Alexander Kent - In the King`s Name

He looked away abruptly and saw the sudden bustle and excitement as the call was piped to muster all hands. The flag captain was cutting it fine, he thought. Sailing time was set for noon.

He had seen Lynch, the cook, leave his galley a while back, his old fiddle half-hidden by his apron, ready to get these feet stamping around the capstan while he still had the taste of rum on his lips to inspire him.

Squire walked deliberately to the opposite side of the deck, knowing from experience that the older hands always watched him at this critical moment in case he revealed any uncertainty. He half smiled. Panic, rather . The other anchor was catted, but ready to let go if there was a sudden emergency. None so far, but there was always a first time.

More shouts: the side party at their stations now to receive the flag captain. Even above that he could hear Lieutenant Monteith venting his impatience on someone in the afterguard, and saw two of his own men exchange grimaces. He could hardly blame them.

The wardroom was a small, private world, or should be. But as far as Squire was concerned, Monteith was still a stranger. Maybe Monteith had changed in some way since the landing party. Or is it me?

“Attention on deck! Face to starboard!”

Squire could hear the steady beat of oars, double-banked, although the boat was hidden by Onward ‘s side.

The captain would already be there to greet his superior. But it went deeper than that. There was friendship as well as a mutual respect: you could feel it when you saw them together. Bolitho, of course, was much younger than Tyacke, and he had never been a diplomat and found it harder to disguise his true feelings when he was under pressure. Like that moment when he had turned and said simply to Squire, “If I should fall …” And Squire remembered his own reply, spoken without hesitation.

He stared aft again, to gauge how much longer … But Onward had swung slightly at her anchor, and instead of moored harbour craft he could now see two large buildings, one with a long balcony: the Osprey Mission.

Would Claire see Onward when she weighed? Would she care? Now, all she wanted was to forget. But life had to be faced again and lived no matter what, and he would only be a painful reminder. Like the scars on her skin and her memory.

He knew that he was biting his lip, a habit he had sworn to conquer, and bellowed, “Stand by, lads!”

He saw Midshipman Napier reach over to touch his friend’s arm. It was all still an adventure at their age.

Another voice: Harry Drummond, the bosun. “Man the capstan! Jump to it!” And the squeak of halliards as the Jack was lowered. For good or ill, the waiting was over.

“Heave, me bullies, heave!” More men running to throw their weight on the capstan bars, and a few marines piling arms in case their strength, too, would be required.

Squire found himself holding his breath until, after what seemed like an age, he heard the first metallic click from the capstan as the pawls began to move. The cable looked bar-taut, shining like metal as it took the full strain.

Vincent’s voice rang out, clear and final. “Hands aloft! Loose tops’ls!”

Despite the orderly confusion Squire could hear the cook’s fiddle, and his foot stamping time. On Richmond Hill there lives a lass more bright than Mayday morn …

The sun was behind Squire and he took a moment to look aloft where the topmen were already spacing themselves along the yards, like puppets against the sky. Skill and experience, the true seamen in any man-of-war. But for every one of them there was always a first time, too, and Squire had never forgotten the sight of the deck or the sea swaying so far beneath him. And the flick of a starter across his backside if he was slow about it.

The capstan was moving steadily, and he thought maybe a little faster, and Onward had swung in response to wind and current. The mission was hidden, the guardboat was pulling away, someone waving from the sternsheets. He heard one of his own men mutter a joke, and laugh as if completely untroubled.

Onward would stir any man’s heart when she spread her canvas, and the anchor was catted just a few feet from his vantage point. And Claire might be watching. Remembering …

Squire studied the cable again, and the swirling traces of mud and sand in the water.

“Stand by!”

He saw Napier turn toward him and for a moment thought he had spoken her name aloud. He jabbed Napier’s shoulder. “Pass the word! Larboard quarter!”

He knew Huxley had been watching the procedure closely. Perhaps imagining himself in his own ship one day. Like his father.

“Up and down, sir! Hove short!”

If the water was clear enough, Onward ‘s great shadow would be visible right now, reaching for her own anchor.

Click click click .

Squire stared aft again and saw the men on deck peering up at the yards, others ready at the braces. Like a familiar pattern but, as always, the captain stood alone.

Slower now. Some of the waiting marines had squeezed themselves into the revolving wheel of seamen. One of the scarlet uniforms was the new officer, Devereux. Squire had met him only briefly. It would take time. He was young.

He smiled. Of course . He held up his arm, and saw Vincent’s immediate acknowledgment.

“Anchor’s aweigh!”

Adam Bolitho listened to the capstan and felt the deck shudder beneath his feet as the anchor broke free of the ground. Two helmsmen were at the wheel, and Donlevy, the quartermaster, was standing by, as he had been since all hands had been piped. Julyan, the master-”Old Jolly” as he was called behind his back-was not far away, one of his mates beside him, slate and pencil poised for anything that might need recording in the log, or on a chart.

The shrouds and stays trembled and rattled as the first canvas broke and filled at the yards, and again the deck quivered as if other hands were trying to control the rudder.

Adam was standing in the shadow of the mizzen, just paces abaft the wheel, and without the sun in his eyes could see the full length of the ship. Squire and his men in the bows watching for the first sign of the anchor-ring, the “Jews-harp” as it was known, breaking the surface, so that it could be catted and made secure. More men being sent to the braces to lend their strength, and heave the great yards further round until each sail was full-bellied and stiff in the wind. A few men slipping in the struggle with wind and sea. To the landsman or casual onlooker, it must appear utter confusion until order was finally restored, topsails set, and the unruly jib trimmed and sharp, like the fin of a shark.

Adam watched the shore moving now as Onward gathered way, and the two hills which had become familiar, essential landmarks for this final run to the headland, and beyond to the open sea.

He leaned back now, gazing at the spread of canvas above, the masthead pendant stiff as a lance in the wind. Some topmen were making a lashing secure, or waving to others on the foretop, apparently indifferent to the distance from the deck.

The shudder again: the rudder taking charge.

“Anchor’s secured, sir.” Vincent was watching critically as the capstan bars were stowed away.

Adam thought he heard Jago’s voice above the thud of canvas and the chorus of rigging. He was standing near the boat tier kicking a wedge like a gun-quoin into place, to make them more secure for sea. He seemed to feel Adam’s eyes on him and twisted round to give his little gesture, like a private signal. So many times.

“Fall out the anchor party!”

More voices now: the nippers, youngsters who would be joining others stowing the incoming cable after they had scrubbed every fathom of it. Adam beckoned to Midshipman Hotham, who was standing by the flag-locker, a telescope over his shoulder.