The calls trilled and Adam saw Christie climbing from his boat. Tall, a keen, intelligent face; probably posted a year or so after me. The sort of man who would catch any woman’s eye. The frigate captain.
But when he raised his hat to the guard and quarterdeck Adam saw the legacy of that terrible day.
Above either ear his hair was not merely greying, it was white, as if it had been dyed. The touch of war.
The meeting in Unrivalled was brief, Adam sensing both the urgency and the relief of this rendezvous.
One of the wardroom messmen served refreshments, and he was surprised that Christie chose rum.
He said, “My supplies are all in chaos. His lordship has kept us busy indeed. I am glad the muddled thinking is over and done with.”
Adam waited while Yovell unfastened the envelope, and looked up sharply at his visitor as Christie said, “Lord Exmouth sent word to the Dey. Surrender all the Christian slaves, and disband the fleet of renegades—pirates, I’d call them—or defeat is inevitable.” He smiled for the first time, and Adam could see him as Tyacke’s midshipman at the Nile. “Needless to say, it was ignored. The emissary was damned lucky to leave alive!”
Adam glanced at the messman, face very intent, ears taking full note of everything that was being said.
He thought of Napier. The sea was calm enough, for the moment. O’Beirne might take the opportunity to extract that one, dangerous splinter.
“Lord Exmouth is joined by a Dutch squadron, six good ships to all accounts. But between ourselves, I’d prefer to act without anyone else becoming involved.”
Adam recalled Jago making much the same remark. “Let the meneers stay away an’ smoke their own pipes.” The war was over. The mistrust was not.
He stood up and walked to the stern windows, feeling the jerk and tremble of the big rudder. Ready to go. To obey.
He heard himself say, “The day after tomorrow, then.” August twenty-seventh. Exactly a month since Bellairs had given him her note. Here.
Christie had his hat in his hand, and his glass stood empty. “I must leave. Lord Exmouth is all in haste. He insisted you were to be found without delay.”
Adam followed him to the door. The last in the line. And the first to lead.
“You have a fine ship, Captain Bolitho.” But there was no envy.
Adam said, “After this, perhaps you may return to England.”
Christie faced him; the messman and the rigid marine sentry meant nothing. They could have been quite alone.
“England has nothing to offer me. They would take my ship from me. Without her . . .” He broke off, and said almost abruptly, “I could ask for no better ship or captain in the van.” He shook Adam’s hand, lingering over it. “If you meet Captain Tyacke again . . .” He could not continue.
But when the marine guard and side party stood in swaying ranks to show respect, one ship to another, they saw only the two captains.
Galbraith waited for the gig to bear off from the side and watched some of his own seamen’s eyes, critical or impressed as their station dictated. It was something no landsman would ever understand, he thought.
He looked up at the men aloft, and standing loosely by braces and halliards. Waiting for the next order. Their captain would tell them, but everybody from the cook’s slush-monkey to the elegant captain of Royal Marines would already know. And soon, sooner rather than later, these guns would be in action again. In earnest and without mercy.
He glanced towards Lieutenant Varlo, who was up by the fore-mast with Rist, the master’s mate.
The wardroom had been empty, which was rare in any ship. Even the messmen had been elsewhere; he had made certain of that.
There had been just the two of them. Varlo had been confi-dent, almost amused as he had told him what he thought of his behaviour in general, and in particular over the flogging.
Galbraith had lost his temper. Something he had sworn to avoid. Something he had wanted to do.
Varlo had said, offhandedly, “The captain could have told me himself, if he had thought it important. In all my experience, I’ve never heard such abuse. As first lieutenant you are entitled to dictate matters of duty if or when it is justified. This is not. I’ll take no insolence from any lout, drunk or sober—I’ll see the backbones of anyone who tries it!”
Galbraith had listened to his own voice. A different sound, another person.
“In all your experience. I was forgetting. Forgive me.” He had seen the slight smile forming. Strangely, it had helped. “Flag lieutenant to a flag officer, albeit a junior one. But he thought highly of you, his aide, so much so that anybody might have expected further promotion.” The smile had gone at that point. “Instead, you were appointed to Unrivalled, to fill a dead man’s shoes, as it happens. I know some who would have killed for the post, but to a flag lieutenant surely something more promising should have been offered!”
Varlo had snapped back, “I don’t know what you mean!”
It had gone far enough. Now, he knew for certain. Soon they would fight.
He had said, “The admiral wanted to end it there. Your liaison.”
Varlo had stared at him, stunned. He had seen him just now, watching him from the foremast trunk. Shock, fury, and something far deeper.
How silent the wardroom had seemed. Even the sounds of rigging and timbers were stilled.
Then Varlo had said softly, “Had we been ashore, anywhere but in this ship, I would have called you out, and you would have danced to a different tune!”
Galbraith had walked to the door. “Do your duty, and remember that you rely on our people, just as they, poor devils, have to depend on you.” He had turned, half expecting a blow or another threat, and had said, “Next time, Mister Varlo, ensure that the admiral is safely married, eh?” The pretence was ended. “And call me out when and where you wish. You’ll find me ready enough!” He could still hear the door slamming behind him, and remembered the shock and the shame of his own words. But no regrets.
“Get the ship under way, if you please.” The captain was looking at him, his hat still grasped in one hand. “I will speak to the people tomorrow. It may be the last chance.”
Galbraith understood, and turned to call a boatswain’s mate. But something made him hesitate.
“You can rely on me, sir.”
The other frigate was already spreading more canvas and going about, the gig hoisted and stowed.
Adam thought of her captain, Robert Christie, who had served under James Tyacke at the Nile. We are of the same mould, the same generation. A face you could trust when the signal for close action was flying.
He felt the chill again. The warning.
They would never meet again.
Joseph Sullivan, the ship’s best lookout, settled himself comfortably on his perch in the crosstrees and glanced down at the deck far below. It was hard to believe that none of them down there could see what he could see. Not yet. They had been roused early, but nothing out of the normal run of things, almost unhurried, he thought. But purposeful, in earnest. A good breakfast, too; he could still taste the thick slices of pork, washed down with a pint or more of rough red wine. And, of course, some rum. A proper issue, with officers and warrant ranks looking the other way when the older hands pulled out their hoarded supplies. After all, you never knew if it was the last tot in this world.
He looked across the bow and studied the array of ships. They appeared still and unmoving in the morning sunlight, but they were coming right enough, a fleet the like of which they might never see again. Liners keeping perfect formation in the low breeze, all sails set and drawing well, considering. Not yet stripped for action. Frigates too, staying up to windward, ready to run down like terriers if the admiral so ordered. Dutchmen in their own squadron. He drew his knife and carved himself a wedge of chewing tobacco. He had been at sea almost all his life, or all that he could remember. He knew what was essential. Like the changing scarlet pattern of marines, mere puppets from up her
e, being arranged on the quarterdeck, some to be stationed at hatchways and what the old hands called bolt-holes, where a terrified man might run at the height of battle. A marine would prevent it. There was nowhere to run anyway, but only experience taught you that.
Sullivan was at a loss. The fine model of his old ship Spartiate, which had stood in the line at Trafalgar, was finished. It was hard to recall exactly when he had begun it. In his last ship they had pulled his leg about it. But he and the model were still here. The others were not.
He peered down again. More figures about now. On edge, wanting to get on with it. Get it over. He saw steam rising from the sea alongside, and loosened a last piece of pork from his teeth. The galley fire had been doused. Almost time now.
He twisted round and looked at the shore, no longer a shadow, an unending barrier of sand and stone. He could see the headland, a sudden stab of light, the sun reflecting from a window or telescope. He measured it with his eye. Three miles. It would be noon before they were close enough. He thought of the captain, yesterday, when they had cleared lower deck to hear him speak from the quarterdeck.
It was strange at such times, he thought. Unrivalled carried some 250 souls of every age and rank, and in a crowded hull you would expect to know every man-jack of them. And yet, packed together on deck or clinging to shrouds and ratlines to listen, you still found yourself beside someone you had never met before.
Every man-of-war, no matter how crowded, was divided by rank, status, and station. Soon the pattern would change again. Gun crews and powder monkeys, sail-handling parties, and men to repair damage. He watched the land, as if it had altered in some way. Others to drag away the wounded, or to pitch the dead overboard.
The captain had told them about the Christian slaves, and the murder and persecution of helpless people taken at sea or on land in the Dey’s name.
He had heard Isaac Dias, the foul-mouthed gun captain, mutter, “They can only spare a few poxy schooners to put screws on the slave trade down south, eh, lads? But it’s a whole bloody fleet for the Christians!” It brought a few grins; it did not do to fall out with Unrivalled’s best gun captain. Sullivan smiled to himself. He was useless for anything else.
He wondered what the captain thought about it. Really thought. His ship, his men, and his neck if things went badly wrong. He had asked his coxswain about him, but Jago was as tight as a clam. “He’ll do me,” was his only reply. Funny, for a man who had always loathed officers.
Sullivan looked at the fleet again. It was not possible, but they were closer now. He could see the Cross of St George at the masthead of the big three-decker at the head of the line, Queen Charlotte. The admiral’s ship; a hundred guns or more, they said. The enemy had prepared and well-sited artillery. In all his years at sea he had heard the arguments about ships set against shore-mounted guns. He grinned. Who would be an admiral today?
He looked down between his bare feet at the great main-yard angled below him, overlapping either beam. Young Midshipman Cousens had fallen across it when he had been thrown from up here. If I had been with him . . . He shut it from his mind. He was not here. Another face had moved on.
He saw that the marines were climbing into the fighting-tops, marksmen, and a few to handle the deadly swivel guns, which could kill or maim more of your own mates than the enemy if badly laid and trained. Daisy-cutters. Invented by somebody who never had to use one, he thought.
He realised that one of the marines was gesturing at him with his musket. Sullivan waved. Somebody was coming . . . Did he never sleep? Sullivan had seen the skylight shining throughout the night, and had heard of him visiting the magazine, where Old Stranace the gunner ruled the roost, and even the sickbay, where his servant shared the space with the man who had been flogged. His lip curled. Because of Mister bloody Varlo. Like Sandell, he would not be missed.
He looked suddenly at his big, rough hands; scarred and pitted with tar, but they could still fashion a perfect ship’s likeness.
Would I be missed?
He watched the captain climb the last few feet, hatless, his brown face shining with sweat. He was still able to smile.
“A fine day for it, Sullivan!”
Surprisingly, he thought of an earlier captain he had served. In a boat’s crew, he had accidentally brushed against the officer as they had come alongside the ship. The captain had damned his eyes for it, and had threatened to have him charged with assault. But at least you knew where you were with a bloody-minded tyrant.
Sullivan was close enough to reach out and touch him. A man like himself, without the authority and the Articles of War. He sighed. It was no use. Jago was probably right.
He saw the captain touch his side and take some deep breaths, his eyes first on the shore, then up to the masthead pendant, as if to take the measure of the wind.
Adam was aware of the lookout’s scrutiny. One of Unrivalled’s best seamen, but more than that, like one of a ship’s strongest timbers. The men you lead.
He studied the array of ships, and wondered how the brooding land mass would appear to the admiral. Like sailing into a giant trap. He checked the wind again. Almost easterly, as Cristie had assured him it would be this day. “Off this patch of the coast it’s more likely easterly than westerly. Very definite, it is.” He’d said it without a trace of a smile. Perhaps it was something he had had drummed into him many years ago, in this same sea.
He thought suddenly of the studio at the old house with the ruined chapel. Deserted now. Empty. She would know all about these waters, when the Pharaohs had ruled, and before that. Another world.
He looked at Sullivan.
“Noon?”
Sullivan nodded. “As near as hell’s kitchen, sir.”
They both laughed, and some of the marines in the maintop leaned out to try and hear.
He looked down at the ship again. Undisturbed, unhurried, as he had intended. It would be hard enough for them to stand to their guns and take the first onslaught without all the usual clam-our and call to arms. But soon now. Very soon.
He pictured Midshipman Deighton, with his telescope trained on the flagship. Just one signal, and Unrivalled with Halcyon close astern would lead the attack.
Galbraith had said, when they had discussed the possibilities, “Simple enough, if you don’t think too much about it!”
Surprisingly relaxed, even cheerful. He would need all of that today. If only he had been able to sleep, but it had evaded him. Except once, when he had fallen into an exhausted doze, neither one thing nor the other.
Then he had seen her, watched her fighting, her screams silent but no less terrible. The shapeless, beast-like forms holding her down, exploring her nakedness, tormenting and entering her.
He had awakened, fighting off the blanket, his body running with sweat, calling her name.
He had almost expected Napier to burst in from the pantry, but as his mind quietened he had remembered that he was still in the sickbay.
He had dragged on his shirt and gone through the ship, speaking with watchkeepers or men who were merely squatting on deck, like himself unable to sleep, without knowing what he had said or heard in reply.
But the dream had remained, stark and terrible. As it must have been.
He had found Napier asleep, the confined space heavy with rum.
O’Beirne had been there with one of his assistants, checking his instruments, which had glittered and shivered on the table as if they were alive.
He had said, “He took it well, sir. It was a deep incision—I found the thing after a struggle.” He had almost smiled. “Brave lad. His only worry seems to be that he wants to be with you when the action begins.”
Adam had put his hand on the boy’s bare shoulder, and had seen the frown ease away from his unconscious face. As if he had known.
“You shall have your pony ride, my lad. Be sure of that.”
He had left, the others staring after him.
He came out of his thoughts and realised that th
e foretop had also been occupied by a squad of marines. He looked at the land. A thousand guns, or more. Again he tested his feelings, but there was no fear, no uncertainty. It was more like a dull acceptance.
He felt inside his breeches pocket. The little note was there. All he had.
He thrust his leg out from the crosstrees and waited for the pain. There was none. That, too, was numb.
He said, “Remember, Sullivan?”
He grinned, the youthful eyes very bright in an old seaman’s face.
“Aye, sir. For th’ King!” Then, as if surprised at what he was doing, he reached out and shook hands.
Adam took his time, pausing occasionally to stare through the rigging at the panorama of ships and sails. And men, hundreds of them . . . into the inevitable.
I want you in the van.
He swung out and around the shrouds and dropped the last few feet to the deck. Cristie gave him a quick, crinkled smile.
Captain Luxmore, “the true soldier ,” as Galbraith had called him, looked as if he were about to mount a parade or a guard of honour. The new wheel was fully manned; Midshipman Deighton, assisted by young Martyns, a mere child, was with his small party of men by the flag locker. Bellairs, Rist, and Varlo, who was up forward again by the first division of eighteen-pounders. Unsmiling, even subdued. He wondered what Galbraith had said to him.
High above the main deck the chain-slings had already been shackled to the yards, to prevent heavy spars falling on to men working at sails or guns. Nets would be spread as well, and most of the boats cast adrift before they closed still further with the land. Always a bad moment for the sailors in any ship, but necessary; flying splinters cut down more men than any solid shot.
Two small fifers were standing by the weather side, moistening their instruments with their tongues, their eyes on their captain.
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