too. "An even, unhurried voice.

Disinterested? Wary? Impossible to tell.

He tried again. "They say the admiral is on board. I suppose we shall have to wait until we're told what to do."

The figure had moved slightly, and Napier saw the sunlight playing across his own midshipman's chest. So bright and new, like his uniform, and everything else.

The voice said, "My name is Huxley, by the way. "A pause.

"Simon Huxley. "The shadow moved again. Restless, impatient, waiting for something. On edge.

Then, "Not your first ship? I thought perhaps.

Napier clenched his fist, and pressed it against his hip.

"No. I was in Audacity."

Nothing else would come.

"Audacityl I read about it in the Gazette. Heated shot from a shore battery. Your captain was killed, wasn't he?"

Napier said quietly, "A lot of them died that day. But I could swim. "Like an apology for being alive.

Huxley reached out and tapped his shoulder. "Luck or skill.

Fate decided in your favour, David. "He dropped his arm; the gesture had taken them both by surprise. "I can't swim a stroke!"

He had moved further into the sunlight, turning as boots tramped along the road outside, perhaps from the jetty.

"I shan't be sorry to get aboard, to be doing something useful."

Napier studied him. A year or so older than himself, with a serious, thoughtful face. Onward might be his stepping-stone to promotion, or oblivion. What most midshipmen joked about, and dreaded.

He said, "Were you held up by the weather?"

Huxley did not reply immediately. The marching feet had faded away and it was so quiet in the long, narrow room that he could hear him breathing.

"No."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"I went to visit my father. Onward might be under sailing orders. Rumours, but there may be some truth in them. "He swung round and stared at the door, listening, but there was nothing. "I wanted him to know…"

"Is he unwell, Simon?"

Napier could not see his eyes.

"He is confined to quarters. "He paused, as if waiting for some reaction. "And awaiting trial by court martial."

"My God, I'm so sorry. "Napier felt shock, pity, anger, and something else he could not explain. He had known Simon Huxley for a matter of minutes. But I am his friend.

Huxley said bitterly, "I thought everybody knew about it!"

There were voices outside.

Napier said, "We can talk about it later. A new ship, remember? A new beginning for us both."

The door banged open.

"Boat's waitin', gentlemen. "A pause. "When you're ready, o "course."

Neither of them noticed the sarcasm. Just a handshake. It was enough.

Captain Adam Bolitho walked past the Royal Marine sentry and into the cabin. Quiet now, and almost spacious after the ceremonial of the forenoon. The admiral and his retinue had returned ashore; the trill of calls and the blare of a trumpet still seemed to hang in the air to mark their departure. His cocked hat was lying on a chair by the desk, but he did not recall tossing it there.

He should be used to it after all these years. Listening to those same words or hearing them issuing from his own mouth, as so many of those aboard today would know them too, by heart. Willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain in her accordingly… He recalled some of the younger faces staring up at him from the maindeck. There did not seem many in this new company.

He groped to remove his sword belt and a voice checked him.

"Allow me, sir."

It was Morgan. He must have managed to stay hidden during all the "stamp and bustle', as Jago had called it.

Adam unbuttoned his coat.

Morgan was waiting, the old sword held in both hands. "I thought a drink might be in order, sir?"

Adam smiled, and felt his jaw crack. "It is, and thank you."

"Went very well, we thought, sir."

Preparing himself for the days ahead. Where did they find men like Morgan, or Athena''?, cabin servant, Bowles? And what was he doing now? "The admiral seemed pleased."

Morgan laid the sword across the high-backed chair, his eyes darting around as if planning a proper place for it.

"Fine old blade, sir. "He stood, swaying easily to the movement of the deck, as Adam walked right aft to the stern windows. "In your family for years, they say."

If you want to know all about a captain, just ask his cabin servant, he thought.

He peered through the salt-misted glass across the anchorage. He had seen the other ships nearby, the telescopes on their decks levelled at the admiral's smart barge and accompanying boats. Critical but envious too, no matter what they said between decks. A new ship, and a frigate above all else.

There was a sudden burst of cheering. Morgan had opened the cabin skylight an inch or so, and the din seemed to fill the whole poop.

He beamed. "Splice the mainbrace, sir! Hitting the right place, I'd say, see?"

"They've earned it. "No doubt the purser thought otherwise.

Vicary, that was his name. A stooping, desiccated, humourless man: one of those he had met for the first time yesterday evening.

Morgan had placed a goblet on the table. "Cognac, sir. Came aboard today. The guardboat brought it. "He paused, and laid an envelope beside it.

Adam opened it and saw the ribbon, the same colour as the one she had given him, and her writing, like the letter he always carried.

From the Last Cavalier. There was a smudge, kiss or tear.

She was with him.

"Thank you. "He looked away sharply at the water astern, still reflecting the hard light. A few boats were moving or loitering nearby, friends, relatives, hoping for a glimpse or a wave.

It would only make it worse when the anchor broke free and Onward put to sea. Worse than this? How could that be? The sentry tapped his musket beyond the screen.

"Officer o "th "watch, sir!"

"That'll be Mr. Monteith, sir."

Adam saw Morgan's reflection briefly in the sloping glass windows. He was scowling. Then he hurried to the door.

He picked up the card and read it again before slipping it into his pocket.

Voices now beyond the screen. Monteith… When he had boarded Onward, the young lieutenant had been with the side party. And yesterday here in this cabin, with his fellow lieutenants and all the senior warrant officers. Young and very attentive, eager to answer questions about his duties, and today when he had been introduced to the admiral, different again.

Anxious, almost shy.

He put down the goblet; it was empty. Monteith presented another face completely in the punishment book. There were several entries, mostly for trivial offenses, when a sharp reprimand from a senior seaman or a quick slap when nobody was looking would have sufficed. Nothing serious, but wrongly directed they could end at the gangway with two dozen lashes. Or worse. Vincent must have been aware of it, but had offered no comment when they had discussed the ship's affairs.

Charge and command of captain. It would always be the invisible line between them.

He shook himself mentally. He was letting it grow out of all proportion. He was too tired to think clearly.

"Mr. Monteith wishes to have a word with you, sir."

Morgan was holding the door half open. It sounded like "insists'.

"My apologies, sir. I understood that the first lieutenant was here. "He bit his lip. "He left word that I was to call him ifЦ"

Adam said, "As you can see, Mr. Vincent is not here. Can I help?"

Morgan strode past, heading for his pantry, and said meaningfully over his shoulder, "If you need me, sir?"

Monteith pulled out the papers.

"Two midshipmen have just come aboard. "He frowned slightly, his head on one side. "To join. They were overdue, and the first lieutenant wanted to be told whenЦ лthey made an appearance."

Adam turned away. David had done it. After his experience he might have been forgiven for not wanting to return to sea.

But he had recovered his strength and his resolve.

"I understand one of them has served with you before, sir?"

Adam took the papers and opened them. He could feel Monteith's eyes flicking around the cabin, noting his captain's untidy appearance, the empty glass on the table.

He knew he was being unfair, and said abruptly, "There has been flooding in Cornwall, roads blocked. It does happen."

"Quite so, sir. "A pause. "But the other midshipman was already in Plymouth."

Adam looked up from the papers, the fatigue suddenly gone.

This visit was no accident.

"Midshipman Huxley was delayed for personal reasons. The first lieutenant will know that."

"As I thought, sir. "He dropped his eyes confidentially. "But as officer of the watch I considered it my duty to confirm it.

The word is that Midshipman Huxley's father is awaiting court martial."

Beyond the door the sentry rapped his musket again.

"First lieutenant, sir!"

Morgan bustled past.

"No peace, sir."

The door opened on a separate little drama. A seaman below the companion, a mop in his hands, a marine checking his musket in readiness to relieve the sentry. And Lieutenant Vincent staring into the cabin, barely able to contain his anger.

Monteith finished, "For losing his ship!"

Vincent cut in, "I am very sorry, sir. I was in the sick bayЦ one of the new hands has had a fall. Not serious, butЦ "He controlled his voice. "I left word where I would be. "He had not looked at Monteith. There was no need.

Adam unclenched his hand slowly, deliberately, and withdrew it from his pocket. A small thing which should never have happened. And tomorrow it would be all through the ship.

He said quietly, "Losing a ship is an indescribable experience, because it never leaves you. It happened to me."

He barely recognized his own voice; it was cool, almost matter of fact. "Like a terrible storm. You ride it or you go under, with the ship. But you never forget."

"Boat ahoy! "The challenge from the maindeck was faint, almost inaudible amongst the shipboard sounds. It could have been an echo of those lost voices.

Then he heard the shrill of a boatswain's call, and running feet, very much alive.

"Carry on, Mr. Monteith. "He did not look at him. "Onward is a private ship, no admiral's flag flying at our masthead, no chain of command while we wait to be told what to do. We depend on ourselves. "He felt the deck tilt very slightly beneath him, as if she were stirring. "Upon each other."

When he turned Monteith had gone, almost running to deal with the arrivals.

Vincent said, "The wardroom has asked if you will be our guest, "and faltered. "If you would feel inclined to…"

The tension had gone; it was like being set free.

"I will be honoured, Mark, although I have a feeling that it might be delayed a while."

Vincent thought he understood. The captain was back.

In his little pantry Morgan waited until the screen door had closed, then poured himself a small tot of rum and sipped appreciatively.

Tomorrow it would be all through the ship.