Heart of Oak

by Alexander Kent

  Adam listened to the murmur of sea and wind, the occasional thump of the tiller-head. “Let them eat first.” He looked at the others. “Thank you, all of you, for your help.”

  He walked aft again and watched the broken crests following in silent procession. Then he said, “Can’t you tell? They know already.”

  But he was alone.

  He stood by the quarterdeck rail in the last moments of Onward’s final approach, tasting the smoke on his lips. The silence of the anchorage after her salute and the measured response from the battery ashore was profound, almost unnerving. The gulls settled again on the water.

  He looked at the anchored men-of-war, their paintwork and checkered gunports reflected with the gulls; some had already spread awnings against the hard sun. Fewer than on those other visits, but impressive enough. The pale buildings ashore were partly hidden in mist or gunsmoke; impossible to compare this to the wind and chilling rain of England’s winter.

  He had seen the gunner pacing slowly inboard of each port as the salute had shattered the morning stillness, mouth barely moving in the chant he used to time every explosion, hand ready to signal instantly to the next crew if there was a misfire. There was not. Maddock might well be smiling now, he thought. Between the bangs he had thought he heard what sounded like church bells.

  He shaded his eyes, and saw the anchor party standing together, the new hands staring at the towering Rock, others doubtless trying to identify the ships.

  The wheel moved slightly; even that seemed loud. Onward was barely making headway, with all her sails clewed up except topsails and jib.

  “Guardboat, sir!”

  “Very well.” The flash of a glass, somebody watching their approach. Like so many others for whom Onward would represent news from England, from families, from a lover. Births, deaths, promotion, hope, disillusionment. The guardboat had slowed above its own image, oars tossed.

  “Stand by forrard!” He heard the order being passed, the voice cracking, bringing a grin from the second helmsman. It was Midshipman Walker, the one who had been seasick since they had weighed at Plymouth. There was hope for him yet.

  He saw Lieutenant Squire by the cathead, gesturing sharply, no time left for errors. David Napier would be with him, the whole panorama of ships and craggy landscape laid at his feet.

  It felt like that for me.

  He turned and gazed up at the masthead pendant, moving listlessly now, and his eyes passed over the Royal Marines paraded by the quarterdeck carronades, their officer, Lieutenant Gascoigne, standing rigidly, staring straight ahead. A splash of colour aboard Onward for the telescopes…

  “Lee braces there! Hands wear ship!”

  More shouts, and somebody laughed or coughed.

  “Tops’l clew lines!”

  Adam heard the slap of canvas, and a few curt words from the boatswain. He saw the cook, in his apron and without the fiddle, stooping to duck out of sight.

  “Helm a-lee.” And she was turning, very slowly, the long, tapering jib-boom like a pointer, the masts and yards of the nearest ship passing across it.

  Another voice, not loud but terse, and the obedient response from the boat-tier. Luke Jago would not be distracted. The gig would be out and alongside as ordered. No matter what.

  Adam faced forward again, felt the air like warm breath on his face as Onward turned into the wind.

  “Let go!”

  He thought he saw Squire’s hand slice down, then the burst of spray as the anchor hit the water, men running while the cable quivered in pursuit.

  The compressor was already checking it, slowing and taking the strain.

  The yards were secured, all canvas brailed or furled, seamen scurrying down the ratlines, the less cautious sliding straight down backstays.

  Vincent was with him now. “All fast forrard, sir!” He was grinning, as if all strain had dropped away with the anchor.

  Another voice: Deacon, the senior midshipman, grim-faced, and very conscious of the moment. “Signal, sir!” He had to clear his throat. “From Flag!”

  Adam heard Julyan the master remark, “He’s in a bit of a bloody hurry.” He looked away as Adam walked past him.

  “What is it, Mr Deacon?” Some one had handed him a telescope.

  Deacon said steadily, “From Flag, sir. Captain repair on board.”

  Adam trained the glass, taking extra seconds to refocus it. The flagship swayed across the lens and steadied, her name, Tenacious, clearly visible across her counter.

  He said quietly, “Thank you, Mr Deacon. That was perceptive of you.” He heard Jago shouting orders, the squeal of tackle. He knew.

  “Sir?” He turned back and saw that, as Deacon pointed out, the flagship should have been flying the colours of a rear-admiral. She was not. A commodore’s broad pendant had replaced them. Permanent or temporary, but there had been no hint of a change in command when he had spoken with the admiral. Promotion, or away on some diplomatic mission? He looked over at the canvas canopy by the boat-tier. Or, like the murdered cooper Harris, beyond the concerns of this world.

  Morgan had come on deck, with the sword and Adam’s boat cloak in readiness. He looked like a man who had been offered an affront. “I’m told it’s urgent, see? You would not wish to squander the time donning your best uniform, I thought, sir?”

  “Thank you.” He held out his arms so that Morgan could fasten the belt. The commodore must have had hours to gauge Onward’s approach, if he was interested. Was this urgency just a show of authority?

  Vincent was saying, “I’ll have all boats lowered, sir. Mail ready to go ashore.” His eyes also moved to the canvas canopy. “What about Harris, sir?”

  Adam brought his mind back with an effort. “A shore burial will be necessary.” He gazed up at the towering rock, cloud streaming from its peak. The gateway. “We could lose a hundred men in the King’s name and not raise an eyebrow. But one poor devil…”

  “Gig’s alongside, sir!”

  Adam tossed the boat cloak back to Morgan. “Not this time.” He touched one of his epaulettes. They, at least, were still untarnished.

  He walked to the ladder, aware of their eyes, some familiar, others still unknown. At the mainmast truck the pendant was coming to life again in a light breeze, and a few small figures were still working in the top, pausing to peer down as he strode toward the entry port. The boatswain was touching his hat, an evil grin on his battered face.

  “We’ll show the buggers, sir!”

  And Rowlatt, the master-at-arms, glaring at such informality.

  Two midshipmen. Huxley, who had joined the ship with Napier, and the one called Hotham, whose father was a clergyman. There was a story there, and he could imagine the comments in the gunroom. Or maybe not so much these days. After all, Nelson’s father had been a man of the cloth.

  A squad of Royal Marines, and the boatswain’s mates by the port, one caught in the act of moistening his call on his tongue. There were suddenly a dozen things he wanted to point out to the first lieutenant. When I step into the gig, he is in command.

  Vincent murmured, “I have the weight, sir.”

  Adam raised his hat, the calls shrilled and the muskets slapped down in salute, within a cloud of pipeclay. Something every captain took for granted. As his right.

  He nodded to one of the sideboys as he rested his hand on his shoulder, then stepped out and into the gig.

  Jago was standing in the sternsheets, hat in hand, eyes everywhere. He, more than any one, probably knew the truth.

  “Cast off, forrard! Out oars! Give way together!”

  Jago eased the tiller slightly and watched the oars dipping and pulling, all eyes on the stroke and none on the captain. Given time, he would knock them into a fair crew. He glanced astern and saw Onward, already bows-on, one of those clumsy-looking local craft with the big lateen sail hovering close by. Ready to barter, or steal anything they could lay hands on.

  He looked over the stroke oarsman’s head and measured the dist
ance. So many times, but always different. Some could find you dreaming and carry you past the ship or landing stage. Or an oarsman, no matter how experienced, could “catch a crab” and throw the stroke into a shambles.

  He stooped to listen as the epaulettes moved slightly, and he heard the captain remark, “I can think of better ways to spend the first day in harbour, Sunday or not!”

  The stroke oarsman grinned, but kept his eye on the tiller. Some of the others shared it even if they were out of hearing. He always seemed to have that way with them. Did he know it, he wondered? He saw the sunlight flashing from the flagship’s high stern windows and on the gilt gingerbread scrollwork around her poop. Must have cost a fortune.

  Figures on the gangway now, telescopes raised. He scowled. Bloody officers. Are they all blind?

  “Boat ahoy?”

  He bellowed back, “Onward!”

  He felt almost proud, but it would end up with bloody knuckles if anybody knew what he was thinking.

  The bowman had hooked on, and the gig nudged against the rope fenders below the entry port. After Onward, the flagship’s side and tumblehome seemed like a cliff.

  Only seconds, and their eyes met. The hint of a smile.

  “Squalls ahead, Luke.”

  Then he was gone.

  The lieutenant stood aside, one hand holding the door half open.

  “Commodore Carrick will not be more than a few seconds, sir. Something urgent has come up.”

  It was only a temporary cabin, with screens to separate it from the admiral’s quarters in the poop; there were a few chairs, and an open port that looked across the main anchorage and its array of ships. Onward lay somewhere on the opposite quarter, out of sight, and the knowledge gave him a peculiar sense of loss.

  He looked at the deck, where the painted canvas had been rolled back to reveal deep scars in the planking. A gun had once been run out through this port, or been hurled inboard on recoil after firing in drill or deadly earnest. Tenacious was a veteran, at a guess about twenty years old. A third-rate two-decker, with much of the heavier hull structure he had first seen as a midshipman in his uncle’s old Hyperion.

  The lieutenant had made him welcome enough, but had been careful to keep him apart from the ship’s officers after his formal reception on board. He wore the twist of gold lace like Troubridge and was probably the rear-admiral’s aide, and he had Troubridge’s easy way of making conversation with a stranger. Without listening to or answering direct questions, Adam noticed.

  His comment about the new commodore, for instance. When Adam had asked about the suddenness of the appointment he had replied airily, “A fellow Cornishman, sir. You might know him.” And that was all.

  Of course, the flag lieutenant was probably more concerned about his own immediate future. Commodores were not usually entitled to official aides, during what was often only a temporary promotion. He recalled Troubridge’s cheerful warning: the higher we climb…

  “Captain Bolitho, sir?” Some one, the flagship’s equivalent of Morgan in a well-cut velvet waistcoat and nankeen breeches, was regarding him from the other door, face sweating in the sunlight from the open port, as if he had been running. But it was humid between decks, and no awnings were rigged on deck, nor windsails to bring some relief to the messes below. Maybe the commodore considered the flagship’s outward appearance more important than the comfort of those who served him.

  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?”

  8 ONE COMPANY

  LIEUTENANT MARK VINCENT 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?”