In the King`s Name

Squire looked back at the dead man on the floor. “Yes. Like Dundas.”

Napier reached for her arm. “Come outside with me.”

He saw her turn toward her father’s body and Squire said gently, “I’ll take care of him for you.” She attempted to pull away and almost fell. Napier took her hand again, but he was looking at Squire. So familiar and easy-going. A true sailor, he thought.

He was far more than that.

Sergeant Fairfax was waiting with two of his marines, a length of shutter carried between them.

Fairfax touched his hat. “Ready for the lady when you give the word, sir!”

Fairfax was a senior sergeant, and had never given up the hope of promotion. He watched them lifting the young woman onto a layer of blankets. He had seen plenty of people in shock during times of war, on land and at sea. Most of them recovered. There was little alternative in the navy, much less in the Corps.

The marines were lifting their makeshift litter, and carrying it with care, the woman partly shrouded by the lieutenant’s coat. She was staring up at the sky, heedless of the burning sun. There was blood on one bare ankle, but she was safe. Fairfax kicked bitterly at a loose stone. Safe? How could she feel safe after what she must have endured?

He shouted, “Come on then, we don’t have all day to find them boats!”

He saw one of the seamen glare at him, and was glad. He heard a shout and saw Midshipman David Napier waving from a gap in the trees. Nothing more was needed: the ship was in sight. Their part in this venture was over.

Squire was standing beside the woman now, speaking with her even as she dragged her hand from his. Sergeant Fairfax knew from hard experience that it was only just beginning.

8 NOT A RACE

LIEUTENANT MARK VINCENT turned away from the group of men around the wheel as he heard the captain’s voice. Or perhaps someone had prodded him warningly. He must have been half asleep on his feet.

He touched his hat. “South by east, sir. Full and by.”

Adam walked to the compass box but did not consult it. Instead, he stared up at the spread of canvas, almost fully braced to contain the wind and hold Onward on course. The wind had backed slightly so that the deck was tilting to leeward, but only enough to allow them to gain more sea room. He looked at the masthead pendant: it was streaming, although the air across his neck was clammy.

He looked at the foredeck, seeing it as it had been a few hours before: boats being hoisted, exhausted sailors being lifted bodily over the side, too weary or subdued to respond to their welcome. Hard to believe they had watched those same two boats vanish into the darkness before dawn this very day.

He recalled the gig returning from the beach, and Jago’s grim description of the sequence of events. And later, when the bosun’s chair had been hoisted aboard, the girl in Squire’s coat losing her self-control as hands had reached out to carry her below. Murray, the surgeon, had been with her from the first.

Someone had asked Jago if he wanted anything, and he had retorted, “Just get me away from that hell-hole!” He spoke for all of them.

Adam gazed forward along the full length of his ship. Beyond the quarterdeck rail, every space seemed to be full of silent people.

Vincent said quietly, “As ordered, sir. Lower deck cleared.”

Adam nodded. “Better now than later.”

He moved to the centre of the rail and felt for the small prayer book inside his coat. It would be pitch black within a couple of hours. The sea was darker, almost bronze toward the horizon, and the land was already losing shape and definition.

He could see the bosun with some of his men on the larboard gangway, bare-headed and looking aft toward their captain. And the two flag-draped corpses. Adam thought of the dead man’s daughter, lying down below at this moment. Would she ever be allowed to forget, let alone forgive?

He knew Squire was standing close by, and Monteith, the latter strangely withdrawn since he had climbed aboard. David Napier seemed composed enough.

Another shadow merged with Adam’s own. He knew it was Jago.

They had shaken hands when he had returned with the gig, and the news. Jago had gauged the moment, as usual. “You’ll be needin’ a shave, eh, Cap’n?” But the strain was very evident.

Squire had described Jago in stronger terms. “He was like the Rock of Gibraltar! Right from when we cast off!”

Jago murmured, “Got the book, Cap’n?”

Adam glanced at him and smiled. “Thank you.” He pulled it out of his pocket. All those other times. Faces, memories, pain.

He heard Vincent call, “Uncover!”

Most of them had already removed their hats. Others were still half-dressed from working ship, getting Onward under way again.

He thought again of the girl named Claire. She was about the same age as Lowenna. It never left him. How it must have been, for the one he loved.

In spite of the silence the ship became a part of it, the sound of the wind, canvas, loose tackle, but Adam’s voice carried and every word was clear.The days of men are but as grass:for he flourisheth as a flower of the field.

United again, all six of Onward‘s midshipmen were mustered on the larboard side of the quarterdeck with Hotham, the senior, in charge. He was finding it difficult not to look around as he listened to the captain’s voice speaking the familiar words. It was unusual to see the entire ship’s company gathered together all at once, except when they were at action stations or on occasions like this, which fortunately were rare.

Faces he knew well, others hardly at all. Voices and accents from every part of Britain. When he wrote to his father he would attempt to describe his emotions, before and after he had sighted the flashing reflection which, in turn, had caused the captain to alter course and send a landing party to investigate. People had died as a result, including one of their own, and Hotham felt a deep sense of guilt because of it. If he had kept quiet, would they still be alive? Would it have made any difference?

And there was an intense pride, rivalling the uneasy guilt. From the moment the boats had cast off and pulled away into darkness, an eternity before sunrise or so it had seemed, he, Charles Hotham, clergyman’s son, had been appointed acting lieutenant, until the two lieutenants who had gone with the boats returned.

He had not been called upon to perform any duty which was foreign to him, and those around him had barely noticed his temporary promotion. But he had felt it, the weight of honour and responsibility. And he still did.

Hotham looked around at his fellow midshipmen, some of whom looked even younger without their hats. Radcliffe, their newest member, had already shown his disrespect by offering a sweeping bow and addressing him as “sir.”

But one day, maybe soon, he might be summoned to face the Board-the Inquisition, as they called it-and gain the glittering prize of promotion, a commission. The events of this day might just tip the balance in his favour.

David Napier was standing nearby, Huxley beside him. Napier could see the captain’s dark hair catching the last of the bronze sunlight as he looked keenly across the crowded deck and the full length of the ship. He was holding the prayer book and speaking the words, but Napier had not seen him consult it.

Napier did not look toward the land. It was shadowed by the twilight, and he wanted to shut it out of his mind and never see it again. But he knew he never would. Small, stark pictures burned like flames in the darkness of his thoughts: Jago pushing Monteith off balance and hacking down the attacker in the shadows. But it was my life he was saving.

And the strange, ragged man named Wolsey, who had risked everything to come to them for help, and had chosen a midshipman to be his companion even to the mission. Mission of death …

And yet, just when the boats were about to leave the beach and return to Onward,