'As I thought, sir. 'He dropped his eyes confidentially. 'But as officer of the watch I considered it my duty to confirm it.
The word is that Midshipman Huxley's father is awaiting court martial.'
Beyond the door the sentry rapped his musket again.
'First lieutenant, sir!'
Morgan bustled past.
'No peace, sir.'
The door opened on a separate little drama. A seaman below the companion, a mop in his hands, a marine checking his musket in readiness to relieve the sentry. And Lieutenant Vincent staring into the cabin, barely able to contain his anger.
Monteith finished, 'For losing his ship!'
Vincent cut in, 'I am very sorry, sir. I was in the sick bayЦ one of the new hands has had a fall. Not serious, butЦ 'He controlled his voice. 'I left word where I would be. 'He had not looked at Monteith. There was no need.
Adam unclenched his hand slowly, deliberately, and withdrew it from his pocket. A small thing which should never have happened. And tomorrow it would be all through the ship.
He said quietly, 'Losing a ship is an indescribable experience, because it never leaves you. It happened to me.'
He barely recognized his own voice; it was cool, almost matter of fact. 'Like a terrible storm. You ride it or you go under, with the ship. But you never forget.'
'Boat ahoy! 'The challenge from the maindeck was faint, almost inaudible amongst the shipboard sounds. It could have been an echo of those lost voices.
Then he heard the shrill of a boatswain's call, and running feet, very much alive.
'Carry on, Mr. Monteith. 'He did not look at him. 'Onward is a private ship, no admiral's flag flying at our masthead, no chain of command while we wait to be told what to do. We depend on ourselves. 'He felt the deck tilt very slightly beneath him, as if she were stirring. 'Upon each other.'
When he turned Monteith had gone, almost running to deal with the arrivals.
Vincent said, 'The wardroom has asked if you will be our guest, 'and faltered. 'If you would feel inclined to…'
The tension had gone; it was like being set free.
'I will be honoured, Mark, although I have a feeling that it might be delayed a while.'
Vincent thought he understood. The captain was back.
In his little pantry Morgan waited until the screen door had closed, then poured himself a small tot of rum and sipped appreciatively.
Tomorrow it would be all through the ship.
6. A Proud Moment
Luke Jago climbed down from the boat-tier and examined the gig closely. His gig. Oars stowed, lashings in place, equal strain on all parts. Probably its first time out of the water since leaving the builder's yard.
'Fair enough, Robbins. You can fall out now.'
The big seaman knuckled his forehead, grinning. Praise indeed from the captain's coxswain, who was impossible to please.
Jago hardly noticed. Just words, but they mattered. Anybody could pull an oar after a few attempts, and a threat or two. But the gig was special.
He stared along the maindeck, quieter now after all the working parties and inspections, as if a King's ship had never weighed anchor and put to sea before. All those years, different ports or anchorages he could no longer name or recall, and you never got used to it. Doubt, anxiety, resentment. All and none of them.
He saw Joshua Guthrie, the boatswain, indicating something on the mainyard, jabbing the air with a massive fist to make his point to one of the new hands. A born sailor, Guthrie had entered the navy at ten. Now he seemed ageless, scarred and battered, his nose shapeless from fights ashore as well as in the line of duty. He could control the deck with a minimum of effort, using only a powerful, carrying voice and a cuff if the offender was near enough. His girth had increased over the past few years but only a fool would see it as a soft plank. Like punching a bloody oak tree, as one seaman had discovered.
But even Guthrie could not hide his mood, and to those who knew him well, his excitement.
It had started this morning, even as both watches of the hands were mustering for working ship, the stink of the galley funnel carrying on a fresh north-easterly. A few lights still twinkling from the dark mass of land, faint shouts and calls from other ships nearby. Another day.
Then the challenge from the gangway. 'Boat ahoy?'
Early, but not unknown in Plymouth, major naval port that it was.
Jago had recognized the boat immediately: the same one which had brought him and the captain out to Onward for the first time, with that senior officer from the Admiralty. But it was not stores, or some officer begging a free passage after a night ashore with one of the Plymouth whores. He had seen the sudden activity at the entry port; even the first lieutenant had been there.
Guthrie had been close by with one of his working parties and had called back softly, 'The admiral's speaking trumpet is among us!'
The flag lieutenant had come aboard, a tall, foppish young officer who seemed to wear a permanent look of disdain and impatience. It was hard to picture him serving in any seaman like capacity. 'Flags 'had walked past the side party and marines without even a glance and continued aft with Lieutenant Vincent beside him.
Jago contained a smile. All the bluff and tight lips meant nothing if you had trust. The launch had been coxswained by the same man as before. He had followed the flag lieutenant up to the entry port and seen Jago, and remembered him. Just the hint of a grin, mouth barely moving, eyes still on the officers.
'Sailin 'orders, matey! Best o 'luck! 'And he was gone.
Secret orders, like the heavily sealed envelope he had seen in the flag lieutenant's hand, never remained confidential for long in the 'family'. The conference of officers and senior warrants called unexpectedly in the great cabin, and an announcement by the first lieutenant, had confirmed it.
Tomorrow forenoon Onward would be leaving Plymouth.
Senior hands of messes would report for instructions.
Jago had heard one of the seamen joke, 'Write your wills, while you still can!'
It was all they had been told. All they needed to know.
He looked aft and astern past the great ensign curling lightly in the breeze. Onward was swinging to her cable, so that the land seemed to be edging out around the quarter, like a protective arm.
Secrecy meant very little in a seaport like this one. People would know. Some worrying, dismayed at the news. And others who would see it as a release, or an escape.
Jago rarely thought beyond the moment, taking it at face value.
He saw Morgan the cabin servant standing by the quarterdeck rail, something white in his hand. A letter, or letters, for that last boat ashore. Jago eased his shoulders, and straightened the smart blue coat with its gilt buttons. For him there would be no letters. He had nowhere else to go.
But it felt so different. In war, every flag was an enemy, each encounter a chance of battle or worse.
He turned and saw three midshipmen up on the larboard gangway, watching an old schooner passing slowly abeam.
One of them was David Napier, his teeth flashing white in a grin. No regrets in that one. Glad to be leaving. Would he change with maturity, and become just another officer? It was stupid, absurd. As if it mattered. He must be losing his grip. Getting past it…
The bell chimed out from the forecastle, and his mind responded automatically. Time to report to the carpenter to settle the question of some boat repairs. One of the busiest men in any new ship, he hated to be kept waiting.
