He tried to ease his grip on the telescope. There was the renegade schooner, no more than a cable astern of the small man-of-war. He watched the hull and rigging leap into life, holding his breath as the deck moved slightly beneath his feet. Waiting for the image to settle. Faces: people he knew. He could hear their voices in his mind. Hastily sewn patches on some of the sails, scars on the hull, splinters untended and out of reach. And above it all, a large White Ensign.
He lowered the telescope. It had misted over, to his annoyance: the sun, or his eagerness to see every detail. Then he saw Adam Bolitho standing beside the wheel, another officer, who could only be Squire, close by.
Hotham jammed the telescope under his arm and wiped his eyes with the back of a sunburned hand. It was not mist on the lens.
He heard someone call, “Give ‘em a cheer, lads!” It was probably Tobias Julyan, shouting from the heart.
Then another voice, sharper: Vincent, the first lieutenant. “Belay that! Stand fast and uncover!”
Hotham reached for his own hat, but he had just removed it to wave with every one else when he saw that the clean White Ensign aboard the schooner had been lowered to half-mast. Then he could see more clearly, every sense sharpened. There was another ensign spread on the schooner’s deck, not large enough to hide the bodies of men who would never see another dawn.
The heavy silence was shattered as Sergeant Fairfax broke ranks and marched to the side, where he halted and threw up a smart salute. There were no words, but he was speaking for all of them.
Luke Jago felt himself tense as the first heaving-line lifted from Delfim’s low forecastle, but fell short, splashing into the water. Too soon, too eager. The same jetty they had left only a week or so ago seemed crammed with people, black and white, while others had climbed on the roofs of nearby buildings, some waving, others watching in total silence.
A second seaman was standing by with a line coiled and ready, then Jago saw a uniformed figure reach out and take it from him. It was Squire. His eyes met Jago’s, and there was a brief smile. Squire had not forgotten. Nor would he.
The line snaked over and was seized by many willing hands, taking the strain of the main cable, still only a reflection.
They had anchored overnight, but they had been kept busy, with boats arriving from shore and more marines sent to take custody of the Delfim’s crew and tend to the immediate needs of the freed slaves. Their own prize crew had been reunited with their mates. He did not look at the dead men partly covered by the ensign.
Jago could not remember when he had last been able to rest, let alone sleep. He had always prided himself that he could do either standing on his feet. But after this …
This morning’s move to enter harbour had kept all of them hopping. Past a big Indiaman, her company preparing for sea but still waving as the smart little Peterel had cleared the way, then coming abeam of the flagship, her decks lined, officers saluting, sailors and Royal Marines at attention, and from somewhere, the local garrison probably, a trumpet sounding, paying its respects.
Other, more painful moments remained uppermost in his mind. When the fighting had ended he had seen the gunner’s mate looking across the deck, his eyes finding his friend, the master’s mate. His face had said it all. And a tough seaman, one of Onward‘s topmen, kneeling beside a mate who was now a corpse lying under the ensign.
It was done. Until the next time.
“Try and keep still, will you?”
Jago saw the surgeon crouching by a man who had been injured by a wood splinter, who was now trying to rise and join the others standing by for going alongside. The sawbones had been kept busier than most of them, he thought, and had not escaped wounding himself. One wrist was bandaged, and Murray looked unusually dishevelled and impatient as he was attempting to examine his patient.
Jago watched the strip of water narrowing as more muscle was lent to the mooring ropes, and the furled canvas cast shadows across the upturned faces. He recalled the moment when he had steered his gig toward their first encounter with Delfim, and the impact of the girl showing her scars to the Portuguese master and identifying him as her assailant. Had she seen them enter harbour this time, he wondered?
He turned abruptly, not troubling to shade his eyes from the glare, and saw Onward. Her decks were full, but those waiting were silent. Thankful to see them back again, trying not to show it. A sailor’s pretense.
He heard a telescope snap shut and someone mutter, “I can see Mister bloody Monteith as large as life! Bin makin’ Jack’s life a misery while he was playin’ top dog!”
Another voice: “Don’t know’ is arse from’ is elbow!”
Not loud, but enough for Jago to hear it.
Maybe Monteith had always been like that. Jago had known other “young gentlemen” who had shown their true colours after taking the first, vital step from white tabs to wardroom. He thought of Midshipman Hotham, acting lieutenant during this brief and bitter operation. Clergyman’s son or not, how would he perform when the time came?
He heard Tozer, the master’s mate, call out something and saw him standing with Bolitho and gesturing toward the jetty. There was more activity, men clearing a space for any one who had been hurt. And for the dead.
He recalled Bolitho’s face when he had told them he was taking the dead men back to Freetown for burial. Foreign soil, no matter what the charts might call it. But Jago knew the real reason. They had given their best and paid for it, and they would not be left to share the same ground as scum like slavers.
There was other movement now, seamen and marines forcing a passage through the line-handling party and onlookers, presumably for somebody important. He felt the instinctive resentment soften slightly as he recognized the upright figure of James Tyacke, the flag captain. A good one, to all accounts. For an officer.
Jago realised that Bolitho was looking directly at him. Like those other times, good and bad, moments of pride and fear, fury and compassion. And he felt his hand lift in their private salute.
He watched the flag captain pulling himself aboard, and waving aside all attempts at formality. Much as old John Allday had described him. As if he sensed Jago’s scrutiny, Tyacke paused and looked across at him, the terrible disfigurement pitilessly revealed by the reflected glare. There might have been only the two of them.
“Kept your eye on him for me, did you, Jago? Knew I could rely on you!” Then Tyacke strode across the remaining few yards and grasped Bolitho’s hands in both his own.
Christie, the gunner’s mate, nudged Jago in the ribs. “I’ll stand right next to you, Lukey, when I’m lookin’ for promotion!”
Jago felt the deck shudder as Delfim nudged alongside and her moorings were secured, and as if to some signal, hesitant at first, a burst of cheering spread across the whole anchorage. He was thankful for the noise: Tyacke’s obvious sincerity had left him at a loss for words.
He heard the squeak of halliards, and knew the ensign had been rehoisted to its peak. They were back. It was the way of sailors. And he heard Squire calling for him.Until the next time.
Adam Bolitho stood alone by the Delfim’s taffrail and gazed along the deserted deck. He could still feel the warmth and intensity of Tyacke’s greeting, and it had moved him deeply.
He knew that Squire was waiting for him to leave with the last of the prize crew, but the schooner already felt empty. Dead. She would remain under guard to await auction or the breaker’s yard, with those others he had seen across the anchorage. Even the jetty was empty. He had waited until the dead seamen and marines had been carried ashore; somebody had even folded the spare ensign and left it beneath the mizzen, a reminder, if one was needed.