In the King`s Name

The wardroom door was still open, but there was not a sound to be heard.

Vincent repeated, “Day after tomorrow, sir?”

Adam wanted to smile. Jago, for one, would not be surprised. It was a Friday.

“We will talk soon.” He paused, with one foot on the ladder. “The flag captain will be sailing with us.”

Lieutenant James Squire stood by the forecastle in the eyes of the ship and gazed down at the anchor cable. He had done this too many times to remember, but the moment never failed to impress him, standing like this with his back turned on the remainder of the ship, sharing it only with the figurehead and his outthrust trident. Most people, even those who thought they knew him well, might be surprised by the intensity of his emotions.

He could feel the deck stirring under his feet, and the breeze was strong and steady, enough to create little waves beneath the stem as if Onward were eager and already under way. He should be used to it, but this time it felt different, and knowing why was no help.

He turned almost reluctantly and looked along the full length of the ship. Men being mustered in readiness for putting to sea. Senior hands checking names, others facing aft toward the quarterdeck. And the capstan, unmanned as yet. Twelve bars like the spokes of a wheel. Twelve men to each bar. He had known times when it had taken more, when wind and sea had joined to fight them before the anchor had broken free.

Squire saw the small knot of people near the big double wheel, Vincent pointing at something, and Julyan, the master, nodding as if in agreement. And along the upper deck and gangways a midshipman standing sturdily here and there, to relay messages or chase up stragglers if an order was not obeyed promptly.

He glanced over at his own two particular “young gentlemen,” Napier and Simon Huxley. They had become part of his team in more ways than one, like the seamen around them, who knew exactly how far they could go before Squire had to put an edge to his voice. All in all, a good crew to control, although Squire would never have told them so.

The captain was nowhere in sight: probably still in his cabin, making sure he had forgotten nothing before the flag captain came aboard. A senior officer and the admiral’s right hand … Squire had come up the hard way, and still nurtured many of the grudges and prejudices of the lower deck.

Onward had swung to her anchor and the flagship was almost hidden by canvas and rigging. Maybe the day of the “liner” had come to an end? The old Jacks scoffed about it, but when Medusa was paid off …

“Sir!” Midshipman Huxley was gesturing, interrupting the disturbing thoughts. “Boat leaving the flagship, sir!” He was a youth who rarely smiled, but he was a close friend of Napier’s, and Squire was oddly proud of them both.

He looked away abruptly and saw the sudden bustle and excitement as the call was piped to muster all hands. The flag captain was cutting it fine, he thought. Sailing time was set for noon.

He had seen Lynch, the cook, leave his galley a while back, his old fiddle half-hidden by his apron, ready to get these feet stamping around the capstan while he still had the taste of rum on his lips to inspire him.

Squire walked deliberately to the opposite side of the deck, knowing from experience that the older hands always watched him at this critical moment in case he revealed any uncertainty. He half smiled. Panic, rather. The other anchor was catted, but ready to let go if there was a sudden emergency. None so far, but there was always a first time.

More shouts: the side party at their stations now to receive the flag captain. Even above that he could hear Lieutenant Monteith venting his impatience on someone in the afterguard, and saw two of his own men exchange grimaces. He could hardly blame them.

The wardroom was a small, private world, or should be. But as far as Squire was concerned, Monteith was still a stranger. Maybe Monteith had changed in some way since the landing party. Or is it me?

“Attention on deck! Face to starboard!”

Squire could hear the steady beat of oars, double-banked, although the boat was hidden by Onward‘s side.

The captain would already be there to greet his superior. But it went deeper than that. There was friendship as well as a mutual respect: you could feel it when you saw them together. Bolitho, of course, was much younger than Tyacke, and he had never been a diplomat and found it harder to disguise his true feelings when he was under pressure. Like that moment when he had turned and said simply to Squire, “If I should fall …” And Squire remembered his own reply, spoken without hesitation.

He stared aft again, to gauge how much longer … But Onward had swung slightly at her anchor, and instead of moored harbour craft he could now see two large buildings, one with a long balcony: the Osprey Mission.

Would Claire see Onward when she weighed? Would she care? Now, all she wanted was to forget. But life had to be faced again and lived no matter what, and he would only be a painful reminder. Like the scars on her skin and her memory.

He knew that he was biting his lip, a habit he had sworn to conquer, and bellowed, “Stand by, lads!”

He saw Midshipman Napier reach over to touch his friend’s arm. It was all still an adventure at their age.

Another voice: Harry Drummond, the bosun. “Man the capstan! Jump to it!” And the squeak of halliards as the Jack was lowered. For good or ill, the waiting was over.

“Heave, me bullies, heave!” More men running to throw their weight on the capstan bars, and a few marines piling arms in case their strength, too, would be required.

Squire found himself holding his breath until, after what seemed like an age, he heard the first metallic click from the capstan as the pawls began to move. The cable looked bar-taut, shining like metal as it took the full strain.

Vincent’s voice rang out, clear and final. “Hands aloft! Loose tops’ls!”

Despite the orderly confusion Squire could hear the cook’s fiddle, and his foot stamping time.On Richmond Hill there lives a lassmore bright than Mayday morn …

The sun was behind Squire and he took a moment to look aloft where the topmen were already spacing themselves along the yards, like puppets against the sky. Skill and experience, the true seamen in any man-of-war. But for every one of them there was always a first time, too, and Squire had never forgotten the sight of the deck or the sea swaying so far beneath him. And the flick of a starter across his backside if he was slow about it.

The capstan was moving steadily, and he thought maybe a little faster, and Onward had swung in response to wind and current. The mission was hidden, the guardboat was pulling away, someone waving from the sternsheets. He heard one of his own men mutter a joke, and laugh as if completely untroubled.

Onward would stir any man’s heart when she spread her canvas, and the anchor was catted just a few feet from his vantage point. And Claire might be watching. Remembering …

Squire studied the cable again, and the swirling traces of mud and sand in the water.

“Stand by!”

He saw Napier turn toward him and for a moment thought he had spoken her name aloud. He jabbed Napier’s shoulder. “Pass the word! Larboard quarter!”

He knew Huxley had been watching the procedure closely. Perhaps imagining himself in his own ship one day. Like his father.

“Up and down, sir! Hove short!”

If the water was clear enough, Onward‘s great shadow would be visible right now, reaching for her own anchor.

Click click click.

Squire stared aft again and saw the men on deck peering up at the yards, others ready at the braces. Like a familiar pattern but, as always, the captain stood alone.

Slower now. Some of the waiting marines had squeezed themselves into the revolving wheel of seamen. One of the scarlet uniforms was the new officer, Devereux. Squire had met him only briefly. It would take time. He was young.

He smiled. Of course. He held up his arm, and saw Vincent’s immediate acknowledgment.