Heart of Oak (33 page)

He would be the last to forget.

“Pass the word. All guns load, but do not run out.”

Vincent licked his lips. “Do we fight, sir?”

Adam looked over at Jago, and nodded.

“And we shall win!”

Napier was careful to stand clear as the foremast gun on the starboard side was hauled inboard away from its port.
Onward
was leaning slightly downwind, so that the gun crews had to use all their strength to haul their massive weapons into position. Fourteen guns on either beam; at least it would be easier when the order came to run out. Napier had taken part in nearly all the drills. A few accidents or mishaps, and curses in plenty. He could feel the tightness in his stomach, something he had taught himself to overcome. But this was not a drill. Almost like
Audacity
that day, when the drums had called them to their quarters for action, and the ship’s last fight.

He touched the dirk hanging against his hip. When
Audacity
had gone down and he had started to swim for the shore, this fine new dirk had still been on his belt. One of the marines who had helped carry him from the beach had told him that its extra weight could have cost him his life. He had not understood what it meant to him. Then…he touched it again…and today.

He heard Lieutenant Squire calling to one of the gun captains, making him grin as he took a ball from the shot garland, and seemed to fondle it in both hands. Most gun captains were like that. The first broadside would be double-shotted, while there was still time to think. To react. The charge was already loaded, with two sharp taps to bed it in place and wad to hold it steady. Then the balls, and a final wad rammed home.

Along each side the gun captains faced aft, fists raised. Only a minute or so between them.

“All guns loaded, sir!”

Napier exhaled slowly. The other guns, nine-pounders and the squat carronades, the “smashers,” were close to follow. There was a lull, and he heard a seaman at the nearest gun say, “It’s
real
this time, Dick!”

The loader turned to look at him.

“Cap’n don’t want us caught with our britches down, see?”

Napier saw Midshipman Huxley hurrying along the gangway, ducking to avoid the nets, doubtless taking a message from the quarterdeck. Across the long rank of eighteen-pounders, they saw one another and waved.

He heard Squire say, “
Walk
, don’t run. We’re still afloat!” But he was speaking to himself. Like some of the others nearby he was watching the boatswain and his men by the empty boat-tier, preparing to hoist out the two remaining craft, gig and jolly-boat, to join the cutters already towing astern. A wise and necessary precaution: more casualties were caused by flying splinters than iron shot. They would be cast adrift if action was joined, and recovered afterwards. It sounded simple enough, but the landsmen and less experienced hands might view the procedure with alarm.

Without realizing it, he had reached down to feel his leg, and the ugly scar.

You were lucky.

He recalled Murray the surgeon’s comment. “He did a good job on that, whoever he was!”

But suppose some one was seeing the scar for the first time? He thought of the letter which had never begun. He was stupid even to think of it…

There was a metallic clatter and he saw a young seaman stumble amongst a length of chain. They had been rigging slings to some of the upper yards, a protection should one or more of them fall to the deck. There was a dark stain across the sanded planking, where water had been tipped from the boats. He must have slipped in it.

“You clumsy, useless scum!”
It was Fowler, the boatswain’s mate, almost spitting with anger as he lashed out with his starter and cracked it across the man’s shoulders. “Listen to me, damn you!”

Another crack; there was blood this time.

But the young seaman seemed unable to get to his feet, or even shield himself from the blows. He was clutching at his foot or his ankle, badly twisted when he had fallen.

The starter was raised again. Napier pushed past some of the working party and tried to stop it, saw the crouching figure cringe as it slashed toward him.

Napier gasped, and cried out as the deflected blow caught his outthrust arm.

Fowler lost his balance and almost fell, his face torn between fury and surprise. He started to speak, perhaps to defend his actions. Napier could never afterwards remember.

Squire sounded very calm. Unemotional, as if they had never met before, and oblivious to the watching seamen. The deck might have been deserted. “I have warned you about your behaviour, Fowler, and your readiness to administer punishment, above and beyond the line of duty!”

Fowler was glaring at him, his breathing regular again, recovering. He even managed a sarcastic grin. “Speakin’ up, are you, sir? Showin’ a bit of authority at last? I was just doin’ my rightful job with this clumsy waister!”

Squire smiled coldly. “We will all have to do our duty very shortly, I think.” He reached out and grasped Napier’s sleeve. “However, you just struck an officer, Fowler. Do you deny that?”

Fowler stared from one to the other. “Not true! Weren’t like that! It weren’t meant—” He broke off as some one shouted, “I saw it, sir! Call me if you need a witness!”

There was something like a growl from the gun crews and the men waiting by the two boats.

Napier could feel it as if it were something physical. It was hate.

Squire said, “Report to the master-at-arms, Fowler. You are no stranger to threats, I think you’ll agree. If you are disrated because of this, I feel sure you will hear more of them when you join the messdeck!”

Fowler exclaimed, “If I was to tell ’em…” and stared around, the fight suddenly gone out of him.

A Royal Marine, who had been posted by one of the hatchways when the ship had been cleared for action, stepped smartly forward and rapped Fowler on the shoulder.

The surgeon had also appeared, and after a brief examination of the injured man, announced calmly, “Broken ankle.” He patted his arm. “You’ll be taken to the orlop. Best place, if you ask me!” He nodded to Squire. “No peace for the wicked, I’m afraid.”

Napier walked back to the first gun, feeling the stinging pain in his arm. It would be badly bruised tomorrow…Far worse for the injured seaman he had been trying to protect.

He turned quickly, but was too late to see who had touched his back, firmly and deliberately.

The gun captain was talking quietly with two of his crew, and another was loosening the breeching rope. Nothing left to chance.

He could still feel it, stronger and more eloquent than any spoken word of thanks. No one met his eye.

He saw Midshipman Deacon making his way aft, tar stains on his white breeches, about to report to the captain. Later the entire episode would find its place in his diary, if he lived.

He heard tackles taking the strain as the gig was hoisted in readiness for lowering. The seamen at the tackles were waiting for Jago, the captain’s coxswain, to give the order, and he was standing by the gig, one hand on the gunwale. But he was looking up, through the rigging, watching the flags as they ran up the halliard and broke to the wind.

Enemy in Sight!

The pretense was over.

Adam felt the sun, a sudden hot bar across his shoulder, as the ship leaned more steeply from the wind. Only the shadows and the sea alongside were moving, and even the sounds of rope and canvas seemed subdued.

At the guns, the crews waited in silence like groups of statuary, with only an occasional movement as some one hurried with a message or climbed on the gangway to look for
Nautilus.

She was almost directly ahead now, and had displayed her full broadside when she had changed tack, sails in confusion as she had clawed into the wind. If any doubts had remained, they had gone from that moment. Adam saw Midshipman Deacon standing by his flag locker, with little Walker beside him. He could still see his expression when he had come aft to report on the other frigate’s course and bearing. He had described the moment when the French flag had been lowered.
Cut down.
The young face and voice so deeply serious as he had motioned with his hand.

“It fell, sir. Like a dying bird.”

Vincent had said, “They’re trying to beat to wind’rd, and take the advantage.”

Adam moved slightly and saw a sliver of blue water open and widen through the shivering rigging. Almost bows-on again, sails filled and braced on her new tack, her shadow reaching over and ahead of the hull.

What kind of men were these? Rebels, renegades, maybe deserters from the old enemies, even from their own fleet. It was not unknown for men who had broken the yoke of one life of discipline and danger, only to find it was the only thing they knew and understood.

He looked away from the other ship.
What will he do? What would I do?

He walked to the rail again and could feel the group around the wheel staring at his back.

They are all in my hands.

Nautilus
would try and hold the wind-gage and remain on the same tack. Once abeam, she would open fire and attempt to dismast and cripple
Onward
, regardless of the range when they passed. He realized that he had punched one hand into the other.
Then reload while she crosses our stern with another full broadside.
The death of any ship which was cleared for action, decks open from bow to stern when the iron thundered through.

He said, “Cast off the breechings and open the ports.” He turned to look directly at Vincent. “Larboard side only!”

He saw him nod, and perhaps smile. “Warn the starboard crews to stand by.”

He saw Julyan turn aside from the quartermaster as if to confirm his own thoughts about a trick which could so easily turn into disaster. He had been looking up at the masthead pendant, feeling the wind like a true sailor.

Adam did not. Instead he looked along the deck, the gun captains signalling that they were prepared. Breeching ropes cast off, the ports along one side open, the sea sliding briskly beneath them.

But if the wind drops?

He took the telescope and realized that Jago had joined him, grim-faced, watching the distant frigate. As for most fighting sailors, waiting was the worst part. Or so they told themselves.

But he said, “Ready to cast off the boats, Cap’n. Just give the word.”

Adam opened the telescope.
Another hour? Less, if the wind holds steady.

“Do it now, Luke. I’ll lay odds that every available glass is trained on us at this very moment.” He looked at Vincent. “Run out!”

He could see it in his mind. All along one side, the black muzzles were poking into the sunlight. Like one of the drills, with extra hands from the starboard side to add their muscle and run the guns up the sloping deck.

Vincent said, “With permission, sir?” He did not finish it, but touched his hat formally before walking to the gangway.

Squire was already making his way aft to take his place. Opposite ends of the ship…Like hearing a voice from the past.
Don’t display all your eggs in the same basket.

He saw Lieutenant Gascoigne, his face almost as scarlet as his tunic, moving slowly along the front rank of his Royal Marines, eyes noting every detail, making a comment from time to time. As if they were mounting guard in the barracks ashore.

Napier had come aft with Squire, calm enough, but he glanced round, startled, as the two cutters were cast adrift and were soon falling astern. Then he stopped by the companion and said deliberately, “I shall be here, sir.” He seemed to nod. “I’m not afraid. Not this time.”

Adam held his arm, and thought he flinched. “Keep on the move, David.”

Napier bit his lip, feeling the bruise left by Fowler’s starter, but no longer caring. This was the closest they had been; had been allowed to be. “You, too.” Then he did smile. “Sir!”

Jago had returned, and Adam saw that he was wearing his broad-bladed dirk. Like
Athena
and
Unrivalled.
He said only, “Gig’s gone adrift, Cap’n.”

Adam loosened his belt and moved the old sword into the glare. Jago gave a crooked grin.

“
Now
we’ll have the bastards!”

There was a sudden explosion, a solitary gun, probably a ranging shot, the sound echoing and re-echoing across the water like something trapped in a tunnel or shaft.

Adam watched the sunlight touching the open port-lids of the oncoming frigate, then the line of guns. He thought he saw the flash of reflected sun: some one training a glass on
Onward.
Perhaps on me.

He dragged off his hat and waved it toward the men below him at the guns.

Too soon! Or too late?

“Stand by to come about!”

Calls shrilled and men who had been crouching at braces and halliards shouted to one another as they ran to obey.

“Helm a-lee! Hard over!”

“Open the ports! Run out!”

Some one even gave a wild cheer as the eighteen-pounders squealed against the side, the gun captains racing one another to sight and lay on the target even as
Onward
thrust into and across the wind, topsails flapping and booming while the yards braced round, as if responding to a single hand.

At that moment,
Nautilus
opened fire.

Only seconds, but it seemed forever: the intermittent flash of gunfire and the shuddering onslaught through canvas and rigging overhead, the shock of iron slamming into the hull. Adam stood quite still, his eye fixed on the bowsprit and jib-boom as it continued to swing, like a giant pointer, as if to reach out and touch the bulging canvas.
Nautilus
seemed to loom closer, as if she and not
Onward
was swinging to engage.

His muscles tensed as he felt the deck shake under his feet, expecting the sounds of broken spars, anticipating the agony that would end everything. The ship was still answering the helm, while the headsail sheets were let go to allow her to swing unheeded through the wind.

He saw
Nautilus
, shrouded in her own gunsmoke, but no longer free to sail past and deliver another broadside.
Onward
’s agility and sudden, seemingly reckless change of tack and direction had caught her gun crews unawares. Most of the shots had passed overhead.