Second to None (23 page)

Here on the ship's messdeck the air was heady with rum, and the smell of the midday meal. Unlike a ship of the line, there were no guns on this deck. Each mess was allotted a scrubbed table and bench seats, with hooks overhead where the hammocks would be slung when the ship piped down for the night. In larger vessels the guns were a constant reminder to seamen and marines alike, when they swung themselves into their hammocks, and when they were piped on deck for any emergency. Their reason for being.

Jago glanced at the tables as he passed. Some of the men looked at him and nodded, others avoided his eye. It suited him well enough. He recalled that the captain had said he could use the little store which adjoined the cabin pantry for his meals, but he had declined. He had been surprised by Captain Bolitho's offer, and that he should even care about it.

He half-listened to the loud murmur of voices and the clatter of plates. The forenoon watchkeepers were already tucking into their boiled meat, and what looked like oatmeal. The new cook was far better than his predecessor; at least he was not so mean with his beef and pork. And there was bread, too. The captain had sent a working party to one of the garrisons in Malta: the army always seemed to live well when it was not in the field. And there was butter, while it lasted. When the purser
had supervised the issue to all the messes, you would have thought he was parting with his own skin. But they were always like that.

To these men, experienced or raw recruits, such small items, taken for granted by those ashore, were luxuries. When they were exhausted it would be back to iron-hard ship's biscuits, with slush skimmed off the galley coppers to make them edible. He grinned inwardly. A sailor's lot.

He saw the glint of metal and scarlet coats, marine sentries, and, crowded together while the food was ladled out, the prisoners from the ill-fated
Tetrarch.
Jago had seen them eating so voraciously when they had been brought aboard that it seemed they had not been properly fed for years. Now some were even working with the various parts of ship, under supervision of sorts. But Jago thought that no matter what lay ahead for these men, they were somehow glad to be back in the world which had once been their own.

The admiral at Malta, Bethune, had wanted to get rid of them as quickly as possible, the British ones at any rate. Someone else would have to decide their fate. Would anybody bother to investigate the circumstances, he wondered? Mutineers, deserters, or men who had been misled? The end of a rope was the usual solution.

He thought of the captain again. He had given orders that these men were to receive the same rations as the ship's company. Troublemakers would be punished.
Instantly.
He could see Bolitho's face as he had said it. Jago knew that most captains would have kept these men on deck in all weathers, and in irons. As an example. As a warning. And it was cheaper, too.

He paused by one of the tables and studied a finely carved model of a seventy-four.
Unrivalled
had been in commission for only six months, and during that time he had watched this superb carving take on meaning and life.

The seaman raised his head. It was Sullivan, the keen-eyed lookout.

‘Almost done, 'Swain.'

Jago rested one hand on his shoulder. He knew the history of the model: she was the
Spartiate,
a two-decker which had been in Nelson's Weather Division at Trafalgar. Sullivan kept
to himself, but was a popular man by any standard. Trafalgar: even the word gave him a sort of presence. He had been there, in the greatest naval battle of all time, had cheered with all the others when they had broken through the French line, only to be stunned by the signal that Lord Nelson, ‘Our Nel', had fallen.

When Jago had watched the captain he had found himself wondering if he ever compared the death of his uncle, Sir Richard Bolitho, a man who had been as well liked and respected as Nelson, but had been killed in what might have been an accidental engagement. In the end, it was the same for both of them.

He looked over Sullivan's head at the next mess, where the ship's boys were quartered. Signed on by parents who wanted to be rid of them, and others like Napier, who had been appointed the captain's servant, living in the hope of outside sponsorship, and the eventual chance of a commission. He remembered the captain's face when he had told him that the boy John Whitmarsh had been killed. He had intended to sponsor the boy as midshipman, and all the while Whitmarsh had wanted only to remain with him.

There was another boy at the mess table, the one called Paul, son of the
Tetrarch
's renegade captain. Had he continued the fight and faced one of
Unrivalled
's broadsides with his holds filled to the deckhead beams with powder . . . at least it would have been a quick death, Jago thought.

Sullivan did not look up, but said, ‘What'll they do with 'im?'

Jago shrugged. ‘Put him ashore, maybe.' He frowned, angry without knowing why. ‘War is no game for children!'

Sullivan chuckled. ‘Since when?'

Jago glanced around the partly filled messdeck, the swaying rays of sunlight probing down through the gratings and an open hatchway.

This was his world, where he belonged, where he could catch the
feel
of the ship, something which would be denied him if he accepted the captain's offer.

His eyes fell on the burly seaman named Campbell, who had been sentenced to a flogging for threatening a petty officer. There had been two men brought aft for punishment,
but the other had been killed during the opening shots of the engagement, and the captain had ordered that Campbell's punishment should be stood over. He was sitting there now, his face blotchy with sweat from too much rum. Wets from others, for favours done, or perhaps the need to keep on the good side of this seemingly unbreakable troublemaker.

One of the hard men, Campbell had received a checkered shirt at the gangway several times. Jago knew what it was like to be flogged; although the punishment had been carried out unjustly, and despite the intervention of an officer on his behalf, he would carry the scars to the grave. No wonder men deserted. He had nearly run himself, twice, in other ships, and for reasons he could scarcely remember.

What had held him back? He grimaced. Certainly not loyalty or devotion to duty.

Again he recalled the day he had shaken hands with Captain Bolitho after they had driven off the big Yankee. A bargain, something done on the spur of the moment while the blood was still pounding with the wildness of battle. It was something new to him, which he did not understand. And that, too, troubled him.

Campbell looked at him. ‘This is an unexpected honour, eh, lads? To ‘ave the Cap'n's cox'n amongst the likes of us!'

Jago relaxed. Men like Campbell he could handle.

‘Far enough, Campbell. I'll take no lip from you. You've been lucky, so make the best of it.'

Campbell seemed disappointed. ‘I never meant nuthin'!'

‘
One foot,
just put one foot wrong and I shall drag you aft myself!'

Somebody asked, ‘Why are we goin' to Gib again, 'Swain?'

Jago shrugged. ‘Despatches, to land
Tetrarch
's people –'

Campbell said harshly, ‘Run 'em up to the mainyard, that's what I'd do!' He pointed at the boy in the other mess. ‘'
Is
bloody father for a start!'

Jago smiled. ‘That's more like it, Campbell. A ten year old boy. A fair match, I'd say!'

Sullivan said softly, ‘Officer on the deck, 'Swain!'

Someone else murmured, ‘Bloody piglet, more like!'

It was Midshipman Sandell, striding importantly past the messes, chin in the air and not bothering to remove his hat,
a courtesy observed by most officers. Jago ducked beneath one of the massive deckhead beams and realised that the midshipman was still able to walk upright, even wearing the hat. Sandell was carrying a gleaming, and, Jago guessed, very expensive sextant, probably a parting gift from his parents. Earlier he had seen the midshipmen assembled on the quarterdeck taking their noon sights, watched critically by Cristie, the master, as they had tried to estimate the ship's position for their logs.

Cristie missed very little, and Jago had heard him give Sandell the rough edge of his tongue more than once, to the obvious glee of the others.

Jago faced him calmly. It made upstarts like him dangerous.

‘Oh, you're here, are you?' Sandell peered around, as if he had never set foot on the lower deck before. ‘I want the boy, Lovatt. He is to lay aft,
now
.'

‘I'll fetch him, Mr Sandell.'

‘How many times do I have to tell people?' He was almost beside himself. ‘
Sandell
! That's easy enough, surely?'

Jago murmured, ‘Sorry, sir.' It had been worth it just to see the shot go home. As he had intended it would.

He beckoned to the boy, and asked, ‘The captain wants him, sir?'

Sandell stared at him, as if astonished that anyone should dare to question him. But, angry or not, some inner warning seemed to prevent another outburst. Jago's demeanour, and the fine blue jacket with gilt buttons, appeared to make him hesitate.

He said loftily, ‘The captain, yes.' He snapped his fingers. ‘Move yourself, boy!'

Jago watched them leave. Sandell would never change. He had shown no sign of fear during the fight, but that meant little; his kind were usually more afraid of revealing their fear to others than of fear itself. He winked at Sullivan. But if Sandell wanted to climb the ladder of promotion, he would be wise not to turn his back.

Unrivalled
's wardroom, which was built into the poop structure on the gundeck, seemed spacious after other frigates George Avery had known. Unlike the lower deck, the ship's
officers shared the cabin and dining space with six eighteen-pounders, three on either side.

The midday meal had been cleared away, and Avery sat by an open gunport watching some gulls diving and screaming alongside, probably because the cook had pitched some scraps outboard.

Two days out of Malta, on passage for Gibraltar, as if everything else was unreal. The dinner with Vice-Admiral Bethune and Adam Bolitho, then the excitement at being a part of something which he had begun with Sir Richard, had all been dashed by the arrival of another courier vessel.
Unrivalled
would take Bethune's despatches to the Rock and pass them on to the first available ship bound for England. Whatever Bethune really thought about it, he had made himself very clear. His latest orders were to contain the activities of the Dey's corsairs, but to do nothing to aggravate the situation until more ships were put under his flag.

Adam had been quietly resentful, although
Unrivalled
was the obvious choice: she was faster and better armed than any other frigate here or anywhere else in the fleet. There had been reports of several smaller vessels being attacked, taken or destroyed by the corsairs, and communications between the various squadrons and bases had never been so important. There was still no definite news of a total victory over Napoleon's army. Waterloo had broken his hold over the line, and it seemed as if all French forces were in full retreat. Even Marshal Ney's formidable cavalry had been defeated by the red-coated squares of infantry.

And he, Lieutenant George Avery, had received orders which countermanded all others. He was to return to England and present himself to their lordships, perhaps to add his report to all those which must have gone before. He laid his hand on the gun, warm, as if it had been recently fired. Perhaps he was too close. It was not another report they wanted. It was a post-mortem.

He looked around at his companions. It was a friendly enough wardroom, and he was after all a stranger, a temporary member of their small community.

And it was always in the air. It was only natural, and he
knew he was being unreasonable to expect otherwise.
I was there. When he fell
.

Galbraith, the first lieutenant, understood, and confined his questions to the subject of Avery's visit to the Dey's stronghold, and if there was any real risk that the attacks on shipping and the seizure of Christians would spark off a bigger confrontation. The war with France would soon be over; it probably already was. Galbraith would be thinking of his own future, thankful that he was at least in a stronger position than many, in a new and powerful frigate, with a captain whose name was known because of his famous uncle as well as his own past successes.

Massie, the second lieutenant, remained scornful, if not openly critical of Bethune's change of direction.

‘When Boney surrenders this time, their lordships will cut the fleet to the bare bones! We'll have less chance than ever to topple these would-be tyrants!' To recover from such a costly war every nation, former friends and enemies alike, would be seeking fresh trade routes, and would still need the ships and men to protect them.

He saw Noel Tregillis, the purser, poring over one of his ledgers. He rarely stopped work even in here.

Captain Bosanquet of the Royal Marines was asleep in his chair, an empty goblet still clasped in his fingers, and his second-in-command Lieutenant Luxmore had gone to share a drink with his sergeant.

The portly surgeon, O'Beirne, had made his excuses and had gone aft to the great cabin, leaving his food untouched. The prisoner, Lovatt, was unwell; the wound was not healing to O'Beirne's satisfaction.

He had said sharply, ‘He should have been put ashore in Malta. All this is quite unnecessary.' The severity of the comment was uncharacteristic of this generally quiet, affable man, who Avery knew took his work very seriously.

Even O'Beirne had touched on the subject, on their first night at sea. He had known Lefroy,
Frobishers
's bald surgeon. It was to be expected: the fraternity of fleet surgeons was even more close-knit than the family of sea officers.