In the King`s Name

15 SEEK AND DESTROY

ADAM BOLITHO PAUSED near the top of the companion ladder to prepare himself. He felt the air on his face, cool and refreshing, stirring the folds of his clean shirt. The coolness would be brief. The morning watch was only an hour old, the ship almost quiet except for sounds which, like his own breathing, were too familiar to notice.

It had been a moonless night, so that the stars had seemed exceptionally bright, paving the sky from horizon to horizon. He thought he had slept reasonably well in the bergere with his feet propped on a stool which Morgan must have put there, but he had heard Tyacke cry out during the night. Somebody’s name: a woman’s. But the sleeping cabin door had remained closed, and he had heard nothing more.

He braced his shoulders and mounted the last of the steps. It was always like this at the end of a passage. You could feel the nearness of land, even imagine you could smell it. And there was always the doubt. The uncertainty. He touched his chin and smiled ruefully. He had shaved himself, not as well as Jago would have, but if anybody needed rest now it was his coxswain.

Figures were already turning toward him as he stepped on to the quarterdeck. His white shirt would have been like a beacon in the dimness before dawn, and he had always hated stealth, unlike a few officers he could have named.

Vincent had the watch and was standing by the compass box, its tiny flame reflecting in his eyes. He said, “Wind’s eased a bit, sir. But I thought I’d wait for some light before sending the hands aloft to spread more sail. Besides …”

“It’s better to see than be seen. I agree.” Adam looked at the spread of canvas which seemed to contain their world. The sea on either beam was still black.

Vincent hesitated. “Can we expect trouble when we make a landfall, sir?”

Adam rested both hands on the quarterdeck rail and looked toward the forecastle. Beyond the pale stretch of deck, there was little to see: the vague shadows of hatches and the regular black shapes which were the breeches of the guns, and now an occasional spectre of spray rising, then fading, above a gangway. His brain was shaking off any lingering desire for sleep.

He faced Vincent and said, “I think we always have to expect trouble, Mark. Especially after what you discovered.” He saw him glance in the direction of the guns, where the canvas-wrapped body was stowed. “As soon as we call hands and it’s safe enough, I want top-chains hoisted and rigged at the yards.”

Vincent showed his teeth. “Thought you might, sir. If we’re called on to fight, there could be casualties enough without falling spars adding to the bill.”

Adam almost smiled. No doubt the admiral would describe them as “unsightly.”

Vincent gestured toward the sea. “Surely they’d never dare fire on a King’s ship?”

Somebody called out and another hurried to obey. But Adam was reminded of Tyacke’s comment when they had been alone together. Our flag flies in many lands, but not always by invitation. To most of them, we’re still the invaders.

There was a sudden metallic clatter forward, followed by a familiar bout of coughing. The cook was already up and about, and no matter what might lie ahead, for him the galley came first.

Vincent said, “He was on deck when I took over the watch. Who needs the sand-glass?”

Lynch had spent most of his life at sea in one kind of ship or another. At the first hint of danger the galley fires would be doused to avoid any accident, but Lynch liked to have enough food prepared and ready for the return of what he called “kinder times.”

Vincent turned away to watch a seaman running across the deck, but he was lost in the predawn shadows.

“When the flag captain visits the governor …” He paused. “If he does, will he be taking the gig?”

Adam said only, “You are ahead of me, Mark,” and thought Vincent might have shrugged.

“A cutter might be a better choice, sir.”

“Good thinking. A cutter can mount a swivel if need be. Better safe than swamped!” They both laughed, and a seaman who was taking a mouthful of water from the ready-use cask looked up and muttered, “Not a care in th’ bloody world!”

Adam walked slowly aft, past the men at the wheel and Tozer, the master’s mate, who had been with him in Delfim‘s prize crew. Here it was deserted, only a small part of the ship, the sea astern still in darkness. In another hour or so all hands would be piped, and the land would lie ahead like a barrier.

He slipped his hand inside his shirt and gripped the ribbon. A little worn now, and fraying, but hers.

A precious moment.

“Captain, sir!”

It was over.

Harry Drummond paused by the boat tier and stooped to pick up a piece of codline before tucking it into his belt. It would probably not be needed, but as Onward‘s bosun, and even long before, he had learned to make use of almost everything. The miles of standing and running rigging, the massive cables now stowed and drying below deck, were his responsibility. He smiled to himself and felt his mouth crack. Next to the first lieutenant, of course.

He stood in the shade beneath the braced canvas and stared disapprovingly at the top-chains on the upper yards: necessary maybe, but unseamanlike. They had rigged them just in time, too. The ship had altered course again and the yards were hard-braced; to a landsman she would appear to be almost fore-and-aft. But every sail was firm and filled. A few seamen were still working aloft, bodies half-naked in the sun. Some might be sorry afterwards: it was going to be one of the hottest days yet.

Drummond looked at the land again, but there had been no change. It reached from bow to bow in an endless green barrier, without shape or identity. Otherwise the sea was empty. No local craft hugging the coast for convenience, nor blackbirder making a run for it with rumours of a man-of-war in the area.

Drummond thought of the drifting wreckage and the human remains, followed always by those accursed sharks, and his eyes rested briefly on the canvas-wrapped corpse near one of the guns. Who would know or care? Better to have put him over the side like the others.

He looked at the land again. Unless the wind picked up they’d be lucky to anchor much before dusk. He had seen the captain with Julyan, the master, comparing notes on the quarterdeck. And the flag captain had shown himself a couple of times, too. A fine-looking man … or had been.

He saw Luke Jago climb from the fore hatch, his old cutlass beneath his arm.

“Taking no chances, eh, Luke?” It was somehow reassuring to see him like this, apparently unmoved by his experience amidst that grisly flotsam, but who could tell? Jago gave nothing away.

He was peering up at the taut canvas. “Pity we can’t make more sail,” and Drummond nodded sagely.

“They don’t want any one to sight us too soon, I reckon.”

They turned as several loud clangs seemed to shake the deck beneath their feet.

Jago said, “They’ll bloody well ‘ear us before that!”

There were shouts and the din stopped. It was one of the gunner’s armourers hammering something on the anvil. The watch below had yelled their protests, eating what might be their last meal before they were called to quarters, with a tot for good measure.

Drummond said, “Not many captains would care that much, Luke.” He could share things like that with the burly coxswain, inscrutable though Jago often was. They had little in common except the ship and their friendship, which had only begun when Drummond had joined Onward to replace the dead bosun, but the navy was like that. Sometimes there was no reason to consider a man a good mate, but it was a fact.

Then he added hastily, “I’ll shove off now. One of your young gentlemen’s approaching.” It was Napier.

Unexpectedly Jago said, “Stay, will you?”

Drummond shrugged. “You got the tiller, Luke.”

Napier slowed down and halted by the stand of boarding pikes at the foot of the mainmast. He had already recognized the old cutlass, despite its scabbard. The same one which had saved his life aboard the sinking Moonstone.

He was saying rather shyly, “I wanted to see you, when you have a moment. Maybe later-” when a voice echoed along the deck.

“Bosun!” Pause. “Bo-sun!”

Drummond raised his fist and bellowed, “Comin’, sir!” and added quietly, “I’d better go. Mister bloody Monteith needs me!”

He grinned defiantly at Napier and strode away.

Jago saw the boy’s eyes on his hand as he closed it gently around his forearm.

“I’ve been wanting …” The grip tightened very slightly.

“I think I knows what you want to say. One day when you’re a cap’n, with your own ship an’ all the men to fetch an’ carry for you, you’ll remember the bad old days with us. Eh, sir?”

“Well, that’ll keep him quiet for a bit!” Drummond was back, and somehow he knew they were both glad of the interruption.

Adam Bolitho walked into the great cabin and closed the screen door behind him. This sanctuary was always the same, and yet he never took it for granted. More spacious, even bare without those familiar articles which had already been safely stowed away.

Hugh Morgan gestured to the chair and the sword lying across it. “I’ve given it a proper polish, sir.”

Adam nodded, but he was looking at the sleeping cabin door. “I just wanted a moment with him.”

Morgan lowered his voice. “Captain Tyacke is almost done, sir. Then I’ll clear the space. As usual.”

Adam continued on his way aft and gazed at the sea, the changing colour almost gentle after the pitiless glare on deck.

He touched the chair, alone now and facing astern. Even the little desk had been taken away, with his most recent letter half-finished in one of the drawers.

Morgan murmured, “If you would care for something before-”

“Later, maybe.”

He listened to the rudder and the regular clatter of rigging. The motion was uneven, erratic, and had been since the change of tack.

Tyacke’s leather satchel was lying on the bench seat beneath the stern windows. Where he must have used the old telescope to look back at his flagship-perhaps for the last time if the breaker’s men were waiting in the wings. The thought made him look away from the sea and around the dim cabin again. Suppose it was Onward?

“Ah, there you are, Adam. I was just coming to have a few words.”

Adam had been half expecting it, but it still came as a surprise. Tyacke was in full uniform, even to the tarnished gold aiguillette fastened across his breast.

He said, “No more signs of trouble, then? Good.” He had not waited for an answer. Adam watched him walk to the bench seat and lean on it while he peered down into the water below the counter.

“I’ll have the cutter lowered when we’re more in the lee of the land.”

“A good boat’s crew?” But he said it as if his mind were elsewhere. “Something I wanted to ask you.” The scarred face turned, the sea’s light reflecting across it. “I’d like one of your experienced midshipmen to go with me. He can take care of the admiral’s instructions.” One hand moved dismissively. “Not your signals middy-he’s acting lieutenant, if you need one. I thought young Napier would fill the bill, after what I’ve seen of him.” He looked up as a call shrilled somewhere and feet responded across the deck. “With your consent, of course.”

In the seconds before Adam could answer, Tyacke had walked over to the bergere, and was gazing down at the sword as if he wanted to touch it.

He said only, “Equality Dick,” and the blue eyes came up steadily and held Adam’s.

Adam said, “I’ll do all I can.”

Morgan interjected sharply, “I think you are wanted on deck, sir.”

He was for the most part a warm-hearted person, but as Adam strode past him on his way to the door he saw Morgan regarding Tyacke with something like hatred.

Vincent was waiting by the companionway. “I thought you should know, sir.” He glanced past him as if he expected to see Tyacke close on his heels. “Masthead reported another sail, same course as ours. But small, hard to identify. May be one of those brigantines the flag captain mentioned.”

Adam opened his telescope and climbed into the nettings. There was mist nearer the coast, and the vessel was directly stern-on, all sails set but scarcely visible, overwhelmed by the solid mass of land reaching out on either bow as if waiting to ensnare them.

“You may be right, Mark, but she’s well ahead of us. Warn the lookouts to report any change of bearing.” He knew the others near and around the wheel were trying to hear what was being said.

He jumped down to the deck and saw that the second cutter had already been moved to the quarter-davits, ready for lowering. “We’ll lower the cutter when we clear the point. Closer for the oarsmen, but room enough for us, if we need to change tack in a hurry.”

Vincent said, “I’m told that Midshipman Napier is going with the flag captain, sir?” He hurried on. “He’s young, but I daresay experienced enough. He should be safe enough in the same boat as Captain Tyacke!”

He turned away as Julyan appeared on the quarterdeck. “The master is about to rig a dog-vane, sir. Close inshore it can detect any change of wind quicker than anything. He swears by them.”

But Adam was looking at the empty cutter, and Vincent tried to imagine what he was thinking.

It was the right decision. But would I have made it?

Lieutenant James Squire leaned over the quarterdeck bulwark, observing the cutter’s slow progress down Onward‘s side. Always an anxious time in the open sea, in case something vital was left behind or forgotten. He had hoisted and lowered boats countless times during his years at sea. But there was always the possibility of some potentially fatal oversight.

He watched for the cutter’s shadow as it rose and fell beneath the keel.

“Handsomely does it!”

Too soon, and the boat might overturn when it hit the water. Too late, and …

“Avast lowering!”

Squire looked up briefly at the outthrust spur of land, saw some tiny white-painted hut or beacon perched at the seaward end. Closer now, but it would still be a strong pull for the cutter’s crew, double-banked or not. He had done it a few times himself.

“Pass me the glass!” He had to repeat it. Midshipman Huxley was paying more attention to the cutter, no doubt too busy thinking about his friend Napier going ashore with Captain Tyacke.

A few more turns and the cutter was pitching and plunging alongside, some of her crew already securing equipment while trying to keep their balance, Fitzgerald, her coxswain, peering critically across the span of open water to the unmoving layer of mist, above which was a tiny patch of colour. The Union Jack.

Squire turned as someone muttered a warning, “Heads up!”

Captain James Tyacke walked to the quarterdeck rail and stood in silence, studying the land. Squire was aware of the effect of the uniform, and saw it in the faces of the seamen around him. Perhaps, by that gesture, the day had suddenly acquired new meaning and purpose in their eyes.

He heard Vincent call, “I’ll have the cutter brought to the entry port, sir!” and saw Tyacke shake his head.

“Take too long.” He might have smiled, but there was another emotion in his eyes.

“Man the boat!” Fitzgerald touched his hat, and ran to the ladder which had been lowered soon after all hands had been called. Tyacke waited until the cutter was fully manned, two seamen to each thwart, and a swivel gun at the stem. Only then did he turn and extend his hand to Adam Bolitho.

Vincent was watching the masthead pendant and the rebellious flapping of canvas, impatient to bring the ship under command again once the cutter had pulled clear.

Adam returned the handshake. Strong and uncompromising, like the man. There was no more time. Adam said only, “Signal, if you need us.”

Tyacke gazed up at the ensign curling easily against the clear sky, his blue eyes almost colourless in the fierce light. “I hope …” He released his grip. “Until we meet again, Adam.”

He turned abruptly and climbed down into the cutter, and seconds later, or so it seemed, it appeared well clear of Onward‘s side, unhurriedly, all oars pulling as one.

Adam remained by the rail and watched their progress as the ship came alive around and above him, her canvas filling, and resumed her course. Then he walked slowly across the deck with the wind in his face. Julyan’s dog-vane was fluttering from a half-pike mounted in the weather shrouds: his own battle ensign, perhaps.

He heard Vincent call to one of his leadsmen, already stationed in the chains for the approach, their landmark that tiny, distant flag, heard the splash, and the leadsman’s chant.

“No bottom, sir!”

They were ready.

He looked again, but the cutter had disappeared.

“Steady, lads. Easy does it!” Fitzgerald was half crouched, half standing at the cutter’s tiller, staring over the twin banks of oarsmen at the outthrust spur of land.

It was just for something to say, and he knew it was because of his passenger. His crew were all skilled seamen; they would not be here otherwise. Even the midshipman with the satchel wedged between his knees was not one of those I-know-best types he had met in the past. God help poor Jack when they walked their own quarterdecks …

He felt spray on his mouth as the stroke-oar leaned away from him again. The cutter was answering well, despite carrying a few extra bodies: two marines in the bows as well as a man with a boat’s lead-and-line, although it was not needed yet. You could see the bottom through the clear water, even dark patches of weed, coming alive with the current as the oars dug deep on either beam.

They were all armed, cutlasses stacked beneath the thwarts, and the marines, already sweating heavily in their scarlet uniforms, were in charge of the swivel gun, which was concealed by a canvas hood.

Fitzgerald eased the tiller again and fixed his eyes on the far-off flag: the Union Jack, the same flag they saw hoisted or lowered every day of their lives. But out here it seemed alien, out of place.

Deeper water now, steadier in some way. David Napier felt the salt spray splashing over the gunwale and soaking his legs. He tried not to look into the faces of the oarsmen as they lay back on their looms, following the stroke-oar, measuring every breath. He had seen their eyes, staring astern after they had cast off from the frigate’s side, and was glad his back was turned. He had never found leaving the comparative safety of the ship an easy moment.

And Captain Tyacke had scarcely spoken since his agile climb down into the boat, apart from exchanging a few words with the coxswain and with one of the marines, a corporal who had just been transferred from the flagship. The corporal had apparently once served with Captain Bolitho.

Napier felt himself frowning, and not merely because of the brutal sunlight, trying to remember everything he had been told concerning his duty with the flag captain.

There had been a few slaps on the back from the others, sly comments of, “Another step up the ladder!” and a handshake from Simon Huxley, but no words. And he had heard the captain say, “Watch yourselves, lads.” But Napier knew Bolitho had been speaking to him.

Tyacke half turned suddenly, almost startling him, and said, “There’s a pier and a smaller jetty. We’ll be directed to one or the other.” His face was slightly averted, the disfigurement hidden, and Napier imagined he could feel his own injury. The limp, which he had beaten. He pressed his leg hard against the satchel.

“Oars!”

Another heave, then the blades paused, dripping like wings, as Fitzgerald said, “Easy now, lads,” and then, “I heard shots, sor!”

The corporal confirmed it. “Muskets, sir!”

Tyacke said fiercely, “Carry on! May be up-river or further inland. We don’t have time to hang fire at this stage!”

The oars picked up the stroke and the cutter gathered way once more. Napier watched the land falling away to reveal the entrance to a natural harbour: the anchorage beyond was still half hidden by the headland. No place to venture after dark.

There were two small boats, fishing craft, moored to a ramshackle trestle, and a few birds, which took off as the cutter turned slightly to starboard, where the outgoing current confronted and contested an ocean.

Napier thought of Jago, and his efforts to talk to him. Always a barrier, and yet …

“There’s the pier, sir!”

Tyacke straightened his back and said sardonically, “What, no red carpet laid out for us?” and grinned as if it reminded him of someone.

Fitzgerald leaned closer, murmuring, “Lucky we didn’t bring the corpse with us!”

Tyacke said, “Pull to the next part,” and looked down at the satchel. “I’m not waiting for-”

They all ducked instinctively as the air quivered to a drawn-out explosion.

He shouted, “Next jetty!” He stared across the looms and braced shoulders. “Stand by with the swivel!”

But the ginger-haired corporal had already removed the hood and was training the muzzle beyond the pier.

Napier slung the satchel across his shoulder, ears still throbbing from the explosion, smoke and grit between his teeth.

He heard Tyacke calling out to the cutter’s crew, “Stand by, lads!” but very calmly, one hand resting on his sword hilt.

A grapnel had been thrown on to the low jetty, and a few men almost fell as they came alongside, metal clattering as they seized their cutlasses. A couple of them dragged muskets from beneath the thwarts.

“Clear the boat!”

But Napier hung back, as if he were unable to move.

He felt Tyacke’s hand lightly on his arm, was conscious of his voice, quiet and compelling. Almost matter-of-fact. “Ready, David?”

And his own answer. “Aye, ready, sir!”

They were ashore. But the Union Jack had vanished.

Aboard Onward, the musket shots had passed almost unheard except by a few men on watch in the tops, and even then they were nearly lost in the usual chorus of shipboard noises. One man raised the alarm, then the full impact of the explosion rolled against the hull, given extra power by the echo reverberating from the backdrop of high ground.

Adam stood by the rail, gazing the full length of his command, seeing men off watch coming up from their messes, some still chewing the remains of a hurried meal. Others, working on or above the decks, had fallen silent, looking aft toward the quarterdeck.

Only Midshipman Hotham spoke. His signals telescope was still trained on the shore. “They’ve lowered the Jack, sir.”

Adam watched the great arrowhead of blue water, and the overlapping humps of land that guarded the harbour entrance. He sensed Vincent and Squire standing somewhere behind him, and others near the wheel. Waiting. Perhaps dreading.

Jago’s shadow merged with his own across the deck, and he heard the steady breathing. Then he lifted his arms and felt the coxswain clip the old sword into place.

It was like a signal.

“Beat to quarters and clear for action!”