In the King`s Name

was called-he stifled a yawn-about ten hours ago.

He walked aft, angled to the deck, eyes on the hard light from the stern windows, sloping now to the thrust of wind and sea. He glanced briefly at the old chair, where his day had begun. To sit in it now would be fatal. Even when he had called the meeting here at noon he had remained standing. Some might have thought he was impatient to get it over and let routine take charge. Maybe the newcomers thought so, anyway.

There had been two lieutenants, the Royal Marine officer, all the warrant officers, and the six midshipmen together in a tight group. Vincent had remained on watch. The tallest present was the new carpenter, Chris Hall, who had served at sea in several men-of-war, but had also been attached to the dockyard on maintenance and even involved in the building of various types of vessel. Like other lofty visitors to the great cabin, he had taken his place under the skylight, but even there he had been stooping slightly. How did he manage between decks, or working in the lower confines of the hull?

He watched the occasional dash of salt spray, drying across the stern and quarter windows. At least the rain had stopped.

There was still a smell of rum lingering between decks. He had heard a few cheers when the order to “Up Spirits” was piped. It was the least he could do for men who had been hard at work since first light on a bitter morning.

There had been the usual comments after the meeting. Lieutenant Squire clapping Vicary, the purser, on the shoulder and grinning. “Cheer up! It’s not coming out of your purse!”

Vicary was always complaining about stores and wastage; it did not help matters.

Murray, the Scottish surgeon, had added, “Won’t need so much grog anyway, where we’re bound for!”

Adam stared at two gulls which were riding the wind, drifting from side to side below the taffrail. The galley must have thrown some scraps over the side.

But the surgeon’s words were still with him. Where we’re bound for. It was Freetown, on what had been the slave coast of Africa. And it still was, for those who carried out their endless patrols there. But why all the secrecy and apparent urgency? And why Onward, so soon after the Mediterranean, and that bloody action with Nautilus?

But he had discovered nothing more when he had gone ashore for the last time to sign for the sealed despatches which were now locked in his strongbox. Even that had been unusually formal: his signature had been witnessed by one of the admiral’s aides, a senior captain, another unfamiliar face. Courteous but unhelpful.

“Onward is a fast frigate, Bolitho, as you will know better than any one.” He had paused as one of his clerks sealed the despatches and stamped the wax. “Repairs completed to your satisfaction. Fully manned and stored.” He had walked to the familiar window and said after another silence, “And … available.”

Reminding him that another captain could be appointed within a day. Less. Adam had not forgotten the Admiralty waiting-room when he had been called to London. The jealousy and the hostility. Nor would he.

He walked across the cabin and heard muffled voices beyond the pantry door. Morgan and a much younger servant, a boy sent to help him during the conference. Morgan seemed to be waiting, judging the moment. Was it so obvious?

More voices, the sound of a musket being tapped on the grating. A dispute of some kind, then the door opened and closed and Jago said, “Not much to see, Cap’n. More rain on th’ way.”

Adam reached for his boatcloak and changed his mind. “Trouble just now?”

Jago glanced at the door. “Yer sentry’s new. Just needs to be told, that’s all, Cap’n.”

He stepped aside as Adam left the cabin. The sentry was ready, and snapped smartly to attention as he passed, but he noticed Sergeant Fairfax’s burly shadow lurking by the companion ladder.

On deck it seemed almost dark, although the bell had only just chimed for the first dog watch.

Vincent touched his hat. “Standing by to alter course, sir.”

Adam looked past and beyond him into the murk. Low cloud again, vague figures mustered and waiting by the braces and halliards, but strangely silent, so that the shipboard noises and the surge of water alongside predominated.

One of the midshipmen was waiting to offer him a telescope, his collar patches very bright, like those in the cabin before dawn.

He felt the air quiver, and then the vibration of the rail under his hand.

Someone said, “Thunder!”

Vincent looked toward him but did not speak.

All those miles astern, and yet the salute was with them. Personal. Sir John Grenville’s farewell, or a last gesture of remembrance. His old ship.

Adam heard an older voice say, “Thass th’ Lizard over to starboard, my son. Last you’ll see of England for a while, so make th’ most of it!”

Jago had handed him his boatcloak; it was raining again, but he had not felt it. The same rain must be falling in Falmouth, on Lowenna’s garden … As close as they could be.

And she would know.

2 CHAIN OF COMMAND

LIEUTENANT MARK VINCENT hesitated at the top of the ladder beneath the companion to give his eyes time to meet the glare on deck. After the sheltered chartroom, it was almost blinding.

The helmsman called, “Sou’ by west, sir! Steady as she goes!” Probably to warn Squire, who had just taken over the forenoon watch, that the first lieutenant had reappeared.

Squire was talking to a midshipman, Walker, who was writing on a slate, tongue protruding from one corner of his mouth in concentration.

Vincent waved and said, “Carry on.” He was merely a visitor.

He walked to the lee side of the quarterdeck and stared at the gleaming expanse of sea, empty as a desert, the horizon unbroken by cloud or shadow. He considered himself an experienced sailor, and never took the sea and its moods for granted. The last few days had tested those beliefs to the extreme. The weather had worsened as soon as they had cleared the Western Approaches and left the land astern. The wind had stayed in their favour, but had often been too strong to spread more canvas and run before it.

Four days of it: this was the fifth since Onward had weighed at Plymouth. He felt the planking beneath his shoes, quite dry now-on the quarterdeck at least. Some of the newly joined hands must have been wondering what had made them quit their homes in the first place. And not just the inexperienced. He had heard Julyan, the master, admit, “More than once on the fringe of Biscay, I thought we were going to lose our sticks!”

Vincent shaded his eyes and stared along the upper deck. Repairs were still being carried out. The sailmaker’s crew huddled below the starboard gangway, busily cutting and stitching a torn sail, while a gunner’s mate was testing the breeching on one of the eighteen-pounders. Splicing where necessary; then it would be checked again before another drill. Trust and blame went hand in hand.

He looked up at the taut spread of canvas; the captain had hinted that they would get the topgallant sails on her soon, probably during this watch. It was Bolitho’s decision. The nagging thought was always there. Suppose it was mine?

And how did Bolitho really feel about leaving the land so soon after the Nautilus mission, and, more importantly, his bride?

Vincent had remained with Onward while her repairs were being completed, in command, and so unable to attend the wedding at Falmouth. But he had heard enough about it, and the rest he could imagine. Lowenna was not someone you could easily forget.

“Ah, I thought I would find you here, Mark. Always busy, keeping us all afloat, eh?”

It was Murray, the surgeon, so light on his feet, like a dancer or a swordsman, although he was neither, as far as Vincent knew. Outwardly easy-going, and popular with most of the ship’s company, which was rare enough in his profession. For the most part surgeons were feared, even hated. Butchers…