others on watch.
He glanced around furtively and stepped on to a bollard, running his hand down his leg. The wound was sore, like the aftermath of a burn. But no real pain. He had been gritting his teeth, preparing himself.
He straightened up, and saw that a seaman had noticed. He grinned conspiratorially and stooped over a length of splicing.
Napier shaded his eyes and stared outboard at the endless stretch of blue water. Like a great mirror. There was even a little awning rigged now above the wheel to shade the two barebacked helmsmen as they peered at the compass and watched the set of the sails.
And tomorrow they would anchor off Gibraltar. He had helped to plot the final course on the chart himself. Old Julyan, the master, had frowned sternly to conceal his approval.
'I can see that I shall have to watch out, Mister Napier!'
'So here you are! I sent word…' It was Lieutenant Monteith, some papers rolled in one hand. He was faultlessly turned out, untroubled, it seemed, by the heat and sluggish breeze, or the fact that he had only come off watch himself four hours ago. 'I have been asked to arrange something. It has to be done before we reach Gibraltar. I am not convincedЦ 'He looked away, as if he had gone too far. 'I must go below, to the forrard messdeck. 'Then, 'I saw you examining your leg. 'It sounded like an accusation.
'It's strong again now, sir.'
'Good. We can't afford…' Again, it was left unfinished.
Monteith led the way, walking briskly and without hesitation. Men stood aside or stopped what they were doing as he passed. Some of the looks spoke more loudly than words, Napier thought.
Below deck the ship seemed more spacious, the messdecks opening out, scrubbed tables arranged at regular intervals.
Benches and lockers marking each individual mess where Onward's company ate, slept, and lived out their free time below. Away from discipline, except that which they dictated themselves. And sustained by a tolerance and brutal humour no landsman would ever understand.
At one end of the deck was a small working party, with a new timber-framed screen. Falcon the carpenter was overseeing their progress, jabbing a finger from time to time at the men stitching a canvas partition.
Monteith ducked beneath a deckhead beam and unfolded his papers. Napier had noticed on other occasions that he never removed his hat. Remember, it's their home. Show respect when you walk into it.
He had never forgotten that, and he had seen Falcon's expression. Like the seamen on deck, no words were necessary.
Monteith said, 'Harris, the man who was killed. He was one of your crew?'
Falcon eyed him warily.
'Not directly. 'E was a cooper, see?'
'No matter. He answered to you. 'He waved the papers as if it were insignificant. 'We anchor tomorrow and time will be limited. When a man dies aboard ship it is customary to auction his personal effects to his messmates. 'He faltered, as if it were completely foreign to him. 'I am informed that, in view of the circumstances, the wardroom and warrant ranks will make a contribution.'
Falcon flicked some wood shavings from his sleeve.
'I scarce knew the man, sir. 'E was aboard when the ship commissioned, and worked ashore in the yard when she was buildin'. 'He rubbed his chin. 'But if it's an order…'
Another voice. 'Ned Harris was ashore most of the time, sir.
Only just got married. I reckon she can do with all the help she can get.'
Napier could feel it. A man they had hardly known, but one of their own. Not killed by accident, or in action. Murdered.
Falcon called, 'Ere, Lloyd! You worked with 'im a few timesЦ what d 'you think?'
Napier saw him look up from the deck where he was kneeling. The sailmaker who had been a tailor ashore, and a good one according to the captain's servant. He had turned his hand to making clothes for people in this ship, if they could afford him. He and Morgan got along well, they said. Fellow Welshman…
'Never had a lot to say, but he was always short of money, getting his wife settled before he was off to sea. 'He seemed to notice Napier for the first time. 'Anyway, if the officers are putting their hands into their pockets…' Laughter drowned the rest.
Falcon held up his fist. 'Show a bit of respect, lads! 'But he seemed relieved. 'Leave it to me, sir.'
Monteith rocked back on his heels. 'The captain will arrange for the proceeds to be put aboard a courier. 'He cleared his throat. 'With a suitable message.'
'I think you're wanted on deck, sir!'
Monteith turned and said over his shoulder, 'Send word if you need advice.'
A voice muttered, 'Pity we ain't collectin 'for 'im!'
Falcon glared. 'It's not stand-easy yet, lads, so back to work with you! 'But he winked. Monteith was out of sight.
Jeff Lloyd sat on his haunches and waited for the midshipman to pass.
'Your new breeks'll be just about ready in a couple of days.
We can try them for fittingЦ you just say the word, eh?'
Napier smiled with pleasure. That was quick! Thank you for…'
Falcon bared his teeth. 'You'd better jump about, Mr. Napier. I think 'is lordship is callin 'for you!'
Jeff Lloyd leaned forward and pressed the canvas very slowly into a tight fold, using all his strength, a simple enough task which he could do with one hand. The laughter and the comments that followed the lieutenant's departure meant nothing. Like getting over a nightmare, trapped and fighting in his hammock. Unable to escape.
The voices had returned to normal, Falcon making a suggestion to one of his crew. Somebody whistling softly as he used his chisel to put a finish on the new screen.
He thought of Napier, bending to thank him for finishing the breeches. A lie. He had scarcely chalked out the seams. But it had bought him time. Just long enough.
He felt his breathing steady again. Or was that all in his mind, too? He should have been ready, anticipated it. But he hadn't, and after all this time just the mention of that name had made him jump, as if it had been shouted into his face.
He found himself staring aft, past the empty tables and scrubbed benches. A solitary figure in one of the messes was writing very slowly on a piece of paper, tongue poking from one corner of his mouth. Dodging work to try and write a letter, so that it could be taken ashore at Gib. The lifeline.
Beyond the huge trunk of the mainmast, and down another hatchway. Narrow walkways and storerooms, like the one where they had found his corpse. The waiting had been the worst bit. He had thought they might never find him, maybe believe he was still ashore. Skipped his ship to stay with his new wife. Poor woman, she was better off without him. He had even thought Ned Harris might still prove him wrong; he might suddenly appear. LaughingLike that last time when he had turned his back, the final threat still on his lips.
Slowly, calmly, Jeff Lloyd reached out and gripped his long scissors.
Afterwards, he had heard that they were searching for a knife. Harris's own blade was still on his belt.
The worst was over. There might always be reminders. Like now, today. Harris's miserable belongings.
He felt his blood pounding again. He threatened me. Unless I paid him, he would swear himself in as a witness. To murder.
When he had laughed, for the last time.
Boots thudded past, some Royal Marines on their way to their own messdeck, their 'barracks', carrying pieces of equipment, freshly pipe-clayed in readiness for some ceremonial drill at the Rock. A good enough crowd, but in their own special world. Apart. Two of them spoke his name. Glad to be down in the cool shadows.
'I've been thinkin', Jeff.'
He looked up. It was Falcon, staring after the scarlet tunics.
Lloyd wanted to lick his lips. Bone dry. As if he already knew.
'Most of the lads seem to know you, by sight if nuthin 'else.
Might seem more proper if you go round the messes? 'He had his head on one side, unused to asking favours. 'Tell ‘em about th 'sale of 'is gear. Sound better comin 'from you.'
