Alexander Kent - In the King`s Name

There had not been much movement in the harbour or Carrick Roads, but this day was different, and they were discussing the newcomer critically: a King’s ship, something of a rarity of late, with the exception of revenue cutters and naval supply vessels.

Many of the idlers were old sailors themselves, discharged, or thrown on the beach for a dozen different reasons. Many of them loudly proclaimed they were glad to be free of the navy and its harsh discipline, or various officers they had served in the past. Bad food and poor pay, and the constant risk of injury or death. But they were usually the first on the waterfront whenever a sail was sighted.

She was a brig, one of the navy’s maids of all work, busier than ever now with so many of the heavier vessels being paid off or scrapped. She was shortening sail as she turned slightly toward her anchorage, tiny figures spread out along the upper yards of her two masts, the canvas not even flapping as it caught the sunlight. Like her hull, the sails shone like glass and were hardened with salt and ice. A fine sight, but to some of the old hands watching from the shore she meant hazards as well as beauty. Fisting and kicking the frozen canvas into submission so that it could be furled and reefed was dangerous enough, but one slip and you would fall headlong onto the deck below, or into the sea alongside, where even if you could swim …

She was still turning, her sails almost aback, soon to be hidden by the old battery wall above the harbour. Only her masthead pendant showed to mark her anchorage. One man, who had brought a telescope, had seen the new arrival’s name and called out, “Merlin!”

But he was alone. His friends had drifted away.

Commander Francis Troubridge turned his back to the sun and stared at the land, the nearness of it. With the wind dropping to a light breeze, the approach had seemed endless. He would become used to it, with time and more experience. He had a good ship’s company; some had served aboard Merlin since she had first commissioned. One hundred and thirty all told. Hard to believe, he thought, when you considered she was only one hundred and five feet in length. Teamwork and companionship were vital. He looked at the houses, one above another on the steep hillside, but he could not see the church as he had the last time he had been in Falmouth. Only three months ago.

So much had happened since.

He glanced forward where men were stowing away loose gear, sliding down backstays, racing one another to the deck. A few were slower, quietly cursing the scrapes and grazes inflicted by the frozen canvas, which could tear out a man’s fingernails no matter how experienced a sailor he was.

Troubridge had come to know the names of most and remembered them, something he had learned as a flag lieutenant, when the admiral had always expected him to know everything. That was over. He was Merlin’s captain now. And she was his first command. And to most of these men he was still a stranger. It was up to him.

“Standin’ by, sir!”

He raised his hand above his head and heard the cry from the forecastle.

“Let go!”

The splash of the anchor and the immediate response as the cable followed it, men hastening it on its way and ready for any stoppages. There were none.

He had been in command for almost a year, and with previous experience, mostly at sea, he should have been used to it and prepared for anything. But at moments like this it was always new. Different. Beyond pride. If anything, what Troubridge felt was excitement.

“All secure, sir.” Turpin, his first lieutenant, was a square, muscular man who could move quickly when it suited him, from watching the anchor drop from the cathead, alert for any mishap, then aft again just minutes later. He was a born sailor with a strong, weathered face, and clear blue eyes that seemed to belong to someone else looking out through a mask at everything around him. And now at his captain.

Turpin had always served in small ships, and had originally been promoted from the lower deck. When Troubridge had first stepped aboard, Turpin had conducted him over every inch of the ship, pointing out every store and cabin space, messdeck, magazine, even the galley. Proud, even possessive. He was about ten years older than his captain, but if he cherished any resentment he had not revealed it.

Merlin’s previous commanding officer had been put ashore, taken suddenly ill with a fever he had picked up on the anti-slavery patrols. He had since died. But as is the way in the navy, nobody now mentioned his name.

Her second lieutenant, John Fairbrother, was younger than Troubridge and seemed to look upon Merlin merely as a stepping-stone to promotion. The brig also carried a sailing master, who, like Turpin, was very experienced with smaller vessels and had served on three oceans. And, surprisingly for her size, Merlin boasted a surgeon,

Edwin O’Brien, although now, with peace and the brig assigned to the Channel Fleet, his might remain a minor role. It might have been different on the slavery patrols, or hunting pirates in the Mediterranean, where in a ship often sailing alone a surgeon’s skill was paramount.

The four of them made up Merlin’s little wardroom. She carried no midshipmen or Royal Marines and ceremonial was kept to a minimum.

Turpin said, “We are here to await orders, sir?” It sounded like a statement, but Troubridge had come to accept that. The lieutenant hardly ever seemed to write anything down; he carried everything in his head.

Troubridge stared across the water and saw the church for the first time since that day. The Church of King Charles the Martyr, where he had had the honour of taking the lovely Lowenna up the aisle to become Adam Bolitho’s wife.

Turpin broke into his dream-like reminiscence with a blunt, “Memories, sir?” The blue eyes gave nothing away, but no doubt he was remembering that the admiral had granted special leave so Troubridge could attend the wedding.

He nodded. “Yes. Good ones.”

“Will you be going ashore, sir?”

“We’re to remain here for five days, as you know. If nothing changes we’ll take on board two Admiralty officials. Like our last mission, I’m afraid. Not very exciting.”

Turpin said sharply, “Better ‘n being laid up.” The slightest pause. “Sir.”

It was the first hint of envy, and Troubridge was surprised by it. If only …

Someone yelled, “Boat headin’ our way, sir!”

Turpin grunted, “Mail boat. See to it, Parker!”

Troubridge walked across the deck, past the big double wheel and polished compass box, and reached the side in time to see the mail boat already pulling away from the entry port, somebody waving his arm and calling back to Merlin’s side party.

A seaman was coiling some rope and avoided his eyes when Troubridge moved past him. Maybe it was always like this. Adam Bolitho had mentioned the loneliness of command, trying to prepare him.

Turpin’s shadow was beside him again. “Only two letters, sir. Don’t know we’re here yet, I reckon.” He thrust one out. “For you, sir.”

“Thank you.” Troubridge walked into the shadow of the mast, knowing Turpin was watching him. He broke the seal. Not a letter but a card, undated. He had never seen her handwriting, so how could he have known it was from her? I saw you anchor this morning. Welcome back . Visit us if you can . Lowenna.

He walked back across the deck and gazed at the houses and the church tower.

She must have heard from someone, maybe the coastguard, that Merlin was arriving in Falmouth today and had made a visit to the headland, or here to the waterfront to watch them anchor. She might even be over there now. He felt for the card again. She was just being courteous, and was probably always surrounded by friends.