Second to None

by Alexander Kent

  Allday touched his arm. ‘Lead on.’ It was worth it just to see the idlers on the jetty staring down at them. The loud-mouthed one could put that in his pipe and smoke it!

  He threw his leg over the gunwale and said, ‘So long as I’m not being pressed!’

  Some of the oarsmen grinned. Because they think I’m too bloody old.

  ‘Bear off forrard! Out oars! Give way together!’

  Then the midshipman turned to stare at him, and said, ‘Never fear, sir, they’ll be up to your standard soon!’ And he was proud of it.

  Allday looked around, avoiding the eyes as the seamen lay back on their looms, unable to accept it. The midshipman knew who he was. Knew him.

  Eventually he managed to ask, ‘And who is your captain?’

  The boy looked surprised, and almost misjudged the tug of the tiller-bar.

  ‘Why, Captain Tyacke, sir! Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag captain!’

  Allday looked up at the fierce kestrel with its spread wings, at a seaman using a marlin spike but pausing in the middle of a splice to peer down at him. Captain James Tyacke. A face from yesterday. Or half a face, with that terrible disfigurement, his legacy from the Nile.

  And the midshipman stood and removed his hat as the boat hooked on to the main chains, and Allday climbed up the ‘stairs’ to the entry port. His mind was too crowded to record that he did it with ease and without pain.

  It was like one of those things you think about, in a dream or a part-remembered story from someone else. A lieutenant greeted him, older than most for his rank, so probably from the lower deck. Come up the hard way. He had heard Tyacke speak of others like that. From him, with his qualities of seamanship and professional skill, there was no higher praise.

  Beneath the quarterdeck, his mind trying to take in everything. Neat stands of pikes, and smartly flaked lines. The smell of fresh paint and new cordage. Just months since he had seen Bolitho fall, had caught and held him to the last. Tyacke had been there, too, but because of the close action he had been prevented from leaving his men. He nodded to himself, as if someone had spoken. Yesterday.

  A Royal Marine sentry drew his boots together as the lieutenant tapped on the screen door. She could have been any ship . . . He almost expected Ozzard to open the door.

  But it was Captain Tyacke. He shook his hand, waved aside all formality and guided him into the great cabin. Through the broad, sloping stern windows Allday was aware of Carrick Roads, stationary masts and moving patches of sails. But, in truth, he saw none of it.

  Tyacke seated him by a table, and said, ‘I called at Falmouth in the hope that I might see Lady Somervell. But when I sent word to the house I was told that she is in London.’ He looked at the skylight, and made no attempt, as he had used to do, to turn aside to hide the hideous scars.

  Allday said, ‘She would have wanted to see you, sir.’

  Tyacke held up his hand. ‘No rank here. I shall write to her. I am under orders for the West African station. But when I saw you through the glass just now, I had to speak with you. Chance, like happiness, does not come so easily.’

  Allday said, awkwardly, ‘But we thought . . .’ He tried again. ‘My wife Unis was certain that you were to be married, if and when Frobisher was paid off. I thought you might spend some time ashore.’ He tried to grin. ‘You’ve earned it more ‘n most!’

  Tyacke glanced at the adjoining sleeping cabin, glad that his big sea chest had at last been taken below. His companion for so many years. Thousands and thousands of miles logged, icy gales and blistering heat. Guns and death. The chest had been standing near the door of Marion’s house, waiting for men to come and take it to his new command. This ship.

  He said, ‘I always thought I’d like to return to Africa. Their lordships were good to me, and granted my request.’ He looked up at the skylight again; maybe he could see the mainmast truck from there. No admiral’s flag any more. A private ship. His own.

  Allday heard someone bringing glasses. He thought of Unis, how lucky he was to have her.

  Tyacke was speaking again, with no discernible emotion in his voice.

  ‘It would not have worked, you see. The two children . . .’ He touched his scarred face, reliving it. ‘I can understand how they felt about it.’

  Allday watched him sadly. No, you don’t.

  Tyacke gestured to the unknown servant.

  ‘Nelson’s blood, am I right?’

  Allday saw the servant give him a quick glance, and was glad he had put on his best coat today. As if he had known.

  ‘It will do me good to get away from all of it. There’s nothing for me here. Not any more.’ Tyacke took a full goblet. ‘It’s something we shared, were a part of. Nothing can alter that.’ He swallowed some of his drink, his blue eyes very clear.

  Then he said, after a silence, ‘He gave me back my pride, my hope, when I had thought them gone forever. I’ll never forget him, and what he gave to me.’ He smiled briefly. ‘It’s all we can do now. Remember.’

  He poured another generous measure of the rum and thought of Marion, her face when he had left the neat house, the children hiding in another room. Another man’s home, another man’s children.

  Then he stared around the cabin and knew it was what he wanted. It was the only life he knew, or could expect.

  Back to the anti-slavery patrols where he had been serving when he had first met Richard Bolitho. The trade was more extensive and more lucrative than ever despite all the treaties and promises; the slavers would have the pick of the ships as soon as this war was finally ended. Like the ones which had been there that day. When he had seen him fall, and this big, shambling man with the goblet almost lost in one of his hands had held him with a tenderness which few could imagine. Unless they had shared it. Been there. With us.

  He smiled suddenly. And he never had told Marion about the yellow gown which he had always carried in that old sea chest.

  Later in the afternoon they went on deck. There was a hint of mist below Pendennis Castle, but the glass was steady and the wind was fair. Kestrel would clear harbour before most good people were awake and about their business.

  Allday stood by the entry port, feeling the ship stir slightly beneath his fine shoes. He was surprised that he could accept it, without pain and without pity. He would never lose it, any more than the tall captain with the burned and melted face would forget.

  The jolly-boat was already coming alongside, and the same midshipman was at the tiller. For some reason Allday was glad of it.

  They faced one another and shook hands, each somehow knowing they would not meet again. As was the way with most sailors.

  Tyacke waved to the boat, and asked, ‘Where to now, old friend?’

  Allday smiled. ‘Goin’ home, Cap’n.’

  Then he walked to the entry port, and paused and touched his forehead to the quarterdeck, and to the great ensign curling lazily from aft. For John Allday, admiral’s coxswain, it would never end.

  He climbed down into the boat and grinned at the young midshipman. The worst part was behind him.

  The midshipman eased over the tiller-bar and said shyly, ‘Will you, sir?’

  Allday nodded, and waited for the bowman to cast off.

  ‘Bear off forrard! Out oars! Give way together!’

  It would never end.

  10

  Captain To Captain

  LUKE JAGO MADE his way unhurriedly aft, his lean body angled easily to the deck. Unrivalled was heading west again, steering close-hauled on the starboard tack under topsails and topgallants, the wind light but enough to hold her steady.

  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 h
ammocks, 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.