separate little drama. A seaman below the companion, a mop in his hands, a marine checking his musket in readiness to relieve the sentry. And Lieutenant Vincent staring into the cabin, barely able to contain his anger.
Monteith finished, “For losing his ship!”
Vincent cut in, “I am very sorry, sir. I was in the sick bay—one of the new hands has had a fall. Not serious, but—” He controlled his voice. “I
left word
where I would be.” He had not looked at Monteith. There was no need.
Adam unclenched his hand slowly, deliberately, and withdrew it from his pocket. A small thing which should never have happened. And tomorrow it would be all through the ship.
He said quietly, “Losing a ship is an indescribable experience, because it never leaves you. It happened to me.” He barely recognized his own voice; it was cool, almost matter of fact. “Like a terrible storm. You ride it or you go under, with the ship. But you never forget.”
“Boat ahoy!”
The challenge from the maindeck was faint, almost inaudible amongst the shipboard sounds. It could have been an echo of those lost voices.
Then he heard the shrill of a boatswain’s call, and running feet, very much alive.
“Carry on, Mr Monteith.” He did not look at him. “
Onward
is a private ship, no admiral’s flag flying at our masthead, no chain of command while we wait to be told what to do. We depend on ourselves.” He felt the deck tilt very slightly beneath him, as if she were stirring. “Upon each other.”
When he turned Monteith had gone, almost running to deal with the arrivals.
Vincent said, “The wardroom has asked if you will be our guest,” and faltered. “If you would feel inclined to…”
The tension had gone; it was like being set free.
“I will be honoured, Mark, although I have a feeling that it might be delayed a while.”
Vincent thought he understood. The captain was back.
In his little pantry Morgan waited until the screen door had closed, then poured himself a small tot of rum and sipped appreciatively.
Tomorrow it
would
be all through the ship.
6 A P ROUD M OMENT
L UKE J AGO CLIMBED DOWN from the boat-tier and examined the gig closely. His gig. Oars stowed, lashings in place,
equal strain on all parts.
Probably its first time out of the water since leaving the builder’s yard.
“Fair enough, Robbins. You can fall out now.”
The big seaman knuckled his forehead, grinning. Praise indeed from the captain’s coxswain, who was impossible to please.
Jago hardly noticed. Just words, but they mattered. Anybody could pull an oar after a few attempts, and a threat or two. But the gig was special.
He stared along the maindeck, quieter now after all the working parties and inspections, as if a King’s ship had never weighed anchor and put to sea before. All those years, different ports or anchorages he could no longer name or recall, and you never got used to it. Doubt, anxiety, resentment. All and none of them.
He saw Joshua Guthrie, the boatswain, indicating something on the mainyard, jabbing the air with a massive fist to make his point to one of the new hands. A born sailor, Guthrie had entered the navy at ten. Now he seemed ageless, scarred and battered, his nose shapeless from fights ashore as well as in the line of duty. He could control the deck with a minimum of effort, using only a powerful, carrying voice and a cuff if the offender was near enough. His girth had increased over the past few years but only a fool would see it as a soft plank.
Like punching a bloody oak tree
, as one seaman had discovered.
But even Guthrie could not hide his mood, and to those who knew him well, his excitement.
It had started this morning, even as both watches of the hands were mustering for working ship, the stink of the galley funnel carrying on a fresh north-easterly. A few lights still twinkling from the dark mass of land, faint shouts and calls from other ships nearby. Another day.
Then the challenge from the
Monteith finished, “For losing his ship!”
Vincent cut in, “I am very sorry, sir. I was in the sick bay—one of the new hands has had a fall. Not serious, but—” He controlled his voice. “I
left word
where I would be.” He had not looked at Monteith. There was no need.
Adam unclenched his hand slowly, deliberately, and withdrew it from his pocket. A small thing which should never have happened. And tomorrow it would be all through the ship.
He said quietly, “Losing a ship is an indescribable experience, because it never leaves you. It happened to me.” He barely recognized his own voice; it was cool, almost matter of fact. “Like a terrible storm. You ride it or you go under, with the ship. But you never forget.”
“Boat ahoy!”
The challenge from the maindeck was faint, almost inaudible amongst the shipboard sounds. It could have been an echo of those lost voices.
Then he heard the shrill of a boatswain’s call, and running feet, very much alive.
“Carry on, Mr Monteith.” He did not look at him. “
Onward
is a private ship, no admiral’s flag flying at our masthead, no chain of command while we wait to be told what to do. We depend on ourselves.” He felt the deck tilt very slightly beneath him, as if she were stirring. “Upon each other.”
When he turned Monteith had gone, almost running to deal with the arrivals.
Vincent said, “The wardroom has asked if you will be our guest,” and faltered. “If you would feel inclined to…”
The tension had gone; it was like being set free.
“I will be honoured, Mark, although I have a feeling that it might be delayed a while.”
Vincent thought he understood. The captain was back.
In his little pantry Morgan waited until the screen door had closed, then poured himself a small tot of rum and sipped appreciatively.
Tomorrow it
would
be all through the ship.
6 A P ROUD M OMENT
L UKE J AGO CLIMBED DOWN from the boat-tier and examined the gig closely. His gig. Oars stowed, lashings in place,
equal strain on all parts.
Probably its first time out of the water since leaving the builder’s yard.
“Fair enough, Robbins. You can fall out now.”
The big seaman knuckled his forehead, grinning. Praise indeed from the captain’s coxswain, who was impossible to please.
Jago hardly noticed. Just words, but they mattered. Anybody could pull an oar after a few attempts, and a threat or two. But the gig was special.
He stared along the maindeck, quieter now after all the working parties and inspections, as if a King’s ship had never weighed anchor and put to sea before. All those years, different ports or anchorages he could no longer name or recall, and you never got used to it. Doubt, anxiety, resentment. All and none of them.
He saw Joshua Guthrie, the boatswain, indicating something on the mainyard, jabbing the air with a massive fist to make his point to one of the new hands. A born sailor, Guthrie had entered the navy at ten. Now he seemed ageless, scarred and battered, his nose shapeless from fights ashore as well as in the line of duty. He could control the deck with a minimum of effort, using only a powerful, carrying voice and a cuff if the offender was near enough. His girth had increased over the past few years but only a fool would see it as a soft plank.
Like punching a bloody oak tree
, as one seaman had discovered.
But even Guthrie could not hide his mood, and to those who knew him well, his excitement.
It had started this morning, even as both watches of the hands were mustering for working ship, the stink of the galley funnel carrying on a fresh north-easterly. A few lights still twinkling from the dark mass of land, faint shouts and calls from other ships nearby. Another day.
Then the challenge from the
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