In the King's Name (2 page)

“I have a letter to finish.”
The hardest one to write
. “I want it to go ashore in good time.”

Jago nodded. “The guardboat will take it, sir. I'll make sure of that.” He hesitated by the screen door, but there was nothing more. “I'll leave you in peace, sir.”

Adam called after him, “Thanks, Luke.” “Sir?”

But Adam had walked to the quarter windows and was standing there, a slim figure of medium height, eyes as dark as his hair, pale shirt framed against the outer darkness like a spectre. As if he could see the nearest land.

He heard the door shut, the sentry clearing his throat while Jago told him the captain mustn't be disturbed. He moved to the little desk and pulled open another drawer. The letter was there, half-written.

The ship was suddenly quiet, and he could hear the repetitive squeak of the hook where his best uniform coat hung from the deckhead, complete with the new epaulettes. He had worn it at his wedding in Falmouth. Adam touched his skin, and the slight scrape left by the razor when Jago's concentration had wavered, a rare thing for him.

He dipped the pen and wrote slowly, as if to hear the words.

It was not tomorrow. It was now.

Lieutenant Mark Vincent stood by the quarterdeck rail and stared along
Onward
‘s full length, making sure he had missed nothing. It was almost physical, this relaxing muscle by muscle, like a gun captain who has made the final decision before opening fire. He had been appointed to
Onward
just over a year ago when she had been commissioned here in Plymouth, and he thought he knew every inch of her one hundred and fifty feet, above and below deck; how she behaved at sea, even how she looked to any passing vessel. Or to an enemy. She was a frigate which had more than proved herself during her short life, and one any man would be proud and, these days, lucky, to command.

He pushed the envy to the back of his mind, until the next time.

It was rare to see the deck so crowded. The lower deck had been cleared, hammocks smartly stowed in the nettings with a minimum of fuss. He glanced up at the sky, shreds of ragged cloud scudding ahead of the cold north-easterly, with only a few pale streaks of blue, like ice.

“Guardboat's casting off, sir!”

Vincent said curtly, “As ordered.” He did not know the seaman's face, one of the replacements for somebody killed or injured in their brief, bitter fight with
Nautilus
, but a few drills or an Atlantic gale would soon change that. And most of the new hands were volunteers, a far cry from his first days at sea when they had been pressed men or worse, “scrovies” as the worthless were termed—picked up by local crimps when they were too drunk to know what was happening.

He thought of the idlers he had seen on the waterfront when he had been ashore on some mission or other, doubtless some of the same Jacks who had once cursed every minute they had served aboard a King's ship.

The guardboat was pulling away from the chains, the officer waving to someone by the entry port, the oars reflecting in the choppy water as they angled to take the first pull. Vincent unslung the telescope from his shoulder and trained it across the slow-moving boat. A two-decker of seventy-four guns was anchored between
Onward
and the inshore moorings and catching the first gleam of sunlight on her high poop and gilded “gingerbread,” and the rear-admiral's flag at her mizzen. He closed the glass with a snap. Like a warning, or perhaps it was instinct. There were several figures on deck with telescopes pointing toward
Onward
. Officers, despite the early hour; the greasy smell of breakfast still lingered on the cold air.

He looked over at the companion and saw the captain's coxswain climbing into view and pausing to touch his hat to the Royal Marine officers ranged beside a squad of scarlet coats.

As if it were a signal, Vincent crossed the deck, which had been cleared to allow space for the capstan bars to be slotted into place. Jago walked past the big double wheel and took up his station at the rail.

Another quick glance, and Vincent saw the signals crew standing by the flag locker, Midshipman Hotham in charge, his narrow face set in a frown, and very aware of the moment. A clergyman's son, but, as he was always quick to point out, “so was Our Nel!”

The Royal Marines' boots clicked together and someone saluted. The captain touched his hat, and Vincent thought he might have nodded slightly to his coxswain. He faced Vincent and smiled.

“It'll be lively when we clear the Sound.” He was looking along the deck and gangways at the groups of seamen at their stations, most of them staring aft at their captain.

Vincent swallowed: his mouth felt bone-dry.
How does it feel? His decision. I might never know
.

Young Hotham's voice scattered his thoughts. “Signal from Flag, sir!” A pause, and a telescope squeaked as somebody else focused on the flags breaking to the wind.
“Proceed when ready!”

Adam saw the acknowledgment running up the halliards, Hotham peering eagerly forward as the bell chimed out as if to mark the moment.

Vincent shouted, “Man the capstan! Fo'c'sle party stand by!”

“Heave, m' lads,
heave!
”

Adam turned, momentarily caught unawares. It would take time to become used to another new voice. Harry Drummond, the bosun, was a professional seaman to the tips of his iron-hard fingers, but it was impossible to forget the massive Guthrie, around which the ship's company had seemed to revolve like hands obeying the capstan. He had fallen like a great tree, his men stepping over him to obey his last order.

The pawls of the capstan were moving, clicking into place as more men added their weight to the bars. Someone slipped and fell sprawling; the deck was still treacherous with rain.

But he heard a voice trying to raise a cheer as a fiddle scraped, and squealed into a familiar sailor's shanty.

It was Lynch, the senior cook, eyes shut and one foot beating time to every clink of the capstan.

Adam stared up at the yards, the topmen strung out like puppets against the hurrying clouds. The long masthead pendant gave some hint of the wind's strength, and he could picture
Onward
‘s outline like a lithe shadow edging slowly toward the embedded anchor.

“Heave
, me bullies,
heave!
”

He heard Julyan, the sailing master, speaking to the quartermaster and his extra helmsman. Calm, unhurried, just loud enough to carry above the chorus of wind and rigging. One eye on the compass, another on his captain, whose ultimate responsibility this was.

Adam remained by the quarterdeck rail, the ship and her company moving around him, but as if he were quite alone. Did you ever become so accustomed to this moment, or so confident, that it became merely routine?

The capstan was moving more slowly, but steadily, and no more hands were called to add their weight to the bars. He could see their breath like steam blown away on the wind, and feel the air on his spraywet cheek like ice rime.

He glanced forward again, and across the larboard bow. The two-decker was anchored apart from the other ships, her sealed gunports a chequered pattern shining in the strengthening light. There were lighters moored alongside, empty, like undertakers waiting for the last rites. How did the ship feel?
How would I feel?

He looked away, but not before he had seen the powerful shape of Lieutenant James Squire at his station in the eyes of the ship, watching the incoming cable. A born seaman and navigator, and one of the most senior men aboard. He had come up from the lower deck, and had won respect and popularity the hard way. Two midshipmen stood nearby: David Napier and the latest addition to the berth, John Radcliffe, who was about to begin a day, good or bad, which would live in his memory—his first at sea in a King's ship.

Adam could recall his own. Only the faces seemed blurred or merged by time, save for a few.

Jago murmured, “Morgan brought yer boatcloak, Cap'n.” He was standing by the packed hammock nettings, but hardly raised his voice.

“Still got a lot to learn!” Then the familiar chuckle.

The cabin servant had thought of everything that his captain, any captain, might require under any circumstances.
But he doesn't know me yet. That I would freeze or be soaked to the skin rather than take cover on this day
.

Adam glanced down and saw that Maddock, the gunner, had paused by one of the upper deck eighteen-pounders as if to speak with its gun captain. A careful man, perhaps still puzzled by the latest order from the admiral's headquarters ashore.

There will be no salutes fired today, until …

Adam saw him look up, his hand resting on the gun's wet breech, head half-turned. He was deaf in one ear, common enough in his trade, but quick enough to acknowledge Adam's private signal from the quarterdeck.

He had heard the first lieutenant brushing Maddock's question aside, his mind too full of the business of getting
Onward
under way: “Sir John Grenville, Admiralty. Today's his funeral. That's why!” And Vincent had turned away to deal with another problem.

Adam had last seen and shaken hands with Grenville in the very cabin beneath his feet. Both of them had known they would not meet again.
He gave me hope, when he gave me Onward
. And in his way, Grenville was sharing it today.

Adam saw Squire move toward the cathead and gesture behind him, as if he could feel the anchor like a physical force.

“Stand by on deck!” That was Drummond, the new bosun. An unhurried but sharp, almost metallic voice which carried easily above other sounds around him. He seemed to be blessed with a good memory for faces, even names: in his brief time aboard, Adam had never seen him consult a book or slate.

Faster again, the capstan bars turning like a human wheel.

“Anchor's hove short, sir!”
They faced one another along the ship's length. Squire did not even cup his hands.

“Loose the heads'ls!”

Always a testing moment. Maybe too soon?
Onward
thrusting over her own anchor, at the mercy of wind and tide.

Adam stared at the masthead; the rain was heavier and the long pendant was moving only sluggishly in the wind. He was soaked and his neckcloth felt tight around his throat, like a sodden bandage. He could feel the tension on deck, sharing it. Small things stood out: a leadsman hurrying to the chains, ready to call out the soundings instantly if they moved into shallows before
Onward
was under way. Vincent would take no chances today. Beyond the revolving capstan he saw Jago piling muskets to allow some marines to add their weight for the last few fathoms.

“Anchor's aweigh, sir!”

Shouts, running feet, a few curses as the sails broke free and more water cascaded from the flapping canvas. Adam felt the deck tilt more steeply as the topsails filled and hardened, the quartermaster and an extra helmsman straddle-legged at the big double wheel to keep their balance.

Julyan was close by, outwardly untroubled as bowsprit and tapering jib-boom began to answer the helm, so that the anchored flagship appeared to be moving as if to cross
Onward
‘s bows.

“Steady—meet her.” Julyan peered at the compass, rain dripping from his hat. “Steady as you go.” Adam saw him look over at the quartermaster, perhaps still surprised. His predecessor had been Julyan's friend. He had been killed there at the helm during the fight with
Nautilus
.

Adam shielded his eyes to gaze up at the topmen spread out along the yards, no doubt breathless after fisting and kicking the canvas into submission. A fall to the deck, or into the sea alongside as the hull submitted to the wind, must never be far from their minds.

Lieutenant Squire was watching the anchor until it reached and was secured to the cathead, the mud and weed of the seabed still clinging to the stock and flukes. His forecastle party was already lashing it firmly into place. He wiped spray from his face with his fist.
Until the next time
…

He gazed aft and waited until he knew the captain had seen him before crossing his hands to signal that the anchor had been made secure.

The remaining cable was still being hauled inboard, where it was seized by the nippers, ship's boys who would scrub and scrape it before stowing it below. No more than children, he thought, and what a filthy job: it reminded him of the mudlarks, naked youths who dived for coins in the shallows at some seaports. It had cost a few of them their lives.

Squire glanced at the two midshipmen, Napier and the new arrival, Radcliffe. Both good lads, although it was hard to judge either of them without experiencing a pang of envy. Napier's background was vague; he had close ties to the captain's family and was a ward of some kind, and Radcliffe was always full of questions and completely untrained. It was said that his father had an important position in banking. A different world.

“Bosun's Mate! Pipe those waisters to be ready to add their weight to the braces!”

Squire swung round, still waiting for the voice, even though he knew he was mistaken.

The bosun's mate in question was newly rated, and had been one of
Onward'
s best topmen and a fine seaman until his promotion. He replaced Fowler, a man Squire had known for years; they had been on the lower deck together. A bully and a petty tyrant, he had become a real enemy.

I wanted him dead. Him or me
.

Now Fowler was missing, having gone ashore in Plymouth, and they had marked him in the muster book as
RUN
. Deserted. But nobody really knew. Maybe he was dead; maybe someone else had had a score to settle. But until Squire knew for certain, he would remain a threat.

He gestured to the new midshipman, who responded instantly.