Heart of Oak

by Alexander Kent

  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.

  He stood up, swinging both legs from the chair, impatient with himself. There were stars above and below the Rock, and he knew he would fall asleep if he broached to now.

  The skylight was partly open and he could hear a violin playing somewhere, then laughter and feet tapping in some lively jig. Were the French aboard Nautilus also enjoying some sailors’ dance, and yarning with their mates like these men?

  We are at peace now. With a stroke of the pen, and an ocean of blood. What was it like for the Frenchman’s ship? Hemmed in by all the old foes…

  It took more than a pen to make peace.

  He moved to the desk and touched the paper he would use for his next letter. How long
had it been? He could see her holding it, opening it. Would it bring them closer, or would their still unreachable horizon withdraw even farther?

  The door opened and Morgan padded into the cabin.

  He said cheerfully, “I expect you can still find a space for something, sir?” and placed a tray carefully on the desk. “Does me good to see you back aboard, sir. We all wondered …”

  Adam walked slowly through the cabin, the deck cool under his stockinged feet after the stairs and steep, cobbled streets, the hours of standing, the endless formalities. “Some wine, I think. The first lieutenant is coming shortly.”

  Vincent had met him at the entry port on his return. Eager to know the news, and Onward’s fresh orders. Or was he?

  Morgan opened his little pantry and pretended to examine some of the bottles he had selected earlier. The captain looked drained. What did they find to argue about, when all these top officers put their heads together?

  Now, when I get ashore…He was still smiling to himself when the sentry rapped on his grating and announced Vincent.

  Adam sat by the desk and gestured to another chair. “Rest easy, Mark. You’ve been doing all the work in my absence.”

  Vincent looked around the cabin. “It feels right now, sir.”

  Adam nodded. Then, “I’d better tell you. We are sailing the day after tomorrow, in company with Nautilus. A matter of diplomacy, if you like.”

  “Is that an order, sir? From the commodore?”

  “Far higher than him, I’m afraid!”

  Morgan was replacing the cognac with wine.

  “Thank you. You can go and pipe down now.” Then he said, “When I was in Unrivalled and we took part in the Algiers attack under Lord Exmouth, we learned quite a lot about another enemy stronghold. Aboubakr, some two hundred miles further along the coast. The French have always had a lively interest in the place, to base their own ships for use against us, and to control the local rebels. And now we are to support them.” He shrugged. “Better the devil you know.”

  He stood up and paced restlessly to the windows. “A show of solidarity, nothing more.”

  Vincent said, “A dangerous game at the best of times.”

  Adam looked at him keenly. “Is something wrong, Mark?”

  Vincent took a book from his pocket and said, “A complaint has been made by Lieutenant Monteith, sir.”

  Adam moved closer and touched his sleeve. “Tell me. This is our ship. What we make her.”

  Vincent kept the book in his hand. “It was more than likely a simple misunderstanding. Squire countermanded an order after Monteith told one of the hands to reeve some new halliards.”

  “And Monteith jumped to the wrong conclusion. Then it was a misunderstanding. Squire has a blunt way of doing things. It happens.” He smiled. “Whatever they say on the lower deck about their officers, we can all make mistakes in our haste.”

  Vincent said stiffly, “It was a formal complaint, sir. I had no choice.”

  “As first lieutenant, you did as you thought fit. Loyalty and obedience are yours by right. But respect is something else, and much harder to achieve.”

  Vincent stood up. “If that is the end of the matter, sir?”

  “In two days’ time we shall be at sea. Many will envy us. So let’s remember that, shall we?” He walked back to the desk. “We are the fortunate ones!”

  But the door had closed. He knew he had failed.

  Luke Jago nodded companionably to the sentry and pushed his way past the screen door. He was never questioned or refused entry. He could not even recall how or when it had begun; it remained something unspoken.

  It was cool in the great cabin, or so it seemed after the dusty offshore wind. Even out in the anchorage, you could still taste sand in your teeth.

  There had been all the usual bustle and argument of preparing for sea: the purser and his crew bringing aboard fresh stores and fruit from the harbour, with lists to be checked and a few clips with a rope’s end or starter to move things along. Now the working parties were resting, enjoying a stand-easy, with a welcome smell of rum in the air. And tomorrow…

  Morgan was leaning inside his pantry, sipping something from a mug. They were comfortable with one another now.

  Jago remarked, “The Cap’n’s in the chart room. Don’t want to make a bloody mess of things in front o’ the Frogs, do we?”

  Morgan considered it. “Bit of a goer, isn’t he?” and Jago grinned.

  “You won’t find him draggin’ his feet when a mob o’ forriners is watchin’ every move!”

  Morgan judged the moment, and put a mug down in front of him: it was raw rum. “What about women? He’s a post captain, after all, and not married, is he?” He wagged a finger. “I’ve seen that painting he keeps so safely stowed in his sleeping quarters. Enough to make your hair curl!”

  Jago took time to swallow his drink. “The Cap’n’s goin’ to tie the knot when they gets a minute.”

  Morgan looked across the cabin and dropped his voice. “Not like some I’ve known. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but Richmond,” he jerked his head, “you know…he was a real woman-hunter and no mistake. And one lady in particular, I was told.”

  “Local girl?”

  “Not she. Her husband was always away. A shipbuilder.” He patted his counter. “Built this fine lady, for one.” There were voices from the skylight, and the marine sentry clearing his throat. “She got what she wanted, right enough.” He laughed coarsely. “In more ways than she bargained for!”

  Then he hurried to the door and for a few seconds longer Jago was alone in the great cabin, remembering that first day aboard, when he had seen Richmond’s effects packed and ready to be sent home to his widow.

  Dead man’s shoes.

  He saw Bolitho walk into the cabin, and that he was limping slightly.

  Also, that he was quite alone.

  The morning was clear, with none of the haze which had obscured the Rock. Onward’s decks, swabbed clean at dawn, were already bone-dry, and the air was hot.

  David Napier stood watching the hands being mustered beneath the mainmast truck, where the tackles and falls for hoisting boats were laid out in readiness. The twenty-eight foot cutter, their biggest boat, was about to be brought aboard for the last time before sailing.

  Napier plucked at his heavy coat and wished he could strip off his uniform, like the men around him. He knew it was not so much the heat but something else in the air: excitement, the thrill of being part of it. Something he could still not explain.

  He saw Huxley, the other midshipman stationed here, staring at the shore, perhaps hoping for some final boat to come with mail. Was his father still awaiting the court martial, or had its verdict been passed? He caught his eye and gave Napier a strained smile. Little enough, but it meant something to each of them.

  He shivered, tasting the fat pork and biscuit crumbs from that early midshipman’s breakfast. Even that had been part of the adventure: their ship being ordered to some strange place named Aboubakr, of which nobody seemed to have heard and which nobody could spell, although Julyan the master had assured them they would all know it beyond endurance when he had made them memorize the charts. Deacon, the senior midshipman, had suggested Julyan was as much in the dark as any of them.

  He could hear Guthrie the boatswain rapping out orders to the cutter’s crew alongside. Working parties and individuals seemed to revolve around him like the bars of a human capstan, although the bars themselves were still lying in ranks, waiting for the command.

  Napier stared up at the braced yards, their sails still neatly furled as if trimmed to an invisible measure. He saw figures on the quarterdeck; they too were looking aloft, one gesturing as if to make a point. Vincent, the first lieutenant, seemed to be everywhere. Friendly enough with the midshipmen, and encouraging when it occured to him, but sometimes you had the feeling that he was never really listening. As Hotham, the clergyman’s son, had said, “You don’t need to listen when you’re ne
xt in command!”

  He thought of the captain. The hardest part was getting used to the screen which was now a physical and figurative barrier between them. He was able to appreciate and accept it; it was necessary, for both their sakes.

  He often thought of Falmouth, which he had been encouraged to regard as his new home, and of the girl who had helped him overcome his fear and the nightmare of Audacity. He thought, too, of Elizabeth, which was stupid of him, he had told himself often enough. But he did think of her.

  “Ah, Mr Napier. Time on your hands? We’ll have to change that!”

  It was Lieutenant Squire, big, powerful, and always apparently at ease. Old for his rank, but most officers were, who had made the longer passage by the lower deck. He looked like somebody, Napier thought, as if the solitary epaulette was perched on his shoulder by accident.

  “Ready when you say the word, sir.”

  “The cutter’s coming aboard now.” He waved his fist to the nearest party of men and grinned broadly. “You take charge. You have to begin some day!”

  Napier did not move. He had watched the process several times, and he knew the order of things. But the cutter was a large boat, the maid of all work. It could load and carry stores, land parties of armed seamen and marines, shift a complete anchor for kedging the ship from one part of an anchorage to another. He found his brain was suddenly quite clear, and his nerves were steady. Or carry a poor murdered sailor ashore for burial.

  “Haul taut, lads! Marry the falls!” He could hear the slither of cordage, the slap of feet, blocks taking the strain. But his mouth was dry as dust.

  Another voice. “Hoist away, handsomely, lads!” It was his own.

  A hand brushed his arm as if in passing.

  “Well done, young Napier. I’ve got it now!”

  The great shadow, black against the sky, as the cutter swung evenly up and across the deck. He felt droplets of sea water splash his face and throat like shards of ice.

  “Avast hauling! Secure those lines! Jump to it!”