Man of War

by Alexander Kent

  The spokes spun round; the helmsmen needed no urging.

  “Helm a-lee, sir!”

  Someone had loosened the awning across the empty boat tier, and some of the released water was surging across the deck where seamen were already forming a bucket chain.

  “Off tacks and sheets!”

  Still turning into the wind, a few boats pulling away as if they imagined they were the new target.

  Adam felt the deck tilting, the land sliding past, the rounded hill suddenly standing like a marker on the opposite bow. The yards were as tightly braced as they could bear, the canvas almost aback as the ship came slowly into the wind. Small things stood out. The hole punched in the topsail had spread across the full breadth of canvas; torn rigging trailed down toward the deck like dead creeper. Then the tip of the headland itself, some crumbling fortifications clearly etched now against the sky. And directly beyond it, like water piled in a great dam, was the open sea.

  “Steady as you go!”

  He could see a tiny pyramid of sail, like pale shells in the strengthening sunlight as the frigate Hostile hurried to obey Athena’s last signal, to close on the flagship.

  He saw Bethune by the poop ladder, leaning across an unmanned swivel gun to stare at the small schooner. He wondered what Jago would think when he saw Athena sail past, heading once more for open water.

  “East by north, sir!”

  He saw Fraser watching him from the compass box. He knew. It was as close to the wind as Athena would come. Perhaps even better than he had promised.

  Each gun captain was ready. Here a handspike moved to adjust the muzzle’s elevation, or a tackle squeaked to train a gun a fraction more, until the eye over the breech was satisfied.

  “Ready, sir!” That was Stirling again. The ship had come about and was on the opposite tack. The drills and careful selection of seamen known for their skill and reliability, in all weathers and in the face of death itself, had been his main concern, a first lieutenant’s role, ship of the line or little sixth-rate like Audacity.

  Adam knew that Bethune had joined him. Perhaps already trying to gauge the final outcome, perhaps the blame when the repercussions began, as they surely would. Renegades or not, this was Cuba, Spanish territory. Face would have to be saved, until the next time.

  Bethune watched Adam raise his hand over his head.

  He said, “After this, Adam. I have to know.” His eyes were steady, even calm. “I must know!”

  Adam saw the nearest gun captain testing his trigger line. It was taut. To him, nothing else mattered. He was right. Leave questions to others.

  His arm sliced down. “Fire!”

  It took even longer for the dust and smoke to settle. The hillside looked much as before the broadside, but merged now with the fallen walls and rooftops where the battery had been sited to command the approaches.

  “Reload, sir?”

  Adam shaded his eyes to stare along the foreshore, where he could just discern the scarlet coats of the marines. They would wait to ensure there was no further resistance while the slavers were seized by Pointer’s prize-crews, or scuttled where they lay.

  “I think you should see this, sir.” It was Troubridge, pale and tight-lipped. But somehow more mature, confident.

  Adam trained the glass on the bearing Troubridge was indicating. Faces leaped into focus, vignettes of excitement, and pain. And pride. The sailor’s lot.

  He saw the little schooner, boats still tied or drifting alongside. His fingers tightened on the warm metal. And a flag. A smaller version of the one which Athena had flown since leaving English Harbour.

  Jago had done it. As they had arranged. So he must be safe. He looked across the bay where they’d seen the last of Audacity. If only . . .

  “I propose to anchor directly, Sir Graham.” For a moment he thought he had not heard, but Bethune said, “Do so. I shall see that your part in this affair does not pass unnoticed.”

  He knew Troubridge was watching, perhaps realizing for the first time that he knew his admiral better than he had thought.

  Bethune said quietly, “I should like to go across, Adam.”

  He was not demanding. If anything, he was pleading.

  It was like being on the outside of something. Orders were being shouted or relayed by the piercing twitter of Spithead Nightingales. Men stood back from their guns, while others clung to halliards and braces, the ship under command while they peered around, seeking special friends, or staring at the damage.

  Bowles hurried past with a list of names, men who had been killed or were in the orlop being treated, or dying.

  No great action this time, but the price was always too high.

  Some were cheering, letting go, the blues and whites of officers and warrant ranks mixing with all the others. Some were looking aft, at the quarterdeck where their lives could be changed or ended without question or blame.

  Bethune said, “I must go below. Let me know when . . .” He did not end it.

  He would find no peace or escape there. The admiral’s quarters would still be cleared for action, like his own and the whole ship. He thought of her portrait. Waiting.

  It was as if someone else had spoken. He said, “I think you should stay a while, Sir Graham.” He glanced at the faces below the quarterdeck rail. “They look to you. Trust, obedience, I’m never sure.”

  Troubridge joined him by the ladder, and watched as Bethune made his way to the main deck and walked along the line of guns. Hesitant at first, the sailors jostled around him, some reaching out as if to touch him, others laughing and calling his name.

  Adam was glad he could not see his face.

  He knew people were waiting to see him: Stirling about casualties, and rearranging the watch bills, filling the gaps. The surgeon with his bill. Men to be buried. Repairs were already being carried out; sailors could not waste much time on regrets and tears.

  But for a few moments longer . . . They look to you.

  Troubridge said, “When you need a lieutenant, I’d be obliged if you’d bear me in mind.”

  Adam turned, his eyes cold. But it passed as quickly.

  He touched his sleeve and said, “I shall never see my own flag up there, my friend.” He saw Stirling looming through the seamen and strode to meet him. To escape.

  Troubridge smiled. I would serve you in any capacity!

  One hour later, with a different leadsman in the chains, Athena turned slowly into the wind again, and dropped anchor.

  Her remaining boats were being warped alongside, crews called or pushed to the tackles for hoisting them inboard. The aftermath of battle. Any battle. Men putting their ship in order. Ready to fight if need be, to face a storm, to survive. There was a smell of rum in the air but there had been no time to open the spirit store. Hoarding rum was an offense, but today men drank to each other, and to absent friends whom they would never see again.

  Stirling strode aft and touched his hat. “Boat’s ready, sir. The second cutter.” It sounded like an apology, but Adam doubted if Bethune would even notice. He glanced at the flag at the fore-mast truck. Perhaps Athena would never see an admiral’s barge being hoisted aboard.

  “Very well. Man the side.” He wondered if anything would or could move this unbreakable man. He saw smoke on the wind, but it was the galley funnel, the first priority after a fight. But the thought of food made him feel light-headed.

  He followed Stirling to the entry port where a small squad of Royal Marines were already paraded and being inspected by their lieutenant. Two boatswain’s mates waited with their silver calls to pipe Bethune into the boat.

  While Athena swung to her cable the land remained invisible to the assembled side party. There was only the sea, bright now, almost blinding in the reflected glare.

  Adam saw Hostile making her final approach, and even without a glass he could see her people clinging to shrouds and high on the yards. Here, Vincent was ready with his signals party, unsmiling as he watched flags being pulled from th
eir locker.

  Perhaps it was better, safer, to be like Vincent, or the lieutenant of marines. Or Stirling, secure in his strength and his loneliness, with only the ship to sustain him.

  “’Ere he comes, boys!”

  That was the sailor named Grundy, who had once served under Bethune when he had been a captain. Whom he had pretended to remember, even recognize, when he had hoisted his flag over Athena. Another lie . . .

  Grundy raised a cheer which was taken up by others, working on repairs and hoisting new cordage aloft for the sailmaker’s crew. The cheers were soon quelled by the master-at-arms.

  And here was Bethune, brushing aside anyone who attempted to assist him through the entry port. He looked strained, but nodded to the Royal Marines, some of whom carried the stains and scars of the morning. Adam saw that his uniform was perfect by comparison. As if, like that first day, he had just stepped aboard.

  Bethune said, “I should like you to accompany me, Captain Bolitho.”

  Clipped and formal.

  Adam was deeply moved. Another lie, and he was unprepared for it. He climbed down into the cutter, Lieutenant Evelyn standing in the sternsheets to receive him.

  Above the boat he heard the slap of muskets, and the trill of calls as Bethune climbed down to join him.

  “Out oars! Give way together!”

  Adam touched the thwart where a stray musket ball had scored its mark. The faces of the oarsmen, ones he had believed he would never know, watched the stroke, the blades dipping and rising together, the tension and the fear already draining away.

  And all at once the schooner was looming over them. More faces he recognized, even some of Captain Souter’s landing party, their scarlet coats at odds with the others, and some he assumed were the schooner’s own men. Bethune clambered up the side, hardly waiting for the bowman to hook on.

  And here was Jago, teeth bared in a grin as he seized Adam’s hands and pulled him aboard.

  He said, “Made it as fast as I could, Cap’n! Them bastards boarded the schooner. It was touch an’ go. I wanted to send the gig, but—”

  He turned as Bethune said, “Where is she?”

  Adam realized that two of the marines were guarding a tall man who, like Bethune, appeared unmarked by the events Jago had described.

  Somehow he knew it was Sillitoe, the central figure whose name had featured in most of Bethune’s despatches.

  Captain Souter said, “In the cabin, Sir Graham. There was nothing we could do.”

  Adam said, “Let me . . .” but Bethune pushed past him. Only for a few seconds he stared over the side toward the same sloping headland.

  “Why?”

  Jago said quietly, “We’d just got aboard, y’ see, Cap’n. They started shootin’, so did we. Then I see her comin’ on deck. I think she saw the ship.” He gazed over the water, remembering. “Our ship.”

  Adam heard something fall, the movement of boats alongside. And Bethune’s voice.

  Jago shook his head. “There was blood, but she seemed to be smiling.” He shook himself. “I ain’t sure, Cap’n.”

  Adam took his arm, like those other times. “Try to remember, Luke. What she said.”

  Jago looked at him fully, his unshaven features suddenly calm.

  “She said, ‘It’s Richard!’” He looked away, toward the sea. “Then she fell.”

  Bethune had reappeared on the littered deck. He looked around, but seemed to see nothing.

  Then he became aware of Adam, and said brokenly, “I’ve lost her, Adam. Lost her . . .”

  Sillitoe said, with great contempt, “She was never yours to lose, damn your bloody eyes!”

  Captain Souter snapped, “Take that man across to Athena, Corporal, in irons if you see fit!”

  Adam saw that Bethune was carrying a green shawl, and heard him murmur, “She was always fond of this colour.”

  Bethune walked to the bulwark and stood staring down at the cutter.

  “I want her taken to English Harbour, Adam. She was happy there, I believe.” He seemed to realize for the first time that Jago was beside him.

  He said, “I’ll take the cutter. You stay with the flag-captain.”

  Jago watched the boat pull clear of the side, frowning at the stroke.

  Then he said, “I’ll ’ave the gig ready when you says the word, Cap’n.”

  Adam looked at him and saw that Tolan, Bethune’s loyal servant, was still on board, and recalled that they had ignored one another.

  Then he saw Jago’s face.

  “What is it?”

  Jago pushed through some seamen and leaned over the gunwale again. Athena’s gig was tugging at her painter, two injured sailors squatting on the bottom boards as if nothing had happened.

  “Where did you find him?” He could scarcely form the words.

  “The bloody Royals got him, would you believe.” He could not control his pleasure, but it was far more than that.

  Adam stared at the slight figure propped in the sternsheets, partly covered by a jacket, the white collar patches very clear in the sun’s glare. His legs were bare, and he could see the same savage scar, as if it had just happened.

  Jago said, “There was two middies when they found ’em. But the other one was dead. It seems that young David swam with him to the shore after Audacity went down.”

  Adam saw the boy looking up at him, saw him smile, and the two seamen turning to share the moment.

  Jago was saying, “He’s a bit weak. But he’s through the worst of it.”

  “What did you tell him?” He thought of Bethune’s anguish, and the woman who lay in the cabin below their feet.

  Jago smiled freely for the first time.

  “I told him you would be takin’ him home, Cap’n.”

  Soon he would be that captain again. But now, the words would not come.

  Jago had found two mugs from somewhere, and put one in Adam’s hand.

  He glanced over at Athena’s loosely brailed topsails, and something flashing from her poop, catching the sun.

  Then he looked at Adam, and was glad. “Not a bad old ship in some ways, eh, Cap’n?”

  A man-of-war.