In the King's Name (27 page)

“I think he was sincere—even eager to learn how we feel about our role here.”

Langley snapped his finger and thumb. “What we're costing his precious government, more likely! Better friend than foe, in
my
opinion.”

He leaned over and tapped the little table. “Don't take all day, man!”

Adam could smell the brandy from where he was sitting.

Langley took out a handkerchief and dabbed his face. “But he's nobody's fool. I can see why he's got where he is. Knows about our antislavery patrols and the results, good or bad. Knows of our co-operation with the ship-owners and traders here.” He winked. “Or lack of same!” He shifted in his chair as the servant approached with a tray and a full decanter, and two fresh glasses. There were wet rings on the tray left by previous ones.

Langley said, “Not sorry to see him go. Now we might get some results.” He lifted his glass. “He knew a little too much about
you
, anyway!”

Adam felt the brandy sear his tongue. “Not from me, sir.”

“No, no. Had it all written down, for God's sake!” Langley laughed again, and nearly dropped his glass. It was empty. “He asked a lot of questions about …” He snapped his fingers again. “Ballantyne, and his affairs at New Haven. Another
carpet knight
, eh?” He grinned and touched his lips. “And you did not hear that!”

The servant was refilling the glasses, his features expressionless. He was probably used to this behaviour but Adam had never seen Langley like this. It was more than relief.

Langley was saying, “What now, Flags? I thought I made it clear …” He wiped his face with the handkerchief. “Not time already?”

The flag lieutenant closed his little book. “Colonel Whitehead from the garrison is due to arrive shortly, sir. You said—”

“Slipped my mind, dammit.” He looked at Adam and shrugged. “Had to see you first, Bolitho. We've both been through it of late.” The pale eyes flickered around the cabin. “They all like to visit the flagship. Makes ‘em feel important!”

Another servant had appeared carrying Langley's cocked hat and sword, but he was pushed rudely aside as the admiral strode toward the quarter gallery. Langley paused and rubbed his hands together. “Must clean up and pump the bilges before they arrive. Not much longer, eh, Flags?” The door slammed behind him. Adam thought he looked as if he were going to vomit.

The lieutenant waited for the servant to lay hat and sword on the bench beneath the stern windows and leave before saying quietly, “
Medusa
is being paid off.” The well-thumbed notebook had fallen to the deck, but he did not seem to notice. “Finished!”

Adam was on his feet, his mind quite clear. Like all those other ships he had seen in harbours at home. Some with famous names, legends, and remembered not only by those who had served and fought in them. At the Saintes and Camperdown, at the Nile and Copenhagen, and at Trafalgar. Now awaiting that final voyage.

He walked slowly aft. From here he could see the berth where the
Delfim
had been moored, when Rear-Admiral Giles Langley had dissociated himself from the plan to seek out the slaver's lair, for which he had since taken the credit.

And what about Tyacke?

He turned and faced the flag lieutenant, who was glancing around the cabin as if he had never seen it before. Langley had left even this to him.

There were voices beyond the screen door, laughter: the visitors.
Makes ‘em feel important
. Not any more.

He shook the flag lieutenant's hand. “Let me know if …”

“Thank you, sir. I'll signal for your boat.”

Adam thought of Jago, and said, “He'll be here. Waiting.”

The door had opened a few inches, and he could see the red coats of the visitors, the scarlet of the sentry.

Jago would know already, and by tomorrow everybody would.

He left the cabin, noticing that the notebook still lay where it had fallen.

The flag lieutenant said, “I will tender your apology.”

But the cabin was empty.

L
UKE
J
AGO WIPED HIS GLEAMING RAZOR
and held it to the light before laying it on a tray.

“Feel better, Cap'n? Ready for a new day?” He watched with approval as Adam stretched his arms and nodded.

It was early, with the morning watch still in force.

Adam felt the deck move slightly and saw Jago's razor slide across the tray.
Onward
was coming alive again. The pantry door was closed, but he knew that Morgan was not far away. Like the rest of them: waiting.

Jago said, “Meetin' at eight bells, Cap'n? I'll be standin' by, just in case.” He did not go on. He did not need to.

Adam glanced aft toward the stern windows, remembering the flag lieutenant breaking the news. As if he were personally to blame. He said, “Does every one know about
Medusa?
You did, probably before me.”

Jago said only, “There ‘ave been a few whispers of late. Naval stores, an' then I ‘eard tell of it from a fellow in the rigger's crew.” He shrugged. “No secrets last long in this man's navy!”

“Well, Luke, until it's official …”

“Aye, aye, Cap'n. Not a word.”

Adam turned toward the harbour again. Small wavelets cruising ahead of the breeze, seabirds rising and screeching in protest. The flags on other vessels moored or at anchor were no longer listless, but streaming out to a steady northwesterly. Like an omen. He felt his senses quicken.
Will you ever lose it?
Ready for sea. But when?

He walked back across the cabin, his hand briefly, unconsciously, touching the old chair.

Jago had seen it plenty of times.
Like old mates
. He waited for the moment. “What will become of Cap'n Tyacke?” And when Adam did not answer, he thought he had gone too far.

But Adam faced him eventually. “He is still the flag captain. An important post, ashore or afloat. They must take that into consideration.”

He heard the distant chime, almost lost in the murmur of tackle and loose rigging. Eight bells. He straightened his back and said briskly to Jago, “At least it's not Friday!”

Jago heard the door open and close, the stamp of the Royal Marine sentry's boots. A different sentry in the time he had been here: it was now the forenoon watch. He smiled to himself.
Not Friday
. Only Bolitho would remember his coxswain's old superstition.

The skylight was partly open and he heard the pipe being repeated along the deck.

“Hands to quarters! Clean guns!”

He muttered aloud, “You just give the word, Cap'n. We'll scupper ‘em!”

Even walking the short distance to the wardroom on the deck immediately beneath his own cabin, Adam was aware of the unusual stillness, the squeak of gun trucks very audible as an eighteen-pounder was manhandled for inspection and cleaning, with only an occasional shouted instruction. But the forenoon was usually the busiest time in a ship of war, especially at anchor. He knew it was largely imagination. But the feeling persisted.

The deck tilted slightly and shuddered.
In for a blow
. He could almost hear Julyan saying it.

A seaman on his knees polishing some brass scrambled to his feet as his captain approached, hesitated, and then ventured, “Mornin', sir.”

Adam nodded. “Looks good, Savage.” It was an easy name to remember, and the courtesy mattered. Some officers, even captains, never cared, until
they
were in trouble.

He saw Vincent waiting by the wardroom entrance. Perhaps he thought this meeting was a waste of time. He might be right.

The wardroom was unusually crowded. Apart from the officers and senior warrant officers, all the other warrants seemed to be present, the specialists or the “backbone,” as Adam had heard his uncle describe them. The bosun and the gunner; Tilley, the sailmaker; and the cooper; and of course Hall, the carpenter, bent almost double because of his height. The tallest man in the ship. Probably anywhere … And one midshipman, Hotham, the senior. That had been Vincent's idea.

They were all seated. Adam was the visitor here.

Vincent said, “All present, sir, except the surgeon. He's still ashore.”

“I knew that. But thank you.” He looked around at the array of faces. “I expect most of you know, or might have suspected, that
Medusa
, our flagship, is being paid off.” He saw a few quick, startled glances, but no real surprise. “She will lie in ordinary until her fate is decided.”

He noticed Lieutenant Squire shaking his head, perhaps thinking of some particular ship in the past. At the end of the line …

Adam continued, “Our patrols will proceed, as ordered. But more and smaller ships will be needed.” He paused. “And officers to command them.” He saw Devereux, their new Royal Marine, turn as Prior, the clerk, bent to recover a few pages of his carefully written notes, which had fallen to the floor like dried leaves.

Adam had met Devereux only briefly when Vincent had introduced him for what he called “the formalities,” and had liked what he saw. Keen, intelligent and open, even if he had been sent to
Onward
under something of a cloud. When he had asked Devereux if he were disturbed by the transfer from a seventy-four to a frigate, he had seemed unable to contain himself.

“On the contrary, sir, I feel
alive
again!”

Vincent had remarked with an odd sarcasm, “Thanks to your predecessor,” although minutes earlier he had been making the newcomer welcome.

Adam heard the brief rumble of trucks directly overhead in the great cabin, and could imagine Morgan anxiously watching every move as an eighteen-pounder was checked. At least here in the wardroom, one deck lower, they were spared the presence of guns.

He reached for his hat and said, “We have a fine ship!”

Someone gave a cheer but was drowned out as Harry Drummond, the bosun, lurched to his feet, sending his chair crashing behind him. “An' we've got a fine captain!”

They were all standing now, some taking up the cheer as the door closed behind him. Adam stood quite still, for how long he did not know. The same seaman was nearby, now leaning on a broom.
I should not have insisted on coming. These same men trusted me, and some have paid dearly for it
.

A few minutes later Vincent joined him. It was quiet again. “I was wondering about cordage supplies, sir.”

Their eyes met, captain and first lieutenant once more. Adam thought of Vincent's own words.
The ship comes first
. He was wrong.

“What the hell?” Vincent was staring at the ladder. There were muffled shouts and feet thudding on deck: a boat coming alongside, and making heavy weather of it. And here came Walker, their youngest midshipman, almost falling as he slithered to a halt.

“Officer of the guard, sir!” He held out a thick envelope. “For you, sir!”

Adam took it. The familiar buff colour, his own name and rank in perfect script. Walker puffed importantly, “It needs the captain's signature!”

Vincent snapped, “We
know
that.”

Adam said, “Thank you, Mr. Walker,” and smiled at the boy. “You must take more exercise.
Onward
is too confined for you.”

The wardroom door was open, and Prior was waiting patiently with a pen and an ink container. Between his prominent teeth was a paper-knife. Nothing ever seemed to catch him unawares.

Like the burial service at sea or the Articles of War, Adam knew these words by heart.
Being in all respects ready for sea
…

Midshipman Walker, still panting, had brought a stool from somewhere, and was looking on wide-eyed as Adam leaned down with the pen and signed his name.

Vincent said, “I'll give it to the officer of the guard, sir,” but it sounded like a question.

Adam blew on the ink to dry it. “Sailing orders.” He folded the main section and thrust it inside his coat. “The day after tomorrow, weather permitting.” He moved toward the ladder. “I shall give it to him myself.”

The wardroom door was still open, but there was not a sound to be heard.

Vincent repeated, “Day after tomorrow, sir?”

Adam wanted to smile. Jago, for one, would not be surprised. It was a Friday.

“We will talk soon.” He paused, with one foot on the ladder. “The flag captain will be sailing with us.”

Lieutenant James Squire stood by the forecastle in the eyes of the ship and gazed down at the anchor cable. He had done this too many times to remember, but the moment never failed to impress him, standing like this with his back turned on the remainder of the ship, sharing it only with the figurehead and his outthrust trident. Most people, even those who thought they knew him well, might be surprised by the intensity of his emotions.

He could feel the deck stirring under his feet, and the breeze was strong and steady, enough to create little waves beneath the stem as if
Onward
were eager and already under way. He should be used to it, but this time it felt different, and knowing why was no help.

He turned almost reluctantly and looked along the full length of the ship. Men being mustered in readiness for putting to sea. Senior hands checking names, others facing aft toward the quarterdeck. And the capstan, unmanned as yet. Twelve bars like the spokes of a wheel. Twelve men to each bar. He had known times when it had taken more, when wind and sea had joined to fight them before the anchor had broken free.

Squire saw the small knot of people near the big double wheel, Vincent pointing at something, and Julyan, the master, nodding as if in agreement. And along the upper deck and gangways a midshipman standing sturdily here and there, to relay messages or chase up stragglers if an order was not obeyed promptly.

He glanced over at his own two particular “young gentlemen,” Napier and Simon Huxley. They had become part of his team in more ways than one, like the seamen around them, who knew exactly how far they could go before Squire had to put an edge to his voice. All in all, a good crew to control, although Squire would never have told them so.