In the King's Name (25 page)

Other, more painful moments remained uppermost in his mind. When the fighting had ended he had seen the gunner's mate looking across the deck, his eyes finding his friend, the master's mate. His face had said it all. And a tough seaman, one of
Onward
‘s topmen, kneeling beside a mate who was now a corpse lying under the ensign.

It was done. Until the next time.

“Try and keep still, will you?”

Jago saw the surgeon crouching by a man who had been injured by a wood splinter, who was now trying to rise and join the others standing by for going alongside. The sawbones had been kept busier than most of them, he thought, and had not escaped wounding himself. One wrist was bandaged, and Murray looked unusually dishevelled and impatient as he was attempting to examine his patient.

Jago watched the strip of water narrowing as more muscle was lent to the mooring ropes, and the furled canvas cast shadows across the upturned faces. He recalled the moment when he had steered his gig toward their first encounter with
Delfim
, and the impact of the girl showing her scars to the Portuguese master and identifying him as her assailant. Had she seen them enter harbour this time, he wondered?

He turned abruptly, not troubling to shade his eyes from the glare, and saw
Onward
. Her decks were full, but those waiting were silent. Thankful to see them back again, trying not to show it. A sailor's pretense.

He heard a telescope snap shut and someone mutter, “I can see Mister bloody Monteith as large as life! Bin makin' Jack's life a misery while he was playin' top dog!”

Another voice: “Don't know' is arse from' is elbow!”

Not loud, but enough for Jago to hear it.

Maybe Monteith had always been like that. Jago had known other “young gentlemen” who had shown their true colours after taking the first, vital step from white tabs to wardroom. He thought of Midshipman Hotham, acting lieutenant during this brief and bitter operation. Clergyman's son or not, how would he perform when the time came?

He heard Tozer, the master's mate, call out something and saw him standing with Bolitho and gesturing toward the jetty. There was more activity, men clearing a space for any one who had been hurt. And for the dead.

He recalled Bolitho's face when he had told them he was taking the dead men back to Freetown for burial. Foreign soil, no matter what the charts might call it. But Jago knew the real reason. They had given their best and paid for it, and they would not be left to share the same ground as scum like slavers.

There was other movement now, seamen and marines forcing a passage through the line-handling party and onlookers, presumably for somebody important. He felt the instinctive resentment soften slightly as he recognized the upright figure of James Tyacke, the flag captain. A good one, to all accounts.
For an officer
.

Jago realised that Bolitho was looking directly at him. Like those other times, good and bad, moments of pride and fear, fury and compassion. And he felt his hand lift in their private salute.

He watched the flag captain pulling himself aboard, and waving aside all attempts at formality. Much as old John Allday had described him. As if he sensed Jago's scrutiny, Tyacke paused and looked across at him, the terrible disfigurement pitilessly revealed by the reflected glare. There might have been only the two of them.

“Kept your eye on him for me, did you, Jago? Knew I could rely on you!” Then Tyacke strode across the remaining few yards and grasped Bolitho's hands in both his own.

Christie, the gunner's mate, nudged Jago in the ribs. “I'll stand right next to
you
, Lukey, when I'm lookin' for promotion!”

Jago felt the deck shudder as
Delfim
nudged alongside and her moorings were secured, and as if to some signal, hesitant at first, a burst of cheering spread across the whole anchorage. He was thankful for the noise: Tyacke's obvious sincerity had left him at a loss for words.

He heard the squeak of halliards, and knew the ensign had been rehoisted to its peak. They were back. It was the way of sailors. And he heard Squire calling for him.

Adam Bolitho stood alone by the
Delfim's
taffrail and gazed along the deserted deck. He could still feel the warmth and intensity of Tyacke's greeting, and it had moved him deeply.

He knew that Squire was waiting for him to leave with the last of the prize crew, but the schooner already felt empty. Dead. She would remain under guard to await auction or the breaker's yard, with those others he had seen across the anchorage. Even the jetty was empty. He had waited until the dead seamen and marines had been carried ashore; somebody had even folded the spare ensign and left it beneath the mizzen, a reminder, if one was needed.

Tyacke probably knew him better than many, and had kept his questions to a minimum, letting him do the talking, phase by phase. They had seen Pecco,
Delfim's
master, taken ashore under guard, to be detained separately from the other prisoners. Adam had described their difficult approach to the rendezvous with the slaver, and how Pecco could have betrayed them at any moment.

Tyacke had said only, “I'm not sure how his loyalty will be valued by higher authority, Adam.”

“I gave him my word.”

Adam came out of his thoughts as he heard Squire's heavy tread across the splintered decking.

“The boats are here to take us across to …” he seemed to hesitate,
“Onward.”
It was rare for Squire to show emotion.

“I was glad to have you with me, James. I've said as much in my report.”

Squire walked beside him past the abandoned wheel, and said quietly, “Surely you're not expected to visit the flagship, when you've only just—” He broke off as Adam grasped his sleeve.

“Not until tomorrow forenoon, James! The admiral is being most considerate!”

Squire stopped near the capstan and looked up at the ensign, which seemed particularly vivid against the clear sky. “Shall I haul down the Colours, sir?”

For a moment he thought his question had gone unheard, or that Bolitho was still preoccupied with something else. But when he turned and faced him, Adam's dark eyes were unwavering in the hot sunlight.

“At sunset, when the flags of all our ships are lowered.” He stared across the water, Squire thought toward his own command. “Then it will be up to us.”

As they made toward the waiting boats, Squire was still sharing the moment. It was not a threat. It was a promise.

Adam waited for the screen door to close behind him and the sentry to resume his place outside before walking aft to the stern windows. An hour or more had passed since he had climbed aboard, and his mind was still dazed by the reception. Calls shrilling, faces eager or apprehensive, impetuous handshakes, all order and discipline momentarily forgotten. But now he was feeling the aftermath, and for the first time he was alone.

Even the cabin seemed different, unfamiliar, but that was all part of it. It was in fact exactly as he had left it, and had seen it in his mind in those rare moments of peace. The strangeness was within himself.

He stood for a moment beneath the skylight and felt the warm air on his face. There was an unmoving shadow across it—another sentry overhead to ensure that the captain was not disturbed.

He leaned on the bench and stared through the glass. The jetty and the schooner were hidden from here. He should be glad. He stretched his arms until his hands jarred against a deckhead beam. When had he last slept? He stared at the coat flung carelessly across a chair; he could not remember having dragged it off. Had Morgan been here, he would have folded it with care. He felt his mouth crack into a smile. Morgan
was
here, doubtless sealed in his pantry and listening for every sound.

Adam looked at the old bergère, in shadow now. If he sat down now, it would finish him. He moved restlessly to the desk and pulled out its smaller, less comfortable chair, feeling his chin scrape against his neckcloth. But the effort of enduring a shave, even under Jago's skilled hand, was too much for him. And God knew Luke Jago needed rest more than most. He was probably on his back right now, the strain and sudden death safely stowed away under the hatches of his mind, and likely with a few wets to help. And Squire too, with the prize crew. But with Sinclair gone, it would be different in the wardroom.

He gripped the edge of the desk, staring with burning eyes at the opened letter. Her letter: Tyacke had handed it to him when they had met, instead of leaving it for the mail boat to deliver later. Or maybe he had come simply to reassure himself that
Onward
‘s captain was not one of those lying covered by the ensign.

And tomorrow they would be buried. Someone would remember them.

Adam spread the letter on the desk but could not focus on the words. He had already read it in minutes snatched between one duty and another, all the demands which had awaited him on board; he had even found time to call young David and tell him Elizabeth had asked to be remembered to him. Just a brief contact, captain with midshipman.

He felt the hot air stir against his skin, and heard the quiet Welsh voice. “Shall I fetch another brandy, sir?” Adam saw Morgan's eyes flicker to the discarded coat, probably noting his unshaven face as well.

“Another?” he said.

Morgan smiled gently. “With all respect, sir, I think you should try to sleep a while.”

“Not yet!
I must wait until sunset!” Then, “You didn't ask for that, Hugh. Forgive me.” He smiled. “So I
will
have some more brandy, and thank you.”

The door closed, and he tried to focus on the writing, hearing her voice in the words.
My own darling Adam. I am lying with you now—just reach out for me
…

Later, when Hugh Morgan returned to the great cabin under protest, to report that Sunset had been piped, he found his captain asleep across the desk, the brandy untouched. He thought of the lovely girl in the painting in the adjoining cabin. “Flaunting herself,” as his old mother in Wales would have called it.

And aloud, he said quietly, “Not for a while yet, Captain. We need you right now!“

A
DAM
B
OLITHO WALKED OUT
on to the dusty road and heard the graveyard gates clang shut behind him. He had already noticed that they had not been painted for a long time, and were showing rust.

He looked toward the harbour and the tight cluster of masts, a few moving, taking advantage of a slight but steady breeze, others anchored or alongside, their work done for the day. Beyond the sheds and slipways he could see the flagship's masts and spars rising above the rest, with all her canvas furled and still, no “unsightly” windsails to offend the admiral.

He knew it was wrong, but he was glad to be alone, if only for a short while. The burial service had been brief, almost impersonal, but how could it be otherwise? It had been conducted by a senior chaplain with a hollow, monotonous voice, but in fairness he had known none of the men being buried this day. How could he?

Faces in battle, or laughing together at some well-worn sailor's joke. Or seen across the table, for promotion or punishment.
His men
. Who had followed him and obeyed without question. And had paid the price.

Their personal possessions would be collected and auctioned; the wardroom, too, would donate something. As usual, time and distance were the enemy. How long would it be before their relatives and loved ones were told?

What if it had been me
?

How would Lowenna have been told? A courier or some local authority, maybe an incoming ship, or by the official letter.
The Secretary of the Admiralty regrets to inform you
…

He stopped and looked down at his feet; they were covered with mud, and some of it had spattered his stockings. The ground had been soaked with water before the burial, to the point of being almost awash. The gravediggers would have been helpless otherwise: the sun-baked earth was like rock.

The sight of his shoes transported him to somewhere else a world away: Cornwall and the coast he knew so well. Walking along one of those narrow country lanes after a downpour. Where you could still smell, among the fragrance of the fields, the sea, and taste its salt on your mouth when you spoke, or laughed with the woman you loved.

He was conscious of the clip-clop of hooves and the scrape of wheels, and realised he had been hearing them for some time beyond his thoughts. He moved to the side of the road, but the vehicle was slowing. Stopping.

“Well met, Captain Bolitho! For a moment I thought I had taken the wrong turning.”

It was a small carriage drawn by two horses, probably because of the steeper inclines of the road. And despite the familiarity of the greeting, the face staring from the open window was that of a stranger, lean and narrow with deepset eyes, the hair completely grey, the voice confident and cultured.

“I understand you're heading for the harbour?” The door creaked open. “I'm going that way. Please join me.”

Adam shook his head. “I cannot. My shoes are …”

The man pushed the door back as far as it would go and held up one of his feet. “Mine too. But I'm glad I was there.”

And Adam remembered seeing him in the graveyard, almost hidden among the officials and visitors, but somehow remaining remote, apart from them all.

He thrust out a hand as hard and lean as himself. “I'm Godden, by the way.” He smiled, and seemed younger. “I was hoping to meet you, but time ran out. Today changed that.” He slid across the bench seat so that Adam could climb in beside him. The coachman who had jumped down to hold the horses was waiting silently. “Carry on, Toby!”

The carriage turned back on to the road, and Adam's mind groped with the sudden shift of events. The man sitting beside him was not merely “Godden.” He was the Honourable Sir Charles Godden, the admiral's “important guest,” who had had every one on the move since his arrival in Freetown.