Second to None (27 page)

He dashed the smoke from his eyes and saw a man fall on the opposite side, his scream lost in the report of a solitary gun.

He waved to Cristie. ‘
Now!
'

The wheel was moving again, but one of the helmsmen was sprawled in blood.
Unrivalled
turned only a point, so that it appeared as if the other ship must ride up and over her poop. The jib boom was above the nettings now, men were firing, and through the swirling smoke Adam saw vague figures
swarming out on the other frigate's beakhead and bowsprit, cutlasses glinting dully in the haze of gunfire.

Going to board us.
It was like another voice.

‘Clear lower deck, Mr Galbraith!' Suppose it failed? He thrust the thought away and dragged out his sword, conscious of Avery beside him, and Jago striding just ahead, a short-bladed weapon in his fist.

Adam raised the sword. ‘To me,
Unrivalled
!'

She was a well-armed ship. He could remember the admiration, the envy. Apart from her two batteries of eighteen-pounders, she also mounted eight thirty-two pound carronades, two of which were almost directly below his feet.

It happened within seconds, and yet each moment remained separate, stamped forever in his memory.

Midshipman Homey slipping and falling to his knees, then being hit in the skull by a heavy ball even as he struggled to his feet. Flesh, blood and fragments of bone splashed across Adam's breeches. The carronades roared out together, crashing inboard on their slides and hurling their massive balls, packed with grape and jagged metal, directly into the enemy forecastle.

Avery turned and stared at him, shook his sword, shouted something. But the stare did not waver, and he fell face down, and the packed mass of boarders surged across his body and on to the other ship's deck.

It was useless to hesitate. There were too many who depended . . . But for only a second Adam halted, looking for the man who had been his uncle's friend.

Jago was dragging at his arm.

‘Come
on,
sir! We've got the bastards on the run!'

A dream, a nightmare; scenes of desperate brutality, all mercy forgotten. Men falling and dying. Others dropping between the two hulls, the only escape. A face loomed out of the yelling, hacking mob: it was Campbell, the hard man, waving a flag and screaming, ‘The flag! They've struck!'

Now there were different faces, and he realised that, like Avery, he had fallen and was lying on the deck. He felt for the sword, and saw Midshipman Bellairs holding it; it must have been knocked out of his hand.

And then the pain reached him, a searing agony, which
punched the breath from his lungs. He groped for his thigh, his groin; it was everywhere. A hand was gripping his wrist and he saw it was O'Beirne, and understood that he was on
Unrivalled
's gun deck; he must have lost consciousness, and he felt something akin to panic.

He said, ‘The orlop! You belong with the wounded,
not here
, man!'

O'Beirne nodded grimly, his face sliding out of focus like melting wax. Then it was Jago's turn. He had torn down the front of Adam's breeches and was holding something in the hazy sunlight. No blood. No gaping wound. It was the watch, which he always carried in the pocket above his groin. A shot had smashed it almost in two pieces.

He was losing control again. The shop in Halifax. The chiming chorus of clocks. The little mermaid . . .

Jago was saying, ‘Christ, you were lucky, sir!' He wanted to lessen it, in his usual way. But the levity would not come. Then he said,‘
Just hold on
.'

Men were cheering, hugging one another, the marines were rounding up prisoners . . . so much to do, the prizes to be secured, the wounded to be tended. He gasped as someone tried to lift him. And Avery. Avery . . .
I shall have to tell Catherine. A letter. And the locket
.

Somehow he was on his feet, staring up at the flag as if to reassure himself. But all he could think of was the little mermaid. Perhaps it was her way; the last farewell.

Then he fainted.

LIKE AN UNHURRIED
but purposeful beetle,
Unrivalled
's gig pulled steadily around and among the many vessels which lay at anchor in Gibraltar's shadow.

It was a time of pride, and of triumph, climaxing when they had entered the bay with one prize in tow and the other in the hands of a prize crew. To the men of the fleet, hardened by so many years of setbacks and pain, it had been something to share, to celebrate. Ships had manned their yards to cheer, boats from the shore had formed an unofficial procession until the anchors had splashed down, and order and discipline was resumed.

And the war was over. Finally over. That was the hardest thing to confront. Napoleon, once believed invincible, had surrendered, and had placed himself under the authority of Captain Frederick Maitland of the old
Bellerophon
in Basque Roads, to be conveyed to Plymouth.

The officer of the guard who had boarded
Unrivalled
within minutes of her dropping anchor had exclaimed, ‘When you fought and took the two frigates,
we
were at peace!'

Adam had heard himself answer shortly, ‘It made no difference.'

He thought of the men who had fallen in that brief, savage action. Of the letters he had written. To the parents of Midshipman Thomas Homey, who had been killed even as the second frigate had surged into their quarter. Fourteen years old. A life not even begun.

And to Catherine, a long and difficult letter. Seeing
Avery's shocked and unwavering gaze, like an unanswered question.

Midshipman Bellairs was sitting behind him, beside Jago at the tiller.

‘Flagship, sir!'

Adam nodded. He had taken a calculated risk, and had won. It was pointless to consider the alternatives.
Unrivalled
might have been caught in stays, taken aback as she tried to swing through the wind. The two frigates would have used the confusion to cross her stern and rake her, each broadside ripping through the hull. A slaughterhouse.

He stared at the big two-decker which lay directly across their approach, His Britannic Majesty's Ship
Prince Rupert
of eighty guns, a rear-admiral's flag rising and drooping at her mizzen truck.

He made to touch his thigh and saw the stroke oar's eyes on him, and controlled the impulse. He had examined his body in the looking-glass in his cabin, and found a great, livid bruise, showing the force of the impact. A stray shot perhaps, fired at random as his men had hacked their way on board the enemy. Even now, four days after the engagement, the pain was almost constant, and caught him unaware, like a reminder.

The surgeon, rarely at a loss for words, had been strangely taciturn. Perhaps when he had fallen unconscious again he had said something, revealed the despair which had tormented him for so long.

O'Beirne had said only, ‘You are in luck, Captain. Another inch, and I fear the ladies would have been in dire distress!'

He looked up now and saw the flagship towering above them, the gig's bowman already standing with his boathook, and prepared himself for the physical effort of boarding. Seeing his eyes on the ship's massive tumblehome, the ‘stairs' up to the gilded entry port, Jago said quietly, ‘Steady she goes, sir!'

Adam glanced at him, remembering his face when he had torn open his breeches to deal with the wound. Poor Homey's blood and brains had made it look worse than it was.

He seized the handrope, gritting his teeth as he took the first step.

An unknown voice sang out, ‘Cap'n comin' aboard! Stand by . . .
pipe
!'

Adam climbed, step by step, each movement bringing a shaft of pain to his thigh.

The calls shrilled, and as his head rose above the sill he saw the scarlet-coated guard, the seemingly vast area of the flagship's impeccable deck.

The guard presented arms, and a duplicate of Captain Bosanquet brought down his blade with a flourish.

The flag captain strode to greet him. Adam held his breath. Pym, that was his name. The pain was receding, playing with him.

‘Welcome aboard, Captain Bolitho! Your recent exploits had us all drained with envy!' He looked at him more closely. ‘You were wounded, I hear?'

Adam smiled. It seemed so long since he had done that. ‘Damaged, sir, nothing lasting!'

They walked together into the poop's shadow, so huge after
Unrivalled.
He allowed his mind to stray.
Or
Anemone . . .

The flag captain paused. ‘Rear-Admiral Marlow is still studying your report. I have had your despatches transferred to a courier – she will leave this afternoon. If there is anything else I can do to assist you while you are here, you have only to ask.' He hesitated. ‘Rear-Admiral Marlow is newly appointed. He still likes to deal with things at first hand.'

It was as good as any warning. Captain to flag rank; he had seen it before.
Trust nobody
.

Rear-Admiral Elliot Marlow stood with his back to the high stern windows, hands beneath his coattails, as if he had been in the same position for some time. A sharp, intelligent face, younger than Adam had expected.

‘Good to meet you at last, Bolitho. Take a chair. Some wine, I think.' He did not move or offer his hand.

Adam sat. He knew he was strained and tired, and unreasonable, but even the chair seemed carefully placed. Staged, so that Marlow's outline remained in silhouette against the reflected sunlight.

Two servants were moving soundlessly around the other side of the cabin, each careful not to look at the visitor.

Marlow said, ‘Read your report. You were lucky to get the
better of two enemies at once, eh? Even if, the perfectionists may insist, you were at war with neither.' He smiled. ‘But then, I doubt that the Dey of Algiers will wish to associate himself with people who have failed him.' He glanced at his flag captain, and added, ‘As to your request respecting the son of that damned renegade, I suppose I can have no objection. It is hardly important . . .'

Pym interrupted smoothly, ‘And Captain Bolitho has offered to pay all the costs for the boy's passage, sir.'

‘Quite so.' He gestured at the nearest servant. ‘A glass, eh?'

Adam was glad of a chance to regain his bearings.

He said, ‘With regard to the prizes, sir.'

Marlow subjected his glass to a pitiless scrutiny. ‘The prizes, yes. Of course, their role may also have changed in view of the French position. I have heard it said that frigate captains sometimes see prize money as the price of glory. A view I find difficult to comprehend.'

Adam realised that his glass was empty, and said bluntly, ‘The Dey of Algiers had three frigates at his disposal, sir. With the re-opening of trade routes, those ships could have been a constant threat. That threat was removed, and at some cost. I think it fair enough.'

Captain Pym adroitly changed the subject.

‘How long will your repair take, d' you think?'

Adam looked at him and smiled thinly.

‘We did much of it after the fight.' He considered it, seeing the dangling cordage, the limping wounded, the canvas bundles going over the side. ‘A week.'

Marlow waved one hand. ‘Give him all the help you can . . .' He pointed at the table. ‘That despatch from the Admiralty, where is it?'

Adam relaxed very slowly. The real reason for his visit. Not to congratulate or to crucify him. That was Bethune's domain. Marlow had not even mentioned his use of the prisoners to fill the gaps in
Unrivalled
's company.

Marlow put his glass down with great care and took some papers from his flag captain.

‘You are instructed to take passengers when you return to Malta. Sir Lewis Bazeley and his party, of some importance, I gather. It is all explained in the orders.'

Captain Pym said hastily, ‘Because of the danger from corsairs and other renegades, a man-of-war is the only safe option.' He gave a tight smile. ‘As your own recent fight against odds has proved. I am sure that Vice-Admiral Bethune would have chosen your ship, had he been consulted.'

Adam found he could return the smile. He could understand why Pym was a flag captain.

‘Anything else?' Marlow stared at him. ‘Now is the time to ask.'

‘I have a midshipman named Bellairs, sir. He is due for examination shortly, but in the meantime I would like to rate him acting-lieutenant, and pay him accordingly. He has done extremely well during this commission.'

He had not seen Marlow all aback before, and neither, he suspected, had Pym.

‘Bellairs? Has he family? Connections?'

‘He is my senior midshipman, sir. That is all that concerns me.'

Marlow seemed vaguely disappointed.

‘You deal with it.' He turned away, dismissing him. ‘And, er – good fortune, Captain Bolitho.'

The door closed behind them.

Pym grinned widely. ‘That was damned refreshing! Leave it with me!'

He was still grinning when the calls trilled again, and Adam lowered himself into the waiting gig.

‘Bear off forrard! Give way all!'

Bellairs stood to watch a passing trader, ready to warn them away if they came too near.

Adam said, ‘By the way, Mr Bellairs, you will be moving shortly.'

Bellairs forgot his poise in the captain's gig, and said, ‘
Move
, sir? But I hoped to . . .'

Adam watched Jago's face over the midshipman's shoulder.

‘To the wardroom.'

It was only a small thing, after all. But it made it seem very worthwhile.

Catherine, Lady Somervell, moved slightly in her seat and tilted her wide-brimmed straw hat to shade her eyes from the
sun. With the windows all but closed it was hot, and her gown was damp against her skin.

The City of London had never featured largely in her life, and yet in the past few months she had come here several times. It was always busy, always teeming. The carriage could have been open, but she was constantly aware of the need for discretion, and had noticed that the coachman never seemed to use the same route; today, as on those other visits, the vehicle was unmarked, never the one Sillitoe had been using on the day of the service at St Paul's. She had seen the cathedral this morning, dominating its surroundings as it had on that day, which she would never forget nor wanted to relinquish.