There was a tap on the screen door. Morgan tutted. “Never any peace!”
“Officer of the guard, sir!”
Morgan was laying the shirts carefully on the seat of the bergere. Then he looked up, staring at the door. “He’s back!” He hurried to open it, but halted as the air seemed to quiver to a dull boom.
Vincent’s eyes remained on the officer in the doorway, a lieutenant like himself. It was the signal from the headland.
He turned without speaking and looked for the last time at the cabin. Like a dream, it was over.
Midshipman David Napier walked across the quarterdeck, gazing at the anchorage. There were still a few lights showing ashore and on vessels at anchor, but that would soon change. All hands had been called at dawn and the air was still fresh and cool, the decks wet underfoot, washed down by seamen half asleep as hammocks were being stacked in the nettings, still warm from their bodies. The midshipmen’s berth had been like a furnace in the night, despite the open ports and hatches.
Napier saw someone stooping over coiled rope and grinned. It was his friend Tucker, the bosun’s mate.
“This makes a change!”
They both looked toward the as yet invisible headland. Napier said, “Bit of a breeze now. That will help them.”
Every one was thinking the same. How soon? What was the cost? When you fought together as one company, it was different. Fighting guns or the sea itself.
Tucker murmured, “Stand by.”
It was Lieutenant Monteith, peering around at the men working below the braced yards and furled sails, which were already sharpening against a clear sky. He saw Tucker and snapped, “I’ll need you to chase up the jolly-boat’s crew, in case …” He did not finish, but beckoned imperiously to Napier. “And I want a few words with you.” He gestured. “Even the flagship’s not wide awake yet!”
Tucker said, “Can I send the men under punishment to breakfast, sir?”
“Ask the master-at-arms. I can’t deal with everything!”
Napier followed the lieutenant down to the wardroom. It was deserted, the table laid for one person. A messman was collecting the empty dishes.
He stopped as Monteith said, “Another cup, Berry. The last one was stone-cold.”
The man nodded and hurried away.
Monteith sat down and wiped his face with a handkerchief. “You have to watch some people all the time!”
Napier glanced around. Lieutenant Vincent must still be in the great cabin, but did he ever sleep? Even during the night he had heard him about, sometimes just prowling along a gangway or the main deck. He had always liked the first lieutenant. Strict when necessary, but he was fair, and always ready to listen. Unlike some …
Monteith was saying, “As you probably know, I am writing your monthly report. I’m afraid it’s something we all have to go through.” He shifted in the chair and gazed at him. “You must have learned a good deal by now.” He ticked each point off on a finger. “Your previous experience when Audacity was lost in battle, then aboard this ship.” He gave what might have been a smile. “And with me and our landing party. I shall put that in my report, of course.”
Napier felt his leg beginning to throb. Not like those early days. He will always have a limp. But Monteith, although aware of his discomfort, did not ask him to sit down.
Monteith leaned back expansively. “You have a good relationship with the captain, I believe.” He waved any response aside. “It can be a hurdle, of course, but in your case it must offer reassurance, surely.” He turned abruptly toward the door. “What is it now?” then waved at the table. “Hot this time, I trust?”
Berry, the messman, said nothing. He had heard it all before.
Monteith sipped the coffee and collected himself. “I expect you told Captain Bolitho of our experiences at the mission, eh? A close thing. I expect he was worried about you. But as you were with me-” He broke off. “What the hell is it now?”
Berry might have shrugged. “Somebody left a message for you, sir.” He pulled an envelope from his apron.
“And you didn’t see who it was?”
“Must’ve been while I was fetching your breakfast, sir.”
Monteith snatched the envelope from him. “I shall speak to the first lieutenant about this!”
A fine shaft of sunlight had driven the last shadows from the wardroom, and Napier could see the envelope trembling in Monteith’s fingers, with his name and rank printed in bold letters across it.
“Shall I carry on, sir?”
Monteith glared at him. “I haven’t finished yet!” He tore open the envelope. “If this is some sort of joke-”
He shook it angrily over the table, and for a few seconds nothing happened. There was no letter or note enclosed.
As if from another world they heard the shrill of calls, and the cry, “Clear lower deck! All hands muster by divisions!”
The waiting was over.
Napier held his breath, and watched something drift slowly from the torn envelope until it landed on the table.
It was a white feather.
Midshipman Charles Hotham was about to raise his telescope again, but changed his mind as he heard Lieutenant Monteith come to stand beside him on the quarterdeck. A moment earlier, with all hands hurrying to their various stations, he might not have noticed, but he could hear the sharp, uneven breathing as if Monteith had been running, or was agitated about something. He knew Monteith had been in the wardroom, which was no distance away, where Hotham assumed he had been complaining to David Napier about something. Monteith made a point of it. If and when the time came for Hotham to leave Onward for his own promotion, he would miss Monteith least of all.
And would that day soon come? He tried not to hope too much. Being made acting lieutenant, even if temporarily, must count for something. He smiled. Especially as he had to suffer for it from the other young members of his mess.
He heard the murmur of voices from the assembled figures on the main deck. Excitement, anxiety, or both.
Monteith said, “Silence on deck,” but without his usual irritation. Hotham glanced at him curiously, and saw that he was looking at the shore, or perhaps in the direction of the flagship, and that a crumpled handkerchief was dangling loosely from a pocket, although Monteith prided himself on his appearance and was always quick to point out any failure to “measure up,” as he put it, among the midshipmen.
He saw the Royal Marines paraded in a small section by the starboard gangway, Sergeant Fairfax, stiff-backed, in command. They would be at full strength again when the prize crew returned. Unless. Hotham tried to close his mind to the possibility. Like the ill-fated mission, when his own sighting of that crude distress signal had begun a chain of events none of them could have anticipated. And some had died because of it, and because of him.
He adjusted his telescope hurriedly, although there was no need. He saw Vincent now, standing by the quarterdeck rail, hands clasped behind his back. Julyan, the sailing master, stood nearby, but alone.
Hotham breathed out slowly and raised his telescope. A big East Indiaman had anchored two days ago to land a mixed cargo, but was said to be leaving today. He felt himself tense as he saw the sleek bows of the brigantine listed as Peterel begin to pass her. Still not much wind, but enough to fill her sails, which were very clean and bright in the morning sunlight.
By moving the glass he could just see the topmasts of the schooner about which they had been told earlier, anchored where she would not impede incoming vessels or those wishing to leave, like John Company’s big ship. And to put her under closer guard.
Hotham looked toward the flagship, unwilling to take his eyes from the new arrivals even for a few moments. Medusa had hoisted an “affirmative” to a brief signal from the brigantine, which was hidden by the set of her canvas.