“I need you in the chart space, James.” His tanned face relaxed into a smile. “Or should I say … Jamie?”
Later, Squire was still remembering it with a mixture of embarrassment and pride. No wonder men would follow their captain to the gates of hell. So would I.
Luke Jago leaned against the bulwark, chatting idly to the gunner’s mate crouched beside one of the Delfim’s stocky twelve-pounders. She mounted eight of them, all carronades, four on either side. In these waters every vessel needed some kind of protection if the worst happened, and it was certainly possible. Jago was past being surprised by anything.
Christie glanced up at him quizzically. “Load ‘em with canister, the cap’n says. Close action, d’ you reckon?”
Jago swore and slapped an insect crawling across his bare arm. “Catch bloody fever more like, Ted!”
Christie looked toward one of the main hatch covers. “I went below with Mr. Squire. She’s bigger than she looks. Mixed cargo, passengers mebbee-or slaves.” He lowered his voice. “What d’ you think, Luke?”
Jago watched the schooner’s master, Pecco, being taken forward under arms. “I’d trust a rat from the bilges more ‘n that scumbag.” He touched the hilt of his heavy cutlass. “One sign o’ treachery, an’ ‘e gets it first! Then the sharks can ‘ave ‘im!”
Christie grinned. “Glad you’re on our side!” Then he murmured, “Heads up!”
It was Lieutenant Sinclair, who, with twenty of Onward‘s Royal Marines, had been ferried aboard at nightfall. He looked like a stranger in a grubby shirt, without his scarlet coat and smart crossbelt. But somehow he was still a Royal Marine. He seemed preoccupied in making sure that his men were as comfortable as they could be below deck, and they obviously respected him. Jago shook his head. As an officer.
Sinclair glanced at the nearest twelve-pounder and said casually, “If we get that close, I’ll be relying on our bayonets!” He sounded almost unconcerned.
Not much of a choice, matey, Jago thought sourly.
Sinclair was saying, “We’ll be tipping some of the cargo over the side soon. Give us a bit more freeboard. We’ll need it when we move closer inshore.” He strode away. Smartly.
“Not a bad fellow,” Christie said, and paused.
They chorused together: “For a lobster!”
A voice, or perhaps a touch on his outthrust arm, and Adam Bolitho was instantly awake. He did not recall the moment he had fallen asleep.
So many times, so many different ships … faces … demands.
It seemed completely dark, then he realised that the only lantern was close-shuttered, and what light remained was partly hidden by the figure bending over him. It was Murray, his hawkish face in shadow.
He said only, “Squire said to call you, sir.”
Adam cleared his throat. It was painfully dry. “Thank you, Doc. All quiet?”
It was something to say, to give himself time while the shipboard sounds and movements brought him back to reality and purpose. The chair in which he had fallen asleep was as hard as iron. But sleep was necessary for him, and for those who might have to depend on his ability when the time came. Today.
Murray said, “No trouble, sir. But trust would be something else again.”
Adam’s eyes flicked around the box-like cabin, the chart space where Pecco, the schooner’s master, lived his solitary life. Adam had examined the available charts, and the crude map Pecco had drawn for him. Like a flaw in the coastline, with a protective scattering of tiny islets that might spell disaster for any larger vessel or complete stranger. He had discussed his final plans with Squire and Tozer, the master’s mate.
Pecco insisted he knew nothing about any slavers, only that he had heard it was a regular and safe rendezvous for several of them. He had offered the information as if bargaining for his own security, but would be doomed anyway if the slavers or those who controlled them ever learned of it.
Adam said, “I have no choice. But trust has to play its part, I’m afraid.”
Murray straightened up and reached for his familiar satchel. “I’ll be ready, Captain.” He moved away, out of the lantern light, and halted. “Seventy-odd years ago my grandfathers trusted in loyalty and obedience, at Culloden.”
The door creaked open and Jago peered in at them.
“Standin’ by.” He glanced at the uniform coat which was hanging from the deckhead. “Not this time, eh, Cap’n?”
Adam faced him. They might have been alone together, the marines squatting outside the cabin invisible. “Don’t you ever change, Luke!” He picked up his sword, and added curtly, “Be ready with the flag.”
He felt his way to the ladder and opened the hatch. The sky was still black, so that the tall spread of canvas stood out like wings against a sprinkling of pale stars. There was no moon. The compass light was tiny, but by its faint light Adam saw the faces turn toward him as he appeared on deck.
All the previous day, from the moment they had cleared the approaches to Freetown, they had sighted no other vessel, large or small. Somewhere far astern was a brigantine named Peterel, but Captain Tyacke had made sure no other ship would leave harbour in an attempt to overtake this schooner, to divert it or warn others of their intention.
Within the hour the dawn would show another empty sea, and a stretch of coast unknown except to the few who had braved it, some of them to their cost.
Squire called hoarsely, “Sou’ west by south, sir! Steady she goes!”
But it sounded like a question.
Adam plucked the shirt away from his skin; it felt clammy, almost cold. “Bring our prisoner on deck.”
He walked a few paces to the side and stared toward a mass of land darker than the darkness: one of the islets he had checked and checked again with the master’s mate breathing down his neck. They had no option. A straightforward and safe approach would be seen immediately by any vessel anchored there. Even Delfim’s master seemed uncertain.
He looked along the deck, faintly visible now in the first paleness of the coming day. A few dark shapes were standing or sitting in readiness to shorten sail, to alter course, and, if so ordered, to fight.
“All carronades loaded, sir. Canister.” That was Christie, gunner’s mate, one of the shadows.
He heard Squire clear his throat as he stood beside the compass box. Keeping his distance, or unwilling to distract him? He looked toward the land again, and thought he could see it lying like an unbroken barrier beyond the fin-shaped jib.
“I am here, Captain.”
“Are you ready?”
Pecco moved closer to the compass and tapped it with his knuckles. Adam thought he saw one of the nearby seamen reach out as if to prevent him.
Pecco said, “I gave my word, Captain. Will you give yours?”
“Any aid you give will be made clear in my report.”
Pecco breathed out slowly. “Then I must take the helm, Captain. I have the feel of her.”
Adam could sense both Squire and Tozer watching him. Their lives, too, were at stake. He saw Pecco look up at the canvas, still taut despite the nearness of land, and heard him say quietly, “I had no part in the killings at the mission.” He might have shrugged. “And the woman … Maybe I had a few drinks too many. At least she is alive.”
He eased the wheel to starboard and leaned forward to watch the compass. “South south-west.” He lifted his eyes briefly from the compass and seemed to grimace. “Not an easy passage!”
The canvas reacted very slightly until the schooner was back on course. The sound was not loud enough to muffle a metallic click as the armed seaman cocked his musket.
“Deep ten!” The call came from forward as one of Onward‘s best leadsmen took his first sounding. He barely raised his voice, but in the tense silence it was as if he had shouted.
Pecco muttered, “You take no chances, Captain.”
Adam gazed up at the masthead beyond the tattered Portuguese flag, and saw the first hint of blue. It was unnerving, with the sky almost hidden by the land as it crept out of the dimness like a groping arm. Or a trap.