In the King`s Name

There were several raucous laughs, and one of the younger seamen took up Squire’s mood. “Wot are the girls like ‘ere, sir?”

Squire looked at the two midshipmen and winked. “Only one way to find out!” Just as quickly, he was serious again. “Stand by forrard, and warn the hands below!”

Napier saw the guardboat turning slightly, oars motionless, and someone holding up the blue flag. He thought of the charts, the countless pencilled calculations, the hundreds of miles logged and recorded, all culminating in this final position, marked by a blue flag.

He nudged Huxley again. “It’s probably still snowing in Falmouth!”

Huxley gave a rare smile. “My father always said …” He stopped and withdrew into silence, a habit Napier had noticed that very first day when they had joined Onward together, he still recovering from the loss of his ship and Huxley brooding over his father’s court-martial and suicide.

He said gently, “Tell me, Simon. What did your father used to say?” and for a moment he thought he had broken an unspoken promise.

Then Huxley answered steadily, “My father said a good navigator measured distance by the number of ship’s biscuits consumed each day …” He faltered, but he was smiling. “Sorry about that!” And the smile remained.

Napier stared up at the yards and the topmen spread out along them, and guessed his newly promoted friend, Tucker, would be watching them, too.

Lieutenant Squire was saying, “Quiet enough. Must all be asleep aboard the flagship.” He beckoned to Napier. “My respects to the first lieutenant, and tell him …” He stopped as another voice came from aft.

“Signal from Flag, sir! Captain repair on board!”

“Let go!”

Squire leaned over the side as Onward‘s anchor dropped from its cathead and felt the spray across his face like rain; it was almost as cold on his heated skin. Mud and sand swirled to the surface as the cable took the strain.

He signalled to the quarterdeck and saw Vincent acknowledge it. It was over, but Squire knew from long experience that it was also just beginning.

“Attention on the upper deck! Face to starboard!”

Then the prolonged trill of calls in salute for the captain, and, seconds later or so it seemed, the gig pulled smartly away from the side. Squire straightened his back automatically and felt Napier move up beside him. He saw the sun glinting on the oars and then on the captain’s gold epaulettes as he sat stiffly upright in the sternsheets. He seemed to be looking up at Onward‘s figurehead, or the men on the forecastle. Maybe at Napier.

It must be difficult for both of them, captain and “middy.” More than any one. To show any sign of friendship or familiarity would be seen as favouritism or bias by those eager to seize on such things.

Squire peered across at the flagship and thought he heard the blare of a trumpet. Neither captain was wasting any time.

At the gig’s tiller, Luke Jago watched the steady stroke of oars and waited for it to settle into a rhythm that satisfied him. Everything smart and clean, the crew dressed in their chequered shirts and straw hats. He envied them; he was wearing his jacket with the gilt buttons, and was already sweating badly. He glanced at the captain in his best uniform; even the proud epaulettes looked heavy on his shoulders.

Jago stared past the stroke oarsman’s head at the flagship’s mainmast, alert for any drift that might require a shift of rudder. There was none. A good crew. He grinned to himself. An’ a good coxswain.

He thought of Lieutenant Monteith, who had been pompously inspecting all the boats’ crews as soon as the anchor had hit the seabed. “Always remember, a ship is judged by her boats. Skill and smartness speak for themselves!”

Jago had heard a seaman mutter, “Then let ‘em!” But he had pretended not to hear. The third lieutenant seemed to thrive on his unpopularity, and Jago suspected that it was not only with the lower deck.

He felt the captain shift his position and knew he was looking astern at his ship.

A strange feeling: it always was. Adam Bolitho shaded his eyes with one hand against the fierce glare reflecting from the anchorage. He could still see the tiny figures working aloft on Onward‘s upper yards, ensuring all the sails were neatly furled to Vincent’s satisfaction. He half smiled. And to his captain’s.

He tried not to pluck his damp shirt away from his skin. It was the same one he had been wearing when they had begun the approach to Freetown. Even his slight unsteadiness climbing down into the gig had warned him. He would have to watch his step when he went ashore. It would be the first time since Plymouth. He glanced at the stroke oarsman and saw him look away hurriedly. And before that, Falmouth. If only…

He looked ahead to the flagship, Medusa. Not unlike Athena, in which he had been Bethune’s flag captain, smartly painted in her black and white livery and shining like glass in the glare. All her gunports were open, but without windsails hoisted there would be little ventilation between decks with the ship not even swinging at anchor. Maybe she was preparing for sea. He dismissed the idea. There were several lighters alongside one another, and he could just see a small stage, a “flake,” hanging over the quarter, probably so that some repairs could be carried out.

He murmured to Jago, “We’ve done this a few times, Luke,” and his voice was almost lost in the regular creak of oars. But Jago never seemed to miss anything. Unless he wanted to.

He did not take his eyes from the approach; he had seen a telescope or two being trained on his gig.

Jago answered calmly, “Be doin’ it when it’s your flag up there bein’ saluted, Cap’n.” He sounded completely serious.

The cry echoed across the water. “Boat ahoy?”

Jago judged the moment, then cupped his hands, his elbow on the tiller-bar. “On- ward!”

Adam felt the sword hilt pressing against his leg. It had been polished by Morgan, the cabin servant, and, like his dress uniform coat, had been waiting for him. He had told himself that he must never take these small acts beyond the call of duty for granted. Too many were guilty of that.

“Oars!”

Adam shifted the sword again. He had never forgotten the tale of a captain who had tripped over his own sword under similar circumstances and had fallen into the sea. He had been a midshipman at the time, and they had all laughed uproariously about it.

Now the oars were tossed, the bowmen ready to make fast as the flagship’s side loomed over them. Only one deck higher than Onward, but it seemed like a cliff. There was the entry port, with two side-boys waiting below it. Voices, the sound of a solitary call, then total silence.

Adam stood up and half turned as Jago handed him the sealed package. He began to climb, the orders pressed firmly beneath his arm, and gripping a hand rope to steady himself. One slip now, and it would be the story of how Adam Bolitho fell into the sea at Freetown … But the smile eluded him. He could smell food, and recalled that he had not eaten since midnight.

He saw a line of feet, and boots as well-Royal Marines-and heard the sudden bark of commands. He was still unused to these honours for himself. Then the piercing squeal of calls, heels clicking together, and the distant shouting of commands. He stepped through the entry port and faced aft, doffing his hat as the sounds of the salute died away.

A shaft of sunlight from the opposite side of the deck blinded him, and the uniforms, scarlet or blue like his own, seemed to blur and merge. He almost lost his balance.

But a hand reached out. “Here, let me take that.” And he heard what might have been a dry chuckle. “It’s safe with me, Captain Adam Bolitho!”

Adam saw the hand gripping his arm now, strong and sunburned, like the man.

So many memories crowding into seconds, good and bad, which neither time nor distance could dispel. It was Captain James Tyacke, who had done and given so much, almost his life, and who had become one of Sir Richard Bolitho’s firmest friends as his flag captain in Frobisher. He had been with him when