Heart of Oak

15. "No Heroics"

Lieutenant James Squire moved restlessly across the quarterdeck until he stood on the weather side, feeling the wind: light but steady. He had taken over the afternoon watch less than an hour ago, but it seemed like forever. His shoes were snagging on the softened deck seams, and he was thankful for the mizzen topsail's great shadow. He had brushed against one of the squat carronades in passing: so hot you could cook a meal on it. As if it had just been fired.

A week and a day since they had weighed at Gibraltar, back and forth along this same godforsaken coastline, always with a misty blur as their horizon. And for what? He was accustomed to the monotony of those long voyages of exploration and discovery, days, weeks at a time, logging the same course, often without sighting land or another ship of any kind. But there had been a purpose to that, and usually a result.

He gazed along Onward's full length. A few hands crouching, some even lying in patches of shade, if they could find any. Men off watch, still digesting their meal and measures of rum. He could feel their mood like something physical. Boredom and resentment, and more names in the punishment book as a result. A Royal Marine had been posted by the fresh-water cask: another sure sign. Men on watch needed an occasional drink, tasteless or rancid though it might be, but it would all vanish within a few hours in this heat if left unguarded.

There was another frigate patrolling this same area, but they never met. Their only link was maintained by the smart little brig Merlin. They would sight her again tomorrow, then Onward would come about and begin all over again.

He walked aft and saw the helmsman straighten his back as he approached.

"East by north, sir. "He hardly glanced up at the taut canvas.

"Full an' by, sir."

Close to the wind and moving well, the yards braced hard round to catch every puff of wind. But if that fell…

Two midshipmen were sharing the watch, Napier and young Walker, who had not been seasick again, or so he had been told. Squire still thought about the ill-fated schooner. Death at close quarters. It might have been us. He remembered the piece of charred timber, and the captain's face when he had given it to him. The same man he had seen fling his arms around Merlin's new commander when he had come aboard for a few minutes, before he, too, sailed to this barren coastline.

He glanced at the tilting compass card but his mind did not register it, nor the helmsman's resentful scowl.

Merlin would be a fine command. Her commander was far younger than most, and the son of an admiral. Nothing would stop his ascent up the ladder of promotion, whereas… Squire walked back again and stood by the quarterdeck rail. He was lucky, and grateful to be where he was; he had told himself often enough. Now, this might well be the end of the ladder. For me.

A seaman hurried past, giving Squire a quick grin before he vanished down the poop ladder. Most of them seemed to like him, and the younger ones were not afraid to ask his advice when they needed it. Unlike some.

He had never served as a midshipman, and he could still remember some of the comments when he had been promoted directly from the lower deck. "That's what they did for "Bounty" Bligh, and it didn't do him much good. "And worse.

Meredith, a master's mate, cleared his throat.

"Captain's comin "up, sЦ "and stopped with one hand on the rail, the sentence unfinished. Then Squire heard it, too. Far away, impartial.

"Gunfire, sir!"

He saw the captain look up at the masthead pendant, and move to the compass box, and heard him say with a dry little mocking note of disapproval, "And on a Sunday, too!"

It was not something Squire would ever forget.

Then he said, "To the south-east of us. If this wind holds…" He gestured. "Fetch the first lieutenant!"

Squire saw one of the midshipmen hurry toward the companion and heard the captain call, "Walk, Mr. Napier! "and the boy looked around. "I want you to stay in one piece. "He might even have smiled briefly. Then he strode to the quarterdeck rail. "That lookout, TuckerЦ bring him aft, now!"

Squire saw a messenger running along the gangway. Like most of the others on deck, he was wide awake now. He cupped his hands behind his ears, shutting out the regular sounds of canvas and rigging, but the sea was silent. Maybe a ship was testing her guns. Nothing heavy; might even be the brig Merlin. Trying to break the monotony of this endless patrol.

"Ere' 'e is, sir!"

Tucker had appeared at the top of the ladder, jaw still working on the remains of his meal, his eyes, very clear in a deeply tanned face, fixed on the captain.

The master's mate murmured, "What d "you reckon, sir?" would have waited, to be sure. But Squire said only, "The captain thinks there's trouble ahead."

The upper deck seemed suddenly crowded with people. The watch below, off-duty marines, even the cook and his mates.

All staring out to sea, then aft toward the quarterdeck.

Meredith, the master's mate, grinned. "So much for Sunday!"

Adam pointed across the starboard bow. "I shall alter course directly, Tucker. It will put some more power in the sailsЦ give us an edge. "He felt him start with surprise as he reached out and touched his arm. "I know what you can do. Take a glass, mine if it suits. But if there's nothing…" He shrugged.

"Take your time."

Tucker nodded, brushing some dry biscuit crumbs from his cheek without even knowing he was doing it. Every one seemed to be here: old July an the master, even the first lieutenant. He saw Napier with some other midshipmen, and the boy smiled and raised a hand in greeting.

"I'm on my way, sir! "He took the telescope and after a slight hesitation slung it over his shoulder. He turned away, then halted. They all heard it. Five or six shots. Unhurried.

Adam stared up at the masthead pendant until the glare blinded him.

"Please God, let it hold! "And to Vincent, "All hands, Mark.

I want every stitch she can carry. "He ran his hand along the rail. "Let her fly!"

Julyan the master watched him. The captain was speaking to his ship. Maybe nobody else noticed, or understood, but Julyan had served at sea all his life. Since… he glanced at Midshipman Walker, waiting with his slate… was your age. And his oldest brother had been Sir Richard Bolitho's sailing master in the Black Prince. Those were the days…

He heard the first shrill of calls, apparent confusion changing to order, and knew he would be needed in the chart room.

He jumped through the hatch, and paused to look up at the sky, and the hard edge of the sea beyond the gangway. He had seen Deacon, the senior midshipman, already heading for his flag locker, and heard young Walker call after him, "What shall do?"

Julyan closed the chart room door behind him and found he could laugh about it.

He answered aloud for Deacon.

"Just pray!"

Luke Jago judged the moment and hurried across the deck, a mug balanced in his hand. It took some getting used to. He peered up at the straining canvas, topsails and courses like metal. Not since the Western Approaches had she moved like this; not since she had first tasted salt water. The men on watch were angled to the deck, and there were dark stains on the planking where spray had burst up and over the bulwark.

He saw the captain by the compass box, Vincent standing a few paces away. Two helmsmen on the wheel, the quartermaster loitering nearby in case he was needed.

"What is it? "Then, "Forgive me. No call to bite your head off, Luke."

Jago held out the mug. "Water, Cap'n."

Adam sipped it. Warm and tasteless, from the cask on deck. It could have been anything.

Jago watched him. He knew him so well. The others around them only thought they did. Moaning all the time about extra work… What else would they be doing in this bloody place? Adam said quietly, "Lady Luck seems to have deserted me this time, Luke. "He half turned. "Stand by to alter course. Two points to starboard."

The quartermaster had been waiting for that. "East-by-south, sir. Standing by."

Vincent remarked, "I think we'll need more hands aloft."

Jago swore under his breath. Was that all it meant to him? Everybody hated the third lieutenant, but at least Monteith showed some guts. He felt his dry mouth fold into a humourless grin. Coming from me, of all Jacks! "Deck there! Sail on th "starboard bow!"

Adam stared aloft, the mug rattling unheeded across the deck.

"Well done! "Although Tucker was unable to see or hear him up there amongst the thudding canvas and rigging. He stared across the sea until his eyes watered: lively crests now, not dead calm like all those other days and sleepless nights.

Vincent was saying, "I'll go aloft myself, sir. This time I'llЦ "and Jago heard the captain cut him off with a curt, "I need you here. Young Tucker is doing well. Leave him to it."

Jago stooped down to retrieve the mug from the scuppers. It gave him time.

Captain Bolitho would have to watch his back.

He touched his belt but the broad-bladed dirk was below, in the mess.

And so will you, matey! Adam gazed aft again. The same group around the wheel, leaning together as the deck tilted to another thrust of wind, and elsewhere men climbing into the shrouds in an attempt to see what was happening. He shut them from his mind. The lookout had sighted another vessel. Very soon some one would realize that Onward was heading toward them under full sail.

He thought of the shots. Small guns, but deadly. Probably swivels, which took longer to prime and reload than heavier cannons.

There had been no sound of any resistance. Maybe some luckless trader, caught unawares.

"Deck there! She's a schooner!"

Vincent muttered, "What about the other one?"

Adam imagined Tucker in his lofty perch, training the telescope.

T "other vessel is dismasted!"

"Bloody pirates. "That was Meredith.

"Deck there! "And then silence, as if he were feeling the sudden weight of responsibility. "Schooner's steerin "southeast!"

Jago said, "Runnin "for the shore, damn his eyes! "But he swung round as Adam drove one fist into his palm and exclaimed, "Gotyou!"

He looked up, gauging the wind. If the schooner had tacked up to windward, Onward would have lost her. This time there was nowhere to run, except to hide in one of those small coves or inlets which he and Julyan had marked so carefully on the chart. Vague and dangerous…

He looked over at Vincent.

"We'll hold this course until we're ready to change tack. We can outsail him now, whatever he does!"

He walked to the larboard side again, reaching for his telescope before remembering where it was.

"Here, sir! "It was Napier with another.

Adam felt his mouth crack into a smile. "You're not going to forget that, are you?"

He trained it across the opposite bow, blurred faces springing across the lens, a sailor shouting or laughing soundlessly, then out across the open sea. Then he found and held the tiny image until his eye felt raw. Stern-on, sails fully spread and filling, the dull shoreline like a far-off curtain beyond. He closed the glass with a snap.

"Too clever this time!"

Squire was the first to speak.

"The same schooner, sir? A pirate, maybe?"

Adam said, "Bring Tucker down here, and put another good man in his place. "He seemed to recall Squire's question. "I intend to find out. "He looked toward the bows again. "But first, some people will need our help."

Tucker came running aft, his bare feet thudding along the gangway like boots. He was not even breathless.

"Same one, sir! "He looked around as if he expected an argument. "Watched her all the way to GibraltarЦ not likely to forget!"

"And the other vessel?"

"Local craft, I reckon, sir, a big dhow of some kind.

Dismasted. But they're tryin "to re-rig one of ‘em."

Julyan said, "Probably after the cargo. Otherwise.

Adam shut the speculation from his mind. The schooner might still take a chance and run for it, even though the wind was against her. Her master would know this stretch of coast like the back of his hand. But why run and risk capture, when you could shelter and be safe, until the next time? It could prove to be worthless, but the schooner might reveal something. He thought of the commodore: bad news rides a fast horse. Surely it was better than no news at all? Tucker said suddenly, "The other vessel being "a dhow, they're helpless when they tries to claw to wind'rd. No chance at all. "He might have blushed under his deep tan. "Sorry, sir.

Not my place to go on about it!"

Adam smiled briefly. "Who better? "He saw the surgeon and one of his assistants climbing to the quarterdeck. Murray must have sensed he might be needed.

Vincent said, "I'll have the second cutter ready for lowering."

"Jolly-boat, Mark. We shall need both cutters for sterner work."

He saw the comprehension dawn in Vincent's face.

"You intend to cut out the schooner? Under their noses?"

"Too risky?"

"With respect, sir, it's better than waiting for our commodore to decide!"

They both laughed, then Adam said, "So be it. Volunteers only. "He turned his back on the misty shoreline, deliberately.

"But first, an act of mercy."

Midshipman Napier jumped clear as more men threw their weight on the topsail braces, bodies angled to the deck as Onward turned into the wind. Nobody fell, unlike in those early days, and hardly an order had to be repeated. He peered up at the reefed topsails, each one fisted and kicked into submission, the boom of canvas drowning out the curses of the seamen spread along the yards. He could see the jolly-boat being manhandled from the tier and hoisted out, ready for lowering. He dashed spray from his face, surprised that it could feel so cold when his shirt was clinging to his skin with sweat.

The jolly-boat was smaller than a cutter or gig, a maid-of all-work, but he had seen the surgeon in his shapeless white smock, ready to be taken across to the drifting dhow. It would be a rough passage. He had already heard some one shout out to one of the boat's crew, "Hang on to yer belly, Bert, or ye'11 lose yer pork!"

Busy though he was, Guthrie the boatswain found time to retort, "You'll lose more than that, Barker, my lad, if I "ears another peep out o "you!"

But somebody laughed.

Napier stared across at the other vessel. One of the big lateen sails was already half hoisted again, but badly torn, the wind exploring the shot-holes. He could see some of the crew trying to hoist a second mast, some one obviously in charge, and not a face turned to watch the oncoming frigate. There were more scars along the hull: canister, he thought.

He smiled self-consciously. Watching and listening. He had come a long way.

He thought of the schooner, and his friend David Tucker, who had come aft to see the captain. Surprised, proud. Sharing it.

He had heard the first lieutenant asking for volunteers for some separate action against the schooner, and seen his undisguised astonishment when so many had shouted their names. Napier had been going around the ship with Lieutenant Squire, making a list. Like those other times… He saw little Walker hurrying past with a message. There were a lot of Onward's company who had not experienced those other times.

The arms chest was open, a gunner's mate watching over the issue of weapons. Cutlasses and boarding axes, but no pistols, for fear of a misfire which would ruin any hope of surprise attack, if that was being planned. One wag had suggested it was in case "Mister bloody Monteith "was taking part, as he would be the first target! He watched the jolly-boat cast off, veering away from the side, oars in disarray until the first stroke.

Squire was standing by the tiller, swaying easily with each plunge of the boat.

Some one said grudgingly, "Knows "is stuff, does that one."

And another: "Well, one of us, wasn't he?"

Napier felt a shoulder near his and knew it was Huxley. Still quiet, withdrawn, but they had become closer because of what had happened. In the midshipmen's berth he was usually studying notes on navigation and seamanship, and keeping up his diary, a compulsory burden if eventually he appeared before the examination Board for promotion. Perhaps such relentless activity was keeping the reality of his father's suicide at bay. As if by some unspoken agreement, nobody in the mess ever mentioned it.

Huxley was watching the jolly-boat, the surgeon's white figure clambering up the side of the dhow after two previous attempts.

He said, "They won't accept any help, David. Except maybe with the repairs."

"Why do you say that? They might all have been killed!" He said distantly, "I heard it somewhere."

Napier looked over at the dhow again. Heard it from his father.

"They're coming back."

The jolly-boat had cast off, rising to the swell like a leaf in a mill-race, the white smock still upright, one hand raised in salute or farewell.

Huxley asked, "Have you got a girl, back in England? "He turned to face him with sudden intensity. "I mean, a proper girl, just for you?"

Napier watched the jolly-boat's progress; the surgeon was seated now. But instead, he was seeing her in the stable yard.

Aloof, haughty. Unreachable. But she had kissed him, and not like a young girl.

And the lovely Lowenna, who had lain beside him to drive away the fear and the memories. Our secret. How could he forget?

"I met some one…"

Huxley shook his head. "But not… that way."

A call shrilled; men were moving again, tackle squeaking as the jolly-boat was hoisted inboard.

"Hands aloft! Loose tops'Is!"

"Man the braces! Move yerselvesF They both hurried aft along the gangway, the sea surging alongside. But Huxley's words stayed with him. He had become used to the brutal and often lurid humour of the lower deck. At first he had been shocked by it, as was intended. This was not the same.

What is it like? He saw the captain by the rail, speaking to Maddock the gunner, shaping something with his hands, listening, and then nodding in agreement. He turned to watch the sails as the quartermaster shouted a new compass course, and only for an instant their eyes met. The Captain… Napier had seen him in every sort of mood. Angry, resentful, depressed, or at peace, with that rare, transforming smile.

He was smiling now, but some one else was already calling to him.

Napier thought of him with her. Together.

What is it like? The gunner's mate beckoned with his fist. "First lieutenant says you should arm yourselves, gentlemen! "He showed his missing teeth in a broad grin. "Just in case, eh?"

Napier picked up a well-worn hanger. Not intended for display, or receiving an admiral on board. The curved blade had been crudely sharpened on the ship's grindstone. It was like a razor.

He hurried after his friend.

Once he paused and looked for the drifting dhow. Tomorrow they might still be struggling to complete their repairs. But they would be alive, and free.

He tightened his grip on the hanger, his troubled spirit calmed. Accepting it.

It was too soon to think of tomorrow.

Lieutenant Vincent leaned forward on the thwart and stared beyond the measured rise and fall of oars. Despite the muffled looms and thickly greased rowlocks, each stroke seemed to invite disaster. He knew it was only in his imagination, but the sound seemed louder now, closer to the shore. He could even hear the stroke oarsman's steady breathing, see his eyes as he lay back to take another pull, the blade slicing the water, timing every stroke.

No moon, but the sky was paved with stars, giving enough light to mark the contours of the land, which now seemed much more elevated than it appeared on the chart. So close you could smell it. Feel it.

Beside him at the tiller he could sense the coxswain, watching his crew, not merely dark shapes to him but names and personalities. And now a team.

A long, slow pull; the boat was heavier than usual. Full, even carrying four marines, marksmen. One was up in the bows with the musketoon, which was mounted on its own swivel.

Like an old blunderbuss, loaded with musket balls, it would be their only defense if they were taken by surprise. To reload would be almost impossible in the dark. But at least it would act as a warning to the other cutter following astern. If it's still there. He did not turn on the thwart to look; it would be pointless.

Onward had anchored. It was too shallow to move closer inshore. The ship comes first.

He peered abeam. Uncanny: it seemed so quiet after the tension of casting off from the ship's side. He released his grip on the scabbard pressed against his leg. Strain, unease. This was not the time to display either.

Squire was in charge of the other cutter. A good man, experienced, but still a stranger in so many ways. Maybe because he wanted it so.

Fitzgerald, the coxswain, muttered, "Now, sorr?"

Vincent saw the darker wedge of land moving out and down toward the bow, and thought he could hear the surf above the creak of oars and the rudder's occasional murmur. He lifted his hand. No commands. Fitzgerald had trained his crew well. The blades were still, drops splashing alongside to mark their passage through the dark water.

He exhaled slowly, overwhelmed by a sense of utter loneliness. Onward seemed a thousand miles away. It had all been like part of a dream. The captain speaking to the boat crews, and the other volunteers. And to me.

"I believe this is important. Otherwise…" He had held Vincent's arm and the dark eyes had burned into his face. "I shall be waiting for you. No heroics."

It seemed clearer now, perhaps because of the silence. The stillness. The captain had wanted to be here himself.

How could he leave the ship? He gripped Fitzgerald's arm. Like a piece of timber. In Ireland he had been a bare-knuckle fighter, or so Vincent had heard.

"Listen! The others are still astern!"

Fitzgerald grinned. "Music to my ears! "He crossed himself with his free hand.

Vincent signalled again and the stroke oarsman leaned toward him. Like a curtain shifting slowly to one side, the brilliant stars reflected on smoother water now, with hardly a breath of sultry wind as the boat thrust ahead. He stood up unhurriedly. A sudden move might wreck any chance of surprise, let alone success. But he knew this was vital.

"Be ready, lads. Stand together! "He saw them leaning on the oars, or squeezing between the thwarts to hear him better. They needed more time to recover from the long pull. But there was no time. "No quarter!"

He sat down and undipped his belt. Suppose the schooner had slipped away, even as they were idling with the dhow? How would Bolitho excuse that to the commodore? Or to himself? There was a splash and a piercing shriek, then a violent flurry of wings close, even under the bow itself.

Vincent saw the oars sliding to a halt, men heaving them inboard as if in response to a spoken order.

The anchored schooner lifted out of the darkness as if to run them down.

Habit, drill, disciplineThe tiller was hard over, a grapnel clattered across the schooner's bulwark, while another fell close by in the water.

There were shouts, even as the vessel's bowsprit swept over their heads and both hulls ground together.

Vincent had the hanger in his hand, and could feel some one pushing him from behind as he reached for the schooner's bulwark.

Something screamed and slithered against his legs as a cutlass slashed past him, and there were more shouts, mingled with curses, as they fought and stumbled across the deck. A pistol flashed, and Vincent felt the ball thud into the planking by his feet.

More blades, and figures swarming up through a hatch by the foremast.

The hanger crossed with a heavier sword, sliding hilt to hilt; he was falling back under his attacker's strength and determination. He felt his breath, the beard rasping against his skin, the great blade forcing him back and down. His foot slipped, perhaps on blood, and he knew his life was over. Like a door slamming.

He tried to twist the hanger, but he was falling.

"At ‘em, Onwards! "More shouts, feet thundering as men climbed up from the second cutter and charged across the deck.

Vincent was on his feet again, a sailor offering him his hanger, eyes wild, staring around for another enemy.

Squire picked up the broad-bladed sword and hefted it thoughtfully.

"Hmm. Scimitar. Can take a man's head off. "He leaned toward him. "Near thing. Are you all right now?"

Vincent was still breathing harshly, haunted by the strength behind the heavy blade.

"Thanks to you, James."

Men were shouting, waving cutlasses or boarding axes, a few kneeling by injured companions, and some who might never move again.

Squire glanced up as a hurrying seaman paused to jab his thumb up before running aft where others were guarding prisoners.

"We've taken her. Thank God!"

Vincent repeated, "Thanks to you, James!"

Fitzgerald strode toward them, dragging a bearded prisoner, with a boarding axe poised above his head by way of persuasion.

"Caught this bastard tryin "to ditch a box over the side, sorr!"

He took a deep, rasping breath and shook the axe.

"Sure, an' I wonder if it's what we came lookin "for!"

"You may be right. "He looked down at the dead man by the bulwark. Teeth still bared in a grin of triumph when Squire had cut him down.

He asked, "What's the bill?"

Squire walked to the side to look down into the cutter.

"Two. "One of the seamen signalled to him. "Now it's three.

And a few cuts and bruises. The leech can put those right when we get them back to the ship."

Vincent felt his mind clearing, as if in response to some command.

"We'll cut the cable and warp her into deeper water. Two boats "crews should be able to move her far enough. " He looked at the huddled prisoners. The same men who had fired on unarmed traders and left them to die. "I'm sure we can rely on their help? "He wanted to smile, to break the tension, but his jaw felt locked, and his hand was clenched and trembling with reaction. "If it can't be done, we'll sink the bloody thing where she can do no more harm."

One of the marines was calling to him, "We can mount the old murderer over "ere, sir!"

Some one had lifted the musketoon from the cutter and mounted it on an improvised swivel by the main hatchway.

"That was quick thinking. "He could not remember the marine's name. "Cover the prisoners. And if you have to, use it!"

Squire was already organizing men to pass out a hawser, for towing the vessel once the cable was cut.

One of Onward's seamen was shrouding the three corpses with scraps of canvas. Unhurriedly, as if he were beyond emotion.

Vincent looked toward the dark edge of land and the faint gleam of water marking their escape to the sea. The stars seemed so much paler now, although it had taken no time to board and seize the schooner. Men had died, obeying orders.

No questions asked. The old Jacks always insisted, never volunteer. But they were usually the first to step forward when the call came.

He tried to clear his throat; his mouth was as dry as dust. A seaman padded past, wrist wrapped in a crude bandage. The blood looked back in the feeble starlight.

"We'll get some prize money for this, eh, sir? "He could even chuckle about it.

They would never know how close it had been. If that startled seabird had raised the alarm two minutes sooner, or some lookout had been posted… would not be standing here.

"Boats ready, sir!"

Vincent waved to the man standing by the cable.

"An extra tot if you can do it in three! "He saw him grin and lift his axe.

The boats had cast off, the towing hawser already trailing in the water.

"Give way!"

There was a thud and he heard the man yell, "In one, sir! Does I get a double tot?"

Vincent felt the deck quiver, and heard the splash of oars as the two cutters took the strain.

Once in open water they might find it harder, but at least there was less weight in each boat now.

Some of the men on deck were waving and shouting encouragement, until a voice silenced them with a few well used threats.

The cutters were pulling away on either bow, and he could hear Squire calling across to the other boat, where Fitzgerald would still be standing at the tiller like a rock.

A snail's pace, but at least they were moving…

He felt the seaman beside him almost jumping with relief and excitement.

"We did it, sir! We showed the buggers!"

The big scimitar was still lying where Squire had dropped it.

But for his swift and brave action, there would be nothing.

Vincent would be lying with those three pathetic bundles awaiting burial.

He turned and grasped the seaman's shoulder. It could have been any one of them; it no longer mattered.

He said, "Yes, we did it, and we did it together!"

He stared up at the foremast, sharper now against the paling sky. The fore-and-aft rig would make it simpler to spread some sail when they had enough sea-room.

He had been given a second chance. He would not allow himself to forget.

"Stand by to cast off!"

And he was ready.