Alexander Kent - In the King`s Name

The admiral might be watching Onward right now through his telescope, if he allowed himself to appear so eager. He thought of the sealed orders. With all despatch … And after their delivery, what next? Take on supplies and fresh water, and then back to Plymouth?

He saw the cook’s assistant looking at the galley funnel, and the surgeon’s mate shaking his head. Not yet . You didn’t have to hear them speak. He looked again: most of the hammocks had been lashed and stowed, and one of the last men to stand away from the nettings was throwing his head back and giving a huge yawn. He froze as he realised that he was eye to eye with his captain.

Adam raised a casual hand and smiled, and saw the seaman abruptly bob his head before hurrying away.

The calls shrilled: “Hands to breakfast and clean!”

Adam shaded his eyes and said, “You go below too, Mark. We’ll all be busy enough soon.”

He saw Vincent rub his chin and then nod. “Thank you, sir. I’ll not take a moment. If you’re sure.”

Adam heard the companion close, and walked to the quarterdeck rail, gazing toward the shore. Even without a telescope he could see some small local vessels, far away, like dried leaves floating against the unmoving backdrop. One day, Vincent would understand that at a moment like this a captain needed to be alone. With his ship.

The two midshipmen stood side by side on the forecastle as the land, now alive with detail, continued to reach out and embrace the ship. Despite the sounds of spars and rigging, which most sailors took for granted as part of their daily lives, the silence was unnerving, and a moment before, someone had gasped with alarm as the first strokes of eight bells had sounded from the nearby belfrey.

David Napier nudged his friend’s arm with his elbow and felt him respond.

Lieutenant Squire stood stolidly with his hands clasped behind him, big feet apart, watching the guardboat which had pulled out to greet Onward on her final approach and had taken station directly ahead. The wind had held after all, but the pace seemed painfully slow under the lee of the land.

The gunner had already been on deck, but no salute was required. He had grinned. “They’re not out of their sacks yet!” Even his voice had seemed louder than usual.

Midshipman Huxley murmured, “There’s the flagship, Dave.”

His Britannic Majesty’s ship Medusa was a smart third-rate, a two-decker of seventy-four guns. She did not compare with the massive ships of the line, but here she seemed to dominate the anchorage. Most of the other vessels were much smaller: cutters, two brigantines, and one schooner.

Napier heard Huxley mutter, “She’s like-”

He did not finish. Neither of them needed reminding, especially Napier. The memory of Moonstone still took him unawares, in the night watches or when some casual remark brought some part of it back to life. Like now.

He looked aft and saw the first lieutenant standing by the captain, pointing up at the topsail yards, where seamen stood ready to shorten or make more sail if the wind roused itself or dropped altogether. Did Vincent ever think about it? That more could have been done? If anything, he had avoided mentioning it.

Napier thought of the captain. He had seen the sharks, and signalled the recall immediately. But for that …

He cupped his hands over his eyes and stared across the water toward Medusa . She was moored alongside a pier or wooden jetty, the rear-admiral’s flag drooping from her mizzen, and he could see a few figures working on deck and the sun reflecting on a telescope.

Lieutenant Squire said suddenly, “We shall rig winds’ls as soon as we anchor. Be like an oven ‘tween-decks otherwise.”

“Is that what the flagship’s doing, sir?” That was Huxley, as serious as ever.

Squire grunted. “Not sure.”

Napier looked away from the slow-moving schooner. “Maybe Medusa’s preparing for sea?”

Somebody yelled from aft and Squire strode to the side and gestured to some of the anchor party. But he still managed to crack a grin.

“If the flagship went to sea, that whole bloody pier would collapse!” He clapped one of the seamen on the shoulder as he was gaping at the great anchor hanging from its cathead. “Ready for a run ashore, Knocker? Or are you too young for it?”

There were several raucous laughs, and one of the younger seamen took up Squire’s mood. “Wot are the girls like ‘ere, sir?”

Squire looked at the two midshipmen and winked. “Only one way to find out!” Just as quickly, he was serious again. “Stand by forrard, and warn the hands below!”

Napier saw the guardboat turning slightly, oars motionless, and someone holding up the blue flag. He thought of the charts, the countless pencilled calculations, the hundreds of miles logged and recorded, all culminating in this final position, marked by a blue flag.

He nudged Huxley again. “It’s probably still snowing in Falmouth!”

Huxley gave a rare smile. “My father always said …” He stopped and withdrew into silence, a habit Napier had noticed that very first day when they had joined Onward together, he still recovering from the loss of his ship and Huxley brooding over his father’s court-martial and suicide.

He said gently, “Tell me, Simon. What did your father used to say?” and for a moment he thought he had broken an unspoken promise.

Then Huxley answered steadily, “My father said a good navigator measured distance by the number of ship’s biscuits consumed each day …” He faltered, but he was smiling. “Sorry about that!” And the smile remained.

Napier stared up at the yards and the topmen spread out along them, and guessed his newly promoted friend, Tucker, would be watching them, too.

Lieutenant Squire was saying, “Quiet enough. Must all be asleep aboard the flagship.” He beckoned to Napier. “My respects to the first lieutenant, and tell him …” He stopped as another voice came from aft.

“Signal from Flag, sir! Captain repair on board! ”

“Let go!”

Squire leaned over the side as Onward ‘s anchor dropped from its cathead and felt the spray across his face like rain; it was almost as cold on his heated skin. Mud and sand swirled to the surface as the cable took the strain.

He signalled to the quarterdeck and saw Vincent acknowledge it. It was over, but Squire knew from long experience that it was also just beginning.

“Attention on the upper deck! Face to starboard!”

Then the prolonged trill of calls in salute for the captain, and, seconds later or so it seemed, the gig pulled smartly away from the side. Squire straightened his back automatically and felt Napier move up beside him. He saw the sun glinting on the oars and then on the captain’s gold epaulettes as he sat stiffly upright in the sternsheets. He seemed to be looking up at Onward ‘s figurehead, or the men on the forecastle. Maybe at Napier.

It must be difficult for both of them, captain and “middy.” More than any one. To show any sign of friendship or familiarity would be seen as favouritism or bias by those eager to seize on such things.

Squire peered across at the flagship and thought he heard the blare of a trumpet. Neither captain was wasting any time.

At the gig’s tiller, Luke Jago watched the steady stroke of oars and waited for it to settle into a rhythm that satisfied him. Everything smart and clean, the crew dressed in their chequered shirts and straw hats. He envied them; he was wearing his jacket with the gilt buttons, and was already sweating badly. He glanced at the captain in his best uniform; even the proud epaulettes looked heavy on his shoulders.