In the King`s Name

as a “walking speaking-trumpet.” His eyes were fixed on the approaching schooner.

“Ready, sir!” Julyan, anxious, fretting over the delay.

Adam shook his head. “Maintain course!” And to the quarterdeck at large, “Hold your fire!”

He had the telescope again but did not recall having taken it from Hotham. Suppose I am mistaken? On the larboard bow. About half a mile, and looking as if she were sailing on dry land. An easy error of judgment at this range, and across the hard glare of the anchorage. A trick to lead Onward into the shallows. Julyan had warned him, but he did not need it.

The smaller vessel, another schooner, was not trying to slip past while the others faced and fought.

His shirt was clinging to his body, but it felt cold. Like the dead.

“Steady!” From the corner of his eye he saw faces peering up at him from the nearest eighteen-pounder. He stared through the shrouds and ratlines, keeping his eyes on the schooner. As if she were snared in a net.

There should be uncertainty, doubt, even a consciousness of failure. There was none.

More shots, closer now, and he heard, even felt the deck shake as some found their mark. Marksmen in the tops were firing too, although at this range it would have little effect. He thought he heard Jago’s voice calling to some of the afterguard: “You’ll soon know, so watch yer front!”

Somebody was questioning why Onward was turning away from a challenge, and allowing an enemy to escape.

Julyan called, “Ready when you give the word, sir!” He was calm enough. He had no choice.

Adam gripped the rail with both hands and watched the smaller schooner’s masts begin to turn, in line, her canvas in confusion for the first time. From habit he reached for the telescope; he had lost count of the times, but this time he did not need it. Those same sails were all aback now, the hull heeling slightly, without purpose.

He knew Squire was beside him. Sharing it in his own fashion. He spoke for him. “They’ve got boats in the water! Abandoning ship!”

Adam laid his sword flat along the rail. He did not remember having drawn it. He said, “The schooner. Open fire!”

Someone shouted, “What about the boats, sir?”

Adam did not look up at the masthead pendant. There was no time left. He thought he heard Vincent directing the forward guns. He lifted his sword and knew each gun captain was watching, staring aft, eyes fixed on the blade. The sword flashed down; every gun on the larboard quarter must have fired simultaneously. Even as their recoil was halted, the half-naked crews were already sponging out and ramming home the next charge, selecting another ball from the nearest shot-garland.

As the thunder of the broadside rolled away the gun captains were yelling to each other, some coughing as the gunsmoke streamed through the open ports.

Adam heard Monteith, almost shrill above the noise, calling someone’s name. Then a seaman running, perhaps in answer. Another rattle of musket fire, closer now, shots hitting the hull or slapping through the canvas overhead.

The running man swung round as if taken by surprise. Then he fell, a few paces from the nearest gun crew.

Adam forced himself to look away, to turn his eyes toward the approaching ship. Nothing else must distract or concern him. The masthead lookouts and Vincent, up forward, would have an unbroken view. Two ships, Onward‘s bowsprit pointing directly at her enemy’s jib. The shooting was almost continuous now, and the Royal Marines were firing with regular precision, as if on a range.

At any moment Onward‘s bow-chasers would come to bear, then her carronades.

He tore his eyes away to look for the abandoned schooner. That, too, had been a ruse, without regard for their own lives. The schooner was heeling over toward him, her deck splintered. Another splash through the clinging smoke, and she was mastless.

Somebody cried out, near or far: he was beyond understanding. As if all the air had been forced, punched out of his lungs, or his ears were covered by unseen hands. How long? Maybe only a split second, and then came the explosion. He felt spray across his face as fragments hit the sea almost alongside. Something striking the deck with a shower of sparks. As his hearing returned he became aware of the shouts, and the clank of pumps, spilling water over the sun-dried planking.

The smaller schooner had vanished. Some of her remains were coming to the surface. They had misjudged Onward‘s change of direction. Even the schooner’s crew had not escaped.

Vincent was waving, perhaps shouting to confirm his readiness. A drop of the hand, and a nine-pounder responded from the forecastle. The smoke was fanning away as one of the carronades shook the hull.

Julyan was shouting now, and Adam saw him gesture toward the big schooner. “They’re cutting it fine, sir!” He stared down at his own arm, which was smeared with blood, then seemed to shrug casually. Adam had seen the gesture so often, in the chartroom when dealing with a problem which he usually managed to solve.

The big schooner had altered course again. If she drew closer to the other shore, she still might reach the open sea. They were still firing, and her upper deck seemed to be full of uniforms. The schooner was the transport. They were the main force, so far. And mutiny was a contagious disease. It could soon spread.

He winced as the second carronade fired its deadly charge across the other vessel’s forecastle. He did not need a telescope to see the splinters flying, men scattering like rags under a full charge of grape.

“Helm, hard over!” Adam saw Squire turn from the compass box and nod. He was biting his lip.

But Onward was answering slowly. There was an extra helmsman at the wheel. One already lay dead near Squire’s feet.

Squire saw Midshipman Huxley duck by the bulwark as more shots hammered into the deck. He caught his attention and called, “Keep on the move!” then swore under his breath as a splinter sprang from the deck within inches of his own foot.

Adam watched the great arrowhead of water between the two ships. In a few minutes they would be carried further apart. He picked up his sword, and heard some of the seamen calling out to one another. He felt a shot hit and ricochet from one of the eighteen-pounders. One of the crew, leaning on his rammer, did not move. He was still gazing aft at his captain.

More shouts, this time from the foremast. The upper yard, the royal, had been damaged or dislodged by the explosion, and some men were up there in the thick of it. The top-chains were holding, but even as he watched one of the tiny figures threw up his hands and fell.

Adam raised his sword and looked again toward the big schooner.

There was a lull in the gunfire, and many voices suddenly merging. There must be hundreds on board, outnumbering Onward‘s company at least two to one. Fists were raised, and he thought he saw the lens of a telescope flash in the smoky sunlight, either watching the sword or taking aim.

He shouted, “Full broadside! Together!” The sword was at his side, but he was gripping it with all his strength.

A moment later, Onward‘s entire broadside fired as one. Fourteen eighteen- pounders, and anything else that can strike a match, as the old gunners used to say. Like thunder, but no longer at any distance.

“First lieutenant wants you! Now!”

It was a call for the “speaking-trumpet,” and Adam saw young Huxley come to life and call out to a bosun’s mate before running toward the larboard gangway.

A smoke-grimed face peered up from the deck. “Don’t ye spoil that fine uniform, sir! ”

Huxley glanced down and might have smiled, then he collapsed. Before any one could reach him, he was dead.

Midshipman Hotham saw him fall, but he was needed elsewhere. But still he hesitated, one hand in his pocket, feeling for the little crucifix he always kept there, which nobody else knew about. “Dear God, please receive the soul of Simon Huxley.” Now he was reunited with his father.

“Ready, sir!”