In the King`s Name

Why any one would want to use one of them after what they had done was hard to imagine.

“They should burn the bloody lot of ‘em. Their crews, too,” he said now. Walker had managed to lean on his elbows, the leg still dangling toward the deck below. “You feelin’ any better?”

Walker did not reply directly. “What is that boat doing there amongst them?”

Drummond wiped his eyes and squinted. Then he gripped Walker’s bony shoulder. “Nothin’ wrong with your eyesight, thank God!” He gestured through the lubbers’ hole. “We’re goin’ down now, nice an’ easy, one step at a time, see?”

Walker nodded like a puppet. “But Lieutenant Monteith ordered me to …”

Drummond peered down at the deck. Nothing had changed. A Royal Marine was walking slowly along the starboard gangway, keeping pace with a small craft paddling a few yards away from the frigate’s side. A normal precaution: it was common enough for a would-be thief to slip aboard through one of the open ports if nobody was watching.

Everybody else would be looking at the flagship. As I was.

He said, “Never mind that. I want you to find the first lieutenant, an’ don’t take no from any one!”

Walker had lowered his legs, one foot shoeless, over the edge of the platform. “What shall I tell him?” He sounded calmer now, under control, but Drummond wanted to be sure.

“Just keep with me an’ don’t look down, right?” He glanced toward the rank of lifeless vessels. He had had only a brief glimpse of it, but it was still fixed in his mind: a longboat, double-banked, two oarsmen on each thwart, pulling steadily, even unhurriedly beyond the shabby prizes.

He replied, “Tell ‘im the admiral is in sight!” He caught Walker’s arm and grinned. “Don’t stop for nobody!”

He watched the midshipman jump down to the deck, pause, and tear off his remaining shoe before hurrying aft. Someone shouted after him, perhaps Monteith, but he did not stop or turn back.

Drummond followed easily, and wedged the empty water flask behind the flag locker. Until the next time.

Young Walker would remember today, and be proud.

Drummond moistened his call with the tip of his tongue. To hell with Monteith!

After the uncertainty which had followed Walker’s breathless arrival at the door of the captain’s quarters, the speed with which the actual event unfolded was almost a relief.

A cry from the lookout: “Boat ahoy?”

And the formal response, magnified by a speaking-trumpet, “Flag-Medusa!” left nobody in doubt.

Adam Bolitho watched the admiral’s barge turning to moor alongside, the double line of oars rising together, bowmen poised and ready to hook on. Even at this distance he could sense the strain and effort after their long pull as a diversion, chests heaving, faces shining with sweat. Jago would be observing critically, and would have a few things to say afterwards about it.

Adam had seen Vincent pass Drummond, the bosun, on the way to their stations for such an event, saw the nod and the answering grin. Like a couple of conspirators. The barge’s coxswain was on his feet now, hat in hand, two lieutenants, one obviously remaining in charge, also standing and saluting. And Rear-Admiral Giles Langley’s pallid face turned up toward the entry port where the side-boys were waiting, complete with white gloves, to offer assistance.

Langley ignored both and seized a hand rope, still looking up at the motionless ensign.

Langley was not lightly built, but he seemed untroubled by the climb from his barge, or the stamp of boots and attendant squeal of calls as he stepped aboard.

One of the other officers, his flag lieutenant, followed at a discreet distance, stiff-faced, accustomed to such ceremonial. Langley waited for the calls to fall silent, and the muskets to slap into position. Then he smiled and raised his hat as he faced aft. It was more of a gesture than a salute.

He thrust out his hand to Adam. “I said we should meet today!” and with a curt nod, “This is ‘Flags.’” He did not offer a name. The lieutenant was obviously used to that, too.

Langley waved his hand expansively. “Would you steer the course, Captain Bolitho? It’s not every day …” He allowed the phrase to dangle, perhaps a habit, perhaps for effect.

Adam strode aft, looking for flaws. The lieutenants and senior warrant officers waiting on the quarterdeck, and most of the duty watch mustered below the boat tier, the uniforms of a sweating squad of Royal Marines a vivid splash of colour amidships. A midshipman stood stiffly by each gangway, in case of any urgent message or change of procedure.

He thought of Midshipman Walker, and the quiet determination with which he had bluffed his way past the cabin sentry. And Vincent, usually so loath to reveal any emotion. He had gripped the startled boy’s hand and shaken it fiercely.

“I don’t care what you were doing up there, Walker-you came to me! Good man!”

Vincent was here now, much more contained, watching a bosun’s mate clearing a section of the deck of spare hands who were still in working rig, or stripped to the waist in the heat.

He murmured to Adam, “I told the barge crew they could stand easy aboard us while they were waiting.” Adam remembered Tyacke offering the same courtesy to Onward‘s boat’s crew. “The lieutenant declined, sir. He said he was told to stand by.”

The admiral turned, lightly for a man of his girth: there was obviously nothing wrong with his hearing.

“My barge crew? They do nothing else all day. Mister …” He cocked his head. “Vincent? Correct?” And without pausing, “I shall want to talk to you about the Moonstone affair before the day is out. You were the boarding officer. When the last ‘survivor’ was discovered?”

The flag lieutenant leaned forward and interjected, “It was not Lieutenant Vincent who found him, sir.” He was consulting an open notebook. Langley stared coldly beyond him.

“I wasn’t aware that I was asking you.”

Adam said, “I should have explained, sir,” and Langley gave him the now familiar, humourless smile.

“You did, I believe.” Then he said abruptly, “May we pause, Bolitho?”

Adam saw Vincent give an almost imperceptible nod and hurry aft.

Langley was looking at the windsails. “Might be a little cooler below-and we can talk.” He turned just as swiftly and beckoned to Midshipman Huxley. “And who are you?”

Adam saw the flag lieutenant open his mouth and close it again.

“Huxley, sir.”

“Oh. I thought perhaps …” He seemed about to walk on toward a line of seamen, but stopped and swung round again. “Huxley? I trust not related to …”

He left the rest unspoken, but it was enough. Huxley’s face had closed, and Adam saw his fist clench before he thrust it out of sight.

He said, “I think I am very fortunate in Onward‘s midshipmen, sir.”

Langley pulled out a large handkerchief and dabbed his mouth. “Well, time will tell, as every captain must know!” He looked aft again. “I think I’ve shown the flag enough for the moment.” He waited for Vincent to present himself. “You may carry on now, Lieutenant. A smart ship. Are you satisfied?”

Vincent answered without hesitation, “Ready for sea, sir.”

Langley stepped into the shade with obvious relief, remarking, “As it should be.”

They reached the cabin, where the screen door was already open, the Royal Marine sentry at attention, his eyes fixed discreetly on some point above the admiral’s epaulette.

The flag lieutenant had his little book open again, but Langley snapped, “Not now, Flags! That can wait.”

Inside the great cabin it seemed cool after the upper deck. The stern windows were open, and an unfinished letter on Adam’s small desk was stirring slightly in the breeze.

Langley strode across the cabin and tossed his hat onto a chair, ducking his head, his fair hair almost touching the deckhead.

“This takes me back.” He did not elaborate. Then he saw the bergere facing astern, in the place of honour, as Jago always called it. Langley lowered himself into it slowly and carefully, while his aide hovered nearby.