In the King`s Name

Tucker leaned over and looked at the deck below. Nobody appeared to be gazing up at the foremast now, but Squire would want to know. And the captain … He remembered the emotionless voice. One dozen lashes. How had he felt about it, if he had felt anything?

He slung the telescope across his shoulder and dug his foot into the first ratline.

The lookout said, “Thanks,” and lifted his hand. “Don’t lose any sleep.” Something in his voice made Tucker turn back. “The bastard deserved it!”

Lieutenant Squire was waiting and listened to his report and the description of the abandoned vessel without interruption, then said, “Nothing we can do. But the captain will need to know about it. I’ll take you to him.”

Midshipman Walker piped up, “He’s coming now, sir!”

Adam waited without comment until Tucker had repeated his description, and said, “We’ll alter course and intercept. It might tell us something.”

Squire bit his lip, a habit only others noticed. “Could be dark when we find her, sir.” He glanced up at the masthead pendant. “If she’s still afloat.”

Bolitho stared across the open sea, and then back at him. “At least we will have tried.” He turned toward the companion. “Chartroom. Tell the first lieutenant.”

Squire touched his hat, and beckoned to Midshipman Walker. “You heard what the captain said, boy. So go to it!”

He heard Bolitho’s voice on the companion ladder, speaking with the surgeon, either about the wounded man or the one who had stabbed him. All the same to a sawbones …

But only one man made the real decisions, and he was doing it now.

Adam Bolitho walked across the quarterdeck and saw Vincent lower his telescope and turn toward him. Beyond him and deceptively close was the disabled schooner, stern-on for the first time since the lookout had signalled for assistance.

Vincent said, “She’s called Moonstone, sir,” and grimaced. “What’s left of her.”

Adam leaned his hip against the rail and steadied the telescope as he adjusted to the deck’s uneven motion, and the plunging of the other vessel. He could calm himself, as he had often done, just by touching the engraving. His uncle’s telescope, like the old sword in the great cabin below. Strength or envy? Maybe both.

“Moonstone. By God, she’s been fired on.”

Vincent said, “You know her, sir?”

Adam shifted the glass carefully. Faces and groups of sailors, staring at the drifting schooner, as many had been doing for most of the day. Some waiting for the bell to chime from the forecastle for the first dog watch. And beyond them the sea, without the bluster and occasional whitecaps, but sullen, almost breathing.

He glanced at the sky and at the trailing masthead pendant. They could not delay much longer. He thought of the sealed orders in the strongbox below, the scarlet lettering: WITH ALL DESPATCH.

He looked directly at Vincent but he knew Monteith was hovering by the gangway, waiting to take over the watch, and already peering around as if to find something neglected and demanding his attention. He was aware of Jago too, arms folded, and staring not at the schooner but astern, outwardly relaxed; but to Adam it was like a warning. Like the stabbing in the galley. Or the epaulette sliced away by the invisible marksman’s shot.

He recalled Vincent’s question.

“Moonstone? Yes. Three years ago when I was with Unrivalled … in these same waters, or near enough.” He raised the telescope again, more slowly, focusing on the broken spars and splintered bulwark. Feeling it. “Freetown, the anti-slavery patrols. Moonstone was under Admiralty warrant, liaison between our flag officer and the shore authorities.”

Vincent was listening, but his eyes never left the schooner. Perhaps knowing her name had given her an identity, and made it personal.

“She’s going under.”

Adam looked at the sky. The wind was dropping, and there was a ridge of cloud now on a horizon which had been as sharp as steel. He said, “We’ll board her.”

He heard eight bells ring out, and the slow response of feet and voices as the watch was relieved.

Vincent did not move, even when Monteith strode across the deck and touched his hat to him, but with his eyes on his captain. Vincent looked toward the starboard gangway where Squire was pointing at something aboard the drifting schooner, shaping it with his strong hands.

“Mr. Squire, sir?” It sounded so formal that at any other time …

Adam beckoned to Jago, whose response was immediate. “No. You go, Mark. I need to know …”

“But it’s my watch, sir.”

Adam touched his arm. “Take the gig and a few extra hands. The jolly-boat has shipped some water, by the look of it.”

Jago was beside him. “Standin’ by, Cap’n.”

Adam looked up at the sky, and the loosely flapping topsails. With all despatch… The wind was dropping and had already backed a little. Onward might easily lose the time she had gained after her rough passage from Biscay, and they would get no thanks from the admiral when they eventually reached Freetown. Least of all for boarding a crippled vessel which would likely capsize and founder at any moment.

He gazed across the water. The schooner was rolling steeply in each trough, showing her copper and the splintered holes where shots had smashed into the hull. Others had brought down most of her spars and rigging. Moonstone must have been a fast sailer, like most of her breed. Then why had she not spread her canvas and run?

He said, “At the first sign of trouble, Mark-”

Vincent looked at him and nodded slowly. “I know, sir. One hand for the King.”

The falls were manned and the gig was already at deck level as Vincent turned and said, “I’m taking Napier,” then climbed down the quarter as the call came to lower away.

The gig veered away, and Adam heard Jago order the bowman to cast off.

Unsteadily at first but more strongly as the oarsmen lay back on their looms, the gig was already pulling toward Moonstone, and was soon out of sight as Jago steered around Onward‘s stern to take advantage of her lee. But not before Adam had seen Vincent half-standing in the sternsheets, and the white midshipman’s patches on the thwart below him. David Napier had proved his worth and courage before this, and had paid for it. But was that the only reason for Vincent’s choice?

Lieutenant Squire had joined Adam by the compass box, and asked, “How long, sir?”

“We will reef tops’ ls directly.” He looked again at the listing schooner. “An hour. No longer.” He had seen the clouds, closer now. “Tell the bosun to have the jolly-boat hauled alongside and bailed out.”

Squire touched his hat and strode heavily away.

In the gig, Vincent reached out and gripped Napier’s shoulder to steady himself as the tiller went over for the final approach, and felt him tense as if waiting for the impact. Or a challenge.

The bowmen were ready with two grapnels, in case one fell short.

“Back water, starboard.” Jago’s voice broke the silence as the gig nudged alongside the schooner’s hull, and another grapnel was hurled from aft.

Vincent had boarded a good many vessels on one mission or another, especially in the early days leading up to the Battle of Lissa. But someone else had been giving the orders. Now, with the Moonstone‘s side looming over him, small things stood out. Her gunports were closed, and had been newly painted. Carronades, eight or ten of them, enough to deter other small craft or would-be boarders, were unmarked, strangely at odds with the battering on the opposite side which must have dismasted her.

And now the silence. Only the occasional creak of the hulls, and the sluice of water between them. He could even hear the oarsmen’s heavy breathing after their pull away from Onward‘s side.

Jago said loudly, “Standin’ by, sir.”