Alexander Kent - In the King`s Name

Squire heard the captain cross to the opposite side of the quarterdeck and thought he heard Julyan’s voice. Perhaps asking a question.

And the reply. “No, we’ll alter course when I’m satisfied. Not before.”

It seemed an eternity, the sea was almost empty again. It was only one man’s decision. Suppose it was mine? He thought of Vincent, the expression on his face when he had volunteered for the boat party. He would never admit defeat …

He turned as a shout rang through the chorus of sounds from loose canvas and shrouds.

“Deck there!” It was Midshipman Hotham, still in the maintop with his big signals telescope.

The sun had shifted, or was hidden by a partly reefed sail. Adam stared up at the arm pointing from the top and trained his own glass on the same bearing. A mistake, perhaps? Or Vincent signalling to admit failure and request support for his exhausted oarsmen?

Adam tried again, waiting for the gig to reappear. The swell was deep enough to hide it completely. He held his breath and watched the one upright figure.

Then he lowered the telescope and said quietly, “They’ve found somebody. Alive.”

“Give way, together!” Jago lurched against the tiller bar, keeping his balance as the oars brought the gig under control. It took all their skill and strength to do it, with the sea rising and sliding away on either beam as if to swallow them.

The gig carried two extra men, standing in the bows with boathooks to fend off any floating debris that might impede the stroke or damage the hull. They had both struggled aft to help haul the survivor inboard, and now he was lying in the sternsheets, his shoulders propped against Vincent; the first lieutenant’s breeches were soaked with blood. He was gulping air unsteadily, sometimes rasping and shuddering as if losing the fight.

The stroke oarsman gasped, “Don’t give up, matey!” and Jago glared at him.

“Save yer breath, or you’ll be the next!” Jago stared at the man they had found clinging face down to a piece of framework, the sort used to separate cargo in a small vessel’s hold. It had been intact, not even scorched.

He watched Vincent unfastening the sodden coat. It was green, like the uniforms of the “private army,” as he had heard one of the marines call it, which he had seen during their visit to New Haven. He scowled. Who the hell had given it a name like that? He recalled the brief gunfire and later, that one God-awful explosion. Nothing made sense.

Someone said, “Pity our doc ain’t with us!”

Vincent did not look up, but snapped, “So pull harder. He could do no better out here!”

Jago would have smiled at any other time. Bloody officers . But he reached down from the tiller-bar and gripped the hand which had suddenly returned to life. Weak at first, as if unable or unwilling to find hope, and ice-cold, although the thwarts and bottom boards were bonedry in the sun.

The eyes were suddenly wide open, unblinking, and Jago tightened his grip.

“Steady as she goes, matey. Just a bit longer!”

He had seen a lot of men fighting for life in all the years he had served at sea. And had watched plenty of them give up. The eyes were still on his. Not fear. It was disbelief.

Vincent dragged his hand into the sunlight. Some dried blood, but nothing much. He spoke softly, his voice almost drowned by the creak and thud of oars.

“Broken ribs. The explosion.” He glanced at the oars, slowing now. The breathing was louder. “As soon as we get him aboard …” He did not finish, knowing the man was trying to turn his head to look at his face, or perhaps the uniform.

Vincent leaned over him. There was more blood on his own white breeches. “We’re taking you to safety. Try to rest. You’re among friends now.”

Jago eased the tiller yet again and watched Onward as she appeared to lengthen across the gig’s stem. There would be many helping hands once he had managed to work his way alongside, without much of a lurch. He thought of Vincent. Strict but fair, not a hard-horse like some. He tried to smile. Like most . But the smile did not come.

He eyed the masts, the poop, the big ensign streaming from the gaff above. Closer now, men on the gangway, some running, tackle being hoisted as a further guide, where the surgeon would be waiting.

“Bows!” Onward was reaching out to receive them, with extra ladders and rope fenders to cushion the impact as he guided the final few strokes of the sweating oarsmen. Onward was rolling, reefed sails still holding the wind, showing her copper one minute and then the reflection of her gunports as she dipped toward him. Jago shut everything else from his mind, conscious of the man’s grip on his ankle as he was trying to keep his balance and fix the moment. Nothing else could interfere.

Vincent was calming the survivor, and he was suddenly silent, as if he thought he had imagined the ship so close.

Jago shouted, “Oars!” and as the blades lifted and steadied, showering spray over the men beneath, he was unsettled by the silence. A heaving line snaked out of nowhere and was seized by one of the bowmen.

Vincent must have stumbled or been taken unawares by the motion. The rescued man had dragged himself on to his knees and was staring up at Jago as he eased the tiller for the impact.

His voice was cracked, strangled, but as the stroke oarsman came to Jago’s aid he began shouting at the top of his voice. It was garbled, meaningless. Then he stared directly into Jago’s eyes again. As if he was judging the moment, holding him: Jago could not look away.

A voice not much different from his own. Loud and very distinct, but only one word.

“Mutiny!”

His eyes were still wide open. But he was dead.

It was not dark in the cabin, but it seemed almost gloomy after the activity on deck.

Adam stood by the stern windows, his hand on the bench, feeling the motion, the regular thud of the rudder. The sea was streaked with gold, the last sunlight, and there seemed no horizon. Behind him Tyacke was sitting at the little desk, his shoeless feet protruding into a slanting patch of coppery light. Someone was hammering overhead, but otherwise the ship noises seemed very subdued.

Tyacke said suddenly, “Tomorrow, then?” and Adam nodded.

“At this rate, some time in the afternoon. Maybe later if the wind drops inshore.” He could picture the chart in his mind. He glanced at the bergere and dismissed the idea. If he gave in now, it would take another explosion to wake him.

He had been on deck again a moment ago. Almost deserted but for the watchkeepers, and a few anonymous figures sitting by the guns or looking at the sea alongside. And the canvas-wrapped body beside one of the eighteen-pounders, not for burial this time.

Tyacke had remarked, “They’ll want to know. To be sure.” It was curt, but it made sense.

He had struggled to his feet now and was looking for his shoes. “Your cox’n, Jago-he did well today. I told him so.”

Adam heard the pantry door open perhaps an inch. He recalled Jago’s face as Tyacke had spoken to him. And something else. Vincent had said nothing to him. He could imagine Jago’s voice. Bloody officers!

And the surgeon, who had been waiting to examine the dead man when he was hoisted aboard. When Murray had made his report, his hands red from scrubbing, he had said simply, “I don’t know how he managed to stay alive.”

Tyacke had replied only, “But now we know why! ”

He was looking toward the pantry door now, and raised his voice a little. “A lifetime ago somebody suggested that a drink, maybe two, might be forthcoming!”

Morgan padded softly to the table and put two glasses within reach, frowning and tutting as the deck tilted and the rudder groaned in protest. They each took a glass, and Morgan filled them without spilling a drop, murmuring, “Your health, gentlemen.”