Heart of Oak

by Alexander Kent

  The mood changed. “I looked at the punishment book today. A captain I once served told me that it reveals the true strength or weakness of any ship’s company, and in particular her officers.”

  He looked at the screen door. “You’ve done well during your time aboard. Not an easy role in a new ship, with a company as mixed as flags in a locker.” He smiled again. “Let’s have the others join us.”

  Vincent saw Morgan hovering, half in and half out of the pantry. He, at least, was ready; Vincent had not realized that, during their conversation, the other lieutenants and warrant officers had been waiting.

  Adam called, “Morgan—you’re from Swansea, right?” He was looking critically around the main cabin. “More candles, I think, can you do that?”

  Morgan seemed surprised or pleased, it was hard to tell. “Good as done, sir!”

  In the growing light Vincent noticed a tall-backed chair facing aft by the stern windows; it must have come aboard in one of the last boats. Not new, quite the opposite: he could see scars and stains on the green leather. Well used, a place to rest between watches, even snatch an hour’s sleep when you were expecting to be called. A captain’s chair; Bolitho’s chair.

  He became aware that Adam Bolitho was watching him, waiting, but relaxed. Then he smiled, as if recalling something private, intimate.

  “So let’s be about it, shall we?”

  Midshipman David Napier found himself crossing an enclosed courtyard, and heard a gate clang behind him. Around the corner of the guardhouse would be the jetty, and then he would see the ship. As he had pictured it in his mind, again and again, as if to reassure himself. He wanted to stretch his arms until the muscles screamed, stamp his numbed feet, anything to drive away the strain and confinement of the journey from Falmouth.

  It had rained all the way without pause. Like being shut in a box, reeling from every rut and jolt between Cornwall and Plymouth.

  He looked at the sky, now hard and clear, without warmth. Somewhere along the way the road had been flooded: another delay while Francis had searched for an alternative route, little more than a cart track. Ex-cavalryman though he was, even he had been at a loss for curses. He had recovered by the time they had reached the last barrier, and found a porter to carry the midshipman’s chest. Just a grin, and a pat on his shoulder. Maybe Francis understood better than many what it meant. The need to make it brief. No time to brood or regret.

  “Can I ’elp you—sir?”

  A tall Royal Marine, scarlet tunic unnaturally bright in the harsh sunlight, had appeared from nowhere.

  Napier held out the creased warrant, his fingers stiff from clenching it in his pocket. “I’m joining Onward.”

  He felt the marine’s eyes giving him a quick, disinterested look from beneath the brim of his smart leather hat. Just another middy. Be giving all of us hell before you know it.

  “If you’ll just wait ’ere, sir. I’d best tell the sergeant.”

  Somewhere there was a clock striking. It went on and on, and Napier thought he could smell cooking. He swallowed hard.

  “Well, where the hell has he been? On the moon?”

  Then the sergeant stepped into the courtyard, the same warrant gripped in his hand.

  “You were logged to arrive earlier, Mister Napier.” It sounded like an accusation.

  “The road was flooded.”

  The sergeant brushed biscuit crumbs from his immaculate tunic with the warrant. “We’ve all been on the hop since dawn. The admiral, see? Nothing but the best!” He relented slightly. “There’s another young gentleman waitin’ to join Onward. Tell the piermaster.” Then, brusquely, “Best we can manage till we get the word.”

  Napier felt his ankle turn on a loose cobble, expecting the pain, the warning. Nothing happened.

  And he had not even thought about it. All those miles. The lurching and the unending rain…

  “This way, sir,” the marine was muttering. “Probably all over by now.” He did not offer an explanation.

  Napier took off his hat and loosened his hair. He could smell perfume on his cuff. Elizabeth. He flinched almost guiltily, as if he had spoken her name aloud.

  The room was long and narrow, and had been used for stores. There was a solitary, barred window at one end, with a shaft of sunlight playing across a few crude chairs and an empty bookcase, which did nothing to make it welcoming. He realized that some one was standing beside the window, half hidden in shadow, his elbow resting on the sill.

  Napier heard the marine’s boots clicking away, then there was silence.

  He said tentatively, “I was told that you’re joining Onward. So am I. But I got here so late—it was not my fault. The weather…” He moved closer to the window. “I’m Napier. David Napier.”

  “I was delayed, too.” An even, unhurried voice. Disinterested? Wary? Impossible to tell.

  He tried again. “They say the admiral is on board. I suppose we shall have to wait until we’re told what to do.”

  The figure had moved slightly, and Napier saw the sunlight playing across his own midshipman’s chest. So bright and new, like his uniform, and everything else.

  The voice said, “My name is Huxley, by the way.” A pause. “Simon Huxley.” The shadow moved again. Restless, impatient, waiting for something. On edge. Then, “Not your first ship? I thought perhaps…”

  Napier clenched his fist, and pressed it against his hip. “No. I was in Audacity.”

  Nothing else would come.

  “Audacity? I read about it in the Gazette. Heated shot from a shore battery. Your captain was killed, wasn’t he?”

  Napier said quietly, “A lot of them died that day. But I could swim.” Like an apology for being alive.

  Huxley reached out and tapped his shoulder. “Luck or skill. Fate decided in your favour, David.” He dropped his arm; the gesture had taken them both by surprise. “I can’t swim a stroke!” He had moved further into the sunlight, turning as boots tramped along the road outside, perhaps from the jetty. “I shan’t be sorry to get aboard, to be doing something useful.”

  Napier studied him. A year or so older than himself, with a serious, thoughtful face. Onward might be his stepping-stone to promotion, or oblivion. What most midshipmen joked about, and dreaded.

  He said, “Were you held up by the weather?”

  Huxley did not reply immediately. The marching feet had faded away and it was so quiet in the long, narrow room that he could hear him breathing. “No.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “I went to visit my father. Onward might be under sailing orders. Rumours, but there may be some truth in them.” He swung round and stared at the door, listening, but there was nothing. “I wanted him to know…”

  “Is he unwell, Simon?”

  Napier could not see his eyes.

  “He is confined to quarters.” He paused, as if waiting for some reaction. “And awaiting trial by court martial.”

  “My God, I’m so sorry.” Napier felt shock, pity, anger and something else he could not explain. He had known Simon Huxley for a matter of minutes. But I am his friend.

  Huxley said bitterly, “I thought everybody knew about it!”

  There were voices outside.

  Napier said, “We can talk about it later. A new ship, remember? A new beginning for us both.”

  The door banged open.

  “Boat’s waitin’, gentlemen.” A pause. “When you’re ready, o’ course.”

  Neither of them noticed the sarcasm. Just a handshake. It was enough.

  Captain Adam Bolitho walked past the Royal Marine sentry and into the cabin. Quiet now, and almost spacious after the ceremonial of the forenoon. The admiral and his retinue had returned ashore; the trill of calls and the blare of a trumpet still seemed to hang in the air to mark their departure. His cocked hat was lying on a chair by the desk, but he did not recall tossing it there.

  He should be used to it after all these years. Listening to those same words
or hearing them issuing from his own mouth, as so many of those aboard today would know them too, by heart. Willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain in her accordingly…He recalled some of the younger faces staring up at him from the maindeck. There did not seem many in this new company.

  He groped to remove his sword belt and a voice checked him.

  “Allow me, sir.”

  It was Morgan. He must have managed to stay hidden during all the “stamp and bustle,” as Jago had called it.

  Adam unbuttoned his coat.

  Morgan was waiting, the old sword held in both hands. “I thought a drink might be in order, sir?”

  Adam smiled, and felt his jaw crack. “It is, and thank you.”

  “Went very well, we thought, sir.”

  Preparing himself for the days ahead. Where did they find men like Morgan, or Athena’s cabin servant, Bowles? And what was he doing now?

  “The admiral seemed pleased.”

  Morgan laid the sword across the high-backed chair, his eyes darting around as if planning a proper place for it. “Fine old blade, sir.” He stood, swaying easily to the movement of the deck, as Adam walked right aft to the stern windows. “In your family for years, they say.”

  If you want to know all about a captain, just ask his cabin servant, he thought.

  He peered through the salt-misted glass across the anchorage. He had seen the other ships nearby, the telescopes on their decks levelled at the admiral’s smart barge and accompanying boats. Critical but envious too, no matter what they said between decks. A new ship, and a frigate above all else.

  There was a sudden burst of cheering. Morgan had opened the cabin skylight an inch or so, and the din seemed to fill the whole poop.

  He beamed. “Splice the mainbrace, sir! Hitting the right place, I’d say, see?”

  “They’ve earned it.” No doubt the purser thought otherwise. Vicary, that was his name. A stooping, desiccated, humourless man: one of those he had met for the first time yesterday evening.

  Morgan had placed a goblet on the table. “Cognac, sir. Came aboard today. The guardboat brought it.” He paused, and laid an envelope beside it.

  Adam opened it and saw the ribbon, the same colour as the one she had given him, and her writing, like the letter he always carried. From the Last Cavalier. There was a smudge, kiss or tear. She was with him.

  “Thank you.” He looked away sharply at the water astern, still reflecting the hard light. A few boats were moving or loitering nearby, friends, relatives, hoping for a glimpse or a wave. It would only make it worse when the anchor broke free and Onward put to sea. Worse than this? How could that be?

  The sentry tapped his musket beyond the screen.

  “Officer o’ th’ watch, sir!”

  “That’ll be Mr Monteith, sir.”

  Adam saw Morgan’s reflection briefly in the sloping glass windows. He was scowling. Then he hurried to the door.

  He picked up the card and read it again before slipping it into his pocket.

  Voices now beyond the screen. Monteith…When he had boarded Onward, the young lieutenant had been with the side party. And yesterday here in this cabin, with his fellow lieutenants and all the senior warrant officers. Young and very attentive, eager to answer questions about his duties, and today when he had been introduced to the admiral, different again. Anxious, almost shy.

  He put down the goblet; it was empty. Monteith presented another face completely in the punishment book. There were several entries, mostly for trivial offenses, when a sharp reprimand from a senior seaman or a quick slap when nobody was looking would have sufficed. Nothing serious, but wrongly directed they could end at the gangway with two dozen lashes. Or worse. Vincent must have been aware of it, but had offered no comment when they had discussed the ship’s affairs.

  Charge and command of captain. It would always be the invisible line between them.

  He shook himself mentally. He was letting it grow out of all proportion. He was too tired to think clearly.

  “Mr Monteith wishes to have a word with you, sir.” Morgan was holding the door half open. It sounded like “insists.”

  “My apologies, sir. I understood that the first lieutenant was here.” He bit his lip. “He left word that I was to call him if—”

  Adam said, “As you can see, Mr Vincent is not here. Can I help?”

  Morgan strode past, heading for his pantry, and said meaningfully over his shoulder, “If you need me, sir?”

  Monteith pulled out the papers. “Two midshipmen have just come aboard.” He frowned slightly, his head on one side. “To join. They were overdue, and the first lieutenant wanted to be told when—if they made an appearance.”

  Adam turned away. David had done it. After his experience he might have been forgiven for not wanting to return to sea. But he had recovered his strength and his resolve.

  “I understand one of them has served with you before, sir?”

  Adam took the papers and opened them. He could feel Monteith’s eyes flicking around the cabin, noting his captain’s untidy appearance, the empty glass on the table.

  He knew he was being unfair, and said abruptly, “There has been flooding in Cornwall, roads blocked. It does happen.”

  “Quite so, sir.” A pause. “But the other midshipman was already in Plymouth.”

  Adam looked up from the papers, the fatigue suddenly gone. This visit was no accident. “Midshipman Huxley was delayed for personal reasons. The first lieutenant will know that.”

  “As I thought, sir.” He dropped his eyes confidentially. “But as officer of the watch I considered it my duty to confirm it. The word is that Midshipman Huxley’s father is awaiting court martial.”

  Beyond the door the sentry rapped his musket again.

  “First lieutenant, sir!”

  Morgan bustled past. “No peace, sir.”

  The door opened on a separate little drama. A seaman below the companion, a mop in his hands, a marine checking his musket in readiness to relieve the sentry. And Lieutenant Vincent staring into the cabin, barely able to contain his anger.

  Monteith finished, “For losing his ship!”

  Vincent cut in, “I am very sorry, sir. I was in the sick bay—one of the new hands has had a fall. Not serious, but—” He controlled his voice. “I left word where I would be.” He had not looked at Monteith. There was no need.

  Adam unclenched his hand slowly, deliberately, and withdrew it from his pocket. A small thing which should never have happened. And tomorrow it would be all through the ship.

  He said quietly, “Losing a ship is an indescribable experience, because it never leaves you. It happened to me.” He barely recognized his own voice; it was cool, almost matter of fact. “Like a terrible storm. You ride it or you go under, with the ship. But you never forget.”

  “Boat ahoy!” The challenge from the maindeck was faint, almost inaudible amongst the shipboard sounds. It could have been an echo of those lost voices.

  Then he heard the shrill of a boatswain’s call, and running feet, very much alive.

  “Carry on, Mr Monteith.” He did not look at him. “Onward is a private ship, no admiral’s flag flying at our masthead, no chain of command while we wait to be told what to do. We depend on ourselves.” He felt the deck tilt very slightly beneath him, as if she were stirring. “Upon each other.”

  When he turned Monteith had gone, almost running to deal with the arrivals.

  Vincent said, “The wardroom has asked if you will be our guest,” and faltered. “If you would feel inclined to…”

  The tension had gone; it was like being set free.

  “I will be honoured, Mark, although I have a feeling that it might be delayed a while.”

  Vincent thought he understood. The captain was back.

  In his little pantry Morgan waited until the screen door had closed, then poured himself a small tot of rum and sipped appreciatively.

  Tomorro
w it would be all through the ship.

  6 A PROUD MOMENT

  LUKE JAGO CLIMBED DOWN from the boat-tier and examined the gig closely. His gig. Oars stowed, lashings in place, equal strain on all parts. Probably its first time out of the water since leaving the builder’s yard.

  “Fair enough, Robbins. You can fall out now.”

  The big seaman knuckled his forehead, grinning. Praise indeed from the captain’s coxswain, who was impossible to please.

  Jago hardly noticed. Just words, but they mattered. Anybody could pull an oar after a few attempts, and a threat or two. But the gig was special.

  He stared along the maindeck, quieter now after all the working parties and inspections, as if a King’s ship had never weighed anchor and put to sea before. All those years, different ports or anchorages he could no longer name or recall, and you never got used to it. Doubt, anxiety, resentment. All and none of them.

  He saw Joshua Guthrie, the boatswain, indicating something on the mainyard, jabbing the air with a massive fist to make his point to one of the new hands. A born sailor, Guthrie had entered the navy at ten. Now he seemed ageless, scarred and battered, his nose shapeless from fights ashore as well as in the line of duty. He could control the deck with a minimum of effort, using only a powerful, carrying voice and a cuff if the offender was near enough. His girth had increased over the past few years but only a fool would see it as a soft plank. Like punching a bloody oak tree, as one seaman had discovered.

  But even Guthrie could not hide his mood, and to those who knew him well, his excitement.

  It had started this morning, even as both watches of the hands were mustering for working ship, the stink of the galley funnel carrying on a fresh north-easterly. A few lights still twinkling from the dark mass of land, faint shouts and calls from other ships nearby. Another day.

  Then the challenge from the gangway. “Boat ahoy?”

  Early, but not unknown in Plymouth, major naval port that it was.