Alexander Kent - In the King`s Name

“Man the boat! ” Fitzgerald touched his hat, and ran to the ladder which had been lowered soon after all hands had been called. Tyacke waited until the cutter was fully manned, two seamen to each thwart, and a swivel gun at the stem. Only then did he turn and extend his hand to Adam Bolitho.

Vincent was watching the masthead pendant and the rebellious flapping of canvas, impatient to bring the ship under command again once the cutter had pulled clear.

Adam returned the handshake. Strong and uncompromising, like the man. There was no more time. Adam said only, “Signal, if you need us.”

Tyacke gazed up at the ensign curling easily against the clear sky, his blue eyes almost colourless in the fierce light. “I hope …” He released his grip. “Until we meet again, Adam.”

He turned abruptly and climbed down into the cutter, and seconds later, or so it seemed, it appeared well clear of Onward ‘s side, unhurriedly, all oars pulling as one.

Adam remained by the rail and watched their progress as the ship came alive around and above him, her canvas filling, and resumed her course. Then he walked slowly across the deck with the wind in his face. Julyan’s dog-vane was fluttering from a half-pike mounted in the weather shrouds: his own battle ensign, perhaps.

He heard Vincent call to one of his leadsmen, already stationed in the chains for the approach, their landmark that tiny, distant flag, heard the splash, and the leadsman’s chant.

“No bottom, sir!”

They were ready.

He looked again, but the cutter had disappeared.

“Steady, lads. Easy does it!” Fitzgerald was half crouched, half standing at the cutter’s tiller, staring over the twin banks of oarsmen at the outthrust spur of land.

It was just for something to say, and he knew it was because of his passenger. His crew were all skilled seamen; they would not be here otherwise. Even the midshipman with the satchel wedged between his knees was not one of those I-know-best types he had met in the past. God help poor Jack when they walked their own quarterdecks …

He felt spray on his mouth as the stroke-oar leaned away from him again. The cutter was answering well, despite carrying a few extra bodies: two marines in the bows as well as a man with a boat’s lead-and-line, although it was not needed yet. You could see the bottom through the clear water, even dark patches of weed, coming alive with the current as the oars dug deep on either beam.

They were all armed, cutlasses stacked beneath the thwarts, and the marines, already sweating heavily in their scarlet uniforms, were in charge of the swivel gun, which was concealed by a canvas hood.

Fitzgerald eased the tiller again and fixed his eyes on the far-off flag: the Union Jack, the same flag they saw hoisted or lowered every day of their lives. But out here it seemed alien, out of place.

Deeper water now, steadier in some way. David Napier felt the salt spray splashing over the gunwale and soaking his legs. He tried not to look into the faces of the oarsmen as they lay back on their looms, following the stroke-oar, measuring every breath. He had seen their eyes, staring astern after they had cast off from the frigate’s side, and was glad his back was turned. He had never found leaving the comparative safety of the ship an easy moment.

And Captain Tyacke had scarcely spoken since his agile climb down into the boat, apart from exchanging a few words with the coxswain and with one of the marines, a corporal who had just been transferred from the flagship. The corporal had apparently once served with Captain Bolitho.

Napier felt himself frowning, and not merely because of the brutal sunlight, trying to remember everything he had been told concerning his duty with the flag captain.

There had been a few slaps on the back from the others, sly comments of, “Another step up the ladder!” and a handshake from Simon Huxley, but no words. And he had heard the captain say, “Watch yourselves, lads.” But Napier knew Bolitho had been speaking to him .

Tyacke half turned suddenly, almost startling him, and said, “There’s a pier and a smaller jetty. We’ll be directed to one or the other.” His face was slightly averted, the disfigurement hidden, and Napier imagined he could feel his own injury. The limp, which he had beaten. He pressed his leg hard against the satchel.

“Oars!”

Another heave, then the blades paused, dripping like wings, as Fitzgerald said, “Easy now, lads,” and then, “I heard shots, sor!”

The corporal confirmed it. “Muskets, sir!”

Tyacke said fiercely, “Carry on! May be up-river or further inland. We don’t have time to hang fire at this stage!”

The oars picked up the stroke and the cutter gathered way once more. Napier watched the land falling away to reveal the entrance to a natural harbour: the anchorage beyond was still half hidden by the headland. No place to venture after dark.

There were two small boats, fishing craft, moored to a ramshackle trestle, and a few birds, which took off as the cutter turned slightly to starboard, where the outgoing current confronted and contested an ocean.

Napier thought of Jago, and his efforts to talk to him. Always a barrier, and yet …

“There’s the pier, sir!”

Tyacke straightened his back and said sardonically, “What, no red carpet laid out for us?” and grinned as if it reminded him of someone.

Fitzgerald leaned closer, murmuring, “Lucky we didn’t bring the corpse with us!”

Tyacke said, “Pull to the next part,” and looked down at the satchel. “I’m not waiting for-”

They all ducked instinctively as the air quivered to a drawn-out explosion.

He shouted, “Next jetty!” He stared across the looms and braced shoulders. “Stand by with the swivel!”

But the ginger-haired corporal had already removed the hood and was training the muzzle beyond the pier.

Napier slung the satchel across his shoulder, ears still throbbing from the explosion, smoke and grit between his teeth.

He heard Tyacke calling out to the cutter’s crew, “Stand by, lads!” but very calmly, one hand resting on his sword hilt.

A grapnel had been thrown on to the low jetty, and a few men almost fell as they came alongside, metal clattering as they seized their cutlasses. A couple of them dragged muskets from beneath the thwarts.

“Clear the boat!”

But Napier hung back, as if he were unable to move.

He felt Tyacke’s hand lightly on his arm, was conscious of his voice, quiet and compelling. Almost matter-of-fact. “Ready, David?”

And his own answer. “Aye, ready, sir!”

They were ashore. But the Union Jack had vanished.

Aboard Onward , the musket shots had passed almost unheard except by a few men on watch in the tops, and even then they were nearly lost in the usual chorus of shipboard noises. One man raised the alarm, then the full impact of the explosion rolled against the hull, given extra power by the echo reverberating from the backdrop of high ground.

Adam stood by the rail, gazing the full length of his command, seeing men off watch coming up from their messes, some still chewing the remains of a hurried meal. Others, working on or above the decks, had fallen silent, looking aft toward the quarterdeck.

Only Midshipman Hotham spoke. His signals telescope was still trained on the shore. “They’ve lowered the Jack, sir.”

Adam watched the great arrowhead of blue water, and the overlapping humps of land that guarded the harbour entrance. He sensed Vincent and Squire standing somewhere behind him, and others near the wheel. Waiting. Perhaps dreading.