In the King's Name (34 page)

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?
”

The firing began again.

Green uniforms, with scarlet scarves. Life or death.

The guns had hardly finished reloading when lookouts sighted more wreckage. The remains of a small vessel, probably one of Tyacke's brigantines, aground on a sandbar. She had been hit at point-blank range.

Adam stared at the other shore, but the battery wall was now out of sight. Only part of the nearby settlement was still in view, and it looked deserted. Abandoned. Waiting to accept the victors, perhaps? It must have seen many over the centuries.

Squire said heavily, “The brigantine was ahead of us, sir. It took more than a few shots to do that to her.”

Adam strode to the compass and wheel, but ignored both, looking at the masthead pendant and then at the master's dog-vane. It was holding up well in spite of its frail cluster of cork and feathers.

He saw Julyan watching him through the receding gunsmoke. He might even have smiled.

He said, almost to himself, “While
we
are here, they're trapped. There's only one way to escape.”

Another gun, but further away. No fall of shot.

Sea against land. He thought suddenly of the Battle of Algiers, some three years ago, when Pellew, now Lord Exmouth, had won a resounding victory over combined land and sea forces. He could remember his own surprise and pride when he had read the admiral's comment in the aftermath of his victory. He had described Adam Bolitho as
a born frigate captain
. From England's greatest, it was praise indeed.

A cry from the forecastle: “More wreckage—ahead, sir!”

Julyan murmured, “Soon now, I think …” He did not finish.

This was as far as a vessel of any size could reach and retain room to tack or come about. Any one else could come overland, or up-stream, as had happened during the attack on the mssion.

Adam looked along the deck, at the gun crews baking in the sun, lookouts cupping hands around their eyes, midshipmen sweating and watching the land. Everything.

And the leadsman's chant.
“Deep six!”

He thought of Vincent, up there in the eyes of the ship where their figurehead, the boy with his trident and riding a dolphin, was pointing the way.

The ship comes first
.

If
Onward
dropped anchor to avoid running aground, she would become a sitting target, to be destroyed by guns from the shore or by waterborne explosives. He saw more pieces of wreckage drifting past, part of a topmast lifting above the rest like a charred crucifix.

“Stand by to come about! Warn all hands!”

Men running, answering the shrill of calls, some already perched on the yards high above the guns and their motionless crews. Adam saw that even the cooks and messmen were adding their weight to the braces. He thought with a sudden, strange apprehension of Tyacke and Napier. Where were they now? He looked again for the flag, even though he knew it was out of sight.

Julyan lowered his eyes, watering from staring at the sun's path. Like tears. “Give the word, sir!”

“Belay that!
” It was Squire, his head thrown back to stare up at the braced topsails even as Adam came striding toward the compass.
“Foretop
, sir!”

Midshipman Hotham had also heard the lookout's cry, and although he felt a little lost without the signals telescope he could see this in his mind. Like a signal.

Enemy in sight!

Adam lowered the telescope and felt someone take it from him. The image was imprinted on his brain. The ship, almost bows-on, sails fully braced. A big schooner, three-masted, he thought, even larger than the slaver they had taken as a prize. He watched closely. They would meet and pass in half an hour at this rate. Less. The stranger would be armed, but no match for a frigate.

“The other one will try to slip past us!”

Adam looked away from the pyramid of pale canvas. It was another midshipman, Simon Huxley, waiting to act as a “walking speaking-trumpet.” His eyes were fixed on the approaching schooner.

“Ready, sir!” Julyan, anxious, fretting over the delay.

Adam shook his head. “Maintain course!” And to the quarterdeck at large, “Hold your fire!”

He had the telescope again but did not recall having taken it from Hotham.
Suppose I am mistaken?
On the larboard bow. About half a mile, and looking as if she were sailing on dry land. An easy error of judgment at this range, and across the hard glare of the anchorage. A trick to lead
Onward
into the shallows. Julyan had warned him, but he did not need it.

The smaller vessel, another schooner, was
not
trying to slip past while the others faced and fought.

His shirt was clinging to his body, but it felt cold. Like the dead.

“Steady!”
From the corner of his eye he saw faces peering up at him from the nearest eighteen-pounder. He stared through the shrouds and ratlines, keeping his eyes on the schooner. As if she were snared in a net.

There should be uncertainty, doubt, even a consciousness of failure. There was none.

More shots, closer now, and he heard, even felt the deck shake as some found their mark. Marksmen in the tops were firing too, although at this range it would have little effect. He thought he heard Jago's voice calling to some of the afterguard: “You'll soon know, so watch yer front!”

Somebody was questioning why
Onward
was turning away from a challenge, and allowing an enemy to escape.

Julyan called, “Ready when you give the word, sir!” He was calm enough. He had no choice.

Adam gripped the rail with both hands and watched the smaller schooner's masts begin to turn, in line, her canvas in confusion for the first time. From habit he reached for the telescope; he had lost count of the times, but this time he did not need it. Those same sails were all aback now, the hull heeling slightly, without purpose.

He knew Squire was beside him. Sharing it in his own fashion. He spoke for him. “They've got boats in the water! Abandoning ship!”

Adam laid his sword flat along the rail. He did not remember having drawn it. He said, “The schooner.
Open fire!
”

Someone shouted, “What about the boats, sir?”

Adam did not look up at the masthead pendant. There was no time left. He thought he heard Vincent directing the forward guns. He lifted his sword and knew each gun captain was watching, staring aft, eyes fixed on the blade. The sword flashed down; every gun on the larboard quarter must have fired simultaneously. Even as their recoil was halted, the half-naked crews were already sponging out and ramming home the next charge, selecting another ball from the nearest shot-garland.

As the thunder of the broadside rolled away the gun captains were yelling to each other, some coughing as the gunsmoke streamed through the open ports.

Adam heard Monteith, almost shrill above the noise, calling someone's name. Then a seaman running, perhaps in answer. Another rattle of musket fire, closer now, shots hitting the hull or slapping through the canvas overhead.

The running man swung round as if taken by surprise. Then he fell, a few paces from the nearest gun crew.

Adam forced himself to look away, to turn his eyes toward the approaching ship. Nothing else must distract or concern him. The masthead lookouts and Vincent, up forward, would have an unbroken view. Two ships,
Onward
‘s bowsprit pointing directly at her enemy's jib. The shooting was almost continuous now, and the Royal Marines were firing with regular precision, as if on a range.