“What’s the bill?”
Squire regarded him steadily. “Five, sir.” He saw Murray hold up his free hand. “Six.” He gave their names, knowing his captain would be seeing each face.
Adam stared up at the shot-holes in the topsails overhead, the dark stains left by canister. He said, “They did well. Tell Lieutenant Sinclair,” and stopped as Squire shook his head.
“He’s dead, sir. They just told me.”
Adam walked to the side, and looked down at the swirling arrowhead of water with its litter of branches, and one corpse caught among them.
Squire glanced over at the crowd of captives, separated by a thin line of marines. Then he asked quietly, “When Peterel is within signalling distance-”
He felt Adam’s hand close on his arm. There was blood on it. “Make to Peterel …” Adam hesitated. Strain or emotion? This was not the time. “Welcome. Mission successful. We will proceed when ready. Together.”
Squire had found a slate somewhere and was deliberately repeating the signal. But Adam was gazing at a body covered by canvas, a pair of polished boots protruding, gleaming in the sunlight. The cost of freedom.
He reached out to stop Squire but he had gone, and the blood remained.
11 SUNSET
HARRY DRUMMOND CLIMBED through Onward‘s main hatchway and paused to clear his mind. Most of the routine work had been completed during the forenoon watch, and with a heavy meal under his belt a doze in the mess would have been welcome. But as bosun he needed to be seen and heard, as he had learned the hard way.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stifled a yawn. Too much grog. But it was Tilley, the sailmaker’s, birthday-as good an excuse as any.
He glanced up at the shrouds and stays, the neatly furled sails gleaming in the sun, unmoving, like the flags and masthead pendant. As for the ship herself, she could have been aground.
He looked aft, but the quarterdeck appeared to be empty. Not for long. Vincent, temporarily in command, never seemed to rest from his extra duties. Maybe he did not know how. Was he still brooding about how nearly he had been given command? Dead men’s shoes …
Close by at her own anchorage was the new frigate Zealous, her captain’s first command. Young, too, from what Drummond had heard. That would be lying heavily on Vincent’s mind.
He shook himself, tasting the grog again.
He saw a seaman standing by an upturned boat, which had been propped over some old canvas to protect the deck. It was the gig, and Drummond had been thinking about Luke Jago and wondering how he was faring aboard the little schooner as one of the captain’s prize crew. A hard man to know, unless he let the barriers fall. But Drummond had not forgotten that when he had been appointed, replacing the bosun who had been killed, Jago had been the first to befriend him. They never discussed it, but there it was.
He saw the same seaman now cleaning a brush, and found himself smiling. The old Jack’s yardstick: if it moves, salute it! If it doesn’t, paint it!
He heard voices: one of the gun captains giving instructions to some of the new hands, making sweeping gestures and ducking beside an eighteen-pounder. He was probably describing the clash with Nautilus. Hardly a battle. If he had been at Trafalgar… Drummond shaded his eyes and looked over at the flagship. His own ship, Mars, had been in the thick of the action, her decks smeared with blood, the enemy sometimes broadside to broadside. Even their captain had fallen, beheaded by a French ball.
He was suddenly angry, and could not contain it. He shouted, “Winning, are we?” But he was immediately ashamed of himself.
He turned as a shadow fell across the deck. It was Maddock, the gunner, and he was smiling. “We were all like that when we were young. So long ago I can hardly remember!”
Drummond saw the familiar felt slippers tucked in Maddock’s belt. He was on his way to the magazine. Nobody would bother him there. Strangers and visitors to their small mess hardly ever realised Maddock was so hard of hearing. He had even made a short and witty speech today to mark the sailmaker’s birthday, and got through it without interruption.
He said now, “I just met the first lieutenant, Harry. I think he wants to see you when you’re free.”
Drummond laughed, his moment of temper forgotten. “That means now!”
Maddock yawned too; it must be contagious. “He’s in the cabin, getting a bit of peace. While he still can.”
Drummond knew there were only two possible reasons. With Squire, Sinclair of the Royal Marines, and Murray, the surgeon, all away in Delfim, the wardroom would be a place to avoid. Julyan, the master, was ashore dealing with some new navigational aids, and Vicary, the purser, was dull to say the least. That left Lieutenant Monteith. That was reason enough.
A marine strode toward them and clicked his heels together. “Beg pardon, sir, but the first lieutenant …”
Maddock held up his hand and grinned. “You were right, Harry. He meant now!”
LIEUTENANT MARK VINCENT loosened his coat and walked through the great cabin to the stern windows. Even with windsails rigged and most hatches and doors opened, it seemed airless, and the anchorage was still, the reflected glare painfully bright.
There was an occasional sound or sensation around or beneath him, and in his mind’s eye he could place and define it. He knew every part of Onward, possibly better than any one. Except her builder.
Something fell on deck and he heard the Royal Marine sentry outside the screen door move away to investigate, then somebody laughed and was hissed into silence again. He glanced at the neat pile of papers brought for his signature by Prior, the captain’s clerk. Quiet and confident, and, for all Vincent knew, watching him and making comparisons. He sat down abruptly and tried to relax, but he was not tired, which surprised him.
For an entire week the ship had been under his command, and as a result he had shared every watch with Monteith and Julyan, keenly supported by Midshipman Hotham, who had once more been appointed temporary acting lieutenant.
Vincent saw a jug of water on the little desk. The surface was barely moving. Suppose … He shut his mind to it.
Every day had been fulclass="underline" dealing with the ship’s routine and the harbour requirements and formalities, discipline and defaulters, but only a few of the latter. They knew him too well by now. He had even met the new frigate’s captain when he had gone aboard Zealous with some local information, more out of curiosity than anything else. Pleasant enough, and friendly up to a point, but the courtesy of the visit had not been returned. He was young, younger than Vincent, and the significance had been obvious to them both.
He was on his feet again, pacing. The pantry door was shut, but he knew Morgan was not far away. A good man, none better … He put that, too, from his mind. He had selected Hugh Morgan himself for the position of captain’s servant, even before Onward had been fully commissioned. Even then, I was behaving like a captain.
He pushed at the other, narrow door until it was half open. Bolitho’s sleeping cabin was almost box-like. But at least it was his own. He looked at the portrait that always hung there, seen only by Morgan and a few interlopers. Like me. Andromeda, awaiting her own sacrifice to the sea monster. He reached out and lightly touched the canvas, as guilty as a schoolboy. What must she have felt as she had posed for it? What did she think now, with Adam Bolitho away at sea, not knowing …
He was closing the door, flushed and unsettled, as Morgan padded past with an armful of clean shirts.
“He’ll be back soon, sir.” He did not move. “Will you be dining with any guests here tonight, sir?”