Vincent showed his teeth. “Thought you might, sir. If we’re called on to fight, there could be casualties enough without falling spars adding to the bill.”
Adam almost smiled. No doubt the admiral would describe them as “unsightly.”
Vincent gestured toward the sea. “Surely they’d never dare fire on a King’s ship?”
Somebody called out and another hurried to obey. But Adam was reminded of Tyacke’s comment when they had been alone together. Our flag flies in many lands, but not always by invitation. To most of them, we’re still the invaders.
There was a sudden metallic clatter forward, followed by a familiar bout of coughing. The cook was already up and about, and no matter what might lie ahead, for him the galley came first.
Vincent said, “He was on deck when I took over the watch. Who needs the sand-glass?”
Lynch had spent most of his life at sea in one kind of ship or another. At the first hint of danger the galley fires would be doused to avoid any accident, but Lynch liked to have enough food prepared and ready for the return of what he called “kinder times.”
Vincent turned away to watch a seaman running across the deck, but he was lost in the predawn shadows.
“When the flag captain visits the governor …” He paused. “If he does, will he be taking the gig?”
Adam said only, “You are ahead of me, Mark,” and thought Vincent might have shrugged.
“A cutter might be a better choice, sir.”
“Good thinking. A cutter can mount a swivel if need be. Better safe than swamped!” They both laughed, and a seaman who was taking a mouthful of water from the ready-use cask looked up and muttered, “Not a care in th’ bloody world!”
Adam walked slowly aft, past the men at the wheel and Tozer, the master’s mate, who had been with him in Delfim‘s prize crew. Here it was deserted, only a small part of the ship, the sea astern still in darkness. In another hour or so all hands would be piped, and the land would lie ahead like a barrier.
He slipped his hand inside his shirt and gripped the ribbon. A little worn now, and fraying, but hers.
A precious moment.
“Captain, sir!”
It was over.
Harry Drummond paused by the boat tier and stooped to pick up a piece of codline before tucking it into his belt. It would probably not be needed, but as Onward‘s bosun, and even long before, he had learned to make use of almost everything. The miles of standing and running rigging, the massive cables now stowed and drying below deck, were his responsibility. He smiled to himself and felt his mouth crack. Next to the first lieutenant, of course.
He stood in the shade beneath the braced canvas and stared disapprovingly at the top-chains on the upper yards: necessary maybe, but unseamanlike. They had rigged them just in time, too. The ship had altered course again and the yards were hard-braced; to a landsman she would appear to be almost fore-and-aft. But every sail was firm and filled. A few seamen were still working aloft, bodies half-naked in the sun. Some might be sorry afterwards: it was going to be one of the hottest days yet.
Drummond looked at the land again, but there had been no change. It reached from bow to bow in an endless green barrier, without shape or identity. Otherwise the sea was empty. No local craft hugging the coast for convenience, nor blackbirder making a run for it with rumours of a man-of-war in the area.
Drummond thought of the drifting wreckage and the human remains, followed always by those accursed sharks, and his eyes rested briefly on the canvas-wrapped corpse near one of the guns. Who would know or care? Better to have put him over the side like the others.
He looked at the land again. Unless the wind picked up they’d be lucky to anchor much before dusk. He had seen the captain with Julyan, the master, comparing notes on the quarterdeck. And the flag captain had shown himself a couple of times, too. A fine-looking man … or had been.
He saw Luke Jago climb from the fore hatch, his old cutlass beneath his arm.
“Taking no chances, eh, Luke?” It was somehow reassuring to see him like this, apparently unmoved by his experience amidst that grisly flotsam, but who could tell? Jago gave nothing away.
He was peering up at the taut canvas. “Pity we can’t make more sail,” and Drummond nodded sagely.
“They don’t want any one to sight us too soon, I reckon.”
They turned as several loud clangs seemed to shake the deck beneath their feet.
Jago said, “They’ll bloody well ‘ear us before that!”
There were shouts and the din stopped. It was one of the gunner’s armourers hammering something on the anvil. The watch below had yelled their protests, eating what might be their last meal before they were called to quarters, with a tot for good measure.
Drummond said, “Not many captains would care that much, Luke.” He could share things like that with the burly coxswain, inscrutable though Jago often was. They had little in common except the ship and their friendship, which had only begun when Drummond had joined Onward to replace the dead bosun, but the navy was like that. Sometimes there was no reason to consider a man a good mate, but it was a fact.
Then he added hastily, “I’ll shove off now. One of your young gentlemen’s approaching.” It was Napier.
Unexpectedly Jago said, “Stay, will you?”
Drummond shrugged. “You got the tiller, Luke.”
Napier slowed down and halted by the stand of boarding pikes at the foot of the mainmast. He had already recognized the old cutlass, despite its scabbard. The same one which had saved his life aboard the sinking Moonstone.
He was saying rather shyly, “I wanted to see you, when you have a moment. Maybe later-” when a voice echoed along the deck.
“Bosun!” Pause. “Bo-sun!”
Drummond raised his fist and bellowed, “Comin’, sir!” and added quietly, “I’d better go. Mister bloody Monteith needs me!”
He grinned defiantly at Napier and strode away.
Jago saw the boy’s eyes on his hand as he closed it gently around his forearm.
“I’ve been wanting …” The grip tightened very slightly.
“I think I knows what you want to say. One day when you’re a cap’n, with your own ship an’ all the men to fetch an’ carry for you, you’ll remember the bad old days with us. Eh, sir?”
“Well, that’ll keep him quiet for a bit!” Drummond was back, and somehow he knew they were both glad of the interruption.
Adam Bolitho walked into the great cabin and closed the screen door behind him. This sanctuary was always the same, and yet he never took it for granted. More spacious, even bare without those familiar articles which had already been safely stowed away.
Hugh Morgan gestured to the chair and the sword lying across it. “I’ve given it a proper polish, sir.”
Adam nodded, but he was looking at the sleeping cabin door. “I just wanted a moment with him.”
Morgan lowered his voice. “Captain Tyacke is almost done, sir. Then I’ll clear the space. As usual.”
Adam continued on his way aft and gazed at the sea, the changing colour almost gentle after the pitiless glare on deck.
He touched the chair, alone now and facing astern. Even the little desk had been taken away, with his most recent letter half-finished in one of the drawers.
Morgan murmured, “If you would care for something before-”
“Later, maybe.”
He listened to the rudder and the regular clatter of rigging. The motion was uneven, erratic, and had been since the change of tack.
Tyacke’s leather satchel was lying on the bench seat beneath the stern windows. Where he must have used the old telescope to look back at his flagship-perhaps for the last time if the breaker’s men were waiting in the wings. The thought made him look away from the sea and around the dim cabin again. Suppose it was Onward?