In the King`s Name

deserted after the orderly departure of the uniforms and the local people who had occupied most of the spare ground, watching curiously. Now it was over, the graves neatly marked and numbered to await the stone or wooden crosses. He stretched and felt his tendons crack. By which time Onward should be at sea again. Never look back. He had seen a lot of good men die over his years at sea, and a few he still remembered.

He heard two of the gravediggers talking to one another, one of them smoking a well-used pipe. To them it was just a job of work, and rightly so.

He felt in his pocket to ensure he had the signed papers Bolitho had told him to collect while he was reporting to the admiral. He felt his sunburned face crease into a frown. The admiral should have been the first here to show his respect. Gratitude. He thought of Luke Jago, and what he might have said. That will be the bloody day!

He glanced down at his shoes; the mud had dried on them like iron. He recalled that the senior chaplain had been careful to stand on a rug throughout the service. He thought by contrast of the sea burials, the captain speaking the familiar words.

He turned, caught off-guard by a woman’s voice.

“Over here, if you’re certain …”

Two of them, one who was still pointing toward the graves, dressed in a white cape like a nun or a medical attendant, round-faced, smiling tolerantly. The other was Claire Dundas. Her arms were full of blossoms, a splash of colour against her plain gown. Her companion was carrying a kind of frame of neatly tied canes.

Claire looked across directly at him, her face partly hidden by flowers. “I thought we were too late.”

Squire heard the other woman say, “Don’t forget, Claire dear, the doctor wants to see you on the hour.”

The girl ignored her. “I saw you sail into harbour.” She did not look at him. “I had a telescope.”

Squire strode across the uneven ground and reached without thinking for her hand. The blossoms remained between them like a barrier.

She said quietly, “I prayed for you,” and gazed away, almost guiltily. “For … all of you.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I was hoping to see you somehow …” Squire broke off awkwardly and touched the ribbon around the flowers. “These are fine. Are they lilies?”

She smiled for the first time, perhaps with relief that he had changed the subject. “No, only vines. Bleeding Heart, they’re called here.” She shook them gently, and only then looked at him. “They will not last long, but I just thought-” She did not go on.

He knew he was staring at her but could not help himself, as if the woman in white and the gravediggers were invisible, remembering how she had struggled and fought to free herself as he had tried to carry her to safety, her nakedness scarcely covered by his uniform coat. He could see the scar on her wrist, fading, but still visible enough to remind her. And although she had arranged her hair differently, he could still see the dark bruise on her forehead.

He said, “I must see you. Not here.” He took her wrist and felt her tense. “Not like this, Claire.”

The other voice intruded. “We really must leave now. They will be expecting you.”

He released her wrist and stooped to pick up some of the vines which had dropped between them. “I’ve been so worried about you.” He looked up into her face, in shadow against the clear sky.

She said, “You saved my life.” She broke off, and took a few paces as if to join her companion. “I will never forget … Jamie.”

Squire watched them leave. She did not look back, and the vines lay where they had fallen.

A voice muttered, “‘Ere, sir, I’ll put ‘em on show,” and there was an intake of breath as Squire thrust some coins into his fist. It must have been more than he realised.

It was over. It had never begun.

Rowlatt, the master-at-arms, watched impatiently as the harbour launch thrust away from Onward‘s side and headed toward the shore, faster this time, having unloaded the seamen and marines from the funeral muster. Then he strode aft toward the quarterdeck where the first lieutenant was inspecting an unexpected delivery of purser’s stores. So much for a day of mourning …

Rowlatt waited for the lieutenant to look up from the cargo list, and touched his hat. Vincent was probably glad of the interruption. Pinchgut Vicary, as the purser was known, was not the liveliest company on any day.

“All aboard?”

“Mr. Squire is returning with the guardboat, sir.”

Vincent made a non-committal noise. Squire must have remained to the end, while the captain presented himself as ordered to the admiral. He yawned, irritated that he was too tired to control it. But he knew there was a deeper reason. It was envy.

He saw Midshipman Walker loitering, gazing intently at a small boat pulling unnecessarily close along the larboard side. A Royal Marine was keeping pace with it on the gangway, but when he waved for the helmsman to stand clear he was given a huge grin and a display of cheap ornaments.

Vincent glanced at the nearest pile of stores. That must be stowed away without delay. “Mr. Walker, find some spare hands.”

He saw him hurry away. Walker must have had his hair cut: it made him look younger than ever. Thirteen, or was he fourteen now? The boy who had been forever seasick, even in a flat calm. The other midshipmen had tired of making jokes about it, and of cleaning him up. Now it was unknown.

Rowlatt asked, “Th’ cap’n, sir-is he due back on board soon?”

Vincent nodded. Rowlatt always had a reason. He was never lacking when it came to discipline and routine. A first lieutenant’s right arm, and usually hated because of it.

“I want a close watch kept.” He gestured in the direction of the flagship. “He’ll want some rest after all this.” Rowlatt said nothing, and he thought, and so shall I!

Vincent thought longingly of the wardroom. But if he went below now … He swung round, startled, as the cry came from forward.

“Boat ahoy?”

Rowlatt snapped, “Must be a mistake, sir!”

But the reply was clear enough. “Aye, aye!”

A visitor. An officer.

Vincent swore under his breath. “Who the hell?”

Midshipman Walker hurried over, holding a telescope outstretched, and Vincent took it, calm once more. He should have known. He trained the glass with care, the fixed grin of the would-be trader leaping out at him until he found the other boat, bows on, filling the lens. One of Medusa‘s own gigs, the flagship’s distinctive markings unmistakable in the sunlight. And one passenger, wearing the scarlet uniform of the Royal Marines. More to the point, there was a pile of kit in the sternsheets, some of it personal.

Images of the wardroom flooded Vincent’s mind again, and the habits and characters of the men who lived there. Robert Sinclair had been buried today: no time wasted. This must be his replacement arriving. He saw the newcomer being met at the entry port by Monteith, who had appeared a few seconds earlier, and who was now directing him aft. Sergeant Fairfax was nearby, but keeping his distance. His life, too, would now be changed.

The first few moments were always the worst.

The marine, a lieutenant, strode aft, his eyes not leaving Vincent until he had halted smartly and saluted. An open, youthful face, the hair beneath his hat fair and neatly trimmed. The scarlet uniform was well-cut but looser than some, as if he had lost weight since he had last visited a tailor. The sword, too, was well-worn, even tarnished. He was older than he looked, Vincent thought.

He returned the salute. About my age.

“Lieutenant Devereux, sir, come aboard to join. Regret the delay. All boats in use.” He held out the familiar stamped and sealed envelope. Good or bad, a new beginning.

Vincent offered his free hand. “I’m the senior here. Welcome aboard.”

The smile, like the handshake, was firm but unconsciously so, not done to make an impression.

“The captain is not aboard at present. But you probably know that.”

Devereux nodded, and winced slightly, touching his face. “I know, sir. I caught sight of him just before I came over.”