In the King`s Name

14 SURVIVAL

THE TWO CAPTAINS STOOD side by side at the chart table while the ship seemed to quieten around them. It was the forenoon watch, their first at sea.

At moments like this Adam felt as though his senses were still on deck, or in some obscure part of Onward‘s hull where someone or something was related to certain sounds or movements. The morning watchkeepers groping their way below for a hurried meal and stowing their hammocks in the nettings, probably not long before all hands were piped to make or reef more sail. The wind had remained steady and fairly strong, and men working aloft had to be doubly careful. But spirits were high, with the ship alive and responding well to her helm.

He felt the table press into his hip, then withdraw, as if Onward were holding her breath before the next plunge. He was conscious of Tyacke’s silent concentration, broken only when he scribbled a note on the pad at his elbow, or used a glass to magnifiy tiny print or some diagram Julyan had already provided.

Tyacke said as if thinking aloud, “It’s just as well that you’ve visited New Haven before,” and smiled without looking up. “So have I. Unofficially.”

Adam heard Squire’s strong voice from the quarterdeck: officer of the watch, doing what he enjoyed most, holding the ship in his hands. For him, it had been a long journey. Vincent would be snatching some breakfast before taking over matters of discipline and routine.

Tyacke was saying, “The admiral wanted Ballantyne to maintain complete records of every vessel, cargo, and owner using the harbour and approaches.” He smiled sarcastically. “To save us money.”

Adam shook his head. “One day, maybe, if New Haven ever becomes another Freetown.”

Tyacke said shortly, “Not in our lifetime!”

Julyan interjected, “Will you excuse me, sir? I believe I need my other log,” and slipped out, closing the door behind him.

Tyacke seemed to relax visibly. “Now we can talk.”

They both knew Julyan had left deliberately.

Tyacke tapped the chart. “There’s too much money invested in slavery to expect a few laws and some keen patrols to put a stop to it. I’ve tried to explain this to our admiral. He won’t listen, of course. All he can see is the next step up his personal ladder-and soon, he thinks.” He stared around the small chartroom as if he felt trapped by it. “It’s all I’ve heard since he hoisted his flag over Medusa. I hope they appreciate it at the bloody Admiralty, or wherever they decide these things!”

He touched Julyan’s old octant, which the master liked to keep on display. “To hell with it. I shouldn’t let it scupper me like this-in front of you, of all people.”

Adam touched his arm. “I’ll not forget,” and smiled. “Did you manage to get any sleep?”

Surprisingly, the scarred face lightened into a broad grin. “A damn sight better than you, I’ll wager. That chair was empty every time I woke up!” Then he glanced toward the door. “He’s coming back. Thinks he’s given us long enough to trade secrets.”

When Julyan entered with a new chart folded beneath his arm, he found both of them joking and very much at ease. As he had intended. One captain was enough.

Lieutenant Mark Vincent sat at one end of the table and flattened out the list reminding him of several outstanding tasks. Not that there were many: he tried to be certain of that wherever possible. He had been on deck in charge of the morning watch, and was still feeling the strain of a first night at sea after a long spell at anchor. Men working in the darkness, falling over their own feet, waiting for the dawn.

He pushed a plate aside, but could hardly remember what the messman had offered him. The wardroom was empty, which was the way he liked it while he was sorting out his tasks and duties. At sea again, but for how long? Onward had left England on a mission, and that was completed. So why the delay? Chasing slavers was not work for a fine frigate like this one.

He tried to smother another yawn. The captain wanted the gun crews to exercise action today, either to reassure or impress their senior passenger. And the purser had asked for some stores to be shifted again. The man always seemed to have something stowed in the wrong place, and never made the discovery until after they had weighed anchor.

Vincent thought of the frigate Zealous, which they had left riding untroubled at her anchor. Her captain was apparently too new and inexperienced to be entrusted with a passenger like Tyacke, but how else would he gain the necessary confidence? He knew he was being intolerant, unfair to a complete stranger, but after this, what would follow for him?

He swung round in the chair and saw Monteith hovering by the door.

“I was told that you wanted to see me.” Monteith’s eyes flickered toward the other door, which was swinging half open.

Vincent said curtly, “There’s nobody in there,” and looked at his watch, which was lying on the table beside his list. “You’re with a working party up forrard, aren’t you?”

Monteith had his head on one side, an irritating habit Vincent always tried to ignore. “I left them with full instructions. It’s not the first time I’ve told them what I expect when I’m needed elsewhere.”

Vincent leaned back in his chair and attempted to appear in command. He should be used to Monteith by now, and immune to him. They shared the daily routine, in harbour and in action, and they shared the only escape: this wardroom.

He said, “I know you better than most of the hands you deal with. Harsh, perhaps unfair treatment of men in front of their messmates can easily rebound on the one in authority, and at the wrong time. I don’t want to make an issue of it.”

Monteith seemed to draw himself up with a cocky indignation. “Has the captain said as much? If so, I’d like-”

Vincent slapped the table. “Between us! But the captain isn’t deaf, or blind, so get a grip on your temper when you’re handling the people!”

Monteith retorted, “I hope I know my duty, Mister Vincent!”

The door clicked open, and one of the messmen entered with a bucket. Vincent stood abruptly, and snapped, “And so do I, Mr. Monteith!”

He realised too late that he was standing with his fist raised, his limbs adjusting independently to the motion of the hull, but it was a moment he would always remember, like those other times: Monteith, mouth half open for another outburst, the messman still holding the bucket, his eyes fixed on the two lieutenants.

Wind and sea, sails and rigging. The sound might have gone unheard.

“Gunfire!” he said.

Perhaps he was mistaken. Then he thought he heard someone shout, a young voice, a midshipman’s, but it reminded him of his early days at sea, and the Battle of Lissa. The last major sea-fight of the war. Vincent had never forgotten it, or his captain, William Hoste, who, at the age of twelve, had served under Nelson in his famous Agamemnon. Hoste had once complimented Vincent on his “attention to detail.”

He snatched up his little list and said, “I’ll see you on deck!”

On the upper deck the hot wind was almost refreshing after the sealed wardroom. The watchkeepers were at their stations, and working parties, including Monteith’s, were going about their various tasks without any visible excitement. Vincent quickened his pace, rebuttoning his coat when he saw Bolitho and the flag captain together near the wheel. Squire was close by, gesturing up at the masthead.

The two captains turned as Vincent joined the group by the wheel, and Tyacke said, “You heard it too, eh?” He stared aloft. “Good lookouts, but nothing reported.”

Drummond, the bosun, said quickly, “I’ve put young Tucker at the fore,” and to Tyacke, “One of my mates, sir. Used to be our best topman. Not much escapes his eye.”

Adam moved away a few paces. “I’m sorry you were disturbed, Mark.” He looked along the deck to where Monteith had just reappeared, and was standing with his back to them. A heavier hand might still be required there, but it would not be Vincent’s decision.

Tyacke said, “I know of two other patrol vessels on this stretch. Endeavour and Challenger, both brigantines.”

Vincent said automatically, “Commander Mason, Challenger. A good man, by all accounts.”

Tyacke nodded. “It’s only a matter of time.”

He did not explain, and Adam had seen how hard it was for him to remain detached from any plan that might have been decided.

Adam unslung his telescope and walked to the side. Despite the steady wind and occasional bursts of spray over the deck, his shoes were sticking to the seams in the heat. He levelled the glass and focused it, but it was the same unending coastline, monotonous, like a solid bank of motionless cloud. The edge of Julyan’s “invisible valley.” He licked his lips: they tasted like dried leather.

“Excuse me, sir.” It was Maddock, the gunner, shading his eyes with his hat to peer up at Squire. “We was supposed to exercise the gun crews this forenoon.”

Vincent interrupted, “I’ll have it piped when …”

He got no further. There were more shots, hurried and in rapid succession. Adam tried to see it in his mind. A brigantine, but no return fire, and the echoes were lost almost immediately in the slap and boom of canvas and the thud of Onward‘s rudder. “Shaking the trunk,” old sailors called it.

Drummond called, “Nothing in sight, sir!”

With the others, Tyacke was staring up at the maintop, and then toward the land. “Everybody’s staying well clear today … Better maintain our course until-”

He turned to look at Adam and saw the flash reflected in his eyes. Several seconds seemed to pass before they heard the explosion, like a clap of thunder. Then nothing, not even an echo.

Adam said, “Midshipman Hotham will go aloft and speak with the lookouts.” He saw Napier watching. “You, too,” and their eyes met. “Easy does it.”

Tyacke moved to the compass box and glanced up at the masthead pendant. “I suggest you carry on with your gunnery exercise.” He walked to the side. “If it’s proof we need, we’ll have it soon enough.”

David Napier climbed into the shrouds and steadied his feet on the ratlines to get his balance. The tar on the rough cordage, heated by the sun, felt as if it were still fresh. He began to climb, but not before he had seen more figures crowding on deck, some peering at the land, or the empty horizon to starboard. He had also seen his friend Simon Huxley beside the quartermaster on the quarterdeck, ready to pass any new orders along the gangway: a “walking speaking-trumpet,” a role all the midshipmen hated.

A ship had been blown up, how or why they must discover.

I am not afraid. The thought reassured him, like a hand on the shoulder.

Squire stood watching the two climbing midshipmen until they were hidden by the curve of the main topsail and those few seamen still working aloft. The wind had remained steady, and the motion seemed easier after the last alteration of course: they were now steering due south.

He walked to the quarterdeck rail and stared along the ship’s length, from the visible cathead where he had seen the anchor made fast, to the place where he now stood on watch and in command, unless anything else happened.

The captain had gone below to the chartroom with his senior officer, leaving Squire with just a nod: the words, “Call me,” had not needed to be spoken. Unlike some captains he had known, he thought.

He looked toward the land. Hard to believe anything had happened to rouse Onward to this state of tension and readiness. A few shots and then the flash, the explosion. It might have been something ashore, but his ears were trained to such things. But where? How?

He saw Vincent by the fore hatch, some seamen gathered nearby, gun captains and quarter gunners, who were each responsible for the responses and efficiency of four of the eighteen-pounders: Onward‘s teeth. Any moment now and they would exercise action. And this time it would have a stronger significance for all concerned.

Monteith was walking aft, apparently deep in thought. He had been below with Vincent when the first shots had been heard. Squire did not know the reason, but could guess. He closed his mind to it. Despite his age and seniority, he still felt like a stranger in the wardroom.

He walked to the side and gazed at the sea creaming away from the quarter. Except at times like this, when the ship was his.

He blinked as a bird seemed to drop from nowhere, hit the water and rise immediately, a catch in its beak like a sliver of silver.

“He’ll be eating that ashore while we’re still pounding along out here!”

Murray was so light on his feet Squire had not heard him crossing the deck. The surgeon was in uniform, but carrying one of his familiar smocks over his arm.

Squire said dryly, “Always prepared, aren’t you?”

The hawk-like profile was surveying the deck. “They say sound moves faster over water than land.” He faced Squire. “I’ve been wanting to talk with you, James. But I was ashore most of the time before we sailed.” He paused. “And I gave my word, you see.”

“You saw Claire. I had a feeling about it. Ever since …” He waited until a seaman coiling a halliard over his arm passed, without appearing to see them. “I’ve been thinking about her. Quite a lot.”

Murray repeated, “I gave my word.” He crossed himself with his free hand and gave a thin smile. “Until we sailed, at least. She didn’t want you to concern yourself.” Then, with a touch of impatience, “It’s for your own good, man. She’s still reliving her experiences. That’s only too common, in my experience, although in my profession we tend to underestimate the damage to the mind.” He fell silent as a bosun’s mate walked toward the fore hatch, moistening his silver call with his tongue. Then he said, “Am I wrong about this, Jamie?”

Squire said, staring at the sea, “I have nothing to offer her,” then looked steadily at Murray. “But I’ve never felt like this about any woman.” He shrugged, trying to dismiss it. “I’ll probably never see her again, anyway.”

Murray gripped his wrist with surprising strength. “I hope you do. For both your sakes.”

Whatever else he might have said was interrupted by the shrill of the call: “All hands! All hands to exercise action!”

Murray turned to leave the quarterdeck, the white smock streaming from his arm. But he paused long enough to watch the gun crews running to their stations, each man no doubt thinking that the next time would be in deadly earnest.

He had seen too much of it, and there was always the bloody aftermath. He looked aft again but Squire was by the compass box, calling to the two helmsmen. Where he belonged, Murray thought.

Above all of them, David Napier climbed into the foretop and paused to regain his breath. He had already visited the maintop, and had left Midshipman Hotham with another lookout.

Tucker greeted him with a grin and a thumbs-up. “Too much good food, David,” and Napier loosened his shirt.

“Not as young as I was, David!”

They both laughed.

Napier looked across the larboard bow, balanced and shading his eyes against the fierce glare. It was an exciting sensation, this towering structure of masts, spars and canvas all quivering with power. He could recall when he had been too scared to release his grip, let alone dare to look down at the ship beneath him.

He asked, “Are you settled now?”

Tucker shrugged. “Now an’ then I find meself looking up at the t’gallant yards, an’ further!”

Napier felt the barricade press into his hip as the mast leaned over again, thinking of Hotham, who had already been appointed acting lieutenant more than once. He would be the next to confront the Inquisition. And at some time in the future, with luck, it would be his own turn. Once it had seemed impossible: he had not even dared to imagine it. He felt himself smile. Back in those days when Bolitho’s cousin Elizabeth had called him his captain’s servant.

He realised that Tucker had said something and must have repeated it: he was suddenly tense.

“Could I use your glass?” Tucker pushed some hair from his eyes, and seemed oblivious to the deck and the sea far beneath him.

Napier watched his profile as he adjusted the telescope with strong fingers, pausing only to murmur, “Not a patch on Sir Richard’s old glass, eh, Dave?” But he was not smiling.

Tucker handed the telescope back to Napier. “I wasn’t sure. It’s still too far.”

Napier steadied the glass and knew Tucker was waiting for his reaction. He could see nothing but the glare like metal on the water, and the constant change of colour and movement, the swell steep and angry in the steady wind. There was nothing solid, nothing you could describe or recognise. Only flotsam, fragments driven by wind and tide; it might have covered several miles.

But it had once been a living vessel.

“I’ll tell him!” He was halfway into the lubber’s hole when Tucker called out, “Slow down! We don’t want to lose you!”

Napier hesitated, one foot dangling in the air. “I want the captain to know you saw it first!”

He knew Tucker was still gazing after him as his feet found the first ratline.

He was not even breathless when he completed his descent and scrambled onto the starboard gangway. The picture in his mind was as vivid as the moment he had seen it.

The gun drill had stopped or been curtailed, but most of the crew were still at their stations. Those on the starboard side looked up as his shadow passed, and their upturned faces were full of questions. Napier knew the first lieutenant was there, but avoided him and kept his eyes on the quarterdeck at the end of the gangway, his pace steady and unhurried. Something he had learned from experience.

They were all there, as if they had not moved in all the time he had been crouched high above them. The captain came to meet him, the others remaining grouped near the compass and wheel.

“D’ you need time for a second wind, David?” He said it kindly, turning him a little away from the others. Napier felt a shiver run through his body, although the sun was hot across his shoulders.

He said, “Wreckage, sir,” and gestured ahead, and saw some seamen turn to scan the empty horizon. “On either bow, sir. Pieces. No part of ship we could recognise.” He faltered, realising that another shadow had joined theirs. It was the flag captain.

He swallowed hard but straightened his back in response as Tyacke smiled and said, “Don’t stop, Mr. Napier. I’ve heard every word so far,” and averted his face slightly, as if he knew that the scars were disturbing Napier.

The boy gulped and pressed on. “The lookout, David Tucker, saw it first, sir. Even without a glass. He knew.”

Tyacke said, “A good man, I hear.”

Napier saw Drummond, the bosun, who was standing with the others, give him a quick nod. I told you so.

Napier went on, “A small vessel, sir,” and fell silent as Tyacke turned back, and seemed to measure his response.

“Perhaps. We must do more than hope.” He gazed at the sea, indifferent to the metallic glare. “The wreckage lies across our course.” He looked up at the masthead pendant. “An hour? Two at the most?”

Adam nodded, aware that Vincent had come aft to join them. Even men off watch or excused from deck duty seemed to have gathered, and the cook with one of his assistants was peering out from the galley hatch, probably wondering if it would interrupt his schedule. Lieutenant Devereux was in animated conversation with Sergeant Fairfax, breaking down the inevitable barrier of his predecessor’s death. He could sense Tyacke’s mind working, his patience perhaps running out.

Adam said, “We shall shorten sail but hold this course, until we can discover more evidence.”

It was enough for the moment. They all had plenty to think about. He looked down over the quarterdeck and saw Jago leaning against the boat tier. “We’ll need a boat if we find anything.” Almost as if Jago had put the thought into his mind.

He turned back as Vincent said, “I should like to take the boat, sir.”

“I shall remember that when the time comes, Mark.” He glanced up at the taut canvas. “But shorten sail when you’ve mustered the hands.”

Vincent half smiled. “Aye, aye, sir!”

Adam saw Midshipman Huxley leading Napier to the companion; Tyacke must have already slipped away unseen to the great cabin. They had not spoken of it, but Tyacke must be wondering what the admiral would have in store for him when they eventually returned to Freetown. And after that?

It was as if the whole ship had been waiting for the word. Drummond did not need to use his call.

“Hands aloft! Move yourselves, there!”

Squire stood beside the wheel and listened to the squeal of tackles as the gig was lowered from the quarter davits. It was never an easy task with the ship at sea, after first manhandling it from the tier below the quarterdeck, and he could hear one of the helmsmen’s heavy breathing as he fought to hold the helm steady and the compass under control. Under reefed topsails and jib Onward was a different creature, her performance sluggish, at the mercy of the wind instead of commanding it. Jago looked up, waiting, as Vincent judged the right moment before clambering down to join him.

Someone called, “Hope they got strong arms, Luke! It’ll be a hard pull!”

Julyan was standing by, and Squire heard him mutter, “Hope they have strong stomachs, more likely.”

Squire stared from bow to bow, feeling the deck shudder to the surge and plunge of the rudder. The gig was moving away, clear of the quarter, oars already lowered and motionless like wings. It was not a light boat but it seemed to move like a leaf on a mill-race, and yet Jago remained on his feet, his hand on the tiller. Vincent was squatting in the sternsheets, hatless, and shielding his eyes from the spray now being thrown up by the blades.

A few strokes while the gig pulled clear, and there were already fragments of wood, badly charred, being carried between them. Further away there were larger pieces which must have been blown from the hull by the explosion. A hatch cover, a few broken gratings, and farther still, a piece of spar. A small vessel then, maybe a cutter or schooner.

He tensed as something gleamed through the swell and vanished. A shark. Vincent might have seen it. He would not need reminding of the last time, when he had boarded the sinking, abandoned Moonstone. Jago had been with him then, and Napier also. Like a pattern for the events that followed.

He heard the captain’s voice, clear and unhurried. “Tell Mr. Monteith to put more men larboard side forrard!” A pause. “You do it, Sinden.”

Someone shouted from the gangway nearby. Squire knew it was Midshipman Walker, their youngest, and no stranger to action or to danger. But his cry was like that of a girl.

Men were already running to the side, one carrying a grapnel and line. It was a corpse, but someone must have secured him alive to the hatch cover after the explosion, where the shark had reached him. A terrible death.

Squire heard the captain cross to the opposite side of the quarterdeck and thought he heard Julyan’s voice. Perhaps asking a question.

And the reply. “No, we’ll alter course when I’m satisfied. Not before.”

It seemed an eternity, the sea was almost empty again. It was only one man’s decision. Suppose it was mine? He thought of Vincent, the expression on his face when he had volunteered for the boat party. He would never admit defeat …

He turned as a shout rang through the chorus of sounds from loose canvas and shrouds.

“Deck there!” It was Midshipman Hotham, still in the maintop with his big signals telescope.

The sun had shifted, or was hidden by a partly reefed sail. Adam stared up at the arm pointing from the top and trained his own glass on the same bearing. A mistake, perhaps? Or Vincent signalling to admit failure and request support for his exhausted oarsmen?

Adam tried again, waiting for the gig to reappear. The swell was deep enough to hide it completely. He held his breath and watched the one upright figure.

Then he lowered the telescope and said quietly, “They’ve found somebody. Alive.”

“Give way, together!” Jago lurched against the tiller bar, keeping his balance as the oars brought the gig under control. It took all their skill and strength to do it, with the sea rising and sliding away on either beam as if to swallow them.

The gig carried two extra men, standing in the bows with boathooks to fend off any floating debris that might impede the stroke or damage the hull. They had both struggled aft to help haul the survivor inboard, and now he was lying in the sternsheets, his shoulders propped against Vincent; the first lieutenant’s breeches were soaked with blood. He was gulping air unsteadily, sometimes rasping and shuddering as if losing the fight.

The stroke oarsman gasped, “Don’t give up, matey!” and Jago glared at him.

“Save yer breath, or you’ll be the next!” Jago stared at the man they had found clinging face down to a piece of framework, the sort used to separate cargo in a small vessel’s hold. It had been intact, not even scorched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mutiny!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag captain would never forget.