The only sound now was the faint clink of crockery from the pantry where the messman was either putting aside the dishes from breakfast, or preparing the next offering from the galley. And it was stuffy and humid, airless after the upper deck. The windsails had been lowered and stowed, but from ladders and gangways you could see the flag and masthead pendant flapping, and hear the rattle and slap of rigging, as if Onward were eager to leave.
We are sailing today.
Even the ship felt different. Alive again after stagnation.
He opened his little locker and folded the unfinished letter carefully before putting it away. Dear Elizabeth… No, my dear. He should just forget her. She had probably put him out of her mind as soon as he had left the house.
There were some casks of wine secured in one corner of the mess. In fact, every spare space in the hull seemed to be packed with extra stores of one sort or another. How long did they expect to be away? And to what purpose?
He heard running feet, the sound of something heavy being dragged across the deck above, and a yelp from somebody who was not fast enough. It would be soon now, unless there was another mix-up over the orders.
He sat down, deep in thought, recalling his unexpected summons to Rear-Admiral Langley in the great cabin: the admiral relaxed, even casual, but always maintaining a certain distance, and not merely because of his splendid uniform and gleaming epaulettes. Sometimes interrupting Napier in the middle of a sentence to fire a question, or clarify a point with his crushed-looking flag lieutenant. But the captain had been there also, a shadow against the stern windows, saying little unless in response to some comment from Langley.
Mostly, the questions had centred upon Moonstone, and the boarding party, and those final moments.
“And you were alone with the last survivor? How long was that? Did he tell you his name? What manner of man was he? Where would you say he came from?”
Looking back, it had been more an interrogation than an interview.
“What did he say? Was that all he said? Was there anything else of significance? And you left Moonstone with the others when the order to abandon was given?”
Bolitho had spoken before Napier could answer. “He was trapped between decks. Some loose gear had blocked his escape.”
“But others freed him?”
Napier heard himself say, “It was Jago, the captain’s cox’n, sir!”
He had been angry, remembering Huxley’s face, his despair, after the admiral had called to him and then brushed him so curtly aside.
And remembering Langley in the captain’s cabin, lounging in that same old chair, to which, when Napier had been wounded and unable to walk, they had carried him. And the captain had held him, giving him strength and courage. It was like sacrilege.
Napier had remained standing throughout the interview, the old pain reawakening in his leg as if to goad him.
Langley had got to his feet and remarked dismissively, “You did your best, Mr. Napier. A pity that we are still in the dark.”
It was over.
Napier had only spoken to the captain very briefly since then, after the admiral had finally returned to his flagship. He had been delivering a message from the purser. He had been about to walk away when the captain had called him by name.
“I’m proud of you, David.”
Then the purser himself had appeared, and the contact was broken.
“All done in ‘ere, sir?” It was the messman. “Think I ‘eard th’ pipe.” He did not wait for a reply, but Napier had long since learned that cooks and messmen usually knew what was happening before any one else.
He glanced at his locker, hesitated, and took out the letter. His thoughts scattered as the order was piped along the deck, faint at first, but as it reached hatch or companion it was loud and clear.
“All hands, all hands! Take station for leaving harbour!”
The admiral had decided.
Proceed when ready.
7 NO MERCY
ADAM BOLITHO ENTERED HIS CABIN and walked aft to the stern windows, which were now leaning slightly to larboard. Not much, but after their slow departure from Freetown it was like a reward. He leaned on the bench seat and peered down at the water below: one of the cutters was towing astern to keep her tightly sealed after baking beside her twin on the tier. He saw the boat yawing occasionally from side to side as if attempting to overtake her parent ship.
But they were making progress. If only the wind would hold.
He opened his shirt and loosened the sleeves. It was almost cool in the great cabin, or seemed so after the small chartroom where he had been comparing notes with Julyan, the master. In there, it had been like an oven.
Julyan had sounded optimistic, even cheerful. “Wind’s holding, not much, but if we keep this up we should sight the approaches day after tomorrow.” Some of his confidence had faded as the rudder had quivered noisily, like something shaking the keel.
Adam rubbed his chin. Even so, three days to make one hundred miles. Onward was used to something better. He smiled to himself. He must be getting like Julyan, with his quaint remarks.
They had been studying the most recent chart when the master had said seriously, “If all the sea ran dry right this minute, Onward would be perched on the edge of a great valley, hills to larboard and a bottomless pit to starboard.” It was a warning any sailor would be insane to ignore.
They had plenty of sea room, but Vincent already had the leadsmen selected to stand by for immediate soundings if the chart proved incorrect. To go from no bottom to only a few fathoms beneath the keel was not unknown.
The pantry door opened and Morgan looked in questioningly.
“May I?” And when he nodded, “Call me when …” He glanced at Adam’s seagoing coat, which was lying untidily across a chair. “I can give that a shamper-up in the meantime, sir.” He went out, the coat hanging over his shoulder like a faded banner.
Adam sighed. Morgan always seemed to know what was coming. He walked across to the old chair and stroked the worn leather. How many times?
He thought of the admiral. What was in those secret orders? Had they really required the fastest available frigate? Perhaps the only available frigate?
He recalled that final signal, Proceed when ready, which Midshipman Hotham had reported as soon as it had broken from Medusa’s yard. Langley must have gone ashore soon afterwards to one of his interminable conferences, because after Onward‘s anchor had broken free and they were eventually clearing the harbour, another signal had been sighted. It read simply, Until the next time. It must have been from Tyacke.
He moved to his small desk and half-opened the drawer where the letter lay. When would it be finished? When might she eventually read it?
He heard the Royal Marine clear his throat and call, “Lieutenant Monteith, sir!”
Four bells chimed faintly above the other sounds. Last dog watch. Monteith would arrive flushed and breathless, apologising even though he was exactly on time. The thought irritated Adam, although he knew he was being unfair.
He looked up at the skylight, remembering how the admiral’s flag lieutenant had so carefully closed it.
Monteith strode into the cabin, his hat tucked beneath one arm. “I do apologise, sir. I was needed up forrard, but when I told them-” He seemed surprised when Adam interrupted him briskly, waving him toward a chair.
“Never mind. You’re here now. And this won’t take long.” He crossed the cabin, feeling Monteith’s eyes on his back, and sat behind the desk. “As third lieutenant, you have the training and the welfare of our midshipmen in your care. Some are experienced up to a certain level, a few are on the first step. We all go through it, and you will recall the pitfalls and misunderstandings yourself, Onward being your first ship as a commissioned officer.”