In the King`s Name

“lobsters.”

He glanced toward the land, very faintly visible now, darker than the sky.

And the air was still cool. But in another hour, less … He felt something like a shiver, and repressed it. He said quietly, “So let’s be about it, shall we?”

He had gone over it in his mind again and again. Weapons, powder and shot, a day’s ration of food and water. Bandages. He heard a few hushed voices, a slap on the back. Even a quick laugh.

The gig cast off first, oars moving slowly to carry her clear of the side. Jago was at the tiller. Not a volunteer: he had insisted. Napier was with him, Monteith’s decision. Next the cutter, muffled oars taking the strain, the coxswain the usual man-Fitzgerald, a true Patlander as Jago called him-waving to someone still invisible in the darkness. His loose white shirt was ghost-like against the black water. It would be Jago’s guide as he was following astern.

Vincent said, “I’ve doubled the lookouts, and the anchor watch is standing by. Now all we can do …”

Adam looked up at the sky, which seemed lighter, although that was impossible, and considered Vincent’s voice. Efficient but envious. When he looked again, the two boats had disappeared, and he felt Vincent move toward the side.

Like me, he wants to be with them.

David Napier crouched in the gig’s sternsheets and watched the regular thrust and heave of the stroke oarsman, slower than usual, but very steady. With extra hands aboard there was scarcely room to move. He eased his injured leg as much as he could; at least that was not playing up.

Monteith was sitting beside him, shifting occasionally to peer around the oarsmen as if in search of the cutter. It was rarely visible, except for a phosphorescent splash of oars, and the pale blur of Fitzgerald’s shirt.

Once he snapped, “Look out! We’re losing her!” and Jago had broken his silence.

“I’ve got her!” The barest pause. “Sir.”

Napier could feel spray splashing across his legs as the oars dipped steeply into the swell. Like tropical rain. How much worse it must be in the cutter, with a much heavier load to carry. He had seen the swivel gun mounted in the bows, but had heard Sergeant Fairfax say, “There’s another one to take its place if need be.” He had even chuckled. “No time to load an’ prime if we have to fire!”

No wonder the cutter had displayed so little freeboard. Squire must be thinking of that right now in this deeper swell.

Napier shifted again and felt the curved hanger’s hilt rub against his thigh. The gunner had issued it to him when the landing party had been arming, blades freshly sharpened on a grindstone. Like Nautilus. Like Moonstone.

The gunner had watched him unbuckle his dirk. “Take this, boy. You might need something stronger than that do-little sword today!”

He looked toward the shore, and tried to see it in his mind. The sky was lighter, but only slightly, like the edge of a frayed curtain. There should be a small spur of headland to starboard, if the cutter was on course. And a beach, which might still surprise them. He would talk it all over later with Huxley, who was up there with Squire. It was hard to determine what they had in common, except for the unbreakable bond of friendship, which neither of them had ever questioned.

Jago said curtly, “Alterin’ course to starboard.”

Monteith almost stood up, but seemed to change his mind. “Are you certain?”

Jago either did not hear him or ignored him.

Napier offered, “I can still see the cox’n’s shirt, sir.”

He sensed that Jago had leaned across the tiller-bar and guessed he was grinning. Or swearing under his breath. They had hardly spoken since the hands had been mustered for “this adventure,” as Lieutenant Squire had called it.

“Any trouble, you keep with me!” That was all, but from Luke Jago it was everything.

“Oars!”

The blades rose dripping on either side, while the gig swayed and slowed almost to a halt.

Jago said, “Cutter’s run aground.” He stood, one hand on the tiller. “Got clear again. Give way, together!”

The stroke oarsman gripped his loom and leaned back, and in those few seconds Napier was able to see the gleam of a medallion as it swung freely across his shirt. The features of the men around him were faintly visible for the first time since they had cast off.

A bosun’s mate named Sinden muttered, “Not much bloody longer!”

Monteith rapped out, “Silence in the boat!” and did not see Sinden’s gesture behind his back.

Napier seemed to have lost track of time. It was measured by each thrash of oars, and the surge against the hull, the occasional heavy breathing when Jago called for a brief pause if they were overhauling the cutter.

Napier stared past the oarsmen and saw the land, not high ground but a ragged barrier of trees.

“Oars!” Jago had turned his head, either to look or listen.

Monteith said sharply, “I gave no order!”

Jago did not move. “Mr. Squire just made a signal. We’re arrived, sir!”

With the oars stilled, Napier thought he could hear the murmur of sea against beach, then the silence was completely shattered as some of the cutter’s crew and passengers splashed over the side in readiness to haul their boat to safety.

It was not simply a landfall. The place seemed to be reaching out as if to encircle them … He told himself that would change when true daylight showed itself.

Monteith got to his feet and peered toward the land. Fitzgerald’s shirt, the signal, had vanished. He said, “Stand by to clear the boat!”

He clambered over a thwart, but Jago reached out and restrained Napier. “Not yet.”

Monteith did not wait, and jumped or fell into chest-deep water.

Jago said calmly, “Give the officer a hand, lads!” Then, “Clear the boat. Sinden, take charge up yonder.”

It seemed to take an age before both boats were safely hauled ashore, but the oar-blades were still dripping when Squire was satisfied. He stood with his back to the sea and waited for a sodden Monteith and the two midshipmen to join him.

To Sergeant Fairfax he said, “As planned, have your lads take cover. Weapons uncocked, remember?” and Fairfax responded with a touch of outraged dignity.

“They are Royals, sir!” But he hurried away, and his white belt was soon hidden.

Squire said, “When it gets lighter we’ll move inshore. There’s a small cove beyond those trees.” He grinned. “Or should be!” He touched Monteith’s wet sleeve. “Never mind. Sun’ll be up soon!”

They all tensed as a flock of birds broke from the undergrowth and rose, flapping and crying, toward the sea.

Squire said, “We don’t need an audience!”

Someone laughed quietly.

Jago had joined them, his broad-bladed cutlass casually over his shoulder. He gestured in the same direction. “Th’ mission must be over there as well.” He did not look at Monteith.

Huxley was gazing after the disturbed birds as they circled and then vanished against the sea. He whispered to Napier, “I have to stay with the boats, Dave. I’m sorry you’re stuck with him.”

No name was necessary.

Squire was elaborating on his plan. “We can make our way along the shore now. It shouldn’t take long. We’ll know better once we fix our position more exactly.” If he was grinning it remained invisible in the dimness before dawn. “And the ship will be able to see us.”

He turned abruptly, lightly, for a man of his powerful build. “What is it?”

A seaman said, “I kin smell smoke, sir. Burning.”

Squire sniffed audibly. “I can, too.” He looked at Monteith. “We’ll separate here, Hector.” He waved to the bosun’s mate. “Probably nothing, but we’ll find out!”

Monteith loosened his belt. “If you ask me …”