He was reminded suddenly of Captain Sir John Grenville, when he had last seen him leaving this cabin. Yours to command. Grenville had understood the mysteries of policy and diplomacy, and it had cost him the only life he had ever truly wanted.
He heard the clink of metal and saw a Royal Marine corporal straightening his coat, probably concealing a mug of something brought for the sentry. He had been caught out by the captain’s unexpected appearance.
“Good morning, Corporal Jenkins.”
He heard him call something in response, and his heels clicking together.
They didn’t question the rights or wrongs of being here. Their lives were the ship, and one another. It was a pity many in high authority did not remember that.
He saw the dark outline of the companion hatch, a sliver of cloud like drifting smoke, and felt the wind across his cheek as he stepped over the coaming. The tiredness was gone. This was always the same: exciting, challenging. When he had been a midshipman he had heard Sir Richard saying to some one else, “If the first moment of the day fails to stir you, you are no longer fit to command.”
The figures of the men on watch taking shape around and beyond him. The towering shadows of the mizzen sails reaching across that same streaming cloud, the yards braced hard around to hold an elusive breeze, flapping occasionally but filling again enough to rouse rigging and sailors alike.
Vincent was by the compass box, his shirt hanging loose and unfastened in the warm air. The helmsman was still indistinct in the predawn gloom, but his eyes came alive in the tiny light when he peered down at the swaying compass card.
A second helmsman straightening his back when he saw that, once again, the captain was an early riser.
Hotham was back at his post by the little hooded bench where his slate and the night log book were hidden.
Adam peered at the compass. West by north. Unmoving.
He said, “It’ll be light enough, soon.”
Vincent was ready. “I’ve detailed two good lookouts.” He glanced directly overhead. “I’ll go up myself, sir.” It sounded like a question.
“Do that, Mark. We might have lost him.”
It was hard to fix the time when they had realized that Onward was being followed. Probably soon after they had quit the anchorage at Aboubakr. Another schooner, but with extra topsails, which the lookout had noticed. Like Nautilus on their outward passage, holding the distance if Onward showed any sign of changing tack toward her.
There had been a few small craft sighted, but the schooner was always lagging far astern when the watches changed.
In these waters it was common enough for a vessel’s master to keep in company with a man-of-war, more so now that the great fleets were at peace and there was little fear of being stopped and searched. Or worse.
He watched as Vincent leaned across the quarterdeck rail to call to some seamen beneath him. He thinks I’m too cautious. Afraid it might happen again. Maybe he was right.
He walked down to the lee side. Marchand had known the master of the schooner which had exploded like an inferno, the uniformed figure Adam had seen, tied and helpless, likely already dead.
Marchand had explained in his careful English, “He had his own men aboard, not only people from Aboubakr. But his young son would also have sailed with him. They would have forced him to watch what they could do to that boy. But you cannot bargain with the devil!” He had shrugged. “Or with fate.”
Adam walked aft again and stared at the flapping topsail, barely holding the breeze. He saw Vincent climbing on to the mizzen top, his pale shirt marking his progress. And a seaman twisting round to stare at him, even as he was sliding down a backstay toward the deck. Some one close by muttered, “There ’e goes! Thinks ’e’s a young nipper!”
There was smoke in the air; the galley fire was already drawing, the cook or one of his mates preparing the first meal of the day.
He reached out and stretched every muscle. The ship coming alive. No wonder his uncle had cherished this moment.
Vincent was still climbing, hidden now by canvas and rigging. A good and caring officer, and popular also, or as popular as any first lieutenant could hope to be. But the barrier was still there between them. They were no closer than on that first day, no matter what they both might pretend.
A handshake was not enough.
Midshipman David Napier paused in the shadow of the boat-tier, looking forward along the deck. It was only an hour or so since all hands had been piped to lash up and stow hammocks and the washing down of decks had been completed. Now the hammocks, lashed and neatly paraded in the nettings, looked as if they had never moved, or Onward’s more than two hundred sailors and marines had not slept through the night watches undisturbed. They seemed able to ignore every motion or sound, until the shrill of a call brought them up and running.
The decks were already dry, even hot under the bare feet of seamen mustered into working parties and the others on watch.
He glanced around furtively and stepped on to a bollard, running his hand down his leg. The wound was sore, like the aftermath of a burn. But no real pain. He had been gritting his teeth, preparing himself.
He straightened up, and saw that a seaman had noticed. He grinned conspiratorially and stooped over a length of splicing. Napier shaded his eyes and stared outboard at the endless stretch of blue water. Like a great mirror. There was even a little awning rigged now above the wheel to shade the two barebacked helmsmen as they peered at the compass and watched the set of the sails.
And tomorrow they would anchor off Gibraltar. He had helped to plot the final course on the chart himself. Old Julyan, the master, had frowned sternly to conceal his approval.
“I can see that I shall have to watch out, Mister Napier!”
“So here you are! I sent word…” It was Lieutenant Monteith, some papers rolled in one hand. He was faultlessly turned out, untroubled, it seemed, by the heat and sluggish breeze, or the fact that he had only come off watch himself four hours ago. “I have been asked to arrange something. It has to be done before we reach Gibraltar. I am not convinced—” He looked away, as if he had gone too far. “I must go below, to the forrard messdeck.” Then, “I saw you examining your leg.” It sounded like an accusation.
“It’s strong again now, sir.”
“Good. We can’t afford…” Again, it was left unfinished.
Monteith led the way, walking briskly and without hesitation. Men stood aside or stopped what they were doing as he passed. Some of the looks spoke more loudly than words, Napier thought.
Below deck the ship seemed more spacious, the messdecks opening out, scrubbed tables arranged at regular intervals. Benches and lockers marking each individual mess where Onward’s company ate, slept and lived out their free time below. Away from discipline, except that which they dictated themselves. And sustained by a tolerance and brutal humour no landsman would ever understand.
At one end of the deck was a small working party, with a new timber-framed screen. Falcon, the carpenter, was overseeing their progress, jabbing a finger from time to time at the men stitching a canvas partition.
Monteith ducked beneath a deckhead beam and unfolded his papers. Napier had noticed on other occasions that he never removed his hat. Remember, it’s their home. Show respect when you walk into it. He had never forgotten that, and he had seen Falcon’s expression. Like the seamen on deck, no words were necessary.
Monteith said, “Harris, the man who was killed. He was one of your crew?”
Falcon eyed him warily. “Not directly. ’E was a cooper, see?”
“No matter. He answered to you.” He waved the papers as if it were insignificant. “We anchor tomorrow and time will be limited. When a man dies aboard ship it is customary to auction his personal effects to his messmates.” He faltered, as if it were completely foreign to him. “I am informed that, in view of the circumstances, the wardroom and warrant ranks will make a contribution.”
Falcon flicked some woo
d shavings from his sleeve. “I scarce knew the man, sir. ’E was aboard when the ship commissioned, and worked ashore in the yard when she was buildin’.” He rubbed his chin. “But if it’s an order…”
Another voice. “Ned Harris was ashore most of the time, sir. Only just got married. I reckon she can do with all the help she can get.”
Napier could feel it. A man they had hardly known, but one of their own. Not killed by accident, or in action. Murdered.
Falcon called, “’Ere, Lloyd! You worked with ’im a few times—what d’ you think?”
Napier saw him look up from the deck where he was kneeling. The sailmaker who had been a tailor ashore, and a good one according to the captain’s servant. He had turned his hand to making clothes for people in this ship, if they could afford him. He and Morgan got along well, they said. Fellow Welshman…
“Never had a lot to say, but he was always short of money, getting his wife settled before he was off to sea.” He seemed to notice Napier for the first time. “Anyway, if the officers are putting their hands into their pockets…” Laughter drowned the rest.
Falcon held up his fist. “Show a bit of respect, lads!” But he seemed relieved. “Leave it to me, sir.”
Monteith rocked back on his heels. “The captain will arrange for the proceeds to be put aboard a courier.” He cleared his throat. “With a suitable message.”
“I think you’re wanted on deck, sir!”
Monteith turned and said over his shoulder, “Send word if you need advice.”
A voice muttered, “Pity we ain’t collectin’ for ’im!”
Falcon glared. “It’s not stand-easy yet, lads, so back to work with you!” But he winked. Monteith was out of sight.
Jeff Lloyd sat on his haunches and waited for the midshipman to pass. “Your new breeks’ll be just about ready in a couple of days. We can try them for fitting—you just say the word, eh?”
Napier smiled with pleasure. “That was quick! Thank you for…”
Falcon bared his teeth. “You’d better jump about, Mr Napier. I think ’is lordship is callin’ for you!”
Jeff Lloyd leaned forward and pressed the canvas very slowly into a tight fold, using all his strength, a simple enough task which he could do with one hand. The laughter and the comments that followed the lieutenant’s departure meant nothing. Like getting over a nightmare, trapped and fighting in his hammock. Unable to escape.
The voices had returned to normal, Falcon making a suggestion to one of his crew. Somebody whistling softly as he used his chisel to put a finish on the new screen.
He thought of Napier, bending to thank him for finishing the breeches. A lie. He had scarcely chalked out the seams. But it had bought him time. Just long enough. He felt his breathing steady again. Or was that all in his mind, too? He should have been ready, anticipated it. But he hadn’t, and after all this time just the mention of that name had made him jump, as if it had been shouted into his face.
He found himself staring aft, past the empty tables and scrubbed benches. A solitary figure in one of the messes was writing very slowly on a piece of paper, tongue poking from one corner of his mouth. Dodging work to try and write a letter, so that it could be taken ashore at Gib. The lifeline.
Beyond the huge trunk of the mainmast, and down another hatchway. Narrow walkways and storerooms, like the one where they had found his corpse. The waiting had been the worst bit. He had thought they might never find him, maybe believe he was still ashore. Skipped his ship to stay with his new wife. Poor woman, she was better off without him. He had even thought Ned Harris might still prove him wrong; he might suddenly appear. Laughing…Like that last time when he had turned his back, the final threat still on his lips.
Slowly, calmly, Jeff Lloyd reached out and gripped his long scissors.
Afterwards, he had heard that they were searching for a knife. Harris’s own blade was still on his belt.
The worst was over. There might always be reminders. Like now, today. Harris’s miserable belongings. He felt his blood pounding again. He threatened me. Unless I paid him, he would swear himself in as a witness. To murder. When he had laughed, for the last time.
Boots thudded past, some Royal Marines on their way to their own messdeck, their “barracks,” carrying pieces of equipment, freshly pipe-clayed in readiness for some ceremonial drill at the Rock. A good enough crowd, but in their own special world. Apart. Two of them spoke his name. Glad to be down in the cool shadows.
“I’ve been thinkin’, Jeff.”
He looked up. It was Falcon, staring after the scarlet tunics.
Lloyd wanted to lick his lips. Bone dry. As if he already knew.
“Most of the lads seem to know you, by sight if nuthin’ else. Might seem more proper if you go round the messes?” He had his head on one side, unused to asking favours. “Tell ’em about th’ sale of ’is gear. Sound better comin’ from you.”
Lloyd stood up slowly. “Glad to, Mr Falcon.”
The carpenter touched his arm, smiling. “Good lad. See me for a wet at stand-easy!”
Lloyd folded his tools with great care. Buying himself more time. He had been wrong. Ned Harris was still laughing.
Lieutenant Mark Vincent tried to stifle a yawn, and signalled with his free hand to warn the cabin sentry of his arrival. But he was not quick enough.
“First lieutenant, sir!”
Vincent said, “There was no need, at this hour.”
In the small, swinging circle of light from the lobby lantern, the Royal Marine might have grinned. Almost. “Cap’n’s still up an’ about, sir.”
How could that be? He had just taken over the morning watch when Bolitho had come on deck. That was yesterday. Did he never sleep?
The screen door opened slightly. It was Jago, Bolitho’s coxswain.
“I came as soon as I could.”
Jago’s eyes shone only briefly in the same swinging light. The unfastened coat and dishevelled turn-out would not pass unnoticed. It should not matter. But it did.
It was after midnight, and apart from the watchkeepers every sane man was tucked in his hammock and asleep. It had been a long day. And tomorrow…He tried to shut it out of his mind.
There was plenty of light in the great cabin, so that the stern windows looked like black mirrors, throwing back the captain’s reflection sharply. He was standing by the table, his log book unopened, the pad which usually lay on the small desk beside it, marked at intervals with unused quills. Charts also, including the one they had used at the last conference before Aboubakr.
“All quiet on deck, Mark?” Almost in the same breath. “Sorry to drag you down aft.” He moved toward the quarter and stared into the darkness. “I’ve been thinking about our shadow. She was still holding station astern at nightfall. And she will be there at first light.”
Vincent waited in silence, unsure where this was leading.
“Whoever planned to disable Nautilus must already have estimated her time of arrival.” He spread his hands. “And known that she was coming to Aboubakr. Such intelligence could only have originated in Gibraltar. But there was no time or opportunity to inform any one that we would be in company with her.”
Vincent heard sounds in the pantry. Morgan was standing by his captain, despite the lateness of the hour.
He said, “Rebellion, sir?”
“Whoever holds that fortress and commands the only good anchorage until Algiers, might determine the future of a nation.” He stretched his arms. “Given the right allies.”
“The French?”
“Perhaps. When they’re ready.” He gestured. “Take a seat, Mark. We can have a mug of something in a moment.” He moved to his old chair and ran a hand along the worn leather. “But for us Nautilus would be a wreck, and her people dead. What, I wonder, would have been the next move?”
He paused and looked at the deckhead, listening. “She’s sailing well. Running like a good mare with the scent of home.” He smiled. “You’ve done her proud,
Mark. I shall not forget.”
Vincent watched him, feeling the energy and the frustration driving him. He was by the quarter gallery now, his hand against the glass as if to hold the darkness beyond.
“Landfall today, Mark. If only…”
Vincent could guess what he was thinking. Of the girl who could be sharing it with him.
Adam turned away from the windows. “They’re waiting for our return, at Gibraltar. As ordered. You can think me crazy, but I was of half a mind to come about and run down on that damned schooner, chase her inshore and cut her out, to hell with the risk!” He laughed shortly. “Maybe the wind waited until now, when it’s too late, even for a touch of madness!”
“But for you, we would be taking bad news to the flagship.”
“Us, Mark. It was a great deal to ask of a new company.” He glanced at the littered table. “I heard that they responded well to the sale of Harris’s effects. It’s little enough, but most of them gave what they could. I only wish…”
Vincent waited, at last knowing why he was here, surprised that he had not understood. All the days and the long nights, the doubts and the first hint of danger. And fear. The Captain had been carrying it, sharing it with no one.
“I flogged a man because he fell asleep on watch, because he was insolent, and maybe had been drinking beforehand.” His hand moved. “I could call now for cognac and drink my fill, because I command here. And yet a murderer walks free amongst us, to blacken the name of the ship. I am not proud of it, Mark.”
“We did all we could, sir. Otherwise—” Something fell on the deck overhead and somebody laughed. He must have been standing close to the cabin skylight; another voice was hissing a warning. Then there was silence again.
Adam said, “Thank God they can still laugh.” He tugged out his watch and held it close to one of the lanterns. “I’ve kept you listening to my woes far too long. We’ve a long day tomorrow. Today.”
Vincent walked to the screen door, oddly unwilling to leave. He looked through the great cabin, remembering the envy and resentment he had felt; knowing this was a moment of special significance, and only later would he understand why.
Heart of Oak Page 18
