Heart of Oak (15 page)

He stopped the thoughts like a cable brake. They had not even met. If it began badly today, it would be of his own doing.

“If you will walk this way, sir.”

A Royal Marine sentry stepped smartly off a grating to open the main door to the great cabin, and Adam was aware of the quick glance. Another visitor, a little piece of news to pass on to his mate in the “barracks.”

He thought of
Onward
again. So short a time, and yet he could not imagine going back to another ship of the line like
Athena
, or this, the flagship.

People ashore might ask him what was the difference.

This is the difference.

Commodore Arthur Carrick was standing with his back to the door. All the screens had been raised, to offer an immediate view of the anchorage and the spread of land beyond. The quarter windows were partly open, and there was the suggestion of a breeze.

Carrick turned toward him unhurriedly, casually even, his hands folding a document of some kind, which he held out toward the flag lieutenant.

“You will see that I’ve struck a couple of names off the list. I can’t abide either of them. You would know that if you had been with me…” He broke off and smiled directly at Adam, almost as if this were an unexpected meeting.

A lean, bony face with a high forehead, hair cut quite short in the style affected by younger members of the wardroom. He waited for Adam to reach him. “You are welcome here, Captain Bolitho. I saw you anchor. Does my heart good to see a fine new frigate joining the squadron.” He did not offer his hand, but used it to pass the document to his aide. “Stronger than anything faster, faster than anything stronger, isn’t that what they say?”

A fellow Cornishman, the lieutenant had said. There was not much of it in his speech. More of a drawl, clipped only when he wanted to emphasize a point. But the face was Cornish, and Adam was reminded of his aunt’s description of some one.
Looks like a real pirate.
Between forty and fifty, although he might have been any age.

He was saying, “I shall read your report as soon as I’m able, Bolitho, but do you have any particular news for me?”

Adam realized that a chair had been placed beside him, and the lieutenant had disappeared.

Carrick sat by a table and rested his elbow on the edge. “Hear quite a lot about you, Bolitho. Not one to waste words, I’m told.” The quick smile again. “I like that.”

“One of my ship’s company died when we left Plymouth. His body was found only two days ago.” Carrick had shifted very slightly, his chin resting in his hand. His eyes were very steady. Still.

“Two days? The corpse had been well hidden, I take it? You’d have nosed him otherwise.”

“He had been murdered, sir. In my report—”

“I’ll read it later. A shore burial, then. That’ll bring a few complaints.” He had turned as if to listen to something, and Adam saw his eyes in the filtered sunlight, more grey than blue, and hard as iron. They rested on him once more. “I may require more details.” He paused as the servant placed a tray with glasses and a decanter on the table. Then he said, “Rear-Admiral Aylmer was required to haul down his flag, the sudden return of an ‘old illness.’ We’re still not certain.” He seemed to dismiss it. “But you were Sir Graham Bethune’s flag captain. You know all about the whims and fancies of senior officers, I have no doubt. We must be patient.” He gestured brusquely to the servant. “Not for me—I am seeing the governor shortly. But Captain Bolitho will require refreshment after his hectic morning.”

Adam said, “I have to see the governor myself, sir.”

“I know. But this is far from being a duty. A social matter.”

The wine seemed sour, but he knew it was tainted by his own anger. Resentment.

Carrick spoke again. “So many changes, Bolitho. New minds, fresh diplomacy. Too many seem able to forget the wars and the sacrifices. Some of us find it a hard lesson to learn.” He tapped the table, and the smile was back. “
Onward
is now part of the Strait Squadron. I know your reputation. Lord Exmouth spoke well of you after the Algiers campaign. Peace or war, loyalty means everything to me.” He regarded him steadily. “Your uncle, Sir Richard, had he been spared, would certainly recognize today’s enemy.”

He stood abruptly and gestured toward the side. “
Treachery.
It should be up there on the Rock, carved in stone where every one in his right mind can read it!” He glared as some one tapped hesitantly on the door. “Before it’s written in blood!”

Adam was on his feet and saw Carrick’s eyes drop to the sword at his side.

“You will receive more detailed orders tomorrow, after you have seen the governor.” Then he called, “
Come in
,
man
, if you must!”

He turned back with a shrug and a hint of the smile, and said, “So…let’s be about it, shall we?”

L
IEUTENANT
M
ARK
V
INCENT
closed the cabin door behind him and inhaled deeply. A few steps from the wardroom on
Onward
’s lower deck, but it would turn any volunteer’s head away from the sea for good. It was allocated to the captain’s clerk, and in size was probably no smaller than his own, but whenever he came here he felt stifled, trapped. There was hardly a space left uncovered or unstacked with ledgers and log books, and no natural lighting but a glimmer through a small vent. How the clerk managed to prepare and study his written work, as well as sleep and enjoy any escape from shipboard life was impossible to imagine.

As first lieutenant it was sometimes necessary for Vincent to delve into these logs and muster books, or arrange an official report which, when beautifully penned in the clerk’s stylish hand, was destined for some similar claustrophobic cave in flagship or headquarters ashore.

Henry Prior, the clerk, was sitting behind his table, left hand on an opened ledger, the right shading a candle, which he had just fitted to one of his several lamps. A small, neat person, bright-eyed and usually wearing a half smile, discreet to the point of secrecy, he was certainly no gossip. Vincent had heard the captain’s coxswain remark of him, “Like trying to open an oyster with a feather!”

And as far as he knew, Prior was the only man aboard who had served with the unfortunate Captain Richmond, who had arranged for his appointment while
Onward
had still been in the builder’s yard.

Vincent turned his head to listen to the twittering call from boatswain’s mate somewhere in the upper hull.
My ship.
The captain was still ashore with the commodore, or perhaps at the governor’s residence again.
Could I have taken command?

Prior said, “These are ready for signature, sir,” moving some papers across the table.

“So that
I
can carry the blame if they’re not accurate.”

“I have checked them myself.” Fussily, Prior shook the paper cuffs he wore to protect his spotless shirt, as if to dissociate himself from the contents. “I believe the captain is returning aboard today, sir?”

Vincent tried to push all the other demands and duties to the back of his mind. Perhaps orders had arrived and
Onward
might be free to sail again. The uncertainty or indifference from on high was oppressing every one. And the captain? Sometimes he felt that a barrier was still there. As if Bolitho were waiting, watching for something overlooked.

“I had better do my rounds.” He stretched, and felt his knuckles touch the deckhead. “Send word if…” He realized that Prior was getting to his feet, glancing possessively at the desk as if to mark everything in its place.

He said, “I’ll leave
you
, sir. Mr Monteith, you will recall.”

Vincent sighed. “I’m never allowed to forget him!”

The door closed, leaving him entombed with the logs, but for a few seconds he heard the sounds of thudding feet and a voice calling somebody’s name. A living ship. He repressed another sigh.
A first lieutenant’s lot…

Monteith came into the cabin, hat wedged beneath his arm, his eyes not leaving Vincent’s face as he stood stiffly opposite the table.

Vincent said, “This could have waited. Later, perhaps, in the wardroom.”

He saw Monteith’s chin lifting slightly, his free hand pressed against his side. Scarcely moving even as the deck swayed uneasily beneath them.

Monteith said, “I made an official complaint, sir. And as my first lieutenant, I expected you to support it.”

Vincent felt cool air coming from somewhere. “Close the door, will you?” So calm, but he could feel the anger growing.

Coming up the back stairs, as he had heard the gunner say on several occasions. He sensed the hostility and the confidence, too. Always ready to seize upon the smallest breach of discipline or efficiency. He recalled the captain’s comments after examining
Onward
’s punishment book.

Trivial or not, Monteith’s charges of slackness or insubordination were usually well founded.
I should have seen it. Stopped it at the very beginning.

He said, “We have all been very busy. Many of us still are,” and saw Monteith’s fingers clench more tightly at his side. “You gave one of the hands an order—Willis, maintop—which he failed to carry out. Am I correct?”

“To reeve some new halliards, as I put in my report. When I went to examine the work I discovered that my order had been ignored. Willis told me it had been countermanded by another officer.”

“And you are certain of this?”

“Lieutenant Squire told me himself.” He squared his shoulders. “Admitted it. I saw their faces.”

“And you want an explanation?”

“An apology. In writing.”

“You are determined about this?”

“It is my right, sir.”

There was a tap on the door and it opened a few more inches. It was one of the master’s mates.

“What
is
it, Mr Meredith?” He relented immediately. “As you can see, it is not convenient.”

The eyes flickered between them.

“A ship’s headin’ for the anchorage, sir. Mr Julyan said to inform you.” He glanced at the young lieutenant. “Looks important, sir. She’s a Frenchie.”

The sailing master was not the man to waste time on idle observations. And in any case…

“My compliments to Mr Julyan. I shall come up right away.” He waited until they were alone again and turned back to Monteith. “Leave the matter with me. Ours is a small wardroom. I see no reason to make a storm out of this—what do you say?”

Monteith nodded curtly. “It was my duty to bring the matter to you first.”

Vincent was reaching for his hat but stopped in mid-movement. “First?”

Monteith stepped back from the table, almost casually. “I shall see the captain,
sir.
”

Vincent waited until the cabin was empty again. Something stupid and unnecessary had caused this to happen.
And I should have seen it.

There was another tap at the door.

“I
said
I was coming up!”

But it was Prior, the half smile apologetic. “I saw Mr Monteith leaving, and I thought…”

“Forgive me, the cabin is yours again. I am learning a lot of things today. Mostly about myself.”

They both looked up as the first echo of a gun salute quivered against the hull. The newcomer, paying her respects to the governor and to the flag.

Vincent hurried up the ladder and into the hard sunlight.

Another bang.
Onward
was a new ship. She had no memories.

He saw Julyan standing by the compass box, arms folded, staring across the anchorage. He was surrounded by some of the duty watchkeepers, and others who had come on deck to pass the time and gaze at the incoming ship. But Julyan could have been completely alone. He did not even blink at the next crash and the echo that followed it.

Vincent shaded his eyes. When he reached him, Julyan was speaking as though to himself.

“She’s the
Nautilus
, forty guns. Maybe more now.”

“So you know her?”

“I did.” He glanced up at the ensign, which was barely moving. “New frigate, she was. First commission, an’ her last, under this flag.”

A ship taken by the old enemy. It was common enough in the war at sea, on both sides. Like Maddock the gunner: the
Spartiate
, in which he had served at Trafalgar, had been a French prize taken by Nelson at the Nile.

Julyan unfolded his arms. “The new flag won’t change things, y’ know. Or people.”

He might have said more, but a midshipman called, “Gig’s shoved off from the jetty, sir!
With the captain!
”

Vincent touched his hat. “Thank you, Mr Deacon. Warn the side party and the master-at-arms.”

When he looked again, the French frigate was partly hidden by a big two-decker, sails still moving slowly beyond the rigging and furled canvas.

So the captain was coming back, and life would be on course again. But all he could hear was Julyan’s voice.
The new flag won’t change things. Or people.
Perhaps he was still brooding over Monteith’s arrogance, or his own inability to deal with it. But it sounded like a threat.

Adam Bolitho slumped down in the green leather chair and kicked off his shoes.

“When I bought these in Plymouth, the shoemaker swore they would suit every sort of wear. Damned fellow had never heard of Gibraltar!”

He leaned back in the chair and tried to relax. To recover. Luke Jago was at the stern windows, both hands resting on the bench seat.

“Glad that lot’s behind us, Cap’n.” His jaw cracked into a grin. “Don’t know how you do it, an’ that’s a fact.”

Adam stifled a yawn. “Go ashore if you want to, Luke. You’ve earned it ten times over.”

Jago jerked his thumb at the screen door. “I’ll pipe for Morgan. He’ll fetch you something.” The yawn was infectious, and he did not trouble to hide it. “Sounds like another busy day tomorrow. Feet up with a tot of somethin’ will do me!”

Adam unclipped his sword and laid it on the deck beside the chair. Through the windows he could see the lights ashore, and those on vessels at anchor. After the activity and urgency it was strangely peaceful now, with no boats moving. And if there were, they would be carrying senior officers or their guests. He thought of all the faces he had seen, hands he had shaken and names he had tried to remember since Jago’s gig had first taken him ashore.