Heart of Oak

by Alexander Kent

  Adam saw it in his mind.

  Jago added, “No land in sight,” and watched Adam take the sword, and hold it to the light. That old blade could spin a few yarns.

  “We should sight land again in an hour or so. We shall change tack if the wind holds steady.”

  Jago sighed. Always planning, always worrying.

  He thought of the painting, and the girl who had posed for it. The ship had a strong rival. He hesitated, and then asked, “Suppose Nautilus don’t come out lookin’ for a fight?” He saw him turn abruptly. Maybe he had gone too far this time.

  Adam laid the sword on the table. “Then we’ll go in looking for her!” Then he smiled. “But she will!”

  They both looked up as some one ran heavily across the deck.

  “Midshipman o’ the watch, sir!”

  It was Napier, a seaman close on his heels and panting noisily. “Masthead reports sail to the nor’ east, sir.” He almost dragged his companion in through the door. “Mr Squire’s respects, sir, and he said you would wish to speak to the lookout.”

  Adam nodded. “Nesbitt, isn’t it? A Devon man, if I remember rightly.”

  The seaman grinned and ducked his head with pleasure. “Aye, zur, Brixham!” It gave him time to recover his breath.

  “Tell me what you saw.”

  “Frigate, zur. No doubt about it.” He gestured. “I ’ad a glass, zur.”

  More voices, then Vincent appeared at the screen. “I’ve just been told, sir!”

  “Nesbitt here has good eyes.” Then to Napier, the formality abandoned, “Take care of yourself, David.”

  Then he turned and stared astern for a moment. “I’ll come up directly.” Vincent waited by the door until he had turned back, and their eyes met. “You may beat to quarters.”

  Jago watched his face once they were alone again. It was as he had expected, but, as always, it came as a shock.

  He looked at the coat, hoping he might yet change his mind. They wants to see you alive, Cap’n! But knowing that he would not, he lifted it down. At that moment, the drums began to rattle.

  17 IN THE KING’S NAME

  “SHIP CLEARED FOR ACTION, sir!” Vincent touched his hat. “Both cutters towing astern.”

  Adam walked forward to the quarterdeck rail and stared along the ship, seeing it as he had already pictured it in his mind from the moment he had abandoned all pretense of sleep. Onward’s state of readiness recalled the regular drills, which he and the gunner had timed to the minute. And yet so different. Each eighteen-pounder with its full crew, their tools, rammers and sponges and handspikes, and slow-matches within reach if a flintlock misfired. He could feel the grit under his shoes and knew that the decks had been sanded, to prevent men from slipping if water was shipped once the ports were opened. Or in blood, if the worst happened.

  He saw the burly shape of the boatswain leaning back as he checked the hastily rigged boarding nets. He had already heard him once before during their recent preparations. “Slacken ’em off, lads! They’m supposed to catch the buggers in a net, not be used as a ladder to make ’em welcome aboard!” There had been some laughs. Not this time.

  Vincent said, “I’ve sent Tucker to the foremast, sir. Ready and eager.” He gestured toward the two midshipmen waiting by the flag locker. “I thought Deacon might be more useful aloft with the signals telescope.”

  Adam lifted his own glass and trained it across the starboard bow. Slow and steady. As if he had stopped breathing. Blurred faces, taut rigging, sharp and black in the strengthening glare. The curved edge of the forecourse. He watched the other ship move across the lens, then stand motionless, as if trapped.

  On a converging tack, leaning slightly to beat to windward. He lowered the glass and allowed his eye to recover. The rest would be guesswork. The pyramid of sails was reduced to a miniature, like the fin of a giant fish cutting the horizon. Beyond, there seemed to be haze or mist. But he knew it was the land, reaching out like a great arm. Or a trap.

  He recalled what Vincent had said.

  “Good thinking, Mark. Tell Deacon to go now.”

  He saw a messenger run to the flag locker. When Onward had first arrived at Gibraltar, Deacon had been the only one to realize that the flagship had been flying a commodore’s broad pendant, not an admiral’s flag as listed. They had all made what was a common mistake among sailors, so long staring out to sea that they only saw what they expected to see.

  He saw the midshipman striding forward, the telescope slung over his shoulder like a small cannon, and Lieutenant Monteith by one of the eighteen-pounders, watching him. Perhaps remembering when he had been like Deacon, hanging on the threshold of promotion. And little Walker taking over the signals party. Thirteen years old today. He was not likely to forget it.

  Adam moved to the compass box. The chief quartermaster was on the wheel, backed up by two helmsmen. He glanced at the compass, then up at the masthead pendant, and felt the sun on his face.

  “Nor’ east by north, sir. Steady as she goes!”

  Adam smiled. “Thank you, Carter. So be it!”

  A squad of Royal Marines was standing with their sergeant, ready to add their strength to the braces when needed. But their muskets were piled nearby. Like a warning.

  He returned to the rail, unhurriedly, despite the instinct crying out to be in all places at once. Nobody looked at him directly, but he knew they were watching when he passed. Men waiting to go aloft, and claw out along the yards, to dangle over the sea or fall to certain death on the deck if they missed their footing.

  The gun crews, along either side as before. But restless now. Or was he imagining that?

  He wanted to lift his telescope again, but knew it was too soon. He had seen some of the men at the guns turn to stare aft.

  They will want to see you.

  But not if he was showing himself to be a fool.

  His coat felt heavy across his shoulders, and his shirt was clinging damply to his skin. Such a short while ago, below in the great cabin, when he had seen Jago’s expression. His doubts. Together, they had experienced and shared so much. Like the prayer book Jago had fetched from the cabin when they had buried the three sailors. They had both been remembering that other time, in Athena, when they had committed Catherine’s body to the sea. Her roses would still be blooming in their garden beside the old grey house. He touched the lapel of his coat reminiscently.

  “Deck there!”

  It was Tucker. Cupping his strong hands, his voice clear and steady. “She wears French colours!”

  Adam stared over the gun crews and across the glistening water until his eyes were blinded. Men were shouting with relief or derision, probably both.

  Vincent had said something, but Adam heard only one voice. Through the brutal memories of death and its aftermath: Marchand, as they had parted. When next we meet, there will be no flags. It will be as friends!

  He would be the last to forget.

  “Pass the word. All guns load, but do not run out.”

  Vincent licked his lips. “Do we fight, sir?”

  Adam looked over at Jago, and nodded.

  “And we shall win!”

  Napier was careful to stand clear as the foremast gun on the starboard side was hauled inboard away from its port. Onward was leaning slightly downwind, so that the gun crews had to use all their strength to haul their massive weapons into position. Fourteen guns on either beam; at least it would be easier when the order came to run out. Napier had taken part in nearly all the drills. A few accidents or mishaps, and curses in plenty. He could feel the tightness in his stomach, something he had taught himself to overcome. But this was not a drill. Almost like Audacity that day, when the drums had called them to their quarters for action, and the ship’s last fight.

  He touched the dirk hanging against his hip. When Audacity had gone down and he had started to swim for the shore, this fine new dirk had still been on his belt. One of the marines who had helped carry him from the beach had told him that i
ts extra weight could have cost him his life. He had not understood what it meant to him. Then…he touched it again…and today.

  He heard Lieutenant Squire calling to one of the gun captains, making him grin as he took a ball from the shot garland, and seemed to fondle it in both hands. Most gun captains were like that. The first broadside would be double-shotted, while there was still time to think. To react. The charge was already loaded, with two sharp taps to bed it in place and wad to hold it steady. Then the balls, and a final wad rammed home.

  Along each side the gun captains faced aft, fists raised. Only a minute or so between them.

  “All guns loaded, sir!”

  Napier exhaled slowly. The other guns, nine-pounders and the squat carronades, the “smashers,” were close to follow. There was a lull, and he heard a seaman at the nearest gun say, “It’s real this time, Dick!”

  The loader turned to look at him.

  “Cap’n don’t want us caught with our britches down, see?”

  Napier saw Midshipman Huxley hurrying along the gangway, ducking to avoid the nets, doubtless taking a message from the quarterdeck. Across the long rank of eighteen-pounders, they saw one another and waved.

  He heard Squire say, “Walk, don’t run. We’re still afloat!” But he was speaking to himself. Like some of the others nearby he was watching the boatswain and his men by the empty boat-tier, preparing to hoist out the two remaining craft, gig and jolly-boat, to join the cutters already towing astern. A wise and necessary precaution: more casualties were caused by flying splinters than iron shot. They would be cast adrift if action was joined, and recovered afterwards. It sounded simple enough, but the landsmen and less experienced hands might view the procedure with alarm.

  Without realizing it, he had reached down to feel his leg, and the ugly scar.

  You were lucky.

  He recalled Murray the surgeon’s comment. “He did a good job on that, whoever he was!”

  But suppose some one was seeing the scar for the first time? He thought of the letter which had never begun. He was stupid even to think of it…

  There was a metallic clatter and he saw a young seaman stumble amongst a length of chain. They had been rigging slings to some of the upper yards, a protection should one or more of them fall to the deck. There was a dark stain across the sanded planking, where water had been tipped from the boats. He must have slipped in it.

  “You clumsy, useless scum!” It was Fowler, the boatswain’s mate, almost spitting with anger as he lashed out with his starter and cracked it across the man’s shoulders. “Listen to me, damn you!”

  Another crack; there was blood this time.

  But the young seaman seemed unable to get to his feet, or even shield himself from the blows. He was clutching at his foot or his ankle, badly twisted when he had fallen.

  The starter was raised again. Napier pushed past some of the working party and tried to stop it, saw the crouching figure cringe as it slashed toward him.

  Napier gasped, and cried out as the deflected blow caught his outthrust arm.

  Fowler lost his balance and almost fell, his face torn between fury and surprise. He started to speak, perhaps to defend his actions. Napier could never afterwards remember.

  Squire sounded very calm. Unemotional, as if they had never met before, and oblivious to the watching seamen. The deck might have been deserted. “I have warned you about your behaviour, Fowler, and your readiness to administer punishment, above and beyond the line of duty!”

  Fowler was glaring at him, his breathing regular again, recovering. He even managed a sarcastic grin. “Speakin’ up, are you, sir? Showin’ a bit of authority at last? I was just doin’ my rightful job with this clumsy waister!”

  Squire smiled coldly. “We will all have to do our duty very shortly, I think.” He reached out and grasped Napier’s sleeve. “However, you just struck an officer, Fowler. Do you deny that?”

  Fowler stared from one to the other. “Not true! Weren’t like that! It weren’t meant—” He broke off as some one shouted, “I saw it, sir! Call me if you need a witness!”

  There was something like a growl from the gun crews and the men waiting by the two boats.

  Napier could feel it as if it were something physical. It was hate.

  Squire said, “Report to the master-at-arms, Fowler. You are no stranger to threats, I think you’ll agree. If you are disrated because of this, I feel sure you will hear more of them when you join the messdeck!”

  Fowler exclaimed, “If I was to tell ’em…” and stared around, the fight suddenly gone out of him.

  A Royal Marine, who had been posted by one of the hatchways when the ship had been cleared for action, stepped smartly forward and rapped Fowler on the shoulder.

  The surgeon had also appeared, and after a brief examination of the injured man, announced calmly, “Broken ankle.” He patted his arm. “You’ll be taken to the orlop. Best place, if you ask me!” He nodded to Squire. “No peace for the wicked, I’m afraid.”

  Napier walked back to the first gun, feeling the stinging pain in his arm. It would be badly bruised tomorrow…Far worse for the injured seaman he had been trying to protect.

  He turned quickly, but was too late to see who had touched his back, firmly and deliberately.

  The gun captain was talking quietly with two of his crew, and another was loosening the breeching rope. Nothing left to chance.

  He could still feel it, stronger and more eloquent than any spoken word of thanks. No one met his eye.

  He saw Midshipman Deacon making his way aft, tar stains on his white breeches, about to report to the captain. Later the entire episode would find its place in his diary, if he lived.

  He heard tackles taking the strain as the gig was hoisted in readiness for lowering. The seamen at the tackles were waiting for Jago, the captain’s coxswain, to give the order, and he was standing by the gig, one hand on the gunwale. But he was looking up, through the rigging, watching the flags as they ran up the halliard and broke to the wind.

  Enemy in Sight!

  The pretense was over.

  Adam felt the sun, a sudden hot bar across his shoulder, as the ship leaned more steeply from the wind. Only the shadows and the sea alongside were moving, and even the sounds of rope and canvas seemed subdued.

  At the guns, the crews waited in silence like groups of statuary, with only an occasional movement as some one hurried with a message or climbed on the gangway to look for Nautilus.

  She was almost directly ahead now, and had displayed her full broadside when she had changed tack, sails in confusion as she had clawed into the wind. If any doubts had remained, they had gone from that moment. Adam saw Midshipman Deacon standing by his flag locker, with little Walker beside him. He could still see his expression when he had come aft to report on the other frigate’s course and bearing. He had described the moment when the French flag had been lowered. Cut down. The young face and voice so deeply serious as he had motioned with his hand.

  “It fell, sir. Like a dying bird.”

  Vincent had said, “They’re trying to beat to wind’rd, and take the advantage.”

  Adam moved slightly and saw a sliver of blue water open and widen through the shivering rigging. Almost bows-on again, sails filled and braced on her new tack, her shadow reaching over and ahead of the hull.

  What kind of men were these? Rebels, renegades, maybe deserters from the old enemies, even from their own fleet. It was not unknown for men who had broken the yoke of one life of discipline and danger, only to find it was the only thing they knew and understood.

  He looked away from the other ship. What will he do? What would I do?

  He walked to the rail again and could feel the group around the wheel staring at his back.

  They are all in my hands.

  Nautilus would try and hold the wind-gage and remain on the same tack. Once abeam, she would open fire and attempt to dismast and cripple Onward, regardless of the range when they passed. He
realized that he had punched one hand into the other. Then reload while she crosses our stern with another full broadside. The death of any ship which was cleared for action, decks open from bow to stern when the iron thundered through.

  He said, “Cast off the breechings and open the ports.” He turned to look directly at Vincent. “Larboard side only!”

  He saw him nod, and perhaps smile. “Warn the starboard crews to stand by.”

  He saw Julyan turn aside from the quartermaster as if to confirm his own thoughts about a trick which could so easily turn into disaster. He had been looking up at the masthead pendant, feeling the wind like a true sailor.

  Adam did not. Instead he looked along the deck, the gun captains signalling that they were prepared. Breeching ropes cast off, the ports along one side open, the sea sliding briskly beneath them.

  But if the wind drops?

  He took the telescope and realized that Jago had joined him, grim-faced, watching the distant frigate. As for most fighting sailors, waiting was the worst part. Or so they told themselves.

  But he said, “Ready to cast off the boats, Cap’n. Just give the word.”

  Adam opened the telescope. Another hour? Less, if the wind holds steady.

  “Do it now, Luke. I’ll lay odds that every available glass is trained on us at this very moment.” He looked at Vincent. “Run out!”

  He could see it in his mind. All along one side, the black muzzles were poking into the sunlight. Like one of the drills, with extra hands from the starboard side to add their muscle and run the guns up the sloping deck.

  Vincent said, “With permission, sir?” He did not finish it, but touched his hat formally before walking to the gangway.

  Squire was already making his way aft to take his place. Opposite ends of the ship…Like hearing a voice from the past. Don’t display all your eggs in the same basket.

  He saw Lieutenant Gascoigne, his face almost as scarlet as his tunic, moving slowly along the front rank of his Royal Marines, eyes noting every detail, making a comment from time to time. As if they were mounting guard in the barracks ashore.