obviously in charge, and not a face turned to watch the oncoming frigate. There were more scars along the hull: canister, he thought.
He smiled self-consciously. Watching and listening. He had come a long way.
He thought of the schooner, and his friend David Tucker, who had come aft to see the captain. Surprised, proud. Sharing it.
He had heard the first lieutenant asking for volunteers for some separate action against the schooner, and seen his undisguised astonishment when so many had shouted their names. Napier had been going around the ship with Lieutenant Squire, making a list. Like those other times… He saw little Walker hurrying past with a message. There were a lot of Onward's company who had not experienced those other times.
The arms chest was open, a gunner's mate watching over the issue of weapons. Cutlasses and boarding axes, but no pistols, for fear of a misfire which would ruin any hope of surprise attack, if that was being planned. One wag had suggested it was in case 'Mister bloody Monteith 'was taking part, as he would be the first target! He watched the jolly-boat cast off, veering away from the side, oars in disarray until the first stroke.
Squire was standing by the tiller, swaying easily with each plunge of the boat.
Some one said grudgingly, 'Knows 'is stuff, does that one.'
And another: 'Well, one of us, wasn't he?'
Napier felt a shoulder near his and knew it was Huxley. Still quiet, withdrawn, but they had become closer because of what had happened. In the midshipmen's berth he was usually studying notes on navigation and seamanship, and keeping up his diary, a compulsory burden if eventually he appeared before the examination Board for promotion. Perhaps such relentless activity was keeping the reality of his father's suicide at bay. As if by some unspoken agreement, nobody in the mess ever mentioned it.
Huxley was watching the jolly-boat, the surgeon's white figure clambering up the side of the dhow after two previous attempts.
He said, 'They won't accept any help, David. Except maybe with the repairs.'
'Why do you say that? They might all have been killed!' He said distantly, 'I heard it somewhere.'
Napier looked over at the dhow again. Heard it from his father.
'They're coming back.'
The jolly-boat had cast off, rising to the swell like a leaf in a mill-race, the white smock still upright, one hand raised in salute or farewell.
Huxley asked, 'Have you got a girl, back in England? 'He turned to face him with sudden intensity. 'I mean, a proper girl, just for you?'
Napier watched the jolly-boat's progress; the surgeon was seated now. But instead, he was seeing her in the stable yard.
Aloof, haughty. Unreachable. But she had kissed him, and not like a young girl.
And the lovely Lowenna, who had lain beside him to drive away the fear and the memories. Our secret. How could he forget?
'I met some one…'
Huxley shook his head. 'But not… that way.'
A call shrilled; men were moving again, tackle squeaking as the jolly-boat was hoisted inboard.
'Hands aloft! Loose tops'Is!'
'Man the braces! Move yerselvesF They both hurried aft along the gangway, the sea surging alongside. But Huxley's words stayed with him. He had become used to the brutal and often lurid humour of the lower deck. At first he had been shocked by it, as was intended. This was not the same.
What is it like? He saw the captain by the rail, speaking to Maddock the gunner, shaping something with his hands, listening, and then nodding in agreement. He turned to watch the sails as the quartermaster shouted a new compass course, and only for an instant their eyes met. The Captain… Napier had seen him in every sort of mood. Angry, resentful, depressed, or at peace, with that rare, transforming smile.
He was smiling now, but some one else was already calling to him.
Napier thought of him with her. Together.
What is it like? The gunner's mate beckoned with his fist. 'First lieutenant says you should arm yourselves, gentlemen! 'He showed his missing teeth in a broad grin. 'Just in case, eh?'
Napier picked up a well-worn hanger. Not intended for display, or receiving an admiral on board. The curved blade had been crudely sharpened on the ship's grindstone. It was like a razor.
He hurried after his friend.
Once he paused and looked for the drifting dhow. Tomorrow they might still be struggling to complete their repairs. But they would be alive, and free.
He tightened his grip on the hanger, his troubled spirit calmed. Accepting it.
It was too soon to think of tomorrow.
Lieutenant Vincent leaned forward on the thwart and stared beyond the measured rise and fall of oars. Despite the muffled looms and thickly greased rowlocks, each stroke seemed to invite disaster. He knew it was only in his imagination, but the sound seemed louder now, closer to the shore. He could even hear the stroke oarsman's steady breathing, see his eyes as he lay back to take another pull, the blade slicing the water, timing every stroke.
No moon, but the sky was paved with stars, giving enough light to mark the contours of the land, which now seemed much more elevated than it appeared on the chart. So close you could smell it. Feel it.
Beside him at the tiller he could sense the coxswain, watching his crew, not merely dark shapes to him but names and personalities. And now a team.
A long, slow pull; the boat was heavier than usual. Full, even carrying four marines, marksmen. One was up in the bows with the musketoon, which was mounted on its own swivel.
Like an old blunderbuss, loaded with musket balls, it would be their only defense if they were taken by surprise. To reload would be almost impossible in the dark. But at least it would act as a warning to the other cutter following astern. If it's still there. He did not turn on the thwart to look; it would be pointless.
Onward had anchored. It was too shallow to move closer inshore. The ship comes first.
He peered abeam. Uncanny: it seemed so quiet after the tension of casting off from the ship's side. He released his grip on the scabbard pressed against his leg. Strain, unease. This was not the time to display either.
Squire was in charge of the other cutter. A good man, experienced, but still a stranger in so many ways. Maybe because he wanted it so.
Fitzgerald, the coxswain, muttered, 'Now, sorr?'
Vincent saw the darker wedge of land moving out and down toward the bow, and thought he could hear the surf above the creak of oars and the rudder's occasional murmur. He lifted his hand. No commands. Fitzgerald had trained his crew well. The blades were still, drops splashing alongside to mark their passage through the dark water.
He exhaled slowly, overwhelmed by a sense of utter loneliness. Onward seemed a thousand miles away. It had all been like part of a dream. The captain speaking to the boat crews, and the other volunteers. And to me.
'I believe this is important. Otherwise…' He had held Vincent's arm and the dark eyes had burned into his face. 'I shall be waiting for you. No heroics.'
It seemed clearer now, perhaps because of the silence. The stillness. The captain had wanted to be here himself.
How could he leave the ship? He gripped Fitzgerald's arm. Like a piece of timber. In Ireland he had been a bare-knuckle fighter, or so Vincent had heard.
'Listen! The others are still astern!'
Fitzgerald grinned. 'Music to my ears! 'He crossed himself with his free hand.
Vincent signalled again and the stroke oarsman leaned toward him. Like a curtain shifting slowly to one side, the brilliant stars reflected on smoother water now, with hardly a breath of sultry wind as the boat thrust ahead. He stood up unhurriedly. A sudden move might wreck any chance of surprise, let alone success. But he knew this was vital.
'Be ready, lads. Stand together! 'He saw them leaning on the oars, or squeezing between the thwarts to hear him better. They needed more time to recover from the long pull. But there was no time. 'No quarter!'
He sat down and undipped his belt. Suppose the schooner had slipped away, even as they were idling with the
