In the King`s Name

8 NOT A RACE

LIEUTENANT MARK VINCENT turned away from the group of men around the wheel as he heard the captain’s voice. Or perhaps someone had prodded him warningly. He must have been half asleep on his feet.

He touched his hat. “South by east, sir. Full and by.”

Adam walked to the compass box but did not consult it. Instead, he stared up at the spread of canvas, almost fully braced to contain the wind and hold Onward on course. The wind had backed slightly so that the deck was tilting to leeward, but only enough to allow them to gain more sea room. He looked at the masthead pendant: it was streaming, although the air across his neck was clammy.

He looked at the foredeck, seeing it as it had been a few hours before: boats being hoisted, exhausted sailors being lifted bodily over the side, too weary or subdued to respond to their welcome. Hard to believe they had watched those same two boats vanish into the darkness before dawn this very day.

He recalled the gig returning from the beach, and Jago’s grim description of the sequence of events. And later, when the bosun’s chair had been hoisted aboard, the girl in Squire’s coat losing her self-control as hands had reached out to carry her below. Murray, the surgeon, had been with her from the first.

Someone had asked Jago if he wanted anything, and he had retorted, “Just get me away from that hell-hole!” He spoke for all of them.

Adam gazed forward along the full length of his ship. Beyond the quarterdeck rail, every space seemed to be full of silent people.

Vincent said quietly, “As ordered, sir. Lower deck cleared.”

Adam nodded. “Better now than later.”

He moved to the centre of the rail and felt for the small prayer book inside his coat. It would be pitch black within a couple of hours. The sea was darker, almost bronze toward the horizon, and the land was already losing shape and definition.

He could see the bosun with some of his men on the larboard gangway, bare-headed and looking aft toward their captain. And the two flag-draped corpses. Adam thought of the dead man’s daughter, lying down below at this moment. Would she ever be allowed to forget, let alone forgive?

He knew Squire was standing close by, and Monteith, the latter strangely withdrawn since he had climbed aboard. David Napier seemed composed enough.

Another shadow merged with Adam’s own. He knew it was Jago.

They had shaken hands when he had returned with the gig, and the news. Jago had gauged the moment, as usual. “You’ll be needin’ a shave, eh, Cap’n?” But the strain was very evident.

Squire had described Jago in stronger terms. “He was like the Rock of Gibraltar! Right from when we cast off!”

Jago murmured, “Got the book, Cap’n?”

Adam glanced at him and smiled. “Thank you.” He pulled it out of his pocket. All those other times. Faces, memories, pain.

He heard Vincent call, “Uncover!”

Most of them had already removed their hats. Others were still half-dressed from working ship, getting Onward under way again.

He thought again of the girl named Claire. She was about the same age as Lowenna. It never left him. How it must have been, for the one he loved.

In spite of the silence the ship became a part of it, the sound of the wind, canvas, loose tackle, but Adam’s voice carried and every word was clear.The days of men are but as grass:for he flourisheth as a flower of the field.

United again, all six of Onward‘s midshipmen were mustered on the larboard side of the quarterdeck with Hotham, the senior, in charge. He was finding it difficult not to look around as he listened to the captain’s voice speaking the familiar words. It was unusual to see the entire ship’s company gathered together all at once, except when they were at action stations or on occasions like this, which fortunately were rare.

Faces he knew well, others hardly at all. Voices and accents from every part of Britain. When he wrote to his father he would attempt to describe his emotions, before and after he had sighted the flashing reflection which, in turn, had caused the captain to alter course and send a landing party to investigate. People had died as a result, including one of their own, and Hotham felt a deep sense of guilt because of it. If he had kept quiet, would they still be alive? Would it have made any difference?

And there was an intense pride, rivalling the uneasy guilt. From the moment the boats had cast off and pulled away into darkness, an eternity before sunrise or so it had seemed, he, Charles Hotham, clergyman’s son, had been appointed acting lieutenant, until the two lieutenants who had gone with the boats returned.

He had not been called upon to perform any duty which was foreign to him, and those around him had barely noticed his temporary promotion. But he had felt it, the weight of honour and responsibility. And he still did.

Hotham looked around at his fellow midshipmen, some of whom looked even younger without their hats. Radcliffe, their newest member, had already shown his disrespect by offering a sweeping bow and addressing him as “sir.”

But one day, maybe soon, he might be summoned to face the Board-the Inquisition, as they called it-and gain the glittering prize of promotion, a commission. The events of this day might just tip the balance in his favour.

David Napier was standing nearby, Huxley beside him. Napier could see the captain’s dark hair catching the last of the bronze sunlight as he looked keenly across the crowded deck and the full length of the ship. He was holding the prayer book and speaking the words, but Napier had not seen him consult it.

Napier did not look toward the land. It was shadowed by the twilight, and he wanted to shut it out of his mind and never see it again. But he knew he never would. Small, stark pictures burned like flames in the darkness of his thoughts: Jago pushing Monteith off balance and hacking down the attacker in the shadows. But it was my life he was saving.

And the strange, ragged man named Wolsey, who had risked everything to come to them for help, and had chosen a midshipman to be his companion even to the mission. Mission of death …

And yet, just when the boats were about to leave the beach and return to Onward, shining on the clean sea in the sunlight like a perfect symbol, Wolsey had turned and disappeared. Back to the mission, his only home.

Lieutenant Squire was standing on the gangway; perhaps he had asked to perform this duty. For a second or so, their eyes met. Like that final moment of decision.We commend unto Thy hands of mercy, most mercifulFather, the souls of these our brothers departed, and wecommit their bodies to the deep.

The combined shrill of calls broke the stillness and Squire dropped his hand, the signal for which the burial party had been waiting. Napier heard an improvised grating being raised and tilted, and then a second, and when he looked again, the flags were empty and rippling in the light wind. It was over.

A solitary call followed: he knew it was Drummond the bosun.

Carry on.

Some of the men on deck were going below to their messes; others seemed reluctant to leave and stood in silence by the same gangway. Squire glanced down at his own uniform. He was wearing his best coat, at odds with his breeches, which were still badly stained from the ordeal ashore. Maybe there was a tailor at Freetown where he could replace the coat used to cover the missionary’s daughter.

He looked toward an open hatch. She might have heard the brief ceremony, despite her pain and hideous memories, and understood that they were honouring the dead in the navy’s way. Our way.

He thought of the old coat again and knew he would never discard it.

Nor would he forget her.

There were only two lanterns burning in the great cabin, but compared with the complete darkness of the previous night it seemed like broad daylight. Adam Bolitho could see himself mirrored in the stern windows among the familiar items of furniture, old friends in this sanctuary.

He was very tired, drained, but his mind refused to relax. He thought of the entire ship in darkness when they had come about to head for that little-known beach where they had landed the boats. Stealth had seemed impossible. Even the small compass light, shaded though it was, had seemed as blinding as a beacon.

Astern now, the sea was black; only the reflections in the salt-stained glass seemed real.

He braced his legs as the deck tilted slightly. Perhaps the wind had freshened, although he doubted it. There was an empty plate and a wine glass on the table. He could scarcely remember anything about either, except for Morgan’s persistence and concern.

Tomorrow, unless the wind and weather turned against them, they should sight their new landfall around noon. Julyan was optimistic, but even he had seemed subdued after the sea burials. Maybe he was like his captain. No matter how many you witnessed, each one seemed like the first.

He made an effort to concentrate. It would mean anchoring, and the depths in this area were uncertain. As the approaches to Freetown must have been years ago.

Tomorrow he would finish writing his report, when his mind was clear again. He thought of the seaman who had gone over the side, McNeil. He had always seemed in good spirits. One of Squire’s men. His entry would be the briefest. D.D. Discharged-dead.

He felt the air stir slightly as the door opened, and knew it was Jago. Apart from cabin servants he was the only one never announced by the Royal Marine sentry.

Jago closed the screen door behind him, and looked at him questioningly.

“I was told you wanted to see me, Cap’n?” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the sleeping cabin. “Thought you’d be countin’ sheep by now!”

Adam gestured to a chair. “We’ll all be busy enough tomorrow. There’s something I want to discuss. To ask. Before I write my report for the admiral.”

Jago sat down on the edge of the chair, eyes expressionless. He said, “I see you didn’t call me for a shave, Cap’n,” and rubbed his own jaw. “Needs a trained fist!”

Adam had cut himself. Even the hand guiding the razor had been weary. But he knew that Jago was ahead of him.

“I heard what you did ashore, Luke. It was what I’ve come to expect of you.”

Jago leaned forward in the chair, and Adam could see the strain as well as the strength. The man who should hate and offer no loyalty to any officer. An official pardon could never wipe away the scars, mental or physical, of an unjust flogging.

Jago said, “I think I knows what you mean to ask, Cap’n. A road we’ve been down afore, as I recalls.” Then he smiled, for the first time since returning aboard. “Remember what I said when we went over to th’ flagship. I wants to see your flag up there at the mast’ead, when I’m an admiral’s coxswain. Then, if you offers me promotion …” It was a broad grin now. “Time to ask me again!”

Adam shook his head. “You deserve it.”

Jago turned as if he had heard something, and said quietly, “An’ so do you, Cap’n.”

There was a tap at the door.

“Surgeon, sir!”

Morgan was halfway there, muttering, “Don’t they realise! We’ve not had a moment!” and sighed as Adam said, “I was expecting him.” Then, “Give my cox’n a wet, will you?”

Murray stalked into the cabin, very hawkish and alive. “I apologise for keeping you waiting, sir. I was not sure. And I still am not.” He was wearing one of his stained surgery smocks.

Adam said, “How is she?”

“Recovering. It’s still too early to judge. But she’s young and she’s strong. Given time …” Murray held up his hands and stared at them. “These are supposed to heal, but every time I touch her she must relive the ordeal. Beaten into submission, abused and violated. The damage to her mind may never mend.” He looked up, his eyes calm again. “I told her that you wished to visit her. I’m sorry it’s taken so long.”

“I’ll be guided by you. The last thing I want is to jeopardise her recovery.”

The cabin skylight was still open and they heard someone call out and laugh.

Murray said curtly, “The best sound I’ve heard since we up-anchored!”

Jago said, “I’ll wait here, Cap’n,” and picked up Adam’s coat from a chair and held it out for him. “So she’ll know.”

Murray opened the door. “She’s in my cabin.” Impatient or apprehensive; it was hard to know. Adam had already heard about the cabin: Vincent had told him. It would be quieter, safer.

One of Murray’s loblolly boys was sitting outside, and he got to his feet as they appeared in the narrow passageway. Murray’s cabin adjoined the sick berth, but was not a part of it.

Murray murmured something and the man shook his head.

“We cannot stay too long.” Murray paused. “She may have changed her mind.” He regarded Adam steadily. “Trust me.” He opened the door.

There was one small light but, like the sick quarters, everything was painted white. It was enough.

She was lying on a cot covered by a sheet which she was holding closely beneath her chin. One arm was bare, the linen bandage around her wrist livid against her tanned skin, hiding the rope burns where she had been tied and dragged. She turned her head toward the door, eyes open and unblinking.

Murray said, “I’ve brought the captain to see you, Claire. Remember how we talked about it. Only a short visit. Then perhaps you’ll go to sleep.”

She turned her head away slightly, her profile in shadow.

Murray repeated, “Captain Bolitho. He commands here.”

Her lips moved as if they were forming the name. But her eyes were shut.

Adam saw the dark hair was clinging to the pillow. Still damp; it had been washed. And on the one visible hand the nails were clean. When he had seen her carried aboard they had been black with dried blood, probably from the face of one of her attackers.

She said, “Bo-lye-tho.” Her eyes were open again. “I wanted to see you.” There was another pause.”To thank you. He said you would come.”

Adam glanced at Murray and saw his almost imperceptible nod. She was talking about her father.

She tried to twist her head to gaze at him again, but pain seemed to prevent it. The sheet had slipped from her shoulder, where he saw another bandage.

“Bless you for what you did. I know you gave him to the sea. He’ll be safe there.”

Murray’s eyes told Adam that it was time to leave.

She reached out suddenly as if to seek his hand, and he clasped it instinctively. Murray did not protest.

She said, “Thank you, Captain Bolitho. I shall never forget.” A tear ran unheeded over her cheek. “Or forgive!”

Adam stood up, gently releasing her fingers, and saw her grope for his hand again. “Try to rest, Claire. We shall anchor tomorrow, and then …” Her fingers gripped his with unexpected strength.

“No!” The damp hair spilled across his sleeve. “No, not there! Later!”

Murray took the hand and felt the pulse discreetly.

“She must rest now,” and when he had pulled the door to behind them, “I’m glad you came. And so is she.”

They stood in the passageway and Murray lowered his voice. “She wants to remain aboard with us until we return to Freetown. She has friends there. That was as much information as she gave me.”

Adam said, “Send somebody to call me if I can help,” and looked at Murray directly. “At any time.”

The surgeon touched his forehead, sketching a salute, but it was more than that. “Aye, aye, sir!”

His cabin door was still partly open and Murray thought he heard her call out, a little more strongly now. He turned, but the passageway was empty. Bolitho had gone on deck, and not aft to his own quarters.

He was the captain again.

Squire closed the telescope and slung it over his shoulder. With the sun almost directly overhead and the heat oppressive, it was hard to concentrate, and he was bone-weary. After the bustle and excitement of their final approach and anchoring off New Haven, the ship seemed strangely still and quiet. It was the afternoon watch, but except for those required on duty most of Onward‘s people were asleep, and deserved it. There was a lingering aroma of rum in the air, an extra tot from the captain. His way of saying thank you, Squire thought. Probably why Bolitho had gone immediately ashore: to pay his respects to the governor while his gig’s crew were still smart and sober. Onward had anchored a cable’s length from the elbow of land Julyan had described, which shielded the anchorage beyond.

It had been an unusual experience. With the sun so intense and the inshore water so clear, it was possible to see the frigate’s shadow full-length as she passed over some of the sandbars.

Squire moved into the welcome shadow of the mizzen mast and glanced at the wheel. It gave some hint of the current, jerking slightly as if controlled by invisible helmsmen.

The anchorage was like a mill-pond, and seemed a safe mooring, but he knew two rivers converged here and emptied into the sea. When the rains came it must be a real challenge for any master.

He had seen a few boats paddling out to investigate the frigate, one or two coming close enough for those aboard to wave or hold up baskets of goods for sale or barter-pottery, vegetables and carvings for the most part. But they kept their distance, discouraged by seamen or marines stationed at intervals along either side.

Bolitho had made it quite clear. No one was to be allowed aboard. This was an official visit, and Squire had seen the sealed package handed down to the gig before it had shoved off.

Greetings from the admiral at Freetown. Although Squire had heard there was no love lost between Rear-Admiral Langley and the governor here. No doubt Langley would be more concerned by Onward‘s failure to appear within the time expected, and if not, his flag lieutenant would soon remind him, if he valued his own future.

He felt his shoe stick to the deck seam. The ship had been washed from beakhead to counter when they had altered course to enter the anchorage. Now even the scuppers were as dry as tinder. He heard footsteps and turned to see the surgeon crossing the deck toward him, avoiding the softened seams.

“I’m afraid the captain’s still ashore, Doc. Not returning till the last dog, as far as we know. Is something wrong?”

Murray was hatless and holding one hand across his eyes to shield them from the sun, but the strain seemed to have fallen from his long face like a cloud.

“This time it’s you I came to find.” He glanced incuriously toward the shore, as if he had not seen it before. “Experience or instinct: I often ask myself, where do we draw the line?” He turned his back on the land, dismissing it. “She wants to see you, although at this stage it might destroy any progress she has made. Such as it is.”

Squire said uncertainly, “I didn’t realise she knew my name.”

“She did not. But her description was enough!” Murray paused. “Will you see her? It might do more harm than good.”

Squire muttered, “I don’t know. After what she went through-” and said nothing for a moment, recalling her anguish and the brief moment of peace and communion when he had given her his coat to hide her shame from those trying to help her. “It might bring it all back when she sees me.”

Murray shrugged. “I don’t know what the purser will say, but I raided his slop-chest for some clothing. Not what she has been used to, but it’s fresh and clean. It might make a difference.”

Squire waved to Lieutenant Sinclair who was speaking to some of his marines. “Bob, call me if I’m needed”-and indicated the surgeon-”You know where I’ll be.”

Sinclair raised a hand and Squire thought he had forgiven him for choosing his sergeant for the landing party instead.

It was cooler below deck, but not much, despite the hastily rigged windsails. Squire hardly noticed. Claire Dundas might be feeling stronger, safer, but one sight of him and it could all be torn apart.

They reached the cabin door and Murray exchanged a few words with one of his assistants, who was rolling and repacking bandages like those they had carried in the cutter. Then to Squire he said, “Not too long. And don’t touch her,” before tapping at the door. “Claire? Me again!”

Squire still hesitated. For a moment he thought Murray had left another one of his assistants here while he was on deck. She was dressed in white, the shirt probably a midshipman’s, fastened to her throat, and breeches which had clearly been taken from the slop-chest. She was sitting upright in Murray’s armchair, facing the door.

Murray said, “Don’t keep the lieutenant too long, Claire. He’ll be wanted on deck shortly,” and gestured to another chair. “Call me if you require anything. I have to pull out someone’s tooth-but it will not take long.” It sounded like a warning to Squire.

She said, “It was good of you to come,” and turned to watch Murray depart: he left the door open. A lock of dark hair fell aside slightly and Squire saw the bruise on her forehead.

“I wanted to see you. I’ve been wondering about you, ever since …” He said nothing more, recalling Murray’s warning. “You look wonderful.” He moved to the other chair and saw she was staring at the door again. This was a mistake. He had wanted to tell her he had thought of nothing else since she had been carried aboard.

She said softly, “I wanted to see you. To explain.” Her eyes were restless, flickering around the cabin. “To … thank you.” She looked at him suddenly. “After the way I treated you. And the risks you took for us … for me.”

Squire stood up and saw her tense as he took a small package from his pocket.

“I wanted to bring you this.” He opened it carefully, not looking at her; perhaps he had already made things worse. “It was in my old coat.” He laid the bracelet on the table beside her. “I thought you might be looking for it.”

She reached out, her lips moving, but he heard no words.

Her hand faltered. “I thought they’d taken it.” Then she shook her head, heedless of the hair falling over her face. “No. I remember putting it in your coat when you tried to help me.” She fumbled with the bracelet. “He gave it to me.”

She was sobbing harshly, but there were no tears.

Squire wanted to help her, but he heard the surgeon’s warning. She was fumbling at her cuffs, one after the other, and he saw the thick bandages around her wrists.

He said carefully, “I can put it in the strongbox, until …”

She stared at him with that unnerving directness.

“You keep it for me. It will be safe with you.” She thrust the hair from her face. “Until I leave the ship-Lieutenant Squire.” She laid the unfastened bracelet on the table, and he could see her shoulders beginning to quiver. “What … do your friends call you?”

“Friends?” He wanted to smile, make a joke of it, but nothing would come. “Jamie.”

She touched the bracelet, and almost dropped it.

Instinctively, Squire did not move. But the restraint cost him more than Murray would ever guess. He felt her fingers on his as she laid the bracelet across his callused palm.

The door was slightly ajar, and Murray’s voice said from beyond it, “I think you’re needed on deck.”

He came in, glancing somewhere between them. “And it’s time you had a rest, young lady.” He was holding a pair of felt slippers. “But first try these on for size. Tilley, the sailmaker, made a few alterations. I made a sketch for him.”

She leaned down and slid one onto her bare foot. “How wonderful. Please thank him for me, will you?”

She picked up the second slipper; they were the kind worn by powder-monkeys whenever they were ordered to the magazine. Maddock, the gunner, was never without a pair himself. To forget could invite disaster, where one spark from the sole of an ordinary shoe might explode into an inferno.

She touched her cheek with the back of her hand. “So kind. I don’t know what to say.”

Murray turned and deliberately slipped his arm through Squire’s, but did not look at him. “We’ve not forgotten what it feels like to be young. Have we?”

A warning, between friends. Murray wanted to stop him from making a fool of himself, before it was too late.

Squire said, “If I’m wanted on deck …” but could not help looking back. “I’ll put the bracelet in the strongbox. Just in case.”

She stared at him, and nodded slowly. “I understand.” She did not smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Like a door being slammed shut.

Adam Bolitho shifted slightly on the hot thwart to gaze at the full expanse of the anchorage as the gig pulled past the headland. Plenty of eyes must have observed Onward‘s slow and cautious approach; he had seen sunlight blinking from telescopes ashore and afloat most of the way.

A longboat had come out to meet them, perhaps surprised that Onward did not anchor closer to the shore, with its scattering of buildings and long, ungainly pier. The boat had signalled for them to follow, a uniformed figure standing to wave aside any dugout that hovered too closely.

The main fortification was timber-built, with a stockade and a battery of small cannon. In stark contrast, the flag that flew above them, making a brilliant splash of colour, was the same as the one hoisted at Onward‘s own jackstaff when her anchor had been secured. Maybe Freetown had begun like this, and other footholds in wilderness that Rear-Admiral Langley would dismiss as the encroachment of empire.

Jago said, “‘E’s turnin’, Cap’n.”

The other boat was losing way, its oars in confusion. The man in uniform was on his feet again, bowing and baring his teeth in a grin. At one end of the pier were more uniforms, and bare-backed figures who were apparently repairing the lower structure close to the water.

Adam said, “You must stay in the boat this time, I’m afraid.” He glanced along the slow-moving looms, at the faces he knew so well. “I’ll send word if I’m delayed.”

He felt the body beside him stir suddenly; he had almost forgotten that Monteith was aboard. Tense, his sword gripped between his knees, still going over the events at the mission. Doubts, fears, it was not possible to tell. Yet.

Jago called, “Oars!” He may have glanced at Monteith, but he did not wait. Monteith was, after all, in charge of the gig for this formal visit. When he had been piped over the side, one of the duty watch had slipped and allowed a coil of rope to fall across the gangway. At any other time Monteith would have yelled at him, and for far less.

Whatever it was, it must have happened ashore. Squire had said nothing, and Jago would keep it to himself as usual. Unless …

The oars were inboard, the bowmen hooked onto the pier. Another uniformed figure was peering down at them, head and shoulders silhouetted against the sky.

Adam stood up and reached for the thick envelope, the reason for this visit.

He looked at Jago. “Remember what we talked about, eh?” and Jago’s tanned face broke into a grin.

“Ol’ John Allday would never forgive me, Cap’n!”

Some of the bare-backed men on the lower pier had stopped work to look down at the gig and the newcomers. There was a shout, and the sharp crack of a whip. The onlookers vanished.

Adam glanced at Monteith, who had not moved. “Ready?” He did not wait for an answer. Monteith was probably recalling their talk. Leadership by example. He stared up at the pier, angry with himself. So do it!

He climbed up into the sunlight and felt the wood still wet under his hands. It must have been scrubbed in readiness for their arrival. Monteith was close behind him, perhaps relieved to be away from the gig, which must be the key to whatever memories were remaining in his mind. Adam straightened as he was confronted by a stocky man in an unfamiliar green uniform. The New Haven militia.

A smart salute, and a voice as English as one of his own seamen’s barked, “On behalf of the Governor, sir, I am to bid you welcome!” He waited for Monteith to join them. “If you will step this way, sir?”

Adam looked back at the gig and saw Jago nod. That was all.

They walked along the pier. Some of the timber was scarred and well-used; other sections looked freshly laid. Across from the anchorage, there were low sheds along the distant waterfront: slipways for building and launching coastal craft. In a few years’ time, this might become another Freetown.

He quickened his pace. Their guide was keeping well ahead of them, perhaps deliberately.

There were others working beneath the pier. A guard, too, with a whip dangling across his shoulder.

The guide said, “Felons, sir,” and almost smirked. “No different from England!”

They had reached the main building. Like the pier, it must have seen faces from every part of the world.

“Your boat’s crew, sir? They’ll not be coming ashore, will they?”

“I don’t intend to keep them waiting.” It came out more sharply than he had intended, and Adam saw the man flinch. Perhaps Monteith was not the only one.

“If you’ll come this way, sir.” The guide broke off, obviously disconcerted as someone stepped from the shadow of the broad entrance and came striding toward them. “My apologies, Sir Duncan-I brought them along the pier!”

Adam was not sure what he had been expecting, but Sir Duncan Ballantyne was not it.

Tall and lean, he strode toward them, both hands outstretched. “I should have sent one of our boats, and not forced you to drag all the way along that relic!”

He grasped Adam’s hand and shook it vigorously, apparently untroubled by the sun in his eyes. “Captain Bolitho!” He nodded toward the water. “And His Majesty’s Ship Onward-a frigate, no less. We are indeed honoured!”

Ballantyne slipped his arm familiarly through Adam’s. “Something to kill our thirst would be in order.”

He paused to say something to one of his men and Adam took the opportunity to study him more closely. The eyes were, and the hair had once been, as dark as his own. He was said to be sixty years old, but he had the bearing and agility of one much younger. He was casually but, Adam guessed, expensively dressed in riding breeches, with tall boots that shone like glass, and a silk cravat tucked into a matching shirt.

But the face told another story, deeply tanned, dominated by a strong nose and a beard, neatly trimmed to contain the grey. A face it would be impossible to forget. It reminded him of some of the old paintings he had studied as a boy, portraits of those who had defeated the Armada.

Ballantyne glanced casually at Monteith. “You are welcome too, of course. You can amuse yourself while we talk.” And to Adam, “Something tells me that your visit will be a short one.” He took his arm again. “Maybe next time, eh?”

Inside the building he turned to face them. “I heard about the mission, and I have sent some men to investigate the matter. I knew William Dundas, of course. Not well, but as much as he would allow. His kind are always at risk, as I’m sure you know.”

He pushed open another door. Here it was cooler, and a long bamboo-mounted fan was moving slowly back and forth on the ceiling.

Ballantyne sat down and waved Adam to another chair. He said, “News travels fast in these parts,” and stamped one booted foot. “By horse and by coaster.” He waited while a black servant knelt to tug off his boots.

Adam held out the envelope. “I was told to give this to you personally, Sir Duncan,” and Ballantyne wagged a finger at him.

“Not here, together. Plain ‘Duncan’ will do well enough!” He laughed. “I’m not even used to the title myself yet.” He was turning over the envelope. “I can guess the contents. For an admiral and the like, Freetown has become a stepping-stone …” The silken shoulders lifted in a shrug. “To promotion or oblivion!” He leaned forward as another African entered, carrying a silver tray and a pair of glasses. The servant must have caught his foot on the carpet, and the glasses clinked dangerously. “Easy, Trusty! Take your time!”

Adam realised that he was quite young, perhaps the same age as David Napier. He was nodding and smiling now, the glasses safely deposited on a heart-shaped wooden table. An older man brought the wine. Adam rubbed his forehead. He was still tired; he had not even noticed Monteith being shown to another, adjoining room.

Ballantyne sipped the wine slowly. “Fair enough. Under the circumstances.”

When they were alone again, Adam said, “How did he come by a name like ‘Trusty’?” and for a moment he thought Ballantyne would choke on his wine.

He laughed and dabbed his mouth. “He’s a good fellow. Obedient, loyal, and usually careful.” He recovered. “I gave him the name. Trusty was my little pony, given me by my old father when I was a lad. I never forgot him. I probably couldn’t pronounce his real name, even if I knew it.”

Adam had noticed how Trusty had watched Ballantyne’s mouth, and Monteith’s too as he had left the room. “Can he neither hear nor speak?”

Ballantyne was studying his glass. “He was involved in some kind of family feud in a village not far from here. From which I rescued him.”

He seemed to recall the question. “I believe him to be deaf. And they tore out his tongue.” He turned, frowning as someone else appeared in the doorway, then he rose and strode across to him. “What is it now?”

The newcomer was in uniform and, Adam thought, senior to the man who had met them on the pier. He could not hear what was being said, but Ballantyne was obviously displeased.

“Of course I have not forgotten! I have been busy, too!” and then, “No, the captain will not be involved.” He waited for the door to close. “I sometimes have to ask myself …”

Then he smiled. “I must leave you and change,” he looked down at his immaculate breeches, “into something more formal. I am required to attend an execution. No time to show you the welcome I would have wished!”

Adam saw the boy, Trusty, hurrying to find Monteith, responding to some signal from his master. Perhaps Ballantyne really had forgotten his grisly appointment, but it seemed unlikely. He was regarding the empty glasses on the table, and the admiral’s sealed envelope, still unopened beside them.

“I can’t tell you how much I regret this interruption.” He tapped the envelope. “I shall, of course, reply to this when I have given it some thought.” He paused. “Rivalry is no bad thing. It can often be the spur, when one is needed.” He reached out and took Adam’s hands in a grip like iron. “Meeting you, albeit briefly, has meant so very much to me. I hope it will not be long before we greet one another again. This is not a race: we’re on the same journey!” He laughed. “Given the chance!”

They walked out into the sunlight and Adam was surprised to see that the gig had moved to a smaller jetty almost hidden by the line of guns.

Ballantyne said, “I sent word to your crew. One walk along our pier is enough for anybody. Next time, Adam, remember.”

Adam walked slowly toward the jetty, strangely unwilling to leave, without understanding why. So many questions remained unanswered, and he knew they were both to blame.

Monteith hurried from somewhere to join him. He sounded out of breath. “Only just told you were leaving, sir!”

Adam shaded his eyes to gaze up at the flag again, and beyond to the clouds gathering on the horizon. A chance not to be missed, for several reasons.

“We will up-anchor directly and be clear of the land before dark.”

He could still hear Ballantyne’s words. This is not a race. He had known of William Dundas’s death at the mission, but had not mentioned his daughter, Claire.

Neither did I.

He stared across the burning water and saw Onward for the first time. He must find time to prepare himself. Langley would want all the details. And the results, if any. And his impressions of Sir Duncan Ballantyne, too, more formally dressed as he watched an execution.

Jago was on his feet, hat in hand, the gig’s crew sitting with their arms folded. He swore under his breath as Monteith hesitated and almost stumbled while he moved aside for the captain. Didn’t he know after all this time that a captain was always the last to enter, and the first to leave his boat? Maybe he’d been having a few too many wets ashore. Not likely. A real drink might kill him.

But he forgot Monteith as he watched Bolitho pause and look back at the thatched building with the flag flying above it. They had been together longer than many. He thought back over their talk about promotion, a conversation they had had more than once, and about the life they shared.

Luke Jago was sharing it now. He could see it on the captain’s face, like all those other times.

“Out oars!”

Adam turned toward him until their eyes met.

Another bloody Friday, Jago thought.