I wanted him dead. Him or me.
Now Fowler was missing, having gone ashore in Plymouth, and they had marked him in the muster book as RUN. Deserted. But nobody really knew. Maybe he was dead; maybe someone else had had a score to settle. But until Squire knew for certain, he would remain a threat.
He gestured to the new midshipman, who responded instantly.
“My respects to the first lieutenant, and tell him we are all secured here.” He raised his voice as Radcliffe turned to run toward the gangway. “Easy does it! I think we’ve earned our pay today!”
He waited until Radcliffe had dropped out of sight. It was always too easy to take it out of those who could not answer back. He should have known that better than most. He watched some of his seamen mopping the stained deck and dismantling their tackle. Dull, necessary routine, but it gave him time to calm himself. It was over.
Someone had called his name and he tugged his hat lower over his eyes, peering into the rain. They were under way, the flagship lying across the quarter with only her flags moving, her decks deserted. He stared ahead again, the blue-grey water reaching away on either bow, the jib-boom pointing the way, like the naked figurehead of the youth with outstretched trident and dolphin beneath it.
He looked toward the land; a church or slender tower was visible despite the downpour. People might still be there, watching the solitary frigate as she headed for the open sea. There would be mixed feelings among the civilians. Pride, perhaps sadness, but certainly not envy. It was still too soon after the long years of war, the fear of invasion and, not least, the hated press gangs.
Lieutenant James Squire gripped a stay and felt it quivering as if the whole ship were straining forward, eager to leave.
And he was free.
He heard Napier’s voice, and saw him stoop beside one of the anchor party with a spare block and tackle in his hands. “Like this-it’ll run free next time.” He smiled. “Wet or dry!”
The seaman was new, and Squire could not remember his name, but he appeared not much older than Napier. He saw him reach out with an answering grin to help the midshipman to his feet. It was a small thing, but Squire knew that it mattered, more than he could explain.
Napier was pleasant if slightly shy, and had already proved himself reliable and quick to learn. Squire gazed along the shining deck where men and boys had died. Brave, too. One day, maybe soon… He turned and said abruptly, “You were at the wedding, I’m told.”
Napier wiped his hands on a piece of waste. He was still not used to Squire’s sharpness and swift changes of mood. A man you would never really know, unless he himself allowed it.
“Yes, sir. There were a lot of people …”
“And the bride?”
Napier recalled the church, the ceremony, the light on the uniforms. And the girl, Elizabeth, Adam Bolitho’s cousin, dressed as a midshipman, carrying the flowers. She would soon forget. He would not.
“They looked so right together.”
Squire laughed. “Well said! And so they should.” For some reason, he knew Napier would say no more. Like me, he has nobody to leave behind.
“Message from the captain, sir.” Radcliffe was back, breathless, cheeks glowing from the cold wind. He held out a folded piece of signal pad and grinned at Napier. “Rain’s stopped!”
Squire unfolded it deliberately. “I told you to walk, Mr. Radcliffe. You’re puffing like an old Jack!” It gave him another few seconds, and as he opened the message he realised that the rain had indeed stopped, and the sea surging away from the stem was beginning to shimmer, although any real sun was still hidden beyond the clouds.
“Hands take station for leaving harbour. It’ll be lively when we reach open water. Officers’ conference aft, at noon.” He looked at the two midshipmen. “That includes you, for some reason.”
Both boys turned to watch a small schooner, sails in momentary confusion as she altered course toward the anchorage. Napier would be used to it, having served with Captain Bolitho before, but Radcliffe had not been long enough afloat to get his feet wet. But in all his years at sea Squire had never known a captain who made a point of sharing his immediate plan with his chain of command.
His men were separating to join others on deck, directed by the master’s mate and other senior hands; the wind was strong enough to require more weight on the braces as Onward made more sail. Squire shivered. It never failed to excite him, even now. And he thought enviously of the youngster Radcliffe. So many years to make his own.
He saw Napier going aft and pausing as he met the newly rated bosun’s mate, Tucker, heading in the opposite direction. Their hands touched, not by accident, and Tucker grinned as Napier spoke. Some good had been done. Tucker had been promoted because of Fowler’s disappearance.
He stared at the foretop and waited for a face and a name to form in his mind.
“You, Willis! Move yourself! We’ve not got all day!”
He knew his men. It was his strength.
Napier heard the shout but ignored it and ducked beneath the larboard gangway between two of the eighteen-pounders. The sky had become clearer, but they must have been too busy to notice. The sea bursting from the stem where he had just been standing was glittering in hard sunlight, but the touch of the drifting spray on his skin was still like ice.
He looked at Tucker, also called David, and gripped his arm. “Haven’t had the time to tell you properly. I’m so glad for you-well deserved, too!”
Tucker glanced down self-consciously at his blue jacket and the telltale silver call hanging around his neck. “It’ll take some wearing to get used to it!” He said it strongly enough, but when he looked up at the braced topsail yards and the small figures spaced at intervals against the sky he seemed less confident. “I know every man-jack up there, and what I was doing with them only a few weeks back. The same risks, the same laughs when we had all canvas doing what we wanted.”
Napier nodded. “I think I understand, David. I’m still getting used to it myself.”
Tucker showed his teeth in another grin. “It’s us and them, remember?”
“Nothing to do, Mister Napier? I’d have thought that by now …” It was Monteith, the third lieutenant, hands behind his back, head on one side, and angry. He looked past them. “The boats need securing for sea, as you may recall.”
“I’ve already detailed hands for that, sir!” Another voice: Drummond, the new bosun, very erect, but casually picking a piece of oakum from his sleeve as if the bustle and shouted commands around him were beneath his notice. He did not drop his gaze as the lieutenant glared at him. “But if you are taking over, sir, I am needed elsewhere.”
Napier thought Monteith would explode, or give vent to the usual sarcasm. Instead, he shaded his eyes as if to peer abeam and snapped, “I can’t do everything!” and stamped away.
To Tucker the bosun said, “I’ll need you at four bells, right?” and walked aft unhurriedly, calling out an occasional name, or pausing by the various working parties as he went.
Tucker shrugged. “Sorry, David. I didn’t see him.” He turned sharply as one of the foretopmen slithered down a backstay and landed as lightly as a cat at his feet. “Hey, Ted, why’n’t you warn me he was coming?”
Napier recognised the seaman called Ted. He had often seen him together with Tucker, working aloft like the others they had been watching, repairing rigging, and tending the wounded after battle. Sharing a lively hornpipe during a dog watch when Onward had first commissioned. Friends.
Now the same man turned his back, remarking over his shoulder, “Didn’t know it was an order!”
Tucker stared after him as if he had been struck. Then he said quietly, “It’s become a different ship.”