Second to None (19 page)

Adam walked away from the rail and stared down at the sailmaker's crew.

‘What is it?'

‘The captain, sir.' He hesitated as the dark eyes met his. ‘Captain Lovatt.'

‘The prisoner, you mean. Is he dead?'

O'Beirne shook his head. ‘I've done what I could, sir.
There is some internal bleeding, but the wound may heal, given time.'

He had not considered the man a prisoner, or anything but a wounded survivor. He had fainted several times, but had managed to smile when he had finally come to his senses. O'Beirne had prevented him from moving his arms, telling him it might aggravate the inner wound, but they all did it, usually after they had been rendered incapable of thought or protest by liberal helpings of rum. Just to make certain their arms were still there, and not pitched into the limbs and wings tub like so much condemned meat.

He saw a muscle tighten in the captain's jaw. Not impatience, but strain. Something he was determined to conceal.

He said, ‘He asked about you, sir, while I was dressing the wound. I told him, of course. It helps to keep their minds busy.'

‘If that is all . . .' He turned away, and then back abruptly. ‘I am sorry. You are probably more tired than all the rest of us!'

O'Beime observed him thoughtfully. It was there again, a kind of youthful uncertainty, so at odds with his role as captain, of this ship and all their destinies.

He knew Lieutenant Wynter and a master's mate were trying to catch the captain's eye; the list of questions and demands seemed endless.

He said, ‘He knew your name, sir.'

Adam looked at him sharply.

‘Because of my uncle, no doubt.'

‘Because of your father, sir.'

Adam returned to the rail and pressed both palms upon it, feeling the ship's life pulsating through the warm woodwork. Shivering, every stay and shroud, halliard and brace, extensions of himself. Like hearing his first sailing master in
Hyperion
, so many years ago.
An equal strain on all parts and you can't do better
.

And now it was back. Was there no escape? No answers to all those unspoken questions?

Midshipman Bellairs called, ‘Signal from
Tetrarch,
sir!
Ready to proceed
!'

He stared across the water, purple now with shadow, and saw
the other ship angled across the dying sunlight, pale patches of new canvas marking the extent of Galbraith's efforts.

‘Thank you, Mr Bellairs. Acknowledge.' He looked at the portly surgeon without seeing him. ‘Make to Mr Galbraith,
With fair winds. Good luck
.' Then, aware of the lengthening shadows, ‘Roundly does it!'

O'Beirne was surprised, that this youthful man should take the time to send a personal message when he had so many urgent matters demanding his attention, and more so that he himself could be moved by it.

Adam was very conscious of the scrutiny, and moved away from it to the rail again and stood watching the greasy smoke rising from the galley funnel. The working parties were fewer, and some of the old hands were loitering, looking on as
Tetrarch
tested her jury-rig for the first time.

Men had died this day, and others lay in fear of living. But there was a smell of pitch and tar in the air, spunyarn and paint,
Unrivalled
shaking off the barbs of war, and her first sea fight.

‘I shall get the ship under way.' He saw the surgeon turn, and knew he thought his visit had been in vain. ‘After that, I shall come below and see the prisoner, if that is what you desire.'

Calls shrilled and men ran once more to halliards and braces: the sailors' way, exhausted one minute, all energy the next.

O'Beirne lowered himself carefully down the steep ladder, his mind lingering on the captain's last remark.

Half aloud, he said, ‘What
you
need, more like, if I'm any judge.'

But it was lost in the hiss and boom of canvas as
Unrivalled
once again responded to those who served her.

They faced one another, the moment intensified by the stillness of O'Beirne's sickbay below the waterline. Adam Bolitho seated himself in the surgeon's big leather chair, which seemed to dominate this private place like a throne.

He looked at the other man, who was propped in a kind of trestle, one of O'Beirne's own inventions. It helped to ease the breathing, and lessened the risk of the lung filling with blood.

Two captains.
He could not think of them as victor and vanquished.
We are only two men
.

Lovatt was not what he had expected. A strong but sensitive face, with hair as fair as Valentine Keen's. The hands, too, were well shaped, one clenching and unclenching against the throbbing pain of his wound, the other resting as if untroubled against the curved timbers of the hull.

Lovatt spoke first.

‘A fine ship, Captain. You must be proud to have her.' He gazed at the nearest frame. ‘Grown, not cut by saw. Natural strength, rare enough in these hard times.'

Adam nodded. It was indeed rare, with most of the oak forests hacked down over the years to supply the demands of the fleet.

He thought of Galbraith's hastily written message, and said, ‘What did you hope to achieve?'

Lovatt almost shrugged. ‘I obey orders. Like you, Captain. Like all of us.' The fist opened and closed again as if he had no control over it. ‘You will know that I was expecting to be met, to be escorted the remainder of the passage to Algiers.'

Adam said quietly, ‘
La Fortune
was taken. She is a prize, like
Tetrarch.
' Half his mind was still with the scene he had left on deck. A lively breeze, a steadier motion with the wind almost across the taffrail. A soldier's wind, the old hands called it. It would help Galbraith's jury-rig, and it allowed
Unrivalled
to hold up to windward in case they required assistance.

He glanced around O'Beirne's domain, at the piles of well-thumbed books, the cupboards, and racks of bottles and jars clinking occasionally with the vibration of the rudder-head.

The smell here was different too. Potions and powders, rum and pain. Adam hated the world of medicine and what it could do to a man, even the bravest, under knife and saw. The price of victory. He looked at his companion again. And defeat.

‘You asked to see me?' He curbed his impatience. His was the need.

Lovatt regarded him with calm eyes.

‘My father fought alongside yours in the struggle for independence. They knew one another, although I did not know about you, the son.'

Adam wanted to leave, but something compelled him to remain. ‘But you were a King's officer.'

‘When I am handed over to the right authority I shall be
condemned as one. No matter – my son is all I have now. He will forget.'

Adam heard boots scrape outside the door. A marine sentry. O'Beirne was taking no chances.
On either of us
.

Lovatt was saying, ‘I left America and returned to England, to Canterbury, where I was born. I had an uncle who sponsored my entry as midshipman. The rest is past history.'

‘Tell me about
Tetrarch
.'

‘I was third lieutenant in her . . . a long time ago. She was a fourth-rate then, but past her best. There was bad feeling 'twixt the captain and the senior lieutenant, and the people suffered because of it. When I spoke up on their behalf I discovered I had stepped into a trap. Because of my father, an Englishman
on the wrong side,
I was left in no doubt as to how my future would be destroyed. Even the second lieutenant, whom I had thought a friend, saw me as a threat to his own advancement.' He gave a sad smile. ‘Not unknown to you perhaps, sir?'

Midshipman Fielding peered around the door. ‘Mr Wynter's respects, sir, and he wishes to take in another reef.' His eyes were fixed on Lovatt.

‘I shall come up.' Adam turned back, and saw something like desperation in the hazel eyes.

‘There was no mutiny. They simply refused to stand to their guns. I agreed to remain aboard until their case had been put to the French.' The eyes were distant now. ‘Most of them were exchanged, I believe. I was branded a traitor. But an American privateer came into Brest . . . Until then I had been a trusted prisoner of the French navy. On parole,
on my honour.
' It seemed to amuse him. ‘And I had met a girl there. Paul is our son.'

Adam stood, his hair brushing the deckhead. ‘And now you are a prisoner again. Did you think your mention of my father could buy you privilege? If so, then you do not know me.' It was time to go.
Now
.

Lovatt sank back against the trestle. ‘I knew your name, what it has come to mean to sailors of all flags. My wife is dead. There is only Paul. I was planning to obtain passage to England. Instead, I was given command of
Tetrarch.
' He shook his head. ‘That damned, wretched ship. I should have forced you to fire on us. Finished it!'

The deck moved slightly. They would all be up there waiting for him. The chain of command.

Adam stopped, his hand on the door. ‘Canterbury? You have people there still?'

Lovatt nodded. The effort of conversation was taking its toll. ‘Good friends. They will care for Paul.' He looked away, and Adam saw the despair in his clenched fist. ‘But he will come to hate me, I think.'

‘He is still your son.'

Again the faint smile. ‘Be content, Captain.
You
have your ship.'

O'Beirne filled the doorway, his eyes everywhere.

Adam said, ‘I have finished here.' He regarded Lovatt coldly.
The enemy,
no matter which flag he served or for what reason.

But he said, ‘I shall do what I can.'

O'Beirne opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of brandy, which he had been saving for some special occasion although he had not known what. He recalled the even, Cornish voice as the captain had spoken a simple prayer before the corpses were put over the side. Most of the dead were unknown. Protestant, Catholic, pagan or Jew, it made no difference to them now.

He found two glasses and held them up to the light of the gently spiralling lantern to see if they were clean, and noticed the dried blood, like paint, on his cuff.

Lovatt cleared his throat, and said, ‘I believe he meant it.'

O'Beirne pushed a glass towards him. ‘Here – kill or cure. Then you must rest.'

He lingered over the glass. Some special occasion . . . He saw the brandy tilting with the rhythm of the sea, and imagined Captain Bolitho with his men, watching the stars, holding station on this man's ship.

He said, ‘Of course he meant it.' But Lovatt had fallen into an exhausted sleep.

From somewhere aft he heard the sound of a fiddle, probably in the junior warrant officers' mess. Badly played, and out of tune.

To Denis O'Beirne, ship's surgeon, it was the most beautiful sound he had heard for a long time.

Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune walked across the tiled floor and stood by one of the tall windows, careful to remain in the shadows, but feeling the heat of the noon sun like something physical. He shaded his eyes to stare at the anchored ships, his ships, knowing what made each distinct from the others, just as he now knew the faces and characters of each of his captains, from his bluff flag captain Forbes in
Montrose
, out there now with her awnings and windsails shimmering in the harsh glare, to the young but experienced Christie in the smaller twenty-eight gun
Halcyon.
It was something he could now accept, as he had come to accept the responsibility of his rank, one of the youngest flag officers on the Navy List.

The sense of loss was still there, as strong as ever, and if anything he felt even more impatient, conscious of a certain disappointment which was new to him.

Whenever he was at sea in
Montrose
he felt this same restlessness. He had confided to Sir Richard Bolitho more than once his discomfort at commanding, but not being in command, of his own flagship. Each change of watch or unexpected trill of a bosun's call, any sound or movement would find him alert, ready to go on deck and deal with every kind of incident. To leave it to others, to wait for the respectful knock on the screen door, had been almost unbearable.

Bethune had grasped at the chance of a seagoing appointment, having imagined that the corridors of the Admiralty were not for him.

He had been wrong, but it was hard to come to terms with it.

He watched the small boats pulling around the captured French frigate,
La Fortune.
A prize indeed. It had been a risk, and he had seen Adam Bolitho's face clearly in his mind as he had read the report. But a risk skilfully undertaken. If their lordships required any further proof that the Dey of Algiers was intent on even more dangerous escapades, this was it.

He recalled Bouverie's description of the cutting-out expedition. It was wrong to take sides, and Bethune had always despised senior officers who did so, but Bouverie had given the impression that the capture of the frigate had been entirely his own idea.

He turned his back on the grand harbour and its crumbling
backdrop of ancient fortifications, and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the dimness of this room which was a part of his official headquarters. Once owned by a wealthy merchant, it was almost palatial. There was even a fountain in the small courtyard, and a balcony. In this house was the room where Catherine Somervell had made her final visit to her beloved Richard.

Bethune had ordered that it be kept locked, and could guess what his staff thought about it. He had visited the room only once. So still, so quiet, and yet when he had thrown open the shutters the din and turmoil of Malta seemed to swamp the place. It was uncanny.

There was a bell on a table. He had only to ring it and a servant would appear. Wine, perhaps? Or something stronger? He almost smiled. That was not like him, either; he had seen the results of over-indulgence only too often at the Admiralty.