Julyan interjected, “Will you excuse me, sir? I believe I need my other log,” and slipped out, closing the door behind him.
Tyacke seemed to relax visibly. “Now we can talk.”
They both knew Julyan had left deliberately.
Tyacke tapped the chart. “There’s too much money invested in slavery to expect a few laws and some keen patrols to put a stop to it. I’ve tried to explain this to our admiral. He won’t listen, of course. All he can see is the next step up his personal ladder-and soon, he thinks.” He stared around the small chartroom as if he felt trapped by it. “It’s all I’ve heard since he hoisted his flag over Medusa. I hope they appreciate it at the bloody Admiralty, or wherever they decide these things!”
He touched Julyan’s old octant, which the master liked to keep on display. “To hell with it. I shouldn’t let it scupper me like this-in front of you, of all people.”
Adam touched his arm. “I’ll not forget,” and smiled. “Did you manage to get any sleep?”
Surprisingly, the scarred face lightened into a broad grin. “A damn sight better than you, I’ll wager. That chair was empty every time I woke up!” Then he glanced toward the door. “He’s coming back. Thinks he’s given us long enough to trade secrets.”
When Julyan entered with a new chart folded beneath his arm, he found both of them joking and very much at ease. As he had intended. One captain was enough.
Lieutenant Mark Vincent sat at one end of the table and flattened out the list reminding him of several outstanding tasks. Not that there were many: he tried to be certain of that wherever possible. He had been on deck in charge of the morning watch, and was still feeling the strain of a first night at sea after a long spell at anchor. Men working in the darkness, falling over their own feet, waiting for the dawn.
He pushed a plate aside, but could hardly remember what the messman had offered him. The wardroom was empty, which was the way he liked it while he was sorting out his tasks and duties. At sea again, but for how long? Onward had left England on a mission, and that was completed. So why the delay? Chasing slavers was not work for a fine frigate like this one.
He tried to smother another yawn. The captain wanted the gun crews to exercise action today, either to reassure or impress their senior passenger. And the purser had asked for some stores to be shifted again. The man always seemed to have something stowed in the wrong place, and never made the discovery until after they had weighed anchor.
Vincent thought of the frigate Zealous, which they had left riding untroubled at her anchor. Her captain was apparently too new and inexperienced to be entrusted with a passenger like Tyacke, but how else would he gain the necessary confidence? He knew he was being intolerant, unfair to a complete stranger, but after this, what would follow for him?
He swung round in the chair and saw Monteith hovering by the door.
“I was told that you wanted to see me.” Monteith’s eyes flickered toward the other door, which was swinging half open.
Vincent said curtly, “There’s nobody in there,” and looked at his watch, which was lying on the table beside his list. “You’re with a working party up forrard, aren’t you?”
Monteith had his head on one side, an irritating habit Vincent always tried to ignore. “I left them with full instructions. It’s not the first time I’ve told them what I expect when I’m needed elsewhere.”
Vincent leaned back in his chair and attempted to appear in command. He should be used to Monteith by now, and immune to him. They shared the daily routine, in harbour and in action, and they shared the only escape: this wardroom.
He said, “I know you better than most of the hands you deal with. Harsh, perhaps unfair treatment of men in front of their messmates can easily rebound on the one in authority, and at the wrong time. I don’t want to make an issue of it.”
Monteith seemed to draw himself up with a cocky indignation. “Has the captain said as much? If so, I’d like-”
Vincent slapped the table. “Between us! But the captain isn’t deaf, or blind, so get a grip on your temper when you’re handling the people!”
Monteith retorted, “I hope I know my duty, Mister Vincent!”
The door clicked open, and one of the messmen entered with a bucket. Vincent stood abruptly, and snapped, “And so do I, Mr. Monteith!”
He realised too late that he was standing with his fist raised, his limbs adjusting independently to the motion of the hull, but it was a moment he would always remember, like those other times: Monteith, mouth half open for another outburst, the messman still holding the bucket, his eyes fixed on the two lieutenants.
Wind and sea, sails and rigging. The sound might have gone unheard.
“Gunfire!” he said.
Perhaps he was mistaken. Then he thought he heard someone shout, a young voice, a midshipman’s, but it reminded him of his early days at sea, and the Battle of Lissa. The last major sea-fight of the war. Vincent had never forgotten it, or his captain, William Hoste, who, at the age of twelve, had served under Nelson in his famous Agamemnon. Hoste had once complimented Vincent on his “attention to detail.”
He snatched up his little list and said, “I’ll see you on deck!”
On the upper deck the hot wind was almost refreshing after the sealed wardroom. The watchkeepers were at their stations, and working parties, including Monteith’s, were going about their various tasks without any visible excitement. Vincent quickened his pace, rebuttoning his coat when he saw Bolitho and the flag captain together near the wheel. Squire was close by, gesturing up at the masthead.
The two captains turned as Vincent joined the group by the wheel, and Tyacke said, “You heard it too, eh?” He stared aloft. “Good lookouts, but nothing reported.”
Drummond, the bosun, said quickly, “I’ve put young Tucker at the fore,” and to Tyacke, “One of my mates, sir. Used to be our best topman. Not much escapes his eye.”
Adam moved away a few paces. “I’m sorry you were disturbed, Mark.” He looked along the deck to where Monteith had just reappeared, and was standing with his back to them. A heavier hand might still be required there, but it would not be Vincent’s decision.
Tyacke said, “I know of two other patrol vessels on this stretch. Endeavour and Challenger, both brigantines.”
Vincent said automatically, “Commander Mason, Challenger. A good man, by all accounts.”
Tyacke nodded. “It’s only a matter of time.”
He did not explain, and Adam had seen how hard it was for him to remain detached from any plan that might have been decided.
Adam unslung his telescope and walked to the side. Despite the steady wind and occasional bursts of spray over the deck, his shoes were sticking to the seams in the heat. He levelled the glass and focused it, but it was the same unending coastline, monotonous, like a solid bank of motionless cloud. The edge of Julyan’s “invisible valley.” He licked his lips: they tasted like dried leather.
“Excuse me, sir.” It was Maddock, the gunner, shading his eyes with his hat to peer up at Squire. “We was supposed to exercise the gun crews this forenoon.”
Vincent interrupted, “I’ll have it piped when …”
He got no further. There were more shots, hurried and in rapid succession. Adam tried to see it in his mind. A brigantine, but no return fire, and the echoes were lost almost immediately in the slap and boom of canvas and the thud of Onward‘s rudder. “Shaking the trunk,” old sailors called it.
Drummond called, “Nothing in sight, sir!”
With the others, Tyacke was staring up at the maintop, and then toward the land. “Everybody’s staying well clear today … Better maintain our course until-”
He turned to look at Adam and saw the flash reflected in his eyes. Several seconds seemed to pass before they heard the explosion, like a clap of thunder. Then nothing, not even an echo.