Second to None (43 page)

Lefroy had said, ‘When he died, I felt I had lost a part of myself.'

He shook his head. For a ship's surgeon, even after several glasses of rum, that was indeed something.

But for some reason the levity did not help. The image remained.

Napier, the captain's servant, watched O'Beirne leave, and knew his captain would be alone, perhaps needing a drink, or simply to talk, as he did sometimes. Perhaps the captain did not understand what it meant to him. The boy who had wanted to go to sea, to become someone.

And now he was.

He touched his pocket and felt the broken watch, its guard punched in two by a musket ball, where the little mermaid had been engraved.

The captain had seemed surprised when he had asked if he could keep it, instead of pitching it outboard.

He turned as he heard the sound of a grindstone and the rasp of steel. The gunner was back, too, supervising the sharpening of cutlasses and the deadly boarding axes.

He found that he could face it. Accept it.

He touched the broken watch again and smiled gravely. He was no longer alone.

Joseph Sullivan, the seaman who had taken part in the Battle of Trafalgar and who was
Unrivalled
's most experienced lookout, paused in his climb to the crosstrees and glanced down at the ship. It took some men years to become used to the height from the deck, the quivering shrouds and treacherous rigging;
some never did. Others were never afforded the chance. Falls were common, and even if the unfortunate lookout fell into the sea it was unlikely that he would recover. If the ship hove to in time.

Sullivan was completely at ease working aloft, and always had been. He looked briefly into the fighting top he had just passed, where some Royal Marines were occupied with a swivel gun and checking their arms and powder. Marines were always busy, he thought.

Sullivan took the weight on his bare soles, so hardened and calloused over the years that he scarcely felt the tarred ratlines, and linked an arm through the shrouds.

The ship had been up and about since before first light, as he had known she would be. He could still taste the rum on his tongue, the pork in his belly. It was a hard life, but he was as content as any true sailor could be.

He peered up at the black shrouds, the big main topsail filling and emptying while the wind tried to make up its mind. No need to hurry. It was too dark to see more than a few yards. He shifted the knife which he carried across his spine like most seamen, where it could not snare anything, but could be drawn in a second.

He smiled. Like the Jack in the shantyman's song when they had weighed anchor, he thought. Sullivan had been in the navy for as long as he could remember. Good ships and foul ones. Fair captains and tyrants. Like the shanty. The old knife was about the only possession he still owned from those first days at sea.

He could smell smoke and grease and heard a splash alongside. The galley fire had been doused; the ship was cleared for action. He sighed. From what he had heard,
Unrivalled
would be well out of it when the guns started to roar. He thought of the captain's face. He was feeling it. He grinned. A real goer, like his uncle to all accounts. But a man. Not afraid to stop and ask one of his men what he was doing, or how he felt. Rare, then.

He began the final climb, pleased that he was not breathless like some half his age. He saw the masthead pendant streaming away to leeward towards the larboard bow. Lifting, then curling again, undecided. He grinned again. Like the bloody admiral.

He reached his position in the crosstrees and hooked his leg around a stay. The wind was steady enough, from the north-east, but the bluster had gone out of it. That would mean that overnight the other ships would have drifted off their stations.

A bombardment, they said. He rubbed his chin doubtfully. It was to be hoped that the admiral knew what he was about. A two-decker made a fine target. It only needed some heated shot to upset the best-laid plans.

He shaded his eyes as the first sunlight played across the sails and braced yards; it was a view which never failed to stir him. People you knew, moving about the deck like ants, and other, isolated scarlet coats like those in the maintop. Marks of discipline, like the blue and white uniforms on the quarterdeck and down by the foremast at the first division of eighteen-pounders. His eyes crinkled as he recalled his captain climbing up to join him. No fuss, no swagger. He had just sat here with him. Not too many could say that.

He could see the coloured bunting scattered over the deck by the flag lockers. Signals to be made and answered, once
Frobisher
was in sight. He could see some of the others now, the bigger
Prince Rupert,
sails apparently limp and useless, and a frigate just off her starboard quarter. That would be
Montrose,
although she was well off station.

He felt the mast shiver, shrouds murmuring as the wind pressed into the topsails again.
Unrivalled
was standing well up to windward, while nearer the coast the whole squadron might become becalmed.

He stared beyond the larboard bow again, but the coast was still little more than a shapeless blur. There could be a mist, too.

He turned his head as a cloud of sea birds took off suddenly from the water and circled angrily over the ship. The spirits of dead Jacks, they said. Surely, he thought, they could find something better to come back as?

He laughed and began to whistle softly to himself. Whistling was forbidden on board a man-of-war, because it could be mistaken for the pipe of a boatswain's call.
They
said. It was more likely because some old admiral in the past had said as much.

That was another part of it. The freedom. Up here, you were your own man. Experience taught you the shades and colours of the sea that governed your life. The depths and the shoals, the sandbars and the deeps. Like when young Captain Bolitho had taken her right through that narrow strait . . . Even Sullivan had felt uneasy about that.

He peered down again and saw one of the midshipmen training his telescope, adjusting it for a new day. And he remembered the captain's surprise, that time when he had proved his skill as a lookout.

He glanced at his arm, the tattoos of ships and places he could scarcely remember. They all swore that they hated it, but what else was there? Perhaps when
Unrivalled
eventually paid off . . . He shook his head, dismissing it. How many times had he said that?

He looked up again and the whistle died on his lips. For only a moment longer he held on to the view, the wheeling gulls, the pale deck far below, the men who were his companions from choice or otherwise.

He held one hand to his mouth, surprised that he had been caught out.

‘Deck thar! Sail on th' starboard bow!'

He was too old a hand to consider pride. He was, after all, a good lookout.

JOSHUA CRISTIE, THE
master, watched his captain stride from the chart to the compass box, and said, ‘Wind's still holdin' steady from the nor'-east, sir.'

Adam Bolitho stared at the great span of hardening canvas, the masthead pendant reaching out towards the bow like a lance.

He said, ‘Make to Flag.
Sail in sight to the west.
' He paused long enough to see Midshipman Cousens and his signals party bending double to fasten the flags into order for hoisting, and caught sight of Bellairs turning from the rail, his eyes anxious, as if he were concerned that someone else was carrying out what had been his duty before his examination for lieutenant.

He forgot them as he raised a telescope and levelled it on the flagship. The other ships were badly scattered, and
Frobisher
's yards seemed to be a mass of signals as Rhodes tried to muster his command.

It was not long before Cousens shouted, ‘Acknowledged, sir!' But it felt like an age. Then Cousens called again, ‘
Disregard, Remain on station
.'

Adam turned away. ‘God damn him!'

Galbraith joined him. ‘Shall I send Bellairs aloft, sir? Sullivan's a good hand, but . . .'

Adam looked at him. ‘There is a ship, right enough, and we both know which one she is!'

He swung round again as a rocket exploded like a small star against the dusty shoreline. The bomb vessel was moving into position between the flagship and the old fortifications.
Rhodes'
show of strength.
Adam knew that anger was blunting his judgment, but he could not help it. If Algiers had any doubts before, they would be gone now.

Even if it was the Dutch frigate, one such ship could do little against Rhodes' array of force.

He thought of the response to his signal. Like a slap in the face, which would soon be known to every man here today. It was cheap. And it was dangerous.

He saw Napier standing by the companion hatch and said, ‘Here, take my coat and hat.' He saw Galbraith open his mouth as if to protest, then close it again. Perhaps he was embarrassed to see his own captain making a fool of himself, or maybe he felt it as a slight on his ability that he had not been consulted.

If I am wrong, my friend, it is better for you to know nothing.

Jago was here too, but took his sword and tucked it under his arm without comment.

Adam strode to the shrouds, where he turned and looked back at Galbraith.

‘Trust me.' That was all.

Then he was climbing the ratlines, his boots slipping on the taut cordage, his hands and arms grazed by rigging he did not even feel. As he drew level with the maintop the marines stared at him with surprise, then some of them grinned, and one even gave a cheeky wave. Perhaps the man whose brother was a corporal in the flagship.

On and on, higher and higher, until his heart was pounding at his ribs like a fist.

He took Sullivan's hard hand for the last heave up on to the crosstrees, and gasped, ‘Where away?'

Sullivan pointed without hesitation, and might even have smiled as Adam dragged out the small telescope which could easily be slung over one shoulder.

The light was still poor, high though he was above the tilting deck, but the other ship was a frigate right enough. Standing away, with all plain sail set and filling to the fresh north-easterly.

He swung the glass to larboard and studied the scattered ships. The two liners were on course again,
Frobisher
in
the lead, with
Matchless
and
Montrose
standing well away on either quarter. And, far away, her masts and topsails shimmering in haze, was
Halcyon,
the admiral's ‘eyes', leading the squadron.

Then he saw the bomb vessel
Atlas
and found time to pity her commander as he sweated to work his ship into a position from which he could fire. From here it was all a sand-coloured blur, with only the slow-moving ships making sense. Adam had been aboard a bomb vessel during the campaign against the Americans, and
Atlas
seemed little improved. Bluff-bowed, and very heavily constructed for her hundred feet in length; bombs were always hard to handle. Apart from two immensely heavy mortars, they also carried a formidable armament of twenty-four pounder carronades as well as small weapons to fight off boarders. But the mortars were their reason for being. Each was thirteen inches in diameter and fired a massive shot, which, because of its high trajectory, would fall directly on top of its target before exploding. Adam felt his own ship riding over again to the wind. They could keep their bomb vessels . . .

Sullivan said, almost patiently, ‘I reckon that when the light clears a bit we'll see the other ship, sir.'

Adam allowed the glass to fall on to its sling and stared at him.

‘I saw the frigate. Surely there's no other.'

Sullivan gazed beyond his shoulder. ‘She's there, sir. A big 'un.' He looked directly into his eyes. Not the captain, but a visitor to his world. ‘But I reckon you already knew that, sir?'

Adam gazed down at the deck. The upturned faces. Waiting . . .

‘There could only be one. The merchantman that left Malta when
Atlas
sailed.
Aranmore
.'

Sullivan nodded slowly. ‘Might well be, sir.'

Adam reached across and touched his leg. ‘A prize indeed.'

He knew Sullivan was leaning over to watch him descend. Even the marines in the fighting top remained quiet and unsmiling as he clambered down past the barricade and its swivel gun, the daisy-cutter, as the sailors called them. Perhaps they saw it in his face, even as he felt it like a tightening grip around his heart.

Galbraith hurried to meet him, barely able to drag his eyes away from the tar-stained shirt and the blood soaking through one knee of his breeches.

‘I think the frigate is chasing
Aranmore,
Leigh.' He leaned on the chart, his scarred hands taking the weight.

Galbraith said, ‘Suppose you're wrong, sir?'

Cristie forced a grin, and said, ‘There was only one man who was never wrong, Mr Galbraith, an' they crucified
him
!'

Adam lingered on the warning, and knew what it must have cost Galbraith to say it.

‘But if I'm not? If the Algerines capture
Aranmore,
' he hesitated, loathing it, ‘it will make Lord Rhodes a laughing-stock. The hostages could be used for bargaining, and so much for “a show of strength”.'

Galbraith nodded, understanding. Experience, instinct; he did not know how it came about. And he was ashamed that he was glad the choice was not his. Nor probably ever would be.

He watched the captain's face as he beckoned to Midshipman Cousens. Outwardly calm again, his voice unhurried, thinking aloud while he held out one arm to allow his coxswain to clip the old sword into position.

‘Make to Flag, Mr Cousens.
Enemy in sight to the west, steering west-by-south.
' He saw Cristie acknowledge it. ‘
In pursuit of
 . . .' He smiled at the youth's frowing features. ‘Spell it out.
Aranmore
.'