Above all of them, David Napier climbed into the foretop and paused to regain his breath. He had already visited the maintop, and had left Midshipman Hotham with another lookout.

  Tucker greeted him with a grin and a thumbs-up. “Too much good food, David,” and Napier loosened his shirt.

  “Not as young as I was, David!”

  They both laughed.

  Napier looked across the larboard bow, balanced and shading his eyes against the fierce glare. It was an exciting sensation, this towering structure of masts, spars and canvas all quivering with power. He could recall when he had been too scared to release his grip, let alone dare to look down at the ship beneath him.

  He asked, “Are you settled now?”

  Tucker shrugged. “Now an’ then I find meself looking up at the t’gallant yards, an’ further!”

  Napier felt the barricade press into his hip as the mast leaned over again, thinking of Hotham, who had already been appointed acting lieutenant more than once. He would be the next to confront the Inquisition. And at some time in the future, with luck, it would be his own turn. Once it had seemed impossible: he had not even dared to imagine it. He felt himself smile. Back in those days when Bolitho’s cousin Elizabeth had called him his captain’s servant.

  He realised that Tucker had said something and must have repeated it: he was suddenly tense.

  “Could I use your glass?” Tucker pushed some hair from his eyes, and seemed oblivious to the deck and the sea far beneath him.

  Napier watched his profile as he adjusted the telescope with strong fingers, pausing only to murmur, “Not a patch on Sir Richard’s old glass, eh, Dave?” But he was not smiling.

  Tucker handed the telescope back to Napier. “I wasn’t sure. It’s still too far.”

  Napier steadied the glass and knew Tucker was waiting for his reaction. He could see nothing but the glare like metal on the water, and the constant change of colour and movement, the swell steep and angry in the steady wind. There was nothing solid, nothing you could describe or recognise. Only flotsam, fragments driven by wind and tide; it might have covered several miles.

  But it had once been a living vessel.

  “I’ll tell him!” He was halfway into the lubber’s hole when Tucker called out, “Slow down! We don’t want to lose you!”

  Napier hesitated, one foot dangling in the air. “I want the captain to know you saw it first!”

  He knew Tucker was still gazing after him as his feet found the first ratline.

  He was not even breathless when he completed his descent and scrambled onto the starboard gangway. The picture in his mind was as vivid as the moment he had seen it.

  The gun drill had stopped or been curtailed, but most of the crew were still at their stations. Those on the starboard side looked up as his shadow passed, and their upturned faces were full of questions. Napier knew the first lieutenant was there, but avoided him and kept his eyes on the quarterdeck at the end of the gangway, his pace steady and unhurried. Something he had learned from experience.

  They were all there, as if they had not moved in all the time he had been crouched high above them. The captain came to meet him, the others remaining grouped near the compass and wheel.

  “D’ you need time for a second wind, David?” He said it kindly, turning him a little away from the others. Napier felt a shiver run through his body, although the sun was hot across his shoulders.

  He said, “Wreckage, sir,” and gestured ahead, and saw some seamen turn to scan the empty horizon. “On either bow, sir. Pieces. No part of ship we could recognise.” He faltered, realising that another shadow had joined theirs. It was the flag captain.

  He swallowed hard but straightened his back in response as Tyacke smiled and said, “Don’t stop, Mr. Napier. I’ve heard every word so far,” and averted his face slightly, as if he knew that the scars were disturbing Napier.

  The boy gulped and pressed on. “The lookout, David Tucker, saw it first, sir. Even without a glass. He knew.”

  Tyacke said, “A good man, I hear.”

  Napier saw Drummond, the bosun, who was standing with the others, give him a quick nod. I told you so.

  Napier went on, “A small vessel, sir,” and fell silent as Tyacke turned back, and seemed to measure his response.

  “Perhaps. We must do more than hope.” He gazed at the sea, indifferent to the metallic glare. “The wreckage lies across our course.” He looked up at the masthead pendant. “An hour? Two at the most?”

  Adam nodded, aware that Vincent had come aft to join them. Even men off watch or excused from deck duty seemed to have gathered, and the cook with one of his assistants was peering out from the galley hatch, probably wondering if it would interrupt his schedule. Lieutenant Devereux was in animated conversation with Sergeant Fairfax, breaking down the inevitable barrier of his predecessor’s death. He could sense Tyacke’s mind working, his patience perhaps running out.

  Adam said, “We shall shorten sail but hold this course, until we can discover more evidence.”

  It was enough for the moment. They all had plenty to think about. He looked down over the quarterdeck and saw Jago leaning against the boat tier. “We’ll need a boat if we find anything.” Almost as if Jago had put the thought into his mind.

  He turned back as Vincent said, “I should like to take the boat, sir.”

  “I shall remember that when the time comes, Mark.” He glanced up at the taut canvas. “But shorten sail when you’ve mustered the hands.”

  Vincent half smiled. “Aye, aye, sir!”

  Adam saw Midshipman Huxley leading Napier to the companion; Tyacke must have already slipped away unseen to the great cabin. They had not spoken of it, but Tyacke must be wondering what the admiral would have in store for him when they eventually returned to Freetown. And after that?

  It was as if the whole ship had been waiting for the word. Drummond did not need to use his call.

  “Hands aloft! Move yourselves, there!”

  Squire stood beside the wheel and listened to the squeal of tackles as the gig was lowered from the quarter davits. It was never an easy task with the ship at sea, after first manhandling it from the tier below the quarterdeck, and he could hear one of the helmsmen’s heavy breathing as he fought to hold the helm steady and the compass under control. Under reefed topsails and jib Onward was a different creature, her performance sluggish, at the mercy of the wind instead of commanding it. Jago looked up, waiting, as Vincent judged the right moment before clambering down to join him.

  Someone called, “Hope they got strong arms, Luke! It’ll be a hard pull!”

  Julyan was standing by, and Squire heard him mutter, “Hope they have strong stomachs, more likely.”

  Squire stared from bow to bow, feeling the deck shudder to the surge and plunge of the rudder. The gig was moving away, clear of the quarter, oars already lowered and motionless like wings. It was not a light boat but it seemed to move like a leaf on a mill-race, and yet Jago remained on his feet, his hand on the tiller. Vincent was squatting in the sternsheets, hatless, and shielding his eyes from the spray now being thrown up by the blades.

  A few strokes while the gig pulled clear, and there were already fragments of wood, badly charred, being carried between them. Further away there were larger pieces which must have been blown from the hull by the explosion. A hatch cover, a few broken gratings, and farther still, a piece of spar. A small vessel then, maybe a cutter or schooner.

  He tensed as something gleamed through the swell and vanished. A shark. Vincent might have seen it. He would not need reminding of the last time, when he had boarded the sinking, abandoned Moonstone. Jago had been with him then, and Napier also. Like a pattern for the events that followed.

  He heard the captain’s voice, clear and unhurried. “Tell Mr. Monteith to put more men larboard side forrard!” A pause. “You do it, Sinden.”

  Someone shouted from the gangway nearby. Squire knew it was Midshipman Walker, their youngest, and no stranger to action or to danger. But his cry was like that of a girl.

  Men were already running to the side, one carrying a grapnel and line. It was a corpse, but someone must have secured him alive to the hatch cover after the explosion, where the shark had reached him. A terrible death.

  Squire heard the captain cross to the opposite side of the quarterdeck and thought he heard Julyan’s voice. Perhaps asking a question.

  And the reply. “No, we’ll alter course when I’m satisfied. Not before.”

  It seemed an eternity, the sea was almost empty again. It was only one man’s decision. Suppose it was mine? He thought of Vincent, the expression on his face when he had volunteered for the boat party. He would never admit defeat …

  He turned as a shout rang through the chorus of sounds from loose canvas and shrouds.

  “Deck there!” It was Midshipman Hotham, still in the maintop with his big signals telescope.

  The sun had shifted, or was hidden by a partly reefed sail. Adam stared up at the arm pointing from the top and trained his own glass on the same bearing. A mistake, perhaps? Or Vincent signalling to admit failure and request support for his exhausted oarsmen?

  Adam tried again, waiting for the gig to reappear. The swell was deep enough to hide it completely. He held his breath and watched the one upright figure.

  Then he lowered the telescope and said quietly, “They’ve found somebody. Alive.”

  “Give way, together!” Jago lurched against the tiller bar, keeping his balance as the oars brought the gig under control. It took all their skill and strength to do it, with the sea rising and sliding away on either beam as if to swallow them.

  The gig carried two extra men, standing in the bows with boathooks to fend off any floating debris that might impede the stroke or damage the hull. They had both struggled aft to help haul the survivor inboard, and now he was lying in the sternsheets, his shoulders propped against Vincent; the first lieutenant’s breeches were soaked with blood. He was gulping air unsteadily, sometimes rasping and shuddering as if losing the fight.

  The stroke oarsman gasped, “Don’t give up, matey!” and Jago glared at him.

  “Save yer breath, or you’ll be the next!” Jago stared at the man they had found clinging face down to a piece of framework, the sort used to separate cargo in a small vessel’s hold. It had been intact, not even scorched.

  He watched Vincent unfastening the sodden coat. It was green, like the uniforms of the “private army,” as he had heard one of the marines call it, which he had seen during their visit to New Haven. He scowled. Who the hell had given it a name like that? He recalled the brief gunfire and later, that one God-awful explosion. Nothing made sense.

  Someone said, “Pity our doc ain’t with us!”

  Vincent did not look up, but snapped, “So pull harder. He could do no better out here!”

  Jago would have smiled at any other time. Bloody officers. But he reached down from the tiller-bar and gripped the hand which had suddenly returned to life. Weak at first, as if unable or unwilling to find hope, and ice-cold, although the thwarts and bottom boards were bonedry in the sun.

  The eyes were suddenly wide open, unblinking, and Jago tightened his grip.

  “Steady as she goes, matey. Just a bit longer!”

  He had seen a lot of men fighting for life in all the years he had served at sea. And had watched plenty of them give up. The eyes were still on his. Not fear. It was disbelief.

  Vincent dragged his hand into the sunlight. Some dried blood, but nothing much. He spoke softly, his voice almost drowned by the creak and thud of oars.

  “Broken ribs. The explosion.” He glanced at the oars, slowing now. The breathing was louder. “As soon as we get him aboard …” He did not finish, knowing the man was trying to turn his head to look at his face, or perhaps the uniform.

  Vincent leaned over him. There was more blood on his own white breeches. “We’re taking you to safety. Try to rest. You’re among friends now.”

  Jago eased the tiller yet again and watched Onward as she appeared to lengthen across the gig’s stem. There would be many helping hands once he had managed to work his way alongside, without much of a lurch. He thought of Vincent. Strict but fair, not a hard-horse like some. He tried to smile. Like most. But the smile did not come.

  He eyed the masts, the poop, the big ensign streaming from the gaff above. Closer now, men on the gangway, some running, tackle being hoisted as a further guide, where the surgeon would be waiting.

  “Bows!” Onward was reaching out to receive them, with extra ladders and rope fenders to cushion the impact as he guided the final few strokes of the sweating oarsmen. Onward was rolling, reefed sails still holding the wind, showing her copper one minute and then the reflection of her gunports as she dipped toward him. Jago shut everything else from his mind, conscious of the man’s grip on his ankle as he was trying to keep his balance and fix the moment. Nothing else could interfere.

  Vincent was calming the survivor, and he was suddenly silent, as if he thought he had imagined the ship so close.

  Jago shouted, “Oars!” and as the blades lifted and steadied, showering spray over the men beneath, he was unsettled by the silence. A heaving line snaked out of nowhere and was seized by one of the bowmen.

  Vincent must have stumbled or been taken unawares by the motion. The rescued man had dragged himself on to his knees and was staring up at Jago as he eased the tiller for the impact.

  His voice was cracked, strangled, but as the stroke oarsman came to Jago’s aid he began shouting at the top of his voice. It was garbled, meaningless. Then he stared directly into Jago’s eyes again. As if he was judging the moment, holding him: Jago could not look away.

  A voice not much different from his own. Loud and very distinct, but only one word.

  “Mutiny!”

  His eyes were still wide open. But he was dead.

  It was not dark in the cabin, but it seemed almost gloomy after the activity on deck.

  Adam stood by the stern windows, his hand on the bench, feeling the motion, the regular thud of the rudder. The sea was streaked with gold, the last sunlight, and there seemed no horizon. Behind him Tyacke was sitting at the little desk, his shoeless feet protruding into a slanting patch of coppery light. Someone was hammering overhead, but otherwise the ship noises seemed very subdued.

  Tyacke said suddenly, “Tomorrow, then?” and Adam nodded.

  “At this rate, some time in the afternoon. Maybe later if the wind drops inshore.” He could picture the chart in his mind. He glanced at the bergère and dismissed the idea. If he gave in now, it would take another explosion to wake him.

  He had been on deck again a moment ago. Almost deserted but for the watchkeepers, and a few anonymous figures sitting by the guns or looking at the sea alongside. And the canvas-wrapped body beside one of the eighteen-pounders, not for burial this time.

  Tyacke had remarked, “They’ll want to know. To be sure.” It was curt, but it made sense.

  He had struggled to his feet now and was looking for his shoes. “Your cox’n, Jago—he did well today. I told him so.”

  Adam heard the pantry door open perhaps an inch. He recalled Jago’s face as Tyacke had spoken to him. And something else. Vincent had said nothing to him. He could imagine Jago’s voice. Bloody officers!

  And the surgeon, who had been waiting to examine the dead man when he was hoisted aboard. When Murray had made his report, his hands red from scrubbing, he had said simply, “I don’t know how he managed to stay alive.”

  Tyacke had replied only, “But now we know why!”

  He was looking toward the pantry door now, and raised his voice a little. “A lifetime ago somebody suggested that a drink, maybe two, might be forthcoming!”

  Morgan padded softly to the table and put two glasses within reach, frowning and tutting as the deck tilted and the rudder groaned in protest. They each took a glass, and Morgan filled them without spilling a drop, murmuring, “Your health, gentlemen.”

  Tyacke drank deeply and gestured to Morgan to refill his glass, and said almost wistfully, “Like old times.”

  Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag captain would never forget.

  15 SEEK AND DESTROY

  ADAM BOLITHO PAUSED near the top of the companion ladder to prepare himself. He felt the air on his face, cool and refreshing, stirring the folds of his clean shirt. The coolness would be brief. The morning watch was only an hour old, the ship almost quiet except for sounds which, like his own breathing, were too familiar to notice.

  It had been a moonless night, so that the stars had seemed exceptionally bright, paving the sky from horizon to horizon. He thought he had slept reasonably well in the bergère with his feet propped on a stool which Morgan must have put there, but he had heard Tyacke cry out during the night. Somebody’s name: a woman’s. But the sleeping cabin door had remained closed, and he had heard nothing more.

  He braced his shoulders and mounted the last of the steps. It was always like this at the end of a passage. You could feel the nearness of land, even imagine you could smell it. And there was always the doubt. The uncertainty. He touched his chin and smiled ruefully. He had shaved himself, not as well as Jago would have, but if anybody needed rest now it was his coxswain.

  Figures were already turning toward him as he stepped on to the quarterdeck. His white shirt would have been like a beacon in the dimness before dawn, and he had always hated stealth, unlike a few officers he could have named.

  Vincent had the watch and was standing by the compass box, its tiny flame reflecting in his eyes. He said, “Wind’s eased a bit, sir. But I thought I’d wait for some light before sending the hands aloft to spread more sail. Besides …”

  “It’s better to see than be seen. I agree.” Adam looked at the spread of canvas which seemed to contain their world. The sea on either beam was still black.

  Vincent hesitated. “Can we expect trouble when we make a landfall, sir?”

  Adam rested both hands on the quarterdeck rail and looked toward the forecastle. Beyond the pale stretch of deck, there was little to see: the vague shadows of hatches and the regular black shapes which were the breeches of the guns, and now an occasional spectre of spray rising, then fading, above a gangway. His brain was shaking off any lingering desire for sleep.