“Ah, there you are, Adam. I was just coming to have a few words.”
Adam had been half expecting it, but it still came as a surprise. Tyacke was in full uniform, even to the tarnished gold aiguillette fastened across his breast.
He said, “No more signs of trouble, then? Good.” He had not waited for an answer. Adam watched him walk to the bench seat and lean on it while he peered down into the water below the counter.
“I’ll have the cutter lowered when we’re more in the lee of the land.”
“A good boat’s crew?” But he said it as if his mind were elsewhere. “Something I wanted to ask you.” The scarred face turned, the sea’s light reflecting across it. “I’d like one of your experienced midshipmen to go with me. He can take care of the admiral’s instructions.” One hand moved dismissively. “Not your signals middy-he’s acting lieutenant, if you need one. I thought young Napier would fill the bill, after what I’ve seen of him.” He looked up as a call shrilled somewhere and feet responded across the deck. “With your consent, of course.”
In the seconds before Adam could answer, Tyacke had walked over to the bergere, and was gazing down at the sword as if he wanted to touch it.
He said only, “Equality Dick,” and the blue eyes came up steadily and held Adam’s.
Adam said, “I’ll do all I can.”
Morgan interjected sharply, “I think you are wanted on deck, sir.”
He was for the most part a warm-hearted person, but as Adam strode past him on his way to the door he saw Morgan regarding Tyacke with something like hatred.
Vincent was waiting by the companionway. “I thought you should know, sir.” He glanced past him as if he expected to see Tyacke close on his heels. “Masthead reported another sail, same course as ours. But small, hard to identify. May be one of those brigantines the flag captain mentioned.”
Adam opened his telescope and climbed into the nettings. There was mist nearer the coast, and the vessel was directly stern-on, all sails set but scarcely visible, overwhelmed by the solid mass of land reaching out on either bow as if waiting to ensnare them.
“You may be right, Mark, but she’s well ahead of us. Warn the lookouts to report any change of bearing.” He knew the others near and around the wheel were trying to hear what was being said.
He jumped down to the deck and saw that the second cutter had already been moved to the quarter-davits, ready for lowering. “We’ll lower the cutter when we clear the point. Closer for the oarsmen, but room enough for us, if we need to change tack in a hurry.”
Vincent said, “I’m told that Midshipman Napier is going with the flag captain, sir?” He hurried on. “He’s young, but I daresay experienced enough. He should be safe enough in the same boat as Captain Tyacke!”
He turned away as Julyan appeared on the quarterdeck. “The master is about to rig a dog-vane, sir. Close inshore it can detect any change of wind quicker than anything. He swears by them.”
But Adam was looking at the empty cutter, and Vincent tried to imagine what he was thinking.
It was the right decision. But would I have made it?
Lieutenant James Squire leaned over the quarterdeck bulwark, observing the cutter’s slow progress down Onward‘s side. Always an anxious time in the open sea, in case something vital was left behind or forgotten. He had hoisted and lowered boats countless times during his years at sea. But there was always the possibility of some potentially fatal oversight.
He watched for the cutter’s shadow as it rose and fell beneath the keel.
“Handsomely does it!”
Too soon, and the boat might overturn when it hit the water. Too late, and …
“Avast lowering!”
Squire looked up briefly at the outthrust spur of land, saw some tiny white-painted hut or beacon perched at the seaward end. Closer now, but it would still be a strong pull for the cutter’s crew, double-banked or not. He had done it a few times himself.
“Pass me the glass!” He had to repeat it. Midshipman Huxley was paying more attention to the cutter, no doubt too busy thinking about his friend Napier going ashore with Captain Tyacke.
A few more turns and the cutter was pitching and plunging alongside, some of her crew already securing equipment while trying to keep their balance, Fitzgerald, her coxswain, peering critically across the span of open water to the unmoving layer of mist, above which was a tiny patch of colour. The Union Jack.
Squire turned as someone muttered a warning, “Heads up!”
Captain James Tyacke walked to the quarterdeck rail and stood in silence, studying the land. Squire was aware of the effect of the uniform, and saw it in the faces of the seamen around him. Perhaps, by that gesture, the day had suddenly acquired new meaning and purpose in their eyes.
He heard Vincent call, “I’ll have the cutter brought to the entry port, sir!” and saw Tyacke shake his head.
“Take too long.” He might have smiled, but there was another emotion in his eyes.
“Man the boat!” Fitzgerald touched his hat, and ran to the ladder which had been lowered soon after all hands had been called. Tyacke waited until the cutter was fully manned, two seamen to each thwart, and a swivel gun at the stem. Only then did he turn and extend his hand to Adam Bolitho.
Vincent was watching the masthead pendant and the rebellious flapping of canvas, impatient to bring the ship under command again once the cutter had pulled clear.
Adam returned the handshake. Strong and uncompromising, like the man. There was no more time. Adam said only, “Signal, if you need us.”
Tyacke gazed up at the ensign curling easily against the clear sky, his blue eyes almost colourless in the fierce light. “I hope …” He released his grip. “Until we meet again, Adam.”
He turned abruptly and climbed down into the cutter, and seconds later, or so it seemed, it appeared well clear of Onward‘s side, unhurriedly, all oars pulling as one.
Adam remained by the rail and watched their progress as the ship came alive around and above him, her canvas filling, and resumed her course. Then he walked slowly across the deck with the wind in his face. Julyan’s dog-vane was fluttering from a half-pike mounted in the weather shrouds: his own battle ensign, perhaps.
He heard Vincent call to one of his leadsmen, already stationed in the chains for the approach, their landmark that tiny, distant flag, heard the splash, and the leadsman’s chant.
“No bottom, sir!”
They were ready.
He looked again, but the cutter had disappeared.
“Steady, lads. Easy does it!” Fitzgerald was half crouched, half standing at the cutter’s tiller, staring over the twin banks of oarsmen at the outthrust spur of land.
It was just for something to say, and he knew it was because of his passenger. His crew were all skilled seamen; they would not be here otherwise. Even the midshipman with the satchel wedged between his knees was not one of those I-know-best types he had met in the past. God help poor Jack when they walked their own quarterdecks …
He felt spray on his mouth as the stroke-oar leaned away from him again. The cutter was answering well, despite carrying a few extra bodies: two marines in the bows as well as a man with a boat’s lead-and-line, although it was not needed yet. You could see the bottom through the clear water, even dark patches of weed, coming alive with the current as the oars dug deep on either beam.
They were all armed, cutlasses stacked beneath the thwarts, and the marines, already sweating heavily in their scarlet uniforms, were in charge of the swivel gun, which was concealed by a canvas hood.
Fitzgerald eased the tiller again and fixed his eyes on the far-off flag: the Union Jack, the same flag they saw hoisted or lowered every day of their lives. But out here it seemed alien, out of place.