Second to None

by Alexander Kent

  Two seamen carried him to the hastily rigged boatswain’s chair. Once, Lovatt cried out, the sound torn from him, and reached for his son’s hand. His eyes moved to the newly hoisted flag at the peak, the White Ensign, so fresh, so clean above the pain and the smell of death.

  He whispered, ‘Your flag now, Lieutenant.’

  Galbraith signalled to the waiting boat’s crew and saw Midshipman Bellairs peering up at him. He would learn another lesson today.

  Lovatt was muttering, ‘Flags, Lieutenant . . . We are all mercenaries in war.’

  Galbraith saw blood on the deck and realised it was his own, from the leg he had cut when climbing aboard.

  The chair was being hoisted and then swayed out over the gangway.

  He said, ‘Go with him, boy. Lively now!’

  Creagh joined him by the side as the chair was lowered into the boat, where Bellairs was waiting to receive it.

  ‘Found this, sir.’ He held out a sword. ‘Th’ cap’n’s, they says.’

  Galbraith took it and felt the drying blood adhering to his fingers. A sword. All that was left of a man. Something to be handed on. He thought of the old Bolitho blade, which today his captain had worn. Or forgotten.

  He studied the hilt. One of the early patterns, with a five-ball design, which had been so resented by sea officers when it had been introduced as the first regulation sword. Most officers had preferred their own choice of blade.

  Deliberately, he half-drew it from its leather scabbard and read the engraving. He could even picture the establishment, in the Strand in London, the same sword-cutlers from whom he had obtained the hanger at his hip.

  He stared across at his own ship, and at the boat rising and dipping in the swell on its errand of mercy.

  Better he had been killed, he thought. A King’s officer who had become a traitor: if he lived through this, he might soon wish otherwise.

  He sighed. Wounded to be dealt with, dead to be put over. And a meal of sorts. After that . . . He felt his dried lips crack into a smile.

  He was alive, and they had won the day. It was enough. It had to be.

  8

  No Escape

  DENIS O’BEIRNE, UNRIVALLED’S surgeon, climbed wearily up the quarterdeck ladder and paused to recover his breath. The sea was calmer, the sun very low on the horizon.

  The ship’s company was still hard at work. There were men high in the yards, splicing a few remaining breakages, and on the maindeck the sailmaker and his crew were sitting cross-legged like so many tailors, their palms and needles moving in unison, ensuring that not a scrap of canvas would be wasted. Apart from the unusual disorder, it was hard to believe that the ship had exchanged fire on this same day, that men had died. Not many, but enough in a small, self-contained company.

  O’Beirne had served in the navy for twelve years, mostly in larger vessels, ships of the line, always teeming with humanity, overcrowded and, to a man of his temperament, oppressive. Blockade duty in all weathers, men forced aloft in a screaming gale, only to be recalled to set more sail if the weather changed in their favour. Bad food, crude conditions; he had often wondered how the sailors endured it.

  A frigate was something else. Lively, independent if her captain was ambitious and able to free himself from the fleet’s apron strings, and imbued with a sense of companionship which was entirely different. He had observed it with his usual interest, seen it deepen in the few months since Unrivalled had commissioned on that bitterly cold day at Plymouth, and the ship’s first captain had read himself in.

  As surgeon he was privileged to share the wardroom with the officers, and during that period he had learned more about his companions than they probably knew. He had always been a good listener, a man who enjoyed sharing the lives of others without becoming a part of them.

  A surgeon was classed as a warrant officer, his status somewhere between sailing master and purser. A craftsman rather than a gentleman. Or as one old sawbones had commented, neither profitable, comfortable, nor respectable.

  In recent years the Sick and Hurt Office had worked diligently to improve the naval surgeon’s lot, and to bring them into line with army medical officers. Either way, O’Beirne could not imagine himself doing anything else.

  He was entitled to one of the hutch-like cabins allotted to the lieutenants, but preferred his own company in the sickbay below the waterline. His world. Those who visited him voluntarily came in awe; others who were carried to him, like those he had left on the orlop deck, or had seen being put over the side in a hasty burial, had no choice.

  He glanced around the quarterdeck. Here, in this place of authority and purpose, the roles were reversed.

  Unrivalled was rolling steeply despite the sea’s calmer face, lying to as she had for the entire day, with the battered Tetrarch under her lee, the air alive with hammers and squealing blocks as the boarding party had used every trick and skill known to seamen to erect a jury-rig, enough for Tetrarch to get under way again, and be escorted to Malta.

  The little brig had capsized and vanished even before many of her wounded could be ferried to safety. He had heard few regrets from anyone, and even the loss of potential prize money had seemed insignificant.

  Two ships, and the sun already low above its reflection. He saw the captain staring up at their new fore topgallant sail, while Cristie, the master, pointed out something where the topmen were still working.

  O’Beirne thought of his latest charge, Tetrarch’s captain. He had borne up well, considering the angle of the pistol shot and a great loss of blood. The ball had been fired point-blank, and his waistcoat had been singed and stained with powder smoke. Only one thing had saved his life: he had been wearing one of the outdated crossbelts which some officers had still been using when O’Beirne had first gone to sea. It had a heavy buckle, like a small horseshoe. The ball had been deflected by it, and had broken in half.

  They had stripped him naked and the loblolly boys had held him spreadeagled on the makeshift table, already ingrained with the blood of those who had gone before him.

  O’Beirne could shut his ears and concentrate on the work in hand, but his mind was still able to record the inert shapes which lay in the shadows, or propped against the frigate’s curved timbers. There had been no time to separate or distinguish the living from the dead. He had become accustomed to it, but still liked to believe he had not become hardened by it. He remembered the powder monkey who had lost a leg: it had been a challenge not to watch his face, his eyes so filled with terror as the knife had made its first incision. He had died on the table before the saw could complete the necessary surgery.

  O’Beirne had seen his surgeon’s mate scribble in a dogeared log book. The powder monkey had been ten years old.

  O’Beirne came from a large family, seven boys and three girls. Three brothers had entered the Church, two had donned the King’s coat in a local regiment of foot, another had gone to sea in a packet ship. His sisters had married honest farmers and were raising families of their own. The brother who had gone to sea was no more; neither were the two who had ‘gone for a soldier’.

  He smiled to himself. There was something to be said for the Church after all.

  He realised that the captain was looking at him. He seemed clear-eyed and attentive while he listened to what Cristie had to say, and yet O’Beirne knew he had been on deck or close to it since dawn.

  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.