Vincent did not have to turn his head to know that the windsails were barely moving. They gave some relief between decks, but not here. He had already heard one working party complaining to the bosun about it.
“In a few weeks’ time, if we’re still in this godforsaken place, you might have somethin’ to moan about!” Drummond had laid his hand on the breech of the nearest eighteen-pounder. “You’ll be able to fry an egg on this beauty!”
And how long were they going to be here?
Vincent looked across the water toward the flagship. Bolitho had reported to the admiral and delivered the despatches, and Vincent had seen the flag captain through a telescope for the first time. He had felt both revulsion and pity at his hideous disfigurement. Suppose it had happened to me? Maybe James Tyacke had obtained no higher command because of it, despite everything he had done, and this was the end of the road …
He heard Lieutenant Monteith’s curt tone as he finished his instructions to the midshipmen on harbour routine. Vincent was the first lieutenant and could show no favour or prejudice toward any one. They shared the same wardroom, and at sea worked watch by watch. But that was all, and his dislike of the third lieutenant remained intense. He was still ashamed that when Monteith had been wounded during the fight with Nautilus he had felt no sympathy, only sorrow for those who had died.
He turned quickly as he heard the captain’s voice from the open skylight. How must he feel? Being kept here awaiting orders, and probably thinking all the time of the woman he had left behind in Falmouth? Vincent himself had had only one serious affair, which could have ended in disaster. She had been a married woman, and had proved an experienced lover, but she was the wife of a senior officer. A damned close-run thing. He had never forgotten. He almost smiled. But I’ll wager she has.
Drummond, the bosun, crossed the hot deck and touched his hat. “‘Bout ready to secure, sir. Still some new cordage to come aboard, but the lads ‘ave done well.”
He assessed Vincent, making up his mind. Saint or tyrant? The first lieutenant was neither. Drummond continued cautiously, “Rear-Admiral Langley, sir …” He did not look toward Medusa. “I had a mate who served under ‘im before ‘e came ‘ere.” He paused. He had only known Vincent since the old bosun had been killed. And maybe …
Vincent said testily, “Come along, man. Speak up.”
“‘E was commodore then, sir. Used to carry out inspections, no warning. Often with a newly joined ship.”
Vincent was staring at the open skylight. “Well, well. I wonder if-” Then the dark face lit with a grin. “Thank you. I’ll not forget this. That would be all I’d need!”
Drummond hoped he masked his surprise. It was taking him longer to understand the first lieutenant than he had expected when he had joined Onward. Vincent could be strict, but not aggressively so, like some Drummond had known, and he was always ready to listen when advice was required. But beyond that, he seemed to remain aloof, even in the wardroom from what Drummond had heard.
This was a small thing, but Vincent’s gratitude was like a door opening. Close co-operation between first lieutenant and bosun was essential. Together, they were the ship. He had seen Vincent look toward the cabin skylight. Only the captain was truly alone. Drummond glanced along the upper deck and was satisfied. Smart and tidy enough again for any admiral.
He looked at Vincent’s profile, edged with hard sunlight. A strong face, alert and intelligent: it was said that he had been in line for command when Onward had commissioned. Was he still thinking about that lost chance, still hoping? The hope might be in vain, especially these days with the fleet being cut down.
He tugged out his silver call and held it in the palm of his hand, where it looked no bigger than a toothpick.
“Just say the word, Mister Vincent!”
He saw Vincent walking toward the companionway, maybe to pass on to the captain the news about the admiral’s little foible. Monteith’s sharp voice intruded into his thoughts, impatient and sarcastic. There would be no tears if he fell overboard one dark night.
And there was Walker, their youngest midshipman, nodding obediently and repeating something for Monteith’s benefit, while Monteith stood, hands behind his back, feet flexing up and down in their brightly polished shoes.
“I shall not ask you again, Mr. Walker!”
Drummond quickened his pace. Young Walker might make a good officer one day, given the right example to follow. Strange to realise that when he himself had been serving aboard the seventy-four gun Mars at Trafalgar, in the thick of the fighting in which his own captain had been killed, young Walker would have only just been born. If then. It was a sobering thought.
He gritted his teeth and felt sand or dust grate between them, but there seemed to be no wind to have carried it. He licked his lips. Maybe cooler down in the mess.
He heard Monteith’s voice again, rising almost to a scream. “So you think that’s a joke, do you? Made you smirk, did it? Then go to the maintop and stay there until I recall you!”
One of the seamen who was coiling some new rope nearby muttered, “Poor little bastard’ll burn alive up there.” His friend saw Drummond and spat, “Bloody officers!”
Drummond heard both of them, and was reminded of his own remark. This godforsaken place. Now it was mocking him, like the old warning. Stay out of it!
He saw the midshipman climbing slowly up the starboard ratlines, slight body framed against the sky. Monteith had already disappeared, no doubt to the cooler air of the wardroom, where he would be having a wet before making someone else’s life a misery.
Drummond made his decision. He took a water flask from behind the flag locker where it was kept hidden for the watchkeepers, although everybody knew about it, and strolled unhurriedly to the mainmast shrouds.
He stared across the water toward the flagship, but nothing seemed to have changed. No boats at or near the entry port, but maybe there were some tied up against or beneath the pier. Obviously the admiral had more sense than to venture out in an open boat with the sun at its zenith.
He could feel his shirt clinging to his shoulders like a damp skin, and the sweat already running down his ribs and hips. A few faces turned curiously in his direction, but just as quickly avoided his eyes. He seized the ratlines. In case I might find some more work for them to do.
He stared up at the maintop, black against the burning sky. He had been at sea all his life, probably longer than any one else aboard, except for a few like Lieutenant Squire and Jago, the captain’s coxswain.
He had never forgotten that one time when he had been ordered aloft by an officer. Not calm like today, but in a raging gale with a full sea running. He must have been about Walker’s age. He had nearly fallen. A few seconds. A lifetime.
He could recall the comment by the tough, hard-bitten seaman who had saved his life. When a bit of gold lace tells you to jump, look first! He had even been able to laugh about it.
He leaned back and began to climb.
He had the sun behind him, but knew he needed to keep a sharp lookout when he reached the shade and comparative safety of the top. He held his breath and halted as something struck his shoulder from above and bounced off the ratlines. He did not need to look. It was a shoe. He wanted to call out to the boy, but the distraction could be fatal. Walker was already climbing again.