Second to None (39 page)

Adam closed his log. That said it all. It was a long time since Rhodes had walked the deck of his own flagship; he would be looking for flaws, if only to prove he had forgotten nothing. Galbraith watched him impassively, recognising the signs.

‘Our new lieutenant has settled into his rank quite well, sir. Though I fear Mr Bellairs will need a larger hat if he continues in this fashion!'

But there was no malice in the comment, and Adam knew he was as pleased as most of the others when Bellairs had returned from his promotional examination with his
scrap of parchment,
as the old timers called it. An extra lieutenant. That would not be tolerated, beneficial though it might be for running the ship.

Adam leaned back slightly. ‘There will be an opening in the squadron, or perhaps within the fleet before long.' He saw Galbraith stiffen. It was the moment he had been hoping for, what every lieutenant dreamed of. ‘You held a command before you came to
Unrivalled.
Your experience and example did much to iron out the wrinkles, so to speak, before we were all put to the test. Perhaps we did not always agree about certain matters.' He smiled suddenly, the strain and the tension dropping away like the years. ‘But as your commanding officer I, of course, always have the advantage of being right!'

Galbraith said, ‘I am well content here, sir . . .'

Adam held up his hand. ‘Never say that. Never even think it. My uncle once described a command, especially a first one, as
the most coveted gift.
I have never forgotten it. Nor must you.'

They both looked at the glittering water beyond the anchored vessels astern as the first crash of cannon fire rolled across the harbour. The response, gun by gun, from the battery wall seemed even louder.

Adam said, ‘We'll go up, shall we?'

He clipped on the old sword, then he said, ‘Mr Bellairs will have no sword as yet.' He gestured to his own curved hanger in its rack. ‘He may have that one if he chooses to wait until his parents do him the honour!'

He touched the sword at his hip. So many times. So many hands. And he was reminded of the note Catherine had written for him, and had left with the sword at Falmouth.

The sword outwore its scabbard. Wear it with pride, as he always wanted.

Frobisher
was back. And
he
would know.

Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune winced as the Royal Marine guard of honour slammed to attention once more, a cloud of pipeclay floating over their leather hats like smoke while the band struck up a lively march. The ceremony was almost finished. Bethune could not recall how many he had witnessed or participated in since he had entered the navy. Probably thousands. He tried to relax his muscles. Why, then, was he so disturbed, even agitated, when this was opening new doors to his own future?

He glanced at the man for whose benefit this ceremony had been mounted. His successor: to him it might seem the end of everything, rather than a fresh challenge.

Admiral Lord Rhodes was shaking hands with the governor's representative, but it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Rhodes had been at the Admiralty when Bethune had been appointed there, and for a good many years before that, and they had met occasionally, but Bethune had never really known him. His elevation to First Lord had been taken for granted, until the day Sillitoe had burst unannounced into the office and had demanded to speak with Rhodes. Bethune had learned only then that he had been appointed the Prince Regent's Inspector-General.

It had been Rhodes' cousin, once
Frobisher
's captain, who had attempted to rape Catherine.
Because I allowed her to go home unescorted.
He thought of Adam's face when he had mentioned Rhodes' particular interest in Sir Richard Bolitho's flagship. He had been ashamed that he could conceal the full truth, but it would have helped no one, least of all Catherine,
and he had to consider what old hatreds might do to his own future, as well as Adam's.

But the much-used code of conduct failed to afford him any comfort. It seemed in this instance merely a device which placed expediency before honour and friendship.

He studied his successor once more. Rhodes was tall and heavily built, and had once been handsome. His face was dominated by a strong, beaked nose which made his eyes appear small by comparison, but the eyes, overshadowed though they were, missed nothing. The band was comprised of soldiers borrowed at short notice from the garrison commander, a friend of Captain Forbes; the frigates carried Royal Marine drummers and fifers but they had not yet paraded together. Rhodes had commented on the music, a military quick march, which he thought inappropriate.

The walls had been lined with people watching the ceremony, and Bethune had found himself wondering how long it would take news of Rhodes' appointment to reach the Dey of Algiers.

He walked across the dusty jetty as the guard was dismissed and the onlookers began to disperse. He saw Sir Lewis Bazeley standing in the shade of a clump of sun-dried trees; how would he get along with Rhodes, if he stayed in Malta? An energetic man, eager, Bethune had thought, to impress on younger men what he could do, although Bethune could not imagine him having anything in common with the girl he had married. He had never known if Lady Bazeley had really been in ill health when she had declined to accompany them in the brig. He had thought about Adam's presence here during that time, but Forbes had said nothing to him on the subject, and he was, after all, his flag captain.

And finally, he considered England, the grey skies and chill breezes of October. He smiled. It would be wonderful.

Rhodes strode over to join him. ‘Smart turn-out, Sir Graham. Standards – they count more than ever, eh?'

Bethune said, ‘I shall show you the temporary headquarters building, m' lord. I have sent for a carriage.'

Rhodes grinned. ‘Not a bit of it, we'll walk. I can see the great barn of a place from here!' He gestured to his flag lieutenant. ‘Tell the others!'

Bethune sighed. Another Bazeley, or so it seemed.

By the time they had gone halfway Rhodes was breathing heavily, and his face was blotched with sweat, but he had never stopped firing questions. About the six frigates in the squadron, and the expectations of getting more. About the many smaller craft, brigs, schooners and cutters which were the eyes and ears of the man whose flag flew in command.

They paused in deep, refreshing shadow while Rhodes turned to stare at the anchored men-of-war, shimmering in haze above their reflections.

‘And
Unrivalled
's one of them, is she?' He looked at Bethune, his eyes like black olives. ‘Bolitho, what's he like?'

‘A good captain, m' lord. Successful as well as experienced. What the navy is going to need more than ever now.'

‘Ambitious, then?' He looked at the ships again. ‘He's done well, I'll give him that. Father a traitor, mother a whore. He's done
very
well, I'd say!' He laughed and strode on.

Bethune contained his fury, at Rhodes and with himself. When he reached the Admiralty perhaps he could discover some way to transfer Adam. But not without
Unrivalled.
She was all he had.

Rhodes had stopped once more, his breathless retinue filling the street.

‘And who is
that,
sir?'

Bethune saw a flash of colour on the balcony as Lady Bazeley withdrew into the shadows.

‘Sir Lewis Bazeley's wife, m' lord. I explained –'

Rhodes grunted, ‘Women in their place, that's one thing.' Again the short, barking laugh Bethune had often heard in London. ‘But I'll not have them lifting their skirts to my staff!'

Bethune said nothing. But if it came to drawing a card, his own money would be on Bazeley rather than Rhodes.

And then he knew he was glad to be leaving Malta.

Luke Jago bowed his legs slightly and peered at
Halcyon
's stout anchor cable to gauge the distance as the gig swept beneath her tapering jib boom, then glanced at the stroke oar and over the heads of the crew, easing the tiller-bar until the flagship appeared to be pinioned on the stemhead. They were
a good boat's crew, and he would make certain they stayed that way.

He saw the captain's bright epaulettes catch the sunlight as he leaned over to gaze at the anchored seventy-four.

Professional interest? It was more than that and Jago knew it. Felt it. There were plenty of other boats arriving and leaving
at God's command
.

Vice-Admiral Bethune at least had seemed human enough, and had obviously got on well with the captain. Now he had gone. Jago had seen Captain Bolitho and the first lieutenant watching the courier brig as she had made sail, with the vice-admiral her only passenger. Most senior officers would have expected something grander than a brig, he thought. Bethune must have been that eager to get away.

And now there was Lord Rhodes, a true bastard to all accounts. More trouble.

Jago looked at the midshipman sitting below him. The new one, Deighton. Very quiet, so far, not like his father had been. He wondered if the boy had any idea of the truth.
Killed in action, for King and Country.
His lip almost curled with contempt. Deighton had been scared rotten even before the ball had marked him down.

The flagship was towering over them now, masts and spars black against a clear blue sky. Every piece of canvas in place, paintwork shining like glass.

A ship, any ship, could look very different in the eyes of those who saw her. Jago knew from hard experience how it could be. To the terrified landsman, snatched from his daily life by the hated press gang, the ship was a thing of overwhelming terror and threat, where only the strong and the cunning survived. To a midshipman boarding his first vessel she would appear awesome, forbidding, but the light of excitement was already kindled, ready to be encouraged or snuffed out.

He looked at the captain's shoulders, squared now as if to meet an adversary. To him, she would seem different again.

He saw him shade his eyes and raise his head, knew what he was looking for, and what it meant to him. Today. Now. The Cross of St George lifting and rippling from
Frobisher
's
mainmast truck: the admiral's flag, where his uncle's had been flying when they had shot him down.

He had died bravely, they said. Without complaint. Jago found he could accept it, especially when he looked at his own captain.

‘Bows!' He did not even have to raise his voice. Other coxswains were here, watching, and there were several, grander launches with coloured canopies over their sternsheets.

Jago swore silently. He had almost misjudged the final approach to
Frobisher
's main chains, where white-gloved sideboys were waiting to assist their betters to the entry port.

‘Oars!'
He counted seconds. ‘
Up!
'

The gig came to rest alongside perfectly.
So you could crack an egg between them,
as old coxswains boasted.

But it had been close. Jago had seen the canopied launches. It usually meant that women would be present, officers' wives maybe, or those of the governor's staff. But there was only one who troubled him, and he could see her now, half-naked, her gown soaked with spray and worse. And the captain holding her. Not scornful, or making a meal of it like some,
most
, would have done.

Adam got to his feet, one hand automatically adjusting his sword. For only an instant their eyes met, then Jago said formally, ‘We shall be waitin', sir.'

Adam nodded, and looked at the midshipman. ‘Listen and learn, Mr Deighton.
Your
choice, remember?'

The midshipman removed his hat as Adam reached for the hand ropes. They heard the twitter of calls and the bark of commands, then he asked quietly, ‘You were there too, weren't you? When my father . . .'

Jago answered sharply, ‘Aye, sir. A lot of us was there that day. Now take the tiller an' cast off the gig, can you manage that?'

The youth dropped his lashes. It was as if Jago had told him what he had not dared to ask.

Above their heads, as the gig cast off to make way for another visitor, Adam replaced his hat and shook the hand of
Frobisher
's captain, a lantern-jawed Scot named Duncan Ogilvie. He was well over six feet tall, and it was hard to imagine him living comfortably in any ship smaller than this.

‘You must allow the admiral a few minutes to bid farewell to an early visitor.' He gestured vaguely with his head. ‘Commodore from the Dutch frigate yonder.'

Adam had watched her anchor and had felt the old uneasiness at the sight of her flag amongst the squadron's ships. The flag of a once respected enemy, but an enemy for all that. It would take even stronger determination when the French ships began to appear. He turned to say something, but the other captain was already greeting a new arrival, and his eyes were moving swiftly beyond him to yet another boat heading for the chains.

Adam had been a flag captain twice, with his uncle and with Valentine Keen. It was never an easy appointment. To be Rhodes' flag captain would be impossible.

A harassed lieutenant eventually found him and escorted him aft to the great cabin. Even with all the screens removed and furniture kept to a minimum, the whole of the admiral's quarters was packed with uniforms, red and scarlet, and the blue and white of sea officers. And women. Bare shoulders, bold glances from the younger ones, something like disdain from the not so young.

The lieutenant called out Adam's name and ship, and a marine orderly appeared as if by magic with a tray of glasses.

‘Better take the red wine, sir. T' other's not much good.' Then, as an afterthought, he murmured, ‘Corporal Figg, sir. Me brother's one o' your Royals!' He hurried away, wine slopping unheeded over his sleeve.

Adam smiled. The family again.

‘Ah, there you are, Bolitho!' It sounded like
at last.
Rhodes waited for him to push through the crowd, his head bowed between the deck beams. He was almost as tall as his flag captain.