It was the middle watch, almost over now. Adam stared through the darkness toward the land, imagining he could smell it, but he knew it was about two miles distant, if his calculations and Julyan’s were correct. The sailing master had seemed satisfied. By guess and by God, as he had put it.
The cutter and gig were moored alongside. It would be a long pull for the oarsmen, with extra men and weapons adding to the weight. Squire would be in command. Not an easy man to know, but he was brave, reliable, and popular. His experience as a master’s mate, ashore and afloat in a surveying vessel taking part in Sir Alfred Bishop’s expedition, made him the obvious choice. His service throughout the expedition had gained him a commendation from the great man himself, and a promotion to commissioned rank which still seemed to surprise him.
He would be leading in the cutter, which mounted a swivel in the bows as additional protection, with the gig staying as close astern as possible. If Squire ran aground on a sandbar before reaching a suitable beach, the gig could tow or kedge him free. Monteith would be in charge of that. There was no alternative.
It might all prove to be a mistake and a waste of time, and Rear-Admiral Langley would not be pleased about that.
Two midshipmen were also among the landing party, Huxley and David Napier, requested by Squire because he had worked alongside both of them while anchoring and getting under way. Adam had mixed feelings about Napier. Experienced, yes, but it was too soon after the Moonstone affair. But any exclusion would be seen as favouritism, and Napier would be the first to protest.
Many of Onward‘s company had been standing by for most of the night. Some may have snatched a catnap curled up against a gun or in some corner of the hull, waiting for the call. No hammocks had left their nettings, in case of some emergency when all hands might be needed. A sudden shift of wind, or the leadsman’s cry, warning of unexpected shallows. Like the edge of Julyan’s “great valley,” Adam thought.
They were ready. It was now.
Vincent had reported that there had been no shortage of volunteers, but Squire had only chosen a few extra men, including a squad of Royal Marines. Adam could still hear the disappointment, and see it on Lieutenant Sinclair’s face, when he had been told that he was staying aboard and Sergeant Fairfax would be in charge of the “lobsters.”
He glanced toward the land, very faintly visible now, darker than the sky.
And the air was still cool. But in another hour, less … He felt something like a shiver, and repressed it. He said quietly, “So let’s be about it, shall we?”
He had gone over it in his mind again and again. Weapons, powder and shot, a day’s ration of food and water. Bandages. He heard a few hushed voices, a slap on the back. Even a quick laugh.
The gig cast off first, oars moving slowly to carry her clear of the side. Jago was at the tiller. Not a volunteer: he had insisted. Napier was with him, Monteith’s decision. Next the cutter, muffled oars taking the strain, the coxswain the usual man-Fitzgerald, a true Patlander as Jago called him-waving to someone still invisible in the darkness. His loose white shirt was ghost-like against the black water. It would be Jago’s guide as he was following astern.
Vincent said, “I’ve doubled the lookouts, and the anchor watch is standing by. Now all we can do …”
Adam looked up at the sky, which seemed lighter, although that was impossible, and considered Vincent’s voice. Efficient but envious. When he looked again, the two boats had disappeared, and he felt Vincent move toward the side.
Like me, he wants to be with them.
David Napier crouched in the gig’s sternsheets and watched the regular thrust and heave of the stroke oarsman, slower than usual, but very steady. With extra hands aboard there was scarcely room to move. He eased his injured leg as much as he could; at least that was not playing up.
Monteith was sitting beside him, shifting occasionally to peer around the oarsmen as if in search of the cutter. It was rarely visible, except for a phosphorescent splash of oars, and the pale blur of Fitzgerald’s shirt.
Once he snapped, “Look out! We’re losing her!” and Jago had broken his silence.
“I’ve got her!” The barest pause. “Sir.”
Napier could feel spray splashing across his legs as the oars dipped steeply into the swell. Like tropical rain. How much worse it must be in the cutter, with a much heavier load to carry. He had seen the swivel gun mounted in the bows, but had heard Sergeant Fairfax say, “There’s another one to take its place if need be.” He had even chuckled. “No time to load an’ prime if we have to fire!”
No wonder the cutter had displayed so little freeboard. Squire must be thinking of that right now in this deeper swell.
Napier shifted again and felt the curved hanger’s hilt rub against his thigh. The gunner had issued it to him when the landing party had been arming, blades freshly sharpened on a grindstone. Like Nautilus. Like Moonstone.
The gunner had watched him unbuckle his dirk. “Take this, boy. You might need something stronger than that do-little sword today!”
He looked toward the shore, and tried to see it in his mind. The sky was lighter, but only slightly, like the edge of a frayed curtain. There should be a small spur of headland to starboard, if the cutter was on course. And a beach, which might still surprise them. He would talk it all over later with Huxley, who was up there with Squire. It was hard to determine what they had in common, except for the unbreakable bond of friendship, which neither of them had ever questioned.
Jago said curtly, “Alterin’ course to starboard.”
Monteith almost stood up, but seemed to change his mind. “Are you certain?”
Jago either did not hear him or ignored him.
Napier offered, “I can still see the cox’n’s shirt, sir.”
He sensed that Jago had leaned across the tiller-bar and guessed he was grinning. Or swearing under his breath. They had hardly spoken since the hands had been mustered for “this adventure,” as Lieutenant Squire had called it.
“Any trouble, you keep with me!” That was all, but from Luke Jago it was everything.
“Oars!”
The blades rose dripping on either side, while the gig swayed and slowed almost to a halt.
Jago said, “Cutter’s run aground.” He stood, one hand on the tiller. “Got clear again. Give way, together!”
The stroke oarsman gripped his loom and leaned back, and in those few seconds Napier was able to see the gleam of a medallion as it swung freely across his shirt. The features of the men around him were faintly visible for the first time since they had cast off.
A bosun’s mate named Sinden muttered, “Not much bloody longer!”
Monteith rapped out, “Silence in the boat!” and did not see Sinden’s gesture behind his back.
Napier seemed to have lost track of time. It was measured by each thrash of oars, and the surge against the hull, the occasional heavy breathing when Jago called for a brief pause if they were overhauling the cutter.
Napier stared past the oarsmen and saw the land, not high ground but a ragged barrier of trees.
“Oars!” Jago had turned his head, either to look or listen.
Monteith said sharply, “I gave no order!”
Jago did not move. “Mr. Squire just made a signal. We’re arrived, sir!”
With the oars stilled, Napier thought he could hear the murmur of sea against beach, then the silence was completely shattered as some of the cutter’s crew and passengers splashed over the side in readiness to haul their boat to safety.
It was not simply a landfall. The place seemed to be reaching out as if to encircle them … He told himself that would change when true daylight showed itself.
Monteith got to his feet and peered toward the land. Fitzgerald’s shirt, the signal, had vanished. He said, “Stand by to clear the boat!”