In no time, or so it seemed, Drummond had reached the futtock shrouds where it was necessary to rely on feet and hands to take the weight and to work your way out and around the fighting top, before you could begin the next stage. It was the mark of a good seaman. Drummond could feel his weight dragging at his fingers, his shoes slipping on every ratline. Not like those early days hanging out over the sea, never daring to look down.
He was pleased that he was not even breathless. It would be something to tell them in the mess at the end of the day …
He had reached the barricade, and gripped one of the iron mountings for a swivel gun to pull himself the last few feet. He was slow when compared with the sure-footed topmen who could make or shorten sail in minutes, and seemingly without effort. Like young Tucker, his new mate. A far cry from the poor, frightened devils who used to be dragged aboard by ruthless press gangs, never having set foot aboard ship before.
The midshipman was sitting on the edge of the lubbers’ hole to avoid the hazards of the futtock shrouds. Always risky, but with Monteith watching or yelling threats from below, it was a wise precaution. Walker gazed up at him, one leg dangling through the hole as he tried to fan his streaming face with his hat.
He said quietly, “I almost slipped.” He was shaking, but trying to conceal it.
Drummond knew the signs. The boy was no coward; he had proved that under the guns, and when others were falling around him. And when men had cheered him for his birthday, while hell had been exploding across these same decks.
“Stay where you are.” Drummond knelt beside him. “An’ take a swig of this.” He grinned and felt his jaw crack. “Didn’t do me no good, neither!”
He watched the boy swallow, some of the water running down his chin and neck. It would be stale after lying sealed up since … since when? But at this moment it would match the best wine in the fleet.
“I’ll get someone to see you down to the deck. A bowline round the waist would be a good idea.”
Walker seized his wrist and stared up at him imploringly. “No!” He faltered and tried again. “I don’t want to let them think …”
He stopped as Drummond said, “Don’t you start givin’ me orders, Mister Walker. Not yet, anyways.” He attempted to shift his own position and felt the pain jab through his muscles.
He looked across the anchorage to give them both time to recover. An entire area was filled with lifeless, abandoned vessels, masts and yards awry, untended. Awaiting sale or disposal elsewhere. Maddock, the gunner, had told him that most of them had been part of the trade. Slavers, which had been caught by some of the patrols before or after they had attempted to break out and escape.
Why any one would want to use one of them after what they had done was hard to imagine.
“They should burn the bloody lot of ‘em. Their crews, too,” he said now. Walker had managed to lean on his elbows, the leg still dangling toward the deck below. “You feelin’ any better?”
Walker did not reply directly. “What is that boat doing there amongst them?”
Drummond wiped his eyes and squinted. Then he gripped Walker’s bony shoulder. “Nothin’ wrong with your eyesight, thank God!” He gestured through the lubbers’ hole. “We’re goin’ down now, nice an’ easy, one step at a time, see?”
Walker nodded like a puppet. “But Lieutenant Monteith ordered me to …”
Drummond peered down at the deck. Nothing had changed. A Royal Marine was walking slowly along the starboard gangway, keeping pace with a small craft paddling a few yards away from the frigate’s side. A normal precaution: it was common enough for a would-be thief to slip aboard through one of the open ports if nobody was watching.
Everybody else would be looking at the flagship. As I was.
He said, “Never mind that. I want you to find the first lieutenant, an’ don’t take no from any one!”
Walker had lowered his legs, one foot shoeless, over the edge of the platform. “What shall I tell him?” He sounded calmer now, under control, but Drummond wanted to be sure.
“Just keep with me an’ don’t look down, right?” He glanced toward the rank of lifeless vessels. He had had only a brief glimpse of it, but it was still fixed in his mind: a longboat, double-banked, two oarsmen on each thwart, pulling steadily, even unhurriedly beyond the shabby prizes.
He replied, “Tell ‘im the admiral is in sight!” He caught Walker’s arm and grinned. “Don’t stop for nobody!”
He watched the midshipman jump down to the deck, pause, and tear off his remaining shoe before hurrying aft. Someone shouted after him, perhaps Monteith, but he did not stop or turn back.
Drummond followed easily, and wedged the empty water flask behind the flag locker. Until the next time.
Young Walker would remember today, and be proud.
Drummond moistened his call with the tip of his tongue. To hell with Monteith!
After the uncertainty which had followed Walker’s breathless arrival at the door of the captain’s quarters, the speed with which the actual event unfolded was almost a relief.
A cry from the lookout: “Boat ahoy?”
And the formal response, magnified by a speaking-trumpet, “Flag-Medusa!” left nobody in doubt.
Adam Bolitho watched the admiral’s barge turning to moor alongside, the double line of oars rising together, bowmen poised and ready to hook on. Even at this distance he could sense the strain and effort after their long pull as a diversion, chests heaving, faces shining with sweat. Jago would be observing critically, and would have a few things to say afterwards about it.
Adam had seen Vincent pass Drummond, the bosun, on the way to their stations for such an event, saw the nod and the answering grin. Like a couple of conspirators. The barge’s coxswain was on his feet now, hat in hand, two lieutenants, one obviously remaining in charge, also standing and saluting. And Rear-Admiral Giles Langley’s pallid face turned up toward the entry port where the side-boys were waiting, complete with white gloves, to offer assistance.
Langley ignored both and seized a hand rope, still looking up at the motionless ensign.
Langley was not lightly built, but he seemed untroubled by the climb from his barge, or the stamp of boots and attendant squeal of calls as he stepped aboard.
One of the other officers, his flag lieutenant, followed at a discreet distance, stiff-faced, accustomed to such ceremonial. Langley waited for the calls to fall silent, and the muskets to slap into position. Then he smiled and raised his hat as he faced aft. It was more of a gesture than a salute.
He thrust out his hand to Adam. “I said we should meet today!” and with a curt nod, “This is ‘Flags.’” He did not offer a name. The lieutenant was obviously used to that, too.
Langley waved his hand expansively. “Would you steer the course, Captain Bolitho? It’s not every day …” He allowed the phrase to dangle, perhaps a habit, perhaps for effect.
Adam strode aft, looking for flaws. The lieutenants and senior warrant officers waiting on the quarterdeck, and most of the duty watch mustered below the boat tier, the uniforms of a sweating squad of Royal Marines a vivid splash of colour amidships. A midshipman stood stiffly by each gangway, in case of any urgent message or change of procedure.
He thought of Midshipman Walker, and the quiet determination with which he had bluffed his way past the cabin sentry. And Vincent, usually so loath to reveal any emotion. He had gripped the startled boy’s hand and shaken it fiercely.
“I don’t care what you were doing up there, Walker-you came to me! Good man!”
Vincent was here now, much more contained, watching a bosun’s mate clearing a section of the deck of spare hands who were still in working rig, or stripped to the waist in the heat.
He murmured to Adam, “I told the barge crew they could stand easy aboard us while they were waiting.” Adam remembered Tyacke offering the same courtesy to Onward‘s boat’s crew. “The lieutenant declined, sir. He said he was told to stand by.”