In the King's Name (18 page)

She said, “Bo-lye-tho.” Her eyes were open again. “I wanted to see you.” There was another pause.”To thank you. He said you would come.”

Adam glanced at Murray and saw his almost imperceptible nod. She was talking about her father.

She tried to twist her head to gaze at him again, but pain seemed to prevent it. The sheet had slipped from her shoulder, where he saw another bandage.

“Bless you for what you did. I know you gave him to the sea. He'll be safe there.”

Murray's eyes told Adam that it was time to leave.

She reached out suddenly as if to seek his hand, and he clasped it instinctively. Murray did not protest.

She said, “
Thank you
, Captain Bolitho. I shall never forget.” A tear ran unheeded over her cheek. “Or forgive!”

Adam stood up, gently releasing her fingers, and saw her grope for his hand again. “Try to rest, Claire. We shall anchor tomorrow, and then …” Her fingers gripped his with unexpected strength.

“No!”
The damp hair spilled across his sleeve. “No, not there! Later!”

Murray took the hand and felt the pulse discreetly.

“She must rest now,” and when he had pulled the door to behind them, “I'm glad you came. And so is she.”

They stood in the passageway and Murray lowered his voice. “She wants to remain aboard with us until we return to Freetown. She has friends there. That was as much information as she gave me.”

Adam said, “Send somebody to call me if I can help,” and looked at Murray directly. “At
any
time.”

The surgeon touched his forehead, sketching a salute, but it was more than that. “Aye, aye, sir!”

His cabin door was still partly open and Murray thought he heard her call out, a little more strongly now. He turned, but the passageway was empty. Bolitho had gone on deck, and not aft to his own quarters.

He was the captain again.

Squire closed the telescope and slung it over his shoulder. With the sun almost directly overhead and the heat oppressive, it was hard to concentrate, and he was bone-weary. After the bustle and excitement of their final approach and anchoring off New Haven, the ship seemed strangely still and quiet. It was the afternoon watch, but except for those required on duty most of
Onward
‘s people were asleep, and deserved it. There was a lingering aroma of rum in the air, an extra tot from the captain. His way of saying thank you, Squire thought. Probably why Bolitho had gone immediately ashore: to pay his respects to the governor while his gig's crew were still smart and sober.
Onward
had anchored a cable's length from the elbow of land Julyan had described, which shielded the anchorage beyond.

It had been an unusual experience. With the sun so intense and the inshore water so clear, it was possible to see the frigate's shadow full-length as she passed over some of the sandbars.

Squire moved into the welcome shadow of the mizzen mast and glanced at the wheel. It gave some hint of the current, jerking slightly as if controlled by invisible helmsmen.

The anchorage was like a mill-pond, and seemed a safe mooring, but he knew two rivers converged here and emptied into the sea. When the rains came it must be a real challenge for any master.

He had seen a few boats paddling out to investigate the frigate, one or two coming close enough for those aboard to wave or hold up baskets of goods for sale or barter—pottery, vegetables and carvings for the most part. But they kept their distance, discouraged by seamen or marines stationed at intervals along either side.

Bolitho had made it quite clear. No one was to be allowed aboard. This was an official visit, and Squire had seen the sealed package handed down to the gig before it had shoved off.

Greetings from the admiral at Freetown
. Although Squire had heard there was no love lost between Rear-Admiral Langley and the governor here. No doubt Langley would be more concerned by
Onward
‘s failure to appear within the time expected, and if not, his flag lieutenant would soon remind him, if he valued his own future.

He felt his shoe stick to the deck seam. The ship had been washed from beakhead to counter when they had altered course to enter the anchorage. Now even the scuppers were as dry as tinder. He heard footsteps and turned to see the surgeon crossing the deck toward him, avoiding the softened seams.

“I'm afraid the captain's still ashore, Doc. Not returning till the last dog, as far as we know. Is something wrong?”

Murray was hatless and holding one hand across his eyes to shield them from the sun, but the strain seemed to have fallen from his long face like a cloud.

“This time it's you I came to find.” He glanced incuriously toward the shore, as if he had not seen it before. “Experience or instinct: I often ask myself, where do we draw the line?” He turned his back on the land, dismissing it. “She wants to see you, although at this stage it might destroy any progress she has made. Such as it is.”

Squire said uncertainly, “I didn't realise she knew my name.”

“She did not. But her description was enough!” Murray paused. “Will you see her? It might do more harm than good.”

Squire muttered, “I don't know. After what she went through—” and said nothing for a moment, recalling her anguish and the brief moment of peace and communion when he had given her his coat to hide her shame from those trying to help her. “It might bring it all back when she sees me.”

Murray shrugged. “I don't know what the purser will say, but I raided his slop-chest for some clothing. Not what she has been used to, but it's fresh and clean. It might make a difference.”

Squire waved to Lieutenant Sinclair who was speaking to some of his marines. “Bob, call me if I'm needed”—and indicated the surgeon—”You know where I'll be.”

Sinclair raised a hand and Squire thought he had forgiven him for choosing his sergeant for the landing party instead.

It was cooler below deck, but not much, despite the hastily rigged windsails. Squire hardly noticed. Claire Dundas might be feeling stronger, safer, but one sight of him and it could all be torn apart.

They reached the cabin door and Murray exchanged a few words with one of his assistants, who was rolling and repacking bandages like those they had carried in the cutter. Then to Squire he said, “Not too long. And don't touch her,” before tapping at the door. “Claire? Me again!”

Squire still hesitated. For a moment he thought Murray had left another one of his assistants here while he was on deck. She was dressed in white, the shirt probably a midshipman's, fastened to her throat, and breeches which had clearly been taken from the slop-chest. She was sitting upright in Murray's armchair, facing the door.

Murray said, “Don't keep the lieutenant too long, Claire. He'll be wanted on deck shortly,” and gestured to another chair. “Call me if you require anything. I have to pull out someone's tooth—but it will not take long.” It sounded like a warning to Squire.

She said, “It was good of you to come,” and turned to watch Murray depart: he left the door open. A lock of dark hair fell aside slightly and Squire saw the bruise on her forehead.

“I wanted to see you. I've been wondering about you, ever since …” He said nothing more, recalling Murray's warning. “You look wonderful.” He moved to the other chair and saw she was staring at the door again. This was a mistake. He had wanted to tell her he had thought of nothing else since she had been carried aboard.

She said softly, “I wanted to see
you
. To explain.” Her eyes were restless, flickering around the cabin. “To … thank you.” She looked at him suddenly. “After the way I treated you. And the risks you took for us … for me.”

Squire stood up and saw her tense as he took a small package from his pocket.

“I wanted to bring you this.” He opened it carefully, not looking at her; perhaps he had already made things worse. “It was in my old coat.” He laid the bracelet on the table beside her. “I thought you might be looking for it.”

She reached out, her lips moving, but he heard no words.

Her hand faltered. “I thought they'd taken it.” Then she shook her head, heedless of the hair falling over her face. “No. I remember putting it in your coat when you tried to help me.” She fumbled with the bracelet.
“He
gave it to me.”

She was sobbing harshly, but there were no tears.

Squire wanted to help her, but he heard the surgeon's warning. She was fumbling at her cuffs, one after the other, and he saw the thick bandages around her wrists.

He said carefully, “I can put it in the strongbox, until …”

She stared at him with that unnerving directness.

“You
keep it for me. It will be safe with you.” She thrust the hair from her face. “Until I leave the ship—Lieutenant Squire.” She laid the unfastened bracelet on the table, and he could see her shoulders beginning to quiver. “What … do your friends call you?”

“Friends?” He wanted to smile, make a joke of it, but nothing would come. “Jamie.”

She touched the bracelet, and almost dropped it.

Instinctively, Squire did not move. But the restraint cost him more than Murray would ever guess. He felt her fingers on his as she laid the bracelet across his callused palm.

The door was slightly ajar, and Murray's voice said from beyond it, “I think you're needed on deck.”

He came in, glancing somewhere between them. “And it's time
you
had a rest, young lady.” He was holding a pair of felt slippers. “But first try these on for size. Tilley, the sailmaker, made a few alterations. I made a sketch for him.”

She leaned down and slid one onto her bare foot. “How wonderful. Please thank him for me, will you?”

She picked up the second slipper; they were the kind worn by powder-monkeys whenever they were ordered to the magazine. Maddock, the gunner, was never without a pair himself. To forget could invite disaster, where one spark from the sole of an ordinary shoe might explode into an inferno.

She touched her cheek with the back of her hand. “So kind. I don't know what to say.”

Murray turned and deliberately slipped his arm through Squire's, but did not look at him. “We've not forgotten what it feels like to be young. Have we?”

A warning, between friends. Murray wanted to stop him from making a fool of himself, before it was too late.

Squire said, “If I'm wanted on deck …” but could not help looking back. “I'll put the bracelet in the strongbox. Just in case.”

She stared at him, and nodded slowly. “I understand.” She did not smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Like a door being slammed shut.

Adam Bolitho shifted slightly on the hot thwart to gaze at the full expanse of the anchorage as the gig pulled past the headland. Plenty of eyes must have observed
Onward
‘s slow and cautious approach; he had seen sunlight blinking from telescopes ashore and afloat most of the way.

A longboat had come out to meet them, perhaps surprised that
Onward
did not anchor closer to the shore, with its scattering of buildings and long, ungainly pier. The boat had signalled for them to follow, a uniformed figure standing to wave aside any dugout that hovered too closely.

The main fortification was timber-built, with a stockade and a battery of small cannon. In stark contrast, the flag that flew above them, making a brilliant splash of colour, was the same as the one hoisted at
Onward
‘s own jackstaff when her anchor had been secured. Maybe Freetown had begun like this, and other footholds in wilderness that Rear-Admiral Langley would dismiss as the encroachment of empire.

Jago said, “‘E's turnin', Cap'n.”

The other boat was losing way, its oars in confusion. The man in uniform was on his feet again, bowing and baring his teeth in a grin. At one end of the pier were more uniforms, and bare-backed figures who were apparently repairing the lower structure close to the water.

Adam said, “You must stay in the boat this time, I'm afraid.” He glanced along the slow-moving looms, at the faces he knew so well. “I'll send word if I'm delayed.”

He felt the body beside him stir suddenly; he had almost forgotten that Monteith was aboard. Tense, his sword gripped between his knees, still going over the events at the mission. Doubts, fears, it was not possible to tell. Yet.

Jago called,
“Oars!”
He may have glanced at Monteith, but he did not wait. Monteith was, after all, in charge of the gig for this formal visit. When he had been piped over the side, one of the duty watch had slipped and allowed a coil of rope to fall across the gangway. At any other time Monteith would have yelled at him, and for far less.

Whatever it was, it must have happened ashore. Squire had said nothing, and Jago would keep it to himself as usual. Unless …

The oars were inboard, the bowmen hooked onto the pier. Another uniformed figure was peering down at them, head and shoulders silhouetted against the sky.

Adam stood up and reached for the thick envelope, the reason for this visit.

He looked at Jago. “Remember what we talked about, eh?” and Jago's tanned face broke into a grin.

“Ol' John Allday would never forgive me, Cap'n!”

Some of the bare-backed men on the lower pier had stopped work to look down at the gig and the newcomers. There was a shout, and the sharp crack of a whip. The onlookers vanished.

Adam glanced at Monteith, who had not moved. “Ready?” He did not wait for an answer. Monteith was probably recalling their talk.
Leadership by example
. He stared up at the pier, angry with himself.
So do it!

He climbed up into the sunlight and felt the wood still wet under his hands. It must have been scrubbed in readiness for their arrival. Monteith was close behind him, perhaps relieved to be away from the gig, which must be the key to whatever memories were remaining in his mind. Adam straightened as he was confronted by a stocky man in an unfamiliar green uniform. The New Haven militia.