Heart of Oak

by Alexander Kent

  Jago had recognized the boat immediately: the same one which had brought him and the captain out to Onward for the first time, with that senior officer from the Admiralty. But it was not stores, or some officer begging a free passage after a night ashore with one of the Plymouth whores. He had seen the sudden activity at the entry port; even the first lieutenant had been there.

  Guthrie had been close by with one of his working parties and had called back softly, “The admiral’s speaking trumpet is among us!”

  The flag lieutenant had come aboard, a tall, foppish young officer who seemed to wear a permanent look of disdain and impatience. It was hard to picture him serving in any seamanlike capacity. “Flags” had walked past the side party and marines without even a glance and continued aft with Lieutenant Vincent beside him.

  Jago contained a smile. All the bluff and tight lips meant nothing if you had trust. The launch had been coxswained by the same man as before. He had followed the flag lieutenant up to the entry port and seen Jago, and remembered him. Just the hint of a grin, mouth barely moving, eyes still on the officers. “Sailin’ orders, matey! Best o’ luck!” And he was gone.

  Secret orders, like the heavily sealed envelope he had seen in the flag lieutenant’s hand, never remained confidential for long in the “family.” The conference of officers and senior warrants called unexpectedly in the great cabin, and an announcement by the first lieutenant, had confirmed it.

  Tomorrow forenoon Onward would be leaving Plymouth. Senior hands of messes would report for instructions.

  Jago had heard one of the seamen joke, “Write your wills, while you still can!”

  It was all they had been told. All they needed to know.

  He looked aft and astern past the great ensign curling lightly in the breeze. Onward was swinging to her cable, so that the land seemed to be edging out around the quarter, like a protective arm. Secrecy meant very little in a seaport like this one. People would know. Some worrying, dismayed at the news. And others who would see it as a release, or an escape.

  Jago rarely thought beyond the moment, taking it at face value.

  He saw Morgan, the cabin servant, standing by the quarterdeck rail, something white in his hand. A letter, or letters, for that last boat ashore. Jago eased his shoulders, and straightened the smart blue coat with its gilt buttons. For him there would be no letters. He had nowhere else to go.

  But it felt so different. In war, every flag was an enemy, each encounter a chance of battle or worse.

  He turned and saw three midshipmen up on the larboard gangway, watching an old schooner passing slowly abeam. One of them was David Napier, his teeth flashing white in a grin. No regrets in that one. Glad to be leaving. Would he change with maturity, and become just another officer? It was stupid, absurd. As if it mattered. He must be losing his grip. Getting past it…

  The bell chimed out from the forecastle, and his mind responded automatically. Time to report to the carpenter to settle the question of some boat repairs. One of the busiest men in any new ship, he hated to be kept waiting.

  It was as if he had spoken his thoughts aloud. Past it…Napier must have run from the gangway to reach him so quickly. No sign of discomfort, let alone pain, a far cry from those early days of his recovery. And so at ease now in his uniform. Hard to remember him as the attentive, often overserious cabin servant in Unrivalled.

  “Settled in, have you?” Jago gestured toward the slow-moving schooner. “I seen you with your mates, getting along—or can’t you tell yet?”

  Napier shrugged. “We’re all finding our way.” He was frowning now. “I’ve been wondering about you, Luke. Onward’s not a big ship, not like Athena—but I never seem to see you. And we’re sailing tomorrow. I wanted to ask you…” He halted, and touched his long-buttoned coat. “It’s not because of this, is it?”

  Jago hesitated as two seamen hurried past, unwilling to be overheard, angry with himself for not anticipating this. Never get too close to them. You of all people shouldn’t need to be told.

  He looked at him steadily, giving himself time. What he said now would matter. Napier was not just another “young gentleman,” thinking only of himself, reckoning his chances.

  “The Cap’n came down and spoke to all of you midshipmen, right?” He said it slowly, wanting it to reach him. “All of you, David. But don’t you think he was wanting to share the moment just with you. ’Cause you’re special?”

  Some one called, “Mr Falcon is yellin’ out for you, ’Swain, you’d better jump about!”

  It had slipped Jago’s mind. He reached out roughly and gripped Napier’s arm, and felt him start a little with surprise.

  “No favours, David—leastways you never show ’em, or you’re finished. Others look to you, or very soon will…” He shook his arm, hating his inability to express it, as if they were strangers. “Think on it, David. One day you’ll meet some fine well-bred young lady who’s got her eye on a likely King’s officer. She might even be an admiral’s kin, no less.” He waited for a smile, a flicker of understanding. There was neither.

  “I’ve been looking for you, man!” The carpenter.

  Napier watched them go to the boat-tier, Falcon gesticulating with some sort of rule, perturbed about something.

  He touched his sleeve, still feeling Jago’s grip: strong, like his presence and his convictions. Always at a distance of his own making, but he could see right through things. When others turned aside, or spluttered excuses.

  “Are you coming, David?” That was Huxley. He must have seen Jago speaking with him, might even think it was gossip about his father and the forthcoming court martial.

  He began to climb back to the gangway, his mind lingering on Jago and what he had been trying to say. He had seen and done so much, and had suffered in some unknown way which had scarred him as deeply as blade or ball. Maybe only the captain knew.

  Jago understood the necessity of distance. No favourites. He stood on the gangway and felt the ship moving beneath him, as if eager to leave. To be free.

  Was anybody?

  He looked toward the boat-tier but Jago and the carpenter had vanished. A man apart and alone. Trusted but feared. Who missed nothing.

  He shivered, remembering his comment about some fine, well-bred young lady. An admiral’s kin…Just a rough allusion to make his point, as if he had witnessed that moment in the stable yard at Falmouth. The young, impatient Elizabeth very upright in her riding habit, staring at him, tapping her crop against one boot. “Leaving now to exchange all this for a ship?” Serious or mocking, he was never certain. Despite the new uniform and his experiences in the Caribbean, she still regarded him as her cousin Adam’s cabin servant, and treated him as such.

  She had waited for him to walk toward her, and he remembered how much he had wanted her to see that he was no longer limping.

  She had watched his approach with cool eyes. “It may be a while before you come to visit again.” A slight crease of the clear, pale forehead. “To stay…” She seemed to have been coming to a decision. He had heard the horses stamping on the cobbles, impatient to begin the long haul to Plymouth.

  “Write to us, when you feel inclined.” She had pulled off her hat and let her long chestnut hair spill over her shoulder. “You may kiss me, if you wish.”

  He could still feel the touch of her cheek, her hair falling between them. There were others in the yard, and the sound of somebody hammering metal on an anvil.

  He had felt her turn very slightly, and the warmth of her breath across his mouth. “So that you’ll remember me.” A hand pressing the back of his neck. Their mouths joined. No sound: even the horses were still.

  She had walked away, toward the old grey house. She had not looked back.

  An admiral’s daughter.

  He told himself it was only a dream. She would be the first to shatter any illusion he might cherish. Maybe Jago knew something, and was trying to save him from making a fool of himself. He thought of the kiss again. Or
from breaking my heart.

  “What’s this, Mister Napier? Day-dreaming, are we?”

  He did not need to turn to recognize the third lieutenant’s sarcasm.

  “On my way, sir!”

  “Remember in future, Mister Napier. Promotion requires skill, not popularity!” Monteith was already striding away, eyes everywhere, gesturing meanwhile to a seaman who was untangling some halliards.

  Another sailor working nearby said quietly, but loud enough for Napier to hear, “God knows best!”

  Napier looked out to sea, embarrassment and irritation melting away, then he felt himself smiling. Thanks to the unknown sailor. He looked then at the shore, the high ground beyond the old fortifications and the houses. Day-dreaming. Monteith was right. Only a kiss, and nothing more. Her way of saying goodbye, ending something that had never begun. It would soon pass and leave him in peace.

  He waved to his new friend Huxley and hurried aft to rejoin him.

  But she was still with him. Elizabeth.

  Adam Bolitho walked through the cabin until he was right aft by the stern windows. There were no lights here, so that the sea and sky beyond seemed almost bright, and alive. He had been unable to sleep and had been shaving by candlelight long before all hands had been called to breakfast and clean, while the anchorage was still as black as pitch.

  He had spent much of the night watches lying in the old bergère, as so often in the past, unsettled, going over every last detail. Something he knew was a pointless exercise. His mind had never seemed to rest. Once in the night he had found himself thinking of Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune, and the portrait of him he had seen at the house in London. Wearing the uniform of captain, not even posted, as Jago had commented. Had he been any different as that young man? And what would become of him now without the authority, the power of command?

  He walked forward again and stood beneath the skylight, still dripping from overnight rain. He had heard it when the restlessness had driven him to leave his swinging cot; he had left the blankets turned down, but doubted if Morgan would be deceived.

  Morgan seemed capable of anything, had even managed to have Adam’s seagoing coat repaired; the tear above one pocket, the result of one of many unofficial inspections throughout the hull, was barely visible.

  “One of the sailmaker’s crew, sir.” He had almost winked. “Used to be a tailor until circumstances changed at home!”

  Adam slipped his arms through the sleeves. It was not an old coat. But how many leagues, how many days and nights had it shared? Immortalized now in the portrait painted by Montagu, much against his own wishes, to satisfy his aunt. Naval Officer With Yellow Rose. When he had met Lowenna. Fate…

  Feet thudded across the deck overhead, and some one slipped and fell. The planking would be treacherous after the rain, especially for landmen or the over-confident.

  He felt his pockets, impatient with himself. Sailing day. It was like hearing some one shouting it aloud. Full morning now, the great cabin laid bare in the daylight. Vincent would be here soon to make his report, and step aside. He glanced at the desk, its polished surface empty. He could feel the little book in his pocket, her last letter tucked inside like a talisman. A link.

  The ship seemed quiet again after the usual bustle of cleaning the messdeck and securing unwanted gear. He picked up the old sword and loosened it in its scabbard. So many times. So many hands. And always, you, Uncle. Seeing him in other ships, other cabins. He laid it across the green leather chair, deep in thought, and flinched as eight bells chimed faintly from the upper deck.

  He looked again around the cabin, familiar even after so brief an occupation, thought of the room across the water, the expensive telescope at the window. The admiral watching these final preparations with his dandified flag lieutenant hovering at his side, ready to offer some suitable apology if things went wrong. And in London, a note would be made on one of those great charts. Routine. Onward was under orders, to take despatches to the Flag Officer, Gibraltar, and to join the Strait Squadron. Bald and simple on the page.

  He recalled the faces at that hastily convened meeting. Relief, surprise, anticipation, excitement, each man seeing it from the standpoint of his own responsibility. But, for the most part, they were still strangers to him. Some said it was better that way.

  Gibraltar. He had last been there in Unrivalled, on passage home after the bloody encounter at Algiers under Exmouth’s flag.

  He heard the sentry’s musket tap quite gently on the grating outside the screen door.

  “First lieutenant, sir!”

  Something made him pause and turn back, deliberately. He could almost hear Richard Bolitho’s voice. They’ll expect to see it, Adam.

  He picked up the sword and strode toward the door.

  He paused at the top of the companion ladder with one foot on the coaming. After the dimness of the cabin, the sky seemed dazzling, making a lie of the keen winter air. He could feel Vincent close behind him, silent now, mentally reprising his report in case he had forgotten some vital detail, like every first lieutenant with a new captain. Lower deck cleared, capstan manned…Routine. The quarterdeck and both gangways filled with seamen and marines. The capstan with all its bars shipped and ready stood like an intruder.

  He saw the sailing master, Tobias Julyan, his feet apart, a telescope tucked loosely under his arm. He was speaking to the helmsmen on either side of the big double wheel, nodding occasionally, outwardly at ease. Adam liked what he had already seen of him. A midshipman, slate held in readiness to jot down a signal or report one from elsewhere, stood nearby. He had a set, serious face: that was Deacon, the senior “young gentleman” aboard, and due for examination when the next Board became available. Before this he had been serving in the flagship. He was fortunate to have been given Onward in these uncertain times. Luck, favouritism, skill? We shall soon know.

  Adam walked forward, and felt men move aside to clear a space by the quarterdeck rail. He looked up at the masthead pendant, flapping loosely in the breeze one moment, then taut as a lance the next. Once clear of the land it would be lively enough. He glanced along the deck to the forecastle: more men mustered in parties, each with a senior hand in charge. Landsmen and the newly joined, the “waisters,” useful for adding their weight to the braces, or lending another ounce of muscle to the capstan.

  And right forward, almost in the eyes of the ship, was Squire the second lieutenant. A true professional, but not an easy one to know. A man for whom charts and navigation were allies and not enemies; it was obvious why he had been given a commission after his service with Sir Alfred Bishop. From the lower deck…the old hands always insisted that it brought out the best, or the very worst.

  Vincent was saying, “Quarter-boat is towing astern, sir, with a crew standing by.”

  “Better to be safe, Mark.” He did not see his surprise at the use of his name. It seemed to break Vincent’s concentration.

  “I am sorry, sir. I forgot.” He stared abeam as the guardboat pulled slowly across the bows. “There was one man missing at the last muster.”

  “Deserted?” Adam concealed his impatience. It was not so long ago that any man would run when a King’s ship came into port or dropped anchor close by and the hated press gangs had been put ashore, and a blow over the head was the only conversation. Most of Onward’s company, however, were either skilled seamen from other ships, or volunteers, with reasons as varied as their histories.

  “A good man. Harris, one of our best coopers. Must have happened during the dog watches.”

  “When the last fresh water lighter shoved off. Yes, I heard the commotion.” He stared at the sea and did not notice Vincent’s expression. The Captain’s down aft in his cabin. He won’t know anything…“List him as missing. The officer of the guard will know what to do.” He grasped Vincent’s arm, suddenly impatient to be gone. “A fair wind, so let’s not waste it! Make our signal to the Flag.”

  He saw the bunting jerk up the halliards and break ou
t to the wind; the signal party must have been poised with the flags already joined.

  “Your glass, sir?”

  Adam turned, the faces and shouts of command held at bay. It was Napier.

  “Well, David?”

  The boy waited, frowning slightly with concentration as he took the telescope. He answered simply, “I’ll not let you down, sir.”

  Adam reached out as if to grip his shoulder, but saw his face. Like a warning. He let his hand fall and said only, “You will be up forrard with the second lieutenant. Stay close and wait for his orders.”

  The midshipman stepped back and touched his hat. “Aye, aye, sir!”

  “Signal from Flag, sir!” The pencil was squeaking loudly on the slate. “‘Proceed when ready!’”

  Adam walked aft again. “Man the capstan!”

  He shaded his eyes against a shaft of reflected sunlight and looked at the shore, and the overlapping rooftops. The admiral would be observing them, but what of that other captain? Grenville, who gave me this ship.

  “Heave, lads!” Guthrie now. “Put yer bloody backs into it, heave!”

  Sir John Grenville would be there. And he would be alone.

  More men ran to the capstan, chests pressed to the bars, arms cracking with strain.

  “Heave, lads, heave!”

  A gaunt figure in a shabby blue coat had climbed on to a hatch cover, a violin gripped in big, reddened hands. Some one raised a cheer, and Guthrie the boatswain yelled, “Step out, me lads, an’ make yer feet tell!”

  Others shouted encouragement, and there was a loud, metallic click as the first pawl fell into place. The capstan was starting to turn. Click. The fiddle brought more shouts, cheers as well, when some of the scarlet-coated marines piled arms and ran to lend their weight.

  Adam watched the helmsmen. One was already gripping a spoke, but his foot was tapping the deck in time with the fiddle.

  He recognized the fiddler now as Onward’s senior cook. Without his long apron he was a completely different man. And the tune was familiar, but he could not give it a name. He half smiled. Not “Portsmouth Lass.” That, he would never forget.