He noticed Lieutenant Squire shaking his head, perhaps thinking of some particular ship in the past. At the end of the line …
Adam continued, “Our patrols will proceed, as ordered. But more and smaller ships will be needed.” He paused. “And officers to command them.” He saw Devereux, their new Royal Marine, turn as Prior, the clerk, bent to recover a few pages of his carefully written notes, which had fallen to the floor like dried leaves.
Adam had met Devereux only briefly when Vincent had introduced him for what he called “the formalities,” and had liked what he saw. Keen, intelligent and open, even if he had been sent to Onward under something of a cloud. When he had asked Devereux if he were disturbed by the transfer from a seventy-four to a frigate, he had seemed unable to contain himself.
“On the contrary, sir, I feel alive again!”
Vincent had remarked with an odd sarcasm, “Thanks to your predecessor,” although minutes earlier he had been making the newcomer welcome.
Adam heard the brief rumble of trucks directly overhead in the great cabin, and could imagine Morgan anxiously watching every move as an eighteen-pounder was checked. At least here in the wardroom, one deck lower, they were spared the presence of guns.
He reached for his hat and said, “We have a fine ship!”
Someone gave a cheer but was drowned out as Harry Drummond, the bosun, lurched to his feet, sending his chair crashing behind him. “An’ we’ve got a fine captain!”
They were all standing now, some taking up the cheer as the door closed behind him. Adam stood quite still, for how long he did not know. The same seaman was nearby, now leaning on a broom. I should not have insisted on coming. These same men trusted me, and some have paid dearly for it.
A few minutes later Vincent joined him. It was quiet again. “I was wondering about cordage supplies, sir.”
Their eyes met, captain and first lieutenant once more. Adam thought of Vincent’s own words. The ship comes first. He was wrong.
“What the hell?” Vincent was staring at the ladder. There were muffled shouts and feet thudding on deck: a boat coming alongside, and making heavy weather of it. And here came Walker, their youngest midshipman, almost falling as he slithered to a halt.
“Officer of the guard, sir!” He held out a thick envelope. “For you, sir!”
Adam took it. The familiar buff colour, his own name and rank in perfect script. Walker puffed importantly, “It needs the captain’s signature!”
Vincent snapped, “We know that.”
Adam said, “Thank you, Mr. Walker,” and smiled at the boy. “You must take more exercise. Onward is too confined for you.”
The wardroom door was open, and Prior was waiting patiently with a pen and an ink container. Between his prominent teeth was a paper-knife. Nothing ever seemed to catch him unawares.
Like the burial service at sea or the Articles of War, Adam knew these words by heart. Being in all respects ready for sea…
Midshipman Walker, still panting, had brought a stool from somewhere, and was looking on wide-eyed as Adam leaned down with the pen and signed his name.
Vincent said, “I’ll give it to the officer of the guard, sir,” but it sounded like a question.
Adam blew on the ink to dry it. “Sailing orders.” He folded the main section and thrust it inside his coat. “The day after tomorrow, weather permitting.” He moved toward the ladder. “I shall give it to him myself.”
The wardroom door was still open, but there was not a sound to be heard.
Vincent repeated, “Day after tomorrow, sir?”
Adam wanted to smile. Jago, for one, would not be surprised. It was a Friday.
“We will talk soon.” He paused, with one foot on the ladder. “The flag captain will be sailing with us.”
Lieutenant James Squire stood by the forecastle in the eyes of the ship and gazed down at the anchor cable. He had done this too many times to remember, but the moment never failed to impress him, standing like this with his back turned on the remainder of the ship, sharing it only with the figurehead and his outthrust trident. Most people, even those who thought they knew him well, might be surprised by the intensity of his emotions.
He could feel the deck stirring under his feet, and the breeze was strong and steady, enough to create little waves beneath the stem as if Onward were eager and already under way. He should be used to it, but this time it felt different, and knowing why was no help.
He turned almost reluctantly and looked along the full length of the ship. Men being mustered in readiness for putting to sea. Senior hands checking names, others facing aft toward the quarterdeck. And the capstan, unmanned as yet. Twelve bars like the spokes of a wheel. Twelve men to each bar. He had known times when it had taken more, when wind and sea had joined to fight them before the anchor had broken free.
Squire saw the small knot of people near the big double wheel, Vincent pointing at something, and Julyan, the master, nodding as if in agreement. And along the upper deck and gangways a midshipman standing sturdily here and there, to relay messages or chase up stragglers if an order was not obeyed promptly.
He glanced over at his own two particular “young gentlemen,” Napier and Simon Huxley. They had become part of his team in more ways than one, like the seamen around them, who knew exactly how far they could go before Squire had to put an edge to his voice. All in all, a good crew to control, although Squire would never have told them so.
The captain was nowhere in sight: probably still in his cabin, making sure he had forgotten nothing before the flag captain came aboard. A senior officer and the admiral’s right hand … Squire had come up the hard way, and still nurtured many of the grudges and prejudices of the lower deck.
Onward had swung to her anchor and the flagship was almost hidden by canvas and rigging. Maybe the day of the “liner” had come to an end? The old Jacks scoffed about it, but when Medusa was paid off …
“Sir!” Midshipman Huxley was gesturing, interrupting the disturbing thoughts. “Boat leaving the flagship, sir!” He was a youth who rarely smiled, but he was a close friend of Napier’s, and Squire was oddly proud of them both.
He looked away abruptly and saw the sudden bustle and excitement as the call was piped to muster all hands. The flag captain was cutting it fine, he thought. Sailing time was set for noon.
He had seen Lynch, the cook, leave his galley a while back, his old fiddle half-hidden by his apron, ready to get these feet stamping around the capstan while he still had the taste of rum on his lips to inspire him.
Squire walked deliberately to the opposite side of the deck, knowing from experience that the older hands always watched him at this critical moment in case he revealed any uncertainty. He half smiled. Panic, rather. The other anchor was catted, but ready to let go if there was a sudden emergency. None so far, but there was always a first time.
More shouts: the side party at their stations now to receive the flag captain. Even above that he could hear Lieutenant Monteith venting his impatience on someone in the afterguard, and saw two of his own men exchange grimaces. He could hardly blame them.
The wardroom was a small, private world, or should be. But as far as Squire was concerned, Monteith was still a stranger. Maybe Monteith had changed in some way since the landing party. Or is it me?
“Attention on deck! Face to starboard!”
Squire could hear the steady beat of oars, double-banked, although the boat was hidden by Onward‘s side.
The captain would already be there to greet his superior. But it went deeper than that. There was friendship as well as a mutual respect: you could feel it when you saw them together. Bolitho, of course, was much younger than Tyacke, and he had never been a diplomat and found it harder to disguise his true feelings when he was under pressure. Like that moment when he had turned and said simply to Squire, “If I should fall …” And Squire remembered his own reply, spoken without hesitation.