In the King's Name (21 page)

Adam said, “I'm afraid she's a part of it,” and looked over at the gig once more. Claire was sitting in the sternsheets, the wide-brimmed hat obscuring her face; she could have been an ordinary passenger. Even the oarsmen were sitting on their thwarts, apparently unconcerned.

“Watch your step, sir. The officer of the guard will be doing his rounds in the last dog.”

Adam walked to the side. “I hope it won't come to that.”

Nobody moved as he climbed down the side; there was no ceremonial this time. Murray followed him into the boat and sat beside Claire Dundas.

“I am not in favour of her coming to confront these people.”

The wide-brimmed hat turned slightly. “I
want
to be with you,” she said. “Don't you see?”

Adam leaned over but did not touch her. She was very calm; even her breathing was controlled.

He said, “Trust me,” and thought he saw Jago nod. “Trust us.”

They were moving, and faces were watching them from the flagship's open gunports, men stopping work on the forecastle to saunter alongside, keeping pace until the gig gathered speed. It had to be now. Few secrets in a busy harbour could be kept for long.

The girl reached out and laid her open hand flat on Murray's arm. “If?”

He covered it with his own, and said only,
“When
.”

They were pulling abeam of some moored lighters, and there was the
Delfim
, lying alongside another landing-stage. She was a topsail schooner which, properly handled, could give a larger vessel, even a frigate, a run for her money.

The small figurehead the girl must have seen and remembered was a leaping dolphin, like a miniature replica of
Onward
‘s own. A bare-backed figure was stooping beneath the foremast, polishing something that occasionally caught the sunlight; he did not look at the gig. Some tackle was already coiled nearby. The loading, or unloading, was finished.

Adam stared along the boat, watching the regular stroke of oars, the familiar faces looking aft but somehow avoiding his eyes.

Jago said, “They've got a brow lowered, Cap'n. Larboard side, forrard.”

Adam glanced at the tapering bowsprit, and the gleam of water between hull and scarred timbers. He snapped,
“Now!”

Jago was ready, swinging the tiller-bar hard over before easing it against his hip, his eyes fixed on the narrowing gap ahead.

“Boat yer oars!” He swore under his breath. “Stand by to fend off forrard!”

But for some it was already too late. An oar blade splintered before it could be withdrawn, and one of the bowmen was struck by his loom as it jammed in its rowlock, and was sent sprawling.

Adam clambered over the side and steadied himself against the end of the brow. A grapnel slithered past him but held fast as the seamen hurried to join him, each one snatching a cutlass as he jumped ashore. One man stayed in the gig with Murray and the girl.

There were shouts and the sounds of running feet, and Adam saw men coming from aft.

Something slithered over the side, a boathook or boarding pike. It was gone.

Adam reached the top of the brow and heard someone yell in English, “It's the navy, fer Christ's sake!”

Others had appeared on deck, staring at the sailors and the bared cutlasses, and one said, “What is the meaning of this?”

Adam rested his hand on his undrawn sword. “Are you the master?”

The man shook his head, staring at Adam's uniform, noting his rank. “Bosun.” He waved vaguely at his men. “An' most of them are Portuguese.” He folded his arms. “This vessel is registered as such.” Then he twisted round as he noticed the three people still in the gig. “What's all this, a joke or somethin'?”

Jago called, “In position, Cap'n!”

The bosun said hoarsely, “You're goin' to be real sorry for this,
Captain—”

“I command here!”

The newcomer had appeared through a hatch, half dressed, with a towel hanging carelessly around his neck. He was pulling it slowly up and down. “I am Pecco!” His eyes flicked around at the armed seamen. “Arthur Pecco. And who might you be, may I ask? A full captain, no less!”

He did not wait for a reply. “I know this intrusion is your right. And I understand, in these difficult times. We have finished loading.” He shrugged. “Coconut oil. You can look for yourselves, if you must. But I am about to step ashore. We sail tomorrow.” He made a crude gesture at one of the crew. “Don't stand there dreaming, Miguel! Work!”

Adam said, “I wish to see your charts. And the log.”

Adam heard Murray clear his throat, and when he had Adam's attention he gave an imperceptible shake of the head. The girl had boarded also and was standing a pace behind him, gazing fixedly at the schooner's master.

“So if you will excuse me, Captain, I have work to do.”

He grinned and dabbed his cheek with the towel. There was a trace of blood on it.

Like facing an enemy, Adam thought, out of nowhere. Gunports open, ready to fire. And in his mind he saw Luke Jago, razor poised for the much-needed shave. He said, “Did your man have a beard, Claire?”

“What the bloody hell are you saying? I'll see you broken for this!”

Jago was there. “Keep yer mouth shut, Mister Pecco.”

The girl's voice was very quiet, but not subdued. “Yes, it's him. I should have known immediately.”

“What is she saying?”
It was almost a scream.

Adam put out his hand protectively, but she was very calm, and her eyes remained on Pecco.

She said softly, “I remember the beard. How could I forget?” Her fingers were unfastening the buttons of her shirt, and before Adam or Murray could stop her she had dragged it down over her shoulders and turned them toward him. “I felt it when you did
this
to me!”

She tore the dressing away, so that the scars seemed raw and untreated where she had been bitten. She was saying, almost to herself, “He was the first.” She did not look down as Murray gently fastened her shirt. “Then he watched the others …”

Adam said sharply, “Search him!” He beckoned to one of his men. “Take a message to the officer of the guard.”

Jago said, “Here now, by the sound of it, Cap'n.” There was a jacket in his hand, but he was holding up a medallion on a thin chain. “Yours, missy?”

She snatched it and pressed it to her lips. “My father's.”

The
Delfim's
master tried to push one of the seamen aside. “You'll never prove a charge of slavery against me!”

Jago seized his arm and twisted it behind him. “No need,
matey!
You'll swing for murder!”

Murray had managed to pacify the girl and had seated her on a hatch cover. He pulled a flask from his pocket, and said, “Against doctor's orders, but it will help.”

There were more shouts as booted feet thudded across the brow and onto the deck. Marines.

Murray said, “I'll take you to the mission, Claire. It's safe now.”

She was staring at the scarlet uniforms as they hurried past, and whispered, “Where's the one you call Jamie?” Then she collapsed.

Adam saw Murray supporting her head on his folded coat, while he murmured and stroked the hair gently from her face.

“Up to us now, sir.”

And Adam heard the voice in his mind respond.

It is up to me
.

Captain James Tyacke waited for his cabin door to close, then seized Adam's hand and shook it warmly.

“I hate to drag you aboard at this hour. I've only just returned myself!” He strode to the stern windows and stared across the water. It was still broad daylight, but darkness came suddenly, and they both knew that all the lanterns would be burning within the hour.

In another part of the flagship's hull someone was singing, in time to the scrape of a violin.

Tyacke said to the window, “Our lord and master has gone ashore again. I don't know where the man finds the strength,” and faced Adam once more. “I heard about this proposed passage in
Delfim
. I think you've done more than enough already.” He half smiled. “I wish I was going with you.”

Adam said quietly, “I've chosen some good hands, and I'm leaving my first lieutenant to carry the load.”

“Vincent. A good fellow.”

Adam recalled Vincent's expression when he had been told. He was far from pleased.

“You'll take extra care, I hope.” Tyacke might have been thinking aloud. “That poor woman you rescued—is she reliable?”

Adam thought of her confrontation with Pecco, if that was his real name, the naked courage in her face. “I trust her.”

Tyacke looked at him keenly, eyes very blue in the ruined face. “I'll make damn sure no unauthorised vessel leaves harbour before, or when, you do.” He tugged out his watch and opened its cover. “Meanwhile, I'll be right here.” Then, “You've been a flag captain yourself, so I don't have to remind you. If you do the right thing, your superiors will get the credit. If you fail, you'll take the blame.”

He closed the watch gently and held it for a moment. “A gift from Sir Richard, bless him.”

They walked to the door together. It was time.

Adam said, “And these important guests of the admiral's? Hard going, was it?”

Tyacke was feeling his pocket as if to ensure that the watch was secure. “Guests? Useless popinjays, as far as he's concerned. Only one of them matters, just between ourselves.” He paused. “I'll leave you here,” then seemed to recall what he had been about to say. “The Honourable Sir Charles Godden, no less. I see you've heard of him.”

Adam said nothing.

“Well, he's now become head of the First Lord's advisory staff. Member of Parliament as well. So our lord and master may have other things on his mind.”

It was like hearing Duncan Ballantyne's own words.
Promotion or oblivion
.

Adam clipped the sword to his belt and said, “Sir Richard is still with
both
of us!”

He was suddenly impatient to begin.

L
IEUTENANT
J
AMES
S
QUIRE
stifled a curse as he stubbed his foot against an iron ringbolt. By the time they all became used to the commandeered schooner the whole affair would be over. He tugged down his hat to shade his eyes from the reflected glare and examined her critically. She was about eighty feet in length and twenty at her beam.

He stifled a yawn, and it was not even the forenoon watch. They had cast off at an hour most landsmen would still consider the dead of night. Even the sounds had seemed louder: squealing blocks and muffled oaths as they edged away from other, sleeping vessels and hoisted the big gaff-headed mainsail. It had taken time, as all but a handful of
Delfim's
original crew were ashore, under lock and key. Culprits or hostages, their fate would be decided later.

He tried not to look at the schooner's master, standing beside Bolitho and an armed seaman.

Another footstep interrupted his thoughts. This time it was Murray, the surgeon. They had all been too busy to speak much, but Squire had asked him about Claire Dundas. Murray had evaded the question, saying only
in good hands
or
a very brave young woman
. In other words, nothing.

It was one of the seamen who had described the moment when Pecco had been identified as the man who had gone to the mission and raped her like a wild beast. Bolitho had not mentioned it. He was embarking on a chance operation which might prove either dangerous or complete folly.

Squire unslung the telescope from his shoulder and trained it toward the coast, in the far distance an uneven panorama of green and brown, with the hint of misty grey further inland that might have been a mountain ridge. And to starboard, the endless ocean.

He saw some of
Onward
‘s seamen resetting staysail and jib. Christie, a senior gunner's mate, shouted, “Move yer bloody selves! Gawd ‘elp us if we runs into some real sailors!”

It was oddly reassuring to hear them laugh.

He looked at the compass beneath the sails' shadow. One of Pecco's men was at the spokes, and Bolitho and Tozer, master's mate, were comparing notes. He thought again about the mission, the girl struggling in his arms, her shock and incredulity when he had wrapped his coat around her. She must have been expecting another assault.

Jago appeared in an open hatchway, grinning and hitting a metal basin with a ladle. “Up spirits, lads!” An even wider grin. “Stand fast, the ‘Oly Ghost!”

The age-old signal for a rum issue, but it could still bring some smiles.

Squire saw some of them lift their tots like salutes as Bolitho walked past them. But what was he thinking? Did he fear failure or personal loss, or death? And what of his lovely young wife?

“I need you in the chart space, James.” His tanned face relaxed into a smile. “Or should I say … Jamie?”

Later, Squire was still remembering it with a mixture of embarrassment and pride. No wonder men would follow their captain to the gates of hell.
So would I
.

Luke Jago leaned against the bulwark, chatting idly to the gunner's mate crouched beside one of the
Delfim's
stocky twelve-pounders. She mounted eight of them, all carronades, four on either side. In these waters every vessel needed some kind of protection if the worst happened, and it was certainly possible. Jago was past being surprised by anything.

Christie glanced up at him quizzically. “Load ‘em with canister, the cap'n says. Close action, d' you reckon?”

Jago swore and slapped an insect crawling across his bare arm. “Catch bloody fever more like, Ted!”

Christie looked toward one of the main hatch covers. “I went below with Mr. Squire. She's bigger than she looks. Mixed cargo, passengers mebbee—or slaves.” He lowered his voice. “What d'
you
think, Luke?”