In the King's Name (6 page)

“Stand by!
Together
, this time!” Maddock had just taken over, head on one side, the deafness his only weakness after too many broadsides in the past. But woe betide any one who tried to take advantage of that disability. Maddock could lip-read from one end of the gun deck to the other.

Several of the seamen working on deck were barefoot, either to save shoe leather, or to harden their soles for shrouds and ratlines. A few would regret it.

But they must all feel the difference, even the last to join at Plymouth. There was a suggestion of warmth under a clear sky, and the bite had gone from the wind. Squire's face cracked into a wry smile.
Almost
.

He knew that the midshipman had moved closer. A bright lad, eager to learn and not afraid to ask questions. But it was not that. If he leaned further over the rail he would see the large grating inboard of the nearest gun, scrubbed almost white again, and dried by the wind and sun. Where a man had been seized up in the presence of all the ship's company and flogged.

Midshipman Walker was not yet fourteen, but soon would be, the same age as Squire when he had joined his first ship. In his two years aboard Squire had witnessed two hundred floggings. His captain had believed in discipline of the most ferocious kind. He and others like him had contributed to the great fleet mutinies at the Nore and Spithead, even as England had been living in daily fear of a French invasion.

Since he had joined
Onward
there had been only one flogging, suspended halfway through, before the punishment of the seaman Lamont two days ago. And Lamont was lucky he would not be doing the Tyburn Jig when he reached port and higher authority.

You might become hardened to it, but you never forgot. Squire thought of Jago, the captain's coxswain, a strong man, and a loyal one. But Squire had seen him being washed down one day, twisting his muscular body under a pump. The scars of the cat were unmistakable. Jago had received a written pardon from an admiral, and a sum of money in compensation amounting to a year's pay, and the officer who had ordered the unjustified punishment had paid for it with a court-martial. But Jago would carry the scars to his grave. Squire had glimpsed his face as Lamont was being flogged, and wondered how he could remain so faithful to any captain after his own experience.

Midshipman Walker exclaimed suddenly, “I think he deserved it!”

Squire sighed.
Out of the mouths of babes
…

“Deck there!”

Every one, even the helmsman, looked up as the cry came from the foretopmast. It seemed ages since the lookouts had sighted anything, and this was certainly not land. Squire stared at the small silhouette who was signalling with his arm, but he already knew the face and the name. Always reliable. But he would need more than the naked eye.

He saw the midshipman reach for a telescope, but took it from him and shook his head. “Not this time … Bosun's Mate! Aloft with you! You'll feel at ease up there!”

It was Tucker. He took the telescope and held it to his eye briefly before slinging it across his shoulder. “Starboard bow,” was all he said.

Squire replied, “Aye, probably nothing, or out of sight by now. But …”

Tucker was already striding along the gangway, as he must have done countless times in his service as a foretopman. Squire watched him until he had reached the shrouds and began to climb.
Keep busy, mind and body
. It helped. Squire had learned that for himself.

David Tucker climbed steadily, his eyes fixed on the foretop and the hard, bellying curve of canvas. He was conscious of the men by the guns, heard Maddock's voice as he repeated some instructions; a few faces might have turned in the direction of the figure on the ratlines, or maybe not. What did he expect? Anger? Hostility? Certainly not sympathy.

He reached the foretop and pulled himself out and over the barricade, his body hanging momentarily over the creaming water below.
Don't look down
, they used to shout up at him in those early days. Now it was something he told others.

A seaman was splicing nearby, and glanced at him only briefly as he passed. As if he were a stranger.

Only two days ago, but he had relived every moment. He should have been prepared. Harry Drummond, the bosun, must have been warning him.

“You've got your feet firmly on the first step of the ladder, Dave. Obey orders smartly an' without question, an' you might go higher!” He had grinned. “Like me!”

Tucker had witnessed more than a few floggings since he had joined his first ship as a mere boy. The Articles of War were read aloud by every captain; no individual could plead ignorance of them.

But he could still feel the shock.

When the pipe had called all hands to witness punishment, Rowlatt, the master-at-arms, had pulled him aside and handed him the familiar red baize bag containing the “cat.” He could even have been smiling. “First time for everything, my lad!”

Tucker realised he had reached the crosstrees almost without noticing the dangerous part of the climb. He knew the lookout well; they had often shared this precarious perch. He came from York, and Tucker had always wanted to know how he had found his way into a King's ship.

He said now, “I remember when the cap'n gave you his own glass when you came aloft!” He nudged Tucker's arm. “Been a bad lad, have you?” And laughed.

Tucker trained the telescope on the rough bearing, the sun lancing from the sea, stinging and blurring his vision. He knew the sun was not to blame. And he was grateful beyond any words.

He focused the lens slowly, his body timed to the movement of the mast, which swayed as if completely separate from the hull beneath. Perhaps the lookout was mistaken, or his eyes were dazzled from hours of staring at the empty sea in its ever-changing moods. Tucker tensed and murmured, “Got you!”

But for the man from Yorkshire's keen eyesight, they would have missed it altogether. A small vessel, possibly a schooner but now mastless and low in the water, the only sign of movement the torn remnants of her sails.

He handed the telescope to the lookout. “There she is. What's left of her.”

“Abandoned.” The lookout passed the telescope back. “No boats on board.”

Tucker leaned over and looked at the deck below. Nobody appeared to be gazing up at the foremast now, but Squire would want to know. And the captain … He remembered the emotionless voice.
One dozen lashes
. How had
he
felt about it, if he had felt anything?

He slung the telescope across his shoulder and dug his foot into the first ratline.

The lookout said, “Thanks,” and lifted his hand. “Don't lose any sleep.” Something in his voice made Tucker turn back. “The bastard deserved it!”

Lieutenant Squire was waiting and listened to his report and the description of the abandoned vessel without interruption, then said, “Nothing we can do. But the captain will need to know about it. I'll take you to him.”

Midshipman Walker piped up, “He's coming now, sir!”

Adam waited without comment until Tucker had repeated his description, and said, “We'll alter course and intercept. It might tell us something.”

Squire bit his lip, a habit only others noticed. “Could be dark when we find her, sir.” He glanced up at the masthead pendant. “If she's still afloat.”

Bolitho stared across the open sea, and then back at him. “At least we will have tried.” He turned toward the companion. “Chartroom. Tell the first lieutenant.”

Squire touched his hat, and beckoned to Midshipman Walker. “You heard what the captain said, boy. So go to it!”

He heard Bolitho's voice on the companion ladder, speaking with the surgeon, either about the wounded man or the one who had stabbed him. All the same to a sawbones …

But only one man made the real decisions, and he was doing it now.

Adam Bolitho walked across the quarterdeck and saw Vincent lower his telescope and turn toward him. Beyond him and deceptively close was the disabled schooner, stern-on for the first time since the lookout had signalled for assistance.

Vincent said, “She's called
Moonstone
, sir,” and grimaced. “What's left of her.”

Adam leaned his hip against the rail and steadied the telescope as he adjusted to the deck's uneven motion, and the plunging of the other vessel. He could calm himself, as he had often done, just by touching the engraving. His uncle's telescope, like the old sword in the great cabin below. Strength or envy? Maybe both.

“Moonstone
. By God, she's been fired on.”

Vincent said, “You know her, sir?”

Adam shifted the glass carefully. Faces and groups of sailors, staring at the drifting schooner, as many had been doing for most of the day. Some waiting for the bell to chime from the forecastle for the first dog watch. And beyond them the sea, without the bluster and occasional whitecaps, but sullen, almost breathing.

He glanced at the sky and at the trailing masthead pendant. They could not delay much longer. He thought of the sealed orders in the strongbox below, the scarlet lettering: W
ITH
A
LL
D
ESPATCH
.

He looked directly at Vincent but he knew Monteith was hovering by the gangway, waiting to take over the watch, and already peering around as if to find something neglected and demanding his attention. He was aware of Jago too, arms folded, and staring not at the schooner but astern, outwardly relaxed; but to Adam it was like a warning. Like the stabbing in the galley. Or the epaulette sliced away by the invisible marksman's shot.

He recalled Vincent's question.

“
Moonstone?
Yes. Three years ago when I was with
Unrivalled
… in these same waters, or near enough.” He raised the telescope again, more slowly, focusing on the broken spars and splintered bulwark. Feeling it. “Freetown, the anti-slavery patrols.
Moonstone
was under Admiralty warrant, liaison between our flag officer and the shore authorities.”

Vincent was listening, but his eyes never left the schooner. Perhaps knowing her name had given her an identity, and made it personal.

“She's going under.”

Adam looked at the sky. The wind was dropping, and there was a ridge of cloud now on a horizon which had been as sharp as steel. He said, “We'll board her.”

He heard eight bells ring out, and the slow response of feet and voices as the watch was relieved.

Vincent did not move, even when Monteith strode across the deck and touched his hat to him, but with his eyes on his captain. Vincent looked toward the starboard gangway where Squire was pointing at something aboard the drifting schooner, shaping it with his strong hands.

“Mr. Squire, sir?” It sounded so formal that at any other time …

Adam beckoned to Jago, whose response was immediate. “No. You go, Mark. I need to
know
…”

“But it's my watch, sir.”

Adam touched his arm. “Take the gig and a few extra hands. The jolly-boat has shipped some water, by the look of it.”

Jago was beside him. “Standin' by, Cap'n.”

Adam looked up at the sky, and the loosely flapping topsails.
With all despatch
… The wind was dropping and had already backed a little.
Onward
might easily lose the time she had gained after her rough passage from Biscay, and they would get no thanks from the admiral when they eventually reached Freetown. Least of all for boarding a crippled vessel which would likely capsize and founder at any moment.

He gazed across the water. The schooner was rolling steeply in each trough, showing her copper and the splintered holes where shots had smashed into the hull. Others had brought down most of her spars and rigging.
Moonstone
must have been a fast sailer, like most of her breed. Then why had she not spread her canvas and run?

He said, “At the first sign of trouble, Mark—”

Vincent looked at him and nodded slowly. “I know, sir. One hand for the King.”

The falls were manned and the gig was already at deck level as Vincent turned and said, “I'm taking Napier,” then climbed down the quarter as the call came to lower away.

The gig veered away, and Adam heard Jago order the bowman to cast off.

Unsteadily at first but more strongly as the oarsmen lay back on their looms, the gig was already pulling toward
Moonstone
, and was soon out of sight as Jago steered around
Onward
‘s stern to take advantage of her lee. But not before Adam had seen Vincent half-standing in the sternsheets, and the white midshipman's patches on the thwart below him. David Napier had proved his worth and courage before this, and had paid for it. But was that the only reason for Vincent's choice?

Lieutenant Squire had joined Adam by the compass box, and asked, “How long, sir?”

“We will reef tops' ls directly.” He looked again at the listing schooner. “An hour. No longer.” He had seen the clouds, closer now. “Tell the bosun to have the jolly-boat hauled alongside and bailed out.”

Squire touched his hat and strode heavily away.

In the gig, Vincent reached out and gripped Napier's shoulder to steady himself as the tiller went over for the final approach, and felt him tense as if waiting for the impact. Or a challenge.

The bowmen were ready with two grapnels, in case one fell short.

“Back water, starboard.” Jago's voice broke the silence as the gig nudged alongside the schooner's hull, and another grapnel was hurled from aft.

Vincent had boarded a good many vessels on one mission or another, especially in the early days leading up to the Battle of Lissa. But someone else had been giving the orders. Now, with the
Moonstone
‘s side looming over him, small things stood out. Her gunports were closed, and had been newly painted. Carronades, eight or ten of them, enough to deter other small craft or would-be boarders, were unmarked, strangely at odds with the battering on the opposite side which must have dismasted her.