In the King`s Name

Napier felt his leg beginning to throb. Not like those early days. He will always have a limp. But Monteith, although aware of his discomfort, did not ask him to sit down.

Monteith leaned back expansively. “You have a good relationship with the captain, I believe.” He waved any response aside. “It can be a hurdle, of course, but in your case it must offer reassurance, surely.” He turned abruptly toward the door. “What is it now?” then waved at the table. “Hot this time, I trust?”

Berry, the messman, said nothing. He had heard it all before.

Monteith sipped the coffee and collected himself. “I expect you told Captain Bolitho of our experiences at the mission, eh? A close thing. I expect he was worried about you. But as you were with me-” He broke off. “What the hell is it now?”

Berry might have shrugged. “Somebody left a message for you, sir.” He pulled an envelope from his apron.

“And you didn’t see who it was?”

“Must’ve been while I was fetching your breakfast, sir.”

Monteith snatched the envelope from him. “I shall speak to the first lieutenant about this!”

A fine shaft of sunlight had driven the last shadows from the wardroom, and Napier could see the envelope trembling in Monteith’s fingers, with his name and rank printed in bold letters across it.

“Shall I carry on, sir?”

Monteith glared at him. “I haven’t finished yet!” He tore open the envelope. “If this is some sort of joke-”

He shook it angrily over the table, and for a few seconds nothing happened. There was no letter or note enclosed.

As if from another world they heard the shrill of calls, and the cry, “Clear lower deck! All hands muster by divisions!”

The waiting was over.

Napier held his breath, and watched something drift slowly from the torn envelope until it landed on the table.

It was a white feather.

Midshipman Charles Hotham was about to raise his telescope again, but changed his mind as he heard Lieutenant Monteith come to stand beside him on the quarterdeck. A moment earlier, with all hands hurrying to their various stations, he might not have noticed, but he could hear the sharp, uneven breathing as if Monteith had been running, or was agitated about something. He knew Monteith had been in the wardroom, which was no distance away, where Hotham assumed he had been complaining to David Napier about something. Monteith made a point of it. If and when the time came for Hotham to leave Onward for his own promotion, he would miss Monteith least of all.

And would that day soon come? He tried not to hope too much. Being made acting lieutenant, even if temporarily, must count for something. He smiled. Especially as he had to suffer for it from the other young members of his mess.

He heard the murmur of voices from the assembled figures on the main deck. Excitement, anxiety, or both.

Monteith said, “Silence on deck,” but without his usual irritation. Hotham glanced at him curiously, and saw that he was looking at the shore, or perhaps in the direction of the flagship, and that a crumpled handkerchief was dangling loosely from a pocket, although Monteith prided himself on his appearance and was always quick to point out any failure to “measure up,” as he put it, among the midshipmen.

He saw the Royal Marines paraded in a small section by the starboard gangway, Sergeant Fairfax, stiff-backed, in command. They would be at full strength again when the prize crew returned. Unless. Hotham tried to close his mind to the possibility. Like the ill-fated mission, when his own sighting of that crude distress signal had begun a chain of events none of them could have anticipated. And some had died because of it, and because of him.

He adjusted his telescope hurriedly, although there was no need. He saw Vincent now, standing by the quarterdeck rail, hands clasped behind his back. Julyan, the sailing master, stood nearby, but alone.

Hotham breathed out slowly and raised his telescope. A big East Indiaman had anchored two days ago to land a mixed cargo, but was said to be leaving today. He felt himself tense as he saw the sleek bows of the brigantine listed as Peterel begin to pass her. Still not much wind, but enough to fill her sails, which were very clean and bright in the morning sunlight.

By moving the glass he could just see the topmasts of the schooner about which they had been told earlier, anchored where she would not impede incoming vessels or those wishing to leave, like John Company’s big ship. And to put her under closer guard.

Hotham looked toward the flagship, unwilling to take his eyes from the new arrivals even for a few moments. Medusa had hoisted an “affirmative” to a brief signal from the brigantine, which was hidden by the set of her canvas.

He tried to ease his grip on the telescope. There was the renegade schooner, no more than a cable astern of the small man-of-war. He watched the hull and rigging leap into life, holding his breath as the deck moved slightly beneath his feet. Waiting for the image to settle. Faces: people he knew. He could hear their voices in his mind. Hastily sewn patches on some of the sails, scars on the hull, splinters untended and out of reach. And above it all, a large White Ensign.

He lowered the telescope. It had misted over, to his annoyance: the sun, or his eagerness to see every detail. Then he saw Adam Bolitho standing beside the wheel, another officer, who could only be Squire, close by.

Hotham jammed the telescope under his arm and wiped his eyes with the back of a sunburned hand. It was not mist on the lens.

He heard someone call, “Give ‘em a cheer, lads!” It was probably Tobias Julyan, shouting from the heart.

Then another voice, sharper: Vincent, the first lieutenant. “Belay that! Stand fast and uncover!”

Hotham reached for his own hat, but he had just removed it to wave with every one else when he saw that the clean White Ensign aboard the schooner had been lowered to half-mast. Then he could see more clearly, every sense sharpened. There was another ensign spread on the schooner’s deck, not large enough to hide the bodies of men who would never see another dawn.

The heavy silence was shattered as Sergeant Fairfax broke ranks and marched to the side, where he halted and threw up a smart salute. There were no words, but he was speaking for all of them.

Luke Jago felt himself tense as the first heaving-line lifted from Delfim’s low forecastle, but fell short, splashing into the water. Too soon, too eager. The same jetty they had left only a week or so ago seemed crammed with people, black and white, while others had climbed on the roofs of nearby buildings, some waving, others watching in total silence.

A second seaman was standing by with a line coiled and ready, then Jago saw a uniformed figure reach out and take it from him. It was Squire. His eyes met Jago’s, and there was a brief smile. Squire had not forgotten. Nor would he.

The line snaked over and was seized by many willing hands, taking the strain of the main cable, still only a reflection.

They had anchored overnight, but they had been kept busy, with boats arriving from shore and more marines sent to take custody of the Delfim’s crew and tend to the immediate needs of the freed slaves. Their own prize crew had been reunited with their mates. He did not look at the dead men partly covered by the ensign.

Jago could not remember when he had last been able to rest, let alone sleep. He had always prided himself that he could do either standing on his feet. But after this …

This morning’s move to enter harbour had kept all of them hopping. Past a big Indiaman, her company preparing for sea but still waving as the smart little Peterel had cleared the way, then coming abeam of the flagship, her decks lined, officers saluting, sailors and Royal Marines at attention, and from somewhere, the local garrison probably, a trumpet sounding, paying its respects.

Other, more painful moments remained uppermost in his mind. When the fighting had ended he had seen the