In the King`s Name

1 “US AND THEM ”

“Captain, sir?”

Quietly spoken and almost lost in the creak and murmur of shipboard sounds, but Adam Bolitho was instantly awake. If he had managed to sleep at all. A few hours, three at the most since he had slumped into the old chair, to prepare himself and be ready.

The great cabin was still dark but for the same small, shuttered lantern burning.

He looked up into the face above his chair. The white collar patches seemed almost bright against the darkness. The midshipman removed his hand immediately; he must have touched his captain’s shoulder.

“The first lieutenant’s respects, sir.” He faltered as feet thudded across the deck overhead, slithering to a halt as a voice snapped a warning. Probably some of the newly joined men who had not realised the skylight was directly above this cabin.

He made another attempt. “He sent me, sir. The morning watch is mustered.”

He gazed fixedly at his captain as Adam swung his feet onto the deck and sat upright.

“Thank you.” Now he could see the moisture on the midshipman’s coat, reflecting the lantern light. “Still raining?” He had not even pulled off his shoes when he had come down here to be alone with his thoughts. He could feel Onward moving steadily beneath and around him, still sheltered by the land. Plymouth, but not for much longer.

The thought gave him time. “Have you settled into life aboard yet, Mr. Radcliffe?”

He sensed the boy’s surprise that he had remembered his name; he had only joined Onward a few days ago. His first ship, and such small details mattered. Today of all days.

“Yessir.” The boy was animated now, nodding and smiling. “Mr. Huxley has made things much easier for me.”

Radcliffe was a replacement for Deacon, the senior midshipman, who had left the ship to prepare for the Board, the vital examination which would decide his future, that step from midshipman’s berth to wardroom and a career as a King’s officer. They all joked about it, and poured scorn on the grim-faced senior captains who usually comprised each Board. But only afterwards. Adam had never forgotten. And neither did any one else, if he had any sense.

They would miss Deacon. Keen and quick-witted, he had been in charge of Onward‘s signals crew, the “eyes” of the ship. Adam remembered him when Onward had been beginning her approach to Gibraltar, or on their way home from the Mediterranean, and after their savage clash with, and capture of, the renegade frigate Nautilus. Men had been killed, others wounded, and the ship still bore the scars and reminders. And he recalled pride, too. On that morning with the Rock looming against a clear, empty sky, Deacon had written down Adam’s signal in full before having it run up to the yards. His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Nautilus is rejoining the Fleet. God Save the King.

The midshipman was still waiting beside the old bergere where Adam was seated, body swaying to Onward‘s movement as another offshore gust hissed against the hull.

“My compliments to Mr. Vincent. I shall be joining him on deck directly.”

Vincent would understand. But when Onward had first commissioned and Adam had been appointed in command, they had remained strangers until … Until when?

He heard the screen door close, voices: Midshipman Radcliffe on his way back to the quarterdeck with his captain’s message.

Of one company. This was not the time to think of the missing faces, the dead men and the ones who had been put ashore badly wounded. Some would be over there in Plymouth today, watching and remembering as the anchor broke free of the land.

Even when he thought he was immune to it, the pain could still take him unawares, like a wound. Those seamen might become like the aimless groups that waited on the waterfront at Falmouth, criticising the ships coming and going with the tide, sometimes not a whole man among them.

And in Falmouth when they had moved aside to let him pass with Lowenna. The captain with his lovely bride, who wanted for nothing.

He walked across to his sleeping cabin, which was still closed. It was the morning watch, four o’clock, when most honest folk would be safely tucked up in bed, some recovering from Christmas, or preparing for the new year: 1819. He was still unaccustomed to it, despite having seen it on the official document, with the familiar wording which had left no room for doubt. Being in all respects ready for sea… And his signature.

He knew there were many who would envy him today. There were nine hundred captains on the Navy List, some without hope of getting a command. Even here in the naval port of Plymouth there were plenty of empty hulls, whose only destination was the breaker’s yard. And it was said that there was not an admiral flying his flag who was under the age of sixty.

The older seamen still yarned about the great sea battles, when there had never been enough ships. At Trafalgar, when “Our Nel” had been only forty-seven years old.

Adam Bolitho was thirty-eight, newly married, and now, after only the briefest time together, he was leaving her again. Lowenna…

His hand was on the cabin door, but he stopped himself from opening it. Her portrait was hanging just beneath the deckhead, where it could be reached easily and stowed away if the ship cleared for action, even if only a drill. Where was she now? Lying in that same bed and waiting for the first hint of dawn, or some movement in the old grey house? Remembering? Accepting, or regretting the inevitable?

The sea is a widow-maker …

He swung away from the door, thankful for the sound of voices beyond the screen. The Royal Marine sentry at his post, probably halfasleep on his booted feet, but always ready to challenge or announce any one who might attempt to intrude on the captain’s privacy.

Not this time. It was Luke Jago, his coxswain and a law unto himself. And Adam was suddenly grateful.

Mark Vincent was the first lieutenant, and a good one despite their initial differences, and he had to be ready to assume immediate command should death or injury befall his captain. Only a fool would ignore that very real possibility. Adam touched the small desk as he passed, without truly seeing it. In one of its drawers was the broken epaulette which had been severed by a musket ball during the fight with Nautilus. It had felt no more dangerous than a hand brushing against his shoulder, or a fragment of falling rope; he had not even noticed it until Jago had told him. A few more inches, and Vincent would have been called to take Adam’s place. He would have died like his beloved uncle, Sir Richard Bolitho, who had been marked down by a French sharpshooter during Napoleon’s escape from Elba. Almost four years ago, but when you walked the streets or along the waterfront in Falmouth, it could have been yesterday.

Unconsciously Adam had reached up to touch his shoulder, reliving it, remembering Jago’s words, the obvious concern.

“Best to keep on the move, Cap’n.” Jago had tried to make light of it. “It’s me they’re after!” But the familiar wry grin had deserted him.

He wondered what Jago thought about leaving England again, after only a brief respite in harbour while the necessary repairs were carried out. Jago had spent most of his life at sea in one ship or another, and mostly in time of war. For him there was nothing else. He had seen the idlers watching from the jetties, and others pulling past the anchored frigate as if unable to stay away, and had said with feeling, “Better to be stitched up in a hammock right now than end up on the beach like that lot!”

Jago had been there in church as their guest when Lowenna had married his captain, sitting with John Allday and his wife, Unis. There must have been more than a few yarns after the ceremony. And a lot of memories.

“Mornin’, Cap’n! Up an’ about already, I see!” Jago was putting down a steaming mug and turning up the solitary lantern, apparently indifferent to Onward‘s motion as the deck tilted again. “Wind’s steady enough-nor’east. We’ll need a few extra hands on the capstan.” He flicked open the razor until the blade caught the light and glanced at the old chair. “Ready when you are, Cap’n.”

He watched as the faded seagoing coat was tossed onto a bench and Adam lay back in “the chair with a frog-sounding name,” as Hugh Morgan, the cabin servant, had been heard to describe it. So many times… Jago could shave his captain in a storm without effort, and the razor was very sharp; he always made sure of that. Adam glanced at the stern windows. He must be mistaken, but they seemed paler already.

“‘Ere we go, sir!” Jago steadied Adam’s chin with his thick fingers. He could think of a few throats that wouldn’t have risked being in this position. One in particular.

He heard the sound of voices, feet scurrying across the deck: the morning watchkeepers preparing the way for all hands when the moment came.

He dabbed Adam’s face with a towel still hot from the galley fire. The first lieutenant was making certain that nothing would go wrong, with every naval telescope trained on Onward, ready to find fault if there was any misjudgment or error. And this man under the blade would be the target.

The captain was unusually quiet, Jago thought. Getting under way: a thousand things to remember. Maybe you never got used to it. He recalled the lovely woman in the church, the way she and Bolitho had looked together, surrounded by all those people and yet apart. He couldn’t imagine what it was like. He thought of the painting in the sleeping cabin behind him. And she had posed for it.

He wiped the blade and grinned. “Close shave, sir.”

Adam stood up and looked at him directly. “Steady as a rock, Luke!”

He heard a muffled clink from the little pantry. So Morgan could not sleep, either.

“I have a letter to finish.” The hardest one to write. “I want it to go ashore in good time.”

Jago nodded. “The guardboat will take it, sir. I’ll make sure of that.” He hesitated by the screen door, but there was nothing more. “I’ll leave you in peace, sir.”

Adam called after him, “Thanks, Luke.” “Sir?”

But Adam had walked to the quarter windows and was standing there, a slim figure of medium height, eyes as dark as his hair, pale shirt framed against the outer darkness like a spectre. As if he could see the nearest land.

He heard the door shut, the sentry clearing his throat while Jago told him the captain mustn’t be disturbed. He moved to the little desk and pulled open another drawer. The letter was there, half-written.

The ship was suddenly quiet, and he could hear the repetitive squeak of the hook where his best uniform coat hung from the deckhead, complete with the new epaulettes. He had worn it at his wedding in Falmouth. Adam touched his skin, and the slight scrape left by the razor when Jago’s concentration had wavered, a rare thing for him.

He dipped the pen and wrote slowly, as if to hear the words.

It was not tomorrow. It was now.

Lieutenant Mark Vincent stood by the quarterdeck rail and stared along Onward‘s full length, making sure he had missed nothing. It was almost physical, this relaxing muscle by muscle, like a gun captain who has made the final decision before opening fire. He had been appointed to Onward just over a year ago when she had been commissioned here in Plymouth, and he thought he knew every inch of her one hundred and fifty feet, above and below deck; how she behaved at sea, even how she looked to any passing vessel. Or to an enemy. She was a frigate which had more than proved herself during her short life, and one any man would be proud and, these days, lucky, to command.

He pushed the envy to the back of his mind, until the next time.

It was rare to see the deck so crowded. The lower deck had been cleared, hammocks smartly stowed in the nettings with a minimum of fuss. He glanced up at the sky, shreds of ragged cloud scudding ahead of the cold north-easterly, with only a few pale streaks of blue, like ice.

“Guardboat’s casting off, sir!”

Vincent said curtly, “As ordered.” He did not know the seaman’s face, one of the replacements for somebody killed or injured in their brief, bitter fight with Nautilus, but a few drills or an Atlantic gale would soon change that. And most of the new hands were volunteers, a far cry from his first days at sea when they had been pressed men or worse, “scrovies” as the worthless were termed-picked up by local crimps when they were too drunk to know what was happening.

He thought of the idlers he had seen on the waterfront when he had been ashore on some mission or other, doubtless some of the same Jacks who had once cursed every minute they had served aboard a King’s ship.

The guardboat was pulling away from the chains, the officer waving to someone by the entry port, the oars reflecting in the choppy water as they angled to take the first pull. Vincent unslung the telescope from his shoulder and trained it across the slow-moving boat. A two-decker of seventy-four guns was anchored between Onward and the inshore moorings and catching the first gleam of sunlight on her high poop and gilded “gingerbread,” and the rear-admiral’s flag at her mizzen. He closed the glass with a snap. Like a warning, or perhaps it was instinct. There were several figures on deck with telescopes pointing toward Onward. Officers, despite the early hour; the greasy smell of breakfast still lingered on the cold air.

He looked over at the companion and saw the captain’s coxswain climbing into view and pausing to touch his hat to the Royal Marine officers ranged beside a squad of scarlet coats.

As if it were a signal, Vincent crossed the deck, which had been cleared to allow space for the capstan bars to be slotted into place. Jago walked past the big double wheel and took up his station at the rail.

Another quick glance, and Vincent saw the signals crew standing by the flag locker, Midshipman Hotham in charge, his narrow face set in a frown, and very aware of the moment. A clergyman’s son, but, as he was always quick to point out, “so was Our Nel!”

The Royal Marines’ boots clicked together and someone saluted. The captain touched his hat, and Vincent thought he might have nodded slightly to his coxswain. He faced Vincent and smiled.

“It’ll be lively when we clear the Sound.” He was looking along the deck and gangways at the groups of seamen at their stations, most of them staring aft at their captain.

Vincent swallowed: his mouth felt bone-dry. How does it feel? His decision. I might never know.

Young Hotham’s voice scattered his thoughts. “Signal from Flag, sir!” A pause, and a telescope squeaked as somebody else focused on the flags breaking to the wind. “Proceed when ready!”

Adam saw the acknowledgment running up the halliards, Hotham peering eagerly forward as the bell chimed out as if to mark the moment.

Vincent shouted, “Man the capstan! Fo’c’sle party stand by!”

“Heave, m’ lads, heave!”

Adam turned, momentarily caught unawares. It would take time to become used to another new voice. Harry Drummond, the bosun, was a professional seaman to the tips of his iron-hard fingers, but it was impossible to forget the massive Guthrie, around which the ship’s company had seemed to revolve like hands obeying the capstan. He had fallen like a great tree, his men stepping over him to obey his last order.

The pawls of the capstan were moving, clicking into place as more men added their weight to the bars. Someone slipped and fell sprawling; the deck was still treacherous with rain.

But he heard a voice trying to raise a cheer as a fiddle scraped, and squealed into a familiar sailor’s shanty.There was a lass in Bristol town-heave, me bullies, heave!

It was Lynch, the senior cook, eyes shut and one foot beating time to every clink of the capstan.

Adam stared up at the yards, the topmen strung out like puppets against the hurrying clouds. The long masthead pendant gave some hint of the wind’s strength, and he could picture Onward‘s outline like a lithe shadow edging slowly toward the embedded anchor.

“Heave, me bullies, heave!”

He heard Julyan, the sailing master, speaking to the quartermaster and his extra helmsman. Calm, unhurried, just loud enough to carry above the chorus of wind and rigging. One eye on the compass, another on his captain, whose ultimate responsibility this was.

Adam remained by the quarterdeck rail, the ship and her company moving around him, but as if he were quite alone. Did you ever become so accustomed to this moment, or so confident, that it became merely routine?

The capstan was moving more slowly, but steadily, and no more hands were called to add their weight to the bars. He could see their breath like steam blown away on the wind, and feel the air on his spraywet cheek like ice rime.

He glanced forward again, and across the larboard bow. The two-decker was anchored apart from the other ships, her sealed gunports a chequered pattern shining in the strengthening light. There were lighters moored alongside, empty, like undertakers waiting for the last rites. How did the ship feel? How would I feel?

He looked away, but not before he had seen the powerful shape of Lieutenant James Squire at his station in the eyes of the ship, watching the incoming cable. A born seaman and navigator, and one of the most senior men aboard. He had come up from the lower deck, and had won respect and popularity the hard way. Two midshipmen stood nearby: David Napier and the latest addition to the berth, John Radcliffe, who was about to begin a day, good or bad, which would live in his memory-his first at sea in a King’s ship.

Adam could recall his own. Only the faces seemed blurred or merged by time, save for a few.

Jago murmured, “Morgan brought yer boatcloak, Cap’n.” He was standing by the packed hammock nettings, but hardly raised his voice.

“Still got a lot to learn!” Then the familiar chuckle.

The cabin servant had thought of everything that his captain, any captain, might require under any circumstances. But he doesn’t know me yet. That I would freeze or be soaked to the skin rather than take cover on this day.

Adam glanced down and saw that Maddock, the gunner, had paused by one of the upper deck eighteen-pounders as if to speak with its gun captain. A careful man, perhaps still puzzled by the latest order from the admiral’s headquarters ashore.

There will be no salutes fired today, until …

Adam saw him look up, his hand resting on the gun’s wet breech, head half-turned. He was deaf in one ear, common enough in his trade, but quick enough to acknowledge Adam’s private signal from the quarterdeck.

He had heard the first lieutenant brushing Maddock’s question aside, his mind too full of the business of getting Onward under way: “Sir John Grenville, Admiralty. Today’s his funeral. That’s why!” And Vincent had turned away to deal with another problem.

Adam had last seen and shaken hands with Grenville in the very cabin beneath his feet. Both of them had known they would not meet again. He gave me hope, when he gave me Onward. And in his way, Grenville was sharing it today.

Adam saw Squire move toward the cathead and gesture behind him, as if he could feel the anchor like a physical force.

“Stand by on deck!” That was Drummond, the new bosun. An unhurried but sharp, almost metallic voice which carried easily above other sounds around him. He seemed to be blessed with a good memory for faces, even names: in his brief time aboard, Adam had never seen him consult a book or slate.

Faster again, the capstan bars turning like a human wheel.

“Anchor’s hove short, sir!” They faced one another along the ship’s length. Squire did not even cup his hands.

“Loose the heads’ls!”

Always a testing moment. Maybe too soon? Onward thrusting over her own anchor, at the mercy of wind and tide.

Adam stared at the masthead; the rain was heavier and the long pendant was moving only sluggishly in the wind. He was soaked and his neckcloth felt tight around his throat, like a sodden bandage. He could feel the tension on deck, sharing it. Small things stood out: a leadsman hurrying to the chains, ready to call out the soundings instantly if they moved into shallows before Onward was under way. Vincent would take no chances today. Beyond the revolving capstan he saw Jago piling muskets to allow some marines to add their weight for the last few fathoms.

“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”

Shouts, running feet, a few curses as the sails broke free and more water cascaded from the flapping canvas. Adam felt the deck tilt more steeply as the topsails filled and hardened, the quartermaster and an extra helmsman straddle-legged at the big double wheel to keep their balance.

Julyan was close by, outwardly untroubled as bowsprit and tapering jib-boom began to answer the helm, so that the anchored flagship appeared to be moving as if to cross Onward‘s bows.

“Steady-meet her.” Julyan peered at the compass, rain dripping from his hat. “Steady as you go.” Adam saw him look over at the quartermaster, perhaps still surprised. His predecessor had been Julyan’s friend. He had been killed there at the helm during the fight with Nautilus.

Adam shielded his eyes to gaze up at the topmen spread out along the yards, no doubt breathless after fisting and kicking the canvas into submission. A fall to the deck, or into the sea alongside as the hull submitted to the wind, must never be far from their minds.

Lieutenant Squire was watching the anchor until it reached and was secured to the cathead, the mud and weed of the seabed still clinging to the stock and flukes. His forecastle party was already lashing it firmly into place. He wiped spray from his face with his fist. Until the next time…

He gazed aft and waited until he knew the captain had seen him before crossing his hands to signal that the anchor had been made secure.

The remaining cable was still being hauled inboard, where it was seized by the nippers, ship’s boys who would scrub and scrape it before stowing it below. No more than children, he thought, and what a filthy job: it reminded him of the mudlarks, naked youths who dived for coins in the shallows at some seaports. It had cost a few of them their lives.

Squire glanced at the two midshipmen, Napier and the new arrival, Radcliffe. Both good lads, although it was hard to judge either of them without experiencing a pang of envy. Napier’s background was vague; he had close ties to the captain’s family and was a ward of some kind, and Radcliffe was always full of questions and completely untrained. It was said that his father had an important position in banking. A different world.

“Bosun’s Mate! Pipe those waisters to be ready to add their weight to the braces!”

Squire swung round, still waiting for the voice, even though he knew he was mistaken.

The bosun’s mate in question was newly rated, and had been one of Onward’s best topmen and a fine seaman until his promotion. He replaced Fowler, a man Squire had known for years; they had been on the lower deck together. A bully and a petty tyrant, he had become a real enemy.

I wanted him dead. Him or me.

Now Fowler was missing, having gone ashore in Plymouth, and they had marked him in the muster book as RUN. Deserted. But nobody really knew. Maybe he was dead; maybe someone else had had a score to settle. But until Squire knew for certain, he would remain a threat.

He gestured to the new midshipman, who responded instantly.

“My respects to the first lieutenant, and tell him we are all secured here.” He raised his voice as Radcliffe turned to run toward the gangway. “Easy does it! I think we’ve earned our pay today!”

He waited until Radcliffe had dropped out of sight. It was always too easy to take it out of those who could not answer back. He should have known that better than most. He watched some of his seamen mopping the stained deck and dismantling their tackle. Dull, necessary routine, but it gave him time to calm himself. It was over.

Someone had called his name and he tugged his hat lower over his eyes, peering into the rain. They were under way, the flagship lying across the quarter with only her flags moving, her decks deserted. He stared ahead again, the blue-grey water reaching away on either bow, the jib-boom pointing the way, like the naked figurehead of the youth with outstretched trident and dolphin beneath it.

He looked toward the land; a church or slender tower was visible despite the downpour. People might still be there, watching the solitary frigate as she headed for the open sea. There would be mixed feelings among the civilians. Pride, perhaps sadness, but certainly not envy. It was still too soon after the long years of war, the fear of invasion and, not least, the hated press gangs.

Lieutenant James Squire gripped a stay and felt it quivering as if the whole ship were straining forward, eager to leave.

And he was free.

He heard Napier’s voice, and saw him stoop beside one of the anchor party with a spare block and tackle in his hands. “Like this-it’ll run free next time.” He smiled. “Wet or dry!”

The seaman was new, and Squire could not remember his name, but he appeared not much older than Napier. He saw him reach out with an answering grin to help the midshipman to his feet. It was a small thing, but Squire knew that it mattered, more than he could explain.

Napier was pleasant if slightly shy, and had already proved himself reliable and quick to learn. Squire gazed along the shining deck where men and boys had died. Brave, too. One day, maybe soon… He turned and said abruptly, “You were at the wedding, I’m told.”

Napier wiped his hands on a piece of waste. He was still not used to Squire’s sharpness and swift changes of mood. A man you would never really know, unless he himself allowed it.

“Yes, sir. There were a lot of people …”

“And the bride?”

Napier recalled the church, the ceremony, the light on the uniforms. And the girl, Elizabeth, Adam Bolitho’s cousin, dressed as a midshipman, carrying the flowers. She would soon forget. He would not.

“They looked so right together.”

Squire laughed. “Well said! And so they should.” For some reason, he knew Napier would say no more. Like me, he has nobody to leave behind.

“Message from the captain, sir.” Radcliffe was back, breathless, cheeks glowing from the cold wind. He held out a folded piece of signal pad and grinned at Napier. “Rain’s stopped!”

Squire unfolded it deliberately. “I told you to walk, Mr. Radcliffe. You’re puffing like an old Jack!” It gave him another few seconds, and as he opened the message he realised that the rain had indeed stopped, and the sea surging away from the stem was beginning to shimmer, although any real sun was still hidden beyond the clouds.

“Hands take station for leaving harbour. It’ll be lively when we reach open water. Officers’ conference aft, at noon.” He looked at the two midshipmen. “That includes you, for some reason.”

Both boys turned to watch a small schooner, sails in momentary confusion as she altered course toward the anchorage. Napier would be used to it, having served with Captain Bolitho before, but Radcliffe had not been long enough afloat to get his feet wet. But in all his years at sea Squire had never known a captain who made a point of sharing his immediate plan with his chain of command.

His men were separating to join others on deck, directed by the master’s mate and other senior hands; the wind was strong enough to require more weight on the braces as Onward made more sail. Squire shivered. It never failed to excite him, even now. And he thought enviously of the youngster Radcliffe. So many years to make his own.

He saw Napier going aft and pausing as he met the newly rated bosun’s mate, Tucker, heading in the opposite direction. Their hands touched, not by accident, and Tucker grinned as Napier spoke. Some good had been done. Tucker had been promoted because of Fowler’s disappearance.

He stared at the foretop and waited for a face and a name to form in his mind.

“You, Willis! Move yourself! We’ve not got all day!”

He knew his men. It was his strength.

Napier heard the shout but ignored it and ducked beneath the larboard gangway between two of the eighteen-pounders. The sky had become clearer, but they must have been too busy to notice. The sea bursting from the stem where he had just been standing was glittering in hard sunlight, but the touch of the drifting spray on his skin was still like ice.

He looked at Tucker, also called David, and gripped his arm. “Haven’t had the time to tell you properly. I’m so glad for you-well deserved, too!”

Tucker glanced down self-consciously at his blue jacket and the telltale silver call hanging around his neck. “It’ll take some wearing to get used to it!” He said it strongly enough, but when he looked up at the braced topsail yards and the small figures spaced at intervals against the sky he seemed less confident. “I know every man-jack up there, and what I was doing with them only a few weeks back. The same risks, the same laughs when we had all canvas doing what we wanted.”

Napier nodded. “I think I understand, David. I’m still getting used to it myself.”

Tucker showed his teeth in another grin. “It’s us and them, remember?”

“Nothing to do, Mister Napier? I’d have thought that by now …” It was Monteith, the third lieutenant, hands behind his back, head on one side, and angry. He looked past them. “The boats need securing for sea, as you may recall.”

“I’ve already detailed hands for that, sir!” Another voice: Drummond, the new bosun, very erect, but casually picking a piece of oakum from his sleeve as if the bustle and shouted commands around him were beneath his notice. He did not drop his gaze as the lieutenant glared at him. “But if you are taking over, sir, I am needed elsewhere.”

Napier thought Monteith would explode, or give vent to the usual sarcasm. Instead, he shaded his eyes as if to peer abeam and snapped, “I can’t do everything!” and stamped away.

To Tucker the bosun said, “I’ll need you at four bells, right?” and walked aft unhurriedly, calling out an occasional name, or pausing by the various working parties as he went.

Tucker shrugged. “Sorry, David. I didn’t see him.” He turned sharply as one of the foretopmen slithered down a backstay and landed as lightly as a cat at his feet. “Hey, Ted, why’n’t you warn me he was coming?”

Napier recognised the seaman called Ted. He had often seen him together with Tucker, working aloft like the others they had been watching, repairing rigging, and tending the wounded after battle. Sharing a lively hornpipe during a dog watch when Onward had first commissioned. Friends.

Now the same man turned his back, remarking over his shoulder, “Didn’t know it was an order!”

Tucker stared after him as if he had been struck. Then he said quietly, “It’s become a different ship.”

Napier gripped his arm again and waited until their eyes met, seeing the pain.

He smiled. “So, welcome aboard!”

Adam Bolitho stepped into the great cabin and heard the screen door close behind him. He had not recognised the Royal Marine on guard duty: another stranger. But he had noticed that Sergeant Fairfax was nearby, as if by coincidence.

He put his hand out to steady himself; the motion was more pronounced now that Onward was in open sea. But he knew it was not simply that. His entire body ached with tiredness and strain. He had been on his feet since Midshipman Radcliffe had roused him when the morning watch was called-he stifled a yawn-about ten hours ago.

He walked aft, angled to the deck, eyes on the hard light from the stern windows, sloping now to the thrust of wind and sea. He glanced briefly at the old chair, where his day had begun. To sit in it now would be fatal. Even when he had called the meeting here at noon he had remained standing. Some might have thought he was impatient to get it over and let routine take charge. Maybe the newcomers thought so, anyway.

There had been two lieutenants, the Royal Marine officer, all the warrant officers, and the six midshipmen together in a tight group. Vincent had remained on watch. The tallest present was the new carpenter, Chris Hall, who had served at sea in several men-of-war, but had also been attached to the dockyard on maintenance and even involved in the building of various types of vessel. Like other lofty visitors to the great cabin, he had taken his place under the skylight, but even there he had been stooping slightly. How did he manage between decks, or working in the lower confines of the hull?

He watched the occasional dash of salt spray, drying across the stern and quarter windows. At least the rain had stopped.

There was still a smell of rum lingering between decks. He had heard a few cheers when the order to “Up Spirits” was piped. It was the least he could do for men who had been hard at work since first light on a bitter morning.

There had been the usual comments after the meeting. Lieutenant Squire clapping Vicary, the purser, on the shoulder and grinning. “Cheer up! It’s not coming out of your purse!”

Vicary was always complaining about stores and wastage; it did not help matters.

Murray, the Scottish surgeon, had added, “Won’t need so much grog anyway, where we’re bound for!”

Adam stared at two gulls which were riding the wind, drifting from side to side below the taffrail. The galley must have thrown some scraps over the side.

But the surgeon’s words were still with him. Where we’re bound for. It was Freetown, on what had been the slave coast of Africa. And it still was, for those who carried out their endless patrols there. But why all the secrecy and apparent urgency? And why Onward, so soon after the Mediterranean, and that bloody action with Nautilus?

But he had discovered nothing more when he had gone ashore for the last time to sign for the sealed despatches which were now locked in his strongbox. Even that had been unusually formal: his signature had been witnessed by one of the admiral’s aides, a senior captain, another unfamiliar face. Courteous but unhelpful.

“Onward is a fast frigate, Bolitho, as you will know better than any one.” He had paused as one of his clerks sealed the despatches and stamped the wax. “Repairs completed to your satisfaction. Fully manned and stored.” He had walked to the familiar window and said after another silence, “And … available.”

Reminding him that another captain could be appointed within a day. Less. Adam had not forgotten the Admiralty waiting-room when he had been called to London. The jealousy and the hostility. Nor would he.

He walked across the cabin and heard muffled voices beyond the pantry door. Morgan and a much younger servant, a boy sent to help him during the conference. Morgan seemed to be waiting, judging the moment. Was it so obvious?

More voices, the sound of a musket being tapped on the grating. A dispute of some kind, then the door opened and closed and Jago said, “Not much to see, Cap’n. More rain on th’ way.”

Adam reached for his boatcloak and changed his mind. “Trouble just now?”

Jago glanced at the door. “Yer sentry’s new. Just needs to be told, that’s all, Cap’n.”

He stepped aside as Adam left the cabin. The sentry was ready, and snapped smartly to attention as he passed, but he noticed Sergeant Fairfax’s burly shadow lurking by the companion ladder.

On deck it seemed almost dark, although the bell had only just chimed for the first dog watch.

Vincent touched his hat. “Standing by to alter course, sir.”

Adam looked past and beyond him into the murk. Low cloud again, vague figures mustered and waiting by the braces and halliards, but strangely silent, so that the shipboard noises and the surge of water alongside predominated.

One of the midshipmen was waiting to offer him a telescope, his collar patches very bright, like those in the cabin before dawn.

He felt the air quiver, and then the vibration of the rail under his hand.

Someone said, “Thunder!”

Vincent looked toward him but did not speak.

All those miles astern, and yet the salute was with them. Personal. Sir John Grenville’s farewell, or a last gesture of remembrance. His old ship.

Adam heard an older voice say, “Thass th’ Lizard over to starboard, my son. Last you’ll see of England for a while, so make th’ most of it!”

Jago had handed him his boatcloak; it was raining again, but he had not felt it. The same rain must be falling in Falmouth, on Lowenna’s garden … As close as they could be.

And she would know.