Second to None (6 page)

‘Local, d' you think?'

Sullivan watched him with sudden interest. ‘Spaniard, I'd say, sir. I seen 'em afore, as far to the south'rd as Good Hope. Handy little craft.' He added doubtfully, ‘Rightly ‘andled, er course, sir!'

Adam took another look. The master was right. They would never catch her with the wind against them. And why should they care? Lose more time and distance when tomorrow they should lie in the shadow of the Rock?

It was like yesterday. He had been returning to Plymouth and it had been reported that a boat had been heading out to meet them. Not merely a boat: an admiral's barge, the flag officer himself coming to tell him, to be the first to prepare him for the news of his uncle's death. Vice-Admiral Valentine Keen. His uncle's friend. He felt the same stab of guilt; he would never lose it. Zenoria's husband. After her death he had married again. But like that moment alone in the silence of the house, he had thought only of Zenoria. What he had done.

Keen had told him what he knew, the circumstances of Bolitho's death and of his burial at sea. Nothing was definite, except that his flagship had engaged two frigates, manned by renegades and traitors who, with others, had aided Napoleon's escape from Elba; he had marched on Paris almost before the allies had recovered from the shock.

Bethune would know more of the details by now, where the frigates had taken refuge prior to their unexpected meeting with
Frobisher,
who was involved, how it had been planned. He found he was gripping the telescope so tightly that his knuckles were almost white. Spain was an ally now. And yet a Spaniard had been involved.

He repeated quietly, ‘Spaniard, you say?'

The man regarded him thoughtfully. Sir Richard Bolitho's nephew. A fire-eater, they said. A fighter. Sullivan had been at sea on and off for most of his forty years, and had served several captains, but could not recall ever speaking to one. And this one had even known his name.

‘I'd wager a wet on it, sir.'

A wet.
What John Allday would say. Where was he now? How would he go on? The old dog without his master.

Adam smiled. ‘A wager it is then. A wet you shall have!' He seized a stay and began to slide towards the deck, heedless of the tar on his white breeches. Instinct? Or the need to prove something? When he reached the deck the others were waiting for him.

‘Sir?' Galbraith, poised and guarded.

‘Spanish brigantine. He's a damned good lookout.'

Galbraith relaxed slowly. ‘Sullivan? The best, sir.'

Adam did not hear him. ‘That vessel is following us.' He looked at him directly. It was there. Doubt. Caution. Uncertainty. ‘I shall not forget that craft, Mr Galbraith.'

Wynter leaned forward and said eagerly, ‘An enemy, sir?'

‘An assassin, I believe, Mr Wynter.'

He swung away; Jago was holding his hat for him. ‘See that the wardroom mess provides a double tot for Sullivan when he is relieved.'

They watched him walk to the companion way, as if, like the two midshipmen he had seen earlier, he did not have a care in the world.

Midshipman Fielding stood examining the telescope which the captain had just returned to him. He would put it in the next letter to his parents, when he got round to it. How the captain had spoken to him. No longer a stranger . . . He smiled, pleased at the aptness of the phrase. That was it.

He recalled the time he had gone to waken the captain when Lieutenant Wynter had been concerned about the wind. He had dared to touch his arm. It had been hot, as if the captain had had a fever. And he had called out something. A woman's name.

He would leave that out of the letter. It was private.

But he wondered who the woman was.

It was like sharing something. He thought of the captain's easy confidence when he had slithered down to the
deck like one of the topmen. Perhaps the others had not noticed it.

He smiled again, pleased with himself.
No longer a stranger
.

Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune walked to the quarter window of the great cabin and observed the activity of countless small craft in the shadow of the Rock. He had visited Gibraltar many times throughout his career, never thinking that one day his own flagship would be lying here, with himself at the peak of his profession. Although a frigate captain earlier in the war, he had been surprised and not a little dismayed to discover how his post at the Admiralty had softened him.

He glanced at the dress coat with its heavy gold-laced epaulettes which hung on one of the chairs, the measure of the success which had brought him to this. He was one of the youngest flag officers on the Navy List. He had always told himself that he would not change, that he was no different from that young, untried captain in his first serious encounter with the enemy, with only his own skills and determination to sustain him.

Or from the midshipman.
He stared at the shadowed side of the Rock. Aboard the little sloop-of-war
Sparrow,
Richard Bolitho's first command.

He still could not come to terms with it. He could remember the signal being brought to his spacious rooms at the Admiralty, the writing blurring as he had read and understood that the impossible had happened: Napoleon had surrendered. Abdicated. It had ended. A release for so many, but for him like a great door being slammed shut.

He stared around the cabin, the rippling reflections of water on the low deckhead. It had seemed so small, so cramped after his life in London. He
had
changed.

He could hear the movement of the men on the upper deck, the creak of tackles as stores sent across from one of the supply vessels from England were hoisted inboard.

His thoughts returned to Catherine Somervell, from whom they were never far away. That night at the reception at Castlereagh's home, when Admiral Lord Rhodes had stunned the guests by calling Bolitho's wife to join him and share the
applause for her absent husband. When Bethune had begged to be allowed to escort Catherine to her Chelsea house, she had refused. She had been composed enough to consider him; there was enough scandal. Later he had heard of the attack at her home, a disgusting attempt to rape her by a Captain Oliphant, apparently a cousin of Rhodes. After that, things had moved quickly. Rhodes had not become First Lord as he had hoped and expected, and his cousin had not been heard of since.

He looked at the heavy coat again.
And I was ordered here
. In command of a small group of frigates entrusted with patrol and search operations, too late to relieve Sir Richard Bolitho at Malta, nor even in England when the news of his death had broken. No wonder he had changed. He had once imagined himself comfortably, if not happily, married to a woman who suited his role and shared his ambitions. Now even their life together had been soured by those events, and he suspected his wife had been a willing partner in Rhodes' attempt to humiliate and insult Catherine at that reception for Wellington.

He crossed to the opposite quarter and shaded his eyes against the glare to gaze at the mainland. Spain. It was hard not to think of it as the enemy; in Algeciras there had always been eyes watching for the arrival of a new sail, with riders ready to gallop to the next post where the message could be relayed.
Another ship from England. Where bound? For what purpose?

And there were many who still believed Spain harboured enemies who had already taken advantage of Napoleon's downfall to settle old scores in these waters, to resume piracy and the running of slaves to a ready market in America and the Indies, despite the laws so piously passed to forbid it. The new allies. Would it last? Could they ever forget?

A cutter pulled strongly past the counter and the crew tossed oars in salute, a midshipman in charge rising to remove his hat within the shadow of the flagship. His Britannic Majesty's Ship
Montrose
of forty-two guns was little different from any other frigate to the casual observer, but Bethune knew that his blue command flag at the fore made her unique.

He heard voices beyond the screen door. His flag captain, Victor Forbes, was a brisk, no-nonsense man who was very aware that this was no longer a private ship, and that flag
had made all the difference to him in particular; he had even had to vacate these quarters for his admiral. Bethune had seen the seamen and marines glancing at him when he took his regular walks up and down the quarterdeck. A far cry from the Thames Embankment or the London parks, but it was better than nothing. He touched his stomach. He would not let himself go to seed like some of the flag officers he knew. In case . . .
In case what?

Tomorrow
Montrose
would weigh and return to Malta, unless new orders came to direct otherwise. It was becoming ever more difficult to keep a part of his mind in the world of the Admiralty, to assess or disregard the next possible strategy, which had once been so clear to him. Even to know the true deployment of the allied armies, or whether Napoleon was indeed fighting a rearguard action.

Today he might receive fresh information. That was the irony of it. The ship which had been sighted just an hour ago was
Unrivalled.
He had felt a certain involuntary shock when he had seen his flag lieutenant's report in the log,
Unrivalled (46). Captain Bolitho.
Not like a step forward; rather, looking back. The names, the faces . . .

And now Adam Bolitho was here. In a new ship.
At least I was able to send word of that before he was struck down.

He clenched his fists. He had heard one of the seamen saying to his mate when they had been splicing below the quarterdeck:

‘I tell 'ee, Ted. We'll ne'er see his like again, an' that's God's truth!'

The sailor's simple tribute, shared by so many. And yet, like so many, that unknown sailor had never laid eyes on Richard Bolitho.

The door opened and he saw Captain Forbes looking around the cabin, probably to ensure his admiral had not changed it out of all recognition.

‘What is it, Victor?'

The reflected sunlight was too strong for him to see the captain's expression, but he sensed it was one of uncertainty, if not actual disapproval.

We are about the same age, and yet he behaves like my superior officer
. He tried to smile, but it would not come.

Captain Forbes said, ‘
Unrivalled
has anchored, sir.' Then, as an afterthought, ‘She's big. We could have done with a few more like her when . . .'

He did not go on. There was no need.

‘Yes. A fine ship. I envy her captain.'

That did surprise Forbes, and this time he was unable to conceal it. His vice-admiral, who was both liked and respected, and would no doubt rise to some even more exalted post when the Admiralty directed, lacked for nothing. He could use favour or dislike as he chose, and no one would question him. To profess envy was unthinkable.

‘I shall make the signal, sir.'

‘Very well.
Captain repair on board
.' How many times he had seen it break out at the yard, for himself and for others. And now for Adam Bolitho. Every new meeting like this one would be an additional strain.
For us both
.

Forbes was still here, hand on the screen door.

‘I was thinking, sir. Perhaps we might entertain
Unrivalled
's captain. I'm sure the wardroom would be honoured.' He hesitated under Bethune's stare. ‘You know the way of it, sir. Word from home.' He added warily, ‘You would be our guest too, of course, sir.'

‘I am certain Captain Bolitho would be delighted.' He looked away. ‘I would also be pleased. None of us should ever forget how or why we are here.'

He heard Forbes marching across the quarterdeck, calling for the midshipman of the watch. Bethune had not even seen him leave the cabin.

Unrivalled
was joining his squadron. This was the best way. He thought of Bolitho again.
No show of favouritism
.

But they would have a glass together first, while he read his despatches from that other world. He smiled again, and it was very sad.
No looking back
.

Adam Bolitho sat in one of the cabin chairs and crossed his legs, as if the action would force him to relax. He had been greeted very correctly when he had climbed up
Montrose
's tumblehome, amid the twitter of boatswain's calls, the slap and crack of muskets being brought to the present under a cloud of pipeclay. All due respects to a captain, and he wondered why
it surprised him. He had been so received aboard many ships large and small, and in all conditions. When it had been hard to prevent his hat from being blown away, or with a boat cloak tangling around his legs. He had never forgotten a story his uncle had told him about a captain who had tripped over his own sword and pitched back into his barge, to the delight of the assembled midshipmen.

Perhaps, like the vice-admiral sitting opposite him, turning over the pages of his despatches with practised speed, he too had changed. On his way across to the flagship he had glanced astern at his own command. Above her reflection, sails neatly furled, all boats in the water to seal their seams, she would make any would-be captain jealous.
And she is mine.
But as of this moment she would be a part of a squadron, and, like her, he would have to
belong.
He watched Bethune's bowed head, the lock of hair falling over his brow. More like a lieutenant than a Vice-Admiral of the Blue.

It had been an awkward meeting, which even the din of the reception could not hide or cover. Friends? They were hardly that. But they had always been a part of something. Of someone.

He had mentioned the brigantine and his suspicions to Bethune. It would be in his report, but he felt he should use it to dispel the lingering stiffness between them. Instead of dismissing it, the vice-admiral had seemed very interested.

‘It is the kind of secret war we are fighting out here, Adam. Algerine pirates, slavers – we are sitting on a powder keg.'