Tyacke shaded his eyes with his hat to gaze across the glittering breadth of New Haven. There was wreckage clinging to a long sandbar, and smaller fragments still breaking away beneath a layer of fine smoke, like mist. Tyacke recognised the shape of the vessel’s hull, and the gleam of blue paint, which he knew had only recently been applied. Now a total wreck, mastless and abandoned, if any one had lived long enough to escape.
He said quietly, “Endeavour. One of my patrols.”
There were more shots, no closer, even haphazard. As if they were being held in check. Then he said, “We picked up one of your men. That was how we knew about the mutiny.” He dragged out a crumpled piece of paper and flattened it on a bench, away from the wall. It was badly stained with smoke and dried blood.
Ballantyne stared at it and nodded slowly, several times. “John Staples. Acting bosun. A good man. I should have seen it coming.” He swung round and exclaimed, “I’ll not go under without a fight, damn their bloody eyes!” It was strange to see him suddenly defeated.
Tyacke felt someone beside him. It was David Napier, holding a telescope which must have been concealed in the satchel.
“I didn’t know you had that with you.”
“The captain told me to bring it. In case we might need it.” Napier’s chin lifted, and he sounded very young. “Do we, sir?”
Like a hand on the shoulder. Tyacke swung toward the harbour entrance, his mind suddenly ice-clear. A single shot. One of the deaf gunner’s “specials.” The signal. Onward was on the way. No matter what.
He took the old telescope with its finely engraved inscription, and opened it carefully, almost reverently. Bolitho’s telescope. Like those other times.
Napier watched him, conscious of the sudden silence around them. “What can I do, sir?”
Tyacke answered without hesitation, “Fetch our flag from the cutter. Tell Fitzgerald to run it up to the masthead.”
He broke off, his mind too full to continue. He did not even hear Napier say, “I’ll do it myself!”
Tyacke was watching the picture in the powerful lens acquire shape and significance. Like seashells caught in the reflected glare. Onward‘s topsails.
He hardly recognised his own voice. “Sir Duncan, you’re not alone any more.”
• • •
Adam Bolitho stood at the quarterdeck rail, one hand resting lightly on the smooth wood, which seemed to burn beneath the sun. It helped him to remain in the same place, where he could see and be seen, when every urge and instinct dictated that he should be on the move.
It was quiet, the shipboard noises muffled, perhaps by their slow progress. The most persistent sound came from an almost constant alteration of helm, the creak of the big double wheel, or a sharp correction from quartermaster or helmsman.
A glance aloft, and the loosely flapping topsails and listless pendant told their own story: the nearness of land. Without moving, Adam had watched the rugged coastline creeping out on either bow, as if Onward were intent on running ashore.
He could sense the readiness among the men around him. Extra hands now at braces and halliards, a few wearing bandages. Even those from the sick quarters were not spared. And the men at the guns, some peering at the land, visible now on both sides, or looking aft. Waiting was the worst part.
“By the mark, seven!”
Adam watched the leadsman hauling in his line, his bare shoulders wet with spray. He tried to recall the chart and Julyan’s crude but accurate copy. Holding steady. He glanced at the tiny white shape on the nearest elbow of land. Soon after this, more soundings would be necessary.
A splash and a brief flurry of smoke: the last of the galley fire.
He saw a seaman climbing aloft, carrying a container of water and watched by the nearest gun crews. All their mouths were as dry as dust, but the plight of the marines, the marksmen sprawled in the tops, must be far worse.
He saw Lieutenant Devereux talking to two of his men by the fore hatch, in full uniform, sword gleaming at his side. The duelling sword, Adam wondered? Devereux was smiling, and so were his men.
He heard Vincent speak to the quartermaster before joining him at the rail.
“Good thing we didn’t lower the boats after all, sir. We don’t need another anchor!” He seemed calm enough, but his voice was edged with the usual impatience. A first lieutenant’s lot. Adam had not forgotten what it was like.
Vincent looked sharply along the deck as somebody gave a wild cheer. “What the hell!”
But others had joined in, gun crews peering or climbing on to their gangways, even individuals calling from yards or shrouds.
Luke Jago shouted up from the boat tier, “They’ve run up the flag, Cap’n!”
Adam reached instinctively for his telescope, then remembered. Our flag. He saw a seaman turn toward him, grinning. Perhaps he had spoken aloud. He walked to the side and lifted his hat to the shore.
Someone called out, “Wreckage, larboard bow, sir!”
Vincent said, “I’ll be up forrard, sir.”
“And I shall be here, Mark.”
The cheering had stopped. There were more shots, but it was impossible to judge the bearing or distance. Like the wind, it was playing tricks. Adam stared at the headland again: the ensign was very clear now, a twin of the one above the poop.
Midshipman Hotham offered him the big signals telescope. “They’re on the wall, sir.”
Adam trained it carefully and waited for the criss-cross of rigging to dissolve away. There were faces on the first stretch of the battery wall, and somebody was waving, perhaps cheering as Onward came past. Well-sited guns were a ship’s worst enemy, apart from fire. He moved the glass again and saw Vincent’s face pass, blurred and barely recognisable. Squire would be on his way aft to relieve him. Both good officers, but any newcomer might think they scarcely knew each other.
The telescope steadied, finding the range. A few boats huddled together, a shed and part of a slipway, then a cluster of ragged trees. Adam tensed. Someone running.
He heard Squire’s heavy breathing beside him, but did not lower the telescope.
“What do you make of it, James?”
Squire wiped the sweat from his cheek with the back of his hand. “I think the attackers must be on this side, sir. A few marksmen maybe, but until they can-” A jagged ridge of spray rose and fell, interrupting him. “Maybe only one gun. But properly laid and trained, all it would take to slow or disable them while stronger forces were summoned.”
Adam said, “Run out!”
He did not even hear the pipe, only the chorus of gunports being hoisted open. Showing her teeth.
“Ready, sir!”
Onward was heeling slightly, her topsails clutching and holding the offshore wind. But still no target. He could hear a few curses, and thumps from the gun deck as quoins were forced beneath the breeches to depress some of the guns still further.
Someone yelled from forward as a boat under oars pulled strongly from a tiny cove, which had been concealed by rushes or tall grass.
Adam steadied the glass again, and felt himself flinch as several flashes spurted from the boat’s gunwale. “As you bear!” He saw the nearest gun captain crouching over his breech, one hand raised, ready to jump clear.
“Fire!”
Only four guns could be brought to bear at this range. One would have been enough. The boat had taken a direct hit amidships, shattered as if by a giant’s axe. Eventually it settled and was already drifting abeam, planking, broken oars and a bare mast. And bodies.
Musket shots, but only a few, until Sergeant Fairfax’s powerful voice brought another fusillade.
“Gone soft, have you? What d’ you think they’d do to you?”