In the King`s Name

7 NO MERCY

ADAM BOLITHO ENTERED HIS CABIN and walked aft to the stern windows, which were now leaning slightly to larboard. Not much, but after their slow departure from Freetown it was like a reward. He leaned on the bench seat and peered down at the water below: one of the cutters was towing astern to keep her tightly sealed after baking beside her twin on the tier. He saw the boat yawing occasionally from side to side as if attempting to overtake her parent ship.

But they were making progress. If only the wind would hold.

He opened his shirt and loosened the sleeves. It was almost cool in the great cabin, or seemed so after the small chartroom where he had been comparing notes with Julyan, the master. In there, it had been like an oven.

Julyan had sounded optimistic, even cheerful. “Wind’s holding, not much, but if we keep this up we should sight the approaches day after tomorrow.” Some of his confidence had faded as the rudder had quivered noisily, like something shaking the keel.

Adam rubbed his chin. Even so, three days to make one hundred miles. Onward was used to something better. He smiled to himself. He must be getting like Julyan, with his quaint remarks.

They had been studying the most recent chart when the master had said seriously, “If all the sea ran dry right this minute, Onward would be perched on the edge of a great valley, hills to larboard and a bottomless pit to starboard.” It was a warning any sailor would be insane to ignore.

They had plenty of sea room, but Vincent already had the leadsmen selected to stand by for immediate soundings if the chart proved incorrect. To go from no bottom to only a few fathoms beneath the keel was not unknown.

The pantry door opened and Morgan looked in questioningly.

“May I?” And when he nodded, “Call me when …” He glanced at Adam’s seagoing coat, which was lying untidily across a chair. “I can give that a shamper-up in the meantime, sir.” He went out, the coat hanging over his shoulder like a faded banner.

Adam sighed. Morgan always seemed to know what was coming. He walked across to the old chair and stroked the worn leather. How many times?

He thought of the admiral. What was in those secret orders? Had they really required the fastest available frigate? Perhaps the only available frigate?

He recalled that final signal, Proceed when ready, which Midshipman Hotham had reported as soon as it had broken from Medusa’s yard. Langley must have gone ashore soon afterwards to one of his interminable conferences, because after Onward‘s anchor had broken free and they were eventually clearing the harbour, another signal had been sighted. It read simply, Until the next time. It must have been from Tyacke.

He moved to his small desk and half-opened the drawer where the letter lay. When would it be finished? When might she eventually read it?

He heard the Royal Marine clear his throat and call, “Lieutenant Monteith, sir!”

Four bells chimed faintly above the other sounds. Last dog watch. Monteith would arrive flushed and breathless, apologising even though he was exactly on time. The thought irritated Adam, although he knew he was being unfair.

He looked up at the skylight, remembering how the admiral’s flag lieutenant had so carefully closed it.

Monteith strode into the cabin, his hat tucked beneath one arm. “I do apologise, sir. I was needed up forrard, but when I told them-” He seemed surprised when Adam interrupted him briskly, waving him toward a chair.

“Never mind. You’re here now. And this won’t take long.” He crossed the cabin, feeling Monteith’s eyes on his back, and sat behind the desk. “As third lieutenant, you have the training and the welfare of our midshipmen in your care. Some are experienced up to a certain level, a few are on the first step. We all go through it, and you will recall the pitfalls and misunderstandings yourself, Onward being your first ship as a commissioned officer.”

Monteith sat bolt upright in the chair, hands folded across his hat. “I have always tried to maintain a code of conduct and discipline, sir. If any one has claimed otherwise, I must dispute it!”

Something fell on the deck overhead and there was a gust of laughter.

Adam said quietly, “Whatever we believe or expect, today’s midshipmen are tomorrow’s navy. Loyalty and obedience are essential.”

Monteith licked his lips and nodded, eyes fixed on Adam’s face. “I know that, sir.”

Adam glanced at the papers on his desk, weighed down with a piece of polished coral. There was scarcely any movement, but Onward was responding.

He looked directly at Monteith. “Responsibility extends in both directions, by example and by trust. Midshipman or captain.”

Monteith said, “I was doing what I considered my duty, sir. Very soon now, I will be required to write a report on each of them, as laid down in Standing Orders.”

“I am aware of that.”

He heard hushed voices beyond the screen door, possibly Morgan, trying to think of some way to interrupt this interview. It was a waste of time in any case. Monteith would never change, unless he was threatened.

The rap on the door came as a relief for both of them.

It was Radcliffe, breathless, as if he had run all the way from the quarterdeck. His eyes flickered in Monteith’s direction, and then he deliberately looked away.

“Lieutenant Squire’s respects, sir.” He screwed up his sunburned face as if to recall every word. “A sail has been sighted, fine on the starboard bow, steering west.” He added importantly, “Too far off to distinguish, but fresh lookouts have gone aloft.”

Adam saw it in his mind. A ship crossing ahead of them. Where from? Where bound? Any alteration of course would be pointless, especially now. Like the sun in these latitudes, darkness would come quickly. Like a cloak.

“Tell Mr. Squire that I’ll come on deck directly.”

He turned to reach for the old telescope as the midshipman scurried from the cabin.

Monteith was on his feet, standing stiffly. He looked absurdly young, like a midshipman himself. “I have always tried to do my duty, sir.”

Adam brushed past him. “I rely upon it.”

He had failed.

But by the time he had reached the quarterdeck, he had almost dismissed Monteith from his thoughts. He looked up at the sails, feeling the warm air on his shoulders. The wind, what there was of it, was still holding, but the canvas was barely moving.

Squire was waiting with a telescope beneath his own arm. “I’ve sent Midshipman Hotham aloft, sir. Any one who can read and send signals as well as he does might see what others miss.”

Adam moved toward the small group around the wheel, and one of the helmsmen called instantly, “South by east, sir!”

Vincent was here now, and Adam saw him pausing to flick some crumbs from his shirt.

He stared abeam at the endless barrier of land, like the edge of their world. Bleached and almost colourless under the glaring sun. It was closer now, less than five miles away. When the daylight was gone, it would be dangerous to tack any nearer.

The other vessel would be out of sight by now, heading into the great ocean.

As if reading his thoughts, Vincent said, “Probably seeking more sea room.”

Adam hardly heard him. He said, “I’m going up.” He knew Squire in particular was staring at him as he slung the telescope across his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t have called you, sir, but-”

Adam looked up at the maintop, thinking of Walker, ordered aloft by Monteith as a punishment and beginning this unforeseen chain of events. He saw Jago standing with Drummond, the bosun, arms folded, and sensed his disapproval.

He gripped the ratlines and started to climb. The sun burned his back, and the cordage felt as if it had been lying across a stove. He glanced abeam again, pausing to wipe the sweat from his eyes with the back of his wrist. They had the sea to themselves, as far as he could see in any direction.

He had reached the maintop and saw Midshipman Hotham lower his own telescope at his captain’s untidy arrival. There were two other lookouts with him, one of them Tucker, the new bosun’s mate.

Hotham said, “The other vessel is almost out of sight, sir.” He tapped his telescope. “Two-masted, probably a brig. Local, maybe?” He reached out as if to emphasise the point and stopped himself, but was unable to hide his excitement. “But over there, sir!” He pointed toward the uneven coastline. “Flashes, sir. Thought the sun was playing tricks on me. But they were flashes!”

Tucker said, “I saw ‘em too, sir.”

Hotham rushed on, ignoring the interruption. “On an’ off. Like sunlight reflected from a mirror or a piece of glass. But then it stopped, or was lost in the inshore mist. But I did see it!”

Adam rested his knee against the barricade and felt the whole mainmast shivering against him. And the keel beneath that. His ship.

He focused the glass and saw the nearest land spring into detail, the curve of the next spur of headland. And after that? He thought of the sailing master beside him in the airless chartroom, as they had transferred their calculations to the new chart. He had marked this same thrust of headland. Not much, but still dangerous for any vessel so close inshore.

The most recent chart had shown a tiny landmark, which had not been on the previous version. A mission of some kind, either religious or simply supplying aid or sustenance to any trader or sailor who might venture ashore in this “godforsaken place.” It could certainly be used as a guide.

Tucker said slowly, “Maybe it was hidden in the mist, sir.”

Adam closed the telescope. “Not mist this time. It’s smoke.” He looked at Hotham again. “Flashes? You’re certain of it?”

The midshipman hesitated, but only for a moment. “I’ve seen the army making signals like that. I’m certain, sir.”

Adam started to climb down. A clergyman’s son. What would his father say if he could see him now? But no matter what he thinks he saw, it is my decision.

Vincent was waiting, his face full of questions.

Adam said, “We will hold our present course until sunset. Then I intend to come about and close inshore.” He looked at him directly. “And anchor.”

“Landing party, sir?”

“At first light, weather permitting.” As if he were thinking aloud. “Two boats, the cutter towing astern, and the gig. Easier. Any sign of trouble-”

Vincent said, “We’ll be ready, sir!”

Adam gripped his arm. “Not this time, Mark. I need you here with me. Remember? The ship comes first.”

He looked toward Squire, who had not moved since he had watched his captain scrambling aloft. “Join me in the cabin, both of you. And I’ll explain what I have in mind.”

Only then did he release Vincent’s arm.

As he walked toward the companion he could hear the low murmur of their voices. What was there to discuss? Right or wrong, it was decided.

“Landing party mustered and standing by, sir.” Vincent’s voice was clipped and formal, loud in the uncanny silence.

Adam waited for his eyesight to adjust to the darkness on deck. Even Vincent’s face was barely visible.

He had stolen a few precious minutes to revisit the chartroom. There was only a small shaded light above the chart table, just enough and no more. The order to darken ship had been piped at sunset, when Onward had altered course and headed toward the original sighting, and the master-at-arms and ship’s corporal had maintained a regular patrol above and between decks to make certain it was carried out.

They had anchored, and the silence was unnerving. Even the sound of the cable running free had seemed dangerously loud, and the leadsman’s regular chant as they approached the inshore waters seemed to invite discovery.

It was the middle watch, almost over now. Adam stared through the darkness toward the land, imagining he could smell it, but he knew it was about two miles distant, if his calculations and Julyan’s were correct. The sailing master had seemed satisfied. By guess and by God, as he had put it.

The cutter and gig were moored alongside. It would be a long pull for the oarsmen, with extra men and weapons adding to the weight. Squire would be in command. Not an easy man to know, but he was brave, reliable, and popular. His experience as a master’s mate, ashore and afloat in a surveying vessel taking part in Sir Alfred Bishop’s expedition, made him the obvious choice. His service throughout the expedition had gained him a commendation from the great man himself, and a promotion to commissioned rank which still seemed to surprise him.

He would be leading in the cutter, which mounted a swivel in the bows as additional protection, with the gig staying as close astern as possible. If Squire ran aground on a sandbar before reaching a suitable beach, the gig could tow or kedge him free. Monteith would be in charge of that. There was no alternative.

It might all prove to be a mistake and a waste of time, and Rear-Admiral Langley would not be pleased about that.

Two midshipmen were also among the landing party, Huxley and David Napier, requested by Squire because he had worked alongside both of them while anchoring and getting under way. Adam had mixed feelings about Napier. Experienced, yes, but it was too soon after the Moonstone affair. But any exclusion would be seen as favouritism, and Napier would be the first to protest.

Many of Onward‘s company had been standing by for most of the night. Some may have snatched a catnap curled up against a gun or in some corner of the hull, waiting for the call. No hammocks had left their nettings, in case of some emergency when all hands might be needed. A sudden shift of wind, or the leadsman’s cry, warning of unexpected shallows. Like the edge of Julyan’s “great valley,” Adam thought.

They were ready. It was now.

Vincent had reported that there had been no shortage of volunteers, but Squire had only chosen a few extra men, including a squad of Royal Marines. Adam could still hear the disappointment, and see it on Lieutenant Sinclair’s face, when he had been told that he was staying aboard and Sergeant Fairfax would be in charge of the “lobsters.”

He glanced toward the land, very faintly visible now, darker than the sky.

And the air was still cool. But in another hour, less … He felt something like a shiver, and repressed it. He said quietly, “So let’s be about it, shall we?”

He had gone over it in his mind again and again. Weapons, powder and shot, a day’s ration of food and water. Bandages. He heard a few hushed voices, a slap on the back. Even a quick laugh.

The gig cast off first, oars moving slowly to carry her clear of the side. Jago was at the tiller. Not a volunteer: he had insisted. Napier was with him, Monteith’s decision. Next the cutter, muffled oars taking the strain, the coxswain the usual man-Fitzgerald, a true Patlander as Jago called him-waving to someone still invisible in the darkness. His loose white shirt was ghost-like against the black water. It would be Jago’s guide as he was following astern.

Vincent said, “I’ve doubled the lookouts, and the anchor watch is standing by. Now all we can do …”

Adam looked up at the sky, which seemed lighter, although that was impossible, and considered Vincent’s voice. Efficient but envious. When he looked again, the two boats had disappeared, and he felt Vincent move toward the side.

Like me, he wants to be with them.

David Napier crouched in the gig’s sternsheets and watched the regular thrust and heave of the stroke oarsman, slower than usual, but very steady. With extra hands aboard there was scarcely room to move. He eased his injured leg as much as he could; at least that was not playing up.

Monteith was sitting beside him, shifting occasionally to peer around the oarsmen as if in search of the cutter. It was rarely visible, except for a phosphorescent splash of oars, and the pale blur of Fitzgerald’s shirt.

Once he snapped, “Look out! We’re losing her!” and Jago had broken his silence.

“I’ve got her!” The barest pause. “Sir.”

Napier could feel spray splashing across his legs as the oars dipped steeply into the swell. Like tropical rain. How much worse it must be in the cutter, with a much heavier load to carry. He had seen the swivel gun mounted in the bows, but had heard Sergeant Fairfax say, “There’s another one to take its place if need be.” He had even chuckled. “No time to load an’ prime if we have to fire!”

No wonder the cutter had displayed so little freeboard. Squire must be thinking of that right now in this deeper swell.

Napier shifted again and felt the curved hanger’s hilt rub against his thigh. The gunner had issued it to him when the landing party had been arming, blades freshly sharpened on a grindstone. Like Nautilus. Like Moonstone.

The gunner had watched him unbuckle his dirk. “Take this, boy. You might need something stronger than that do-little sword today!”

He looked toward the shore, and tried to see it in his mind. The sky was lighter, but only slightly, like the edge of a frayed curtain. There should be a small spur of headland to starboard, if the cutter was on course. And a beach, which might still surprise them. He would talk it all over later with Huxley, who was up there with Squire. It was hard to determine what they had in common, except for the unbreakable bond of friendship, which neither of them had ever questioned.

Jago said curtly, “Alterin’ course to starboard.”

Monteith almost stood up, but seemed to change his mind. “Are you certain?”

Jago either did not hear him or ignored him.

Napier offered, “I can still see the cox’n’s shirt, sir.”

He sensed that Jago had leaned across the tiller-bar and guessed he was grinning. Or swearing under his breath. They had hardly spoken since the hands had been mustered for “this adventure,” as Lieutenant Squire had called it.

“Any trouble, you keep with me!” That was all, but from Luke Jago it was everything.

“Oars!”

The blades rose dripping on either side, while the gig swayed and slowed almost to a halt.

Jago said, “Cutter’s run aground.” He stood, one hand on the tiller. “Got clear again. Give way, together!”

The stroke oarsman gripped his loom and leaned back, and in those few seconds Napier was able to see the gleam of a medallion as it swung freely across his shirt. The features of the men around him were faintly visible for the first time since they had cast off.

A bosun’s mate named Sinden muttered, “Not much bloody longer!”

Monteith rapped out, “Silence in the boat!” and did not see Sinden’s gesture behind his back.

Napier seemed to have lost track of time. It was measured by each thrash of oars, and the surge against the hull, the occasional heavy breathing when Jago called for a brief pause if they were overhauling the cutter.

Napier stared past the oarsmen and saw the land, not high ground but a ragged barrier of trees.

“Oars!” Jago had turned his head, either to look or listen.

Monteith said sharply, “I gave no order!”

Jago did not move. “Mr. Squire just made a signal. We’re arrived, sir!”

With the oars stilled, Napier thought he could hear the murmur of sea against beach, then the silence was completely shattered as some of the cutter’s crew and passengers splashed over the side in readiness to haul their boat to safety.

It was not simply a landfall. The place seemed to be reaching out as if to encircle them … He told himself that would change when true daylight showed itself.

Monteith got to his feet and peered toward the land. Fitzgerald’s shirt, the signal, had vanished. He said, “Stand by to clear the boat!”

He clambered over a thwart, but Jago reached out and restrained Napier. “Not yet.”

Monteith did not wait, and jumped or fell into chest-deep water.

Jago said calmly, “Give the officer a hand, lads!” Then, “Clear the boat. Sinden, take charge up yonder.”

It seemed to take an age before both boats were safely hauled ashore, but the oar-blades were still dripping when Squire was satisfied. He stood with his back to the sea and waited for a sodden Monteith and the two midshipmen to join him.

To Sergeant Fairfax he said, “As planned, have your lads take cover. Weapons uncocked, remember?” and Fairfax responded with a touch of outraged dignity.

“They are Royals, sir!” But he hurried away, and his white belt was soon hidden.

Squire said, “When it gets lighter we’ll move inshore. There’s a small cove beyond those trees.” He grinned. “Or should be!” He touched Monteith’s wet sleeve. “Never mind. Sun’ll be up soon!”

They all tensed as a flock of birds broke from the undergrowth and rose, flapping and crying, toward the sea.

Squire said, “We don’t need an audience!”

Someone laughed quietly.

Jago had joined them, his broad-bladed cutlass casually over his shoulder. He gestured in the same direction. “Th’ mission must be over there as well.” He did not look at Monteith.

Huxley was gazing after the disturbed birds as they circled and then vanished against the sea. He whispered to Napier, “I have to stay with the boats, Dave. I’m sorry you’re stuck with him.”

No name was necessary.

Squire was elaborating on his plan. “We can make our way along the shore now. It shouldn’t take long. We’ll know better once we fix our position more exactly.” If he was grinning it remained invisible in the dimness before dawn. “And the ship will be able to see us.”

He turned abruptly, lightly, for a man of his powerful build. “What is it?”

A seaman said, “I kin smell smoke, sir. Burning.”

Squire sniffed audibly. “I can, too.” He looked at Monteith. “We’ll separate here, Hector.” He waved to the bosun’s mate. “Probably nothing, but we’ll find out!”

Monteith loosened his belt. “If you ask me …”

No one did.

Napier turned to follow. He had never heard any one address the third lieutenant by his first name before. Hector. Coming from any one else … He froze.

It was a scream, terrified or in pain. A woman. And then utter silence.

He felt someone brush past him and knew it was Jago. “Best keep on the move, sir. It’ll be sun-up in no time, an’ we’ll be sittin’ ducks!”

Monteith was staring down at the beach as if to look for Squire’s party, but they had already disappeared toward the higher ground. Napier looked at the nearest ridge of trees. No longer a black, formless mass but taking shape against the sky. He had been holding his breath since the scream, and drew it in sharply at what might have been a sudden gleam. But it was the first hint of sunlight.

He felt his shoe catch on some fallen frond, and heard it crackle underfoot. He said, “I agree with Jago, sir.”

Monteith swung round. “Don’t you dare to give me instructions!

When I need advice from you-”

There was a solitary tree directly ahead of them, the uppermost branches a green pattern against the sky, the lower still in deep shadow. But the shadow was moving.

“Down!” Jago seemed to lunge into the shadow even as he sent Monteith sprawling; Napier felt his strength and fury as he thrust him aside, and saw the blaze of metal as the great blade flashed between them. Then Jago recovered his own balance and hacked again at the writhing figure on the ground.

Then, very deliberately, he reached down to hoist the lieutenant to his feet.

“Easy does it, sir.” As Monteith stood gazing at the body, he added quietly, “That’s stopped ‘im farting in church!”

Monteith said nothing, and looked ready to vomit as Jago stooped and wiped his blade on the dead man’s clothing.

“Too close for my likin’.” Jago touched Napier’s arm. “You’re doin’ well, Mr. Napier.”

Napier wiped his mouth on his cuff. In the strengthening light he could see their attacker’s curved blade in the sand, the severed hand still gripping it.

“Thanks.” Too little, but it was all he could manage.

The shot that followed was not close, but on this tiny beach it could have been a thunderclap. Shouts and the sound of running feet, bodies stumbling and crashing through and into the undergrowth, and a second shot.

A solitary, authoritative voice rang out. It could have been on the quarterdeck of some flagship, or the barracks square at Plymouth. “Royal Marines, fix bayonets!” The familiar rasp of steel. “Advance!”

Sergeant Fairfax’s squad of volunteers sounded like a regiment.

Squire strode toward them and nodded briefly to Monteith, who was biting his lip.

“Took ‘em by surprise. Won’t give ‘em the chance to draw a second breath!” He clapped Monteith on the shoulder. “Bloody well done!” But he was looking at Jago.

Then he said quietly, “Lost one, I’m afraid. Seaman McNeil. A good lad. One of the best.”

Napier could remember his face. He had been aboard Onward when she had first commissioned.

Squire seemed to square his shoulders. “We’ll take him back with us.” He looked around at their faces. “Be ready. And no quarter, right?”

Napier gripped the unfamiliar hanger and followed Squire onto firmer ground. Monteith had stopped to examine his pistol, which had dropped to the sand when Jago had pushed him aside, saving his life. At any second Napier expected another challenge, or more shots. The sound of their feet trampling over the rough ground sounded deafening, and once again the bright birds broke cover noisily and scattered throughout the trees. He looked back, but the two boats were out of sight. He thought of Huxley and the two men with the swivel gun, alone now except for the dead McNeil.

He saw Squire raise his hanger and gesture toward a gap in the trees, where the gleam of blue water was sharp-edged in the dawn.

“Be still!” Sergeant Fairfax had appeared from nowhere, his uniform blazing against the undergrowth. He dropped to one knee, musket raised and unmoving.

Napier looked around nervously. There was nothing. Even the sea was out of sight.

Then he heard it. Like ragged breathing: someone gasping. Louder now; he could scarcely hear the click of Fairfax’s musket. The unsteady breathing stopped instantly.

Squire said, “Halt or we fire!” He did not raise his voice, but it seemed to hang in the humid air like an echo.

“No! No!” The voice was closer, unsteady. “Don’t shoot. I’m only …” The rest was lost as something fell heavily amid the scrub.

Silence again, then somebody behind Napier murmured, “Speaks English, thank God.”

Sergeant Fairfax snapped, “Stay where you are!” and stood slowly, but his musket and fixed bayonet did not waver. “Easy, I said!”

Napier heard Squire mutter something as he got to his feet, pistol drawn and ready, and saw Jago step into a flickering patch of sunlight, his cutlass at his side.

He spoke slowly, calmly. “Come ‘ere, matey.” His hand moved slightly toward his belt. “Nice an’ easy now.”

Napier saw Squire move fully into the filtered sunlight and come face to face with the shadowy figure. Grey-haired, gaunt in patched clothing, eyes wide as two more marines appeared behind him.

One called, “Nobody else up there, Sar’nt!” But they kept their eyes fixed on the stranger.

Jago held out his hand. “The musket, eh?”

Napier saw the man’s confusion, but he did not resist as Jago took the musket and said, “Empty. Never been fired, by the look of it!”

Squire cleared his throat. “Where are you from?” He must have seen the bulging eyes fixed on the uniforms as more of Fairfax’s men emerged from cover. “We are your friends.”

Monteith said, “How can we trust him? If I had my way-”

The ragged figure did not seem to hear him. “I have work at mission. They are always good there … They help others.” He covered his face with one hand; he was trembling. “There was shooting. And a fire.”

Squire moved closer, and halted as the other man cowered away from him. Napier did not move, dared not. The man seemed to be English, a sailor perhaps. Or had been, until something had brought him to the mission.

The voice faltered on. Remembering, maybe reliving. “All gone now. A ship.” He repeated, “All gone now!”

“It looks like we’re too late.” Squire sounded angry. With himself. “The captain will be wondering what the hell’s happening!”

The stranger was staring at Napier fixedly, as if he were seeing a vision. “You are young. I remember when I …” He reached out as if to grasp his hand or arm.

Jago murmured, “Easy does it, matey,” and his fingers flexed on his cutlass. “Where do you come from?”

“I told you! Th’ mission!” A spark of impatience or sudden determination, but he did not look away from Napier. “I will take you. Show you.”

Squire opened his mouth as if to countermand it, then he said very softly, “It’s not an order, David. We’ll be with you.”

Napier did not trust himself to answer. Men had already died. And for what? He looked steadily at the ragged man and tried to shut his mind to everything else. He said simply, “Show me.”

They turned toward the wash of dawn sweeping the eastern sky, and he imagined he could feel its growing heat on his face. For a moment longer he thought the man had not heard him, but then they were walking together, side by side, and he heard him utter one word.

“Home.”

In a few seconds they were completely alone, or so it felt. Every so often he glimpsed blue water between the trees, but if he looked back over his shoulder, the beach and the distant ship were invisible.

At any moment… He had to control his thoughts. Fear was always the enemy. Time and distance meant nothing. When had he last been able to sleep without the picture of the stricken schooner in his mind? The feel of a dying man’s grip on his wrists …

He said conversationally, “My home is in Cornwall. Do you know it?”

No answer, but the bony hand dragged at his arm. “This way.”

Out of nowhere, a pair of giant rocks appeared, long fallen from the hillside, and it was as if he had been cut off from every hope of aid. Separated. Even the sounds of their feet across loose branches, the whine of insects, their own breathing seemed louder in the stillness. His mind was screaming. They were alone. Any minute now…

He tripped and felt the bony, steadying hand, heard the whispering voice. “Look yonder.” And, carefully, “Da-vid.”

Napier stood very still, unable to accept that they had arrived so suddenly. Like a great curtain being dragged aside, light and colour replacing the shadows and pitfalls of the jungle. A small cove shaped like a horseshoe beneath a hill the twin of the one behind them. And beyond, the ocean.

And here was the mission, or what remained of it. Small buildings no more than crude shacks, and a main structure which had once been painted white, as a simple landmark for passing vessels. It was charred beyond recognition, and the smell was sickening.

He realised he was alone. He swung round and tried to tug the hanger from his belt. A trap, a betrayal? But he knew it was neither.

He could not take his eyes from the smoking buildings, and a painted sign he could not read from here, which was surmounted by a wooden crucifix flaking in the sun.

The ragged man had returned. “Others are following. I tell them to wait.”

Napier imagined Squire’s reaction. He would soon close in. He asked, “All gone from here?”

“They came to rob and steal. Need stores for voyage. To carry slaves.” The gaunt shoulders lifted. “The ship sailed, but some of them stayed here. It has … happened before.”

Napier thought of the shots, and the scream. “Is any one alive?”

The man did not reply immediately, but was staring, like Napier, at the charred building.

“Mister Dundas is a strong man. Fine man.” He shuddered. “Man of God.” He straightened and seemed to compose himself. Then he touched Napier’s forearm, as if to lead him. “We will go down. Your comrades will wait no longer.” He gave a ghostly smile. “Da-vid.”

They left the shelter of the trees and walked down through trampled grass toward the mission. Napier stayed close beside him. Suppose the man was completely mad, or driven beyond reason by what he had seen or imagined?

There was a body lying against a length of fence, a black man, shot in the face, one fist still gripping an axe. Napier heard the flies buzzing as they passed.

“I was afraid. I ran away when they attacked the mission. I came to find you. I saw you land.”

Napier looked at the heavy door of a single structure separate from the burned remains of other buildings. A chapel of sorts. A notice was displayed nearby, with the same name, William Dundas, and a few lines of scripture in English.

The door was badly damaged and scarred by several shots. There was complete silence.

Napier said, “You brought me. I only hope-” and the grip tightened on his arm.

“I deserted them. I must do it!” The man’s eyes were running in the drifting smoke. Or they were tears? Then he walked up to the door and shouted, “Ahoy! It’s Wolsey! I am with friends! The navy!”

Napier watched him twisting his head in all directions, screwing a corner of his coat into a tight ball, his composure gone. To his relief he saw bayonets glinting beyond the broken fence, and patches of scarlet moving. And here came Jago, grim-faced, lifting one hand as he strode toward the building.

Napier heard the first tentative scrape of metal, and the heavy-timbered door was opened wide. The interior was completely dark, pierced here and there by thin beams of light through what must be shutters or other defenses. Napier stood with his back to the sun, every instinct warning him that he was a perfect target, but unable to move.

A few figures staggered or pushed others aside to reach the door, natives, perhaps workers at the mission, and several children, running out into the sunlight and huddling together, hiding their faces as they were confronted by seamen and marines.

But many of the others inside did not move. Nor would they.

Napier felt Squire’s heavy hand on his shoulder as he brushed past. “Well done, David. Your guide kept his word!” He waved toward his men. “Otherwise …”

It was a grim sight. Some had crawled here for help, or to die. Others seemed too dazed to understand what was happening. In a corner of the chapel a white woman knelt on the floor, a grey-haired man propped against her.

Napier dropped to his knees beside them and tried to take the weight from her, but she pushed him away, struggling and hitting him with her fists, screaming, “Don’t touch me! I can’t …” She broke off in a fit of coughing.

Napier put his arm around her shoulders, conscious only of her rage and fear. She was wearing a loose white garment that might have been a man’s shirt, and her arms and legs were bare. He knew that she wore little else.

He felt the weight lifted clear and heard someone mutter, “‘E’s dead, poor bastard!”

The woman began to struggle again, her nails reaching for his face. “My father! Not dead!”

Men were making their way deeper into the building, more light guiding them as shutters and doors were forced open. The woman was quite still now in Napier’s arms, and was staring into his face. There was a bruise on her cheek, and a wound across her neck. There had been a lot of blood, too. Hers.

She said suddenly, “Where were you?” Her voice was taut, like a knife-edge. The bare arms and legs were very tanned, and she was English.

He said quietly, “We came as soon as we knew,” and tightened his grip again as something dropped and broke and a man swore, angry or unnerved.

She had dark hair, loose and tangled, but when he moved to push it back from her face he felt her flinch as if expecting a blow. Pain, or worse. But the eyes remained unnaturally steady, fixed on his face.

“Wolsey found you. He came back.”

“He’s here with me.” He stroked the hair from her face and she did not resist this time.

“I should have known. Been ready. But they never gave us a chance. My father tried.” She seemed to shiver. “He always believed.”

A shadow loomed over them: it was Squire, his eyes everywhere, wary but very calm. “We’ll soon have you out of here, my dear.”

He crouched unhurriedly and took one of her limp hands. “Our doctor will soon have you as right as rain.” She began to protest, but he continued, “You must be Mr. Dundas’s daughter.” He was turning over her wrist, revealing the deep rope burns; she appeared to have been cruelly tied and dragged. “We’ll take care of you.” He released her hand, quite gently. “So what do we call you?”

She moved her head stiffly, and her eyes left Napier’s to focus on Squire’s face. “Claire Dundas.”

Squire looked over his shoulder, frowning at the interruption as Monteith appeared and stood framed in the doorway.

“All mustered.” He looked at the grey-haired man, lying dead on a frayed carpet. “Sergeant Fairfax reports that the intruders have gone.”

Squire hid his impatience. “And what do you say?” He did not wait for an answer, but rose and peeled off his uniform coat. “Here, my dear. A bit too hot for later, but you put it on now, eh?”

She stood swaying on her feet, and when she obediently held out her arms Napier saw another wound on her naked shoulder. She had been bitten.

She tugged the coat around her until the lapels overlapped her slim body. Without taking his eyes from her, Squire said, “I’m sending Jago with the gig and McNeil. Tell the captain, ‘bosun’s chair.’ He’ll know what to do.”

The girl called Claire said dully, “McNeil. A Scottish name.”

Squire looked back at the dead man on the floor. “Yes. Like Dundas.”

Napier reached for her arm. “Come outside with me.”

He saw her turn toward her father’s body and Squire said gently, “I’ll take care of him for you.” She attempted to pull away and almost fell. Napier took her hand again, but he was looking at Squire. So familiar and easy-going. A true sailor, he thought.

He was far more than that.

Sergeant Fairfax was waiting with two of his marines, a length of shutter carried between them.

Fairfax touched his hat. “Ready for the lady when you give the word, sir!”

Fairfax was a senior sergeant, and had never given up the hope of promotion. He watched them lifting the young woman onto a layer of blankets. He had seen plenty of people in shock during times of war, on land and at sea. Most of them recovered. There was little alternative in the navy, much less in the Corps.

The marines were lifting their makeshift litter, and carrying it with care, the woman partly shrouded by the lieutenant’s coat. She was staring up at the sky, heedless of the burning sun. There was blood on one bare ankle, but she was safe. Fairfax kicked bitterly at a loose stone. Safe? How could she feel safe after what she must have endured?

He shouted, “Come on then, we don’t have all day to find them boats!”

He saw one of the seamen glare at him, and was glad. He heard a shout and saw Midshipman David Napier waving from a gap in the trees. Nothing more was needed: the ship was in sight. Their part in this venture was over.

Squire was standing beside the woman now, speaking with her even as she dragged her hand from his. Sergeant Fairfax knew from hard experience that it was only just beginning.