Jago would have smiled at any other time. Bloody officers. But he reached down from the tiller-bar and gripped the hand which had suddenly returned to life. Weak at first, as if unable or unwilling to find hope, and ice-cold, although the thwarts and bottom boards were bonedry in the sun.
The eyes were suddenly wide open, unblinking, and Jago tightened his grip.
“Steady as she goes, matey. Just a bit longer!”
He had seen a lot of men fighting for life in all the years he had served at sea. And had watched plenty of them give up. The eyes were still on his. Not fear. It was disbelief.
Vincent dragged his hand into the sunlight. Some dried blood, but nothing much. He spoke softly, his voice almost drowned by the creak and thud of oars.
“Broken ribs. The explosion.” He glanced at the oars, slowing now. The breathing was louder. “As soon as we get him aboard …” He did not finish, knowing the man was trying to turn his head to look at his face, or perhaps the uniform.
Vincent leaned over him. There was more blood on his own white breeches. “We’re taking you to safety. Try to rest. You’re among friends now.”
Jago eased the tiller yet again and watched Onward as she appeared to lengthen across the gig’s stem. There would be many helping hands once he had managed to work his way alongside, without much of a lurch. He thought of Vincent. Strict but fair, not a hard-horse like some. He tried to smile. Like most. But the smile did not come.
He eyed the masts, the poop, the big ensign streaming from the gaff above. Closer now, men on the gangway, some running, tackle being hoisted as a further guide, where the surgeon would be waiting.
“Bows!” Onward was reaching out to receive them, with extra ladders and rope fenders to cushion the impact as he guided the final few strokes of the sweating oarsmen. Onward was rolling, reefed sails still holding the wind, showing her copper one minute and then the reflection of her gunports as she dipped toward him. Jago shut everything else from his mind, conscious of the man’s grip on his ankle as he was trying to keep his balance and fix the moment. Nothing else could interfere.
Vincent was calming the survivor, and he was suddenly silent, as if he thought he had imagined the ship so close.
Jago shouted, “Oars!” and as the blades lifted and steadied, showering spray over the men beneath, he was unsettled by the silence. A heaving line snaked out of nowhere and was seized by one of the bowmen.
Vincent must have stumbled or been taken unawares by the motion. The rescued man had dragged himself on to his knees and was staring up at Jago as he eased the tiller for the impact.
His voice was cracked, strangled, but as the stroke oarsman came to Jago’s aid he began shouting at the top of his voice. It was garbled, meaningless. Then he stared directly into Jago’s eyes again. As if he was judging the moment, holding him: Jago could not look away.
A voice not much different from his own. Loud and very distinct, but only one word.
“Mutiny!”
His eyes were still wide open. But he was dead.
It was not dark in the cabin, but it seemed almost gloomy after the activity on deck.
Adam stood by the stern windows, his hand on the bench, feeling the motion, the regular thud of the rudder. The sea was streaked with gold, the last sunlight, and there seemed no horizon. Behind him Tyacke was sitting at the little desk, his shoeless feet protruding into a slanting patch of coppery light. Someone was hammering overhead, but otherwise the ship noises seemed very subdued.
Tyacke said suddenly, “Tomorrow, then?” and Adam nodded.
“At this rate, some time in the afternoon. Maybe later if the wind drops inshore.” He could picture the chart in his mind. He glanced at the bergere and dismissed the idea. If he gave in now, it would take another explosion to wake him.
He had been on deck again a moment ago. Almost deserted but for the watchkeepers, and a few anonymous figures sitting by the guns or looking at the sea alongside. And the canvas-wrapped body beside one of the eighteen-pounders, not for burial this time.
Tyacke had remarked, “They’ll want to know. To be sure.” It was curt, but it made sense.
He had struggled to his feet now and was looking for his shoes. “Your cox’n, Jago-he did well today. I told him so.”
Adam heard the pantry door open perhaps an inch. He recalled Jago’s face as Tyacke had spoken to him. And something else. Vincent had said nothing to him. He could imagine Jago’s voice. Bloody officers!
And the surgeon, who had been waiting to examine the dead man when he was hoisted aboard. When Murray had made his report, his hands red from scrubbing, he had said simply, “I don’t know how he managed to stay alive.”
Tyacke had replied only, “But now we know why!”
He was looking toward the pantry door now, and raised his voice a little. “A lifetime ago somebody suggested that a drink, maybe two, might be forthcoming!”
Morgan padded softly to the table and put two glasses within reach, frowning and tutting as the deck tilted and the rudder groaned in protest. They each took a glass, and Morgan filled them without spilling a drop, murmuring, “Your health, gentlemen.”
Tyacke drank deeply and gestured to Morgan to refill his glass, and said almost wistfully, “Like old times.”
Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag captain would never forget.
15 SEEK AND DESTROY
ADAM BOLITHO PAUSED near the top of the companion ladder to prepare himself. He felt the air on his face, cool and refreshing, stirring the folds of his clean shirt. The coolness would be brief. The morning watch was only an hour old, the ship almost quiet except for sounds which, like his own breathing, were too familiar to notice.
It had been a moonless night, so that the stars had seemed exceptionally bright, paving the sky from horizon to horizon. He thought he had slept reasonably well in the bergere with his feet propped on a stool which Morgan must have put there, but he had heard Tyacke cry out during the night. Somebody’s name: a woman’s. But the sleeping cabin door had remained closed, and he had heard nothing more.
He braced his shoulders and mounted the last of the steps. It was always like this at the end of a passage. You could feel the nearness of land, even imagine you could smell it. And there was always the doubt. The uncertainty. He touched his chin and smiled ruefully. He had shaved himself, not as well as Jago would have, but if anybody needed rest now it was his coxswain.
Figures were already turning toward him as he stepped on to the quarterdeck. His white shirt would have been like a beacon in the dimness before dawn, and he had always hated stealth, unlike a few officers he could have named.
Vincent had the watch and was standing by the compass box, its tiny flame reflecting in his eyes. He said, “Wind’s eased a bit, sir. But I thought I’d wait for some light before sending the hands aloft to spread more sail. Besides …”
“It’s better to see than be seen. I agree.” Adam looked at the spread of canvas which seemed to contain their world. The sea on either beam was still black.
Vincent hesitated. “Can we expect trouble when we make a landfall, sir?”
Adam rested both hands on the quarterdeck rail and looked toward the forecastle. Beyond the pale stretch of deck, there was little to see: the vague shadows of hatches and the regular black shapes which were the breeches of the guns, and now an occasional spectre of spray rising, then fading, above a gangway. His brain was shaking off any lingering desire for sleep.
He faced Vincent and said, “I think we always have to expect trouble, Mark. Especially after what you discovered.” He saw him glance in the direction of the guns, where the canvas-wrapped body was stowed. “As soon as we call hands and it’s safe enough, I want top-chains hoisted and rigged at the yards.”