In the King`s Name

I leave the ship-Lieutenant Squire.” She laid the unfastened bracelet on the table, and he could see her shoulders beginning to quiver. “What … do your friends call you?”

“Friends?” He wanted to smile, make a joke of it, but nothing would come. “Jamie.”

She touched the bracelet, and almost dropped it.

Instinctively, Squire did not move. But the restraint cost him more than Murray would ever guess. He felt her fingers on his as she laid the bracelet across his callused palm.

The door was slightly ajar, and Murray’s voice said from beyond it, “I think you’re needed on deck.”

He came in, glancing somewhere between them. “And it’s time you had a rest, young lady.” He was holding a pair of felt slippers. “But first try these on for size. Tilley, the sailmaker, made a few alterations. I made a sketch for him.”

She leaned down and slid one onto her bare foot. “How wonderful. Please thank him for me, will you?”

She picked up the second slipper; they were the kind worn by powder-monkeys whenever they were ordered to the magazine. Maddock, the gunner, was never without a pair himself. To forget could invite disaster, where one spark from the sole of an ordinary shoe might explode into an inferno.

She touched her cheek with the back of her hand. “So kind. I don’t know what to say.”

Murray turned and deliberately slipped his arm through Squire’s, but did not look at him. “We’ve not forgotten what it feels like to be young. Have we?”

A warning, between friends. Murray wanted to stop him from making a fool of himself, before it was too late.

Squire said, “If I’m wanted on deck …” but could not help looking back. “I’ll put the bracelet in the strongbox. Just in case.”

She stared at him, and nodded slowly. “I understand.” She did not smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Like a door being slammed shut.

Adam Bolitho shifted slightly on the hot thwart to gaze at the full expanse of the anchorage as the gig pulled past the headland. Plenty of eyes must have observed Onward‘s slow and cautious approach; he had seen sunlight blinking from telescopes ashore and afloat most of the way.

A longboat had come out to meet them, perhaps surprised that Onward did not anchor closer to the shore, with its scattering of buildings and long, ungainly pier. The boat had signalled for them to follow, a uniformed figure standing to wave aside any dugout that hovered too closely.

The main fortification was timber-built, with a stockade and a battery of small cannon. In stark contrast, the flag that flew above them, making a brilliant splash of colour, was the same as the one hoisted at Onward‘s own jackstaff when her anchor had been secured. Maybe Freetown had begun like this, and other footholds in wilderness that Rear-Admiral Langley would dismiss as the encroachment of empire.

Jago said, “‘E’s turnin’, Cap’n.”

The other boat was losing way, its oars in confusion. The man in uniform was on his feet again, bowing and baring his teeth in a grin. At one end of the pier were more uniforms, and bare-backed figures who were apparently repairing the lower structure close to the water.

Adam said, “You must stay in the boat this time, I’m afraid.” He glanced along the slow-moving looms, at the faces he knew so well. “I’ll send word if I’m delayed.”

He felt the body beside him stir suddenly; he had almost forgotten that Monteith was aboard. Tense, his sword gripped between his knees, still going over the events at the mission. Doubts, fears, it was not possible to tell. Yet.

Jago called, “Oars!” He may have glanced at Monteith, but he did not wait. Monteith was, after all, in charge of the gig for this formal visit. When he had been piped over the side, one of the duty watch had slipped and allowed a coil of rope to fall across the gangway. At any other time Monteith would have yelled at him, and for far less.

Whatever it was, it must have happened ashore. Squire had said nothing, and Jago would keep it to himself as usual. Unless …

The oars were inboard, the bowmen hooked onto the pier. Another uniformed figure was peering down at them, head and shoulders silhouetted against the sky.

Adam stood up and reached for the thick envelope, the reason for this visit.

He looked at Jago. “Remember what we talked about, eh?” and Jago’s tanned face broke into a grin.

“Ol’ John Allday would never forgive me, Cap’n!”

Some of the bare-backed men on the lower pier had stopped work to look down at the gig and the newcomers. There was a shout, and the sharp crack of a whip. The onlookers vanished.

Adam glanced at Monteith, who had not moved. “Ready?” He did not wait for an answer. Monteith was probably recalling their talk. Leadership by example. He stared up at the pier, angry with himself. So do it!

He climbed up into the sunlight and felt the wood still wet under his hands. It must have been scrubbed in readiness for their arrival. Monteith was close behind him, perhaps relieved to be away from the gig, which must be the key to whatever memories were remaining in his mind. Adam straightened as he was confronted by a stocky man in an unfamiliar green uniform. The New Haven militia.

A smart salute, and a voice as English as one of his own seamen’s barked, “On behalf of the Governor, sir, I am to bid you welcome!” He waited for Monteith to join them. “If you will step this way, sir?”

Adam looked back at the gig and saw Jago nod. That was all.

They walked along the pier. Some of the timber was scarred and well-used; other sections looked freshly laid. Across from the anchorage, there were low sheds along the distant waterfront: slipways for building and launching coastal craft. In a few years’ time, this might become another Freetown.

He quickened his pace. Their guide was keeping well ahead of them, perhaps deliberately.

There were others working beneath the pier. A guard, too, with a whip dangling across his shoulder.

The guide said, “Felons, sir,” and almost smirked. “No different from England!”

They had reached the main building. Like the pier, it must have seen faces from every part of the world.

“Your boat’s crew, sir? They’ll not be coming ashore, will they?”

“I don’t intend to keep them waiting.” It came out more sharply than he had intended, and Adam saw the man flinch. Perhaps Monteith was not the only one.

“If you’ll come this way, sir.” The guide broke off, obviously disconcerted as someone stepped from the shadow of the broad entrance and came striding toward them. “My apologies, Sir Duncan-I brought them along the pier!”

Adam was not sure what he had been expecting, but Sir Duncan Ballantyne was not it.

Tall and lean, he strode toward them, both hands outstretched. “I should have sent one of our boats, and not forced you to drag all the way along that relic!”

He grasped Adam’s hand and shook it vigorously, apparently untroubled by the sun in his eyes. “Captain Bolitho!” He nodded toward the water. “And His Majesty’s Ship Onward-a frigate, no less. We are indeed honoured!”

Ballantyne slipped his arm familiarly through Adam’s. “Something to kill our thirst would be in order.”

He paused to say something to one of his men and Adam took the opportunity to study him more closely. The eyes were, and the hair had once been, as dark as his own. He was said to be sixty years old, but he had the bearing and agility of one much younger. He was casually but, Adam guessed, expensively dressed in riding breeches, with tall boots that shone like glass, and a silk cravat tucked into a matching shirt.

But the face told another story, deeply tanned, dominated by a strong nose and a beard, neatly trimmed to contain the grey. A face it would be impossible to forget. It reminded him of some of the old paintings he had studied as a boy, portraits of those who had defeated the Armada.

Ballantyne glanced casually at Monteith. “You are welcome too, of course. You can amuse yourself while we talk.” And to Adam, “Something tells me that your visit will be a short one.” He took his arm again. “Maybe next time, eh?”

Inside the building he turned to face them. “I heard about the mission, and I have sent some men to investigate the matter. I knew William Dundas, of course. Not well, but as much as he would allow. His kind are