In the King`s Name

3 THE WITNESS

LIEUTENANT JAMES SQUIRE leaned on the quarterdeck rail to ease his stiff shoulders. Four bells, and still two more hours of the forenoon watch to complete. He glanced at young Midshipman Walker, who was sharing the watch, and wondered what would have changed in the navy by the time he’s my age.

He smiled. Probably nothing.

He saw some of the new hands clustered around the forward eighteen-pounders while the gun captains took them through the drill, loading and running out. They were on the weather side, and with Onward leaning slightly to the wind they would find the guns needed all their strength. Maddock, the gunner, never spared any one where his broadside was concerned.

Men working on or above deck had paused and were looking on, some of them perhaps remembering their fight with Nautilus, and others, like Drummond, the bosun, further back still. He had served at Trafalgar aboard the Mars, in the thick of the action.

“Stand by! Together, this time!” Maddock had just taken over, head on one side, the deafness his only weakness after too many broadsides in the past. But woe betide any one who tried to take advantage of that disability. Maddock could lip-read from one end of the gun deck to the other.

Several of the seamen working on deck were barefoot, either to save shoe leather, or to harden their soles for shrouds and ratlines. A few would regret it.

But they must all feel the difference, even the last to join at Plymouth. There was a suggestion of warmth under a clear sky, and the bite had gone from the wind. Squire’s face cracked into a wry smile. Almost.

He knew that the midshipman had moved closer. A bright lad, eager to learn and not afraid to ask questions. But it was not that. If he leaned further over the rail he would see the large grating inboard of the nearest gun, scrubbed almost white again, and dried by the wind and sun. Where a man had been seized up in the presence of all the ship’s company and flogged.

Midshipman Walker was not yet fourteen, but soon would be, the same age as Squire when he had joined his first ship. In his two years aboard Squire had witnessed two hundred floggings. His captain had believed in discipline of the most ferocious kind. He and others like him had contributed to the great fleet mutinies at the Nore and Spithead, even as England had been living in daily fear of a French invasion.

Since he had joined Onward there had been only one flogging, suspended halfway through, before the punishment of the seaman Lamont two days ago. And Lamont was lucky he would not be doing the Tyburn Jig when he reached port and higher authority.

You might become hardened to it, but you never forgot. Squire thought of Jago, the captain’s coxswain, a strong man, and a loyal one. But Squire had seen him being washed down one day, twisting his muscular body under a pump. The scars of the cat were unmistakable. Jago had received a written pardon from an admiral, and a sum of money in compensation amounting to a year’s pay, and the officer who had ordered the unjustified punishment had paid for it with a court-martial. But Jago would carry the scars to his grave. Squire had glimpsed his face as Lamont was being flogged, and wondered how he could remain so faithful to any captain after his own experience.

Midshipman Walker exclaimed suddenly, “I think he deserved it!”

Squire sighed. Out of the mouths of babes…

“Deck there!”

Every one, even the helmsman, looked up as the cry came from the foretopmast. It seemed ages since the lookouts had sighted anything, and this was certainly not land. Squire stared at the small silhouette who was signalling with his arm, but he already knew the face and the name. Always reliable. But he would need more than the naked eye.

He saw the midshipman reach for a telescope, but took it from him and shook his head. “Not this time … Bosun’s Mate! Aloft with you! You’ll feel at ease up there!”

It was Tucker. He took the telescope and held it to his eye briefly before slinging it across his shoulder. “Starboard bow,” was all he said.

Squire replied, “Aye, probably nothing, or out of sight by now. But …”

Tucker was already striding along the gangway, as he must have done countless times in his service as a foretopman. Squire watched him until he had reached the shrouds and began to climb. Keep busy, mind and body. It helped. Squire had learned that for himself.

David Tucker climbed steadily, his eyes fixed on the foretop and the hard, bellying curve of canvas. He was conscious of the men by the guns, heard Maddock’s voice as he repeated some instructions; a few faces might have turned in the direction of the figure on the ratlines, or maybe not. What did he expect? Anger? Hostility? Certainly not sympathy.

He reached the foretop and pulled himself out and over the barricade, his body hanging momentarily over the creaming water below. Don’t look down, they used to shout up at him in those early days. Now it was something he told others.

A seaman was splicing nearby, and glanced at him only briefly as he passed. As if he were a stranger.

Only two days ago, but he had relived every moment. He should have been prepared. Harry Drummond, the bosun, must have been warning him.

“You’ve got your feet firmly on the first step of the ladder, Dave. Obey orders smartly an’ without question, an’ you might go higher!” He had grinned. “Like me!”

Tucker had witnessed more than a few floggings since he had joined his first ship as a mere boy. The Articles of War were read aloud by every captain; no individual could plead ignorance of them.

But he could still feel the shock.

When the pipe had called all hands to witness punishment, Rowlatt, the master-at-arms, had pulled him aside and handed him the familiar red baize bag containing the “cat.” He could even have been smiling. “First time for everything, my lad!”

Tucker realised he had reached the crosstrees almost without noticing the dangerous part of the climb. He knew the lookout well; they had often shared this precarious perch. He came from York, and Tucker had always wanted to know how he had found his way into a King’s ship.

He said now, “I remember when the cap’n gave you his own glass when you came aloft!” He nudged Tucker’s arm. “Been a bad lad, have you?” And laughed.

Tucker trained the telescope on the rough bearing, the sun lancing from the sea, stinging and blurring his vision. He knew the sun was not to blame. And he was grateful beyond any words.

He focused the lens slowly, his body timed to the movement of the mast, which swayed as if completely separate from the hull beneath. Perhaps the lookout was mistaken, or his eyes were dazzled from hours of staring at the empty sea in its ever-changing moods. Tucker tensed and murmured, “Got you!”

But for the man from Yorkshire’s keen eyesight, they would have missed it altogether. A small vessel, possibly a schooner but now mastless and low in the water, the only sign of movement the torn remnants of her sails.

He handed the telescope to the lookout. “There she is. What’s left of her.”

“Abandoned.” The lookout passed the telescope back. “No boats on board.”

Tucker leaned over and looked at the deck below. Nobody appeared to be gazing up at the foremast now, but Squire would want to know. And the captain … He remembered the emotionless voice. One dozen lashes. How had he felt about it, if he had felt anything?

He slung the telescope across his shoulder and dug his foot into the first ratline.

The lookout said, “Thanks,” and lifted his hand. “Don’t lose any sleep.” Something in his voice made Tucker turn back. “The bastard deserved it!”

Lieutenant Squire was waiting and listened to his report and the description of the abandoned vessel without interruption, then said, “Nothing we can do. But the captain will need to know about it. I’ll take you to him.”

Midshipman Walker piped up, “He’s coming now, sir!”

Adam waited without comment until Tucker had repeated his description, and said, “We’ll alter course and intercept. It might tell us something.”

Squire bit his lip, a habit only others noticed. “Could be dark when we find her, sir.” He glanced up at the masthead pendant. “If she’s still afloat.”

Bolitho stared across the open sea, and then back at him. “At least we will have tried.” He turned toward the companion. “Chartroom. Tell the first lieutenant.”

Squire touched his hat, and beckoned to Midshipman Walker. “You heard what the captain said, boy. So go to it!”

He heard Bolitho’s voice on the companion ladder, speaking with the surgeon, either about the wounded man or the one who had stabbed him. All the same to a sawbones …

But only one man made the real decisions, and he was doing it now.

Adam Bolitho walked across the quarterdeck and saw Vincent lower his telescope and turn toward him. Beyond him and deceptively close was the disabled schooner, stern-on for the first time since the lookout had signalled for assistance.

Vincent said, “She’s called Moonstone, sir,” and grimaced. “What’s left of her.”

Adam leaned his hip against the rail and steadied the telescope as he adjusted to the deck’s uneven motion, and the plunging of the other vessel. He could calm himself, as he had often done, just by touching the engraving. His uncle’s telescope, like the old sword in the great cabin below. Strength or envy? Maybe both.

“Moonstone. By God, she’s been fired on.”

Vincent said, “You know her, sir?”

Adam shifted the glass carefully. Faces and groups of sailors, staring at the drifting schooner, as many had been doing for most of the day. Some waiting for the bell to chime from the forecastle for the first dog watch. And beyond them the sea, without the bluster and occasional whitecaps, but sullen, almost breathing.

He glanced at the sky and at the trailing masthead pendant. They could not delay much longer. He thought of the sealed orders in the strongbox below, the scarlet lettering: WITH ALL DESPATCH.

He looked directly at Vincent but he knew Monteith was hovering by the gangway, waiting to take over the watch, and already peering around as if to find something neglected and demanding his attention. He was aware of Jago too, arms folded, and staring not at the schooner but astern, outwardly relaxed; but to Adam it was like a warning. Like the stabbing in the galley. Or the epaulette sliced away by the invisible marksman’s shot.

He recalled Vincent’s question.

“Moonstone? Yes. Three years ago when I was with Unrivalled … in these same waters, or near enough.” He raised the telescope again, more slowly, focusing on the broken spars and splintered bulwark. Feeling it. “Freetown, the anti-slavery patrols. Moonstone was under Admiralty warrant, liaison between our flag officer and the shore authorities.”

Vincent was listening, but his eyes never left the schooner. Perhaps knowing her name had given her an identity, and made it personal.

“She’s going under.”

Adam looked at the sky. The wind was dropping, and there was a ridge of cloud now on a horizon which had been as sharp as steel. He said, “We’ll board her.”

He heard eight bells ring out, and the slow response of feet and voices as the watch was relieved.

Vincent did not move, even when Monteith strode across the deck and touched his hat to him, but with his eyes on his captain. Vincent looked toward the starboard gangway where Squire was pointing at something aboard the drifting schooner, shaping it with his strong hands.

“Mr. Squire, sir?” It sounded so formal that at any other time …

Adam beckoned to Jago, whose response was immediate. “No. You go, Mark. I need to know …”

“But it’s my watch, sir.”

Adam touched his arm. “Take the gig and a few extra hands. The jolly-boat has shipped some water, by the look of it.”

Jago was beside him. “Standin’ by, Cap’n.”

Adam looked up at the sky, and the loosely flapping topsails. With all despatch… The wind was dropping and had already backed a little. Onward might easily lose the time she had gained after her rough passage from Biscay, and they would get no thanks from the admiral when they eventually reached Freetown. Least of all for boarding a crippled vessel which would likely capsize and founder at any moment.

He gazed across the water. The schooner was rolling steeply in each trough, showing her copper and the splintered holes where shots had smashed into the hull. Others had brought down most of her spars and rigging. Moonstone must have been a fast sailer, like most of her breed. Then why had she not spread her canvas and run?

He said, “At the first sign of trouble, Mark-”

Vincent looked at him and nodded slowly. “I know, sir. One hand for the King.”

The falls were manned and the gig was already at deck level as Vincent turned and said, “I’m taking Napier,” then climbed down the quarter as the call came to lower away.

The gig veered away, and Adam heard Jago order the bowman to cast off.

Unsteadily at first but more strongly as the oarsmen lay back on their looms, the gig was already pulling toward Moonstone, and was soon out of sight as Jago steered around Onward‘s stern to take advantage of her lee. But not before Adam had seen Vincent half-standing in the sternsheets, and the white midshipman’s patches on the thwart below him. David Napier had proved his worth and courage before this, and had paid for it. But was that the only reason for Vincent’s choice?

Lieutenant Squire had joined Adam by the compass box, and asked, “How long, sir?”

“We will reef tops’ ls directly.” He looked again at the listing schooner. “An hour. No longer.” He had seen the clouds, closer now. “Tell the bosun to have the jolly-boat hauled alongside and bailed out.”

Squire touched his hat and strode heavily away.

In the gig, Vincent reached out and gripped Napier’s shoulder to steady himself as the tiller went over for the final approach, and felt him tense as if waiting for the impact. Or a challenge.

The bowmen were ready with two grapnels, in case one fell short.

“Back water, starboard.” Jago’s voice broke the silence as the gig nudged alongside the schooner’s hull, and another grapnel was hurled from aft.

Vincent had boarded a good many vessels on one mission or another, especially in the early days leading up to the Battle of Lissa. But someone else had been giving the orders. Now, with the Moonstone‘s side looming over him, small things stood out. Her gunports were closed, and had been newly painted. Carronades, eight or ten of them, enough to deter other small craft or would-be boarders, were unmarked, strangely at odds with the battering on the opposite side which must have dismasted her.

And now the silence. Only the occasional creak of the hulls, and the sluice of water between them. He could even hear the oarsmen’s heavy breathing after their pull away from Onward‘s side.

Jago said loudly, “Standin’ by, sir.”

Vincent looked at the bulwark and wanted to lick his lips; they felt like sand. But he reached out and seized a fistful of the broken rigging that trailed above the sealed ports and called, “Be ready!” They all knew what to do. If not… He felt his knee grate on something metal, and the breeze on his face, and he was standing on the other vessel’s deck. In seconds the boarding party had fanned out on either side of him, forward and aft, but it had seemed an age while he was standing here alone.

And Onward was in sight again, unmoving above her own reflection. Vincent examined the schooner’s guns: all secured for sea. Even a solitary swivel gun, mounted near the wheel, was still covered, and the flag locker was tidily packed with bunting.

Someone said, “Must have taken ‘em by surprise.”

Napier had come across the deck, a long splinter of wood in his hand. “Blood, sir.”

Vincent took it from him. “It’s blood, right enough. Must have been a lot of it, too.”

Jago was on his knees by the shattered bulwark. “Fired up from a boat alongside.” He frowned as the abandoned wheel jerked slightly, as if to invisible hands, and indicated the deck. “Or from ‘ere, as th’ bastard stepped aboard.”

Vincent joined him, then reached out and touched Jago’s sinewy arm. “It makes sense … That was well said, Cox’n. No signals made, no attempt to attack or repel boarders.”

Jago was still looking at Vincent’s hand on his sleeve. “Means they must have known each other.” He scowled. “They was friends!”

Napier looked back at Onward. She had turned slightly, her sails aback and flapping. Napier could see the gilded figurehead of the boy with his trident and the dolphin. Where he had sat and yarned with Midshipman Huxley, who had joined the ship with him, and who had shared so much of the elation and the pain.

“Do we return to Onward, sir?”

Vincent was also looking toward the frigate. “We’ll carry out a search as ordered. But I don’t like the look of those clouds.” He added sharply, “We can’t take Moonstone in tow. She’s sinking anyway, or soon will if a squall blows up.”

He tugged out his watch. Napier had seen it lying on the chart table several times, but had never been able to read the inscription inside the guard.

“One hour, less if possible. I’ll go aft-you check the crew’s quarters.”

He looked at Jago. “First sign of bad weather, sound the alarm and we’ll clear the ship.” Something came into his mind and he smiled. “No heroics, eh?”

Jago said, “What about the galley, sir?”

Vincent turned, with his hands on the fallen foremast. “No.” Then, more quietly, “I shall go there now. Might tell us something.” He tugged open a small hatchway. “You keep an eye on the deck and the boat.” There was no response. “Your gig, remember?”

Jago breathed out noisily, waiting for two seamen to accompany the first lieutenant. Bloody officers. But he said aloud, “Watch yer step. Yell out if you need ‘elp.” He tapped Napier’s arm as he had seen Vincent do and grinned. “An’ don’t make a meal of it.”

Two of the gig’s crew, one carrying an axe, the other with a shuttered lantern, followed Napier past a gaping hold. It must have been opened to search for something, or to remove it. It was unreal, hard to believe. The vessel was dead, and yet at each step … Napier leaned over the coaming and peered down, only to see his own reflection in the trapped water beneath him, head and shoulders framed against the sky.

The water was swilling back and forth with each uneven roll. Not deep, anyway. He saw a narrow ladder and climbed onto it, and called to the two seamen, “Take a look at that other hatch! Keep together!”

One of them waved, the other bared his teeth in a grin.

Then Napier felt the deck under his shoes, slippery, gritty with dirt from some previous cargo. He winced as the hull swayed over again and the trapped water swept around his ankles. It shocked him, like an icy touch. He waited for his nerves to settle.

He heard another hatch cover being dragged aside, then slammed shut again.

There were piles of canvas propped against one side of the hold, shining faintly, soaked through. They appeared to have been properly stacked-spare sails or awnings-but had been tossed aside as the schooner was dismasted and began to submit to the ocean.

More thuds, further away now. Not that far, he reassured himself. Moonstone was less than half the frigate’s length. Must have been a fine little ship under sail. To command. Probably a twin of the one named Pickle which had been sent by Vice-Admiral Collingwood to carry the vital and terrible news to England after Trafalgar, the great victory overshadowed by Nelson’s death. He must ask Drummond, the bosun, about it some time … It was strange, but he still saw Joshua Guthrie in his mind, Onward‘s old bosun, who had been killed.

He flinched as something fell and scraped across the deck above, perhaps a broken spar or part of the foremast. It was only a matter of time before she foundered, but how much of that time did they have? He saw some of the canvas lurch over, heard somebody shout and his companion answer, glass breaking as it fell to the deck. Then silence.

The hull swayed again and Napier moved carefully along the side of the hold and waited for the deck to right itself. It did not.

He shouted, “Anything, Lucas?” and heard the muffled reply. “Nuthin’ yet!” Anxious, even scared.

“Join the others!” and he heard the thud of feet, a hatch slamming. People had died, and they might never discover how or why. It was pointless to risk any more.

Vincent would be ready to leave, for his own reasons. One of the carelessly tied bundles of canvas thudded against his legs. He told himself to remain calm, but it was like a shouted warning. The time was now.

He turned to look for the ladder. It was in shadow, or perhaps the light was going anyway. He recalled what Vincent had said about the clouds. One squall bursting over Moonstone‘s deck, and she would be on her way to the bottom.

The fabric of his breeches caught on the edge of something that must have been shielded by the canvas and other debris, a small door or screen where tools or tackle might be stowed for unloading cargo.

He called, “Wait, Lucas!” but there was no answer. What was the point, anyway? He felt the water swilling across his feet again. It seemed deeper. Go now.

He had known fear in the past. This was different. He simply could not move.

The deck lurched again; perhaps he cried out, but there was only silence. Any second now … And then he heard it.

At first he thought it was only in his mind, the last cry, like when Audacity had gone down, but then he heard it again. A tapping, a scraping, hesitant but close. Human? He was scrabbling against the little door now, tugging at the rough clip, leaving blood on the frame but feeling nothing, only a wild desperation. Water was surging around his legs; this could be the final plunge, but it was all out of reach, unreal. Only the faint sound was vital.

Another coaming, and he almost fell. He tried to wedge the door open; otherwise he would be in complete darkness. There was very little light anyway. More fallen canvas and coils of rope, sodden papers floating like leaves, clinging to his hands as he steadied himself. The furtive scrabbling had stopped, if it had ever existed. Maybe it was in an adjoining space or hold. There was a muffled echo, as if something had reverberated against the hull, and he knew it was a shot. From Onward, from another world. The pre-arranged recall.

He pushed his shoulder against the door but it did not shift. If only. Then he froze, unable to think or breathe as something groped at his thigh and fastened to his wet clothing. Like a claw, and it was alive.

He saw the face for the first time, only the eyes catching the feeble light when the door moved slightly.

Napier struggled to move closer until their faces were almost touching, felt the shocked gasp of pain as he tried to push the debris away from the twisted limbs, heard the ragged breathing. The coat was torn and matted, not only with water but with blood, and Napier could see the faint shine of gilt buttons. When his hands fumbled against the ice-cold fingers, he felt the pistol they still gripped. It would never fire again.

Napier leaned closer, overwhelmed by the man’s pain and the smell of the filth in which he had been sprawled. How could he have hoped and lived so long after all he had seen and suffered?

The other hand fell against Napier’s wrist, clutched it, and for a few more seconds clung like iron.

“Knew … you’d … come.” He coughed and swallowed, then was silent again. Only the eyes seemed alive. Wild.

Napier thought he heard a shout. Maybe the gig was about to cast off. Leave him … He felt no fear.

He asked quietly, “How long have you-” and got no further, feeling the hand move to his throat, his face, limp now, but determined.

“Tell them, matey, an’ don’t forget, see?” He coughed blood, but his fingers had tightened. “Knew you’d come, see?”

Napier heard another spar slither across the deck, but he did not move. “Tell me!”

The eyes were closed now, but the voice seemed stronger. How could that be? “I should have known … but too late.”

“Who did this?” Napier felt the hand try to respond, but it was still. Only the eyes were alive, and the lips.

“No quarter. One by one. But I knew you’d come.”

Napier knew it was too late, for both of them. This was all they had left. And he could not move. Soon now …

He felt the fingers tighten again. “Remember the name! Tell them.”

There was silence, and Napier heard another sound: the trickle of water over the coaming, lapping against their legs.

The face moved, almost touching his; he could feel the cold, rasping breath. “Ball-an-tyne.” He was trying to squeeze his hand. “Say it! “

Napier repeated, “Ballantyne.” He felt the hand relax, and knew that he was now alone.

There was a crash, more loose gear falling in the hold, and he stood, waiting numbly for the end. Then he was gasping, his mind reeling as the door was wrenched aside, and he was being dragged clear of the floating debris.

Luke Jago exclaimed, “This is no place for you! So out of it, my lad!”

Napier was on his feet, staring back: Jago was bending over the body, the gilt buttons moving as he thrust his hand between them, the eyes fixed and gazing across his shoulders.

“Gone, poor devil.” He took Napier’s arm sharply and together they headed toward the ladder. Only then did Napier realise that the water was around his knees.

“What can I do?”

Jago stared up at the sky and the thickening layers of cloud and took a deep breath. “Pray, if you believes in it!”

They were both on deck, swaying together like two drunks recovering from a lively run ashore.

Vincent was leaning against the bulwark, alone, with his back to the sea. He snapped, “We’d almost given you up!” and gestured briskly. “Into the boat with you!”

Jago waited for them to climb down into the gig and followed. The grapnels had already been removed, and the bowmen were ready to cast off.

Napier stared at the schooner’s side, trying to marshal his thoughts.

“Shove off forrard! Out oars!”

He could sense Jago’s nearness and rock-like calm as he took control of men and oars.

Someone shouted, “She’s goin’, lads!”

Napier saw Moonstone start to turn on her side, showing her scarred deck, and the open hold where he would still be trapped but for Jago’s timely arrival. One of the broken masts slid down the deck, and he heard it crash against that same bulwark, dragging tangled rigging and canvas after it.

He gripped his wrist and could still feel the dying man’s desperation, hear his voice. The urgency and the despair. The rudder squeaked and he twisted round to see Jago swing the tiller bar, eyes steady as he gauged the moment.

There was a rumble like distant thunder, and sharper sounds as the hull continued to heel over toward them: carronades which had not been fired in Moonstone‘s defense crashing free, their great weight uncontrolled and speeding her last moments. And suddenly she was gone, the gig pitching only briefly as the wash subsided.

Napier rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. When he looked again he saw Onward, her sails aback and livid against the low clouds, waiting.

The ocean was deep here, and in his mind he could see the schooner still on her way down into eternal darkness. He gripped his wrist again and knew the memory would never leave him. Nor would he allow himself to forget.

It was a pledge.