Napier turned. The cutter’s crew were leaping down to the tier, lines hauled into position and secured. Even the boat’s coxswain, Fitzgerald, a tough seaman who hailed from Donegal Bay, was beaming with satisfaction, or relief.
Squire was already studying another list, but he looked up from it and said briefly, “Just remember. It gets harder!”
Napier saw Huxley grinning over at him and waving both fists in congratulation. Some one yelled, “The Frenchie’s shortenin’ ’er cable, sir!”
“Man the capstan, lively there!”
Napier saw the boatswain’s mate, Fowler, lash out with his starter at one of the young hands, then strike the man across the shoulder even as he threw his weight on the nearest bar. He could see blood on the bare skin from the force of the blow. He glanced uncertainly at Squire, but the lieutenant had turned to watch the French frigate.
Doesn’t he care?
Napier stared aloft, but the sun blinded him. He had seen the topmen spread out along those yards, canvas billowing and punching between them.
Squire had hurried to his station in the eyes of the ship, and when Napier joined him above the cathead the wet cable was already jerking inboard like some endless serpent. One of the forecastle hands paused for breath and shouted, “The Frenchie’s aweigh! Onward’ll show her a clean pair of heels when she makes a run for it, eh, lads?”
Pride and, Napier thought, animosity too. Maybe that was why they did not use the other frigate’s name. She might be a prize, but she was still one of their own.
The shrill of more calls, and Guthrie’s voice carrying above them all.
“Anchor’s aweigh!”
He saw Squire watching the glistening cable as it brought the anchor firmly to the cathead. He could feel the deck moving, and caught a glimpse of other ships, still at anchor, apparently shifting their bearings without a stitch of canvas spread.
Hotham had dragged off his hat and was waving it wildly in the wind, his voice lost in the din of canvas and rigging. If the clergyman could see his son now…
Squire was looking across at him. “My respects to the Captain. Tell him, all secure!”
Napier hurried aft, dodging braces, halliards and running figures aware of nothing but the task in hand. He saw Monteith shouting to some men clawing their way up the weather shrouds, still dwarfed against the Rock, although he knew Onward must be well clear of the anchorage.
Monteith exclaimed, “Are they damned well deaf?”
Guthrie ignored him and repeated the same order, which they heard without effort. Monteith swung away, gesturing irritably to some one else. Guthrie spared Napier a quick glance and muttered, “You’m learnin’ today!”
The ship was under way, upper deck already clearing of cordage and tackle, men still climbing aloft as more canvas was spread.
Napier waited below the quarterdeck rail as the marines of the afterguard clumped away from the mizzen braces, somehow keeping in step.
Lieutenant Vincent called to him, “Speak up!”
“I—I was told to report to—”
Two men ran between them, and another limped past, a bloody rag tied around one knee.
Then, suddenly, the captain was there, looking down at him. “I saw the signal.” They could have been alone. “It was smartly done, and in half the time.” Some one was trying to attract his attention, and the big double wheel was going over again. How many times, how many decisions, until each link in the chain of command was answering as one? “You did well, David. I am proud of you.”
Julyan the sailing master had joined him now. There was no more time.
Napier dropped lightly to the deck, and might have caught his scarred leg against a stanchion. But he felt nothing.
“Mr Squire wants you, double-quick!”
He hurried toward the forecastle again, braced for the next task. Squire was waiting.
“Muster some waisters to clear up this deck, and get all loose gear stowed and ready for rounds.” His eyes moved swiftly across the starboard bow. “We don’t want our French friends picking any holes in our coats!” He was smiling, but serious enough.
Napier hastened to a ladder and hesitated, one foot in midair as he stared aft toward the quarterdeck.
The captain was no longer in sight amongst the figures busy at halliards and braces. But his words remained very clear in Napier’s mind. With him.
9 ARTICLES OF WAR
THE CHART ROOM DOOR CLOSED, and Julyan, the master, touched his hat in apology.
“I’m a bit adrift, sir.” He peered over his shoulder. “I had to be certain of a couple of things. But they know where I am.”
Adam said, “Find a place for yourself. I’ll not keep you long.”
Three lieutenants and Guthrie the boatswain left little room beyond the table, with its array of charts and reference books.
“We should make a landfall today, later in the dog watches, if the wind stays kind to us.” He tapped the open log. “And these observations prove to be accurate.” He saw Julyan smile, and felt the tension dissipate. “I have made a rough plan of the anchorage and the approaches, from what little information we have of them.”
He saw Squire nod. He would have had plenty of hazardous moments during his surveying voyages. A lead-and-line and a lot of luck, as one old hand had described it.
Adam looked at each of them in turn. “We shall remain in company with Nautilus until she is received without unrest or opposition, as is anticipated. We will take no unnecessary risks.”
In company. But the other frigate had been scarcely in sight when the masthead lookouts had first reported her at daybreak.
A shift of wind overnight, or had her captain spread more sail deliberately? But what would be the point? If there had been an unexpected breach of the peace, it would already be too late for argument without a real show of force.
He heard the squeal of gun trucks, the occasional shouts of command as some of the forward eighteen-pounders began another painstaking drill. Maddock had already told him he had cut two minutes off the time it took his crews to clear for action. Not much, some would say, but it could be the margin between opening fire or being dismasted.
Only a few days since they had weighed at Gibraltar, and some three hundred miles. They had done well, even if they did damn his eyes every time they manhandled a gun up to its port.
Be prepared. The next ship they sighted might already be at war: an enemy. How would you know?
He had seen the telescopes trained on them from Nautilus, and not only during the gun drill. Curiosity, or perhaps they too were coming to terms with the new alliance. Something decreed by those who had never experienced the numbing horror of a broadside or the steel of an enemy at close quarters.
He knew that Vincent was staring at him, but looked away as their eyes met.
“Study the plan. You will see some fortifications on the north-east side. Not like Algiers, or some we’ve encountered.” He tapped the diagram, and recalled Jago and Morgan spreading these sketches on the table for him.
He looked at Squire. “I want the second cutter lowered when we make our final approach. You will be in charge. Crew to be armed, with rations for two days in case of trouble. And remember, James. No heroics.”
Squire nodded but made no comment.
He turned to Guthrie, who seemed unusually subdued, perhaps a little overwhelmed because he was being consulted with the others.
“Your best lookouts, and the most experienced leadsmen in the chains. Arms will be issued, but not on display. Am I making sense?”
Guthrie beamed. “I’ll watch every mother’s son, sir. Leave it to me!”
Julyan punched his massive arm. “Watch all of ’em!”
Adam waited, and then said, “Tell your people what you think fit. We might know more at first light tomorrow. Any questions?”
“The fortifications on the plan, sir?” It was Gascoigne, the lieutenant of Royal Marines, quiet and oddly unobtrusive despite his scarlet
tunic. “If there is resistance, should we expect a battery of some description?”
Adam looked past him at the old-fashioned octant hanging near the door. It belonged to Julyan, and was probably the first instrument he had ever owned or used. With men like these…He answered, almost abruptly, “The ship comes first. The Royals would be landed.”
That was all. It was enough.
Adam looked directly at Vincent. There was no more time. He was the first lieutenant. If anything should happen…“Do you wish to add anything, Mark?”
Vincent faced him. The challenge was still there. “As you said, sir. The ship comes first.”
The chart room quivered, and even the instruments on the table seemed to tremble as the guns were run up to their ports together, like a single weapon. There was a burst of cheering, immediately quelled by the voice of authority: Maddock himself.
Vincent said, “I was wondering, sir,” and glanced at the others. “What sort of man is the French captain?”
Perhaps it had been uppermost in all their thoughts.
Capitaine Luc Marchand had been present at two of the meetings Adam had attended in Gibraltar. Others had made the brief introductions, but he and Marchand had progressed no further than an exchange of polite smiles: Commodore Arthur Carrick had made certain of that, with behaviour verging on hostility.
Marchand was about Adam’s age, perhaps a year or so older, strong-featured, with a ready, disarming smile and clear greyish-blue eyes. A face that would appeal to any woman. The flag lieutenant had been more informative once the commodore was out of his way.
Adam touched the charts, and his own rough plan laid across them.
“Marchand is an experienced captain, supposedly due for promotion when the war ended. No stranger to English ships. He was serving in Swiftsure after she was taken from us, and again at Trafalgar,” he grinned, “when we recaptured her.”
Julyan nodded. “I remember Swiftsure. Third-rate. Put up quite a fight against us.” He spoke almost proudly.
Adam waited, then said, “Does that help?”
Vincent shrugged. “I doubt he’ll ever forget the past.”
The door squeaked open a few inches and a pair of eyes sought Julyan. Nothing was said, but the master seized his hat and swore under his breath. “Seems they need me on deck, sir!”
He would not leave without good reason, but Adam sensed that he was relieved to have been called away.
He said, “A good time to end our discussion. You may carry on with your duties.”
Vincent remained by the table as the others departed.
“I understand that there is a seaman listed for punishment? I read your report before this meeting. Asleep on watch and insubordinate. Tell me about it.”
Overhead, the gun trucks began to move again. Closer this time: Maddock was about to exercise his next division.
Vincent said, “His name is Dimmock. Foretop, long service—over twenty years. Never had any trouble with him before.” He paused as though surprised by his own words, as if they were some excuse or admission. “We were hard-pressed for trained, experienced hands when we were commissioning. Landsmen and young boys were the first to come forward.” He added with something like defiance, “I trusted him.”
Adam listened to the drill, the creak of tackle, an ironic cheer as something miscarried. Like another world.
“Dimmock.” He spoke the name, but no face came to his mind. “He was never rated for promotion.” It meant nothing; there were many like him in the King’s service. The old hands, content or resigned, and the hard men who steered their own course, if they were offered the chance.
Vincent said suddenly, “A stand-over could be ordered, sir.”
Adam recalled Thomas Herrick, his uncle’s oldest and most loyal friend; could hear his words. Discipline is a duty, not a convenience.
“It happened during your watch and you feel responsible, as he was a man you trusted. But it could have been at any time, with some one else left to take action.” Vincent seemed about to protest. “He had been drinking beforehand, I gather.”
“He was not drunk, sir.”
It was common enough through the fleet. The only crime was being caught. And Vincent was an experienced officer; he did not need to be told. The old Jacks could even joke about getting a checked shirt at the gangway. Few ever remembered the reason. But afterwards, the blame always lay with the captain.
He raised his eyes from the charts. “You gain nothing by delaying it. Tomorrow forenoon, all hands to witness punishment. Inform the surgeon, will you?”
“Right away, sir.” He half turned as if to listen. “The gun drill has stopped. I hope it’s achieving results!”
Adam watched him leave and heard him call a greeting to some one as he passed, as if uninvolved. Like those first days. Still a stranger.
Several hours later, at the end of the first dog watch, as predicted, the masthead lookout sighted land. On deck every telescope was trained across water like blue glass, ruffled occasionally by an uncertain wind. The French Nautilus seemed to hold the last of the sun on her topsails and rigging, her hull almost hidden in shadow.
A fine landfall. Even Julyan could not hide his satisfaction. But as he watched the captain walk to the quarterdeck rail and press both hands against it, he wondered what he was thinking. Planning for some future command with no admiral breathing down his neck to torment?
Meredith, one of his master’s mates, was calling to him and he turned to give his full attention. But not before he made a careful observation. The quarterdeck was busy with hands on watch, and others waiting to man the braces and change tack. And in the midst of it at the quarterdeck rail, their captain, who wanted for nothing, was completely alone.
Midshipman John Deacon laid his dirk and folded crossbelt on top of his chest and relocked it. He glanced at the others.
“A formality, so do it.”
David Napier thought about it. It was every midshipman’s dream and nightmare, even if he managed to conceal it. That first real step, the King’s commission…But the examination before a selected Board came first. Deacon already spoke like a lieutenant, without even knowing it.
He saw the messman murmuring instructions in the ear of his young assistant, a boy. As I was. Gesturing to the canvas that concealed cleaning gear and the bucket, in case their youngest midshipman might need it. Walker had been luckier of late, but wind and sea had been more considerate.
He sat down at the mess table opposite Simon Huxley. “What are you studying at this early hour?”
Huxley frowned at him, then seemed less defensive. “I made some notes about this place we’ve been plotting on the chart through every watch, thanks to our Mr Julyan.” He smiled, and it made him a different person. “Aboubakr seems to have changed hands many times in the last fifty years alone. Slavers, missionaries, pirates and invaders under a whole fistful of flags. So who’s next, I wonder?”
Napier remembered the first hint of land, then the darker outline, hills and deeper shadows linking where there had been only the edge of the sea. “I heard them say it’s a good anchorage. That’s what gave it value. Prosperity, too.”
Huxley murmured, “For some, anyway.”
Deacon had joined them. “We shall show ourselves and pay our respects.” He slapped his palm on the table. “Then back to Gibraltar for new orders.” Then he turned and said unexpectedly, “Captain Bolitho sponsored you, David. When the day comes for you to face up to the Inquisition, his name and reputation should carry some weight.” Napier considered it, surprised by this revelation. “That was wrong of me. But every day now I ask myself…if I shall be…ready.”
Another shadow moved across the table: Charles Hotham, usually a bright spirit in the gunroom, and popular on deck with most of the hands despite glaring mistakes during gun drill and work aloft. Guthrie the boatswain had been heard to forcefully comment, “Better for all of us if you’d followed the Church instead of Neptune, Mister ’Otham, sir!�
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He said in an undertone, “How long now?”
Napier patted his arm. What they were all thinking. Avoiding it.
“I was the one who found him, you see? I wanted to settle it somehow, but he…”
“All hands, clear lower deck! Hands lay aft to witness punishment!”
Huxley said kindly, “You did your best.”
Deacon was already at the door, clearly recovered from his moment of self-doubt.
“Lively, now! It’s not the end of the world!”
The upper deck was already crowded. It was rare to see both watches and all the special dutymen gathered at once. Some stood together, messmates, or because they shared a hazardous perch aloft strung out along the yards, making or shortening sail when a firm grip and a timely shout could save a limb or a life. Some of the forenoon watch were in the shrouds or ratlines, framed against the sea or sky as if trapped in a giant web. Others were grouped between the eighteen-pounders, those stripped to the waist showing scarred, tanned or sunburned skin commensurate with their service.
The Royal Marines were lined across the quarterdeck, in full uniform, facing forward, swaying in unison as Onward ploughed unhurriedly through reflected glare and infrequent bursts of spray.
Vincent, the first lieutenant, stood on the larboard side of the quarterdeck by the gangway, one hand shading his eyes as he received reports from each division and section. It was still early, but like the marines he wore full uniform, and was beginning to sweat in the heat.
Despite all those present it seemed unusually quiet, only the sounds of cordage and canvas, the creak of timber or spar, breaking the stillness.
The midshipmen were crowded together by one of the quarterdeck carronades, opposite the gangway where a grating had been rigged upright. Close by, but separated by years and experience, the warrant officers had already assembled. The backbone in every man-of-war: no ship would sail, fight or even survive without them. Tobias Julyan, as sailing master, had grown to know them in the long months since Onward’s commissioning. In their faces now he saw resignation, even impatience, as might be expected from men who had seen almost every aspect of a sailor’s life.
Heart of Oak Page 13
