In the King`s Name

5 FLAGSHIP

CAPTAIN ADAM BOLITHO climbed from the companion and paused to prepare his eyes for the glare. The morning watch was only an hour old but the sun, reflected from the sea, was almost blinding after the chartroom. But for the angle, it could have been noon.

A glance aloft to the masthead pendant, no longer limp or curling above the canvas but streaming its full length, pointing the way ahead. The topsails, too, were responding again, not full or straining like other times, but answering well to wind and rudder. Will it last?

For four days the wind had been their enemy. Veering and backing, or falling away altogether, a mockery rather than a challenge. Hardly a watch passed without all hands being called as Onward changed tack. Even during the night, when even an experienced sailor is never at his best.

Adam stared along the length of the ship and felt the wind, slight as it was, pressing the shirt against his back. Like the air, his skin was already warm and clammy. As Jago had remarked over his razor, “Best to keep dressed down while you can, Cap’n.”

Most of the men working on or above deck were stripped to the waist, some badly burned by sun and wind, and despite the early hour there were several of them loitering on the gangways, peering ahead, or pointing at the vast span of land that reached out on either bow as far as the eye could see. At first only a long unwavering shadow, unmoving, beyond reach, but now, after two days of doubt and uncertainty, it was reality. Measureless. Not merely land, but a continent.

Adam glanced at the sails again, and thought he saw one of the topmen pointing at something, grinning or swearing, he could not tell. But he felt it. Shared it. At moments like this, we are one company.

He knew that Vincent was standing with his arms folded, observing the men around the wheel and compass box. It was his watch, although he and his captain had met a few times when every one had been mustered for another alteration of course. Like strangers in the night. This was different. As first lieutenant, Vincent would be on his feet and dealing with everything from mooring the ship to any ceremonial required.

Vincent turned now as someone gave a quiet cheer, but seemed to visibly relax as men moved aside to let another find a place at the nettings. It was the young assistant cook, Lord, with one of the surgeon’s crew hovering at his side. The bandages gleamed in the hot sunlight, and Adam could sense his surprise, even confusion, as the way was cleared for him. There were grins and jokes, too. Lord looked steadily at the land, unable to respond. Perhaps the emotion was too much. It was his first day on deck since the stabbing.

It gave Vincent time to cross the quarterdeck and touch his hat to Adam. “Holding steady, sir. West nor’ west. We’ll anchor in the forenoon if this holds.” He glanced at the thin plume of greasy smoke from the galley funnel. “Good thing we piped all hands an hour early!”

Adam smiled. “They’ve done well.” He saw some of the first to be called appearing on deck, yawning and looking curiously at the land as they began to stack their rolled hammocks in the nettings, a bosun’s mate making sure that there were no errors to spoil the array. He added quietly, “And so have you, Mark.”

Vincent walked to the compass box and back, and said only, “D’ you know the admiral at Freetown, sir?”

Adam saw a fish leap in the ship’s shadow, not a shark this time. He was still thinking of the stricken schooner Moonstone. Maybe Vincent was, too.

“Rear-Admiral Langley? Only by name, I’m afraid. There have been several changes since I was last here, to all accounts.”

Vincent nodded slowly. “They’ll all be hungry for news. Wanting to know what’s happening at home.”

Adam looked toward the spreading panorama of green and felt the sun on his neck, like a hot breath. And this was early. News from home.

The admiral might be watching Onward right now through his telescope, if he allowed himself to appear so eager. He thought of the sealed orders. With all despatch… And after their delivery, what next? Take on supplies and fresh water, and then back to Plymouth?

He saw the cook’s assistant looking at the galley funnel, and the surgeon’s mate shaking his head. Not yet. You didn’t have to hear them speak. He looked again: most of the hammocks had been lashed and stowed, and one of the last men to stand away from the nettings was throwing his head back and giving a huge yawn. He froze as he realised that he was eye to eye with his captain.

Adam raised a casual hand and smiled, and saw the seaman abruptly bob his head before hurrying away.

The calls shrilled: “Hands to breakfast and clean!”

Adam shaded his eyes and said, “You go below too, Mark. We’ll all be busy enough soon.”

He saw Vincent rub his chin and then nod. “Thank you, sir. I’ll not take a moment. If you’re sure.”

Adam heard the companion close, and walked to the quarterdeck rail, gazing toward the shore. Even without a telescope he could see some small local vessels, far away, like dried leaves floating against the unmoving backdrop. One day, Vincent would understand that at a moment like this a captain needed to be alone. With his ship.

The two midshipmen stood side by side on the forecastle as the land, now alive with detail, continued to reach out and embrace the ship. Despite the sounds of spars and rigging, which most sailors took for granted as part of their daily lives, the silence was unnerving, and a moment before, someone had gasped with alarm as the first strokes of eight bells had sounded from the nearby belfrey.

David Napier nudged his friend’s arm with his elbow and felt him respond.

Lieutenant Squire stood stolidly with his hands clasped behind him, big feet apart, watching the guardboat which had pulled out to greet Onward on her final approach and had taken station directly ahead. The wind had held after all, but the pace seemed painfully slow under the lee of the land.

The gunner had already been on deck, but no salute was required. He had grinned. “They’re not out of their sacks yet!” Even his voice had seemed louder than usual.

Midshipman Huxley murmured, “There’s the flagship, Dave.”

His Britannic Majesty’s ship Medusa was a smart third-rate, a two-decker of seventy-four guns. She did not compare with the massive ships of the line, but here she seemed to dominate the anchorage. Most of the other vessels were much smaller: cutters, two brigantines, and one schooner.

Napier heard Huxley mutter, “She’s like-”

He did not finish. Neither of them needed reminding, especially Napier. The memory of Moonstone still took him unawares, in the night watches or when some casual remark brought some part of it back to life. Like now.

He looked aft and saw the first lieutenant standing by the captain, pointing up at the topsail yards, where seamen stood ready to shorten or make more sail if the wind roused itself or dropped altogether. Did Vincent ever think about it? That more could have been done? If anything, he had avoided mentioning it.

Napier thought of the captain. He had seen the sharks, and signalled the recall immediately. But for that …

He cupped his hands over his eyes and stared across the water toward Medusa. She was moored alongside a pier or wooden jetty, the rear-admiral’s flag drooping from her mizzen, and he could see a few figures working on deck and the sun reflecting on a telescope.

Lieutenant Squire said suddenly, “We shall rig winds’ls as soon as we anchor. Be like an oven ‘tween-decks otherwise.”

“Is that what the flagship’s doing, sir?” That was Huxley, as serious as ever.

Squire grunted. “Not sure.”

Napier looked away from the slow-moving schooner. “Maybe Medusa’s preparing for sea?”

Somebody yelled from aft and Squire strode to the side and gestured to some of the anchor party. But he still managed to crack a grin.

“If the flagship went to sea, that whole bloody pier would collapse!” He clapped one of the seamen on the shoulder as he was gaping at the great anchor hanging from its cathead. “Ready for a run ashore, Knocker? Or are you too young for it?”