Heart of Oak (10 page)

“The captain has a fine reputation. I’ve met several officers who have served with him. Wounded, taken prisoner by the Yankees and escaped, and then there was the time—” He swung round. “Don’t you
know
better than to interrupt an officer when—”

Jago stood his ground, and spoke to Vincent as if Monteith were invisible.

“The Cap’n sends his compliments, sir, an’ would you join him when you are able?”

“I’ll come directly.” There was an outburst of angry shouts from forward and he added, “Deal with it, Mr Monteith. Call me if you need me.”

Monteith would rather choke, he thought, and knew he was being unfair.

He fell into step with the coxswain. A hard man to all accounts, he sensed, but a good one to have protecting your back. Such a short time aboard, and he had already made his mark.

“You’ve been with Captain Bolitho a long time, I believe?”

He felt Jago’s cool gaze. “A while now, sir. This ship an’ that.”

Curt enough, but characteristic. Vincent smiled privately. They had a saying about it, like everything else in the fleet. Between every captain and his ship’s company stood the first lieutenant.
And his coxswain.

Down the companion ladder, his eyes noting the changes. A Royal Marine at the screen door, boots coming together smartly as they moved into the lantern light. Newly spliced hand-ropes, a reminder that even this would be a lively expanse of decking in any sort of sea.

The sentry tapped his musket on a grating. “First lieutenant,
sir!
”

He could not remember the marine’s name. Not yet…

The great cabin had completely changed, and with the dividing screens folded away seemed much larger. Most of the piled books and papers had gone, and an opened log or diary lay on a small desk Vincent had not seen before.

There were furtive noises coming from the hutch-like pantry that adjoined the captain’s sleeping quarters: it would be the cabin servant, Morgan. Vincent had made that choice himself.

“Thought you might need an escape before the others joined us.”

Bolitho came out of the shadows and stood framed against the stern windows, flickering lights passing back and forth across the sea behind him like moths.

The same warm handshake, as if they had just met. He gestured to the table. “Some cognac, will that suit?” He grinned as Morgan hurried from his hiding place, a tray balanced in both hands. “I feel as if I could sleep for a week!”

Vincent watched the cognac swirl and move to the motion. He had chosen Morgan with care. A man of some experience, but still human enough to hear and report any conversation which might be of interest elsewhere.

“Can I help in some way, sir?”

Bolitho faced him again, his eyes in shadow. “You have, Mark. You
do.
” He picked up a goblet. “As always, this is the hardest step.”

There were candles on the cabin table and he held the goblet to their light, hesitating, his mind still lingering on questions and doubts. Then the strain seemed to fall away. “To us, Mark. And those we are leaving behind.”

They touched glasses, but Vincent barely noticed the taste. Leaving behind? They had not even finished with the watch and muster bills yet.

“I did hear that you were about to be married, sir.” He broke off. “My apologies, sir. I did not intend…”

“It does you credit. Here, in this cabin, you may speak as you will. No misunderstandings!” He looked toward the darkening windows and said, “God willing, I
will
marry soon. It asks so much of any woman. And in exchange…” He said nothing for a moment. “About tomorrow. I should like to walk through the ship with you. Before the admiral comes aboard.” He moved across the cabin, speaking his thoughts aloud. “To the people, I am still a stranger. That will change. Any ship’s company deserves to share the pride as well as the responsibility. Pride, Mark—what we can create together.”

The mood changed. “I looked at the punishment book today. A captain I once served told me that it reveals the true strength or weakness of any ship’s company, and in particular her officers.”

He looked at the screen door. “You’ve done well during your time aboard. Not an easy role in a new ship, with a company as mixed as flags in a locker.” He smiled again. “Let’s have the others join us.”

Vincent saw Morgan hovering, half in and half out of the pantry. He, at least, was ready; Vincent had not realized that, during their conversation, the other lieutenants and warrant officers had been waiting.

Adam called, “Morgan—you’re from Swansea, right?” He was looking critically around the main cabin. “More candles, I think, can you do that?”

Morgan seemed surprised or pleased, it was hard to tell. “Good as done, sir!”

In the growing light Vincent noticed a tall-backed chair facing aft by the stern windows; it must have come aboard in one of the last boats. Not new, quite the opposite: he could see scars and stains on the green leather. Well used, a place to rest between watches, even snatch an hour’s sleep when you were expecting to be called. A captain’s chair; Bolitho’s chair.

He became aware that Adam Bolitho was watching him, waiting, but relaxed. Then he smiled, as if recalling something private, intimate.

“So let’s be about it, shall we?”

Midshipman David Napier found himself crossing an enclosed courtyard, and heard a gate clang behind him. Around the corner of the guardhouse would be the jetty, and then he would see the ship. As he had pictured it in his mind, again and again, as if to reassure himself. He wanted to stretch his arms until the muscles screamed, stamp his numbed feet, anything to drive away the strain and confinement of the journey from Falmouth.

It had rained all the way without pause. Like being shut in a box, reeling from every rut and jolt between Cornwall and Plymouth.

He looked at the sky, now hard and clear, without warmth. Somewhere along the way the road had been flooded: another delay while Francis had searched for an alternative route, little more than a cart track. Ex-cavalryman though he was, even he had been at a loss for curses. He had recovered by the time they had reached the last barrier, and found a porter to carry the midshipman’s chest. Just a grin, and a pat on his shoulder. Maybe Francis understood better than many what it meant. The need to make it brief. No time to brood or regret.

“Can I ’elp you—sir?”

A tall Royal Marine, scarlet tunic unnaturally bright in the harsh sunlight, had appeared from nowhere.

Napier held out the creased warrant, his fingers stiff from clenching it in his pocket. “I’m joining
Onward.
”

He felt the marine’s eyes giving him a quick, disinterested look from beneath the brim of his smart leather hat.
Just another middy. Be giving all of us hell before you know it.

“If you’ll just wait ’ere, sir. I’d best tell the sergeant.”

Somewhere there was a clock striking. It went on and on, and Napier thought he could smell cooking. He swallowed hard.

“Well, where the hell has
he
been? On the moon?”

Then the sergeant stepped into the courtyard, the same warrant gripped in his hand.

“You were logged to arrive earlier,
Mister
Napier.” It sounded like an accusation.

“The road was flooded.”

The sergeant brushed biscuit crumbs from his immaculate tunic with the warrant. “We’ve all been on the hop since dawn. The admiral, see? Nothing but the best!” He relented slightly. “There’s another young gentleman waitin’ to join
Onward.
Tell the piermaster.” Then, brusquely, “Best we can manage till we get the word.”

Napier felt his ankle turn on a loose cobble, expecting the pain, the warning. Nothing happened.

And he had not even thought about it. All those miles. The lurching and the unending rain…

“This way, sir,” the marine was muttering. “Probably all over by now.” He did not offer an explanation.

Napier took off his hat and loosened his hair. He could smell perfume on his cuff.
Elizabeth.
He flinched almost guiltily, as if he had spoken her name aloud.

The room was long and narrow, and had been used for stores. There was a solitary, barred window at one end, with a shaft of sunlight playing across a few crude chairs and an empty bookcase, which did nothing to make it welcoming. He realized that some one was standing beside the window, half hidden in shadow, his elbow resting on the sill.

Napier heard the marine’s boots clicking away, then there was silence.

He said tentatively, “I was told that you’re joining
Onward.
So am I. But I got here so late—it was not my fault. The weather…” He moved closer to the window. “I’m Napier. David Napier.”

“I was delayed, too.” An even, unhurried voice. Disinterested? Wary? Impossible to tell.

He tried again. “They say the admiral is on board. I suppose we shall have to wait until we’re told what to do.”

The figure had moved slightly, and Napier saw the sunlight playing across his own midshipman’s chest. So bright and new, like his uniform, and everything else.

The voice said, “My name is Huxley, by the way.” A pause. “Simon Huxley.” The shadow moved again. Restless, impatient, waiting for something. On edge. Then, “Not your first ship? I thought perhaps…”

Napier clenched his fist, and pressed it against his hip. “No. I was in
Audacity.
”

Nothing else would come.

“
Audacity?
I read about it in the
Gazette.
Heated shot from a shore battery. Your captain was killed, wasn’t he?”

Napier said quietly, “A lot of them died that day. But I could swim.” Like an apology for being alive.

Huxley reached out and tapped his shoulder. “Luck or skill. Fate decided in your favour, David.” He dropped his arm; the gesture had taken them both by surprise. “I can’t swim a stroke!” He had moved further into the sunlight, turning as boots tramped along the road outside, perhaps from the jetty. “I shan’t be sorry to get aboard, to be doing something useful.”

Napier studied him. A year or so older than himself, with a serious, thoughtful face.
Onward
might be his stepping-stone to promotion, or oblivion. What most midshipmen joked about, and dreaded.

He said, “Were you held up by the weather?”

Huxley did not reply immediately. The marching feet had faded away and it was so quiet in the long, narrow room that he could hear him breathing. “No.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“I went to visit my father.
Onward
might be under sailing orders. Rumours, but there may be some truth in them.” He swung round and stared at the door, listening, but there was nothing. “I wanted him to know…”

“Is he unwell, Simon?”

Napier could not see his eyes.

“He is confined to quarters.” He paused, as if waiting for some reaction. “And awaiting trial by court martial.”

“My God, I’m so sorry.” Napier felt shock, pity, anger and something else he could not explain. He had known Simon Huxley for a matter of minutes.
But I am his friend.

Huxley said bitterly, “I thought everybody knew about it!”

There were voices outside.

Napier said, “We can talk about it later. A new ship, remember? A new beginning for us both.”

The door banged open.

“Boat’s waitin’, gentlemen.” A pause. “When you’re ready, o’ course.”

Neither of them noticed the sarcasm. Just a handshake. It was enough.

Captain Adam Bolitho walked past the Royal Marine sentry and into the cabin. Quiet now, and almost spacious after the ceremonial of the forenoon. The admiral and his retinue had returned ashore; the trill of calls and the blare of a trumpet still seemed to hang in the air to mark their departure. His cocked hat was lying on a chair by the desk, but he did not recall tossing it there.

He should be used to it after all these years. Listening to those same words or hearing them issuing from his own mouth, as so many of those aboard today would know them too, by heart.
Willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge and command of captain in her accordingly…
He recalled some of the younger faces staring up at him from the maindeck. There did not seem many in this new company.

He groped to remove his sword belt and a voice checked him.

“Allow me, sir.”

It was Morgan. He must have managed to stay hidden during all the “stamp and bustle,” as Jago had called it.

Adam unbuttoned his coat.

Morgan was waiting, the old sword held in both hands. “I thought a drink might be in order, sir?”

Adam smiled, and felt his jaw crack. “It is, and thank you.”

“Went very well, we thought, sir.”

Preparing himself for the days ahead. Where did they find men like Morgan, or
Athena
’s cabin servant, Bowles? And what was
he
doing now?

“The admiral seemed pleased.”

Morgan laid the sword across the high-backed chair, his eyes darting around as if planning a proper place for it. “Fine old blade, sir.” He stood, swaying easily to the movement of the deck, as Adam walked right aft to the stern windows. “In your family for years, they say.”

If you want to know all about a captain, just ask his cabin servant, he thought.

He peered through the salt-misted glass across the anchorage. He had seen the other ships nearby, the telescopes on their decks levelled at the admiral’s smart barge and accompanying boats. Critical but envious too, no matter what they said between decks. A new ship, and a frigate above all else.

There was a sudden burst of cheering. Morgan had opened the cabin skylight an inch or so, and the din seemed to fill the whole poop.

He beamed. “Splice the mainbrace, sir! Hitting the right place, I’d say, see?”

“They’ve earned it.” No doubt the purser thought otherwise. Vicary, that was his name. A stooping, desiccated, humourless man: one of those he had met for the first time yesterday evening.

Morgan had placed a goblet on the table. “Cognac, sir. Came aboard today. The guardboat brought it.” He paused, and laid an envelope beside it.