He saw Midshipman Deighton standing by the flag locker with his chosen hands, frowning slightly as he studied his signals card, then he smiled at something said by a master’s mate. And he saw Lieutenant Bellairs turn from his station with the after-guard, to watch with, he thought, a certain sadness, as if seeing someone else. Then he was with his men again. He would get over it. There was no other way.
He seized the hammock nettings as the ship crashed into a long, unbroken roller. And what would be the outcome of this venture? It was the admiral’s total responsibility; his was the decision whether to call the Dey’s bluff, or commit all his ships and men to the onslaught of battle. No ship could match gun for gun with a carefully sited shore battery. And there might be heated shot, and fire, every sailor’s only real fear. According to the written orders, the Dey had mounted a thousand cannon or more, perhaps in those same old crumbling batteries he had seen for himself when he had cut out an enemy ship from the anchorage, and afterwards when Admiral Lord Rhodes had made his attack with bomb vessels and his own heavier ships in support. But too far out to find and destroy those hidden guns.
Exmouth was a frigate man. Had been. How would he perceive, and accept, a challenge which might end in disaster?
He saw Galbraith studying him, trying not to show it. He, too, was changed in some way. Troubled by his captain? Unsure of him, after what had happened?
Adam faced into the wind, coming harder now across the quarter, tasting it. Like the tears that day, fallen on his hand.
Whatever happened they must be ready, for treachery and for traps.
A voice seemed to insist, You must be ready. You.
He called, “Get the courses on her, Mr Galbraith! Another hand on the helm, too!”
He saw him lift his speaking-trumpet, men poised and ready to respond to his orders, their bodies stripped and shining with spray. Like those warriors to whom she had alluded, in the myths and traditions of ancient times of which he knew so little. She had described him as a man of war. Perhaps she had not truly understood how apt that had been. There had never been opportunity or leisure to become anything else, for the boy who had walked from Penzance to Falmouth. The frigate captain.
He heard the thunder of released canvas as it filled and hardened to the wind. Unrivalled was standing hard over, every eighteen-pounder on the weather side throwing its weight on the breechings.
They might walk together again. And she would share it with him.
He stared into the wind until the spray almost blinded him.
She must know. It came like a fist from nowhere. Why she had written that brief note, which now seemed to hold such urgency.
God be with you. It was like hearing her voice.
“More hands on the weather forebrace, Mr Fielding! Move yourselves!”
Adam stared at the land again, almost lost now in the wind and spray. A green haze, without real form or substance. It would soon be gone once they changed tack.
He waited for the ship to steady, the sails shining like metal breastplates, then he strode to the quarterdeck rail and gripped it with both hands.
Fear was an enemy, but it could be held at bay. When others looked to you, there was never any choice. The faces sometimes came back to remind him. He had seen it in Bellairs just now, Galbraith also. Seeking something, other than trust.
It was a long time ago, another voice. I don’t want to die. Please, God, not now.
But the voice was his own.
18 “PREPARE FOR BATTLE!”
LUKE JAGO stood with his legs braced against the ship’s easy motion, his hat tilted to shield his eyes from the unwavering glare. To some he might appear composed, even indifferent. Those who did not know him.
It was always the same, he thought, from the moment the order was piped through the ship. All hands! All hands, lay aft to witness punishment! It was a part of life in the navy: good or bad, you accepted it.
Often you never really knew how it had begun, or if it could have been prevented. Order, discipline, routine; he should be used to it by now.
Perhaps it was boredom. It was almost a month since Unrivalled had left Plymouth. They had caught up with the fleet at Gibraltar, anchored while many of the lame ducks were still making their final approach.
But after that the ship had spent almost all of her time at sea, keeping contact with other frigates, the admiral’s scouts, only half aware of the planning and the scheming which must have been taking place.
He glanced over the heads of the assembled company at the horizon, like molten metal from a furnace, and, beyond it, what looked like a far-off, unmoving cloud. Africa.
He heard Hastie, the master-at-arms, call, “Prisoner seized up, sir!”
Jago moved forward, a few feet behind the captain’s left shoulder, his body angled only slightly against the quarterdeck rail.
He looked briefly at the prisoner. Stripped to the waist and seized up to a rigged grating, head twisted round to stare up at the figures on the quarterdeck. A small group of midshipmen on one side, the officer of the watch, Bellairs, on the other, a mass of off-watch and unemployed sailors filling the usually busy deck, “the market-place ,” they termed it.
The watchkeepers were going about their normal affairs, on the gangways, splicing and attending to the running rigging, some working far above the deck, while topsails and jibs flapped or filled to a wind which was little more than a hot breeze.
Jago had heard the master cursing it. Maybe some fast sailing, when every man was required to work the ship, was what they needed.
The prisoner, for instance, an ordinary seaman named Bellamy, not one of the usual troublemakers or hard men. Probably just his bad luck.
He half-listened to the captain’s voice reading the relevant section of the Articles of War. Jago knew it by heart. He felt his shoulders stiffen, remembering the moment, the sickening blow of the lash across his naked back. He had been unfairly flogged; an officer had stood up for him and had proved his complete innocence. But he would carry the scars of the cat to his deathbed.
“All other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons in the fleet . . .”
Jago looked again. Two boatswain’s mates were waiting by the grating; one, Creagh, carried the red baize bag, and he saw that the other was Lawson, who had until his promotion been coxswain of the jolly-boat, and a good all-round seaman. His first flogging, and a prisoner he had probably known as a messmate.
The captain said, “Two dozen, boatswain’s mate. Do your duty.”
No heat, no contempt. But Jago knew differently.
As the arm swung back, over and down, and the cat o’ nine tails cracked across the bare skin he saw the captain’s hand tighten around his scabbard. The master-at-arms called, “One!”
Jago saw the first droplets of blood, heard the victim gasp, the air punched out of him. He had once witnessed a flogging around the fleet, on a charge of mutiny. The boat, carrying the prisoner spread-eagled on a capstan bar, had called at every ship, and each captain was ordered to award his allotted share of the punishment.
Three hundred lashes. The man had died shortly afterwards.
“Two!”
The ship leaned into a slight swell and Jago swayed forward to look at the officers.
Had it been one of the old hands, a seasoned warrant officer like Partridge, it might have ended there and then, a quick punch, or rap with a rope starter, all that was needed.
He watched Lieutenant Varlo’s expression. Impassive, and yet with each crack of the lash he saw him purse his lips. He was enjoying it.
“Eighteen!”
Jago saw O’Beirne the surgeon bending to study the prisoner’s back. He made himself do the same. He must not forget.
The man’s back was like something inhuman. Torn, flayed flesh, blackened as if burned by fire.
O’Beirne stood aside. The punishment continued.
Lawson was using the lash now, probably holding back, even though the prisoner was be
yond pain. Jago could recall a captain who had suspected leniency in one boatswain’s mate, and had threatened him before the entire ship’s company. Lay it on harder, man! Or by God you’ll change places with him!
He glanced at the captain’s sunburned hand. The knuckles were almost white around the sword at his side.
“Twenty-four!”
“Cut him down.” The captain turned aft and saw Jago’s expression. He said, “Give me an enemy I can fight, not this!”
Jago stood aside. He doubted if the captain had even seen him, or knew he had spoken aloud.
Galbraith asked, “Dismiss the hands, sir?”
Adam looked at him. He had recalled Lawson’s pleasure and pride when he had told him of his promotion. Now he would understand the other side of the bargain. The line he had crossed, which set him apart from the rest.
And Martyns, their youngest midshipman, who had come through the fighting like a brave, if inexperienced, lion. But just now, as the flogging had been carried out, that same resilient boy had been in tears.
He realised that Galbraith was still waiting.
“Yes. And I would like you to have a word with Mr Varlo at your earliest convenience.”
Galbraith turned his back to exclude the others. “I hardly think that it should come from me, sir.”
Adam removed his hat and touched his damp forehead. Why should it matter?
“Because you are experienced, and you understand the importance of standing together. If I see him myself it may well end in a court martial, his or mine, I am still undecided!” He saw O’Beirne waiting by the companion-way. “Do it!”
It was like a shutter falling. Perhaps it had never really lifted.
He seemed to hear her voice again. I want you to tell me about your life. Had it really happened? Your ship, the men you lead. What would she think if she could see him now?
O’Beirne bided his time, recognising his distress, which he guessed no one else would even imagine.
“Bellamy will be up and about soon, sir. I’ve seen far worse.”
Adam looked at him. Almost time to change tack again. An unending rectangle of sea. An invisible fleet, and a handful of small vessels holding the strings. The eyes of the fleet, Nelson had called them.
He said, “What about the lad, Napier? Can you do something for him?”
O’Beirne assessed him gravely. For you, you mean.
“Yes, sir. While this weather holds. There’s a risk, of course ...”
“No risks, please.”
He walked to the nettings as seamen and marines broke ranks and drifted away. Some hands were already scrubbing the grating and the deck, while down on the orlop the seaman called Bellamy would be drowning his agony and degradation in more rum than he could handle.
A fateful equation. Too much to drink, a loose tongue, and the wrong officer. Varlo would claim, rightly, that he was only doing his duty. An admission, not a defence.
He looked up, past the main-yard, where Cousens’s body had broken its fall to this deck, and saw the lookout, a tiny shape against the empty sky.
“Sail on th’ weather bow, sir!”
The link in the chain. It had to be. Everybody else would stay clear.
For a moment more he stared at the cloud-like outline of the distant coast. Maybe it was already over. He blinked to clear his vision and looked down at the main deck, the last traces of blood being washed into the scuppers.
It was not over. Fate, destiny, how could anyone know?
He thrust it aside. “Our best lookouts aloft, Mr Galbraith. We will alter course directly, and let her run down on us.”
“I’ll be ready, sir.”
Bellairs had been watching them, and tried to relax as the ship slowly returned to routine, normality.
He liked to think that, had he been dealing with the seaman Bellamy, he could have managed to avoid a flogging, just as he knew that in a ship’s tight world of discipline and purpose an officer’s word had to be respected. Obeyed. He thought of the girl named Jane who lived in Dartmouth, imagined her face lighting up when he walked up to her one day as a captain. With a frigate of his own . . .
Cristie called wearily, “When you can spare a moment, Mr Bellairs, I would like to have the log witnessed and signed.”
Bellairs shook himself out of it.
“At once, Mr Cristie!”
Beneath their feet, Adam walked right aft and slumped in the high-backed chair he had brought from Falmouth.
What thoughts must he have had, sitting here like this? Hopes too, before fate had marked him down. He touched the wound. He must ask O’Beirne to examine it again.
He listened to the sudden thud of feet, the muffled bark of commands, and knew he should go on deck once more.
And what of trust? He recalled Galbraith’s face. The barrier again.
Yovell appeared, without letters or documents for once.
“Shall we fight, sir?”
As one man might ask another about the weather, in some country lane.
“I believe so, Daniel.” He did not see the surprise at the casual use of his name.
Yovell said uncertainly, “I attended to the letter, sir. The legal one.” His eyes rested briefly on the chair. Perhaps remembering.
Adam listened to the thud of the tiller-head and imagined the wheel going over, Cristie watching compass and helm, Rist or another master’s mate waiting to lay the ship on her new course.
He heard the click-click-click of Napier’s shoes. Preparing to go to the sickbay.
He said quietly, “If anything should happen, to me, for instance, that boy should be cared for. He reminds me of me.” He smiled faintly. “As I believe I once was.”
Yovell said, “The surgeon is a good man, sir.”
“I am relying on it.” He stood up, his hand running over the back of the chair. He could see them all in his mind. As he would describe them to her.
The men you lead.
The door opened and Jago stepped into the cabin.
“The sail is changin’ tack, sir. A frigate. One of ours.”
He recognised the strain and was angered by it. Any captain could decide if you lived or died. But this one cared. “Sullivan is at the main, sir.”
Yovell adjusted his spectacles. He sensed the unlikely bond between them, although he did not fully understand it, yet. A man who scorned authority, and had been quick to say so. But one who had earned respect by giving his hand to Adam Bolitho. Yovell was not a seafarer, but he had noticed that when Jago entered the sentry had not even challenged him.
Adam said, “I’ll come up presently.” Their eyes met. “Call me.”
He looked around the cabin again, trying to find the words to describe it to her in his mind. But the other voice intruded.
I want you in the van.
It had already been decided.
Midshipman Deighton wedged his book beneath one arm and levelled the telescope again. “She’s Halcyon, twenty-eight, Captain Robert Christie, sir!” He peered quickly at the others, and seemed startled by the authority in his own voice.
Adam folded his arms and watched the other frigate, almost bows-on now, her sails in disarray as she changed tack to converge on Unrivalled.
Even now he could feel the shiver of memory, of instant recognition. As if he had known.
Was it only a year or so since they had last met? When Admiral Lord Rhodes had ordered Halcyon to chase and attack the big frigate Triton, the day so many faces had been wiped away. Outranged and outgunned, Halcyon had stood no chance, and Rhodes must have known it. But he had been so eager to prevent Unrivalled from giving chase that he had ordered her to remain on station. Adam had ignored the signal, and they had won the day. When Martinez, the Dey’s agent and advisor, had died, shot down by Corporal Bloxham as he had been about to fire. The day young Napier had taken the great splinter in his leg.
And yet despite the pain and the hate, the rejoicing and the sadness, one picture always stood out in his min
d. He glanced at Galbraith’s strong profile; he would recall it, too. They had swept past the mauled Halcyon and he had seen her destruction, the thin threads of scarlet running from her scuppers, as if the ship were bleeding to death. Young Deighton had been there also. And he had heard Galbraith’s voice, harsh with emotion. “They’re cheering! Cheering us!”
Somehow Halcyon had survived, and her captain with her; James Tyacke had spoken of him when they had met in Freetown. He felt his lips crack into a smile. That seemed so long ago. Tyacke had been a lieutenant in the Majestic at the Battle of the Nile, and Christie had been a young midshipman. He thought of the medal now in his strongbox. The Nile. It had affected so many in this naval family. The Happy Few . . . Where Tyacke had had half his face blasted away. Just before it had happened, he had saved that young midshipman from breaking. When Christie had become a man. A better man, he had later said to Sir Richard. He wiped his mouth with his hand. Less than two years ago, in this same Mediterranean Sea.
“Heave-to, if you please.” He saw Galbraith’s eyes. He had remembered.
Deighton called, “Have despatches on board, sir!”
He could almost feel the tension of those around and closest to him dissipate. The waiting and uncertainty were in the past. Jack always knew . . .
Cristie muttered, “Not wasting any time, is he?”
Unrivalled came round easily, her sails all aback, that same Corporal Bloxham, now a sergeant, shouting at some marines to form up at the entry port. The deck was still rising and falling heavily while the ship hove-to, so that they swayed in an untidy dance until they found their feet again.
Some of the seamen were grinning broadly. Sailor and “bullock” would never really mix.
Adam watched the frigate’s gig pulling strongly across the dark blue water, a cocked hat in the sternsheets. Christie was coming in person.
Galbraith was observing Halcyon through a telescope. For some reason, it made him feel like an intruder. Even without the glass he had seen the scarred and blistered paintwork, her figurehead still unrepaired and partly shot away. He lowered the glass. Battered and hard-worked, with obviously little time spent in harbour, but a ship any man would give his right arm to call his own.
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