commander in his first ship, the one he had evoked for Lowenna during their last waterfront stroll in Falmouth. Would she believe him if she could see him now? Vincent was making his report, but his back was to the sun, his face in shadow and impossible to read.
Adam looked the length of the ship, at the upturned faces and the figures in the shrouds, silhouetted against the sea and sky. Some were still strangers, others emerged from obscurity with names and voices, a living force.
He looked down at the prisoner for the first time.
'John Dimmock, you are accused of neglect of duty, that you were asleep on watch. 'He sounded hoarse, and wanted to clear his throat. Some of the silent onlookers would not be able to hear him. '… and that you showed contempt to a superior officer.'
Dimmock was staring up at him intently, his eyes red rimmed as if from heavy drinking. Smuggled rum from messmates, despite the risk of discovery.
'Have you anything to say?'
Dimmock seemed to straighten his back. 'Nuthin'!'
The master-at-arms gripping his wrist hissed, 'Nothin', sir!'
Adam stepped back slightly and said, 'Carry on.'
Behind him he heard some one take a deep breath. It was Luke Jago. Always the same, every time he saw or heard the ritual of punishment. Jago had been flogged in error. The officer responsible had been court-martialled and dismissed the service in disgrace, and Jago had received a written apology from an admiral and a sum of cash which had amounted to a year's pay.
But he would carry the scars of the cat to his grave.
'Seized up, sir!'
Adam felt the Articles of War pressing against his side, against the old sword. Jago's way of telling him. Of sharing it.
He removed his hat, and knew others were following his example. Dimmock was stripped to the waist and pinioned against the grating. There was a tattoo of some kind on his right shoulder, faded now and probably acquired when he had been a much younger man, as was the habit of landmen and raw recruits, as an act of bravado or when awash with too much rum. It was usually regretted afterwards.
Adam took the Articles of War from Jago and spread the final page: Article number thirty-six. He had heard it read aloud often enough, and could remember reading these same words for the first time.
'All crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the Fleet…' Once he felt the deck tilt more steeply, with the responding slap of canvas. The wind was dropping, or had shifted slightly due to the nearness of land. But his voice remained level, unhurried. '… shall be punished according to the Laws and Customs of such cases used at sea. 'He closed the folder. 'One dozen lashes.'
One of the boatswain's mates had pulled the cat-o'-ninetails from its bag and shook it so that the tails fell free, but his eyes were on the captain, not the prisoner.
Adam replaced his hat.
'Do your duty.'
The man's arm swung out to its full extent and the cat struck Dimmock's bare back with a sickening crack.
'One. 'The master-at-arms had begun to count, his voice matter-of-fact.
Jago had been watching a strange, dark-winged seabird he did not recognize as it swooped past the foretop, but felt his eyes drawn relentlessly to the gangway and the figure tied to the grating. Under a spell, unable to escape, like the prisoner.
He could feel it like that day, the force of the blows driving the breath from his lungs, his body unable to move or to yield against the grating. And then the pain. Like nothing you could believe or describe.
'Two.'
There was blood now, the force of the lash opening the flesh as if by the claws of a beast. Jago could recall the blood nearly choking him. He had bitten through his lip or tongue. The surgeon had stopped the flogging to examine him, but only briefly, and the ordeal had continued. He remembered his own half-mad sense of triumph when the last blow had fallen across his torn and blackened body. Hatred had saved him then, and for countless days afterwards.
'Three.'
Jago saw the captain's fingers on the hilt of his sword. His hand was tanned, but the knuckles were white from the force of his grip. Jago had known captains who would order two or three dozen lashes merely for spitting on the deck.
'Four.'
The boatswain's mate faltered, the cat swinging in mid-air and blood spattering his arm, while Rowlatt twisted round, mouth open and ready for the next count.
An explosion, like distant thunder, echoing and re-echoing across the unbroken water. But sharper, and drowned by the shouts and confusion as men stared outboard or at each other, then, inevitably, to the figure in blue with one hand on his sword.
Adam leaned over the rail and tried to see beyond the starboard bow, but the headsails made it impossible. Nautilus should be in sight. Otherwise…
He saw Vincent striding to join him, his face alive with questions.
Adam said, 'Marchand's emergency signal. Pipe the hands aloft and get the courses on her. The wind's dropping, so let's use what we have!'
He heard a groan from the gangway. It helped to focus his thoughts.
'Cut down the prisoner and have him taken below.'
The master-at-arms called, 'What about the punishment, sir? 'Confused, even indignant. 'Less than half, sir!'
Adam stared up at the masthead pendant. Not much. But enough. As if he were telling the ship, or himself.
'Send some good eyes aloft, Mr. Vincent. The best you can muster. Give him a glass, mine if it saves time. 'He knew he was speaking too fast, and why. He looked at Rowlatt, who was still standing by the blood-splashed grating. 'Ended! We have work to do.'
Jago saw his face as he made his way to the companion.
Preparing himself for whatever lay ahead. But Jago had known him longer than any one else aboard, and was gripped by what he had just witnessed. Like Dimmock the prisoner, the Captain had been cut free.
10. Under Two Flags
Midshipman David Napier climbed steadily up the foremast ratlines, his hands and feet working in unison, the deck already far below him. He felt the sun on his neck and shoulders as the foretop loomed over him, and he arched his back to swing out and around it. He could still remember all those first attempts, when he had scrambled up the shrouds with the other boys and midshipmen. The sailor's way, around the futtock shrouds, all toes and fingers like a monkey. It still made him hold his breath until he was up and reaching for the next challenge.
The deck was angled beneath him, less crowded, only the duty watch standing by the braces and trimming the freshly set courses.
The first lieutenant had told him to join the masthead lookout. 'And don't drop that glass, or you need not come down again!'
To break the tension, perhaps in the only way he knew.
The grating had been lowered, and two men were scrubbing it clean. The prisoner who had been flogged had already vanished below.
Napier had heard a marine say in an undertone, 'His lucky day, I reckon.'
He gripped the barricade of the foretop and stared across the blue water. The land appeared sharper now, with shadows marking inlets, and the harder wedge of headland beyond.
