Deeper water now, steadier in some way. David Napier felt the salt spray splashing over the gunwale and soaking his legs. He tried not to look into the faces of the oarsmen as they lay back on their looms, following the stroke-oar, measuring every breath. He had seen their eyes, staring astern after they had cast off from the frigate’s side, and was glad his back was turned. He had never found leaving the comparative safety of the ship an easy moment.
And Captain Tyacke had scarcely spoken since his agile climb down into the boat, apart from exchanging a few words with the coxswain and with one of the marines, a corporal who had just been transferred from the flagship. The corporal had apparently once served with Captain Bolitho.
Napier felt himself frowning, and not merely because of the brutal sunlight, trying to remember everything he had been told concerning his duty with the flag captain.
There had been a few slaps on the back from the others, sly comments of, “Another step up the ladder!” and a handshake from Simon Huxley, but no words. And he had heard the captain say, “Watch yourselves, lads.” But Napier knew Bolitho had been speaking to him.
Tyacke half turned suddenly, almost startling him, and said, “There’s a pier and a smaller jetty. We’ll be directed to one or the other.” His face was slightly averted, the disfigurement hidden, and Napier imagined he could feel his own injury. The limp, which he had beaten. He pressed his leg hard against the satchel.
“Oars!”
Another heave, then the blades paused, dripping like wings, as Fitzgerald said, “Easy now, lads,” and then, “I heard shots, sor!”
The corporal confirmed it. “Muskets, sir!”
Tyacke said fiercely, “Carry on! May be up-river or further inland. We don’t have time to hang fire at this stage!”
The oars picked up the stroke and the cutter gathered way once more. Napier watched the land falling away to reveal the entrance to a natural harbour: the anchorage beyond was still half hidden by the headland. No place to venture after dark.
There were two small boats, fishing craft, moored to a ramshackle trestle, and a few birds, which took off as the cutter turned slightly to starboard, where the outgoing current confronted and contested an ocean.
Napier thought of Jago, and his efforts to talk to him. Always a barrier, and yet …
“There’s the pier, sir!”
Tyacke straightened his back and said sardonically, “What, no red carpet laid out for us?” and grinned as if it reminded him of someone.
Fitzgerald leaned closer, murmuring, “Lucky we didn’t bring the corpse with us!”
Tyacke said, “Pull to the next part,” and looked down at the satchel. “I’m not waiting for-”
They all ducked instinctively as the air quivered to a drawn-out explosion.
He shouted, “Next jetty!” He stared across the looms and braced shoulders. “Stand by with the swivel!”
But the ginger-haired corporal had already removed the hood and was training the muzzle beyond the pier.
Napier slung the satchel across his shoulder, ears still throbbing from the explosion, smoke and grit between his teeth.
He heard Tyacke calling out to the cutter’s crew, “Stand by, lads!” but very calmly, one hand resting on his sword hilt.
A grapnel had been thrown on to the low jetty, and a few men almost fell as they came alongside, metal clattering as they seized their cutlasses. A couple of them dragged muskets from beneath the thwarts.
“Clear the boat!”
But Napier hung back, as if he were unable to move.
He felt Tyacke’s hand lightly on his arm, was conscious of his voice, quiet and compelling. Almost matter-of-fact. “Ready, David?”
And his own answer. “Aye, ready, sir!”
They were ashore. But the Union Jack had vanished.
Aboard Onward, the musket shots had passed almost unheard except by a few men on watch in the tops, and even then they were nearly lost in the usual chorus of shipboard noises. One man raised the alarm, then the full impact of the explosion rolled against the hull, given extra power by the echo reverberating from the backdrop of high ground.
Adam stood by the rail, gazing the full length of his command, seeing men off watch coming up from their messes, some still chewing the remains of a hurried meal. Others, working on or above the decks, had fallen silent, looking aft toward the quarterdeck.
Only Midshipman Hotham spoke. His signals telescope was still trained on the shore. “They’ve lowered the Jack, sir.”
Adam watched the great arrowhead of blue water, and the overlapping humps of land that guarded the harbour entrance. He sensed Vincent and Squire standing somewhere behind him, and others near the wheel. Waiting. Perhaps dreading.
Jago’s shadow merged with his own across the deck, and he heard the steady breathing. Then he lifted his arms and felt the coxswain clip the old sword into place.
It was like a signal.
“Beat to quarters and clear for action!”
16 NO QUARTER
VINCENT FACED AFT and touched his hat. “Onward cleared for action, sir!”
Adam returned his salute and stood looking along the length of the upper deck. Vincent’s formal use of the ship’s name seemed to make it more personal. Immediate.
He had already seen Maddock, the gunner, on his way to the semi-darkness of the magazine, his felt slippers gripped in one hand, appearing to glance briefly at the guns with a word or a nod to each crew. His head was, as usual, cocked to one side in case the deafness caused him to miss something, which in Maddock’s case was unlikely.
These were his men. Every day of their lives they carried out countless tasks to keep the ship alive and running. But in the end, this was their purpose. To work and fight these guns; if necessary to die doing it. They often discussed it, even joked about it, on messdecks and in wardroom alike. But now the ship was quiet. Waiting.
Vincent said, “They knocked two minutes off the time, sir.” It was meant to break the tension but his face remained drawn, and Adam thought he was in need of a good sleep.
Adam looked up as the topsails flapped untidily before filling once more. The land still seemed a long way away, but it was having its effect, like a giant barrier. He touched the telescope he had borrowed, but changed his mind.
“Load when you’re ready. As planned. Not a race.” Vincent was already gesturing to a bosun’s mate. “But don’t run out!”
He moved nearer to the wheel where Tobias Julyan was comparing notes with Tozer, his mate. Julyan peered up at the masthead pendant and pursed his lips.
“We’ll be losing a knot or two when we change tack next time, sir.”
Tozer ventured, “The last time afore we enter harbour, sir.”
Adam turned and saw the leadsman in the chains hauling in his line, his mouth soundlessly forming the soundings. Then he shouted, “By the mark, ten!”
Julyan grinned. “No wonder it’s a long haul!” Ten fathoms. Sixty feet. Onward drew three fathoms.
The second leadsman was already leaning against his apron, and lowering his own lead in readiness.
They were feeling their way, like a blind man tapping along an unfamiliar street.
Adam said, “Part of your ‘valley’?”
Julyan nodded, feeling the pocket where he kept his bulky notebook. “Don’t want to scrape off her barnacles just yet, sir.”
“Deep nine!”
Julyan licked his lips. “I think I’ll keep my mouth shut!”
Surprisingly, one of the helmsmen laughed.
The rest was drowned by the rumble of gun trucks as breechings were cast off, and the eighteen-pounders were manhandled inboard and loaded under the watchful eye of every senior hand. Adam saw the fists raised as each crew finished. But the guns were not run out.
He looked up at the tops where Royal Marines, stripped of their bright coats, were already lying or crouching with muskets or manning the swivel guns. They would be feeling the full heat of the sun up there.