Second to None (37 page)

And there was his cousin, Elizabeth. She would be about twelve or thirteen by now. She would stay with Nancy until things were ‘more settled'. Adam could almost hear her saying the words.

Nancy had also written to Catherine. The mare given to her by his uncle was now stabled at the Roxby house. Adam had known instantly that Belinda had been riding Tamara at the time of the accident.

The letter ended, ‘
You must take good care of yourself
,
dear Adam. Here is your home, nobody can ever deny you that.
'

The ink was smudged, and he knew she had been crying as she wrote, doubtless angry with herself for giving into it. A sailor's daughter, and the sister of one of England's finest sea officers, she had had plenty of experience of separation and despair. And now that her husband was dead she was alone once again. Elizabeth would be a blessing to her. He picked up the letter, and smiled.
As you were to me
.

Catherine was in London. He wondered if she was alone, and was surprised by how much it could hurt him. Absurd . . . He glanced at the skylight, hearing voices, Jago's carrying easily as he called out to the gig's crew. Vivid memories: the leadsman's chant, the closeness of danger on all sides, Massie and Wynter, and the boy who would rather risk death than take refuge below when the iron began to fly.

And he thought of Falmouth again. The house. The grave portraits, the sea always out there, waiting for the next Bolitho.

He turned almost guiltily as someone rapped at the door. It was Bellairs, who was assisting Wynter as officer of the watch.

‘Yes?'

Bellairs glanced around the cabin. His examination was in orders, here in Malta. The next step, or the humiliation of failure.

‘Mr Wynter's respects, sir, and a new midshipman has come aboard to join.' He did not blink, although he must have been recalling his own time as a young gentleman.

‘Ask Mr Galbraith . . .' He held up his hand. ‘
No.
I'll see him now.'

Bellairs hurried away, mystified that his captain, who had just inflicted a crushing defeat on some Algerine pirates, should concern himself with such trivialities.

Adam walked to one of the eighteen-pounders which shared his quarters and touched the black breech. Remembering; how could he forget? Anxious, worried, even defiant because he had imagined that his first captain, his uncle, would find fault or cause to dismiss him on that day which was so important to him.

He heard the marine sentry say, ‘Go in,
sir.
' Guarded, yet to be proved. A midshipman was neither fish nor fowl.

He saw the newcomer standing by the screen door, his hat beneath his arm.

‘Come over here where I can see you!' Again the assault of memory. They were the very words his uncle had used.

When he looked again, the youth was in the centre of the cabin, directly beneath the open skylight. Older than he had expected, about fifteen. With experience he could be very useful.

He took the envelope and slit it with the knife he had used earlier, feeling the midshipman's eyes watching every move.
As I did
. All those years ago.

He was not new, but had been appointed from another frigate, the
Vanoc,
which had been temporarily paid off for a complete overhaul. His name was Richard Deighton. Adam raised his eyes, and saw the youth look away from him.

‘Your captain speaks well of you.' A young, roundish face, dark brown hair. He would be fifteen next month, and was tall for his years. Serious features. Troubled.

The name was familiar. ‘Your father was a serving officer?' It was not a question. He could see it all more clearly than the chebecks of only three days ago.

The youth said, ‘Captain Henry Deighton.' No pride, no defiance.

That was it.

‘Commodore Deighton hoisted his broad pendant above my ship,
Valkyrie,
when I was with the Halifax squadron.' So easily said.

The midshipman clenched one fist against his breeches. ‘The rank of commodore was never confirmed, sir.'

‘I see.' He walked around the table, hearing Jago's voice again. He had been there too on that day when Commodore Deighton had been shot down, it was thought by a Yankee sharpshooter. Except that after the sea burial the surgeon, rather the worse for drink, had told Adam that the angle of entry and the wound were all wrong, and that Deighton had been killed by someone in
Valkyrie
's own company.

The matter had ended there. Deighton had already been put over the side, with the boy John Whitmarsh and others.

But the faces always returned; there was no escape. The family, they called it.

‘Did you ask for
Unrivalled
?'

The midshipman lifted his eyes again. ‘Aye, sir. I always hoped, wanted . . .' His voice trailed away.

Bellairs was back. ‘Gig's alongside, sir.' He glanced at the new midshipman, but only briefly.

Adam said, ‘Take Mr Deighton into your charge, if you please. The first lieutenant will attend to the formalities.'

Then he smiled. ‘Welcome aboard, Mr Deighton. You are in good hands.'

As the door closed he took out the letter once more.

It was like seeing yourself again . . . something you should never forget.

He picked up his hat and went out into the sunshine.

Captain Victor Forbes leaned back in Bethune's fine chair and raised a glass.

‘I'm glad you chose to come ashore, Adam. I've been reading through your report, Christie's too, and I've made a few notes for the vice-admiral to read on his return.'

Adam sat opposite him, the cognac and the easy use of his first name driving some of his doubts away. The flag captain was obviously making the most of Bethune's absence, although it was apparent from the occasional pause in mid-sentence to listen that, like most serving captains, he was ill at ease away from his ship.

Forbes added, ‘I still believe that raids on known anchorages, though damn useful and good for our people's morale, will never solve the whole problem. Like hornets, destroy the nest. Time enough later to catch the stragglers.'

Adam agreed and tried to recall how many glasses he had drunk as Forbes peered at the bottle and shook it against the fading sunlight. ‘I'd have given anything to be there with you.' Then he grinned. ‘But with any luck
Montrose
will be a private ship again quite soon!'

‘You're leaving the squadron?'

Forbes shook his head. ‘No. But we are being reinforced by two third-rates, and about time too. Sir Graham Bethune will likely shift his flag to one of them. A damn nice fellow,' he grinned again, ‘for an admiral, that is. But I believe he is eager to leave, to get back to a stone frigate, the Admiralty
again, most likely. I'll not be sorry. Like you, I prefer to be free of flag officers, good or bad.'

Adam recalled Bethune's restlessness, his sense of displacement even in a world he had once known so well. And there was a wife to consider.

Forbes changed tack. ‘I hear that you've got a new midshipman, a replacement for the one who was killed. Deighton – I knew his father, y' know. We were lieutenants together in the old
Resolution
for a year or so. Didn't know him all that well, of course . . .' He hesitated and peered at Adam as though making a decision. ‘But when I read the account of your fight with the Yankee
Defender,
in the
Gazette
I think it was, I was a little surprised. He never really struck me as being in the death-or-glory mould, one who would fall in battle like that. His son must be proud of him.' He sat back and smiled. Like a cat, Adam thought, waiting to see which way the mouse would run.

‘He was killed by a single shot. It is common enough.'

Forbes exclaimed, ‘Thoughtless of me! Your uncle . . . I should have kept my damn mouth shut.'

Adam shrugged, remembering when Keen had left Halifax to return to England for promotion and high command at Plymouth. And to marry again . . . Deighton was to remain as commodore in charge until otherwise decided. He could remember Keen's words to him, like a warning. Or a threat.

‘Be patient with him. He is not like us. Not like
you
.'

He said, ‘How is Sir Graham getting along with his visitor?'

Forbes gave him the grin again, obviously glad of the change of subject.

‘They both know about wine, anyway!'

Adam smiled. ‘Claret, of course.'

A servant appeared with another bottle but Forbes waved him away.

He said, ‘I shall be dining with the army tonight. Don't want to let our end down!'

Adam prepared to depart. It had been a friendly, informal discussion, but he had been a flag captain himself, and a flag lieutenant to his uncle. Both roles had taught him to sift fact from gossip, truth from rumour, and in this brief meeting he
had learned that a new admiral was about to be appointed, and that Bethune would be leaving. The new flag would decide all future operations, as so ordered by the Admiralty. An aggressive demonstration of sea power might deter the Dey from any further attacks on shipping, or from offering refuge to any pirate or turncoat who offered his services in return for sanctuary.

Forbes had made a point of not mentioning Lady Bolitho's death, although it was no doubt common knowledge in a place like this. Adam himself had said nothing about it; it was private, if not personal. Belinda was dead.
I never knew her.
But was it so simple?

Forbes frowned as a shadow moved restlessly beneath the door.

‘Not like a ship, Adam. Too many callers, always wanting things. I'd never make an admiral in a thousand years!'

Adam left, cynically amused. He could see Forbes as precisely that.

Outside he paused to study the copper sky. It was a fine, warm evening, and in England the summer was over. It would be the first Christmas without war. And without his uncle.

Forbes had also avoided mentioning Bazeley's lovely young wife. He wondered if she had fared any better aboard the brig, with its cramped quarters and limited comforts. After an Indiaman and then
Unrivalled,
a brig would seem like a work-boat. Eyes watching her every move, men deprived of a woman's touch, the sound of a woman's voice.

He had told Jago to return to the ship, saying that he would take a duty boat from the jetty. He grinned in the shadows. He had been expecting Forbes to ask him to stay. Instead, he would return to his own, remote cabin.

Something moved in a doorway, and his hand was on the hilt of his sword in a second, unconsciously.

‘Who is there?'

The action and strain had cost him more than he would have believed.

It was a woman. Not a beggar or a thief.

‘Captain Bolitho. It
is
you!'

He turned in a patch of golden light and recognised Lady Bazeley's companion.

‘I did not know you were here, ma'am. I thought you would be with Sir Lewis and his lady.'

The woman stood very still, and he felt the intensity of her eyes, although her features remained hidden in shadow.

She said, ‘We did not go. Her ladyship was unwell. It seemed the safest thing to do.'

He heard footsteps, measured, precise, and relaxed again. It was the marine sentry at the gates, pacing his post, his mind doubtless far removed from this place.

The woman touched his arm, and then withdrew her hand just as quickly, like an unwilling conspirator.

‘My lady would like to see you before you leave, sir. We saw you earlier in the day. And then you came back.' She hesitated. ‘It is safe, if you will allow me to lead.'

Adam looked back, but there was only silence. Forbes must have known that the women had stayed behind, but had made a point of not mentioning that either.

Was she really unwell, or was she merely bored, needing to be amused?
At my expense
.

He said, ‘Lead on, ma'am.' Perhaps she wanted to remind him of his awkward advances, his clumsiness. He thought of the leadsman's cry.
No bottom!
What it had meant, after the risk he had taken for what Lovatt would have called a gesture, a conceit.

The woman walked swiftly ahead of him, untroubled by the rough paving where he guessed guns had stood in the past when Malta had been in constant fear of attack. Perhaps she was used to running errands for her mistress. He recognised the same parapet as before, but knew it was at the opposite side of the rambling building, in shadow now, the old embrasures touched with colour from the melting light.

And the view was the same. When he had held her, and the invisible orchestra had offered its private gift of music. Ships anchored as before, some already displaying lights, topmasts clinging to the last copper glow, flags limp, barely moving.

And then he saw her, her gown pale against the dull stone, the fan open in her hand.

She said, ‘So you came, Captain. You honour us.'

He moved closer and took the hand she offered him.

‘I thought you were away, m' lady. Otherwise –'

‘Ah, that word again.' She did not flinch as he kissed her hand. ‘I heard there was fighting. That
you
were fighting.'

It sounded like an accusation, but he said nothing. Nor did he release her hand.

She said in the same level tone, ‘But you are safe. I heard you laugh just now. Recognised it. Enjoying some of Sir Graham's cognac in his absence, yes?'

He smiled. ‘Something like that. And you, I hear you were unwell?'

She tossed her head, and he saw her hair fall loose across one shoulder.

‘I am well enough, thank you.' She withdrew her hand slowly and deliberately, then turned slightly away, towards the ships and the harbour.

She said, ‘I was concerned, about you,
for
you. Is that so strange?'

‘When we last met –'

She shook her head again. ‘No. Do not speak of it! There were so many things I wanted to say, to share, to explain. I could not even manage that unaided.'