Alexander Kent - In the King`s Name

He asked, “Are you settled now?”

Tucker shrugged. “Now an’ then I find meself looking up at the t’gallant yards, an’ further!”

Napier felt the barricade press into his hip as the mast leaned over again, thinking of Hotham, who had already been appointed acting lieutenant more than once. He would be the next to confront the Inquisition. And at some time in the future, with luck, it would be his own turn. Once it had seemed impossible: he had not even dared to imagine it. He felt himself smile. Back in those days when Bolitho’s cousin Elizabeth had called him his captain’s servant.

He realised that Tucker had said something and must have repeated it: he was suddenly tense.

“Could I use your glass?” Tucker pushed some hair from his eyes, and seemed oblivious to the deck and the sea far beneath him.

Napier watched his profile as he adjusted the telescope with strong fingers, pausing only to murmur, “Not a patch on Sir Richard’s old glass, eh, Dave?” But he was not smiling.

Tucker handed the telescope back to Napier. “I wasn’t sure. It’s still too far.”

Napier steadied the glass and knew Tucker was waiting for his reaction. He could see nothing but the glare like metal on the water, and the constant change of colour and movement, the swell steep and angry in the steady wind. There was nothing solid, nothing you could describe or recognise. Only flotsam, fragments driven by wind and tide; it might have covered several miles.

But it had once been a living vessel.

“I’ll tell him!” He was halfway into the lubber’s hole when Tucker called out, “Slow down! We don’t want to lose you!”

Napier hesitated, one foot dangling in the air. “I want the captain to know you saw it first!”

He knew Tucker was still gazing after him as his feet found the first ratline.

He was not even breathless when he completed his descent and scrambled onto the starboard gangway. The picture in his mind was as vivid as the moment he had seen it.

The gun drill had stopped or been curtailed, but most of the crew were still at their stations. Those on the starboard side looked up as his shadow passed, and their upturned faces were full of questions. Napier knew the first lieutenant was there, but avoided him and kept his eyes on the quarterdeck at the end of the gangway, his pace steady and unhurried. Something he had learned from experience.

They were all there, as if they had not moved in all the time he had been crouched high above them. The captain came to meet him, the others remaining grouped near the compass and wheel.

“D’ you need time for a second wind, David?” He said it kindly, turning him a little away from the others. Napier felt a shiver run through his body, although the sun was hot across his shoulders.

He said, “Wreckage, sir,” and gestured ahead, and saw some seamen turn to scan the empty horizon. “On either bow, sir. Pieces. No part of ship we could recognise.” He faltered, realising that another shadow had joined theirs. It was the flag captain.

He swallowed hard but straightened his back in response as Tyacke smiled and said, “Don’t stop, Mr. Napier. I’ve heard every word so far,” and averted his face slightly, as if he knew that the scars were disturbing Napier.

The boy gulped and pressed on. “The lookout, David Tucker, saw it first, sir. Even without a glass. He knew.”

Tyacke said, “A good man, I hear.”

Napier saw Drummond, the bosun, who was standing with the others, give him a quick nod. I told you so .

Napier went on, “A small vessel, sir,” and fell silent as Tyacke turned back, and seemed to measure his response.

“Perhaps. We must do more than hope.” He gazed at the sea, indifferent to the metallic glare. “The wreckage lies across our course.” He looked up at the masthead pendant. “An hour? Two at the most?”

Adam nodded, aware that Vincent had come aft to join them. Even men off watch or excused from deck duty seemed to have gathered, and the cook with one of his assistants was peering out from the galley hatch, probably wondering if it would interrupt his schedule. Lieutenant Devereux was in animated conversation with Sergeant Fairfax, breaking down the inevitable barrier of his predecessor’s death. He could sense Tyacke’s mind working, his patience perhaps running out.

Adam said, “We shall shorten sail but hold this course, until we can discover more evidence.”

It was enough for the moment. They all had plenty to think about. He looked down over the quarterdeck and saw Jago leaning against the boat tier. “We’ll need a boat if we find anything.” Almost as if Jago had put the thought into his mind.

He turned back as Vincent said, “I should like to take the boat, sir.”

“I shall remember that when the time comes, Mark.” He glanced up at the taut canvas. “But shorten sail when you’ve mustered the hands.”

Vincent half smiled. “Aye, aye, sir!”

Adam saw Midshipman Huxley leading Napier to the companion; Tyacke must have already slipped away unseen to the great cabin. They had not spoken of it, but Tyacke must be wondering what the admiral would have in store for him when they eventually returned to Freetown. And after that?

It was as if the whole ship had been waiting for the word. Drummond did not need to use his call.

“Hands aloft! Move yourselves, there!”

Squire stood beside the wheel and listened to the squeal of tackles as the gig was lowered from the quarter davits. It was never an easy task with the ship at sea, after first manhandling it from the tier below the quarterdeck, and he could hear one of the helmsmen’s heavy breathing as he fought to hold the helm steady and the compass under control. Under reefed topsails and jib Onward was a different creature, her performance sluggish, at the mercy of the wind instead of commanding it. Jago looked up, waiting, as Vincent judged the right moment before clambering down to join him.

Someone called, “Hope they got strong arms, Luke! It’ll be a hard pull!”

Julyan was standing by, and Squire heard him mutter, “Hope they have strong stomachs, more likely.”

Squire stared from bow to bow, feeling the deck shudder to the surge and plunge of the rudder. The gig was moving away, clear of the quarter, oars already lowered and motionless like wings. It was not a light boat but it seemed to move like a leaf on a mill-race, and yet Jago remained on his feet, his hand on the tiller. Vincent was squatting in the sternsheets, hatless, and shielding his eyes from the spray now being thrown up by the blades.

A few strokes while the gig pulled clear, and there were already fragments of wood, badly charred, being carried between them. Further away there were larger pieces which must have been blown from the hull by the explosion. A hatch cover, a few broken gratings, and farther still, a piece of spar. A small vessel then, maybe a cutter or schooner.

He tensed as something gleamed through the swell and vanished. A shark. Vincent might have seen it. He would not need reminding of the last time, when he had boarded the sinking, abandoned Moonstone . Jago had been with him then, and Napier also. Like a pattern for the events that followed.

He heard the captain’s voice, clear and unhurried. “Tell Mr. Monteith to put more men larboard side forrard!” A pause. “You do it, Sinden.”

Someone shouted from the gangway nearby. Squire knew it was Midshipman Walker, their youngest, and no stranger to action or to danger. But his cry was like that of a girl.

Men were already running to the side, one carrying a grapnel and line. It was a corpse, but someone must have secured him alive to the hatch cover after the explosion, where the shark had reached him. A terrible death.