In the King`s Name

Vincent looked at the bulwark and wanted to lick his lips; they felt like sand. But he reached out and seized a fistful of the broken rigging that trailed above the sealed ports and called, “Be ready!” They all knew what to do. If not… He felt his knee grate on something metal, and the breeze on his face, and he was standing on the other vessel’s deck. In seconds the boarding party had fanned out on either side of him, forward and aft, but it had seemed an age while he was standing here alone.

And Onward was in sight again, unmoving above her own reflection. Vincent examined the schooner’s guns: all secured for sea. Even a solitary swivel gun, mounted near the wheel, was still covered, and the flag locker was tidily packed with bunting.

Someone said, “Must have taken ‘em by surprise.”

Napier had come across the deck, a long splinter of wood in his hand. “Blood, sir.”

Vincent took it from him. “It’s blood, right enough. Must have been a lot of it, too.”

Jago was on his knees by the shattered bulwark. “Fired up from a boat alongside.” He frowned as the abandoned wheel jerked slightly, as if to invisible hands, and indicated the deck. “Or from ‘ere, as th’ bastard stepped aboard.”

Vincent joined him, then reached out and touched Jago’s sinewy arm. “It makes sense … That was well said, Cox’n. No signals made, no attempt to attack or repel boarders.”

Jago was still looking at Vincent’s hand on his sleeve. “Means they must have known each other.” He scowled. “They was friends!”

Napier looked back at Onward. She had turned slightly, her sails aback and flapping. Napier could see the gilded figurehead of the boy with his trident and the dolphin. Where he had sat and yarned with Midshipman Huxley, who had joined the ship with him, and who had shared so much of the elation and the pain.

“Do we return to Onward, sir?”

Vincent was also looking toward the frigate. “We’ll carry out a search as ordered. But I don’t like the look of those clouds.” He added sharply, “We can’t take Moonstone in tow. She’s sinking anyway, or soon will if a squall blows up.”

He tugged out his watch. Napier had seen it lying on the chart table several times, but had never been able to read the inscription inside the guard.

“One hour, less if possible. I’ll go aft-you check the crew’s quarters.”

He looked at Jago. “First sign of bad weather, sound the alarm and we’ll clear the ship.” Something came into his mind and he smiled. “No heroics, eh?”

Jago said, “What about the galley, sir?”

Vincent turned, with his hands on the fallen foremast. “No.” Then, more quietly, “I shall go there now. Might tell us something.” He tugged open a small hatchway. “You keep an eye on the deck and the boat.” There was no response. “Your gig, remember?”

Jago breathed out noisily, waiting for two seamen to accompany the first lieutenant. Bloody officers. But he said aloud, “Watch yer step. Yell out if you need ‘elp.” He tapped Napier’s arm as he had seen Vincent do and grinned. “An’ don’t make a meal of it.”

Two of the gig’s crew, one carrying an axe, the other with a shuttered lantern, followed Napier past a gaping hold. It must have been opened to search for something, or to remove it. It was unreal, hard to believe. The vessel was dead, and yet at each step … Napier leaned over the coaming and peered down, only to see his own reflection in the trapped water beneath him, head and shoulders framed against the sky.

The water was swilling back and forth with each uneven roll. Not deep, anyway. He saw a narrow ladder and climbed onto it, and called to the two seamen, “Take a look at that other hatch! Keep together!”

One of them waved, the other bared his teeth in a grin.

Then Napier felt the deck under his shoes, slippery, gritty with dirt from some previous cargo. He winced as the hull swayed over again and the trapped water swept around his ankles. It shocked him, like an icy touch. He waited for his nerves to settle.

He heard another hatch cover being dragged aside, then slammed shut again.

There were piles of canvas propped against one side of the hold, shining faintly, soaked through. They appeared to have been properly stacked-spare sails or awnings-but had been tossed aside as the schooner was dismasted and began to submit to the ocean.

More thuds, further away now. Not that far, he reassured himself. Moonstone was less than half the frigate’s length. Must have been a fine little ship under sail. To command. Probably a twin of the one named Pickle which had been sent by Vice-Admiral Collingwood to carry the vital and terrible news to England after Trafalgar, the great victory overshadowed by Nelson’s death. He must ask Drummond, the bosun, about it some time … It was strange, but he still saw Joshua Guthrie in his mind, Onward‘s old bosun, who had been killed.

He flinched as something fell and scraped across the deck above, perhaps a broken spar or part of the foremast. It was only a matter of time before she foundered, but how much of that time did they have? He saw some of the canvas lurch over, heard somebody shout and his companion answer, glass breaking as it fell to the deck. Then silence.

The hull swayed again and Napier moved carefully along the side of the hold and waited for the deck to right itself. It did not.

He shouted, “Anything, Lucas?” and heard the muffled reply. “Nuthin’ yet!” Anxious, even scared.

“Join the others!” and he heard the thud of feet, a hatch slamming. People had died, and they might never discover how or why. It was pointless to risk any more.

Vincent would be ready to leave, for his own reasons. One of the carelessly tied bundles of canvas thudded against his legs. He told himself to remain calm, but it was like a shouted warning. The time was now.

He turned to look for the ladder. It was in shadow, or perhaps the light was going anyway. He recalled what Vincent had said about the clouds. One squall bursting over Moonstone‘s deck, and she would be on her way to the bottom.

The fabric of his breeches caught on the edge of something that must have been shielded by the canvas and other debris, a small door or screen where tools or tackle might be stowed for unloading cargo.

He called, “Wait, Lucas!” but there was no answer. What was the point, anyway? He felt the water swilling across his feet again. It seemed deeper. Go now.

He had known fear in the past. This was different. He simply could not move.

The deck lurched again; perhaps he cried out, but there was only silence. Any second now … And then he heard it.

At first he thought it was only in his mind, the last cry, like when Audacity had gone down, but then he heard it again. A tapping, a scraping, hesitant but close. Human? He was scrabbling against the little door now, tugging at the rough clip, leaving blood on the frame but feeling nothing, only a wild desperation. Water was surging around his legs; this could be the final plunge, but it was all out of reach, unreal. Only the faint sound was vital.

Another coaming, and he almost fell. He tried to wedge the door open; otherwise he would be in complete darkness. There was very little light anyway. More fallen canvas and coils of rope, sodden papers floating like leaves, clinging to his hands as he steadied himself. The furtive scrabbling had stopped, if it had ever existed. Maybe it was in an adjoining space or hold. There was a muffled echo, as if something had reverberated against the hull, and he knew it was a shot. From Onward, from another world. The pre-arranged recall.

He pushed his shoulder against the door but it did not shift. If only. Then he froze, unable to think or breathe as something groped at his thigh and fastened to his wet clothing. Like a claw, and it was alive.

He saw the face for the first time, only the eyes catching the feeble light when the door moved slightly.

Napier struggled to move closer until their faces were almost touching, felt the shocked gasp of pain as he tried to push the debris away from the twisted limbs, heard the ragged breathing. The coat was torn and matted, not only with water but with blood, and Napier could see the faint shine of gilt buttons. When his hands fumbled against the ice-cold fingers, he felt the pistol they still gripped. It would never fire again.

Napier leaned closer, overwhelmed by the man’s pain and the smell of the filth in which he had been sprawled.