Second to None

by Alexander Kent

  And there were many who still believed Spain harboured enemies who had already taken advantage of Napoleon’s downfall to settle old scores in these waters, to resume piracy and the running of slaves to a ready market in America and the Indies, despite the laws so piously passed to forbid it. The new allies. Would it last? Could they ever forget?

  A cutter pulled strongly past the counter and the crew tossed oars in salute, a midshipman in charge rising to remove his hat within the shadow of the flagship. His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Montrose of forty-two guns was little different from any other frigate to the casual observer, but Bethune knew that his blue command flag at the fore made her unique.

  He heard voices beyond the screen door. His flag captain, Victor Forbes, was a brisk, no-nonsense man who was very aware that this was no longer a private ship, and that flag had made all the difference to him in particular; he had even had to vacate these quarters for his admiral. Bethune had seen the seamen and marines glancing at him when he took his regular walks up and down the quarterdeck. A far cry from the Thames Embankment or the London parks, but it was better than nothing. He touched his stomach. He would not let himself go to seed like some of the flag officers he knew. In case . . . In case what?

  Tomorrow Montrose would weigh and return to Malta, unless new orders came to direct otherwise. It was becoming ever more difficult to keep a part of his mind in the world of the Admiralty, to assess or disregard the next possible strategy, which had once been so clear to him. Even to know the true deployment of the allied armies, or whether Napoleon was indeed fighting a rearguard action.

  Today he might receive fresh information. That was the irony of it. The ship which had been sighted just an hour ago was Unrivalled. He had felt a certain involuntary shock when he had seen his flag lieutenant’s report in the log, Unrivalled (46). Captain Bolitho. Not like a step forward; rather, looking back. The names, the faces . . .

  And now Adam Bolitho was here. In a new ship. At least I was able to send word of that before he was struck down.

  He clenched his fists. He had heard one of the seamen saying to his mate when they had been splicing below the quarterdeck:

  ‘I tell ’ee, Ted. We’ll ne’er see his like again, an’ that’s God’s truth!’

  The sailor’s simple tribute, shared by so many. And yet, like so many, that unknown sailor had never laid eyes on Richard Bolitho.

  The door opened and he saw Captain Forbes looking around the cabin, probably to ensure his admiral had not changed it out of all recognition.

  ‘What is it, Victor?’

  The reflected sunlight was too strong for him to see the captain’s expression, but he sensed it was one of uncertainty, if not actual disapproval.

  We are about the same age, and yet he behaves like my superior officer. He tried to smile, but it would not come.

  Captain Forbes said, ‘Unrivalled has anchored, sir.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘She’s big. We could have done with a few more like her when . . .’

  He did not go on. There was no need.

  ‘Yes. A fine ship. I envy her captain.’

  That did surprise Forbes, and this time he was unable to conceal it. His vice-admiral, who was both liked and respected, and would no doubt rise to some even more exalted post when the Admiralty directed, lacked for nothing. He could use favour or dislike as he chose, and no one would question him. To profess envy was unthinkable.

  ‘I shall make the signal, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Captain repair on board.’ How many times he had seen it break out at the yard, for himself and for others. And now for Adam Bolitho. Every new meeting like this one would be an additional strain. For us both.

  Forbes was still here, hand on the screen door.

  ‘I was thinking, sir. Perhaps we might entertain Unrivalled’s captain. I’m sure the wardroom would be honoured.’ He hesitated under Bethune’s stare. ‘You know the way of it, sir. Word from home.’ He added warily, ‘You would be our guest too, of course, sir.’

  ‘I am certain Captain Bolitho would be delighted.’ He looked away. ‘I would also be pleased. None of us should ever forget how or why we are here.’

  He heard Forbes marching across the quarterdeck, calling for the midshipman of the watch. Bethune had not even seen him leave the cabin.

  Unrivalled was joining his squadron. This was the best way. He thought of Bolitho again. No show of favouritism.

  But they would have a glass together first, while he read his despatches from that other world. He smiled again, and it was very sad. No looking back.

  Adam Bolitho sat in one of the cabin chairs and crossed his legs, as if the action would force him to relax. He had been greeted very correctly when he had climbed up Montrose’s tumblehome, amid the twitter of boatswain’s calls, the slap and crack of muskets being brought to the present under a cloud of pipeclay. All due respects to a captain, and he wondered why it surprised him. He had been so received aboard many ships large and small, and in all conditions. When it had been hard to prevent his hat from being blown away, or with a boat cloak tangling around his legs. He had never forgotten a story his uncle had told him about a captain who had tripped over his own sword and pitched back into his barge, to the delight of the assembled midshipmen.

  Perhaps, like the vice-admiral sitting opposite him, turning over the pages of his despatches with practised speed, he too had changed. On his way across to the flagship he had glanced astern at his own command. Above her reflection, sails neatly furled, all boats in the water to seal their seams, she would make any would-be captain jealous. And she is mine. But as of this moment she would be a part of a squadron, and, like her, he would have to belong. He watched Bethune’s bowed head, the lock of hair falling over his brow. More like a lieutenant than a Vice-Admiral of the Blue.

  It had been an awkward meeting, which even the din of the reception could not hide or cover. Friends? They were hardly that. But they had always been a part of something. Of someone.

  He had mentioned the brigantine and his suspicions to Bethune. It would be in his report, but he felt he should use it to dispel the lingering stiffness between them. Instead of dismissing it, the vice-admiral had seemed very interested.

  ‘It is the kind of secret war we are fighting out here, Adam. Algerine pirates, slavers – we are sitting on a powder keg.’

  Bethune looked up suddenly. ‘It seems the lords of the Admiralty are as much in the dark as we are!’

  Adam said, ‘You would know better than most, sir.’ They both laughed, the tension all but gone.

  He liked what he saw. Bethune had an open, intelligent face, a mouth which had not forgotten how to smile. He knew from Catherine’s letters that she had trusted him. He could understand why.

  Bethune said, ‘I almost forgot. When we reach Malta I should have more information to act upon.’ He was making up his mind. ‘There is a Lieutenant George Avery at my headquarters there. You will know him?’

  ‘Sir Richard’s flag lieutenant, sir.’ He felt his muscles tense, but made another attempt. ‘They were very close, I believe. I thought he had returned to England in Frobisher.’

  ‘I did not force him to stay, but his knowledge is very valuable to me – to us. He was with Sir Richard when he dealt with the Algerines. And with a certain Spanish connection.’ He smiled slightly. ‘I see that interests you?’ He turned as muffled thuds came from the direction of the wardroom. Adam knew of the invitation, and that Montrose’s captain would be there also. As a guest, as was the custom, although Adam had never known any captain refused entry to a wardroom in his own ship.

  Bethune said, ‘In any case, I did not have to press Lieutenant Avery. It seems he has nothing for which to return.’

  I have a ship. George Avery has nothing.

  ‘I look forward to meeting him again. My uncle,’ he hesitated, ‘and Lady Somervell spoke highly of him. As a friend.’

  Bethune picked up his untouched glass of wine.

  ‘I give you a
sentiment, Adam. “To absent friends.”’ He drank deeply and grimaced. ‘God, what foul stuff!’

  They both knew it was to hold at bay something far deeper, but when Captain Forbes and his first lieutenant arrived to escort them to the wardroom, they sensed nothing unusual.

  Adam saw Forbes’ eyes rest briefly on the old Bolitho sword, which lay beside Bethune’s.

  Why had he not seen it for himself? How could he have doubted it? It was still there, like a hand reaching out.

  The lifeline.

  3

  A Matter of Pride

  SIR WILFRED LAFARGUE waited while Spicer, his clerk, gathered up a bulky file of documents, and then folded his hands on the empty desk.

  ‘I foresee several problems, perhaps serious ones, arising in the near future. But insurmountable? I think not.’

  Normally, such a comment would leave a client hopeful, if not entirely satisfied. But Lafargue, as a lawyer and the senior partner of this prestigious firm which bore his name, was conscious only of its lack of substance.

  He knew it was because of his visitor, standing now by the far window in this vast office. It was Lafargue’s favourite view of the City of London, and the dome of St Paul’s, a constant reminder of its power and influence.

  Lafargue was always in command; from the moment the tall doors were opened to admit a client, potential or familiar, his routine never varied. There was a chair directly opposite this imposing desk, forcing the client to face the full light of the windows, more like a victim than one who would eventually be charged a fee which might make him blanch and reconsider before returning. Except that they always did return.

  But this one was different. He had known Sillitoe for a good many years; Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick, as he now was. The Prince Regent’s Inspector-General, and a man of formidable connections long before that. Feared, hated, but never ignored. Those who did regretted it dearly.

  Sillitoe was a man of moods, and this again unsettled Lafargue; it broke the pattern of things and was disconcerting. Restless, unable to remain still for more than a few minutes, he seemed disturbed by something which had not yet been revealed.

  Lafargue, as usual, was expensively dressed, his coat and breeches cut by one of London’s leading tailors, but the clothing could not completely disguise the signs of good living which made him appear older than his fifty-eight years. Sillitoe on the other hand had never changed; he was lean, hard, as if anything superfluous or wasteful had long since been honed away. A good horseman, he was said to exercise regularly, his secretary panting beside him while he outlined one or another of his schemes. He was also a swordsman of repute. For Lafargue it made the comparison even more difficult to accept. Sillitoe was the same age as himself.

  Sillitoe was motionless, watching something below, perhaps the carriages wending their way towards Fleet Street, perhaps merely waiting for something. Lafargue saw that the doors were once more closed; Spicer had departed. As senior clerk he was invaluable, and although he appeared to be very dull he never missed the slightest nuance or inflection. Even here, at Lincoln’s Inn, which Lafargue considered the very centre of English law, there were some things which should and must remain private. This conversation was one of them.

  He said, ‘I have studied all the deeds available. Sir Richard’s nephew Adam Bolitho, once known as Pascoe, is deemed the legal heir to the Bolitho estate and adjoining properties as listed . . .’ He stopped, frowning, as Sillitoe said, ‘Get on with it, man.’ He had not raised his voice.

  Lafargue swallowed hard. ‘However, Sir Richard’s widow and dependant, the daughter, will have some rights in the matter. They are supported by the trust instituted by Sir Richard. It may well be that Lady Bolitho will want to install herself at Falmouth where she did, in fact, enjoy a conjugal residency at one time.’

  Sillitoe rubbed his forehead. What was the point? Why had he come? Lafargue was a celebrated lawyer. Otherwise neither of us would be here. He controlled his impatience. Lafargue would act when the time came. If it did . . .

  He looked across at the other buildings, the small green expanses of parks and quiet squares, and saw St Paul’s. Where the nation, or a select few, would gather to pay homage to a hero. Some with genuine grief, others there only to be seen and admired. Sillitoe had never understood why any sane man would volunteer to spend his life at sea. To him, a ship was only a necessary form of transport. Like being caged, unable to move or act for himself. But he had accepted that others had different views, his nephew George Avery among them.

  When they had last met he had offered him a position, one both important and, in time, lucrative. Sillitoe never threw money to the winds without proof of ability, and his nephew was a mere lieutenant, who had been passed over for promotion after being taken prisoner by the French; he had been freed only to face a court martial for losing his ship.

  Any other man would have jumped at the opportunity, or at least shown some gratitude. Instead, Avery had returned to his appointment as Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag lieutenant, and must have been with him when he had been killed.

  He said flatly, ‘And what of Viscountess Somervell?’ He did not turn from the window, although he heard the intake of breath. Another lawyer’s ploy.

  ‘In the eyes of the law, she has no rights. Had they been at liberty to marry . . .’

  ‘And the people? What will they say? The woman who inspired their hero, who displayed courage when most would fall back in despair? What of her part?’

  He knew Lafargue would think he was referring to Catherine’s bravery and strength in the open boat after the shipwreck; he was intended to. But Sillitoe was seeing something very different, something which had preyed on his mind and had never released him since he and his men had burst into the house by the river. Bruised and bleeding, stripped naked and with her wrists tied cruelly behind her back, she had fought her attacker. Sillitoe had held her against his body and covered her with a sheet or curtain, he could not remember what it had been or the exact order of things. His men beating her attacker, dragging him down the stairs, and then those moments alone with her, her head against his shoulder, her hair beautiful in disarray.

  A nightmare. And he had wanted her. Then and there.

  ‘The people? Who listens to the people?’ Lafargue was regaining his self-control. His old arrogance.

  Sillitoe turned his back on the city, his face in shadow.

  ‘In France they listened. Eventually!’

  Lafargue watched him, sensing the bitterness, the anger. And something else. He recalled Catherine Somervell coming here to consult him, at Sillitoe’s suggestion, on a matter of purchasing the lease of a building where Bolitho’s estranged wife lived, at her husband’s expense. Belinda Bolitho had been horrified to discover that her home was owned by the woman she most hated. A woman scorned.

  Lafargue’s eyes sharpened professionally. No, there was far more to it than that. He watched Sillitoe, dressed all in grey as was his habit, move swiftly to the opposite side of the room. He had the ear of the Prince Regent, and when the King, drifting in madness, eventually died, who could say to what heights he might not rise?

  Lady Somervell . . . he had thought of her as Catherine just now, which showed that he was unusually overwrought . . . was the key. Lafargue remembered her entering this room. She had walked straight towards him, her eyes never leaving his. To call her beautiful was an understatement. But a symbol could be soiled, and envy and spite were well known to Lafargue in the world of law.

  They had praised Nelson to the skies, and those who had cried out the loudest had been the biggest hypocrites. A dead hero was safe, and could be remembered without anxiety or inconvenience.

  Edward Berry, Nelson’s favourite flag captain, had once quoted, God and the navy we adore, when danger threatens but not before.

  Napoleon was said to be in retreat; it might soon be over. Not like the last time. Truly over . . .

  How soon after that would those same people turn on the
woman who had defied society and protocol for the man she loved?

  He ventured, ‘If Lady Somervell were to remarry . . . Her husband was killed in a duel, I understand.’

  Sillitoe sat down abruptly. Everyone knew about Somervell, a gambler and a waster who had used much of Catherine’s money to extricate himself from debt. A man who had plotted with Bolitho’s wife to have his mistress imprisoned and transported as a common thief. One of Bolitho’s officers had called him out and had mortally wounded him. He had paid for it with his own life.

  I would have killed him myself.

  How much did Lafargue really know?

  He would know, for instance, that the post of Inspector-General had once been Viscount Somervell’s. Another bitter twist.

  ‘I think it unlikely.’ He tugged out his watch. ‘I must leave now.’

  Lafargue asked, too casually, ‘And how goes the war?’

  Sillitoe glanced around the room. ‘I shall see the Prince Regent this afternoon. He is more concerned with the army than the fleet at this moment. As well he might be.’

  Lafargue stood. He felt unusually drained and could not explain it. He said, ‘I have received an invitation to the memorial service at St Paul’s. The cathedral will be crowded to the full, I have no doubt.’

  It was a question. Sillitoe said, ‘I shall be there.’

  ‘And Lady Somervell?’

  Sillitoe saw the double doors open silently. Perhaps there was a hidden bell, some sort of secret signal.

  ‘She has been invited.’ Their eyes met. ‘Privately.’

  It told Lafargue nothing. He took his hat from the clerk, and sighed. It told him everything.

  Unis Allday walked slowly around the small parlour, making certain that everything was as it should be. She knew she had already done it several times, but she could not help it. Beyond the open door she could hear voices, the only two customers at the Old Hyperion inn. Auctioneers from the sound of them, on their way to Falmouth for tomorrow’s market.