had been unfairly flogged; an officer had stood up for him and had proved his complete innocence. But he would carry the scars of the cat to his deathbed.
4// other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons i n the fleet… '
Jago looked again. Two boatswain's mates were waiting by the grating; one, Creagh, carried the red baize hag, and he saw that the other was Lawson, who had until his promotion been coxswain of the jollyboat, and a good allround seaman. His first flogging, and a prisoner he had probably known as a messmate.
The captain said, 'Two dozen, boatswain's mate. Do your duty.'
No heat, no contempt. But Jago knew differently.
As the arm swung back, over and down, and the cat o' nine tails cracked across the bare skin he saw the captain's hand tighten around his scabbard. The master-at-arms called, 'One!'
Jago saw the first droplets of blood, heard the victim gasp, the air punched out of him. He had once witnessed a flogging around the fleet, on a charge of mutiny. The boat, carrying the prisoner spread-eagled on a capstan bar, had called at every ship, and each captain was ordered to award his allotted share of the punishment.
Three hundred lashes. The man had died shortly afterwards.
'Two!'
The ship leaned into a slight swell and Jago swayed forward to look at the officers.
Had it been one of the old hands, a seasoned warrant officer like Partridge, it might have ended there and then, a quick punch, or rap with a rope starter, all that was needed.
He watched Lieutenant Varlo's expression. Impassive, and yet with each crack of the lash he saw him purse his lips. He was enjoying it.
'Eighteen!'
Jago saw O'Beirne the surgeon bending to study the prisoner's back. He made himself do the same. He must not forget.
The man's back was like something inhuman. Torn, flayed flesh, blackened as if burned by fire.
O'Beirne stood aside. The punishment continued.
Lawson was using the lash now, probably holding back, even though the prisoner was beyond pain. Jago could recall a captain who had suspected leniency in one boatswain's mate, and had threatened him before the entire ship's company. Lay it on harder, man! Or by God you'll change places with him!
He glanced at the captain's sunburned hand. The knuckles were almost white around the sword at his side.
'Twenty-four!'
'Cut him down.' The captain turned aft and saw Jago's expression. He said, 'Give me an enemy I can fight, not this!'
Jago stood aside. He doubted if the captain had even seen him, or knew he had spoken aloud.
Galbraith asked, 'Dismiss the hands, sir?'
Adam looked at him. He had recalled Lawson's pleasure and pride when he had told him of his promotion. Now he would understand the other side of the bargain. The line he had crossed, which set him apart from the rest.
And Martyns, their youngest midshipman, who had come through the fighting like a brave, if inexperienced, lion. But just now, as the flogging had been carried out, that same resilient boy had been in tears.
lie realised that Galbraith was still waiting.
'Yes. And I would like you to have a word with Mr Varlo at your earliest convenience.'
Galbraith turned his hack to exclude the others. 'I hardly think that it should come from me, sir.'
Adam removed his hat and touched his damp forehead. Why should it matter?
'Because you are experienced, and you understand the importance of standing together. If I see him myself it may well end in a court martial, his or mine, I am still undecided!' He saw O'Beirne waiting by the companionway. 'Do it.'
It was like a shutter falling. Perhaps it had never really lifted.
He seemed to hear her voice again. 1 want you to tell me about your life. Had it really happened? Your ship, the men you lead. What would she think if she could see him now?
O'Beirne bided his time, recognising his distress, which he guessed no one else would even imagine.
'Bellamy will he up and about soon, sir. I've seen far worse.'
Adam looked at him. Almost time to change tack again. An unending rectangle of sea. An invisible fleet, and a handful of small vessels holding the strings. The eyes of the fleet, Nelson had called them.
He said, 'What about the lad, Napier? Can you do something for him?'
O'Beirne assessed him gravely. For you, you mean.
'Yes, sir. While this weather holds. There's a risk, of course…'
'No risks, please.'
He walked to the nettings as seamen and marines broke ranks and drifted away. Some hands were already scrubbing the grating and the deck, while down on the orlop the seaman called Bellamy would be drowning his agony and degradation in more rum than he could handle.
A fateful equation. Too much to drink, a loose tongue, and the wrong officer. Varlo would claim, rightly, that he was only doing his duty. An admission, not a defence.
He looked up, past the main-yard, where Cousens's body had broken its fall to this deck, and saw the lookout, a tiny shape against the empty sky.
'Sail on th' weather bow, sir!'
The link in the chain. It had to be. Everybody else would stay clear.
For a moment more he stared at the cloud-like outline of the distant coast. Maybe it was already over. He blinked to clear his vision and looked down at the main deck, the last traces of blood being washed into the scuppers.
It was not over. Fate, destiny, how could anyone know?
He thrust it aside. 'Our best lookouts aloft, Mr Galbraith. We will alter course directly, and let her run down on us.'
'I'll be ready, sir.'
Bellairs had been watching them, and tried to relax as the ship slowly returned to routine, normality.
He liked to think that, had he been dealing with the seaman Bellamy, he could have managed to avoid a flogging, just as he knew that in a ship's tight world of discipline and purpose an officer's word had to be respected. Obeyed. He thought of the girl named Jane who lived in Dartmouth, imagined her face lighting up when he walked up to her one day as a captain. With a frigate of his own…
Cristie called wearily, 'When you can spare a moment, Mr Bellairs, I would like to have the log witnessed and signed.'
Bellairs shook himself out of it.
'At once, Mr Cristie!'
Beneath their feet, Adam walked right aft and slumped in the high-backed chair he had brought from Falmouth.
What thoughts must he have had, sitting here like this? Hopes too, before fate had marked him down. He touched the wound. He must ask O'Beirne to examine it again.
He listened to the sudden thud of feet, the muffled bark of commands, and knew he should go on deck once more.
And what of trust? He recalled Galbraith's face. The barrier again.
Yovell appeared, without letters or documents for once.
'Shall we fight, sir?'
As one man might ask another about the weather, in some country lane.
'I believe so, Daniel.' He did not see the surprise at the casual use of his name.
Yovell said uncertainly, 'I attended to the letter, sir. The legal one.' His eyes rested briefly on the chair. Perhaps remembering.
Adam listened to the thud of the tiller-head and imagined the wheel going over, Cristie watching compass and helm, Rist or another master's mate waiting to lay the ship on her new course.
He heard the click-click-click of Napier's shoes. Preparing to go to the sickbay.
He said quietly, 'If anything should happen, to me, for instance, that boy should be cared for. He reminds me of
