Alexander Kent - In the King`s Name

Vincent would be ready to leave, for his own reasons. One of the carelessly tied bundles of canvas thudded against his legs. He told himself to remain calm, but it was like a shouted warning. The time was now.

He turned to look for the ladder. It was in shadow, or perhaps the light was going anyway. He recalled what Vincent had said about the clouds. One squall bursting over Moonstone ‘s deck, and she would be on her way to the bottom.

The fabric of his breeches caught on the edge of something that must have been shielded by the canvas and other debris, a small door or screen where tools or tackle might be stowed for unloading cargo.

He called, “Wait, Lucas!” but there was no answer. What was the point, anyway? He felt the water swilling across his feet again. It seemed deeper. Go now .

He had known fear in the past. This was different. He simply could not move.

The deck lurched again; perhaps he cried out, but there was only silence. Any second now … And then he heard it.

At first he thought it was only in his mind, the last cry, like when Audacity had gone down, but then he heard it again. A tapping, a scraping, hesitant but close. Human? He was scrabbling against the little door now, tugging at the rough clip, leaving blood on the frame but feeling nothing, only a wild desperation. Water was surging around his legs; this could be the final plunge, but it was all out of reach, unreal. Only the faint sound was vital.

Another coaming, and he almost fell. He tried to wedge the door open; otherwise he would be in complete darkness. There was very little light anyway. More fallen canvas and coils of rope, sodden papers floating like leaves, clinging to his hands as he steadied himself. The furtive scrabbling had stopped, if it had ever existed. Maybe it was in an adjoining space or hold. There was a muffled echo, as if something had reverberated against the hull, and he knew it was a shot. From Onward , from another world. The pre-arranged recall.

He pushed his shoulder against the door but it did not shift. If only . Then he froze, unable to think or breathe as something groped at his thigh and fastened to his wet clothing. Like a claw, and it was alive.

He saw the face for the first time, only the eyes catching the feeble light when the door moved slightly.

Napier struggled to move closer until their faces were almost touching, felt the shocked gasp of pain as he tried to push the debris away from the twisted limbs, heard the ragged breathing. The coat was torn and matted, not only with water but with blood, and Napier could see the faint shine of gilt buttons. When his hands fumbled against the ice-cold fingers, he felt the pistol they still gripped. It would never fire again.

Napier leaned closer, overwhelmed by the man’s pain and the smell of the filth in which he had been sprawled. How could he have hoped and lived so long after all he had seen and suffered?

The other hand fell against Napier’s wrist, clutched it, and for a few more seconds clung like iron.

“Knew … you’d … come.” He coughed and swallowed, then was silent again. Only the eyes seemed alive. Wild.

Napier thought he heard a shout. Maybe the gig was about to cast off. Leave him … He felt no fear.

He asked quietly, “How long have you-” and got no further, feeling the hand move to his throat, his face, limp now, but determined.

“Tell them, matey, an’ don’t forget, see?” He coughed blood, but his fingers had tightened. “Knew you’d come, see?”

Napier heard another spar slither across the deck, but he did not move. “Tell me!”

The eyes were closed now, but the voice seemed stronger. How could that be? “I should have known … but too late.”

“Who did this?” Napier felt the hand try to respond, but it was still. Only the eyes were alive, and the lips.

“No quarter. One by one. But I knew you’d come.”

Napier knew it was too late, for both of them. This was all they had left. And he could not move. Soon now …

He felt the fingers tighten again. “Remember the name! Tell them .”

There was silence, and Napier heard another sound: the trickle of water over the coaming, lapping against their legs.

The face moved, almost touching his; he could feel the cold, rasping breath. “Ball-an-tyne .” He was trying to squeeze his hand. “Say it! “

Napier repeated, “Ballantyne.” He felt the hand relax, and knew that he was now alone.

There was a crash, more loose gear falling in the hold, and he stood, waiting numbly for the end. Then he was gasping, his mind reeling as the door was wrenched aside, and he was being dragged clear of the floating debris.

Luke Jago exclaimed, “This is no place for you! So out of it, my lad!”

Napier was on his feet, staring back: Jago was bending over the body, the gilt buttons moving as he thrust his hand between them, the eyes fixed and gazing across his shoulders.

“Gone, poor devil.” He took Napier’s arm sharply and together they headed toward the ladder. Only then did Napier realise that the water was around his knees.

“What can I do?”

Jago stared up at the sky and the thickening layers of cloud and took a deep breath. “Pray, if you believes in it!”

They were both on deck, swaying together like two drunks recovering from a lively run ashore.

Vincent was leaning against the bulwark, alone, with his back to the sea. He snapped, “We’d almost given you up!” and gestured briskly. “Into the boat with you!”

Jago waited for them to climb down into the gig and followed. The grapnels had already been removed, and the bowmen were ready to cast off.

Napier stared at the schooner’s side, trying to marshal his thoughts.

“Shove off forrard! Out oars! ”

He could sense Jago’s nearness and rock-like calm as he took control of men and oars.

Someone shouted, “She’s goin’, lads!”

Napier saw Moonstone start to turn on her side, showing her scarred deck, and the open hold where he would still be trapped but for Jago’s timely arrival. One of the broken masts slid down the deck, and he heard it crash against that same bulwark, dragging tangled rigging and canvas after it.

He gripped his wrist and could still feel the dying man’s desperation, hear his voice. The urgency and the despair. The rudder squeaked and he twisted round to see Jago swing the tiller bar, eyes steady as he gauged the moment.

There was a rumble like distant thunder, and sharper sounds as the hull continued to heel over toward them: carronades which had not been fired in Moonstone ‘s defense crashing free, their great weight uncontrolled and speeding her last moments. And suddenly she was gone, the gig pitching only briefly as the wash subsided.

Napier rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. When he looked again he saw Onward , her sails aback and livid against the low clouds, waiting.

The ocean was deep here, and in his mind he could see the schooner still on her way down into eternal darkness. He gripped his wrist again and knew the memory would never leave him. Nor would he allow himself to forget.

It was a pledge.

IN CORNWALL it had been a hard winter so far, but on this February morning the sky above Falmouth was clear and sunlit, at odds with further inland where the trees were still etched white with frost.

Not much wind, but what there was felt like a honed blade. There were plenty of people about, muffled up against the cold, and the hardier types behaving as if it were a spring day. A few, all women, waited by the fishermen’s wharf, but most of the boats were at sea or empty alongside. All the usual idlers waited on the waterfront, passing the time of day or waiting to share a drink with friends. A servant from the nearby inn had just been seen rolling an empty barrel across the courtyard, a welcome signal to the onlookers.