Heart of Oak by Alexander Kent Page B

gangway.
“Boat ahoy?”
    Early, but not unknown in Plymouth, major naval port that it was.
    Jago had recognized the boat immediately: the same one which had brought him and the captain out to
Onward
for the first time, with that senior officer from the Admiralty. But it was not stores, or some officer begging a free passage after a night ashore with one of the Plymouth whores. He had seen the sudden activity at the entry port; even the first lieutenant had been there.
    Guthrie had been close by with one of his working parties and had called back softly, “The admiral’s speaking trumpet is among us!”
    The flag lieutenant had come aboard, a tall, foppish young officer who seemed to wear a permanent look of disdain and impatience. It was hard to picture him serving in any seamanlike capacity. “Flags” had walked past the side party and marines without even a glance and continued aft with Lieutenant Vincent beside him.
    Jago contained a smile. All the bluff and tight lips meant nothing if you had trust. The launch had been coxswained by the same man as before. He had followed the flag lieutenant up to the entry port and seen Jago, and remembered him. Just the hint of a grin, mouth barely moving, eyes still on the officers. “Sailin’ orders, matey! Best o’ luck!” And he was gone.
    Secret orders, like the heavily sealed envelope he had seen in the flag lieutenant’s hand, never remained confidential for long in the “family.” The conference of officers and senior warrants called unexpectedly in the great cabin, and an announcement by the first lieutenant, had confirmed it.
    Tomorrow forenoon
Onward
would be leaving Plymouth. Senior hands of messes would report for instructions.
    Jago had heard one of the seamen joke, “Write your wills, while you still can!”
    It was all they had been told. All they needed to know.
    He looked aft and astern past the great ensign curling lightly in the breeze.
Onward
was swinging to her cable, so that the land seemed to be edging out around the quarter, like a protective arm. Secrecy meant very little in a seaport like this one. People would know. Some worrying, dismayed at the news. And others who would see it as a release, or an escape.
    Jago rarely thought beyond the moment, taking it at face value.
    He saw Morgan, the cabin servant, standing by the quarterdeck rail, something white in his hand. A letter, or letters, for that last boat ashore. Jago eased his shoulders, and straightened the smart blue coat with its gilt buttons. For him there would be no letters. He had nowhere else to go.
    But it felt so different. In war, every flag was an enemy, each encounter a chance of battle or worse.
    He turned and saw three midshipmen up on the larboard gangway, watching an old schooner passing slowly abeam. One of them was David Napier, his teeth flashing white in a grin. No regrets in that one. Glad to be leaving. Would he change with maturity, and become just another officer? It was stupid, absurd. As if it mattered. He must be losing his grip. Getting past it…
    The bell chimed out from the forecastle, and his mind responded automatically. Time to report to the carpenter to settle the question of some boat repairs. One of the busiest men in any new ship, he hated to be kept waiting.
    It was as if he had spoken his thoughts aloud.
Past it…
Napier must have run from the gangway to reach him so quickly. No sign of discomfort, let alone pain, a far cry from those early days of his recovery. And so at ease now in his uniform. Hard to remember him as the attentive, often overserious cabin servant in
Unrivalled.
    “Settled in, have you?” Jago gestured toward the slow-moving schooner. “I seen you with your mates, getting along—or can’t you tell yet?”
    Napier shrugged. “We’re all finding our way.” He was frowning now. “I’ve been wondering about you, Luke.
Onward
’s not a big ship, not like
Athena
—but I never seem to see you. And we’re sailing tomorrow. I