Second to None (5 page)

He heard a slight cough behind him. That was Usher, the captain's clerk, who had once been the purser's assistant, a small, nervous man who seemed totally out of place in a ship of war. O'Beirne, the ruddy-faced surgeon, had confided that the man was dying, ‘a day at a time', as he had put it. His lungs were diseased, only too common in the confines of a ship. He thought of Yovell, the clerk who had become
his uncle's secretary. A scholar who was never without his Bible. He would have been there when . . . He turned away and closed his mind to it.

‘Yes, Usher?'

‘I've done copies of the lists, sir. Three of each.' He always found it necessary to explain every detail of his work.

‘Very well. I shall sign them after I have eaten.'

‘Deck there! Sail on the larboard quarter!'

Everyone looked up. The voice of the masthead lookout had been heard only rarely on this passage.

The master tugged down his hat and said, ‘Shall I send another man aloft, sir?'

Adam glanced at him. Cristie was a professional; he would not be here otherwise. It was not an idle comment. And here was Wynter, the third lieutenant and officer-of-the-watch, hurrying from the chart room, but with biscuit crumbs on his coat to betray his other activities. Young, efficient and keen, when required he could put on such a blank expression that it was impossible to know what he was thinking, which was unusual for a junior lieutenant. But his father was a member of Parliament, so perhaps that might explain it.

Adam said, ‘Your glass, Mr Fielding. I shall go up directly.' He thought he saw Cristie's deepset eyes sharpen. ‘I shall not shorten sail. Yet.' He wedged his hat inside the companion way and felt his hair wet against his forehead. ‘A trader seeking the company of a frigate?' He shook his head as if someone had answered. ‘I think not. I know a few King's officers who would not be slow to press a few prime hands, no matter what the Admiralty directs us to do!'

Cristie gave a rare grin. He would know. Even sailors with the genuine Protection, the document which should have defended them against the demands of a hungry fleet, had been pressed. It would take months for someone to find out and do something about it.

Cristie said, ‘If she holds up to wind'rd we'll never be able to reach her.'

Adam looked up at the towering masts.
Why?
Was it a demonstration of something? Bravado, perhaps?

He slung the big telescope over his shoulder and strode forward to the main chains before gazing up again at the
swaying crosstrees, where the lookout would be perched like a sea bird, uncaring, or indifferent to the other world far beneath his dangling legs.

The others watched until Lieutenant Wynter exclaimed, ‘What ails him, Mr Cristie? How can he know anything more than the rest of us?'

‘The Cap'n don't miss much, Mr Wynter.' He gestured to the biscuit crumbs. ‘Your little pleasures, for instance!'

A seaman murmured, ‘First lieutenant's comin' up, sir!'

‘Damn!'
Wynter stared at the captain's slim figure, leaning back and outwards above the creaming water surging from the finely raked stem. Wynter was twenty-two years old and could remember the congratulations and the envy alike when he had been appointed to
Unrivalled.
The first of her class, the kind of frigate which had been denied them when they had needed them most in the war against the new American navy. With the fleet being cut down and officers as well as seamen being discharged or put on half-pay without any visible prospects, he had been fortunate. Like Galbraith, the senior, who seemed old for his rank when compared with most lieutenants; he must have seen this appointment as a last chance rather than a new beginning.

A new ship, and commanded by one already proclaimed a brave and resourceful officer. The name alone was enough, part of the legend, and now of the mourning for the admiral who had inspired and shocked the nation.

Wynter had been serving in an elderly third-rate when his appointment had been posted. He still had no idea why he had been selected. His father, a rising member of Parliament and one well known for his outspoken criticism of naval and military affairs, was certainly not behind it. Even when he had first gone to sea as a midshipman, his father had offered little encouragement.

‘A good regiment would have been preferable. I could have bought you a comfortable living where you would have served with gentlemen, not uncouth ruffians! Don't come to me for pity when you lose an arm or a leg through some captain's hunger for glory!'

And Wynter had never been in a sea fight, mainly because the old seventy-four had been too slow to chase an enemy, and
was often left far behind the rest of the squadron. She would doubtless be hulked, like so many of the other worn-out ships which had stood between England and her natural enemies for so many years. He saw Bellairs, the senior midshipman, in charge of
Unrivalled
's signals and with any luck the next in line for lieutenant's examination, talking to the sailing master, ready to muster his men if something unusual happened. Even
he
had seen action, several times if he was to be believed, when he had served with the Channel Fleet in a small thirty-two gun frigate.

Wynter stared up at the captain again. He was almost there now, apparently untroubled by the height, and the unnerving shake and quiver of the masts under their great weight of spars and cordage.

He knew something of Captain Adam Bolitho's past. A command at twenty-three, and a list of successes against the Americans and the French, with prize money to show for it. Nobody spoke of the other matter, the disgrace to his family when his father had changed sides to command a privateer against his own country during the American War of Independence. But everybody knew about it. How must he feel? He turned away as a shaft of watery sunlight lanced into his eyes.
How would I feel?

He heard Cristie telling the first lieutenant about the masthead's sighting. He did not hear any reply or comment, but Galbraith was like that. Easy to talk to in the wardroom, on matters relating to shipboard duties or the watch bill. Ready to give advice about the suitability of certain men for the various parts of ship. On a personal level, or when asked to offer an opinion about the course of the war or the reliability of the higher command, he would close up like a clam. Unlike some of the others. Captain Louis Bosanquet, the officer in charge of the ship's Royal Marines, was the complete opposite. Like a steel blade to his men, he was outspoken about almost everything in the mess, especially when he had had too much to drink. His second-in-command, Lieutenant John Luxmore, on the other hand, went by the book, and seemed to live only for the drilling and betterment of his ‘bullocks'. O'Beirne, the surgeon from Galway, who knew more jokes than anyone Wynter had ever met, and Tregillis the purser were easy
enough to share a mess with, no better or worse than men in any other ship of this size. The exception was Vivian Massie, the swarthy second lieutenant, who had seen plenty of action and did not bother to hide a driving ambition. Beyond that he could be withdrawn, almost secretive, as if any personal revelation might be considered weakness. Good in a battle, but a bad enemy, Wynter had decided.

He stiffened as Galbraith joined him by the rail.

Captain Bolitho had almost reached the crosstrees. But even he could make a mistake. If he slipped and fell, if he missed hitting a spar or the ship herself, the fall would knock him senseless. It would take far too long to heave to and lower a boat. He glanced at Galbraith's strong profile. Then
he
would be in command. Perhaps only temporarily, but it would offer him the recognition he needed and must crave. It happened in battle, just as it had struck down the captain's uncle.
Dead men's shoes.
Nobody mentioned it, but it was on most people's minds when it came to promotion.

Wynter shaded his eyes and peered up again through the maze of rigging and flapping canvas.

Why should the captain do it? Did he trust no one? He had heard Bosanquet remark once that he knew the captain no better than when he had stepped aboard. Galbraith had been present, and had answered, ‘I could say the same about you, sir!' That had ended it. That time.

A figure moved from the gundeck and paused, gazing at the sea. It was Jago, the captain's coxswain, the only man aboard who had actually served with Adam Bolitho before. He had a lean, darkly tanned face and hair tied in a neat, old-fashioned queue, like the gunner's mate he had been. A man with a past, he had been flogged in another ship, wrongly it was said, by a sadistic captain, and there was still a certain anger about him, a contained defiance. Wynter had seen him stripped and sluicing his body at the washdeck pump; the scars had been familiar enough, but Jago carried them differently, almost with pride. Bloody arrogance, Massie had called it.

Whatever the truth of it, he would know their captain better than any of them. He had been with him when they had stormed a battery during an attack by the combined forces on the dockyards and principal buildings in Washington. Some
claimed that raid was revenge for the American invasion of Canada and the attack on York; others said it was a final show of strength in a war no one could win.

Luke Jago knew the officers on the quarterdeck were watching him and could make a fair bet as to their thoughts. He, too, was surprised to find himself here, in his new station, when all he had wanted was to quit the navy, with only bitterness in his soul.

He could recall exactly when Captain Bolitho had asked him to be his coxswain; could remember his refusal. Bolitho was one of only a few officers Jago had ever liked or trusted, but his mind had been made up. Determined. Until that last battle, the deck raked by the enemy's fire, men crying out and falling from aloft. When the commodore had pitched on to his side, already beyond aid. He knew the rumours like all the rest of them, that the commodore had been shot by somebody aboard their own ship, but he had heard no more about it. He gave a quick grin. He couldn't even remember the bloody man's name any more.

Unlike the boy John Whitmarsh, the captain's servant, who had survived when
Anemone
had gone down. He remembered him well enough. The smile faded. The Yankees had hanged Bolitho's old coxswain for ensuring that
Anemone
would not live to become their prize.

Captain Bolitho had taken a liking to the boy; maybe he had seen something of himself in him. He had wanted to sponsor him with his own money, so he could finish his education and wear the King's coat some day. Jago could remember the boy showing him the dirk the captain had given him, probably the only gift he had ever received. Without a tremor in his voice, he had told Jago that he wanted to stay with his captain. It was all he wanted, he said.

He had watched Adam Bolitho's face when he had told him Whitmarsh had been killed. A ball had shattered against one of the guns, and the iron splinter had ended his young life instantly; he had died without a trace of pain or terror.

And the exact moment when he had made up his mind, or had it made up for him. He was still uncertain, unwilling to believe it was not his decision alone. They had shaken hands on it with the smoke still hanging in the air, when the enemy
frigate had broken off the action. ‘A victory, sir,' he had heard himself say. ‘Or as good as.' He had thought himself mad then. Until they had buried their dead, including the boy John Whitmarsh, with the beautiful dirk still strapped to his side.

One hundred and sixty feet above their heads and oblivious to their thoughts, Adam Bolitho eased himself into position and looked down at the ship, which seemed to pivot from side to side as if his perch in the crosstrees was motionless. He had never tired of the sight since he had made his first dash aloft as a midshipman in his uncle's old
Hyperion
. Even when he had been mastheaded for some prank or indiscretion, he had always managed to marvel at what he saw. The ship, far beneath his shoes, the little blue and white shapes of the officers and master's mates, the clusters of seamen and scarlet-coated marines.
His ship
, all one hundred and fifty feet of her, over a thousand tons of weapons, masts and spars, and the men to serve and fight her.

His uncle had confided that he had always hated heights, had feared going aloft when his ship had made or reefed sails. Another lesson Adam had learned, that fear could be contained if it seemed more dangerous to reveal it.

He glanced at his companion. A leathery face and a pair of the keenest eyes he had seen, like polished glass.

He hesitated. ‘Sullivan, isn't it?'

The seaman showed his uneven teeth. ‘Thass me, sir.' He smiled slightly as Adam unslung the telescope.

‘Where away?' It was strange: despite his attempt to stay at arm's length, the ship was closing in. A face he could barely recall. A typical Jack, some would say. Hard, rough, and, in their way, simple men.

‘Same bearin', sir.'

He steadied the glass, raising it very carefully as breaking crests leaped into view, magnified into small tidal waves in the powerful lens.

He felt the spar quiver and shake against his body, mast upon mast, down to the ship's keelson. He could remember the genuine pleasure and pride of the men who had built her when he had insisted they come aboard for her commissioning.

And there she was,
rising and dipping, her canvas dark against the scudding clouds.

The lookout said, ‘Square-rigged at the fore, sir.'

Adam nodded and waited for the glass to steady again. A brigantine, handling well in the offshore wind, almost bows-on. When he lowered the glass she seemed to drop away to a mere sliver of colour and movement. It never failed to surprise him that men like Sullivan, who would scorn a telescope, or trade it for a new knife or fresh clothing, or drink if it was offered, could still see and recognise another vessel when a landsman might not even notice it.