Authors: Alexander Kent
A lieutenant had stepped forward, his hat in his hand. “Welcome aboard, sir. I’m Vincent, sir. I am the senior here.”
The first contact: some said the most important.
An alert, intelligent face, younger than he had expected. Or was he still seeing the stolid and remote Stirling,
Athena
’s first lieutenant?
“Thank you, Mr Vincent.” He looked along the deck. “Most people will be thinking I could have chosen a more convenient time!”
Vincent responded with a firm handshake, and the suggestion of a smile. Brown eyes, as dark as Adam’s own. What was going through his mind? Rumours or reputation? Maybe he was making comparisons with the man who had died.
He stood aside as Grenville came through the port, hooded eyes everywhere.
“Sir John has told me you’ve all worked with a will since the ship commissioned. She does you credit.”
Vincent said, “We could not have done it without your support, Sir John.”
Plain, almost matter of fact, as Grenville would appreciate.
Another boat was coming alongside, and a harassed-looking seaman called, “For you, Sir John!” But his eyes were on the new captain.
Grenville said curtly, “I was expecting it, although I might have wished for better timing!” He strode back to the entry port, and Adam saw a lieutenant hovering with a heavily sealed package. He noted the twist of gold lace and thought of Troubridge. This must be the admiral’s flag lieutenant.
Grenville said, “I shall deal with this in the chart room.” He lifted his hand. “And I
know
where it is.”
Vincent seemed to breathe out slowly. “If you would care to come aft, sir,” and frowned as two seamen ran ostentatiously to drag some filthy canvas away from the deck. “The galley fire is lit, and you will be more comfortable in your quarters.”
Adam followed him. A new captain, a senior official from the Admiralty, and now a message from the admiral. It was enough to throw any first lieutenant into a panic. Vincent was hiding it well.
Behind him, he could hear the hammers and winches resume, the squeal of tackles as more stores and equipment were hauled aboard. A ship coming to life.
He heard some one shout and Jago’s curt response. “I’m with the Cap’n!” His guard was up, until he was good and ready to let it down.
Adam climbed on to the ship’s larboard gangway, which linked forecastle to quarterdeck. Beneath him on the maindeck he saw the remaining rigging still to be hoisted and lashed into place, although to the casual onlooker it might seem a meaningless tangle. The real work, however, was finished, stays and shrouds taut and in place, running rigging, braces and halliards piled in coils or hanging like strange creeper in a forest.
Vincent was careful to point out stretches of wet paint, and any undried pitch that might cling to the shoe of an unwary visitor. Adam looked down at the nearest eighteen-pounders, lined up behind their ports, breeching ropes taut. On parade. The quarterdeck was surprisingly clear, even spacious after the litter and confusion elsewhere. He paused for a moment, his eye taking in the big double wheel, and up and beyond, against the washed-out sky, the finely raked mizzen mast and yards, sails loosely brailed. A seaman was sitting casually astride one of the yards, a marline spike glinting in his hand. He seemed to freeze as he realized that one of the figures peering up from the deck below was his captain.
Down the companion ladder: less light here, with most of the screens in position to separate these quarters from the rest of the ship. Somebody was planing wood, one of the carpenter’s mates, making a last-minute adjustment to ensure nothing would jam and refuse to move when required.
Vincent opened a screen door and stepped aside.
“Your quarters, sir.”
A strange sensation, almost recognition. Very like
Unrivalled
’s great cabin, but because it was empty it seemed double the size. The stern windows curving from quarter to quarter were the same, the anchored ships and passing small craft shimmering through the wet glass like some unfinished tapestry.
He felt his head brush one of the deckhead beams and found himself smiling. That, at least, did not change.
Vincent said, “I apologize for this gear, sir. I told the bosun’s mate to deal with it!”
Adam turned, and saw the “gear” he had referred to. Some large leather chests, brass-bound, expensive and, he thought, new. They must have been brought aboard to await their owner, whose name was clearly painted on one of them. Captain Charles Richmond.
“Did you know him?”
“Scarcely, sir.” The question seemed to startle Vincent; a full minute passed before he recovered from it. “He was away much of the time. Awaiting final instructions. Most of the dockyard people were still in control, you see.”
Adam nodded. He
could
see. “The first lieutenant stood guard, eh?” He walked aft to the broad stern window. “How did he die?”
Bad news rides a fast horse.
“Captain Richmond was staying with friends here…there was something he had to arrange before he joined us. There was so much for the rest of us to do anyway.” He half turned and looked at Adam. “Nobody offered us any explanation. I was told that some one had tried to break into the house, and there was a fight.”
“Robbery?”
“So they say, sir. Whoever he was, he got clean away.”
Somewhere, a boatswain’s call brought all movement to a standstill.
“More stores coming alongside, sir. It shouldn’t take long.”
Adam sat on the bench seat below the stern windows.
A first lieutenant’s work is never done.
But this was something else. Vincent had been glad of the interruption, had not wanted to be drawn into the past, no matter how recent.
He leaned forward and stared at the largest chest.
It is not my concern.
He turned the label over. To be returned to an address in Exeter…
He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the salt and roughness. He was too tired to think beyond this moment and the ship.
The screen door opened and Grenville peered in.
“You look quite settled and at home here.” He held out the thick envelope. “For you.” He did not take his eyes from it as he handed it across. “The day after tomorrow, you will read yourself in. The admiral will be in attendance.” He paused, briefly lost in memory. “She is your ship, my friend. Anything you need, now is the time to make yourself heard.” He looked at the baggage as if he were seeing it for the first time. “Not dead man’s shoes, like some I’ve known,” and seemed to dismiss it. “You’ll be remaining on board, no doubt. Go through the ship’s books. It may be your only chance.”
But the smile would not come. He stood by the door again, looking around, perhaps prolonging it.
“Your lady will wait for you. Be fair to her.” Then he swung round. “Stay here. The first lieutenant will see me over the side.”
The door shut, and Adam heard his voice as he spoke to some one by the companion, possibly Jago. He clenched his fist, slowly, until he felt his nails drive into his palm. They had not even shaken hands. And yet he could feel it, like that very first time.
A boat was bearing off from the chains, the sounds muffled here in the great cabin, a shouted command, and then the creak of oars for the long pull to the land.
Stronger than words. He knew they would never meet again.
L
IEUTENANT
M
ARK
V
INCENT
crossed the quarterdeck and gripped the hammock nettings firmly with one hand. The splicing, like the cordage, was hard and new. Untried, like the ship. He stifled a yawn, not daring to calculate the hours he had walked, measuring every inch of planking with his footsteps, on this day alone.
He stared through the shrouds toward the shore. Seven bells of the afternoon watch had just chimed from the forecastle, but it could have been night, the land already a shapeless dark blur, interspersed with tiny lights and the stronger glow of a beacon.
Only the sea gave any sign of movement, with an occasional boat making slow progress against the restless current. Plymouth: at the end of another long day, it could have been almost anywhere.
Vincent squared his shoulders and moved away from the nettings. He was tired and could admit it, but a first lieutenant was never free to reveal it. Not a good one, anyway. He smiled to himself. Like hearing a lecture from the past.
How different
Onward
had looked when he had been pulled around her yet one more time. Fully rigged, and every stitch of canvas neatly furled, she was a living ship now, after the months of endless work and inspection. A few blows, too, when nobody had been watching. A man-of-war any one would be proud to serve. To command…
He heard another boat thrashing away from the side, the oars cutting the water, raising small spectres of foam. Voices called out, some almost regretful; friendships had been made among riggers and dockyard hands and the ever-growing numbers of seamen and marines.
He could hear the sharper tone of Rowlatt, the master-at-arms, no doubt keeping a watchful eye open for any petty theft. Souvenirs, the dockyard mateys might call them; Rowlatt’s vocabulary was less euphemistic. How easily the name fitted the voice now. Vincent could remember when he had started with a list and trained himself from that first day aboard, putting faces to names and eventually a name to each voice. Somebody yelped with pain in the gathering darkness.
Most of them, anyway.
He faced aft and stared up at the mizzen yards and standing rigging. He could walk this deck now without even glancing down for the treacherous cleat or coaming that could lay anybody, officer or man, ignominiously on his face. He had laughed at so many others in his early days with the fleet…Vincent was twenty-seven years old.
A lifetime ago.
A boatswain’s mate was pacing slowly back and forth, his silver call glinting in the glow from the cabin skylight. Captain Adam Bolitho was down there in his quarters, with his piles of signals and books, wading through them, interrupting Vincent only with brief questions or scribbled notes.
Captain Richmond’s personal belongings, which had never been unpacked, had gone ashore. Dead man’s shoes, he had heard old sailors call them—and more of Bolitho’s gear had been brought aboard. Vincent still found it difficult to accept the inevitable. Richmond had scarcely visited the ship since she had been commissioned; Vincent had been in charge from that first handing-over signature, had even seen himself there in the great cabin. In command.
Onward
was a fine ship; Bolitho was damned lucky to have her.
“Boat ahoy?”
The challenge rang loud and clear. Vincent walked to the quarterdeck rail and peered down at the entry port. Another visitor, even now…?
The reply echoed back across the water.
“No, no!”
and he relaxed slightly. No officers aboard, then, so probably only stores. It was a wonder the boatswain and his working parties could find any more space.
Another voice. “You, there! Take these new hands to their messes if the purser has finished with them!”
“Been done, sir!” It was tired and resentful.
“Why wasn’t I told? I’m not a mind-reader!”
Vincent swore under his breath. Hector Monteith was
Onward
’s third and youngest lieutenant.
We all had to begin somewhere…but was I like that at his age?
He moved into deeper shadow.
At his age.
Seven years ago; but at moments like this, it could have been only last week. It was even the same month, but bright sunlight had been turning the sea to glass, and the enemy sails had filled the horizon. They called it the Battle of Lissa now: the last sea fight against such formidable odds. 1811, and he had been serving in the frigate
Amphion
, his first ship as lieutenant. How they had survived, let alone scored a decisive victory against a force of French and Venetian men-of-war, seemed a miracle.
Many had fallen that day, friend and foe, but he had lived.
And relived it, again and again, the fire and thunder of those rapid broadsides. Eighteen-pounders, like these shining new guns lining
Onward
’s sides, which might never fire a shot except in training and drills. And always uppermost in his memory:
I felt no fear.
He heard quick, light footsteps across the new planking and brought himself back to the present.
Monteith was slim, with a round, boyish face. But for his uniform, he could still be a midshipman.
“More stores coming aboard, sir. And three items of baggage for the captain.” He waited, his head to one side, a habit Vincent no longer noticed.
“Have the baggage taken aft immediately, if you please. We don’t want some ham-fisted Jack dropping it between decks.”
“I’ve detailed the hands already, sir.”
The formality irritated Vincent, although he could not have said why. A first lieutenant was not at liberty to cultivate favourites or offer privileges.
One ship. One company…
He was reminded of the second lieutenant, James Squire. The contrast was complete. Big and powerfully built, he was some years older than Vincent and had risen from the lower deck, an achievement still rare even after all the years of war. Squire had been serving as a master’s mate when he had been chosen to join a surveying vessel under the charge of the famous explorer and navigator Sir Alfred Bishop. He had obviously more than proved his worth and ability. Promotion had followed.
It was hard to draw him out on the subject of his experiences, or the skill of transmuting unknown depths and treacherous waters into the distances and soundings on a chart. Squire was strong and confident, but remained at a distance, perhaps still feeling his way.
Like the rest of us.
“The captain wants us all aft as soon as the hands are dismissed. It’s the last chance we’ll have before the admiral and his merry men come aboard, so if you can think of anything—”
Monteith thrust his hands behind him, another little habit Vincent tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore. It usually happened when he was speaking pompously with a seaman, no matter how experienced he might be.