In the King`s Name

5 FLAGSHIP

CAPTAIN ADAM BOLITHO climbed from the companion and paused to prepare his eyes for the glare. The morning watch was only an hour old but the sun, reflected from the sea, was almost blinding after the chartroom. But for the angle, it could have been noon.

A glance aloft to the masthead pendant, no longer limp or curling above the canvas but streaming its full length, pointing the way ahead. The topsails, too, were responding again, not full or straining like other times, but answering well to wind and rudder. Will it last?

For four days the wind had been their enemy. Veering and backing, or falling away altogether, a mockery rather than a challenge. Hardly a watch passed without all hands being called as Onward changed tack. Even during the night, when even an experienced sailor is never at his best.

Adam stared along the length of the ship and felt the wind, slight as it was, pressing the shirt against his back. Like the air, his skin was already warm and clammy. As Jago had remarked over his razor, “Best to keep dressed down while you can, Cap’n.”

Most of the men working on or above deck were stripped to the waist, some badly burned by sun and wind, and despite the early hour there were several of them loitering on the gangways, peering ahead, or pointing at the vast span of land that reached out on either bow as far as the eye could see. At first only a long unwavering shadow, unmoving, beyond reach, but now, after two days of doubt and uncertainty, it was reality. Measureless. Not merely land, but a continent.

Adam glanced at the sails again, and thought he saw one of the topmen pointing at something, grinning or swearing, he could not tell. But he felt it. Shared it. At moments like this, we are one company.

He knew that Vincent was standing with his arms folded, observing the men around the wheel and compass box. It was his watch, although he and his captain had met a few times when every one had been mustered for another alteration of course. Like strangers in the night. This was different. As first lieutenant, Vincent would be on his feet and dealing with everything from mooring the ship to any ceremonial required.

Vincent turned now as someone gave a quiet cheer, but seemed to visibly relax as men moved aside to let another find a place at the nettings. It was the young assistant cook, Lord, with one of the surgeon’s crew hovering at his side. The bandages gleamed in the hot sunlight, and Adam could sense his surprise, even confusion, as the way was cleared for him. There were grins and jokes, too. Lord looked steadily at the land, unable to respond. Perhaps the emotion was too much. It was his first day on deck since the stabbing.

It gave Vincent time to cross the quarterdeck and touch his hat to Adam. “Holding steady, sir. West nor’ west. We’ll anchor in the forenoon if this holds.” He glanced at the thin plume of greasy smoke from the galley funnel. “Good thing we piped all hands an hour early!”

Adam smiled. “They’ve done well.” He saw some of the first to be called appearing on deck, yawning and looking curiously at the land as they began to stack their rolled hammocks in the nettings, a bosun’s mate making sure that there were no errors to spoil the array. He added quietly, “And so have you, Mark.”

Vincent walked to the compass box and back, and said only, “D’ you know the admiral at Freetown, sir?”

Adam saw a fish leap in the ship’s shadow, not a shark this time. He was still thinking of the stricken schooner Moonstone. Maybe Vincent was, too.

“Rear-Admiral Langley? Only by name, I’m afraid. There have been several changes since I was last here, to all accounts.”

Vincent nodded slowly. “They’ll all be hungry for news. Wanting to know what’s happening at home.”

Adam looked toward the spreading panorama of green and felt the sun on his neck, like a hot breath. And this was early. News from home.

The admiral might be watching Onward right now through his telescope, if he allowed himself to appear so eager. He thought of the sealed orders. With all despatch… And after their delivery, what next? Take on supplies and fresh water, and then back to Plymouth?

He saw the cook’s assistant looking at the galley funnel, and the surgeon’s mate shaking his head. Not yet. You didn’t have to hear them speak. He looked again: most of the hammocks had been lashed and stowed, and one of the last men to stand away from the nettings was throwing his head back and giving a huge yawn. He froze as he realised that he was eye to eye with his captain.

Adam raised a casual hand and smiled, and saw the seaman abruptly bob his head before hurrying away.

The calls shrilled: “Hands to breakfast and clean!”

Adam shaded his eyes and said, “You go below too, Mark. We’ll all be busy enough soon.”

He saw Vincent rub his chin and then nod. “Thank you, sir. I’ll not take a moment. If you’re sure.”

Adam heard the companion close, and walked to the quarterdeck rail, gazing toward the shore. Even without a telescope he could see some small local vessels, far away, like dried leaves floating against the unmoving backdrop. One day, Vincent would understand that at a moment like this a captain needed to be alone. With his ship.

The two midshipmen stood side by side on the forecastle as the land, now alive with detail, continued to reach out and embrace the ship. Despite the sounds of spars and rigging, which most sailors took for granted as part of their daily lives, the silence was unnerving, and a moment before, someone had gasped with alarm as the first strokes of eight bells had sounded from the nearby belfrey.

David Napier nudged his friend’s arm with his elbow and felt him respond.

Lieutenant Squire stood stolidly with his hands clasped behind him, big feet apart, watching the guardboat which had pulled out to greet Onward on her final approach and had taken station directly ahead. The wind had held after all, but the pace seemed painfully slow under the lee of the land.

The gunner had already been on deck, but no salute was required. He had grinned. “They’re not out of their sacks yet!” Even his voice had seemed louder than usual.

Midshipman Huxley murmured, “There’s the flagship, Dave.”

His Britannic Majesty’s ship Medusa was a smart third-rate, a two-decker of seventy-four guns. She did not compare with the massive ships of the line, but here she seemed to dominate the anchorage. Most of the other vessels were much smaller: cutters, two brigantines, and one schooner.

Napier heard Huxley mutter, “She’s like-”

He did not finish. Neither of them needed reminding, especially Napier. The memory of Moonstone still took him unawares, in the night watches or when some casual remark brought some part of it back to life. Like now.

He looked aft and saw the first lieutenant standing by the captain, pointing up at the topsail yards, where seamen stood ready to shorten or make more sail if the wind roused itself or dropped altogether. Did Vincent ever think about it? That more could have been done? If anything, he had avoided mentioning it.

Napier thought of the captain. He had seen the sharks, and signalled the recall immediately. But for that …

He cupped his hands over his eyes and stared across the water toward Medusa. She was moored alongside a pier or wooden jetty, the rear-admiral’s flag drooping from her mizzen, and he could see a few figures working on deck and the sun reflecting on a telescope.

Lieutenant Squire said suddenly, “We shall rig winds’ls as soon as we anchor. Be like an oven ‘tween-decks otherwise.”

“Is that what the flagship’s doing, sir?” That was Huxley, as serious as ever.

Squire grunted. “Not sure.”

Napier looked away from the slow-moving schooner. “Maybe Medusa’s preparing for sea?”

Somebody yelled from aft and Squire strode to the side and gestured to some of the anchor party. But he still managed to crack a grin.

“If the flagship went to sea, that whole bloody pier would collapse!” He clapped one of the seamen on the shoulder as he was gaping at the great anchor hanging from its cathead. “Ready for a run ashore, Knocker? Or are you too young for it?”

There were several raucous laughs, and one of the younger seamen took up Squire’s mood. “Wot are the girls like ‘ere, sir?”

Squire looked at the two midshipmen and winked. “Only one way to find out!” Just as quickly, he was serious again. “Stand by forrard, and warn the hands below!”

Napier saw the guardboat turning slightly, oars motionless, and someone holding up the blue flag. He thought of the charts, the countless pencilled calculations, the hundreds of miles logged and recorded, all culminating in this final position, marked by a blue flag.

He nudged Huxley again. “It’s probably still snowing in Falmouth!”

Huxley gave a rare smile. “My father always said …” He stopped and withdrew into silence, a habit Napier had noticed that very first day when they had joined Onward together, he still recovering from the loss of his ship and Huxley brooding over his father’s court-martial and suicide.

He said gently, “Tell me, Simon. What did your father used to say?” and for a moment he thought he had broken an unspoken promise.

Then Huxley answered steadily, “My father said a good navigator measured distance by the number of ship’s biscuits consumed each day …” He faltered, but he was smiling. “Sorry about that!” And the smile remained.

Napier stared up at the yards and the topmen spread out along them, and guessed his newly promoted friend, Tucker, would be watching them, too.

Lieutenant Squire was saying, “Quiet enough. Must all be asleep aboard the flagship.” He beckoned to Napier. “My respects to the first lieutenant, and tell him …” He stopped as another voice came from aft.

“Signal from Flag, sir! Captain repair on board!”

“Let go!”

Squire leaned over the side as Onward‘s anchor dropped from its cathead and felt the spray across his face like rain; it was almost as cold on his heated skin. Mud and sand swirled to the surface as the cable took the strain.

He signalled to the quarterdeck and saw Vincent acknowledge it. It was over, but Squire knew from long experience that it was also just beginning.

“Attention on the upper deck! Face to starboard!”

Then the prolonged trill of calls in salute for the captain, and, seconds later or so it seemed, the gig pulled smartly away from the side. Squire straightened his back automatically and felt Napier move up beside him. He saw the sun glinting on the oars and then on the captain’s gold epaulettes as he sat stiffly upright in the sternsheets. He seemed to be looking up at Onward‘s figurehead, or the men on the forecastle. Maybe at Napier.

It must be difficult for both of them, captain and “middy.” More than any one. To show any sign of friendship or familiarity would be seen as favouritism or bias by those eager to seize on such things.

Squire peered across at the flagship and thought he heard the blare of a trumpet. Neither captain was wasting any time.

At the gig’s tiller, Luke Jago watched the steady stroke of oars and waited for it to settle into a rhythm that satisfied him. Everything smart and clean, the crew dressed in their chequered shirts and straw hats. He envied them; he was wearing his jacket with the gilt buttons, and was already sweating badly. He glanced at the captain in his best uniform; even the proud epaulettes looked heavy on his shoulders.

Jago stared past the stroke oarsman’s head at the flagship’s mainmast, alert for any drift that might require a shift of rudder. There was none. A good crew. He grinned to himself. An’ a good coxswain.

He thought of Lieutenant Monteith, who had been pompously inspecting all the boats’ crews as soon as the anchor had hit the seabed. “Always remember, a ship is judged by her boats. Skill and smartness speak for themselves!”

Jago had heard a seaman mutter, “Then let ‘em!” But he had pretended not to hear. The third lieutenant seemed to thrive on his unpopularity, and Jago suspected that it was not only with the lower deck.

He felt the captain shift his position and knew he was looking astern at his ship.

A strange feeling: it always was. Adam Bolitho shaded his eyes with one hand against the fierce glare reflecting from the anchorage. He could still see the tiny figures working aloft on Onward‘s upper yards, ensuring all the sails were neatly furled to Vincent’s satisfaction. He half smiled. And to his captain’s.

He tried not to pluck his damp shirt away from his skin. It was the same one he had been wearing when they had begun the approach to Freetown. Even his slight unsteadiness climbing down into the gig had warned him. He would have to watch his step when he went ashore. It would be the first time since Plymouth. He glanced at the stroke oarsman and saw him look away hurriedly. And before that, Falmouth. If only…

He looked ahead to the flagship, Medusa. Not unlike Athena, in which he had been Bethune’s flag captain, smartly painted in her black and white livery and shining like glass in the glare. All her gunports were open, but without windsails hoisted there would be little ventilation between decks with the ship not even swinging at anchor. Maybe she was preparing for sea. He dismissed the idea. There were several lighters alongside one another, and he could just see a small stage, a “flake,” hanging over the quarter, probably so that some repairs could be carried out.

He murmured to Jago, “We’ve done this a few times, Luke,” and his voice was almost lost in the regular creak of oars. But Jago never seemed to miss anything. Unless he wanted to.

He did not take his eyes from the approach; he had seen a telescope or two being trained on his gig.

Jago answered calmly, “Be doin’ it when it’s your flag up there bein’ saluted, Cap’n.” He sounded completely serious.

The cry echoed across the water. “Boat ahoy?”

Jago judged the moment, then cupped his hands, his elbow on the tiller-bar. “On-ward!”

Adam felt the sword hilt pressing against his leg. It had been polished by Morgan, the cabin servant, and, like his dress uniform coat, had been waiting for him. He had told himself that he must never take these small acts beyond the call of duty for granted. Too many were guilty of that.

“Oars!”

Adam shifted the sword again. He had never forgotten the tale of a captain who had tripped over his own sword under similar circumstances and had fallen into the sea. He had been a midshipman at the time, and they had all laughed uproariously about it.

Now the oars were tossed, the bowmen ready to make fast as the flagship’s side loomed over them. Only one deck higher than Onward, but it seemed like a cliff. There was the entry port, with two side-boys waiting below it. Voices, the sound of a solitary call, then total silence.

Adam stood up and half turned as Jago handed him the sealed package. He began to climb, the orders pressed firmly beneath his arm, and gripping a hand rope to steady himself. One slip now, and it would be the story of how Adam Bolitho fell into the sea at Freetown … But the smile eluded him. He could smell food, and recalled that he had not eaten since midnight.

He saw a line of feet, and boots as well-Royal Marines-and heard the sudden bark of commands. He was still unused to these honours for himself. Then the piercing squeal of calls, heels clicking together, and the distant shouting of commands. He stepped through the entry port and faced aft, doffing his hat as the sounds of the salute died away.

A shaft of sunlight from the opposite side of the deck blinded him, and the uniforms, scarlet or blue like his own, seemed to blur and merge. He almost lost his balance.

But a hand reached out. “Here, let me take that.” And he heard what might have been a dry chuckle. “It’s safe with me, Captain Adam Bolitho!”

Adam saw the hand gripping his arm now, strong and sunburned, like the man.

So many memories crowding into seconds, good and bad, which neither time nor distance could dispel. It was Captain James Tyacke, who had done and given so much, almost his life, and who had become one of Sir Richard Bolitho’s firmest friends as his flag captain in Frobisher. He had been with him when Bolitho had fallen to a French marksman four years ago.

It was not possible.

Tyacke was handing the sealed orders to a tall sergeant of marines. “Guard ‘em with your life, right?” and the man smiled gravely as he saluted.

Somewhere there was the pipe, “Hands carry on with your work!” and Tyacke was saying, “I hoped it was you, as soon as I was told that Onward was in sight. But I wasn’t sure till I saw you in the glass that you were still in command.” He gripped Adam’s arm. “By God, it’s good to see you! Come aft with me. The admiral’s ashore, but he’ll be back about noon.”

A lieutenant was hovering by the gangway and Tyacke paused to speak with him, gesturing toward the entry port, now deserted except for the watchkeepers and a sentry.

It was the first time Adam had seen the scarred side of his face since he had stepped aboard; maybe, like most people, he had been subconsciously avoiding it, for both their sakes.

Tyacke, then a lieutenant, had been wounded at Aboukir Bay-the Battle of the Nile as it was officially called. He had been stationed on the lower gundeck when an explosion had transformed the confined world of load-run out-fire-sponge out-reload… into an inferno. Tyacke had lived. Many had not.

Now, only the overwhelming victory against the old enemy was remembered, but James Tyacke would never forget. One side of what had been a handsome face was deeply tanned, like the strong hands. The other was lifeless, like melted wax. That his eye had survived was a miracle.

The devil with half a face, the slavers used to call him.

He turned now and said, “I’ve sent word for your boat’s crew to be taken care of. I see you’ve got the same fierce cox’n. Glad about that.”

They walked aft together, then Tyacke halted and gazed across the water toward the anchored frigate.

“Fine ship, Adam.” He softened the emphasis with a smile. “I envy you.”

They walked on; Adam could feel his shoes sticking to the deckseams, and it was still the forenoon. He said, “I saw that you were lowering the winds’ls.”

Tyacke glanced at him but did not pause. “Flagship, Adam. The admiral considers ‘em unsightly.”

They reached the shade of the poop and Adam saw two Royal Marines, one a corporal, checking the contents of a box. He pitied them in their heavy uniforms, but to be dressed otherwise would be “unsightly” too, he guessed.

The corporal cleared his throat and said, “Beg your pardon, sir?”

Adam recognised him. “Price. Ginger Price, am I right?”

The corporal nodded and grinned, momentarily at a loss for words. Then he said, “Not quite so ginger now, sir! But I ain’t never forgotten the old Unrivalled!”

They were both gazing after the two captains as Tyacke said quietly, “You’re very like him, y’ know, Adam.” He did not need to elaborate, and Adam was moved by it.

He had already noticed that the flag captain’s aiguillette Tyacke wore was quite tarnished compared with the other lace on his uniform coat. It might have been the same one he had been wearing on that fateful day.

The cabin door was closed behind them, although Adam had not noticed any one in attendance. He must be more tired than he imagined.

Tyacke turned, framed against the broad stern windows. “And the sword, too! I want to hear all about you!” His eyes rested briefly on the sealed orders, which had been laid on a table. He must be wondering how they might affect the entire command, or his own ship. His life.

But all he said was, “From England.” Then he smiled freely. “It does me good to see you again-I can’t tell you how much. And I want to apologise for dragging you aboard when your anchor’d hardly touched the bottom. I wanted to meet and talk with you before anybody else hauled you away. You’ve been a flag captain yourself-you won’t need telling!” He unfastened his coat and slung it over the back of a chair, gesturing for Adam to do the same. “The admiral usually keeps to time, so we have a while to ourselves.”

Adam hung his coat on another chair and loosened his sweat-stained shirt. Then he unfastened his sword, and hesitated as Tyacke said, “Here. Let me.”

He held the sword with both hands for a long moment, then drew the blade a few inches, very slowly, before snapping it into the sheath. “Brings it all back, Adam. The man, too.” The scarred face softened at some private reminiscence. “‘Equality Dick.’ God bless him.”

The door opened and a man in a white jacket peered in at them seriously. “You called, sir?”

Tyacke smiled. “No, Simpson, but I will now,” and to Adam, “Sun’s over the yardarm. D’you fancy a brandy with me?”

“Thank you.” But as the door closed and the cabin servant departed, Adam said, “Suppose the admiral arrives?”

“He’s been ashore with some ‘important officials.’” Tyacke winked. “I imagine they’ll have shared a tot or two by this hour!”

Adam looked uneasily at the door. “The admiral-is he easy to work with?” and Tyacke grimaced.

“Under, more like.” He loosened his neckcloth. “He’s been in command for three months, and I know him no better than the first day.” He laughed shortly. “Except that he’s always right. You’ll know the situation?”

Someone shouted, the sound muffled by deck and distance, and followed by the regular thump of feet. Marines.

Tyacke shrugged. “We have a lot of Royals in Freetown. Here aboard Medusa, too. Just in case, as they say.” He leaned forward from his chair. “Didn’t someone tell me you were getting married?” He frowned. “Dear old John Allday, I think it was. When I was still a frigate captain like you, till I was shifted to this.” He waved one arm around the spacious cabin. “I’m luckier than many, I suppose. But …”

The door swung open and the servant came in quietly and set two crystal goblets down beside the sealed orders.

Tyacke nodded. “That’s excellent, thank you.” The servant was hesitating, and he said with a certain emphasis, “All for now, Simpson,” and when they were alone again, “Here’s to you and your lady.” When he put down the goblet, it was empty.

Then he said, “What’s her name?”

Adam gazed past him. “Lowenna. It means ‘joy’ in old Cornish. We were married at Falmouth, in November,” and he thought Tyacke sighed.

“That’s a lovely name. I gave up hope long ago.” He was touching the scarred side of his face, a habit of which he was probably unaware. “But I didn’t drag you from your own fine ship just to hear all my-”

The door opened once more, although there had been no knock. It was a lieutenant, one of the officers who had been with the side party when Adam had climbed aboard.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but …” He glanced at the two coats draped casually over the chairs. “… the admiral is on the jetty, sir.”

Tyacke stood up without haste. “Thanks, Martin. I’ll do the same for you one day!”

The lieutenant was hurrying from the cabin.

Tyacke said dryly, “Stand by to repel boarders!” and reached out to keep Adam seated. “Now we wait. You do, anyway.” Then he was suddenly serious. “You don’t know what this means to me, Adam.” He touched the sword again. “Together.” And the door closed behind him.

Adam refastened the sword and resumed his seat, stretching his legs, trying to relax. No matter what others might think, Tyacke was quite alone. He had asked about Lowenna, but what did he really feel? Envy or resentment?

On that last night, Adam had awakened, reaching out for her, and had seen her standing by the windows, curtains wide, moonlight like silver on her naked shoulders. They had held one another again, trying to delay the inevitable. When the dawn came he had heard her say, “Today, the sea is my enemy.”

He stared up at the same white-coated servant. Had he touched his shoulder to awaken him? Was that possible? He asked, “Time to move, Simpson?”

The man seemed surprised, perhaps that the stranger had remembered his name, or even cared to use it. He said, “Heard voices, sir,” and jerked a thumb up at the deckhead. “Best to be prepared.”

Adam stood up and tugged his collar into shape, and paused as the servant said, “You’ve not had your drink, sir.”

The goblet was still full, the brandy unmoving, as if the flagship were firmly aground.

Adam clapped his shoulder impetuously. “Too late now! I hope you can find a good home for it!”

The man regarded him with disbelief for a second, then grinned back. “As good as done, an’ thank you, Captain!”

Footsteps outside the door: it was the lieutenant again, the one Tyacke had called by his first name. Probably his first lieutenant.

Adam patted his pockets and paused at the door to make certain he had forgotten nothing. The goblet was already empty.

The lieutenant said, “The admiral is ready to receive you now, sir.”

“Wish me luck, Martin.”

A Royal Marine sentry stamped his heels together, and an orderly called, “Captain Bolitho, sir!”

Medusa‘s great cabin was not unlike that of any two-decker Adam had known, or Bethune’s flagship Athena. Although most sailors would swear that no two ships were the same. He had expected others to be present, Tyacke and perhaps a flag lieutenant, or a clerk at least, to take note of any exchange of views. But there was nobody else, and the cabin was dominated by its sole occupant.

Rear-Admiral Giles Langley was tall and square-shouldered, thick-set beneath his immaculate uniform. His hair, reflected now in the white-painted deckhead, was very fair and trimmed short in the style favoured by the younger breed of sea officer. His eyes were in shadow, and Adam realised there was a curtain of some kind half-drawn across the stern lights and windows.

But the smile was immediate and, he thought, sincere.

“I regret the delay, Bolitho. You must be feeling the strain after your long haul.” He gestured to a large table and a litter of papers, and the package, now sliced open. There were pens and ink containers close by so he had not been alone, until now.

He waved Adam to a chair but walked restlessly to the curtain and twitched it slightly. “Yours is a fine-looking ship, Bolitho. Fast too, it would seem.” He did not wait for an answer. “But for the weather,” he looked over his shoulder, “and the unfortunate Moonstone diversion, you would have arrived here even earlier, eh?”

In those few seconds Adam saw that his eyes were blue, and pale like glass.

Langley shuffled some papers. “I read your report, of course. In the little time I’ve had since …” He did not finish. Instead, he turned over a page. “Boarding party. With your own first lieutenant in charge?” The pale eyes lifted briefly. “Good man, is he?”

“He’s been Onward‘s first lieutenant since she commissioned, sir.”

“Not quite what I asked, but no matter.” Langley looked at him directly. “And there was only one survivor on board? The master, you thought? Did your lieutenant express any opinion?”

“That Moonstone had been totally unprepared, and had been fired on without warning. She was already sinking when the boarding party reached her. I signalled the recall when the weather deteriorated and was threatening my men.”

Langley nodded slowly. “The lone survivor was still alive at that time.” His fingers tapped the papers. “Did your first lieutenant glean any information from him?”

“Mr. Vincent was on deck when I made the recall signal. It was one of my midshipmen who was speaking with him, and who stayed with him until he died. He was all but trapped himself.”

The fingers rapped the papers again. “Hardly an experienced witness, Bolitho.”

Adam met the pale eyes coldly. “I trust him, sir.”

Langley’s smile was almost gentle. “That is commendable too, Bolitho.” He was on his feet again. “You know my flag captain, I understand. A very capable officer. I don’t know how I would have coped when I was given this command, without his knowledge and persistence. A pity I could not …” He shrugged, and the epaulettes glittered in a shaft of sunlight which had somehow penetrated the curtain.

Adam had already noticed that Langley’s skin was quite pale, with little hint of colour, although Tyacke had said he had become flag officer at Freetown three months ago. Long enough to have felt the sun of Africa.

Langley said suddenly, “I’m glad to welcome you under my command, albeit temporarily. I have no doubt you’ll be eager to return to England without unnecessary delay.” He frowned as someone tapped at the door. “We will talk again. Possibly tomorrow. I have heard a good deal about you. And I shall discover what I can about Moonstone. And when I do-”

The door opened and Tyacke was standing outside, his hat beneath his arm. Langley gave the gentle smile again.

“Right on time!”

Tyacke strode into the great cabin, but perhaps because of the gloomy interior after the fierce sunlight on deck he did not appear to see Adam as he passed.

A different lieutenant was waiting to escort Adam to the entry port where the gig was waiting. About time, too. He could almost hear Jago saying it. A squad of Royal Marines presented arms and officers saluted, but there was no piping of the side as Adam left the ship. The admiral was in conference.

Tyacke had kept his promise: the gig’s crew looked refreshed and rested, and when Jago stood in the sternsheets to greet him he could smell the rum.

Then, as the gig pulled out and away from Medusa‘s shadow, Adam suddenly got to his feet and gazed astern, and he saluted, not the flag this time, but James Tyacke, brave and defiant. And very much alone.