Several hours later, at the end of the first dog watch, as predicted, the masthead lookout sighted land. On deck every telescope was trained across water like blue glass, ruffled occasionally by an uncertain wind. The French Nautilus seemed to hold the last of the sun on her topsails and rigging, her hull almost hidden in shadow.
A fine landfall. Even Julyan could not hide his satisfaction.
But as he watched the captain walk to the quarterdeck rail and press both hands against it, he wondered what he was thinking.
Planning for some future command with no admiral breathing down his neck to torment? Meredith, one of his master's mates, was calling to him and he turned to give his full attention. But not before he made a careful observation. The quarterdeck was busy with hands on watch, and others waiting to man the braces and change tack.
And in the midst of it at the quarterdeck rail, their captain, who wanted for nothing, was completely alone.
Midshipman John Deacon laid his dirk and folded crossbelt on top of his chest and relocked it. He glanced at the others.
'A formality, so do it.'
David Napier thought about it. It was every midshipman's dream and nightmare, even if he managed to conceal it. That first real step, the King's commission… But the examination before a selected Board came first. Deacon already spoke like a lieutenant, without even knowing it.
He saw the messman murmuring instructions in the ear of his young assistant, a boy. As I was. Gesturing to the canvas that concealed cleaning gear and the bucket, in case their youngest midshipman might need it. Walker had been luckier of late, but wind and sea had been more considerate.
He sat down at the mess table opposite Simon Huxley.
'What are you studying at this early hour?'
Huxley frowned at him, then seemed less defensive. 'I made some notes about this place we've been plotting on the chart through every watch, thanks to our Mr. Julyan. 'He smiled, and it made him a different person. 'Aboubakr seems to have changed hands many times in the last fifty years alone. Slavers, missionaries, pirates, and invaders under a whole fistful of flags. So who's next, I wonder?'
Napier remembered the first hint of land, then the darker outline, hills and deeper shadows linking where there had been only the edge of the sea.
'I heard them say it's a good anchorage. That's what gave it value. Prosperity, too.'
Huxley murmured, 'For some, anyway.'
Deacon had joined them.
'We shall show ourselves and pay our respects. 'He slapped his palm on the table. 'Then back to Gibraltar for new orders.'
Then he turned and said unexpectedly, 'Captain Bolitho sponsored you, David. When the day comes for you to face up to the Inquisition, his name and reputation should carry some weight. 'Napier considered it, surprised by this revelation.
'That was wrong of me. But every day now I ask myself… if I shall be… ready.'
Another shadow moved across the table: Charles Hotham, usually a bright spirit in the gunroom, and popular on deck with most of the hands despite glaring mistakes during gun drill and work aloft. Guthrie the boatswain had been heard to forcefully comment, 'Better for all of us if you'd followed the Church instead of Neptune, Mister 'Otham, sir!'
He said in an undertone, 'How long now?'
Napier patted his arm. What they were all thinking.
Avoiding it.
'I was the one who found him, you see? I wanted to settle it somehow, but he.
'All hands, clear lower deck! Hands lay aft to witness punishment!'
Huxley said kindly, 'You did your best.'
Deacon was already at the door, clearly recovered from his moment of self-doubt.
'Lively, now! It's not the end of the world!'
The upper deck was already crowded. It was rare to see both watches and all the special dutymen gathered at once. Some stood together, messmates, or because they shared a hazardous perch aloft strung out along the yards, making or shortening sail when a firm grip and a timely shout could save a limb or a life. Some of the forenoon watch were in the shrouds or ratlines, framed against the sea or sky as if trapped in a giant web. Others were grouped between the eighteen-pounders, those stripped to the waist showing scarred, tanned or sunburned skin commensurate with their service.
The Royal Marines were lined across the quarterdeck, in full uniform, facing forward, swaying in unison as Onward ploughed unhurriedly through reflected glare and infrequent bursts of spray.
Vincent, the first lieutenant, stood on the larboard side of the quarterdeck by the gangway, one hand shading his eyes as he received reports from each division and section. It was still early, but like the marines he wore full uniform, and was beginning to sweat in the heat.
Despite all those present it seemed unusually quiet, only the sounds of cordage and canvas, the creak of timber or spar, breaking the stillness.
The midshipmen were crowded together by one of the quarterdeck carronades, opposite the gangway where a grating had been rigged upright. Close by, but separated by years and experience, the warrant officers had already assembled. The backbone in every man-of-war: no ship would sail, fight, or even survive without them. Tobias Julyan, as sailing master, had grown to know them in the long months since Onward's commissioning. In their faces now he saw resignation, even impatience, as might be expected from men who had seen almost every aspect of a sailor's life.
From where he stood Julyan could hear the occasional creak of the wheel, beyond some of the hands on watch, and saw the helmsman in his mind's eye, a good man, not the sort to let his attention stray from the compass.
He looked at the rigged grating and felt his mouth go dry, and glanced at the midshipmen. Youngsters, full of hope. They looked to him now. That other memory should have died, with so many others. But at times like these…
Over twenty years ago. He had been as young as the seaman at the wheel. Some of the older hands still yarned about the Great Mutiny in the fleet at the More and Spithead. France was poised to invade, and the horror of the guillotine and the fear of revolution was stark and very real.
Reason had triumphed eventually, and guilt been admitted by both factions, quarterdeck and forecastle. Julyan remembered one captain who had ordered a man flogged because he was slow to obey an order: showing disrespect to an officer, he had claimed. And there had been others… maybe there had always been others… who would treat a pressed man like scum, even though he had been torn bodily from the arms of his family or lover and dragged aboard.
One mutineer had been sentenced to four hundred lashes, and to be flogged through the fleet. Julyan could see it now.
Hear it. The procession of boats, crewed by witnesses from each vessel at anchor that day, pausing at each rated ship while a proportion of the punishment was awarded alongside.
Four hundred lashes. How could that thing have survived? Some movement made him turn his head and he saw that one of the midshipmen had crouched down behind the carronade. The youngest, who was always being sick. He had heard them joking about it. Even if the ship was in dry dock! The youngster next to him had leaned over and put his hand on the boy's heaving shoulder. It was Napier, the one who had survived Audacity. Sponsored by the Captain. Somehow it was seemly…
'Attention on the upper deck!'
Like a little parade. Rowlatt, the master-at-arms, and the ship's corporal, with the prisoner lurching between them. Two boatswain's mates, one carrying the tell-tale red baize bag which contained the cat. Lastly Murray, the surgeon, to ensure that the prisoner did not lose consciousness.
The surgeons must have been deaf and blind that other, terrible day.
High above them some one called out: a topman needing assistance from his mate. Nobody looked up.
Adam Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail, his coat heavy in the heat and already clinging to his shoulders. Would he never become hardened to the demands and the doubts? He was no longer that young and often unsure
