In the King`s Name

How could he have hoped and lived so long after all he had seen and suffered?

The other hand fell against Napier’s wrist, clutched it, and for a few more seconds clung like iron.

“Knew … you’d … come.” He coughed and swallowed, then was silent again. Only the eyes seemed alive. Wild.

Napier thought he heard a shout. Maybe the gig was about to cast off. Leave him … He felt no fear.

He asked quietly, “How long have you-” and got no further, feeling the hand move to his throat, his face, limp now, but determined.

“Tell them, matey, an’ don’t forget, see?” He coughed blood, but his fingers had tightened. “Knew you’d come, see?”

Napier heard another spar slither across the deck, but he did not move. “Tell me!”

The eyes were closed now, but the voice seemed stronger. How could that be? “I should have known … but too late.”

“Who did this?” Napier felt the hand try to respond, but it was still. Only the eyes were alive, and the lips.

“No quarter. One by one. But I knew you’d come.”

Napier knew it was too late, for both of them. This was all they had left. And he could not move. Soon now …

He felt the fingers tighten again. “Remember the name! Tell them.”

There was silence, and Napier heard another sound: the trickle of water over the coaming, lapping against their legs.

The face moved, almost touching his; he could feel the cold, rasping breath. “Ball-an- tyne.” He was trying to squeeze his hand. “Say it! “

Napier repeated, “Ballantyne.” He felt the hand relax, and knew that he was now alone.

There was a crash, more loose gear falling in the hold, and he stood, waiting numbly for the end. Then he was gasping, his mind reeling as the door was wrenched aside, and he was being dragged clear of the floating debris.

Luke Jago exclaimed, “This is no place for you! So out of it, my lad!”

Napier was on his feet, staring back: Jago was bending over the body, the gilt buttons moving as he thrust his hand between them, the eyes fixed and gazing across his shoulders.

“Gone, poor devil.” He took Napier’s arm sharply and together they headed toward the ladder. Only then did Napier realise that the water was around his knees.

“What can I do?”

Jago stared up at the sky and the thickening layers of cloud and took a deep breath. “Pray, if you believes in it!”

They were both on deck, swaying together like two drunks recovering from a lively run ashore.

Vincent was leaning against the bulwark, alone, with his back to the sea. He snapped, “We’d almost given you up!” and gestured briskly. “Into the boat with you!”

Jago waited for them to climb down into the gig and followed. The grapnels had already been removed, and the bowmen were ready to cast off.

Napier stared at the schooner’s side, trying to marshal his thoughts.

“Shove off forrard! Out oars!”

He could sense Jago’s nearness and rock-like calm as he took control of men and oars.

Someone shouted, “She’s goin’, lads!”

Napier saw Moonstone start to turn on her side, showing her scarred deck, and the open hold where he would still be trapped but for Jago’s timely arrival. One of the broken masts slid down the deck, and he heard it crash against that same bulwark, dragging tangled rigging and canvas after it.

He gripped his wrist and could still feel the dying man’s desperation, hear his voice. The urgency and the despair. The rudder squeaked and he twisted round to see Jago swing the tiller bar, eyes steady as he gauged the moment.

There was a rumble like distant thunder, and sharper sounds as the hull continued to heel over toward them: carronades which had not been fired in Moonstone‘s defense crashing free, their great weight uncontrolled and speeding her last moments. And suddenly she was gone, the gig pitching only briefly as the wash subsided.

Napier rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. When he looked again he saw Onward, her sails aback and livid against the low clouds, waiting.

The ocean was deep here, and in his mind he could see the schooner still on her way down into eternal darkness. He gripped his wrist again and knew the memory would never leave him. Nor would he allow himself to forget.

It was a pledge.

4 DANGEROUS RENDEZVOUS

IN CORNWALL it had been a hard winter so far, but on this February morning the sky above Falmouth was clear and sunlit, at odds with further inland where the trees were still etched white with frost.

Not much wind, but what there was felt like a honed blade. There were plenty of people about, muffled up against the cold, and the hardier types behaving as if it were a spring day. A few, all women, waited by the fishermen’s wharf, but most of the boats were at sea or empty alongside. All the usual idlers waited on the waterfront, passing the time of day or waiting to share a drink with friends. A servant from the nearby inn had just been seen rolling an empty barrel across the courtyard, a welcome signal to the onlookers.

There had not been much movement in the harbour or Carrick Roads, but this day was different, and they were discussing the newcomer critically: a King’s ship, something of a rarity of late, with the exception of revenue cutters and naval supply vessels.

Many of the idlers were old sailors themselves, discharged, or thrown on the beach for a dozen different reasons. Many of them loudly proclaimed they were glad to be free of the navy and its harsh discipline, or various officers they had served in the past. Bad food and poor pay, and the constant risk of injury or death. But they were usually the first on the waterfront whenever a sail was sighted.

She was a brig, one of the navy’s maids of all work, busier than ever now with so many of the heavier vessels being paid off or scrapped. She was shortening sail as she turned slightly toward her anchorage, tiny figures spread out along the upper yards of her two masts, the canvas not even flapping as it caught the sunlight. Like her hull, the sails shone like glass and were hardened with salt and ice. A fine sight, but to some of the old hands watching from the shore she meant hazards as well as beauty. Fisting and kicking the frozen canvas into submission so that it could be furled and reefed was dangerous enough, but one slip and you would fall headlong onto the deck below, or into the sea alongside, where even if you could swim …

She was still turning, her sails almost aback, soon to be hidden by the old battery wall above the harbour. Only her masthead pendant showed to mark her anchorage. One man, who had brought a telescope, had seen the new arrival’s name and called out, “Merlin!”

But he was alone. His friends had drifted away.

Commander Francis Troubridge turned his back to the sun and stared at the land, the nearness of it. With the wind dropping to a light breeze, the approach had seemed endless. He would become used to it, with time and more experience. He had a good ship’s company; some had served aboard Merlin since she had first commissioned. One hundred and thirty all told. Hard to believe, he thought, when you considered she was only one hundred and five feet in length. Teamwork and companionship were vital. He looked at the houses, one above another on the steep hillside, but he could not see the church as he had the last time he had been in Falmouth. Only three months ago.

So much had happened since.

He glanced forward where men were stowing away loose gear, sliding down backstays, racing one another to