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 its 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 landmen 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.
He 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.
