Second to None (26 page)

‘An' if we refuse, Cap'n? If we stands by our rights?'

There was a growl of agreement.

‘Rights?' Adam patted a quarterdeck nine-pounder by his knee. ‘Speak to me of those rights when these are silent, eh?'

He nodded to Galbraith. He had made a mistake; the gesture had misfired. Galbraith joined him by the rail.

‘Show of hands!'

The silence was physical. Crushing. Far worse than if they had jeered at his inability to reach them.

Then he heard Partridge, the massive boatswain, bawling out as if it were a part of normal routine.

‘Right, then, you lot over 'ere. Lively, lads! Creagh, take their names, if you still knows 'ow to write!'

And somebody laughed.
Laughed
.

Adam turned towards them again. The crowd was breaking into groups, pushed and sorted into small parties, the blues and whites of warrant officers moving amongst them, taking control. He tried to remember; how many had Galbraith mentioned? Over fifty: not an army, but it might make the difference. Men who had been cheated, lied to and ill-treated for most of their lives, when loyalty to one another carried far more weight than flag or country, they had decided.

Galbraith was beside him again.

‘I would never have believed it, sir.' He hesitated. ‘Would you tell me? How did you do it?'

Adam saw the one man who had challenged him. Their eyes met across the bustling figures and frantic petty officers, and then the man gave a shrug. Resignation, or was it trust after all?

He murmured, ‘Perhaps I offered them a reason for living.'

He felt spray dash across his cheek. The wind was still rising. The
chance
.

But all he heard was Lovatt's mocking laugh.

He turned on his heel and said, ‘Now you may beat to quarters, and clear for action, Mr Galbraith.' He saw the boy Napier watching from beside the capstan, and called, ‘Fetch my coat, will you. My sword, too.' But Jago was already there, the old sword held casually, almost indifferently.

‘Here, sir.'

Adam held out his arms and felt him clip the sword into place. Was this, too, a final conceit?

Jago stood back. ‘Scum they may be, sir, but fight they will. Like me, they don't know nothing else!'

At that moment the drums began their staccato roll to beat to quarters.

Adam stared at the sea until his eyes misted over. He felt no fear. If anything, it was pride.

Adam Bolitho brushed a lock of loose hair from his eyes and used his sleeve as a shield against the glare from a lively sea, broken now by the strengthening wind.

One bell chimed from forward, and he saw Midshipman Fielding apparently jerk out of his thoughts and turn the half-hour glass before someone rebuked him.

So little time since the first hint of danger; two hours, or less. It was hard to remember, but it would all be noted in the log. He licked his dry lips. For posterity.

Even the ship had changed in that time. Cleared for action,
Unrivalled
was stripped, like the gun crews who had discarded their shirts but retained their neckerchiefs to tie over their ears against the roar of battle, of her main and mizzen courses and staysails, so that the deck felt open and vulnerable. Under topsails and topgallants, with the big forecourse loosely brailed, she was making a fair speed through the water, spray constantly breaking over the beakhead and forecastle. Nets had been rigged to protect the gun deck from falling wreckage. Adam faced each possibility like a challenge, the margin between winning and losing. And lastly the boats. He did not move from his place on the weather side of the quarterdeck but could see the boat-tier, each hull already bailed and steaming in the hot sunshine.

It was always a bad moment when the boats were lowered and cast adrift on a sea-anchor, to await collection by the victors. Even seasoned sailors never accepted or became accustomed to it. The boats were their last hope of survival. Adam had seen some of them watching Partridge's crew rigging the tackles in readiness for hoisting and then swinging each boat outboard. Abandoned . . .

But Adam had seen hideous casualties caused by splinters ripped from tiered boats, like flying razors when they cut into human flesh. It was the last task.

He took a telescope from its rack and trained it across the nettings. It was no longer a suspicion, or a flaw on the dawn horizon, but brutal reality. The enemy.

Two ships. Frigates, their hazy silhouettes overlapping as if joined, a common illusion. They were probably some five miles away; he could see each sail, braced so hard round that they were almost fore-and-aft. Another trick perhaps, but each captain was hard put to hold his ship up into the wind, as close-hauled as any professional officer could manage.

Who were they? What did they hope for today, apart from victory? Perhaps it was better not to know your enemy, to see his face. You might recognise yourself in him.

He gazed across the deck. They were all present, the Royal Marines at the barrier of packed hammocks, extra hands on the big double-wheel, Lieutenant Wynter with the afterguard, his midshipman, Homey, close by. Cristie and his senior master's mate, and Avery, arms folded, hat tilted over his eyes, observing. As he must have done so many times with . . .

Adam swung away. ‘Very well, Mr Galbraith, cast off the boats!'

He saw faces turn away from the guns to watch. This was the worst moment. Especially for newcomers.

Galbraith returned to the quarterdeck and waited for the gap left in the nets to be sealed. He did not look astern at the drifting cluster of boats.

‘If I might make a suggestion, sir.'

Adam said, ‘I know. My coat, it troubles you.'

‘You have me all aback, sir. But any marksman will be looking for the chance to mark down the captain. You know that well enough!'

Adam smiled, touched by the concern. Genuine, like the man.

‘The enemy will know
Unrivalled
has a captain, Leigh. I want our people to know it, too!'

He raised the glass again. The frigate astern of her consort had hoisted a signal of some kind. Two flags, nothing more. A private signal, perhaps? It could also be a ruse, to make
him believe it was the senior ship. He recalled Francis Inch, his first lieutenant in
Hyperion,
telling the midshipmen that in ship-to-ship actions beyond the control of the ponderous line of battle a good captain often survived by trickery as much as agility.

He considered it. Two frigates, neither as powerful as
Unrivalled,
but, used aggressively and with determination, they were formidable.

He said, almost to himself, ‘They will try to divide our strength. Tell Mr Massie to point each gun himself, no matter which side we engage first. The opening shots will decide.' He paused, and repeated, ‘
Must
decide.'

He walked from one side of the deck to the other, hearing Galbraith calling to Massie. If
Unrivalled
altered course away from those ships, they would gain the advantage from the wind. He imagined the two frigates, like counters on an admiral's chart. From line ahead to line abeam, they would have no choice, nor would they want one.

He heard the spray pattering over the lee side, and thought,
no, Captain Lovatt, not running away
.

When Galbraith returned he found his captain by the compass, his shirt and coat opened to the hot wind. There was no sign of the strain he had glimpsed earlier. He found himself thinking of the woman again, the one Avery so pointedly had not discussed. What had happened, he wondered. What would she feel if she could see him now on this bright, deadly forenoon?

Adam said, ‘Pass the word to load. Single-shotted to starboard, double-shotted to larboard, but do not run out. At the turn of the glass, we shall alter course and steer south-west.' He almost smiled. ‘What the enemy intended, I believe. A lively chase with the wind under their coattails without too much risk to themselves, and if all else fails they will hope to run us ashore on the African coast. What say you?'

Galbraith stared up at the rippling masthead pendant. ‘It would make sense, sir.' He sounded doubtful, surprised.

Adam said, ‘We will luff at the right moment and rake the nearest one. Tell Massie, each ball must make its mark.'

‘I did tell him, sir.'

But Adam was not listening; he was seeing it. ‘We must get
to grips, it's our only way out. So get all spare hands off the upper deck. We are short-handed, remember? And they will know it!'

Galbraith saw him turn away and gesture urgently to the cabin servant, Napier.

‘You! Over here!'

Napier hurried across, past grim-faced seamen and marines, a cutlass thrust through his belt, his shoes clicking on the sun-dried planking and bringing some unexpected grins from the crew of a nine-pounder. One called, ‘Look, boyos! We've nowt to fear now! We're all in good hands!'

Adam said gently, ‘Your place is below. You know what to do.'

Napier faced him anxiously, with something like desperation.

‘My place is here, sir, with you.'

There was no laughter now, and Cristie looked away, perhaps remembering somebody.

Adam said, ‘Do as I ask. I shall know where you are. I mean it.'

Jago heard it, too, feeling the handshake again, the strange sense of sharing what he could not contain or understand.

Galbraith watched the boy return to the companion way, head high, the cutlass almost dragging along the deck.

Adam raised the glass once more, and remembered that Midshipman Bellairs was still at the masthead.

‘Carry on, Mr Galbraith. Bring her about. Let's see her fly today!' His hand was raised and Galbraith waited, remembering every phase, and each mood, like pictures in a child's most treasured book.

And saw his captain suddenly give a broad grin, teeth very white against his tanned skin.

‘And be of good heart, my friend. We shall win this day!'

Cristie's voice was harsh, his Tyneside accent even more pronounced as he shouted, ‘Steady as she goes, sir! Sou'-west-by-south!'

Another bang echoed across the choppy water, the second gun to be fired. Adam clenched his knuckles against his thighs, counting seconds and then feeling the ball smash
into
Unrivalled
's lower hull. He did not need the glass; he had seen the smoke from the nearest pursuer before it was shredded in the wind. The second shot, and both had come from the frigate on
Unrivalled
's starboard quarter. Not because the other, on almost exactly the opposite quarter, could not bear but, he suspected, because the ship which had fired was the senior, and probably mounted heavier bow-chasers.

The ship which had made that brief signal. No trick, then; she was the main danger.
Unrivalled
's stern was vulnerable to any shot, no matter how badly aimed. The rudder, the steering tackles . . . He shut his mind to it.

‘
Stand by to come about, Mr Galbraith
!' He strode to the rail again, and shaded his eyes. Two shots; it was enough. He dared not risk it any further. Disabled,
Unrivalled
would be destroyed piecemeal.

As he turned he saw the staring eyes of those at the gun tackles along the starboard side, muzzles pointing at the empty sea. The breechings were cast off, the guns were loaded, and men with sponges, worms and rammers were already poised for the next order, their bodies shining with sweat, as if they had been drenched by a tropical rain.

‘Stand by on the quarterdeck!'

Massie would be ready with his gun captains. All those drills . . . it was now or not at all.

‘Put the helm down!'

Feet skidded on wet gratings as the three helmsmen hauled over the spokes. With her topsails filled to the wind
Unrivalled
began to respond immediately, her head swinging even as more men freed the headsail sheets, spilling out the wind, to allow the bows to thrust unimpeded into and across the eye. Sails flapped and banged in confusion, and as the deck tilted hard over the nearest enemy ship appeared to be charging towards the concealed broadside.

It must have taken the other captain completely by surprise. From a steady, unhampered chase to this:
Unrivalled
pivoting round, revealing her full broadside, and none of his own guns yet able to bear.

‘Open the ports!
Run out!
'

All order had gone. Men yelled and cursed with each heave
on the tackles until every port was filled, and there was no longer an empty sea for a target.

Massie strode past the empty boat-tier.
‘Fire!'
A slap on a man's tense shoulder. ‘As you bear,
fire
!'

As each trigger line was jerked an eighteen-pounder thundered inboard to be seized and sponged out, charge and ball tamped home.

Adam shouted, ‘Hold her now! Steer north-west!'

There were more yells, and he imagined that he heard the splintering crack of a falling spar, although it was unlikely above the din of canvas and straining rigging, and the last echoes of a full broadside.

The other frigate was falling downwind, her bowsprit and jib boom shot away, the tangle of severed cordage and wildly flapping sails dragging her round.

Adam cupped his hands. ‘On the uproll!
Fire!
'

It was a ragged broadside, some of the guns had not yet run out, but he saw the iron smash home, and bulwarks and planking, broken rigging and men being flung like flotsam in a high wind.

It might have been us.

Galbraith was shouting, ‘The other one's coming for us, sir!'

The second frigate seemed so near, towering above the larboard quarter, stark in the hard sunlight. He could even see the patches on her forecourse, and the pointing sword of a once-proud figurehead.

He winced as more iron smashed into the hull, feeling the deck lurch beneath his feet, and hearing the heavy crash of a ball ripping into the poop. The enemy's jib boom was already overreaching the larboard quarter.