ever-growing numbers of seamen and marines.
He could hear the sharper tone of Rowlatt, the master-at arms, no doubt keeping a watchful eye open for any petty theft.
Souvenirs, the dockyard mateys might call them; Rowlatt's vocabulary was less euphemistic. How easily the name fitted the voice now. Vincent could remember when he had started with a list and trained himself from that first day aboard, putting faces to names and eventually a name to each voice.
Somebody yelped with pain in the gathering darkness. Most of them, anyway.
He faced aft and stared up at the mizzen yards and standing rigging. He could walk this deck now without even glancing down for the treacherous cleat or coaming that could lay anybody, officer or man, ignominiously on his face. He had laughed at so many others in his early days with the fleet… Vincent was twenty-seven years old. A lifetime ago.
A boatswain's mate was pacing slowly back and forth, his silver call glinting in the glow from the cabin skylight. Captain Adam Bolitho was down there in his quarters, with his piles of signals and books, wading through them, interrupting Vincent only with brief questions or scribbled notes.
Captain Richmond's personal belongings, which had never been unpacked, had gone ashore. Dead man's shoes, he had heard old sailors call themЦ and more of Bolitho's gear had been brought aboard. Vincent still found it difficult to accept the inevitable. Richmond had scarcely visited the ship since she had been commissioned; Vincent had been in charge from that first handing-over signature, had even seen himself there in the great cabin. In command.
Onward was a fine ship; Bolitho was damned lucky to have her.
'Boat ahoy? 'The challenge rang loud and clear. Vincent walked to the quarterdeck rail and peered down at the entry port. Another visitor, even now…? The reply echoed back across the water. Wo, no! 'and he relaxed slightly. No officers aboard, then, so probably only stores. It was a wonder the boatswain and his working parties could find any more space.
Another voice. 'You, there! Take these new hands to their messes if the purser has finished with them!'
'Been done, sir! 'It was tired and resentful.
'Why wasn't I told? I'm not a mind-reader!'
Vincent swore under his breath. Hector Monteith was Onward's third and youngest lieutenant. We all had to begin somewhere… but was I like that at his age? He moved into deeper shadow. At his age. Seven years ago; but at moments like this, it could have been only last week. It was even the same month, but bright sunlight had been turning the sea to glass, and the enemy sails had filled the horizon.
They called it the battle of Lissa now: the last sea fight against such formidable odds.
1811, and he had been serving in the frigate Amphion, his first ship as lieutenant. How they had survived, let alone scored a decisive victory against a force of French and Venetian menof-war, seemed a miracle.
Many had fallen that day, friend and foe, but he had lived.
And relived it, again and again, the fire and thunder of those rapid broadsides. Eighteen-pounders, like these shining new guns lining Onward's sides, which might never fire a shot except in training and drills. And always uppermost in his memory: I felt no fear.
He heard quick, light footsteps across the new planking and brought himself back to the present.
Monteith was slim, with a round, boyish face. But for his uniform, he could still be a midshipman.
'More stores coming aboard, sir. And three items of baggage for the captain. 'He waited, his head to one side, a habit he no longer noticed.
'Have the baggage taken aft immediately, if you please. We don't want some ham-fisted Jack dropping it between decks.'
'I've details the hands already, sir.'
The formality irritated Vincent, although he could not have said why. A first lieutenant was not at liberty to cultivate favourites or offer privileges.
One ship. One company…
He was reminded of the second lieutenant, James Squire.
The contrast was complete. Big and powerfully built, he was some years older than Vincent and had risen from the lower deck, an achievement still rare even after all the years of war.
Squire had been serving as a master's mate when he had been chosen to join a surveying vessel under the charge of the famous explorer and navigator Sir Alfred Bishop. He had obviously more than proved his worth and ability. Promotion had followed.
It was hard to draw him out on the subject of his experiences, or the skill of transmuting unknown depths and treacherous waters into the distances and soundings on a chart. Squire was strong and confident, but remained at a distance, perhaps still feeling his way. Like the rest of us.
'The captain wants us all aft as soon as the hands are dismissed. It's the last chance we'll have before the admiral and his merry men come aboard, so if you can think of anythingЦ'
Monteith thrust his hands behind him, another little habit Vincent tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore. It usually happened when he was speaking pompously with a seaman, no matter how experienced he might be.
'The captain has a fine reputation. I've met several officers who have served with him. Wounded, taken prisoner by the Yankees and escaped, and then there was the time…' He swung round. 'Don't you know better than to interrupt an officer when…'
Jago stood his ground, and spoke to Vincent as if Monteith were invisible.
'The Cap'n sends his compliments, sir, an' would you join him when you are able?'
'I'll come directly. 'There was an outburst of angry shouts from forward and he added, 'Deal with it, Mr. Monteith. Call me if you need me.'
Monteith would rather choke, he thought, and knew he was being unfair.
He fell into step with the coxswain. A hard man to all accounts, he sensed, but a good one to have protecting your back. Such a short time aboard, and he had already made his mark.
'You've been with Captain Bolitho a long time, I believe?'
He felt Jago's cool gaze. 'A while now, sir. This ship an' that.'
Curt enough, but characteristic. Vincent smiled privately.
They had a saying about it, like everything else in the fleet.
Between every captain and his ship's company stood the first lieutenant. And his coxswain.
Down the companion ladder, his eyes noting the changes. A Royal Marine at the screen door, boots coming together smartly as they moved into the lantern light. Newly spliced hand-ropes, a reminder that even this would be a lively expanse of decking in any sort of sea.
The sentry tapped his musket on a grating.
'First lieutenant, sir!'
He could not remember the marine's name. Not yet…
The great cabin had completely changed, and with the dividing screens folded away seemed much larger. Most of the piled books and papers had gone, and an opened log or diary lay on a small desk Vincent had not seen before.
There were furtive noises coming from the hutch-like pantry that adjoined the captain's sleeping quarters: it would be the cabin servant, Morgan. Vincent had made that choice himself.
'Thought you might need an escape before the others joined us.'
Bolitho came out of the shadows and stood framed against the stern windows, flickering lights passing back and forth across the sea behind him like moths.
The same warm handshake, as if they had just met. He gestured to the table.
'Some cognac, will that suit? 'He grinned as Morgan hurried from his hiding place, a tray balanced in both hands. 'I feel as if I could sleep for a week!'
Vincent watched the cognac swirl and move to the motion.
He had chosen Morgan with care. A man of some experience, but still human enough to hear and report any conversation which might be of interest elsewhere.
'Can I help in some way, sir?'
Bolitho faced him again, his eyes in shadow.
'You have, Mark. You do. 'He picked up a goblet. 'As always, this is the hardest step.'
