Second to None

by Alexander Kent

  He had known Galbraith was watching him as he had read from the worn and salt-stained prayer book. He smiled. His aunt Nancy had given it to him before he had joined Hyperion.

  Take good care of it, Adam. It will take good care of you.

  It was the only thing he still possessed from that day, a lifetime ago.

  He looked up now at the monkey-like figures of seamen securing sails, and freeing the boat tackles. How long this time? What orders? His mind refused to submit. And what of a ship named La Fortune?

  The dying man might have been mistaken, his reeling mind betraying him, clinging perhaps to a memory which, like him, was now dead.

  But suppose? There had been many French ships at sea when Napoleon had abdicated. The two frigates which had engaged Frobisher on the day of his uncle’s death had not come from nowhere.

  ‘Orders, sir?’

  ‘Post sentries, Mr Galbraith. I don’t want any unlawful visitors. And have a boat prepared for the purser – he’ll need to go ashore to look for fruit.’

  Even a man-of-war invited attention when she lay at anchor. With gunports left open to afford some relief to men off watch, there was easy access for dealers and women, too, given half a chance. He smiled again, privately. Especially a man-of-war.

  A boatswain’s mate called, ‘Guardboat coming alongside, sir!’

  Galbraith seemed to come abruptly out of his habitual reserve.

  ‘Letters from home, maybe, sir? We might learn what’s happening!’

  Adam glanced at him, this Galbraith who was still unknown to him.

  ‘Passenger on board, sir!’ He thought Bellairs sounded disappointed. ‘A lieutenant, sir!’

  Adam walked to the entry port, and saw the officer in question shaking hands with the Royal Marine lieutenant who was in charge of the boat. A tall man, dark hair streaked with grey. Adam clenched his fist without realising it. It had to come. But not now, not like this. He was unprepared. Vulnerable.

  Perhaps Bethune had been trying to warn him at Gibraltar.

  Galbraith said uncertainly, ‘I do not recognise him, sir.’

  ‘Why should you?’ He touched his arm, aware of the sharp sarcasm. ‘Forgive me. My rank does not afford me a licence to insult you.’ He stared at the entry port. ‘He is – was – my uncle’s flag lieutenant. And friend.’

  Then he walked to meet his visitor, and all he could feel was envy.

  Lieutenant George Avery seated himself in a high-backed chair and watched as the cabin servant placed two goblets of wine on a table. The chair felt hard, unused, like the ship herself.

  Strange how it became with ships, he thought. In a King’s ship you always expected to see a familiar face, catch a name you had once known. The navy was a family, some said; you were always a part of it.

  He had been introduced to the senior lieutenant, a powerfully built man with an honest face and a firm handshake. But he was a stranger.

  He studied the captain. He had been prepared for this meeting, although he guessed Adam Bolitho had been disconcerted by it.

  But it was not that. He observed him now, in profile as he wrote briefly on a pad for a small, sickly-looking man who must be a clerk.

  They had met several times, and Avery had always remembered his quick, observant approach to his work and the people he met, in retrospect always youthful, always restless. Like a young colt, Richard Bolitho had once said.

  The resemblance was there, to the portraits in the house in Falmouth. And, above all, to the man he had served, and had loved.

  We are about the same age, but whereas he has his career and his future ahead like a beacon, I have nothing. Adam Bolitho and his uncle had been kept apart far more than they had been together, and yet, in his mind, Avery had always thought of one as being in the mould of the other. It was not so. Adam had changed in some way, matured as was inevitable for any man of his rank and responsibility. But it went far deeper. He was guarded, withdrawn. Perhaps still unable or unwilling to accept that the cloak, the guardian presence, was gone, that there was not even a shadow.

  Adam was looking at him now, holding out the goblet.

  ‘You will like this.’

  But he was not telling him; he was asking him to share something.

  Avery held up the goblet, and thought of the wines she had sent aboard for Richard Bolitho.

  ‘I am told that you saw Lady Somervell when you were in England, sir? Before you sailed.’

  ‘Aye. She was concerned that I would not care enough to order some wine for myself!’ Then he did smile, and, only briefly, he was the young, headstrong officer Avery had first met.

  Avery said, ‘She never forgets,’ and the smile faded. Like sunlight dying even as you watched, he thought.

  ‘We were at Falmouth . . . I pray to God she is able to come to terms with this terrible loss.’ He changed tack swiftly, in the manner Avery remembered. ‘And what of you? Shall you remain here in Malta?’

  Avery put down the goblet. It was empty, and he could taste the wine on his lips, but he did not recall drinking it.

  ‘I am able to elaborate on the information already to hand, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘Sir Richard had cause to meet Mehmet Pasha, the man who commands and governs in Algiers. I was with him, and was privileged to share the intelligence we gained there. If I may be of help?’

  He moved his shoulder and Adam saw him wince: the old wound which had brought him down and had cost him his ship. We have so much in common. He had seen his own flag cut down in surrender when, like Avery, he had been too badly wounded to resist. And he also had been a prisoner of war, before making his escape. A court martial had cleared and had praised him. The verdict could just as easily have destroyed him.

  He said, ‘I would be grateful. Sir Graham Bethune has very little on which to proceed.’

  Above and around them the anchored frigate was alive with shipboard sounds, and once during their conversation he got up and closed the cabin skylight against them. As if, for these moments, he wanted to share it with nobody else.

  Avery spoke evenly and without any obvious emotion, but Adam understood what it was costing, and what it meant to him. At last, here was someone who had been there. Had seen what had happened.

  Avery said simply, ‘I saw him fall.’ The tawny eyes were distant. He almost smiled. ‘Allday was with me.’

  Adam nodded, but dared not speak or interrupt. For Avery’s sake, but mostly for his own.

  Avery was looking at the sloping stem windows, and the anchored ships beyond.

  ‘He was the bravest and the most compassionate man I ever served, ever knew. When I was pulled out to your ship just now, I almost asked to be taken ashore. But I had to come. Not out of duty or respect – they are mere words. Not even because it was your right to be told. Above all, I thought I would feel resentment, because you are here and he is not. I now know that I did the right thing. He spoke of you often, even on the day he fell. He was proud of you, of what you had become. More like a son, he said.’

  Adam said, quietly, ‘Did he suffer?’

  Avery shook his head.

  ‘I think not. He spoke to Allday. I could not hear what he said, and I had not the heart to question him afterwards.’

  Afterwards.

  Avery’s eyes moved to the table, and the envelope which was addressed to Vice-Admiral Bethune.

  ‘I shall take it to him when I leave, sir.’

  Duty, so often used as an escape from tragedy. Adam had learned it the hard way, better than most.

  He said, ‘You could return later. We might sup together. Nobody else.’ He felt like a hypocrite, but was glad when Avery declined. ‘Tomorrow, then. There will be a conference, I believe?’

  Avery glanced down, and almost unconsciously plucked a solitary gold thread from his coat. Where he had once worn a twist of gold lace to distinguish him as an admiral’s aide, his flag lieutenant.

  Bethune would already have one of his own, as Valentine Keen had had at Halifax. There
could be resentment.

  Avery said, ‘If you so requested, I should be pleased . . .’ He smiled again, faintly, as though his mind were somewhere else. ‘Honoured to accompany you. I can still stand a fair watch, and I have nothing to go home for as yet.’

  Adam recalled that Avery was the nephew of Sillitoe, that man of power whose name was rarely out of the newssheets. Another nephew. Another coincidence.

  He held out his hand. ‘I’m glad you came. I’ll not forget.’

  Avery took a small package from his pocket and unwrapped it with great care.

  The locket. He had seen his uncle wearing it whenever he had been on deck with his shirt unfastened. As I do. He took it and held it to the sunlight, the perfect likeness, Catherine’s bare shoulders and high cheekbones. He was about to turn it over to examine the inscription when he saw the broken clasp and severed chain. As clean a cut as if done by a knife. His fingers closed tightly upon it. No knife. The marksman’s shot must have done it.

  Avery was watching him.

  ‘I have been unable to find a local craftsman with skill enough to repair it. I would have sent it to her . . . Now, I think it better that you should be the one, sir.’

  They faced one another, and Adam understood. In his way Avery had been in love with her also. Now that she needed help, there was no one.

  ‘Thank you for saying that. Perhaps I shall be able to return it myself.’

  Avery picked up his hat, knowing he would do nothing of the kind. Suddenly he was pleased at what he had done. He looked at Adam, and for a fleeting moment he saw the other face. He smiled. Like a good flag lieutenant.

  Galbraith was at the entry port when they came on deck, and saw them shake hands, as if each was reluctant to break the contact. He noticed, too, that the visitor paused and glanced almost involuntarily at the mainmast truck, as if he still expected to see a flag there.

  In his cabin once more, Adam took out the locket and read the inscription, and her voice seemed to speak to him as it did whenever he received a letter from her.

  May Fate always guide you.

  May love always protect you.

  She must have remembered those words when she had watched Unrivalled standing out into Falmouth Bay. As she would always look for the ship which would never come.

  He turned as Galbraith appeared by the open screen door.

  ‘Concerning tomorrow, sir?’

  It was the only way. Perhaps Galbraith understood, and in time might share it.

  ‘Take a glass with me first, eh?’

  He slipped the locket into his pocket, out of sight. But the voice still persisted.

  ‘There is something we must discuss, before I meet the vice-admiral tomorrow. You see, I have a plan . . .’

  It was a new beginning for all of them.

  5

  A Contest

  LIEUTENANT LEIGH GALBRAITH strode across the quarterdeck and reported, ‘The watch is aft, sir!’ Like his unerring steps over and past ringbolts and other obstacles, it was part of an unchanging routine at sea. He even touched his hat to the shadowy shape of Lieutenant Massie, whom he was about to relieve.

  It was still quite dark, but when his eyes eventually became accustomed he would see the approach of dawn in the fading stars, the hardening of the horizon. Massie stifled a yawn.

  ‘West-by-south, sir.’ He stared up at the pale outlines of the sails, filling only occasionally with the wind across the starboard quarter.

  Galbraith glanced at the helmsmen, eyes flickering in the shaded light from the compass. Other shapes were moving into position: the morning watch, when the ship would come alive again.

  Galbraith looked at the tiny glow from the cabin skylight. Was the captain awake, or was it a ploy to keep the watch on its toes?

  He thought of Captain Bolitho’s return from his meeting with the vice-admiral. Galbraith had no idea what had been said, but the captain had come back on board barely able to conceal his anger.

  Galbraith tried to dismiss it. At first light they would sight and resume contact with another frigate, Matchless of forty-two guns. She had been in the Mediterranean for three years attached to one squadron or another, and would therefore be very familiar with shipping movements and the lurking danger of pirates. Corsairs.

  Matchless was commanded by a senior post-captain named Emlyn Bouverie, a man who came from a proud naval family, and was thought likely for promotion to flag rank in the near future. Galbraith did not know him, but those who did apparently heartily disliked him. Not a tyrant or martinet like some he had known, but a perfectionist, who was quick to reprimand or punish anyone who fell below his own high standards.

  He said, ‘You are relieved, sir.’ He lifted the canvas hood from the master’s chart table and peered at the log with the aid of a tiny lantern. They would sight land before noon, according to Cristie. He had never known him to be wrong.

  He steadied the light with care. The coast of North Africa: to most sailors a place of mystery and strange superstitions, and best avoided.

  He studied Cristie’s fine handwriting. 6th June, 1815. What would this day bring?

  Captain Bolitho had called his officers and those of senior warrant rank together in his cabin. Galbraith straightened his back and glanced at the skylight again. Remembering it.

  The captain had described the mission. A visit to Algiers, to investigate. Their intentions were peaceful, but guns’ crews would exercise twice a day all the same. It was said that Algiers was protected by some six hundred guns. It would not be much of a contest if the worst happened.

  The captain had looked at their faces and had said, ‘There was a French frigate named La Fortune in the Western Mediterranean before Napoleon’s surrender. Others too, and it is known that the Dey of Algiers and the Bey of Tunis have offered sanctuary to such men-of-war in exchange for their services. The prisons are still filled with Christians, people snatched from passing vessels, and held on no more serious charge than their religious beliefs. Torture, slavery, and open acts of aggression against merchantmen sailing under our protection – the list is endless. With our “allies” . . .’ he had made no effort to conceal his contempt ‘ . . . we had a chance to put paid to this piracy once and for all. Now with Napoleon at the head of his armies again, the Dey in particular may use our predicament to gain even more control of these waters, and beyond.’

  Somebody, Galbraith had thought Captain Bosanquet of the Royal Marines, had asked about the sailor they had rescued and later buried at sea.

  Captain Bolitho had answered shortly, ‘Probably one of many.’ And again something like bitterness had crept into his voice. ‘Which is why Captain Bouverie intends to make a peaceful approach. Vice-Admiral Bethune’s squadron is hard pressed as it is. He sees no alternative.’

  Bouverie was the senior captain, as he reminded them often enough by hoisting signals at every opportunity. Galbraith half-smiled. He would make a good admiral one day.

  The master’s mate of the watch said softly, ‘Cabin light’s out, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Woodthorpe. I am glad you are awake!’ He saw the man’s teeth in the dimness.

  How would it be this time? He thought of the moment when they had shared wine together; it had shown him another side of Adam Bolitho. He had even touched on his early days at sea as a midshipman, and had spoken of his uncle, his first captain. Opening out, demonstrating a warmth which Galbraith had not suspected.

  After his visit to the flagship, he had shut that same door. At first Galbraith thought that he had expected some priority, a preference because of his famous surname, and had resented Bouverie’s slower, more cautious approach. But Adam Bolitho was a post-captain of some fame, and had not come by it easily. He would be used to Bouveries in the navy’s tight world.

  It was deeper than that. Driving him, like some unstoppable force. Something personal.

  Like the brigantine, which might or might not be following Unrivalled. Twice on this passage they had sighted an un
known sail. The lookouts had not been certain; even the impressive Sullivan could not swear to it. But Captain Bolitho had no such doubts. When he had signalled Bouverie for permission to break company and give chase, the request had been denied with a curt negative.

  Galbraith had heard him exclaim, ‘This is a ship of war! I’m no grocery captain, damn his eyes!’

  Galbraith recognised the light step now, and heard his passing comment to the master’s mate. Then he saw the open shirt, rippling in the soft wind, and remembered the savage scar he had seen above his ribs when he had found him shaving in his cabin. He was lucky to be alive.

  Bolitho had seen his eyes, and said, ‘They made a good job of it!’ And had grinned, and only for a second or so Galbraith had seen the youth override the experience and the memories.

  A good job. Galbraith had heard the surgeon mention that when Adam Bolitho had been captured, more dead than alive, he had been operated on by the American ship’s surgeon, who had in fact been French.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Galbraith. Everything is as it was, I see?’ He was looking up at the topsails. ‘I could make her fly if I got the word!’

  Pride? It was stronger than that. It was more like love.

  He moved to the compass box and nodded to the helmsmen, and their eyes followed him further still, to the canvas-covered table.

  ‘We shall exercise the main battery during the forenoon, Mr Galbraith.’

  Galbraith smiled. That would go round the ship like a fast fuse. But it had to be said that the gun crews were improving.

  ‘And call the hands a quarter-hour earlier. I expect a smart ship today. And I want our people properly fed, not making do with muck!’

  Another side. Captain Bolitho had already disrated the cook for wasting food and careless preparation. Many captains would not have cared.

  He was holding the same little lamp, but did not seem to be looking at the chart, and Galbraith heard him say quietly, ‘June sixth. I had all but forgot!’

  ‘May I share it, sir?’

  For a moment he thought he had gone too far. But Adam merely looked at him, his face hidden in shadow.