In the King`s Name

6 “DON’T LOOK DOWN!”

LIEUTENANT MARK VINCENT half closed his eyes against the sun as he watched yet another work boat pull away from Onward‘s side, and stifled a yawn. It seemed he had been on his feet since they had anchored yesterday. It felt longer. Fresh water, food and general supplies all had to be checked and signed for, and supervised in stowage by the master and the purser to their satisfaction or otherwise.

Vincent did not have to turn his head to know that the windsails were barely moving. They gave some relief between decks, but not here. He had already heard one working party complaining to the bosun about it.

“In a few weeks’ time, if we’re still in this godforsaken place, you might have somethin’ to moan about!” Drummond had laid his hand on the breech of the nearest eighteen-pounder. “You’ll be able to fry an egg on this beauty!”

And how long were they going to be here?

Vincent looked across the water toward the flagship. Bolitho had reported to the admiral and delivered the despatches, and Vincent had seen the flag captain through a telescope for the first time. He had felt both revulsion and pity at his hideous disfigurement. Suppose it had happened to me? Maybe James Tyacke had obtained no higher command because of it, despite everything he had done, and this was the end of the road …

He heard Lieutenant Monteith’s curt tone as he finished his instructions to the midshipmen on harbour routine. Vincent was the first lieutenant and could show no favour or prejudice toward any one. They shared the same wardroom, and at sea worked watch by watch. But that was all, and his dislike of the third lieutenant remained intense. He was still ashamed that when Monteith had been wounded during the fight with Nautilus he had felt no sympathy, only sorrow for those who had died.

He turned quickly as he heard the captain’s voice from the open skylight. How must he feel? Being kept here awaiting orders, and probably thinking all the time of the woman he had left behind in Falmouth? Vincent himself had had only one serious affair, which could have ended in disaster. She had been a married woman, and had proved an experienced lover, but she was the wife of a senior officer. A damned close-run thing. He had never forgotten. He almost smiled. But I’ll wager she has.

Drummond, the bosun, crossed the hot deck and touched his hat. “‘Bout ready to secure, sir. Still some new cordage to come aboard, but the lads ‘ave done well.”

He assessed Vincent, making up his mind. Saint or tyrant? The first lieutenant was neither. Drummond continued cautiously, “Rear-Admiral Langley, sir …” He did not look toward Medusa. “I had a mate who served under ‘im before ‘e came ‘ere.” He paused. He had only known Vincent since the old bosun had been killed. And maybe …

Vincent said testily, “Come along, man. Speak up.”

“‘E was commodore then, sir. Used to carry out inspections, no warning. Often with a newly joined ship.”

Vincent was staring at the open skylight. “Well, well. I wonder if-” Then the dark face lit with a grin. “Thank you. I’ll not forget this. That would be all I’d need!”

Drummond hoped he masked his surprise. It was taking him longer to understand the first lieutenant than he had expected when he had joined Onward. Vincent could be strict, but not aggressively so, like some Drummond had known, and he was always ready to listen when advice was required. But beyond that, he seemed to remain aloof, even in the wardroom from what Drummond had heard.

This was a small thing, but Vincent’s gratitude was like a door opening. Close co-operation between first lieutenant and bosun was essential. Together, they were the ship. He had seen Vincent look toward the cabin skylight. Only the captain was truly alone. Drummond glanced along the upper deck and was satisfied. Smart and tidy enough again for any admiral.

He looked at Vincent’s profile, edged with hard sunlight. A strong face, alert and intelligent: it was said that he had been in line for command when Onward had commissioned. Was he still thinking about that lost chance, still hoping? The hope might be in vain, especially these days with the fleet being cut down.

He tugged out his silver call and held it in the palm of his hand, where it looked no bigger than a toothpick.

“Just say the word, Mister Vincent!”

He saw Vincent walking toward the companionway, maybe to pass on to the captain the news about the admiral’s little foible. Monteith’s sharp voice intruded into his thoughts, impatient and sarcastic. There would be no tears if he fell overboard one dark night.

And there was Walker, their youngest midshipman, nodding obediently and repeating something for Monteith’s benefit, while Monteith stood, hands behind his back, feet flexing up and down in their brightly polished shoes.

“I shall not ask you again, Mr. Walker!”

Drummond quickened his pace. Young Walker might make a good officer one day, given the right example to follow. Strange to realise that when he himself had been serving aboard the seventy-four gun Mars at Trafalgar, in the thick of the fighting in which his own captain had been killed, young Walker would have only just been born. If then. It was a sobering thought.

He gritted his teeth and felt sand or dust grate between them, but there seemed to be no wind to have carried it. He licked his lips. Maybe cooler down in the mess.

He heard Monteith’s voice again, rising almost to a scream. “So you think that’s a joke, do you? Made you smirk, did it? Then go to the maintop and stay there until I recall you!”

One of the seamen who was coiling some new rope nearby muttered, “Poor little bastard’ll burn alive up there.” His friend saw Drummond and spat, “Bloody officers!”

Drummond heard both of them, and was reminded of his own remark. This godforsaken place. Now it was mocking him, like the old warning. Stay out of it!

He saw the midshipman climbing slowly up the starboard ratlines, slight body framed against the sky. Monteith had already disappeared, no doubt to the cooler air of the wardroom, where he would be having a wet before making someone else’s life a misery.

Drummond made his decision. He took a water flask from behind the flag locker where it was kept hidden for the watchkeepers, although everybody knew about it, and strolled unhurriedly to the mainmast shrouds.

He stared across the water toward the flagship, but nothing seemed to have changed. No boats at or near the entry port, but maybe there were some tied up against or beneath the pier. Obviously the admiral had more sense than to venture out in an open boat with the sun at its zenith.

He could feel his shirt clinging to his shoulders like a damp skin, and the sweat already running down his ribs and hips. A few faces turned curiously in his direction, but just as quickly avoided his eyes. He seized the ratlines. In case I might find some more work for them to do.

He stared up at the maintop, black against the burning sky. He had been at sea all his life, probably longer than any one else aboard, except for a few like Lieutenant Squire and Jago, the captain’s coxswain.

He had never forgotten that one time when he had been ordered aloft by an officer. Not calm like today, but in a raging gale with a full sea running. He must have been about Walker’s age. He had nearly fallen. A few seconds. A lifetime.

He could recall the comment by the tough, hard-bitten seaman who had saved his life. When a bit of gold lace tells you to jump, look first! He had even been able to laugh about it.

He leaned back and began to climb.

He had the sun behind him, but knew he needed to keep a sharp lookout when he reached the shade and comparative safety of the top. He held his breath and halted as something struck his shoulder from above and bounced off the ratlines. He did not need to look. It was a shoe. He wanted to call out to the boy, but the distraction could be fatal. Walker was already climbing again.

In no time, or so it seemed, Drummond had reached the futtock shrouds where it was necessary to rely on feet and hands to take the weight and to work your way out and around the fighting top, before you could begin the next stage. It was the mark of a good seaman. Drummond could feel his weight dragging at his fingers, his shoes slipping on every ratline. Not like those early days hanging out over the sea, never daring to look down.

He was pleased that he was not even breathless. It would be something to tell them in the mess at the end of the day …

He had reached the barricade, and gripped one of the iron mountings for a swivel gun to pull himself the last few feet. He was slow when compared with the sure-footed topmen who could make or shorten sail in minutes, and seemingly without effort. Like young Tucker, his new mate. A far cry from the poor, frightened devils who used to be dragged aboard by ruthless press gangs, never having set foot aboard ship before.

The midshipman was sitting on the edge of the lubbers’ hole to avoid the hazards of the futtock shrouds. Always risky, but with Monteith watching or yelling threats from below, it was a wise precaution. Walker gazed up at him, one leg dangling through the hole as he tried to fan his streaming face with his hat.

He said quietly, “I almost slipped.” He was shaking, but trying to conceal it.

Drummond knew the signs. The boy was no coward; he had proved that under the guns, and when others were falling around him. And when men had cheered him for his birthday, while hell had been exploding across these same decks.

“Stay where you are.” Drummond knelt beside him. “An’ take a swig of this.” He grinned and felt his jaw crack. “Didn’t do me no good, neither!”

He watched the boy swallow, some of the water running down his chin and neck. It would be stale after lying sealed up since … since when? But at this moment it would match the best wine in the fleet.

“I’ll get someone to see you down to the deck. A bowline round the waist would be a good idea.”

Walker seized his wrist and stared up at him imploringly. “No!” He faltered and tried again. “I don’t want to let them think …”

He stopped as Drummond said, “Don’t you start givin’ me orders, Mister Walker. Not yet, anyways.” He attempted to shift his own position and felt the pain jab through his muscles.

He looked across the anchorage to give them both time to recover. An entire area was filled with lifeless, abandoned vessels, masts and yards awry, untended. Awaiting sale or disposal elsewhere. Maddock, the gunner, had told him that most of them had been part of the trade. Slavers, which had been caught by some of the patrols before or after they had attempted to break out and escape.

Why any one would want to use one of them after what they had done was hard to imagine.

“They should burn the bloody lot of ‘em. Their crews, too,” he said now. Walker had managed to lean on his elbows, the leg still dangling toward the deck below. “You feelin’ any better?”

Walker did not reply directly. “What is that boat doing there amongst them?”

Drummond wiped his eyes and squinted. Then he gripped Walker’s bony shoulder. “Nothin’ wrong with your eyesight, thank God!” He gestured through the lubbers’ hole. “We’re goin’ down now, nice an’ easy, one step at a time, see?”

Walker nodded like a puppet. “But Lieutenant Monteith ordered me to …”

Drummond peered down at the deck. Nothing had changed. A Royal Marine was walking slowly along the starboard gangway, keeping pace with a small craft paddling a few yards away from the frigate’s side. A normal precaution: it was common enough for a would-be thief to slip aboard through one of the open ports if nobody was watching.

Everybody else would be looking at the flagship. As I was.

He said, “Never mind that. I want you to find the first lieutenant, an’ don’t take no from any one!”

Walker had lowered his legs, one foot shoeless, over the edge of the platform. “What shall I tell him?” He sounded calmer now, under control, but Drummond wanted to be sure.

“Just keep with me an’ don’t look down, right?” He glanced toward the rank of lifeless vessels. He had had only a brief glimpse of it, but it was still fixed in his mind: a longboat, double-banked, two oarsmen on each thwart, pulling steadily, even unhurriedly beyond the shabby prizes.

He replied, “Tell ‘im the admiral is in sight!” He caught Walker’s arm and grinned. “Don’t stop for nobody!”

He watched the midshipman jump down to the deck, pause, and tear off his remaining shoe before hurrying aft. Someone shouted after him, perhaps Monteith, but he did not stop or turn back.

Drummond followed easily, and wedged the empty water flask behind the flag locker. Until the next time.

Young Walker would remember today, and be proud.

Drummond moistened his call with the tip of his tongue. To hell with Monteith!

After the uncertainty which had followed Walker’s breathless arrival at the door of the captain’s quarters, the speed with which the actual event unfolded was almost a relief.

A cry from the lookout: “Boat ahoy?”

And the formal response, magnified by a speaking-trumpet, “Flag-Medusa!” left nobody in doubt.

Adam Bolitho watched the admiral’s barge turning to moor alongside, the double line of oars rising together, bowmen poised and ready to hook on. Even at this distance he could sense the strain and effort after their long pull as a diversion, chests heaving, faces shining with sweat. Jago would be observing critically, and would have a few things to say afterwards about it.

Adam had seen Vincent pass Drummond, the bosun, on the way to their stations for such an event, saw the nod and the answering grin. Like a couple of conspirators. The barge’s coxswain was on his feet now, hat in hand, two lieutenants, one obviously remaining in charge, also standing and saluting. And Rear-Admiral Giles Langley’s pallid face turned up toward the entry port where the side-boys were waiting, complete with white gloves, to offer assistance.

Langley ignored both and seized a hand rope, still looking up at the motionless ensign.

Langley was not lightly built, but he seemed untroubled by the climb from his barge, or the stamp of boots and attendant squeal of calls as he stepped aboard.

One of the other officers, his flag lieutenant, followed at a discreet distance, stiff-faced, accustomed to such ceremonial. Langley waited for the calls to fall silent, and the muskets to slap into position. Then he smiled and raised his hat as he faced aft. It was more of a gesture than a salute.

He thrust out his hand to Adam. “I said we should meet today!” and with a curt nod, “This is ‘Flags.’” He did not offer a name. The lieutenant was obviously used to that, too.

Langley waved his hand expansively. “Would you steer the course, Captain Bolitho? It’s not every day …” He allowed the phrase to dangle, perhaps a habit, perhaps for effect.

Adam strode aft, looking for flaws. The lieutenants and senior warrant officers waiting on the quarterdeck, and most of the duty watch mustered below the boat tier, the uniforms of a sweating squad of Royal Marines a vivid splash of colour amidships. A midshipman stood stiffly by each gangway, in case of any urgent message or change of procedure.

He thought of Midshipman Walker, and the quiet determination with which he had bluffed his way past the cabin sentry. And Vincent, usually so loath to reveal any emotion. He had gripped the startled boy’s hand and shaken it fiercely.

“I don’t care what you were doing up there, Walker-you came to me! Good man!”

Vincent was here now, much more contained, watching a bosun’s mate clearing a section of the deck of spare hands who were still in working rig, or stripped to the waist in the heat.

He murmured to Adam, “I told the barge crew they could stand easy aboard us while they were waiting.” Adam remembered Tyacke offering the same courtesy to Onward‘s boat’s crew. “The lieutenant declined, sir. He said he was told to stand by.”

The admiral turned, lightly for a man of his girth: there was obviously nothing wrong with his hearing.

“My barge crew? They do nothing else all day. Mister …” He cocked his head. “Vincent? Correct?” And without pausing, “I shall want to talk to you about the Moonstone affair before the day is out. You were the boarding officer. When the last ‘survivor’ was discovered?”

The flag lieutenant leaned forward and interjected, “It was not Lieutenant Vincent who found him, sir.” He was consulting an open notebook. Langley stared coldly beyond him.

“I wasn’t aware that I was asking you.”

Adam said, “I should have explained, sir,” and Langley gave him the now familiar, humourless smile.

“You did, I believe.” Then he said abruptly, “May we pause, Bolitho?”

Adam saw Vincent give an almost imperceptible nod and hurry aft.

Langley was looking at the windsails. “Might be a little cooler below-and we can talk.” He turned just as swiftly and beckoned to Midshipman Huxley. “And who are you?”

Adam saw the flag lieutenant open his mouth and close it again.

“Huxley, sir.”

“Oh. I thought perhaps …” He seemed about to walk on toward a line of seamen, but stopped and swung round again. “Huxley? I trust not related to …”

He left the rest unspoken, but it was enough. Huxley’s face had closed, and Adam saw his fist clench before he thrust it out of sight.

He said, “I think I am very fortunate in Onward‘s midshipmen, sir.”

Langley pulled out a large handkerchief and dabbed his mouth. “Well, time will tell, as every captain must know!” He looked aft again. “I think I’ve shown the flag enough for the moment.” He waited for Vincent to present himself. “You may carry on now, Lieutenant. A smart ship. Are you satisfied?”

Vincent answered without hesitation, “Ready for sea, sir.”

Langley stepped into the shade with obvious relief, remarking, “As it should be.”

They reached the cabin, where the screen door was already open, the Royal Marine sentry at attention, his eyes fixed discreetly on some point above the admiral’s epaulette.

The flag lieutenant had his little book open again, but Langley snapped, “Not now, Flags! That can wait.”

Inside the great cabin it seemed cool after the upper deck. The stern windows were open, and an unfinished letter on Adam’s small desk was stirring slightly in the breeze.

Langley strode across the cabin and tossed his hat onto a chair, ducking his head, his fair hair almost touching the deckhead.

“This takes me back.” He did not elaborate. Then he saw the bergere facing astern, in the place of honour, as Jago always called it. Langley lowered himself into it slowly and carefully, while his aide hovered nearby.

He stretched his legs. “More like it, eh?” He patted the arms of the chair and turned his pale eyes on Adam. “This could tell a few tales, I’ll wager.”

Adam smiled to himself. The flag lieutenant had probably recorded all the details in his little book. “It belonged to my uncle, sir.”

“Guessed as much.” Langley nodded and stroked the worn leather. “Sir Richard. I am honoured!” A pause. “I know that Captain Tyacke served under him, and was with him at the end.” He brushed something imaginary off his sleeve. “But trying to get him to talk about their service together is like getting blood out of a stone!”

Adam saw the pantry door move an inch. Hugh Morgan was standing by.

“May I offer you some wine, sir? I’m not sure about the time, but you must have been on the move for most of the day.”

Langley pouted and said genially, “Not over yet, either. Never is.” He leaned further back in the chair. “Anything will be more than welcome, Bolitho!”

He gazed out of the stern windows, his pale eyes shaded by the overhang of the poop. “I often wonder what our people in London actually know of our problems out here. They worry about slavery, even though all the major powers are doing their utmost to stamp it out.” He wagged a finger. “There will always be men willing or reckless enough to continue in the trade, as long as the prize outweighs the risk. Given time, I might suggest …” He fell silent as Morgan glided into the cabin; he could move like a shadow when required.

Langley appraised the two expensive goblets. “I could become too comfortable in your company, I fear.”

Feet thudded across the deck above, and as if to a signal the flag lieutenant rose and hurried to close the skylight.

Langley said, “Just a precaution, Bolitho. Busy ears, y’ know?”

Adam sipped his wine. Langley’s glass was being refilled. The flag lieutenant’s remained untouched.

Langley said, “I’ve looked into the Moonstone‘s unexpected,” he lifted a finger, “and of course tragic, loss. She had been in our service under charter or direct warrant for some years. Patrol and liaison work, and more recently transporting some natives rescued or freed from slavery and landing them close to their place of origin. Where, and if, it was considered safe. In some cases, not so easy as it sounds.” He leaned forward as if to confide something. “Moonstone had seen better days. But for your sighting and boarding her, it might all still remain a mystery. She had been fired on, and there were no survivors save one. Yes, I read your report. Pirates, slavers, we might never know for certain. And there were sharks in the area …” He glanced at the screen door, which was now shut, and toward the pantry.

He said slowly, “There have been many changes here since I took command, and more since you were last here in-Unrivalled, wasn’t it?

‘Power to the Victor,’ is that what they call it? Beginnings of empire. And we are a part of it.” He banged his hands on the arms of the chair. “Like it or not.”

He stood up, and walked to the stern bench as if to peer out at the anchorage. “Improve communications but cut the costs: a constant demand from their lordships, and from government. If only they knew or understood.” He turned away from the light. “There is a new settlement to the south of us. With its own governor, and a local militia. To save money.”

Adam said, “Yes, I know. It is on the latest chart. New Haven.”

Langley betrayed surprise for the first time. “Well, it may be a part of empire, perhaps, but this is still Africa, for God’s sake!” Just as quickly he was calm again, the pale eyes steady. “I’m sending you there to meet the new governor, since he has not seen fit to offer me an invitation. Moonstone was under charter to him more than once. He will want to know what happened to her. And when he comes to me in the future …” The silence was significant.

He gestured to his flag lieutenant, who immediately handed him a folded sheet of official stationery. “All the necessary details are here. If the wind allows, I want you to get under way tomorrow. Make a signal to confirm it.” Langley turned to his weary-looking aide once more. “Before that, I want to speak to the officer who was mentioned in the captain’s report.”

“Midshipman Napier, sir?”

“If that is agreeable to you, Bolitho?”

Adam scarcely heard him. Even the writing on the page seemed blurred. “I would like to be present, sir.”

“Good thinking. He might forget something, or close up like an oyster. It happens at that age.”

Adam folded the paper. Only the new governor’s name stood out. It was Ballantyne, the name David Napier would never forget.

Nor shall I.

David Napier stepped into the midshipmen’s berth and stared around blankly. It was empty and somehow spacious, his home and hiding place since he had first joined the ship, along with Simon Huxley. Always full of noisy conversation, argument, and laughter. There were just six members of the mess, but it usually sounded like three times as many.

The only sound now was the faint clink of crockery from the pantry where the messman was either putting aside the dishes from breakfast, or preparing the next offering from the galley. And it was stuffy and humid, airless after the upper deck. The windsails had been lowered and stowed, but from ladders and gangways you could see the flag and masthead pendant flapping, and hear the rattle and slap of rigging, as if Onward were eager to leave.

We are sailing today.

Even the ship felt different. Alive again after stagnation.

He opened his little locker and folded the unfinished letter carefully before putting it away. Dear Elizabeth… No, my dear. He should just forget her. She had probably put him out of her mind as soon as he had left the house.

There were some casks of wine secured in one corner of the mess. In fact, every spare space in the hull seemed to be packed with extra stores of one sort or another. How long did they expect to be away? And to what purpose?

He heard running feet, the sound of something heavy being dragged across the deck above, and a yelp from somebody who was not fast enough. It would be soon now, unless there was another mix-up over the orders.

He sat down, deep in thought, recalling his unexpected summons to Rear-Admiral Langley in the great cabin: the admiral relaxed, even casual, but always maintaining a certain distance, and not merely because of his splendid uniform and gleaming epaulettes. Sometimes interrupting Napier in the middle of a sentence to fire a question, or clarify a point with his crushed-looking flag lieutenant. But the captain had been there also, a shadow against the stern windows, saying little unless in response to some comment from Langley.

Mostly, the questions had centred upon Moonstone, and the boarding party, and those final moments.

“And you were alone with the last survivor? How long was that? Did he tell you his name? What manner of man was he? Where would you say he came from?”

Looking back, it had been more an interrogation than an interview.

“What did he say? Was that all he said? Was there anything else of significance? And you left Moonstone with the others when the order to abandon was given?”

Bolitho had spoken before Napier could answer. “He was trapped between decks. Some loose gear had blocked his escape.”

“But others freed him?”

Napier heard himself say, “It was Jago, the captain’s cox’n, sir!”

He had been angry, remembering Huxley’s face, his despair, after the admiral had called to him and then brushed him so curtly aside.

And remembering Langley in the captain’s cabin, lounging in that same old chair, to which, when Napier had been wounded and unable to walk, they had carried him. And the captain had held him, giving him strength and courage. It was like sacrilege.

Napier had remained standing throughout the interview, the old pain reawakening in his leg as if to goad him.

Langley had got to his feet and remarked dismissively, “You did your best, Mr. Napier. A pity that we are still in the dark.”

It was over.

Napier had only spoken to the captain very briefly since then, after the admiral had finally returned to his flagship. He had been delivering a message from the purser. He had been about to walk away when the captain had called him by name.

“I’m proud of you, David.”

Then the purser himself had appeared, and the contact was broken.

“All done in ‘ere, sir?” It was the messman. “Think I ‘eard th’ pipe.” He did not wait for a reply, but Napier had long since learned that cooks and messmen usually knew what was happening before any one else.

He glanced at his locker, hesitated, and took out the letter. His thoughts scattered as the order was piped along the deck, faint at first, but as it reached hatch or companion it was loud and clear.

“All hands, all hands! Take station for leaving harbour!”

The admiral had decided.

Proceed when ready.