Authors: Alexander Kent
The ship seemed so quiet, with only an occasional intrusion, some one coughing, or rope being hauled through a block and made secure enough to satisfy the officer of the watch, or one of his subordinates, who could find no peace with his thoughts. It was very dark on deck. No moon to mark the sea breaking away from the bows, or touch the figurehead’s outthrust trident.
Simon Huxley was on watch now, with Monteith as his lord and master. At least he would have little time to brood. Young Walker would be up there with him. That should help…Tomorrow would be Walker’s birthday. Thirteen years old. And he was full of high spirits at the prospect.
Napier sat thinking quietly over the day’s events. Watching the schooner parting company, a prize crew waving and cheering. A stark contrast to the three burials. It had come to him then, like a shock. Half of
Onward
’s company had not seen men buried who had been killed by the violence of the enemy, or ever been under fire themselves. They would have felt it today. Clearing for action, rigging nets to repel boarders, gun drill, all timed to the minute by Maddock and the first lieutenant.
The old hands bided their time.
I’ll believe it when I sees it!
Or
Don’t they know the war’s over?
Afterwards, Napier had seen Maddock, the gunner, making his way to the narrow passage that led only to the magazine. He had been carrying the thick felt slippers he would wear if
Onward
was called to action. Down there in his world of fuses and packed charges, it only needed a single spark to turn the ship into an inferno, or blast her apart.
Napier had heard one of his friends ask Maddock why he had chosen his trade, if it meant being trapped below amongst all the powder and fuses.
He had grinned and retorted, “I can’t stand the noise on deck!”
But that was then.
He shivered, but not from cold.
He stared at the paper swimming in the dim light, and touched it. It was still hard to accept, but he could see the old grey house quite clearly. The faces, some of them familiar, the horses nodding from their boxes when he passed, or taking apples from his hand. The staircase and the portraits. And the admiral’s sister.
Aunt Nancy.
He touched his face, his mouth.
And Elizabeth.
He wanted to stop, to laugh at himself. She would not even do that…
He felt a hand on his shoulder, firm, insistent. “Rise an’ shine, sir!” The face seemed to be floating above the table, and he knew he had fallen asleep.
He got to his feet and saw the man grinning, satisfied that he was awake.
“Like a millpond up top, sir. No war today!” He hurried into the shadows, laughing.
Napier looked around, feeling his pockets, ensuring he would not forget anything. Deacon had disappeared, his diary and papers packed away. Unable to work, or to sleep.
He realized that a tankard was standing in the foul-weather slot beside him. It was Deacon’s: he had seen it often since he had joined
Onward
, and it had his initials engraved on the side. It was half full. Deacon must have put it down carefully, so that he would not wake him, or need to explain. It was cognac. Preparing him, and perhaps himself.
Napier sipped it slowly and stared at the blank sheet of paper on the table.
Feet were thudding overhead, but his hand was quite steady.
Dear Elizabeth…
He swallowed the rest of the cognac and reached for his hat. It
was
today.
Adam stood in the centre of the cabin and watched the empty darkness of the sea astern, in marked contrast to the deckhead skylight, where the first red rays gave colour to the shrouds, and the hint of canvas above. He stretched until his fingers could feel the movement, the life of the ship, lifting and plunging gently as she headed into an early dawn.
It seemed quiet after the bustle of hammocks being stowed, and the shouts hurrying along some one who had not heard the pipe, or had forgotten that today was different.
Because the Captain had decided, and demanded, as much.
He touched the back of the chair, where he had been attempting to sleep. He had gone over it again and again. Suppose he was mistaken? The whole ship’s company keyed up for possible action, only to find that their captain had made an error of judgment. Lost his nerve…
Perhaps the French government had rescinded the order to hand
Nautilus
over to the Aboubakr rulers, or no such order had yet been received by Capitaine Marchand and his company. In which case…He shrugged. Better to be a laughing-stock than allow people to die for no purpose.
He recalled the faces of his officers, in this cabin, when he had explained his reasons and his intended course of action.
Squire had said, “If these rebels, whoever they are, were ruthless enough to try and sink
Nautilus
before she could act as French guardship, there’ll be no stopping their next attempt to control the coast. All the way to Algiers, if need be!”
Vincent had said only, “We have no choice. It’s too late for us to wait for assistance.”
Julyan had offered even less. “That’s nothing new!”
A door closed and Adam heard Jago speak briefly to somebody in the lobby.
He felt his chin: a smooth shave, as only Jago could give, and without fuss or argument, no matter the time of day or night, in storm or flat calm. Always ready.
He glanced around the cabin. His coat, hanging near the quarter windows, swaying to the easy motion, buttons and lace catching the strengthening light. Waiting for Morgan to stow it away once the crisis was over. Like Jago, he had already been and gone. The breakfast, which he had prepared even before all hands had been piped, still lay untouched on the table.
He looked at the coat again and thought of his uncle, wearing his dress uniform that day aboard
Frobisher
, when an enemy marksman had shot him down. He had always said, “They will want to see you.”
And it was true. Adam had seen men’s faces turning aft in the heat and hell of battle to look for their captain, and be reassured.
Something made him turn his back and cross to the opposite side of the cabin. His sleeping compartment was still in darkness, but the door was open. He stood quite still, gazing at her face in the reflected light. Morgan must have put the painting in the cot, ready for it to be taken down to the orlop if or when the ship cleared for action. Looking directly at him, like that day in the studio: Andromeda, chained to a rock as a sacrifice. And later, when she had overcome her fear, and had lain with her wrists tied with her own long hair, and had given herself to him.
He put his hand inside his shirt and felt the silk ribbon he had taken from her that day.
He heard the screen door again. Jago was back. He was carrying the old sword, moving it slightly up and down in its scabbard.
“Good as new, Cap’n.” He did not look beyond the open door, at the painting propped in the cot. He knew. He said, “Fair an’ clear. Wind’s backed a piece, nor’ west, they tells me.”
Adam saw it in his mind.
Jago added, “No land in sight,” and watched Adam take the sword, and hold it to the light.
That old blade could spin a few yarns.
“We should sight land again in an hour or so. We shall change tack if the wind holds steady.”
Jago sighed. Always planning, always worrying.
He thought of the painting, and the girl who had posed for it. The ship had a strong rival. He hesitated, and then asked, “Suppose
Nautilus
don’t come out lookin’ for a fight?” He saw him turn abruptly. Maybe he had gone too far this time.
Adam laid the sword on the table. “Then we’ll go in looking for her!” Then he smiled. “But she will!”
They both looked up as some one ran heavily across the deck.
“Midshipman o’ the watch,
sir!
”
It was Napier, a seaman close on his heels and panting noisily. “Masthead reports sail to the nor’ east, sir.” He almost dragged his companion in through the door. “Mr Squire’s respects, sir, and he said you would wish to speak to the lookout.”
Adam nodded. “Nesbitt, isn’t it? A Devon man, if I remember rightly.”
The seaman grinned and ducked his head with pleasure. “Aye, zur, Brixham!” It gave him time to recover his breath.
“Tell me what you saw.”
“Frigate, zur. No doubt about it.” He gestured. “I ’ad a glass, zur.”
More voices, then Vincent appeared at the screen. “I’ve just been told, sir!”
“Nesbitt here has good eyes.” Then to Napier, the formality abandoned, “Take care of yourself, David.”
Then he turned and stared astern for a moment. “I’ll come up directly.” Vincent waited by the door until he had turned back, and their eyes met. “You may beat to quarters.”
Jago watched his face once they were alone again. It was as he had expected, but, as always, it came as a shock.
He looked at the coat, hoping he might yet change his mind.
They wants to see you alive, Cap’n!
But knowing that he would not, he lifted it down. At that moment, the drums began to rattle.
“S
HIP CLEARED FOR ACTION
, sir!” Vincent touched his hat. “Both cutters towing astern.”
Adam walked forward to the quarterdeck rail and stared along the ship, seeing it as he had already pictured it in his mind from the moment he had abandoned all pretense of sleep.
Onward
’s state of readiness recalled the regular drills, which he and the gunner had timed to the minute. And yet so different. Each eighteen-pounder with its full crew, their tools, rammers and sponges and handspikes, and slow-matches within reach if a flintlock misfired. He could feel the grit under his shoes and knew that the decks had been sanded, to prevent men from slipping if water was shipped once the ports were opened. Or in blood, if the worst happened.
He saw the burly shape of the boatswain leaning back as he checked the hastily rigged boarding nets. He had already heard him once before during their recent preparations. “Slacken ’em off, lads! They’m supposed to
catch
the buggers in a net, not be used as a ladder to make ’em welcome aboard!” There had been some laughs. Not this time.
Vincent said, “I’ve sent Tucker to the foremast, sir. Ready and eager.” He gestured toward the two midshipmen waiting by the flag locker. “I thought Deacon might be more useful aloft with the signals telescope.”
Adam lifted his own glass and trained it across the starboard bow. Slow and steady. As if he had stopped breathing. Blurred faces, taut rigging, sharp and black in the strengthening glare. The curved edge of the forecourse. He watched the other ship move across the lens, then stand motionless, as if trapped.
On a converging tack, leaning slightly to beat to windward. He lowered the glass and allowed his eye to recover. The rest would be guesswork. The pyramid of sails was reduced to a miniature, like the fin of a giant fish cutting the horizon. Beyond, there seemed to be haze or mist. But he knew it was the land, reaching out like a great arm. Or a trap.
He recalled what Vincent had said.
“Good thinking, Mark. Tell Deacon to go now.”
He saw a messenger run to the flag locker. When
Onward
had first arrived at Gibraltar, Deacon had been the only one to realize that the flagship had been flying a commodore’s broad pendant, not an admiral’s flag as listed. They had all made what was a common mistake among sailors, so long staring out to sea that they only saw what they expected to see.
He saw the midshipman striding forward, the telescope slung over his shoulder like a small cannon, and Lieutenant Monteith by one of the eighteen-pounders, watching him. Perhaps remembering when he had been like Deacon, hanging on the threshold of promotion. And little Walker taking over the signals party. Thirteen years old today. He was not likely to forget it.
Adam moved to the compass box. The chief quartermaster was on the wheel, backed up by two helmsmen. He glanced at the compass, then up at the masthead pendant, and felt the sun on his face.
“Nor’ east by north, sir. Steady as she goes!”
Adam smiled. “Thank you, Carter. So be it!”
A squad of Royal Marines was standing with their sergeant, ready to add their strength to the braces when needed. But their muskets were piled nearby. Like a warning.
He returned to the rail, unhurriedly, despite the instinct crying out to be in all places at once. Nobody looked at him directly, but he knew they were watching when he passed. Men waiting to go aloft, and claw out along the yards, to dangle over the sea or fall to certain death on the deck if they missed their footing.
The gun crews, along either side as before. But restless now. Or was he imagining that?
He wanted to lift his telescope again, but knew it was too soon. He had seen some of the men at the guns turn to stare aft.
They will want to see you.
But not if he was showing himself to be a fool.
His coat felt heavy across his shoulders, and his shirt was clinging damply to his skin. Such a short while ago, below in the great cabin, when he had seen Jago’s expression. His doubts. Together, they had experienced and shared so much. Like the prayer book Jago had fetched from the cabin when they had buried the three sailors. They had both been remembering that other time, in
Athena
, when they had committed Catherine’s body to the sea. Her roses would still be blooming in their garden beside the old grey house. He touched the lapel of his coat reminiscently.
“Deck there!”
It was Tucker. Cupping his strong hands, his voice clear and steady. “She wears
French
colours!”
Adam stared over the gun crews and across the glistening water until his eyes were blinded. Men were shouting with relief or derision, probably both.
Vincent had said something, but Adam heard only one voice. Through the brutal memories of death and its aftermath: Marchand, as they had parted.
When next we meet, there will be no flags. It will be as friends!