In the King`s Name

11 SUNSET

HARRY DRUMMOND CLIMBED through Onward‘s main hatchway and paused to clear his mind. Most of the routine work had been completed during the forenoon watch, and with a heavy meal under his belt a doze in the mess would have been welcome. But as bosun he needed to be seen and heard, as he had learned the hard way.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stifled a yawn. Too much grog. But it was Tilley, the sailmaker’s, birthday-as good an excuse as any.

He glanced up at the shrouds and stays, the neatly furled sails gleaming in the sun, unmoving, like the flags and masthead pendant. As for the ship herself, she could have been aground.

He looked aft, but the quarterdeck appeared to be empty. Not for long. Vincent, temporarily in command, never seemed to rest from his extra duties. Maybe he did not know how. Was he still brooding about how nearly he had been given command? Dead men’s shoes …

Close by at her own anchorage was the new frigate Zealous, her captain’s first command. Young, too, from what Drummond had heard. That would be lying heavily on Vincent’s mind.

He shook himself, tasting the grog again.

He saw a seaman standing by an upturned boat, which had been propped over some old canvas to protect the deck. It was the gig, and Drummond had been thinking about Luke Jago and wondering how he was faring aboard the little schooner as one of the captain’s prize crew. A hard man to know, unless he let the barriers fall. But Drummond had not forgotten that when he had been appointed, replacing the bosun who had been killed, Jago had been the first to befriend him. They never discussed it, but there it was.

He saw the same seaman now cleaning a brush, and found himself smiling. The old Jack’s yardstick: if it moves, salute it! If it doesn’t, paint it!

He heard voices: one of the gun captains giving instructions to some of the new hands, making sweeping gestures and ducking beside an eighteen-pounder. He was probably describing the clash with Nautilus. Hardly a battle. If he had been at Trafalgar… Drummond shaded his eyes and looked over at the flagship. His own ship, Mars, had been in the thick of the action, her decks smeared with blood, the enemy sometimes broadside to broadside. Even their captain had fallen, beheaded by a French ball.

He was suddenly angry, and could not contain it. He shouted, “Winning, are we?” But he was immediately ashamed of himself.

He turned as a shadow fell across the deck. It was Maddock, the gunner, and he was smiling. “We were all like that when we were young. So long ago I can hardly remember!”

Drummond saw the familiar felt slippers tucked in Maddock’s belt. He was on his way to the magazine. Nobody would bother him there. Strangers and visitors to their small mess hardly ever realised Maddock was so hard of hearing. He had even made a short and witty speech today to mark the sailmaker’s birthday, and got through it without interruption.

He said now, “I just met the first lieutenant, Harry. I think he wants to see you when you’re free.”

Drummond laughed, his moment of temper forgotten. “That means now!”

Maddock yawned too; it must be contagious. “He’s in the cabin, getting a bit of peace. While he still can.”

Drummond knew there were only two possible reasons. With Squire, Sinclair of the Royal Marines, and Murray, the surgeon, all away in Delfim, the wardroom would be a place to avoid. Julyan, the master, was ashore dealing with some new navigational aids, and Vicary, the purser, was dull to say the least. That left Lieutenant Monteith. That was reason enough.

A marine strode toward them and clicked his heels together. “Beg pardon, sir, but the first lieutenant …”

Maddock held up his hand and grinned. “You were right, Harry. He meant now!”

LIEUTENANT MARK VINCENT loosened his coat and walked through the great cabin to the stern windows. Even with windsails rigged and most hatches and doors opened, it seemed airless, and the anchorage was still, the reflected glare painfully bright.

There was an occasional sound or sensation around or beneath him, and in his mind’s eye he could place and define it. He knew every part of Onward, possibly better than any one. Except her builder.

Something fell on deck and he heard the Royal Marine sentry outside the screen door move away to investigate, then somebody laughed and was hissed into silence again. He glanced at the neat pile of papers brought for his signature by Prior, the captain’s clerk. Quiet and confident, and, for all Vincent knew, watching him and making comparisons. He sat down abruptly and tried to relax, but he was not tired, which surprised him.

For an entire week the ship had been under his command, and as a result he had shared every watch with Monteith and Julyan, keenly supported by Midshipman Hotham, who had once more been appointed temporary acting lieutenant.

Vincent saw a jug of water on the little desk. The surface was barely moving. Suppose … He shut his mind to it.

Every day had been full: dealing with the ship’s routine and the harbour requirements and formalities, discipline and defaulters, but only a few of the latter. They knew him too well by now. He had even met the new frigate’s captain when he had gone aboard Zealous with some local information, more out of curiosity than anything else. Pleasant enough, and friendly up to a point, but the courtesy of the visit had not been returned. He was young, younger than Vincent, and the significance had been obvious to them both.

He was on his feet again, pacing. The pantry door was shut, but he knew Morgan was not far away. A good man, none better … He put that, too, from his mind. He had selected Hugh Morgan himself for the position of captain’s servant, even before Onward had been fully commissioned. Even then, I was behaving like a captain.

He pushed at the other, narrow door until it was half open. Bolitho’s sleeping cabin was almost box-like. But at least it was his own. He looked at the portrait that always hung there, seen only by Morgan and a few interlopers. Like me. Andromeda, awaiting her own sacrifice to the sea monster. He reached out and lightly touched the canvas, as guilty as a schoolboy. What must she have felt as she had posed for it? What did she think now, with Adam Bolitho away at sea, not knowing …

He was closing the door, flushed and unsettled, as Morgan padded past with an armful of clean shirts.

“He’ll be back soon, sir.” He did not move. “Will you be dining with any guests here tonight, sir?”

There was a tap on the screen door. Morgan tutted. “Never any peace!”

“Officer of the guard, sir!”

Morgan was laying the shirts carefully on the seat of the bergere. Then he looked up, staring at the door. “He’s back!” He hurried to open it, but halted as the air seemed to quiver to a dull boom.

Vincent’s eyes remained on the officer in the doorway, a lieutenant like himself. It was the signal from the headland.

He turned without speaking and looked for the last time at the cabin. Like a dream, it was over.

Midshipman David Napier walked across the quarterdeck, gazing at the anchorage. There were still a few lights showing ashore and on vessels at anchor, but that would soon change. All hands had been called at dawn and the air was still fresh and cool, the decks wet underfoot, washed down by seamen half asleep as hammocks were being stacked in the nettings, still warm from their bodies. The midshipmen’s berth had been like a furnace in the night, despite the open ports and hatches.

Napier saw someone stooping over coiled rope and grinned. It was his friend Tucker, the bosun’s mate.

“This makes a change!”

They both looked toward the as yet invisible headland. Napier said, “Bit of a breeze now. That will help them.”

Every one was thinking the same. How soon? What was the cost? When you fought together as one company, it was different. Fighting guns or the sea itself.

Tucker murmured, “Stand by.”

It was Lieutenant Monteith, peering around at the men working below the braced yards and furled sails, which were already sharpening against a clear sky. He saw Tucker and snapped, “I’ll need you to chase up the jolly-boat’s crew, in case …” He did not finish, but beckoned imperiously to Napier. “And I want a few words with you.” He gestured. “Even the flagship’s not wide awake yet!”

Tucker said, “Can I send the men under punishment to breakfast, sir?”

“Ask the master-at-arms. I can’t deal with everything!”

Napier followed the lieutenant down to the wardroom. It was deserted, the table laid for one person. A messman was collecting the empty dishes.

He stopped as Monteith said, “Another cup, Berry. The last one was stone-cold.”

The man nodded and hurried away.

Monteith sat down and wiped his face with a handkerchief. “You have to watch some people all the time!”

Napier glanced around. Lieutenant Vincent must still be in the great cabin, but did he ever sleep? Even during the night he had heard him about, sometimes just prowling along a gangway or the main deck. He had always liked the first lieutenant. Strict when necessary, but he was fair, and always ready to listen. Unlike some …

Monteith was saying, “As you probably know, I am writing your monthly report. I’m afraid it’s something we all have to go through.” He shifted in the chair and gazed at him. “You must have learned a good deal by now.” He ticked each point off on a finger. “Your previous experience when Audacity was lost in battle, then aboard this ship.” He gave what might have been a smile. “And with me and our landing party. I shall put that in my report, of course.”

Napier felt his leg beginning to throb. Not like those early days. He will always have a limp. But Monteith, although aware of his discomfort, did not ask him to sit down.

Monteith leaned back expansively. “You have a good relationship with the captain, I believe.” He waved any response aside. “It can be a hurdle, of course, but in your case it must offer reassurance, surely.” He turned abruptly toward the door. “What is it now?” then waved at the table. “Hot this time, I trust?”

Berry, the messman, said nothing. He had heard it all before.

Monteith sipped the coffee and collected himself. “I expect you told Captain Bolitho of our experiences at the mission, eh? A close thing. I expect he was worried about you. But as you were with me-” He broke off. “What the hell is it now?”

Berry might have shrugged. “Somebody left a message for you, sir.” He pulled an envelope from his apron.

“And you didn’t see who it was?”

“Must’ve been while I was fetching your breakfast, sir.”

Monteith snatched the envelope from him. “I shall speak to the first lieutenant about this!”

A fine shaft of sunlight had driven the last shadows from the wardroom, and Napier could see the envelope trembling in Monteith’s fingers, with his name and rank printed in bold letters across it.

“Shall I carry on, sir?”

Monteith glared at him. “I haven’t finished yet!” He tore open the envelope. “If this is some sort of joke-”

He shook it angrily over the table, and for a few seconds nothing happened. There was no letter or note enclosed.

As if from another world they heard the shrill of calls, and the cry, “Clear lower deck! All hands muster by divisions!”

The waiting was over.

Napier held his breath, and watched something drift slowly from the torn envelope until it landed on the table.

It was a white feather.

Midshipman Charles Hotham was about to raise his telescope again, but changed his mind as he heard Lieutenant Monteith come to stand beside him on the quarterdeck. A moment earlier, with all hands hurrying to their various stations, he might not have noticed, but he could hear the sharp, uneven breathing as if Monteith had been running, or was agitated about something. He knew Monteith had been in the wardroom, which was no distance away, where Hotham assumed he had been complaining to David Napier about something. Monteith made a point of it. If and when the time came for Hotham to leave Onward for his own promotion, he would miss Monteith least of all.

And would that day soon come? He tried not to hope too much. Being made acting lieutenant, even if temporarily, must count for something. He smiled. Especially as he had to suffer for it from the other young members of his mess.

He heard the murmur of voices from the assembled figures on the main deck. Excitement, anxiety, or both.

Monteith said, “Silence on deck,” but without his usual irritation. Hotham glanced at him curiously, and saw that he was looking at the shore, or perhaps in the direction of the flagship, and that a crumpled handkerchief was dangling loosely from a pocket, although Monteith prided himself on his appearance and was always quick to point out any failure to “measure up,” as he put it, among the midshipmen.

He saw the Royal Marines paraded in a small section by the starboard gangway, Sergeant Fairfax, stiff-backed, in command. They would be at full strength again when the prize crew returned. Unless. Hotham tried to close his mind to the possibility. Like the ill-fated mission, when his own sighting of that crude distress signal had begun a chain of events none of them could have anticipated. And some had died because of it, and because of him.

He adjusted his telescope hurriedly, although there was no need. He saw Vincent now, standing by the quarterdeck rail, hands clasped behind his back. Julyan, the sailing master, stood nearby, but alone.

Hotham breathed out slowly and raised his telescope. A big East Indiaman had anchored two days ago to land a mixed cargo, but was said to be leaving today. He felt himself tense as he saw the sleek bows of the brigantine listed as Peterel begin to pass her. Still not much wind, but enough to fill her sails, which were very clean and bright in the morning sunlight.

By moving the glass he could just see the topmasts of the schooner about which they had been told earlier, anchored where she would not impede incoming vessels or those wishing to leave, like John Company’s big ship. And to put her under closer guard.

Hotham looked toward the flagship, unwilling to take his eyes from the new arrivals even for a few moments. Medusa had hoisted an “affirmative” to a brief signal from the brigantine, which was hidden by the set of her canvas.

He tried to ease his grip on the telescope. There was the renegade schooner, no more than a cable astern of the small man-of-war. He watched the hull and rigging leap into life, holding his breath as the deck moved slightly beneath his feet. Waiting for the image to settle. Faces: people he knew. He could hear their voices in his mind. Hastily sewn patches on some of the sails, scars on the hull, splinters untended and out of reach. And above it all, a large White Ensign.

He lowered the telescope. It had misted over, to his annoyance: the sun, or his eagerness to see every detail. Then he saw Adam Bolitho standing beside the wheel, another officer, who could only be Squire, close by.

Hotham jammed the telescope under his arm and wiped his eyes with the back of a sunburned hand. It was not mist on the lens.

He heard someone call, “Give ‘em a cheer, lads!” It was probably Tobias Julyan, shouting from the heart.

Then another voice, sharper: Vincent, the first lieutenant. “Belay that! Stand fast and uncover!”

Hotham reached for his own hat, but he had just removed it to wave with every one else when he saw that the clean White Ensign aboard the schooner had been lowered to half-mast. Then he could see more clearly, every sense sharpened. There was another ensign spread on the schooner’s deck, not large enough to hide the bodies of men who would never see another dawn.

The heavy silence was shattered as Sergeant Fairfax broke ranks and marched to the side, where he halted and threw up a smart salute. There were no words, but he was speaking for all of them.

Luke Jago felt himself tense as the first heaving-line lifted from Delfim’s low forecastle, but fell short, splashing into the water. Too soon, too eager. The same jetty they had left only a week or so ago seemed crammed with people, black and white, while others had climbed on the roofs of nearby buildings, some waving, others watching in total silence.

A second seaman was standing by with a line coiled and ready, then Jago saw a uniformed figure reach out and take it from him. It was Squire. His eyes met Jago’s, and there was a brief smile. Squire had not forgotten. Nor would he.

The line snaked over and was seized by many willing hands, taking the strain of the main cable, still only a reflection.

They had anchored overnight, but they had been kept busy, with boats arriving from shore and more marines sent to take custody of the Delfim’s crew and tend to the immediate needs of the freed slaves. Their own prize crew had been reunited with their mates. He did not look at the dead men partly covered by the ensign.

Jago could not remember when he had last been able to rest, let alone sleep. He had always prided himself that he could do either standing on his feet. But after this …

This morning’s move to enter harbour had kept all of them hopping. Past a big Indiaman, her company preparing for sea but still waving as the smart little Peterel had cleared the way, then coming abeam of the flagship, her decks lined, officers saluting, sailors and Royal Marines at attention, and from somewhere, the local garrison probably, a trumpet sounding, paying its respects.

Other, more painful moments remained uppermost in his mind. When the fighting had ended he had seen the gunner’s mate looking across the deck, his eyes finding his friend, the master’s mate. His face had said it all. And a tough seaman, one of Onward‘s topmen, kneeling beside a mate who was now a corpse lying under the ensign.

It was done. Until the next time.

“Try and keep still, will you?”

Jago saw the surgeon crouching by a man who had been injured by a wood splinter, who was now trying to rise and join the others standing by for going alongside. The sawbones had been kept busier than most of them, he thought, and had not escaped wounding himself. One wrist was bandaged, and Murray looked unusually dishevelled and impatient as he was attempting to examine his patient.

Jago watched the strip of water narrowing as more muscle was lent to the mooring ropes, and the furled canvas cast shadows across the upturned faces. He recalled the moment when he had steered his gig toward their first encounter with Delfim, and the impact of the girl showing her scars to the Portuguese master and identifying him as her assailant. Had she seen them enter harbour this time, he wondered?

He turned abruptly, not troubling to shade his eyes from the glare, and saw Onward. Her decks were full, but those waiting were silent. Thankful to see them back again, trying not to show it. A sailor’s pretense.

He heard a telescope snap shut and someone mutter, “I can see Mister bloody Monteith as large as life! Bin makin’ Jack’s life a misery while he was playin’ top dog!”

Another voice: “Don’t know’ is arse from’ is elbow!”

Not loud, but enough for Jago to hear it.

Maybe Monteith had always been like that. Jago had known other “young gentlemen” who had shown their true colours after taking the first, vital step from white tabs to wardroom. He thought of Midshipman Hotham, acting lieutenant during this brief and bitter operation. Clergyman’s son or not, how would he perform when the time came?

He heard Tozer, the master’s mate, call out something and saw him standing with Bolitho and gesturing toward the jetty. There was more activity, men clearing a space for any one who had been hurt. And for the dead.

He recalled Bolitho’s face when he had told them he was taking the dead men back to Freetown for burial. Foreign soil, no matter what the charts might call it. But Jago knew the real reason. They had given their best and paid for it, and they would not be left to share the same ground as scum like slavers.

There was other movement now, seamen and marines forcing a passage through the line-handling party and onlookers, presumably for somebody important. He felt the instinctive resentment soften slightly as he recognized the upright figure of James Tyacke, the flag captain. A good one, to all accounts. For an officer.

Jago realised that Bolitho was looking directly at him. Like those other times, good and bad, moments of pride and fear, fury and compassion. And he felt his hand lift in their private salute.

He watched the flag captain pulling himself aboard, and waving aside all attempts at formality. Much as old John Allday had described him. As if he sensed Jago’s scrutiny, Tyacke paused and looked across at him, the terrible disfigurement pitilessly revealed by the reflected glare. There might have been only the two of them.

“Kept your eye on him for me, did you, Jago? Knew I could rely on you!” Then Tyacke strode across the remaining few yards and grasped Bolitho’s hands in both his own.

Christie, the gunner’s mate, nudged Jago in the ribs. “I’ll stand right next to you, Lukey, when I’m lookin’ for promotion!”

Jago felt the deck shudder as Delfim nudged alongside and her moorings were secured, and as if to some signal, hesitant at first, a burst of cheering spread across the whole anchorage. He was thankful for the noise: Tyacke’s obvious sincerity had left him at a loss for words.

He heard the squeak of halliards, and knew the ensign had been rehoisted to its peak. They were back. It was the way of sailors. And he heard Squire calling for him.Until the next time.

Adam Bolitho stood alone by the Delfim’s taffrail and gazed along the deserted deck. He could still feel the warmth and intensity of Tyacke’s greeting, and it had moved him deeply.

He knew that Squire was waiting for him to leave with the last of the prize crew, but the schooner already felt empty. Dead. She would remain under guard to await auction or the breaker’s yard, with those others he had seen across the anchorage. Even the jetty was empty. He had waited until the dead seamen and marines had been carried ashore; somebody had even folded the spare ensign and left it beneath the mizzen, a reminder, if one was needed.

Tyacke probably knew him better than many, and had kept his questions to a minimum, letting him do the talking, phase by phase. They had seen Pecco, Delfim’s master, taken ashore under guard, to be detained separately from the other prisoners. Adam had described their difficult approach to the rendezvous with the slaver, and how Pecco could have betrayed them at any moment.

Tyacke had said only, “I’m not sure how his loyalty will be valued by higher authority, Adam.”

“I gave him my word.”

Adam came out of his thoughts as he heard Squire’s heavy tread across the splintered decking.

“The boats are here to take us across to …” he seemed to hesitate, “Onward.” It was rare for Squire to show emotion.

“I was glad to have you with me, James. I’ve said as much in my report.”

Squire walked beside him past the abandoned wheel, and said quietly, “Surely you’re not expected to visit the flagship, when you’ve only just-” He broke off as Adam grasped his sleeve.

“Not until tomorrow forenoon, James! The admiral is being most considerate!”

Squire stopped near the capstan and looked up at the ensign, which seemed particularly vivid against the clear sky. “Shall I haul down the Colours, sir?”

For a moment he thought his question had gone unheard, or that Bolitho was still preoccupied with something else. But when he turned and faced him, Adam’s dark eyes were unwavering in the hot sunlight.

“At sunset, when the flags of all our ships are lowered.” He stared across the water, Squire thought toward his own command. “Then it will be up to us.”

As they made toward the waiting boats, Squire was still sharing the moment. It was not a threat. It was a promise.

Adam waited for the screen door to close behind him and the sentry to resume his place outside before walking aft to the stern windows. An hour or more had passed since he had climbed aboard, and his mind was still dazed by the reception. Calls shrilling, faces eager or apprehensive, impetuous handshakes, all order and discipline momentarily forgotten. But now he was feeling the aftermath, and for the first time he was alone.

Even the cabin seemed different, unfamiliar, but that was all part of it. It was in fact exactly as he had left it, and had seen it in his mind in those rare moments of peace. The strangeness was within himself.

He stood for a moment beneath the skylight and felt the warm air on his face. There was an unmoving shadow across it-another sentry overhead to ensure that the captain was not disturbed.

He leaned on the bench and stared through the glass. The jetty and the schooner were hidden from here. He should be glad. He stretched his arms until his hands jarred against a deckhead beam. When had he last slept? He stared at the coat flung carelessly across a chair; he could not remember having dragged it off. Had Morgan been here, he would have folded it with care. He felt his mouth crack into a smile. Morgan was here, doubtless sealed in his pantry and listening for every sound.

Adam looked at the old bergere, in shadow now. If he sat down now, it would finish him. He moved restlessly to the desk and pulled out its smaller, less comfortable chair, feeling his chin scrape against his neckcloth. But the effort of enduring a shave, even under Jago’s skilled hand, was too much for him. And God knew Luke Jago needed rest more than most. He was probably on his back right now, the strain and sudden death safely stowed away under the hatches of his mind, and likely with a few wets to help. And Squire too, with the prize crew. But with Sinclair gone, it would be different in the wardroom.

He gripped the edge of the desk, staring with burning eyes at the opened letter. Her letter: Tyacke had handed it to him when they had met, instead of leaving it for the mail boat to deliver later. Or maybe he had come simply to reassure himself that Onward‘s captain was not one of those lying covered by the ensign.

And tomorrow they would be buried. Someone would remember them.

Adam spread the letter on the desk but could not focus on the words. He had already read it in minutes snatched between one duty and another, all the demands which had awaited him on board; he had even found time to call young David and tell him Elizabeth had asked to be remembered to him. Just a brief contact, captain with midshipman.

He felt the hot air stir against his skin, and heard the quiet Welsh voice. “Shall I fetch another brandy, sir?” Adam saw Morgan’s eyes flicker to the discarded coat, probably noting his unshaven face as well.

“Another?” he said.

Morgan smiled gently. “With all respect, sir, I think you should try to sleep a while.”

“Not yet! I must wait until sunset!” Then, “You didn’t ask for that, Hugh. Forgive me.” He smiled. “So I will have some more brandy, and thank you.”

The door closed, and he tried to focus on the writing, hearing her voice in the words. My own darling Adam. I am lying with you now-just reach out for me…

Later, when Hugh Morgan returned to the great cabin under protest, to report that Sunset had been piped, he found his captain asleep across the desk, the brandy untouched. He thought of the lovely girl in the painting in the adjoining cabin. “Flaunting herself,” as his old mother in Wales would have called it.

And aloud, he said quietly, “Not for a while yet, Captain. We need you right now!“