Monteith sat bolt upright in the chair, hands folded across his hat. “I have always tried to maintain a code of conduct and discipline, sir. If any one has claimed otherwise, I must dispute it!”

  Something fell on the deck overhead and there was a gust of laughter.

  Adam said quietly, “Whatever we believe or expect, today’s midshipmen are tomorrow’s navy. Loyalty and obedience are essential.”

  Monteith licked his lips and nodded, eyes fixed on Adam’s face. “I know that, sir.”

  Adam glanced at the papers on his desk, weighed down with a piece of polished coral. There was scarcely any movement, but Onward was responding.

  He looked directly at Monteith. “Responsibility extends in both directions, by example and by trust. Midshipman or captain.”

  Monteith said, “I was doing what I considered my duty, sir. Very soon now, I will be required to write a report on each of them, as laid down in Standing Orders.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  He heard hushed voices beyond the screen door, possibly Morgan, trying to think of some way to interrupt this interview. It was a waste of time in any case. Monteith would never change, unless he was threatened.

  The rap on the door came as a relief for both of them.

  It was Radcliffe, breathless, as if he had run all the way from the quarterdeck. His eyes flickered in Monteith’s direction, and then he deliberately looked away.

  “Lieutenant Squire’s respects, sir.” He screwed up his sunburned face as if to recall every word. “A sail has been sighted, fine on the starboard bow, steering west.” He added importantly, “Too far off to distinguish, but fresh lookouts have gone aloft.”

  Adam saw it in his mind. A ship crossing ahead of them. Where from? Where bound? Any alteration of course would be pointless, especially now. Like the sun in these latitudes, darkness would come quickly. Like a cloak.

  “Tell Mr. Squire that I’ll come on deck directly.”

  He turned to reach for the old telescope as the midshipman scurried from the cabin.

  Monteith was on his feet, standing stiffly. He looked absurdly young, like a midshipman himself. “I have always tried to do my duty, sir.”

  Adam brushed past him. “I rely upon it.”

  He had failed.

  But by the time he had reached the quarterdeck, he had almost dismissed Monteith from his thoughts. He looked up at the sails, feeling the warm air on his shoulders. The wind, what there was of it, was still holding, but the canvas was barely moving.

  Squire was waiting with a telescope beneath his own arm. “I’ve sent Midshipman Hotham aloft, sir. Any one who can read and send signals as well as he does might see what others miss.”

  Adam moved toward the small group around the wheel, and one of the helmsmen called instantly, “South by east, sir!”

  Vincent was here now, and Adam saw him pausing to flick some crumbs from his shirt.

  He stared abeam at the endless barrier of land, like the edge of their world. Bleached and almost colourless under the glaring sun. It was closer now, less than five miles away. When the daylight was gone, it would be dangerous to tack any nearer.

  The other vessel would be out of sight by now, heading into the great ocean.

  As if reading his thoughts, Vincent said, “Probably seeking more sea room.”

  Adam hardly heard him. He said, “I’m going up.” He knew Squire in particular was staring at him as he slung the telescope across his shoulder.

  “I wouldn’t have called you, sir, but—”

  Adam looked up at the maintop, thinking of Walker, ordered aloft by Monteith as a punishment and beginning this unforeseen chain of events. He saw Jago standing with Drummond, the bosun, arms folded, and sensed his disapproval.

  He gripped the ratlines and started to climb. The sun burned his back, and the cordage felt as if it had been lying across a stove. He glanced abeam again, pausing to wipe the sweat from his eyes with the back of his wrist. They had the sea to themselves, as far as he could see in any direction.

  He had reached the maintop and saw Midshipman Hotham lower his own telescope at his captain’s untidy arrival. There were two other lookouts with him, one of them Tucker, the new bosun’s mate.

  Hotham said, “The other vessel is almost out of sight, sir.” He tapped his telescope. “Two-masted, probably a brig. Local, maybe?” He reached out as if to emphasise the point and stopped himself, but was unable to hide his excitement. “But over there, sir!” He pointed toward the uneven coastline. “Flashes, sir. Thought the sun was playing tricks on me. But they were flashes!”

  Tucker said, “I saw ‘em too, sir.”

  Hotham rushed on, ignoring the interruption. “On an’ off. Like sunlight reflected from a mirror or a piece of glass. But then it stopped, or was lost in the inshore mist. But I did see it!”

  Adam rested his knee against the barricade and felt the whole mainmast shivering against him. And the keel beneath that. His ship.

  He focused the glass and saw the nearest land spring into detail, the curve of the next spur of headland. And after that? He thought of the sailing master beside him in the airless chartroom, as they had transferred their calculations to the new chart. He had marked this same thrust of headland. Not much, but still dangerous for any vessel so close inshore.

  The most recent chart had shown a tiny landmark, which had not been on the previous version. A mission of some kind, either religious or simply supplying aid or sustenance to any trader or sailor who might venture ashore in this “godforsaken place.” It could certainly be used as a guide.

  Tucker said slowly, “Maybe it was hidden in the mist, sir.”

  Adam closed the telescope. “Not mist this time. It’s smoke.” He looked at Hotham again. “Flashes? You’re certain of it?”

  The midshipman hesitated, but only for a moment. “I’ve seen the army making signals like that. I’m certain, sir.”

  Adam started to climb down. A clergyman’s son. What would his father say if he could see him now? But no matter what he thinks he saw, it is my decision.

  Vincent was waiting, his face full of questions.

  Adam said, “We will hold our present course until sunset. Then I intend to come about and close inshore.” He looked at him directly. “And anchor.”

  “Landing party, sir?”

  “At first light, weather permitting.” As if he were thinking aloud. “Two boats, the cutter towing astern, and the gig. Easier. Any sign of trouble—”

  Vincent said, “We’ll be ready, sir!”

  Adam gripped his arm. “Not this time, Mark. I need you here with me. Remember? The ship comes first.”

  He looked toward Squire, who had not moved since he had watched his captain scrambling aloft. “Join me in the cabin, both of you. And I’ll explain what I have in mind.”

  Only then did he release Vincent’s arm.

  As he walked toward the companion he could hear the low murmur of their voices. What was there to discuss? Right or wrong, it was decided.

  • • •

  “Landing party mustered and standing by, sir.” Vincent’s voice was clipped and formal, loud in the uncanny silence.

  Adam waited for his eyesight to adjust to the darkness on deck. Even Vincent’s face was barely visible.

  He had stolen a few precious minutes to revisit the chartroom. There was only a small shaded light above the chart table, just enough and no more. The order to darken ship had been piped at sunset, when Onward had altered course and headed toward the original sighting, and the master-at-arms and ship’s corporal had maintained a regular patrol above and between decks to make certain it was carried out.

  They had anchored, and the silence was unnerving. Even the sound of the cable running free had seemed dangerously loud, and the leadsman’s regular chant as they approached the inshore waters seemed to invite discovery.

  It was the middle watch, almost over now. Adam stared through the darkness toward the land, imagining he could smell it, but he knew it was about two miles distant, if his calculations and Julyan’s were correct. The sailing master had seemed satisfied. By guess and by God, as he had put it.

  The cutter and gig were moored alongside. It would be a long pull for the oarsmen, with extra men and weapons adding to the weight. Squire would be in command. Not an easy man to know, but he was brave, reliable, and popular. His experience as a master’s mate, ashore and afloat in a surveying vessel taking part in Sir Alfred Bishop’s expedition, made him the obvious choice. His service throughout the expedition had gained him a commendation from the great man himself, and a promotion to commissioned rank which still seemed to surprise him.

  He would be leading in the cutter, which mounted a swivel in the bows as additional protection, with the gig staying as close astern as possible. If Squire ran aground on a sandbar before reaching a suitable beach, the gig could tow or kedge him free. Monteith would be in charge of that. There was no alternative.

  It might all prove to be a mistake and a waste of time, and Rear-Admiral Langley would not be pleased about that.

  Two midshipmen were also among the landing party, Huxley and David Napier, requested by Squire because he had worked alongside both of them while anchoring and getting under way. Adam had mixed feelings about Napier. Experienced, yes, but it was too soon after the Moonstone affair. But any exclusion would be seen as favouritism, and Napier would be the first to protest.

  Many of Onward‘s company had been standing by for most of the night. Some may have snatched a catnap curled up against a gun or in some corner of the hull, waiting for the call. No hammocks had left their nettings, in case of some emergency when all hands might be needed. A sudden shift of wind, or the leadsman’s cry, warning of unexpected shallows. Like the edge of Julyan’s “great valley,” Adam thought.

  They were ready. It was now.

  Vincent had reported that there had been no shortage of volunteers, but Squire had only chosen a few extra men, including a squad of Royal Marines. Adam could still hear the disappointment, and see it on Lieutenant Sinclair’s face, when he had been told that he was staying aboard and Sergeant Fairfax would be in charge of the “lobsters.”

  He glanced toward the land, very faintly visible now, darker than the sky.

  And the air was still cool. But in another hour, less … He felt something like a shiver, and repressed it. He said quietly, “So let’s be about it, shall we?”

  He had gone over it in his mind again and again. Weapons, powder and shot, a day’s ration of food and water. Bandages. He heard a few hushed voices, a slap on the back. Even a quick laugh.

  The gig cast off first, oars moving slowly to carry her clear of the side. Jago was at the tiller. Not a volunteer: he had insisted. Napier was with him, Monteith’s decision. Next the cutter, muffled oars taking the strain, the coxswain the usual man—Fitzgerald, a true Patlander as Jago called him—waving to someone still invisible in the darkness. His loose white shirt was ghost-like against the black water. It would be Jago’s guide as he was following astern.

  Vincent said, “I’ve doubled the lookouts, and the anchor watch is standing by. Now all we can do …”

  Adam looked up at the sky, which seemed lighter, although that was impossible, and considered Vincent’s voice. Efficient but envious. When he looked again, the two boats had disappeared, and he felt Vincent move toward the side.

  Like me, he wants to be with them.

  David Napier crouched in the gig’s sternsheets and watched the regular thrust and heave of the stroke oarsman, slower than usual, but very steady. With extra hands aboard there was scarcely room to move. He eased his injured leg as much as he could; at least that was not playing up.

  Monteith was sitting beside him, shifting occasionally to peer around the oarsmen as if in search of the cutter. It was rarely visible, except for a phosphorescent splash of oars, and the pale blur of Fitzgerald’s shirt.

  Once he snapped, “Look out! We’re losing her!” and Jago had broken his silence.

  “I’ve got her!” The barest pause. “Sir.”

  Napier could feel spray splashing across his legs as the oars dipped steeply into the swell. Like tropical rain. How much worse it must be in the cutter, with a much heavier load to carry. He had seen the swivel gun mounted in the bows, but had heard Sergeant Fairfax say, “There’s another one to take its place if need be.” He had even chuckled. “No time to load an’ prime if we have to fire!”

  No wonder the cutter had displayed so little freeboard. Squire must be thinking of that right now in this deeper swell.

  Napier shifted again and felt the curved hanger’s hilt rub against his thigh. The gunner had issued it to him when the landing party had been arming, blades freshly sharpened on a grindstone. Like Nautilus. Like Moonstone.

  The gunner had watched him unbuckle his dirk. “Take this, boy. You might need something stronger than that do-little sword today!”

  He looked toward the shore, and tried to see it in his mind. The sky was lighter, but only slightly, like the edge of a frayed curtain. There should be a small spur of headland to starboard, if the cutter was on course. And a beach, which might still surprise them. He would talk it all over later with Huxley, who was up there with Squire. It was hard to determine what they had in common, except for the unbreakable bond of friendship, which neither of them had ever questioned.

  Jago said curtly, “Alterin’ course to starboard.”

  Monteith almost stood up, but seemed to change his mind. “Are you certain?”

  Jago either did not hear him or ignored him.

  Napier offered, “I can still see the cox’n’s shirt, sir.”

  He sensed that Jago had leaned across the tiller-bar and guessed he was grinning. Or swearing under his breath. They had hardly spoken since the hands had been mustered for “this adventure,” as Lieutenant Squire had called it.

  “Any trouble, you keep with me!” That was all, but from Luke Jago it was everything.

  “Oars!”

  The blades rose dripping on either side, while the gig swayed and slowed almost to a halt.

  Jago said, “Cutter’s run aground.” He stood, one hand on the tiller. “Got clear again. Give way, together!”

  The stroke oarsman gripped his loom and leaned back, and in those few seconds Napier was able to see the gleam of a medallion as it swung freely across his shirt. The features of the men around him were faintly visible for the first time since they had cast off.

  A bosun’s mate named Sinden muttered, “Not much bloody longer!”

  Monteith rapped out, “Silence in the boat!” and did not see Sinden’s gesture behind his back.

  Napier seemed to have lost track of time. It was measured by each thrash of oars, and the surge against the hull, the occasional heavy breathing when Jago called for a brief pause if they were overhauling the cutter.

  Napier stared past the oarsmen and saw the land, not high ground but a ragged barrier of trees.

  “Oars!” Jago had turned his head, either to look or listen.

  Monteith said sharply, “I gave no order!”

  Jago did not move. “Mr. Squire just made a signal. We’re arrived, sir!”

  With the oars stilled, Napier thought he could hear the murmur of sea against beach, then the silence was completely shattered as some of the cutter’s crew and passengers splashed over the side in readiness to haul their boat to safety.

  It was not simply a landfall. The place seemed to be reaching out as if to encircle them … He told himself that would change when true daylight showed itself.

  Monteith got to his feet and peered toward the land. Fitzgerald’s shirt, the signal, had vanished. He said, “Stand by to clear the boat!”

  He clambered over a thwart, but Jago reached out and restrained Napier. “Not yet.”

  Monteith did not wait, and jumped or fell into chest-deep water.

  Jago said calmly, “Give the officer a hand, lads!” Then, “Clear the boat. Sinden, take charge up yonder.”

  It seemed to take an age before both boats were safely hauled ashore, but the oar-blades were still dripping when Squire was satisfied. He stood with his back to the sea and waited for a sodden Monteith and the two midshipmen to join him.

  To Sergeant Fairfax he said, “As planned, have your lads take cover. Weapons uncocked, remember?” and Fairfax responded with a touch of outraged dignity.

  “They are Royals, sir!” But he hurried away, and his white belt was soon hidden.

  Squire said, “When it gets lighter we’ll move inshore. There’s a small cove beyond those trees.” He grinned. “Or should be!” He touched Monteith’s wet sleeve. “Never mind. Sun’ll be up soon!”

  They all tensed as a flock of birds broke from the undergrowth and rose, flapping and crying, toward the sea.

  Squire said, “We don’t need an audience!”

  Someone laughed quietly.

  Jago had joined them, his broad-bladed cutlass casually over his shoulder. He gestured in the same direction. “Th’ mission must be over there as well.” He did not look at Monteith.

  Huxley was gazing after the disturbed birds as they circled and then vanished against the sea. He whispered to Napier, “I have to stay with the boats, Dave. I’m sorry you’re stuck with him.”

  No name was necessary.

  Squire was elaborating on his plan. “We can make our way along the shore now. It shouldn’t take long. We’ll know better once we fix our position more exactly.” If he was grinning it remained invisible in the dimness before dawn. “And the ship will be able to see us.”

  He turned abruptly, lightly, for a man of his powerful build. “What is it?”

  A seaman said, “I kin smell smoke, sir. Burning.”

  Squire sniffed audibly. “I can, too.” He looked at Monteith. “We’ll separate here, Hector.” He waved to the bosun’s mate. “Probably nothing, but we’ll find out!”

  Monteith loosened his belt. “If you ask me …”

  No one did.