In the King's Name by Alexander Kent Page A

the bowmen ready to make fast as the flagship’s side loomed over them. Only one deck higher than
Onward
, but it seemed like a cliff. There was the entry port, with two side-boys waiting below it. Voices, the sound of a solitary call, then total silence.
    Adam stood up and half turned as Jago handed him the sealed package. He began to climb, the orders pressed firmly beneath his arm, and gripping a hand rope to steady himself. One slip now, and it would be the story of how Adam Bolitho fell into the sea at Freetown … But the smile eluded him. He could smell food, and recalled that he had not eaten since midnight.
    He saw a line of feet, and boots as well—Royal Marines—and heard the sudden bark of commands. He was still unused to these honours for himself. Then the piercing squeal of calls, heels clicking together, and the distant shouting of commands. He stepped through the entry port and faced aft, doffing his hat as the sounds of the salute died away.
    A shaft of sunlight from the opposite side of the deck blinded him, and the uniforms, scarlet or blue like his own, seemed to blur and merge. He almost lost his balance.
    But a hand reached out. “Here, let me take that.” And he heard what might have been a dry chuckle. “It’s safe with me, Captain Adam Bolitho!”
    Adam saw the hand gripping his arm now, strong and sunburned, like the man.
    So many memories crowding into seconds, good and bad, which neither time nor distance could dispel. It was Captain James Tyacke, who had done and given so much, almost his life, and who had become one of Sir Richard Bolitho’s firmest friends as his flag captain in
Frobisher
. He had been with him when Bolitho had fallen to a French marksman four years ago.
    It was not possible.
    Tyacke was handing the sealed orders to a tall sergeant of marines. “Guard ‘em with your life, right?” and the man smiled gravely as he saluted.
    Somewhere there was the pipe,
“Hands carry on with your work!”
and Tyacke was saying, “I hoped it was you, as soon as I was told that
Onward
was in sight. But I wasn’t sure till I saw you in the glass that you were still in command.” He gripped Adam’s arm. “By God, it’s good to see you! Come aft with me. The admiral’s ashore, but he’ll be back about noon.”
    A lieutenant was hovering by the gangway and Tyacke paused to speak with him, gesturing toward the entry port, now deserted except for the watchkeepers and a sentry.
    It was the first time Adam had seen the scarred side of his face since he had stepped aboard; maybe, like most people, he had been subconsciously avoiding it, for both their sakes.
    Tyacke, then a lieutenant, had been wounded at Aboukir Bay—the Battle of the Nile as it was officially called. He had been stationed on the lower gundeck when an explosion had transformed the confined world of
load—run out—fire—sponge out—reload
… into an inferno. Tyacke had lived. Many had not.
    Now, only the overwhelming victory against the old enemy was remembered, but James Tyacke would never forget. One side of what had been a handsome face was deeply tanned, like the strong hands. The other was lifeless, like melted wax. That his eye had survived was a miracle.
    The devil with half a face
, the slavers used to call him.
    He turned now and said, “I’ve sent word for your boat’s crew to be taken care of. I see you’ve got the same fierce cox’n. Glad about that.”
    They walked aft together, then Tyacke halted and gazed across the water toward the anchored frigate.
    â€œFine ship, Adam.” He softened the emphasis with a smile. “I envy you.”
    They walked on; Adam could feel his shoes sticking to the deckseams, and it was still the forenoon. He said, “I saw that you were lowering the winds’ls.”
    Tyacke glanced at him but did not pause. “Flagship, Adam. The admiral