‘You’re no mere servant, Melwyn.’ She embraced her again. ‘Tomorrow, then.’
The girl said, ‘Sir Richard will expect it.’
Catherine nodded very slowly. She had nearly given in, broken down, unable to go through with it. She lifted her chin, felt the anger giving way to pride.
She said, ‘He will, indeed,’ and smiled at a memory the girl would never know or understand. ‘So let’s be about it, then!’
4
New Beginning
CAPTAIN ADAM BOLITHO ran lightly up the companion ladder and paused as the bright sunshine momentarily dazzled him. He glanced around the quarterdeck, fitting names to faces, noting what each man was doing.
Lieutenant Vivian Massie had the afternoon watch, and seemed surprised by his appearance on deck. Midshipman Bellairs was working with his signals party, observing each man to see if he was quick to recognise every flag, folded in its locker or not. It was hard enough with other ships in company, but alone, with no chance to regularly send and receive signals, there was always a danger that mistakes born out of boredom would be made.
Four bells had just chimed from the forecastle. He looked up at the masthead pendant, whipping out half-heartedly in a wind which barely filled the sails. He walked to the compass box. East-by-south. He could feel the eyes of the helmsmen on him, while a master’s mate made a business of examining a midshipman’s slate. All as usual. And yet . . .
‘I heard a hail from the masthead, Mr Massie?’
‘Aye, sir.’ He gestured vaguely towards the starboard bow. ‘Driftwood.’
Adam frowned and looked at the master’s log book. Eight hundred miles since leaving Gibraltar, in just under five days. The ship was a good sailer despite these unreliable winds, conditions which might be expected in the Mediterranean.
No sight of land. They could be alone on some vast, uncharted ocean. The sun was hot but not oppressively so, and he had seen a few burns and blisters amongst the seamen.
‘Who is the lookout?’
He did not turn, but guessed Massie was surprised by what seemed so trivial a question.
He did not recognise the name.
‘Send Sullivan,’ he said.
The master’s mate said, ‘He’s off watch below, sir.’
Adam stared at the chart. Unlike those in the chart room, it was stained and well used; there was even a dark ring of something where a watchkeeper had carelessly left a mug.
‘Send him.’ He traced the coastline with his fingers. Fifty miles or so to the south lay Algiers. Dangerous, hostile, and little known except by those unfortunate enough to fall into the hands of Algerine pirates.
He saw the seaman Sullivan hurrying to the main shrouds, his bare feet hooking over the hard ratlines. His soles were like leather, unlike some of the landsmen, who could scarcely hobble after a few hours working aloft, although even they were improving. He heard Partridge, the ship’s barrel-chested boatswain, call out something, and saw Sullivan’s brown face split into a grin.
He knew that Cristie, the master, had arrived on deck. That was not unusual. He checked his log at least twice in every watch. His entire world was the wind and the currents, the tides and the soundings; he could probably discover the exact condition of the seabed merely by arming the lead with tallow and smelling the fragment hauled up from the bottom. Without his breed of mariner a ship was blind, could fall a victim to any reef or sandbar. Charts were never enough. To men like Cristie, they never would be, either.
Adam shaded his eyes and peered up at the mainmast again.
‘Deck, there!’
Adam waited, picturing Sullivan’s bright, clear eyes, like those of a much younger man peering through a mask.
‘Wreckage off the starboard bow!’
He heard Massie say irritably, ‘Could have been there for months!’
Nobody answered, and he sensed that they were all looking at their captain.
He turned to the sailing master. ‘What do you think, Mr Cristie?’
Cristie shrugged. ‘Aye. In this sea it could have been drifting hereabouts for quite a while.’
He was no doubt thinking, why? To investigate some useless wreckage would mean changing tack, and in this uncertain wind it might take half a day to resume their course.
The master’s mate said, ‘Here’s Sullivan, sir.’
Sullivan walked from the shrouds, gazing around the quarterdeck as if he had never seen it before.
‘Well, Sullivan? A fool’s errand this time?’
Surprisingly, the man did not respond. He said, ‘Somethin’s wrong, sir.’ He looked directly at his captain for the first time. Then he nodded, more certain, knowing that the captain would not dismiss his beliefs, his sailor’s instinct.
He seemed to make up his mind. ‘Gulls, sir, circlin’ over the wreckage.’
Adam heard the midshipman of the watch suppress a snigger, and the master’s mate’s angry rebuke.
A shadow fell across the compass box. It was Galbraith, the first lieutenant.
‘Trouble, sir? I heard what he said.’
Gulls on the water meant pickings. Circling low above it meant they were afraid to go nearer. He thought of the boy John Whitmarsh, who had been found alive after Anemone had gone down.
‘Call all hands, Mr Galbraith. We shall heave to and lower the gig.’ He heard the brief, almost curt orders being translated into trilling calls and the responding rush of feet. What’s the bloody captain want this time?
He raised his voice slightly. ‘Mr Bellairs, take charge of the gig.’ He turned to watch the hands rushing to halliards and braces. ‘Good experience for your examination!’ He saw the midshipman touch his hat and smile. Was it so easy?
He saw Jago by the nettings and beckoned him across. ‘Go with him. A weather eye.’
Jago shrugged. ‘Aye, sir.’
Galbraith watched the sails thundering in disorder as Unrivalled lurched unsteadily into the wind.
He said, ‘I would have gone, sir. Mr Bellairs is not very experienced.’
Adam looked at him. ‘And he never will be, if he is protected from such duties.’
Galbraith hurried to the rail as the gig was swayed up and over the gangway.
Did he take it as a slight because one so junior had been sent? Or as a lack of trust, because of what had happened in his past?
Adam turned aside, angry that such things could still touch him.
‘Gig’s away, sir!’
The boat was pulling strongly from the side, oars rising and cutting into the water as one. A good boat’s crew. He could see Jago hunched by the tiller, remembered shaking hands with him on that littered deck after the American had broken off the action. And John Whitmarsh lay dead on the orlop.
‘Glass, Mr Cousens!’ He reached out and took the telescope, not noticing that the name had come to him without effort.
The gig loomed into view, up and down so that sometimes she appeared to be foundering. No wonder the frigate was rolling so badly. He thought of Cristie’s comment. In this sea.
He saw the oars rise and stay motionless, a man standing in the bows with a boathook. Jago was on his feet too, but steadying the tiller-bar as if he was calming the boat and the movement. The hard man, and a true sailor, who hated officers and detested the navy. But he was still here. With me.
Bellairs was trying to keep his footing, and was staring astern at Unrivalled. He held up his arms and crossed them.
Massie grunted, ‘He’s found something.’
Cristie barely spared him a glance. ‘Somebody, more like.’
Adam lowered the glass. They were pulling a body from the sea, the bowman fending off the surrounding wreckage with his boathook. Midshipman Bellairs, who would sit for lieutenant when the admiral so ordered, was hanging over the gunwale vomiting, with Jago holding his belt, setting the oars in motion again as if all else was secondary.
‘Fetch the surgeon.’
‘Done, sir.’
‘Extra han
ds on the tackles, Mr Partridge!’ The boatswain was not grinning now.
He thought again of Whitmarsh, the twelve year old who had been ‘volunteered’ by a so-called uncle. He had told him how he had drifted from the sinking frigate, holding his friend’s hand, unaware that the other boy had been dead for some while.
He turned to speak to Sullivan but he had gone. He handed the telescope to the midshipman of the watch; he did not need to look again to know the gulls were swooping down once more, their screams lost in distance. The spirits of dead sailors, the old Jacks called them. Scavengers fitted them better, he thought. He heard O’Beirne giving instructions to two of his loblolly boys. A good surgeon, or another butcher? You might never know until it was too late.
Adam walked to the side, two marines springing out of his way to allow him to pass. The gig was almost here, and he noticed that Bellairs was on his feet again.
Why should it matter? We all had to learn. But it did matter.
A block squeaked, and he knew Partridge’s mates were lowering a canvas cradle to hoist the survivor inboard. It would probably finish him, if he was not dead already.
Other men were running now to guide the cradle over the gangway, clear of the boat-tier.
Adam said, ‘Secure the gig and get the ship under way, if you please. Take over, Mr Galbraith.’ He did not see the sudden light in Galbraith’s eyes, but he knew it was there. He was being given the ship. Trusted.
The surgeon was on his knees, sleeves rolled up, his red face squinting with concentration. Large and heavy though he was, he had the small hands and wrists of a very much younger person.
‘I cannot move him far, sir.’
To the sickbay, the orlop. There was no time.
‘Carry him aft, to my quarters. More room for you.’
He leaned over and looked at the man they had pulled from the sea. From death.
One bare arm showed a faint tattoo. The other was like raw meat, a bone protruding through the blackened flesh. He was so badly burned it was a marvel he had lived this long. A fire, then. Every sailor’s most dreaded enemy.
Someone held out a knife. “E were carryin’ this, sir! English, right enough.’
O’Beirne was cutting away the scorched rags from the body. He murmured, ‘Very bad, sir. I’m afraid . . .’ He gripped the man’s uninjured wrist as his mouth moved, as if even that were agonising.
Perhaps it was the sound of the ship coming about, her sails refilling, slapping and banging as the great yards were braced hard round, or the sense of men around him again. A sailor’s world. His mouth opened very slightly.
‘’Ere, matey.’ A tarred hand with a mug of water pushed through the crouching onlookers, but O’Beirne shook his head and put a finger to his lips.
‘Not yet, lad.’
Jago was here, on his knees opposite the surgeon, lowering his dark head until it seemed to be touching the man’s blistered face.
He murmured, ‘He’s here, mate. Right here with us.’ He looked up at Adam. ‘Askin’ for the Captain. You, sir . . .’ He broke off and lowered his face again. ‘Ship’s name, sir.’ He held the man’s bare shoulder. ‘Try again, mate!’
Then he said harshly, ‘No good, sir. He’s goin’.’
Adam knelt and took the man’s hand. Even that was badly burned, but he would not feel it now.
As his shadow fell across the man’s face he saw the eyes open. For the first time, as if only they lived. What did he see, he wondered. Someone in a grubby shirt, unfastened, and without the coat and the gold lace of authority. Hardly a captain . . .
He said quietly, ‘I command here. You are safe now.’
It was a lie; he could feel his life draining away like sand in an hourglass, and even the unwavering eyes knew it.
He was using all his strength. The eyes moved suddenly to the shrouds and running rigging overhead.
Who was he? What did he remember? What was his ship? It was no use. He heard Bellairs say, ‘There were four others, sir. All burned. Tied together. He must have been the last one left alive . . .’ He could not continue.
Adam felt the man’s hand tighten very slightly in his. He watched his mouth, saw it forming a word, a name.
O’Beirne said, ‘Fortune, sir.’
Someone else said, ‘Probably a trader. They was English anyway, poor devils!’
But the hand was moving again. Agitated. Desperate.
Adam leaned closer, until his face was only inches from the dying man’s. He could smell his agony, his despair, but he did not release his hand.
‘Tell me, what is it?’
Then, with great care, he lowered the hand to the deck. The sand had run out. It was as if only one thing had kept him alive, long enough. For what? Revenge?
He rose and stood for a few moments looking down at the dead man. An unknown sailor. Then he looked around at their intent faces. Troubled, curious, some openly distressed. It was perhaps the closest he had been to them since he had taken command.
He said, ‘Not “fortune”. He got it out, though.’ The man’s eyes were still open, as if he were alive, and listening. ‘It was La Fortune. A Frenchman who sank his ship.’
Jago said, ‘Shall I have him put over, sir?’
He was still on his knees, and glanced at Adam’s hand as it rested briefly on his shoulder.
‘No. We shall bury him during the last dog watch. It is the least we can do.’
He saw Bellairs, deathly pale despite his sunburn, and said, ‘That was well done, Mr Bellairs. I shall enter it in your report. It will do you no harm.’
Bellairs tried to smile but his mouth would not move.
‘That man, sir –’
But the deck was empty, and the sailmaker’s crew would soon be stitching up the nameless sailor for his last journey on earth.
‘I intend to find out. And when I do, I shall see that he does not leave us unavenged!’
The sun stood high in a clear sky, so that the reflected glare from the anchorage was almost a physical presence. Unrivalled, with all sails clewed up except topsails and jib, seemed to be gliding towards the sprawled panorama of battlements and sand-coloured buildings, her stem hardly causing a ripple.
Adam Bolitho raised a telescope and examined the other vessels anchored nearby. Montrose, the forty-two gun frigate which Sir Graham Bethune had chosen for his flagship, was surrounded by boats and lighters. She had left Gibraltar two days ahead of Unrivalled, but from the activity of storing and watering ship it seemed she had arrived in Malta only today, more evidence of their own fast passage despite the contrary winds.
Adam was still not sure what he thought of Bethune’s decision to sail separately. In company they might have exercised together, anything to break the day-to-day routine.
He did not know the vice-admiral very well, although what he had seen of him he had liked, and had trusted. He had been a frigate captain himself, and a successful one, and in Adam’s book that rated very high. Against that, he had spent several years employed ashore, latterly at the Admiralty. Something I could never do. It might make an officer over cautious, more aware of the risks and the perils of responsibility in a sea command. He had even heard Forbes, Montrose’s captain, question the need for such caution. It was unlike the man to criticise his admiral, but they had all had too much to drink.
He moved the glass further and saw three other frigates anchored in line, flags barely moving, windsails rigged to provide a suggestion of air in the crowded quarters between decks.
Not a large force, something else which would weigh heavily on Bethune’s mind. With Napoleon at large on the French mainland again, no one could predict the direction the conflict might take. The French might drive north to the Channel ports, and seize ships and men to attack and delay vital supplies for Wellington’s armies. And what of the old enemies? There would still be some who were prepared and eager to renew their allegiance to the arrogant Corsican.
‘Guardboat, sir!’
Adam shi
fted the glass, and beyond the motionless launch saw other buildings which appeared to merge with the wall of the nearest battery.
Catherine had been here. For a few days, before she had been forced to take passage back to England.
The last time, the last place she had seen his uncle. He tried to turn aside from the thought. The last time they had been lovers.
Cristie called, ‘Ready, sir!’
Adam walked to the rail and stared along the length of his command. The anchor swaying slightly to the small movement, ready to let go, men at halliards and braces, petty officers staring aft to the quarterdeck. To their captain. He saw Galbraith on the opposite side, a speaking trumpet in his hands, but his eyes were on Wynter, the third lieutenant, who was up forward with the anchor party. Galbraith had intended to take charge himself, and Adam had been surprised by this discovery, more so because he had not noticed it earlier. A strong, capable officer, but he could not or would not delegate, as in the matter of Bellairs and the wreckage, the pathetic corpses, the screaming gulls.
He said, ‘Carry on, Mr Galbraith!’
‘Lee braces, there! Hands wear ship!’
‘Tops’l sheets! Tops’l clew lines!’
Galbraith’s voice pursued the seamen as they hauled and stamped in unison on the sun-dried planking, waiting to belay each snaking line of cordage.
‘Helm a’lee!’
Adam stood very still, watching the land pass slowly across the bowsprit and the proud figurehead.
‘Let go!’ Galbraith nodded curtly and the great anchor hit the water, flinging spray over the bustling seamen.
The Jack broke from the bows almost immediately, and he saw Midshipman Bellairs turn to smile at one of his signals party. But he had not forgotten the man they had plucked from the sea, only to surrender him again. Adam had seen the boy when they had cleared lower deck for the ceremony. Even the wind had dropped.
It had been strangely moving for new hands and old Jacks alike. Most of them had seen men they knew, and had shared their meagre resources with in one messdeck or another, pitched outboard like so much rubbish after a battle. But for some reason the burial of this unknown sailor had been different.
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