Alexander Kent - Heart of Oak

Adam looked at Jago. "No bargains."

There was a sudden burst of cheering, which drowned out every other sound. Men stood away from their guns, and some embraced one another. Even Monteith lifted his face from his hands and stared around, startled, as if he could not recall what had happened.

Some one yelled from the forecastle and Adam saw the drifting cutter nudging against the hull.

A voice shouted orders, and a marine ran to pitch a grapnel and haul it alongside.

Adam stared at the stains and the scars of gunfire. It should have been Joshua Guthrie's leather-lunged voice, but it had been silenced forever. The boatswain had fought his last battle.

The cheering had died away, and he could hear the thud of hammers and the regular clank of a pump. Onward had been wounded. But she was the victor.

Julyan called, "We can't anchor here, sir! No bottom."

He thought he had heard the leadsman's chant even as they had approached Nautilus, feeling their way.

"No matter. We will take her in tow until we can make her fit for passage."

Jago said, "Cutter's made fast, Cap'n."

Adam walked to the larboard side, the wind at his back. Just in time. But too late for men who had deserved a longer span of life, to enjoy or to endure.

There was no land in sight, nor would there be until the Strait.

He saw young Walker by the flag locker, dabbing his eyes, which were red-rimmed with smoke or tears. Caught like that, he looked like a child in uniform.

Adam called, "A birthday we'll all remember, Mr. Walker!"

Some of the seamen laughed and raised a cheer, and one patted him on the back. His face would be remembered, too.

He tried to steady his thoughts, but they were swirling and disordered, as if they had been cut free.

He heard the cutter, manned and pulling away to recover another boat, maybe Jago's gig.

A boarding party to stand guard while a jury-rig was joisted over Nautilus. Wounded to be treated. He thought of the sailmaker who had saved David Napier's life. There would be more to bury in the next day or so, no matter what the surgeon and his assistants could do.

He saw Jago's eyes on his shoulder, and when he reached up his fingers encountered a jagged sliver of gold lace, severed only inches from his neck. He had not felt the ball rip past. The unknown marksman had observed him with care, but had waited too long.

He saw Vincent up forward, heard him calling names while Midshipman Huxley ticked them on a list.

He felt Deacon watching him, still smiling a little, no doubt because of his remark about his helper's birthday.

"Sir? "Alert and correct. A lieutenant's commission no longer only a dream.

"We will be making for Gibraltar. As we approach, we will be challenged, as you would expect."

He saw him frown as he pulled out his pad.

"A signal, sir?"

"It will be a long one. "He looked across at the other frigate, a prize now. More weapons were dropping over her side, and he thought he saw a uniform walking unchecked past the abandoned guns. One of Marchand's officers, surprised to be free and alive.

He shut his mind to it. A higher authority would sift and carry the burden.

The ship comes first.

"When challenged, you will make…"

He paused and looked out over the glistening water.

Ships were all different, with characters of their own. Any old sailor could name a dozen or more without stopping to think.

Maybe ships understood?

He spoke slowly, and knew that Jago was listening. Sharing the moment.

"'His Britannic Majesty's ship Nautilus is rejoining the Fleet. God Save the King."

Francis Troubridge stood on the steps below the church and tugged his dress coat into position. There seemed to be people everywhere, waiting and watching, some even pointing now that he had appeared, as if a signal had been given.

He shivered, although not from the cold. It was November, but the sun had made an appearance, and he was surprised that he could feel so unnerved, and completely alone.

All those hundreds of miles, delivering urgent despatches to the admiral at Plymouth; it was hard to recall every detail, or arrange them in sensible order.

One memory never faltered. Gibraltar, watching the two frigates entering harbour, the damaged Nautilus under her jury-rig, and a White Ensign clean and vivid above her scars.

Then the cheering, with every ship in the anchorage alive with waving sailors, boats pulling to greet the arrivals, and cannon firing in salute from the Rock itself.

And other vignettes, clear and personal. There had been an Admiralty warrant waiting for Onward, for the immediate arrest and trial of one of her company. A woman had come forward as witness to the murder of Captain Charles Richmond, Adam Bolitho's predecessor. It was rumoured that both Richmond and his alleged killer, a sailmaker named Lloyd, had been the woman's lovers.

Troubridge recalled the exact moment when Bolitho had been given the warrant, when the cheers and tumultuous welcome had still been ringing in his ears. Very deliberately, he had torn it into pieces, and said, "He fought for his ship. He will be answering to a far higher command than their lordships!"

He shivered again. Things had moved with such a speed, almost from their arrival at Plymouth. Onward had been taken into the dockyard because of damage on and below her waterline, and most of her company had been put ashore to await developments. And Merlin was to be reassigned to the Channel Fleet.

Another vivid memory, only a few days ago, when he had been granted leave personally by the admiral to come to Falmouth and attend Bolitho's wedding.

Some one gave a cheer and he saw some more uniforms approaching, and being met by an usher. A good day for smugglers; there were two revenue cutters in harbour, and these were their officers.

He thought of this morning's short journey in the carriage from the Bolitho house to the Church of King Charles the Martyr, Adam Bolitho beside him, and, sitting opposite them, his pretty aunt Nancy and Sir Richard's old friend Thomas Herrick. He had always felt that he would know them, but when the time came, he was still the stranger. Herrick had donned his uniform for the occasion, which had not helped.

Looking back, it seemed the retired rear-admiral had been even more uneasy.

Some one exclaimed, "Coming now!"

The crowd was thicker; even those he had thought only casual onlookers had pressed closer to join the others.

A smart carriage with a crest he did not recognize on its door was wheeling round to the foot of the steps.

For an instant longer he saw the girl in the untidy studio, when Adam had smashed down the door and he had found himself with a pistol in his hand, ready to shoot. To kill, given the slightest provocation. And Lowenna, the gown ripped from her shoulder, with a brass candlestick in her hand, the man who had tried to rape her sprawling at her feet. would have killed him, she had said.

So would I.

The carriage stopped and some one ran up to hold the horses.

The coachman had jumped down from his box and let down the step before Troubridge could move.

He thought of the coachman who had driven them from the house. Young Matthew, they had called him, although he could have been their father… And he had seen the quick exchange of glances, and the smiles when Young Matthew had been ready to assist the one-armed Herrick from the carriage, but he had declined. No words had been necessary.

He stared, startled, for an instant as a midshipman stepped from the coach and turned to take the bridal bouquet, a spray of golden chrysanthemums tied with ribbon.

But the "midshipman" was a girl, in a perfect copy of a uniform jacket, with a white skirt that skimmed her ankles. Her tall, slim figure would never pass unremarked on any gangway.