Alexander Kent - In the King`s Name

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

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

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

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

Squire touched his hat and strode heavily away.

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

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

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

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

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

Jago said loudly, “Standin’ by, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do we return to Onward , sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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