In the King's Name (8 page)

There had not been much movement in the harbour or Carrick Roads, but this day was different, and they were discussing the newcomer critically: a King's ship, something of a rarity of late, with the exception of revenue cutters and naval supply vessels.

Many of the idlers were old sailors themselves, discharged, or thrown on the beach for a dozen different reasons. Many of them loudly proclaimed they were glad to be free of the navy and its harsh discipline, or various officers they had served in the past. Bad food and poor pay, and the constant risk of injury or death. But they were usually the first on the waterfront whenever a sail was sighted.

She was a brig, one of the navy's maids of all work, busier than ever now with so many of the heavier vessels being paid off or scrapped. She was shortening sail as she turned slightly toward her anchorage, tiny figures spread out along the upper yards of her two masts, the canvas not even flapping as it caught the sunlight. Like her hull, the sails shone like glass and were hardened with salt and ice. A fine sight, but to some of the old hands watching from the shore she meant hazards as well as beauty. Fisting and kicking the frozen canvas into submission so that it could be furled and reefed was dangerous enough, but one slip and you would fall headlong onto the deck below, or into the sea alongside, where even if you could swim …

She was still turning, her sails almost aback, soon to be hidden by the old battery wall above the harbour. Only her masthead pendant showed to mark her anchorage. One man, who had brought a telescope, had seen the new arrival's name and called out,
“Merlin!”

But he was alone. His friends had drifted away.

Commander Francis Troubridge turned his back to the sun and stared at the land, the nearness of it. With the wind dropping to a light breeze, the approach had seemed endless. He would become used to it, with time and more experience. He had a good ship's company; some had served aboard
Merlin
since she had first commissioned. One hundred and thirty all told. Hard to believe, he thought, when you considered she was only one hundred and five feet in length. Teamwork and companionship were vital. He looked at the houses, one above another on the steep hillside, but he could not see the church as he had the last time he had been in Falmouth. Only three months ago.

So much had happened since.

He glanced forward where men were stowing away loose gear, sliding down backstays, racing one another to the deck. A few were slower, quietly cursing the scrapes and grazes inflicted by the frozen canvas, which could tear out a man's fingernails no matter how experienced a sailor he was.

Troubridge had come to know the names of most and remembered them, something he had learned as a flag lieutenant, when the admiral had always expected him to know everything. That was over. He was
Merlin's
captain now. And she was his first command. And to most of these men he was still a stranger. It was up to him.

“Standin' by, sir!”

He raised his hand above his head and heard the cry from the forecastle.

“Let go!”

The splash of the anchor and the immediate response as the cable followed it, men hastening it on its way and ready for any stoppages. There were none.

He had been in command for almost a year, and with previous experience, mostly at sea, he should have been used to it and prepared for anything. But at moments like this it was always new. Different. Beyond pride. If anything, what Troubridge felt was excitement.

“All secure, sir.” Turpin, his first lieutenant, was a square, muscular man who could move quickly when it suited him, from watching the anchor drop from the cathead, alert for any mishap, then aft again just minutes later. He was a born sailor with a strong, weathered face, and clear blue eyes that seemed to belong to someone else looking out through a mask at everything around him. And now at his captain.

Turpin had always served in small ships, and had originally been promoted from the lower deck. When Troubridge had first stepped aboard, Turpin had conducted him over every inch of the ship, pointing out every store and cabin space, messdeck, magazine, even the galley. Proud, even possessive. He was about ten years older than his captain, but if he cherished any resentment he had not revealed it.

Merlin's
previous commanding officer had been put ashore, taken suddenly ill with a fever he had picked up on the anti-slavery patrols. He had since died. But as is the way in the navy, nobody now mentioned his name.

Her second lieutenant, John Fairbrother, was younger than Troubridge and seemed to look upon
Merlin
merely as a stepping-stone to promotion. The brig also carried a sailing master, who, like Turpin, was very experienced with smaller vessels and had served on three oceans. And, surprisingly for her size,
Merlin
boasted a surgeon,

Edwin O'Brien, although now, with peace and the brig assigned to the Channel Fleet, his might remain a minor role. It might have been different on the slavery patrols, or hunting pirates in the Mediterranean, where in a ship often sailing alone a surgeon's skill was paramount.

The four of them made up
Merlin's
little wardroom. She carried no midshipmen or Royal Marines and ceremonial was kept to a minimum.

Turpin said, “We are here to await orders, sir?” It sounded like a statement, but Troubridge had come to accept that. The lieutenant hardly ever seemed to write anything down; he carried everything in his head.

Troubridge stared across the water and saw the church for the first time since that day. The Church of King Charles the Martyr, where he had had the honour of taking the lovely Lowenna up the aisle to become Adam Bolitho's wife.

Turpin broke into his dream-like reminiscence with a blunt, “Memories, sir?” The blue eyes gave nothing away, but no doubt he was remembering that the admiral had granted special leave so Troubridge could attend the wedding.

He nodded. “Yes. Good ones.”

“Will you be going ashore, sir?”

“We're to remain here for five days, as you know. If nothing changes we'll take on board two Admiralty officials. Like our last mission, I'm afraid. Not very exciting.”

Turpin said sharply, “Better ‘n being laid up.” The slightest pause. “Sir.”

It was the first hint of envy, and Troubridge was surprised by it. If only …

Someone yelled, “Boat headin' our way, sir!”

Turpin grunted, “Mail boat. See to it, Parker!”

Troubridge walked across the deck, past the big double wheel and polished compass box, and reached the side in time to see the mail boat already pulling away from the entry port, somebody waving his arm and calling back to
Merlin's
side party.

A seaman was coiling some rope and avoided his eyes when Troubridge moved past him. Maybe it was always like this. Adam Bolitho had mentioned the loneliness of command, trying to prepare him.

Turpin's shadow was beside him again. “Only two letters, sir. Don't know we're here yet, I reckon.” He thrust one out. “For you, sir.”

“Thank you.” Troubridge walked into the shadow of the mast, knowing Turpin was watching him. He broke the seal. Not a letter but a card, undated. He had never seen her handwriting, so how could he have known it was from her?

He walked back across the deck and gazed at the houses and the church tower.

She must have heard from someone, maybe the coastguard, that
Merlin
was arriving in Falmouth today and had made a visit to the headland, or here to the waterfront to watch them anchor. She might even be over there now. He felt for the card again. She was just being courteous, and was probably always surrounded by friends.

Troubridge replaced the card in its torn envelope and slid it into his pocket.

Visit us
. What else could she have said? If she only knew …

“Everything all right, sir?”

He waved and said something insignificant and Turpin turned away to deal with a supply boat which was about to come alongside.

What he had hoped for, even dreamed about; and apparently she had thought about him, too. They were good friends, for all sorts of reasons … Troubridge recalled exactly when he had wanted to tell her that he would always be ready to come to her, if she were ever in need. In the church that day before the ceremony. He had got no further than
if ever
… and she had touched his lips with her fingers, scented with autumnal flowers.
I know, and I thank you, Francis
.

He had never forgotten the time he and Adam Bolitho had broken down the door of a studio and found Lowenna standing over the man who had tried to rape her, the gown ripped from her shoulders, a brass candlestick poised over him.
I would have killed him!
And he had felt his own finger on the trigger of the pistol he was carrying.

He touched the card in his pocket. Like hearing her voice.

Turpin had rejoined him. “Can I do anything, sir?”

“I'll need a boat in half an hour. I'm going ashore. Back before sunset. Send word to the revenue pier if you need me beforehand.”

Turpin glanced around conspiratorially, as if someone might be listening. “Somethin' wrong, sir?”

Troubridge was staring after the mail boat, still pulling steadily toward the waterfront. “Something personal. I must leave a message. And thank you, Mathias, for your help.”

Turpin's leathery face revealed surprise as well as concern. At having been allowed to share something he sensed was private, and also at the casual use of his first name. Then his face broke into a grin. “Leave it with me, sir.” He gestured to a bosun's mate and added quietly, “Watch your back, eh?”

It was perhaps as close as they had ever been. But it was a beginning.

He would go below and write a short note to have taken up to the big grey house. After the flagship,
Merlin
‘s cabin seemed small. But it was a refuge, and it was his. Turpin had probably used it himself while he was waiting for the new commanding officer, or hoping for his own promotion.

Watch your back
. But the immediate enemy was guilt.

Troubridge wedged his elbow against the seat as the vehicle lurched into another deep rut, hidden by one of the countless puddles left by heavy overnight rain.

Everything seemed to have happened so quickly that his mind was still reluctant to cope. A message, in a strong scholarly hand which he guessed belonged to Dan Yovell, the Bolitho steward, whom he had met several times, had been brought out to
Merlin;
the boatman had departed without waiting for any response.
A carriage will be sent
. And despite the weather and the roads, it was waiting for him on time.

Another face he remembered: Young Matthew, the coachman, who had driven them to the church that day. “Young” Matthew because his father, also Matthew, had been coachman at the estate before him. His father had died long since, but the nickname remained, although he was probably the oldest man there.

The carriage was a landau, new and beautifully sprung. Troubridge had seen some of them in London, and his admiral and Lady Bethune had used one while in residence there. The landau had twin hoods which folded right back and allowed the occupant to see and be seen, if the weather was kind enough. The hoods were made of greasy harness-leather, which had a strong smell when wet. Like now.

Once again he tried to grapple with his thoughts, but events were now out of his hands. There had also been a curt letter from the two Admiralty officials: their arrival would be a day later than expected. Sunday at noon. Equally curtly, it had stressed:
No ceremonial
. He had expected Turpin to be pleased about that, but if anything he had taken it as an insult. “Be different if we were a ship of the line, with a guard of honour, I suppose!”

Troubridge thought of it when he was leaving the ship: the trill of calls, Turpin doffing his hat and the boat alongside, oars tossed, ready to carry him ashore. Would he ever become used to it? Take it for granted as his right? He had heard Adam Bolitho say that if you did, you were ready for the beach. Or burial.

Once he had looked back at the brig, rolling easily in the offshore wind. Small, but able to give a good account of herself if challenged. She carried sixteen big thirty-two pounders, eight of them carronades. He had studied her figurehead, oblivious to the stroke oarsman watching him. The carver had produced a fine example of a merlin falcon, wings spread beneath the bowsprit, beak open, and ready to pounce, like a young eagle.

Troubridge could understand, and share, Turpin's reaction to the message.

He saw two farm workers grin and wave mockingly as the landau splashed past them. The same two had overtaken them earlier when the deeply rutted track had slowed the horses to a walking pace.

There were a few cottages now, and he noticed that most of the frost had been melted by the rain. Two cows by a gate, breath smoking, and someone tying up dead branches, squinting at the vehicle clattering past. Then, around the side of a low hill, the sea, like water against a dam. Never far away, and in the blood of the people who lived here.

The landau stopped and he heard Young Matthew speaking to his horses, calming them as a heavy farm wagon splashed by, wheels almost touching theirs; greetings were exchanged, but even here he had noticed that Young Matthew kept a musket close to hand. He had said matter-of-factly, “This is called Hanger Lane, zur. Didn't get that name for nothin'.”

Troubridge was unarmed. This was Cornwall.

He saw an inn lying back from the road. The Spaniards. Someone had mentioned it to him. It had been Thomas Herrick, Sir Richard Bolitho's oldest friend; he was now rear-admiral, retired. He had shared the carriage too, en route to the wedding. Herrick had stayed at the inn and had spoken well of it. Just as well: it was the only accommodation around.