They were all there, as if they had not moved in all the time he had been crouched high above them. The captain came to meet him, the others remaining grouped near the compass and wheel.
“D’ you need time for a second wind, David?” He said it kindly, turning him a little away from the others. Napier felt a shiver run through his body, although the sun was hot across his shoulders.
He said, “Wreckage, sir,” and gestured ahead, and saw some seamen turn to scan the empty horizon. “On either bow, sir. Pieces. No part of ship we could recognise.” He faltered, realising that another shadow had joined theirs. It was the flag captain.
He swallowed hard but straightened his back in response as Tyacke smiled and said, “Don’t stop, Mr. Napier. I’ve heard every word so far,” and averted his face slightly, as if he knew that the scars were disturbing Napier.
The boy gulped and pressed on. “The lookout, David Tucker, saw it first, sir. Even without a glass. He knew.”
Tyacke said, “A good man, I hear.”
Napier saw Drummond, the bosun, who was standing with the others, give him a quick nod. I told you so.
Napier went on, “A small vessel, sir,” and fell silent as Tyacke turned back, and seemed to measure his response.
“Perhaps. We must do more than hope.” He gazed at the sea, indifferent to the metallic glare. “The wreckage lies across our course.” He looked up at the masthead pendant. “An hour? Two at the most?”
Adam nodded, aware that Vincent had come aft to join them. Even men off watch or excused from deck duty seemed to have gathered, and the cook with one of his assistants was peering out from the galley hatch, probably wondering if it would interrupt his schedule. Lieutenant Devereux was in animated conversation with Sergeant Fairfax, breaking down the inevitable barrier of his predecessor’s death. He could sense Tyacke’s mind working, his patience perhaps running out.
Adam said, “We shall shorten sail but hold this course, until we can discover more evidence.”
It was enough for the moment. They all had plenty to think about. He looked down over the quarterdeck and saw Jago leaning against the boat tier. “We’ll need a boat if we find anything.” Almost as if Jago had put the thought into his mind.
He turned back as Vincent said, “I should like to take the boat, sir.”
“I shall remember that when the time comes, Mark.” He glanced up at the taut canvas. “But shorten sail when you’ve mustered the hands.”
Vincent half smiled. “Aye, aye, sir!”
Adam saw Midshipman Huxley leading Napier to the companion; Tyacke must have already slipped away unseen to the great cabin. They had not spoken of it, but Tyacke must be wondering what the admiral would have in store for him when they eventually returned to Freetown. And after that?
It was as if the whole ship had been waiting for the word. Drummond did not need to use his call.
“Hands aloft! Move yourselves, there!”
Squire stood beside the wheel and listened to the squeal of tackles as the gig was lowered from the quarter davits. It was never an easy task with the ship at sea, after first manhandling it from the tier below the quarterdeck, and he could hear one of the helmsmen’s heavy breathing as he fought to hold the helm steady and the compass under control. Under reefed topsails and jib Onward was a different creature, her performance sluggish, at the mercy of the wind instead of commanding it. Jago looked up, waiting, as Vincent judged the right moment before clambering down to join him.
Someone called, “Hope they got strong arms, Luke! It’ll be a hard pull!”
Julyan was standing by, and Squire heard him mutter, “Hope they have strong stomachs, more likely.”
Squire stared from bow to bow, feeling the deck shudder to the surge and plunge of the rudder. The gig was moving away, clear of the quarter, oars already lowered and motionless like wings. It was not a light boat but it seemed to move like a leaf on a mill-race, and yet Jago remained on his feet, his hand on the tiller. Vincent was squatting in the sternsheets, hatless, and shielding his eyes from the spray now being thrown up by the blades.
A few strokes while the gig pulled clear, and there were already fragments of wood, badly charred, being carried between them. Further away there were larger pieces which must have been blown from the hull by the explosion. A hatch cover, a few broken gratings, and farther still, a piece of spar. A small vessel then, maybe a cutter or schooner.
He tensed as something gleamed through the swell and vanished. A shark. Vincent might have seen it. He would not need reminding of the last time, when he had boarded the sinking, abandoned Moonstone. Jago had been with him then, and Napier also. Like a pattern for the events that followed.
He heard the captain’s voice, clear and unhurried. “Tell Mr. Monteith to put more men larboard side forrard!” A pause. “You do it, Sinden.”
Someone shouted from the gangway nearby. Squire knew it was Midshipman Walker, their youngest, and no stranger to action or to danger. But his cry was like that of a girl.
Men were already running to the side, one carrying a grapnel and line. It was a corpse, but someone must have secured him alive to the hatch cover after the explosion, where the shark had reached him. A terrible death.
Squire heard the captain cross to the opposite side of the quarterdeck and thought he heard Julyan’s voice. Perhaps asking a question.
And the reply. “No, we’ll alter course when I’m satisfied. Not before.”
It seemed an eternity, the sea was almost empty again. It was only one man’s decision. Suppose it was mine? He thought of Vincent, the expression on his face when he had volunteered for the boat party. He would never admit defeat …
He turned as a shout rang through the chorus of sounds from loose canvas and shrouds.
“Deck there!” It was Midshipman Hotham, still in the maintop with his big signals telescope.
The sun had shifted, or was hidden by a partly reefed sail. Adam stared up at the arm pointing from the top and trained his own glass on the same bearing. A mistake, perhaps? Or Vincent signalling to admit failure and request support for his exhausted oarsmen?
Adam tried again, waiting for the gig to reappear. The swell was deep enough to hide it completely. He held his breath and watched the one upright figure.
Then he lowered the telescope and said quietly, “They’ve found somebody. Alive.”
“Give way, together!” Jago lurched against the tiller bar, keeping his balance as the oars brought the gig under control. It took all their skill and strength to do it, with the sea rising and sliding away on either beam as if to swallow them.
The gig carried two extra men, standing in the bows with boathooks to fend off any floating debris that might impede the stroke or damage the hull. They had both struggled aft to help haul the survivor inboard, and now he was lying in the sternsheets, his shoulders propped against Vincent; the first lieutenant’s breeches were soaked with blood. He was gulping air unsteadily, sometimes rasping and shuddering as if losing the fight.
The stroke oarsman gasped, “Don’t give up, matey!” and Jago glared at him.
“Save yer breath, or you’ll be the next!” Jago stared at the man they had found clinging face down to a piece of framework, the sort used to separate cargo in a small vessel’s hold. It had been intact, not even scorched.
He watched Vincent unfastening the sodden coat. It was green, like the uniforms of the “private army,” as he had heard one of the marines call it, which he had seen during their visit to New Haven. He scowled. Who the hell had given it a name like that? He recalled the brief gunfire and later, that one God-awful explosion. Nothing made sense.
Someone said, “Pity our doc ain’t with us!”
Vincent did not look up, but snapped, “So pull harder. He could do no better out here!”