In the King`s Name

waterfront in Falmouth, it could have been yesterday.

Unconsciously Adam had reached up to touch his shoulder, reliving it, remembering Jago’s words, the obvious concern.

“Best to keep on the move, Cap’n.” Jago had tried to make light of it. “It’s me they’re after!” But the familiar wry grin had deserted him.

He wondered what Jago thought about leaving England again, after only a brief respite in harbour while the necessary repairs were carried out. Jago had spent most of his life at sea in one ship or another, and mostly in time of war. For him there was nothing else. He had seen the idlers watching from the jetties, and others pulling past the anchored frigate as if unable to stay away, and had said with feeling, “Better to be stitched up in a hammock right now than end up on the beach like that lot!”

Jago had been there in church as their guest when Lowenna had married his captain, sitting with John Allday and his wife, Unis. There must have been more than a few yarns after the ceremony. And a lot of memories.

“Mornin’, Cap’n! Up an’ about already, I see!” Jago was putting down a steaming mug and turning up the solitary lantern, apparently indifferent to Onward‘s motion as the deck tilted again. “Wind’s steady enough-nor’east. We’ll need a few extra hands on the capstan.” He flicked open the razor until the blade caught the light and glanced at the old chair. “Ready when you are, Cap’n.”

He watched as the faded seagoing coat was tossed onto a bench and Adam lay back in “the chair with a frog- sounding name,” as Hugh Morgan, the cabin servant, had been heard to describe it. So many times… Jago could shave his captain in a storm without effort, and the razor was very sharp; he always made sure of that. Adam glanced at the stern windows. He must be mistaken, but they seemed paler already.

“‘Ere we go, sir!” Jago steadied Adam’s chin with his thick fingers. He could think of a few throats that wouldn’t have risked being in this position. One in particular.

He heard the sound of voices, feet scurrying across the deck: the morning watchkeepers preparing the way for all hands when the moment came.

He dabbed Adam’s face with a towel still hot from the galley fire. The first lieutenant was making certain that nothing would go wrong, with every naval telescope trained on Onward, ready to find fault if there was any misjudgment or error. And this man under the blade would be the target.

The captain was unusually quiet, Jago thought. Getting under way: a thousand things to remember. Maybe you never got used to it. He recalled the lovely woman in the church, the way she and Bolitho had looked together, surrounded by all those people and yet apart. He couldn’t imagine what it was like. He thought of the painting in the sleeping cabin behind him. And she had posed for it.

He wiped the blade and grinned. “Close shave, sir.”

Adam stood up and looked at him directly. “Steady as a rock, Luke!”

He heard a muffled clink from the little pantry. So Morgan could not sleep, either.

“I have a letter to finish.” The hardest one to write. “I want it to go ashore in good time.”

Jago nodded. “The guardboat will take it, sir. I’ll make sure of that.” He hesitated by the screen door, but there was nothing more. “I’ll leave you in peace, sir.”

Adam called after him, “Thanks, Luke.” “Sir?”

But Adam had walked to the quarter windows and was standing there, a slim figure of medium height, eyes as dark as his hair, pale shirt framed against the outer darkness like a spectre. As if he could see the nearest land.

He heard the door shut, the sentry clearing his throat while Jago told him the captain mustn’t be disturbed. He moved to the little desk and pulled open another drawer. The letter was there, half-written.

The ship was suddenly quiet, and he could hear the repetitive squeak of the hook where his best uniform coat hung from the deckhead, complete with the new epaulettes. He had worn it at his wedding in Falmouth. Adam touched his skin, and the slight scrape left by the razor when Jago’s concentration had wavered, a rare thing for him.

He dipped the pen and wrote slowly, as if to hear the words.

It was not tomorrow. It was now.

Lieutenant Mark Vincent stood by the quarterdeck rail and stared along Onward‘s full length, making sure he had missed nothing. It was almost physical, this relaxing muscle by muscle, like a gun captain who has made the final decision before opening fire. He had been appointed to Onward just over a year ago when she had been commissioned here in Plymouth, and he thought he knew every inch of her one hundred and fifty feet, above and below deck; how she behaved at sea, even how she looked to any passing vessel. Or to an enemy. She was a frigate which had more than proved herself during her short life, and one any man would be proud and, these days, lucky, to command.

He pushed the envy to the back of his mind, until the next time.

It was rare to see the deck so crowded. The lower deck had been cleared, hammocks smartly stowed in the nettings with a minimum of fuss. He glanced up at the sky, shreds of ragged cloud scudding ahead of the cold north-easterly, with only a few pale streaks of blue, like ice.

“Guardboat’s casting off, sir!”

Vincent said curtly, “As ordered.” He did not know the seaman’s face, one of the replacements for somebody killed or injured in their brief, bitter fight with Nautilus, but a few drills or an Atlantic gale would soon change that. And most of the new hands were volunteers, a far cry from his first days at sea when they had been pressed men or worse, “scrovies” as the worthless were termed-picked up by local crimps when they were too drunk to know what was happening.

He thought of the idlers he had seen on the waterfront when he had been ashore on some mission or other, doubtless some of the same Jacks who had once cursed every minute they had served aboard a King’s ship.

The guardboat was pulling away from the chains, the officer waving to someone by the entry port, the oars reflecting in the choppy water as they angled to take the first pull. Vincent unslung the telescope from his shoulder and trained it across the slow-moving boat. A two-decker of seventy-four guns was anchored between Onward and the inshore moorings and catching the first gleam of sunlight on her high poop and gilded “gingerbread,” and the rear-admiral’s flag at her mizzen. He closed the glass with a snap. Like a warning, or perhaps it was instinct. There were several figures on deck with telescopes pointing toward Onward. Officers, despite the early hour; the greasy smell of breakfast still lingered on the cold air.

He looked over at the companion and saw the captain’s coxswain climbing into view and pausing to touch his hat to the Royal Marine officers ranged beside a squad of scarlet coats.

As if it were a signal, Vincent crossed the deck, which had been cleared to allow space for the capstan bars to be slotted into place. Jago walked past the big double wheel and took up his station at the rail.

Another quick glance, and Vincent saw the signals crew standing by the flag locker, Midshipman Hotham in charge, his narrow face set in a frown, and very aware of the moment. A clergyman’s son, but, as he was always quick to point out, “so was Our Nel!”

The Royal Marines’ boots clicked together and someone saluted. The captain touched his hat, and Vincent thought he might have nodded slightly to his coxswain. He faced Vincent and smiled.

“It’ll be lively when we clear the Sound.” He was looking along the deck and gangways at the groups of seamen at their stations, most of them staring aft at their captain.

Vincent swallowed: his mouth felt bone-dry. How does it feel? His decision. I might never know.

Young Hotham’s voice scattered his thoughts. “Signal from Flag, sir!” A pause, and a telescope squeaked as somebody else focused on the flags breaking to the wind. “Proceed when ready!”

Adam saw the acknowledgment running up the halliards, Hotham peering eagerly forward as the bell chimed out as if to mark the moment.

Vincent shouted, “Man the capstan! Fo’c’sle party stand by!”

“Heave, m’ lads, heave!”

Adam turned, momentarily caught unawares. It would take time to become used to another new voice. Harry