In the King`s Name

musket. He said calmly, “My own men were watching you as well.”

Two or three heads appeared as he spoke, and Tyacke saw the gleam of weapons. He took the proferred hand. Strong, but the palm was smooth. A gentleman.

Tyacke said, controlling the urge to touch his scars, “How did you know my name?”

Ballantyne smiled diplomatically.

“I know of only one flag captain.” His dark eyes rested on Napier. “A younger blood, too. I am honoured!” He gestured toward the building with its empty flag mast. “Come.”

He was coatless, but Tyacke noted the finely made shirt and white breeches, obviously expensive, as were the black riding boots, their polish gleaming beneath the inevitable coating of dust. About sixty years of age, according to Flags’ notebook. Without the beard, he would seem younger.

Guilty, he thought. You’re as guilty as hell. And one day I’ll prove it.

Ballantyne had stopped and was pointing back at the water. “I see that you were taking no chances, either!” He laughed.

The corporal was standing bareheaded behind his swivel gun, his hair in the sunlight blazing almost as brightly as his uniform.

Tyacke found that he had fallen into step beside Ballantyne. Corporal Price would have known that, at this range and bearing, the swivel gun would have been an indiscriminate killer.

“Your men can rest a while.” Ballantyne waved toward the nearest building. “I can offer you something to quench your thirst.” Again the quick, quizzical glance. “But we are under siege at present! Here-I will show you something.” He halted again. “Your ship is under sail? Then who commands her?”

“Captain Adam Bolitho. I understood that you had already met him.”

The tanned hand was on Tyacke’s sleeve. “Bolitho? Must be God’s will!” He repeated the name, as if his mind was elsewhere. “A fine young man. But a certain sadness in him too, I felt.”

They had reached the gateway to a circular courtyard, cobbled, and probably built by slaves. Common enough in New Haven, or whatever it had originally been called. But Tyacke noticed none of it. Across the courtyard before him was the mast, the severed halliard still catching the breeze from the sea.

A man lay dead at the foot of the mast, but one hand was still moving, firmly grasping the halliard. The same green uniform, but with a piece of scarlet bunting which Tyacke had at first taken for blood wrapped around his neck like a scarf.

Ballantyne kicked a loose stone across the yard until it rolled against the corpse.

He said, “So that they can tell the difference!” He turned back toward Tyacke, his eyes filling his face. “Mutineers, rebels, call them what you will. They are still traitors! ”

He walked on, and although Tyacke was a tall man he had to quicken his pace to keep up with him. He thought he had seen some human shadows through a colonnade, as if there were others watching, perhaps waiting to remove the dead intruder.

Now they were on another side of the building, on a terrace overlooking the next stretch of anchorage. There were a few small vessels, obviously derelict or abandoned, and beyond, the full panorama of hills.

Tyacke kept walking toward the low wall but stopped when Ballantyne touched his sleeve.

“No further, Captain. We are possibly out of range here, but why take the risk?”

As if in response there was a dull bang, probably a musket, but no hint of any fall of shot.

Ballantyne said calmly, “We are the ones under siege. We can withstand any frontal attack by those scum, but we are cut off from our supply routes.” His hand indicated the terrace. “This place was built to defend others!”

He had taken Tyacke’s arm again. “Look yonder, Captain. Perhaps the fight is already lost!”

Tyacke shaded his eyes with his hat to gaze across the glittering breadth of New Haven. There was wreckage clinging to a long sandbar, and smaller fragments still breaking away beneath a layer of fine smoke, like mist. Tyacke recognised the shape of the vessel’s hull, and the gleam of blue paint, which he knew had only recently been applied. Now a total wreck, mastless and abandoned, if any one had lived long enough to escape.

He said quietly, “Endeavour. One of my patrols.”

There were more shots, no closer, even haphazard. As if they were being held in check. Then he said, “We picked up one of your men. That was how we knew about the mutiny.” He dragged out a crumpled piece of paper and flattened it on a bench, away from the wall. It was badly stained with smoke and dried blood.

Ballantyne stared at it and nodded slowly, several times. “John Staples. Acting bosun. A good man. I should have seen it coming.” He swung round and exclaimed, “I’ll not go under without a fight, damn their bloody eyes!” It was strange to see him suddenly defeated.

Tyacke felt someone beside him. It was David Napier, holding a telescope which must have been concealed in the satchel.

“I didn’t know you had that with you.”

“The captain told me to bring it. In case we might need it.” Napier’s chin lifted, and he sounded very young. “Do we, sir?”

Like a hand on the shoulder. Tyacke swung toward the harbour entrance, his mind suddenly ice-clear. A single shot. One of the deaf gunner’s “specials.” The signal. Onward was on the way. No matter what.

He took the old telescope with its finely engraved inscription, and opened it carefully, almost reverently. Bolitho’s telescope. Like those other times.

Napier watched him, conscious of the sudden silence around them. “What can I do, sir?”

Tyacke answered without hesitation, “Fetch our flag from the cutter. Tell Fitzgerald to run it up to the masthead.”

He broke off, his mind too full to continue. He did not even hear Napier say, “I’ll do it myself!”

Tyacke was watching the picture in the powerful lens acquire shape and significance. Like seashells caught in the reflected glare. Onward‘s topsails.

He hardly recognised his own voice. “Sir Duncan, you’re not alone any more.”

• • •

Adam Bolitho stood at the quarterdeck rail, one hand resting lightly on the smooth wood, which seemed to burn beneath the sun. It helped him to remain in the same place, where he could see and be seen, when every urge and instinct dictated that he should be on the move.

It was quiet, the shipboard noises muffled, perhaps by their slow progress. The most persistent sound came from an almost constant alteration of helm, the creak of the big double wheel, or a sharp correction from quartermaster or helmsman.

A glance aloft, and the loosely flapping topsails and listless pendant told their own story: the nearness of land. Without moving, Adam had watched the rugged coastline creeping out on either bow, as if Onward were intent on running ashore.

He could sense the readiness among the men around him. Extra hands now at braces and halliards, a few wearing bandages. Even those from the sick quarters were not spared. And the men at the guns, some peering at the land, visible now on both sides, or looking aft. Waiting was the worst part.

“By the mark, seven!”

Adam watched the leadsman hauling in his line, his bare shoulders wet with spray. He tried to recall the chart and Julyan’s crude but accurate copy. Holding steady. He glanced at the tiny white shape on the nearest elbow of land. Soon after this, more soundings would be necessary.

A splash and a brief flurry of smoke: the last of the galley fire.

He saw a seaman climbing aloft, carrying a container of water and watched by the nearest gun crews. All their mouths were as dry as dust, but the plight of the marines, the marksmen sprawled in the tops, must be far worse.

He saw Lieutenant Devereux talking to two of his men by the fore hatch, in full uniform, sword gleaming at his side. The duelling sword, Adam wondered? Devereux was smiling, and so were his men.