In the King`s Name

always at risk, as I’m sure you know.”

He pushed open another door. Here it was cooler, and a long bamboo-mounted fan was moving slowly back and forth on the ceiling.

Ballantyne sat down and waved Adam to another chair. He said, “News travels fast in these parts,” and stamped one booted foot. “By horse and by coaster.” He waited while a black servant knelt to tug off his boots.

Adam held out the envelope. “I was told to give this to you personally, Sir Duncan,” and Ballantyne wagged a finger at him.

“Not here, together. Plain ‘Duncan’ will do well enough!” He laughed. “I’m not even used to the title myself yet.” He was turning over the envelope. “I can guess the contents. For an admiral and the like, Freetown has become a stepping-stone …” The silken shoulders lifted in a shrug. “To promotion or oblivion!” He leaned forward as another African entered, carrying a silver tray and a pair of glasses. The servant must have caught his foot on the carpet, and the glasses clinked dangerously. “Easy, Trusty! Take your time!”

Adam realised that he was quite young, perhaps the same age as David Napier. He was nodding and smiling now, the glasses safely deposited on a heart-shaped wooden table. An older man brought the wine. Adam rubbed his forehead. He was still tired; he had not even noticed Monteith being shown to another, adjoining room.

Ballantyne sipped the wine slowly. “Fair enough. Under the circumstances.”

When they were alone again, Adam said, “How did he come by a name like ‘Trusty’?” and for a moment he thought Ballantyne would choke on his wine.

He laughed and dabbed his mouth. “He’s a good fellow. Obedient, loyal, and usually careful.” He recovered. “I gave him the name. Trusty was my little pony, given me by my old father when I was a lad. I never forgot him. I probably couldn’t pronounce his real name, even if I knew it.”

Adam had noticed how Trusty had watched Ballantyne’s mouth, and Monteith’s too as he had left the room. “Can he neither hear nor speak?”

Ballantyne was studying his glass. “He was involved in some kind of family feud in a village not far from here. From which I rescued him.”

He seemed to recall the question. “I believe him to be deaf. And they tore out his tongue.” He turned, frowning as someone else appeared in the doorway, then he rose and strode across to him. “What is it now?”

The newcomer was in uniform and, Adam thought, senior to the man who had met them on the pier. He could not hear what was being said, but Ballantyne was obviously displeased.

“Of course I have not forgotten! I have been busy, too!” and then, “No, the captain will not be involved.” He waited for the door to close. “I sometimes have to ask myself …”

Then he smiled. “I must leave you and change,” he looked down at his immaculate breeches, “into something more formal. I am required to attend an execution. No time to show you the welcome I would have wished!”

Adam saw the boy, Trusty, hurrying to find Monteith, responding to some signal from his master. Perhaps Ballantyne really had forgotten his grisly appointment, but it seemed unlikely. He was regarding the empty glasses on the table, and the admiral’s sealed envelope, still unopened beside them.

“I can’t tell you how much I regret this interruption.” He tapped the envelope. “I shall, of course, reply to this when I have given it some thought.” He paused. “Rivalry is no bad thing. It can often be the spur, when one is needed.” He reached out and took Adam’s hands in a grip like iron. “Meeting you, albeit briefly, has meant so very much to me. I hope it will not be long before we greet one another again. This is not a race: we’re on the same journey!” He laughed. “Given the chance!”

They walked out into the sunlight and Adam was surprised to see that the gig had moved to a smaller jetty almost hidden by the line of guns.

Ballantyne said, “I sent word to your crew. One walk along our pier is enough for anybody. Next time, Adam, remember.”

Adam walked slowly toward the jetty, strangely unwilling to leave, without understanding why. So many questions remained unanswered, and he knew they were both to blame.

Monteith hurried from somewhere to join him. He sounded out of breath. “Only just told you were leaving, sir!”

Adam shaded his eyes to gaze up at the flag again, and beyond to the clouds gathering on the horizon. A chance not to be missed, for several reasons.

“We will up-anchor directly and be clear of the land before dark.”

He could still hear Ballantyne’s words. This is not a race. He had known of William Dundas’s death at the mission, but had not mentioned his daughter, Claire.

Neither did I.

He stared across the burning water and saw Onward for the first time. He must find time to prepare himself. Langley would want all the details. And the results, if any. And his impressions of Sir Duncan Ballantyne, too, more formally dressed as he watched an execution.

Jago was on his feet, hat in hand, the gig’s crew sitting with their arms folded. He swore under his breath as Monteith hesitated and almost stumbled while he moved aside for the captain. Didn’t he know after all this time that a captain was always the last to enter, and the first to leave his boat? Maybe he’d been having a few too many wets ashore. Not likely. A real drink might kill him.

But he forgot Monteith as he watched Bolitho pause and look back at the thatched building with the flag flying above it. They had been together longer than many. He thought back over their talk about promotion, a conversation they had had more than once, and about the life they shared.

Luke Jago was sharing it now. He could see it on the captain’s face, like all those other times.

“Out oars!”

Adam turned toward him until their eyes met.

Another bloody Friday, Jago thought.

9 JUSTICE OR REVENGE

HUGH MORGAN, the cabin servant, lurked behind his pantry door and watched his captain’s shadow move past, pacing toward the stern windows again. After all their months together he thought he knew most of Bolitho’s moods: with Onward cleared for action and shuddering to the crash and thunder of a broadside, or reeling through a storm in Biscay or the Western Approaches. Or simply waiting, like this, on edge without knowing why.

They had entered harbour quite early, in the forenoon watch, with all the usual bustle and what seemed conflicting orders, to the stamp of feet and sound of gear being hauled across the deck above and other shouted demands. Now it was afternoon, and would soon be the first dog watch. Morgan’s ears recorded these things without careful attention; they were part of his daily life.

He had been on deck when they had entered harbour. The experience was always different. Even the harbour itself and the anchorage seemed larger than when they had left it for the outpost optimistically called New Haven. He had already heard several of the sailors suggesting other, less pleasant names for it.

The guardboat had guided them to their new anchorage, closer to the moored flagship, Medusa. Morgan had heard Luke Jago remark that it would be harder for the admiral to launch another surprise attack without being spotted by the duty watch. He had said a few other things too, less polite. Jago might be a brave and loyal friend to his captain, but he would never be asked to wait and serve at the table.

The officer in the guardboat had apparently brought word from the flagship requesting Bolitho’s presence aboard during the afternoon watch. The admiral was otherwise engaged with “important visitors.”

He clucked with disapproval. What did the admiral think he was saying? The landing party, the slaughter at the mission, the sea burials, and the captain was still waiting. Dress uniform coat folded over a chair, sword and belt lying across the bergere where the admiral had sprawled during his visit. I’ll wager his servant could tell a few tales if he ever got the chance…