Second to None

by Alexander Kent

  Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune walked across the tiled floor and stood by one of the tall windows, careful to remain in the shadows, but feeling the heat of the noon sun like something physical. He shaded his eyes to stare at the anchored ships, his ships, knowing what made each distinct from the others, just as he now knew the faces and characters of each of his captains, from his bluff flag captain Forbes in Montrose, out there now with her awnings and windsails shimmering in the harsh glare, to the young but experienced Christie in the smaller twenty-eight gun Halcyon. It was something he could now accept, as he had come to accept the responsibility of his rank, one of the youngest flag officers on the Navy List.

  The sense of loss was still there, as strong as ever, and if anything he felt even more impatient, conscious of a certain disappointment which was new to him.

  Whenever he was at sea in Montrose he felt this same restlessness. He had confided to Sir Richard Bolitho more than once his discomfort at commanding, but not being in command, of his own flagship. Each change of watch or unexpected trill of a bosun’s call, any sound or movement would find him alert, ready to go on deck and deal with every kind of incident. To leave it to others, to wait for the respectful knock on the screen door, had been almost unbearable.

  Bethune had grasped at the chance of a seagoing appointment, having imagined that the corridors of the Admiralty were not for him.

  He had been wrong, but it was hard to come to terms with it.

  He watched the small boats pulling around the captured French frigate, La Fortune. A prize indeed. It had been a risk, and he had seen Adam Bolitho’s face clearly in his mind as he had read the report. But a risk skilfully undertaken. If their lordships required any further proof that the Dey of Algiers was intent on even more dangerous escapades, this was it.

  He recalled Bouverie’s description of the cutting-out expedition. It was wrong to take sides, and Bethune had always despised senior officers who did so, but Bouverie had given the impression that the capture of the frigate had been entirely his own idea.

  He turned his back on the grand harbour and its crumbling backdrop of ancient fortifications, and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the dimness of this room which was a part of his official headquarters. Once owned by a wealthy merchant, it was almost palatial. There was even a fountain in the small courtyard, and a balcony. In this house was the room where Catherine Somervell had made her final visit to her beloved Richard.

  Bethune had ordered that it be kept locked, and could guess what his staff thought about it. He had visited the room only once. So still, so quiet, and yet when he had thrown open the shutters the din and turmoil of Malta seemed to swamp the place. It was uncanny.

  There was a bell on a table. He had only to ring it and a servant would appear. Wine, perhaps? Or something stronger? He almost smiled. That was not like him, either; he had seen the results of over-indulgence only too often at the Admiralty.

  He walked to another window. When he thought of his wife in England, and of their two young children, he could feel only guilt. Because he had been glad to leave, or because he had not trusted his own feelings for Richard Bolitho’s mistress? It seemed absurd out here. He turned as someone tapped on the door.

  Or was it?

  It was his flag lieutenant, Charles Onslow. Young, eager, attentive. And dull, so dull. He was a distant cousin, and the appointment had been a favour to his wife.

  Onslow stood just inside the door, his hat beneath his arm, his youthful features set in a half-smile.

  ‘I am sorry to interrupt you, Sir Graham.’ He usually prefaced any remark to Bethune with an apology, not like the Onslow he had heard barking at his subordinates. Favour or not, he would be rid of him.

  ‘I welcome it!’ Bethune stared at the heavy dress coat which was hanging carelessly on the back of a chair. So many officers envied him, and looked to him in hope of their own advancement.

  I do not belong here.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A report from the lookout, Sir Graham. Unrivalled has been sighted. She will enter harbour in late afternoon if the wind prevails.’

  Bethune dragged his thoughts into the present. Unrivalled had quit her station. Adam must have had good reason. If not . . .

  Onslow added helpfully, ‘She has a ship in company. A prize.’

  Another from Algiers, perhaps, although it seemed unlikely. He was reminded of Richard Bolitho’s insistence that, unpopular though it might be with some senior officers, the bare bones of the written Fighting Instructions were no substitute for a captain’s initiative.

  Always provided that the end justified the methods.

  ‘You may signal Unrivalled when she enters harbour, Captain repair here when convenient.’

  Onslow frowned; perhaps he thought it too leisurely. Slack.

  He was turning in the doorway. ‘I all but forgot, Sir Graham.’ He dropped his eyes. ‘A lieutenant named Avery desires an audience with you.’

  Bethune plucked his shirt from his ribs. ‘How long has he been waiting?’

  ‘The secretary brought word an hour back. I was dealing with signals at the time. It was an unusual request, I thought.’

  He was enjoying it. He, more than any, would know that Avery had been flag lieutenant to Sir Richard Bolitho. He would also know that Avery had volunteered to remain at Malta to offer his assistance and the experience he had gained when he had visited the lion’s den, Algiers.

  ‘Ask him to come up. I shall apologise to him myself.’

  It was almost worth it to see the rebuke go home like the sounding-shot before a broadside.

  He made to pick up his heavy coat but decided against it.

  He heard Avery in the corridor; he had come to recognise the uneven, dragging step.

  Avery paused and gazed almost uncertainly around the room, like so many sea officers out of place on dry land. He would have to get used to it, Bethune thought.

  He offered his hand, smiling.

  ‘I regret the delay. It was unnecessary.’ He gestured to the envelope on the table. ‘Your orders. You are free to leave Malta, and take passage in the next available vessel. Go home. You have done more than enough here.’ He saw the tawny eyes come finally into focus, as if Avery’s mind had been elsewhere.

  ‘Thank you, Sir Graham. I was ready to leave.’ The eyes searched him. ‘I came to see you because . . .’ He hesitated.

  Bethune tensed, anticipating it. Avery would know this place. The room. Where there was now only silence.

  Avery said, almost abruptly, ‘I heard that Unrivalled has been sighted. With a prize.’

  Bethune did not question how he knew, although he himself had only just been told. It was something beyond explanation: the way of sailors, he had heard an old admiral call it.

  He said, ‘Forgive me. I spoke of home. It was thoughtless.’

  Avery regarded him without emotion, vaguely surprised that he should remember, let alone care. He had no home. He had lived at Falmouth. As Allday had put it often enough, ‘like one of the family’. Now there was no family.

  He shrugged. ‘I might be needed here. I have a presentiment about this prize, something Captain Bolitho and I discussed. He is a shrewd man – his uncle would be proud of him.’

  Bethune said gently, ‘And of you, I think.’ He swung round as another tap came from the door. ‘Come!’

  It was Onslow again, his eyes moving quickly from the envelope on the table to his admiral’s dishevelled appearance, coatless in the presence of a junior officer. He avoided looking at Avery completely.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Sir Graham. Another report from the lookout. The schooner Gertrude has been sighted.’

  Bethune spread his hands. ‘We are busy, it seems!’ Then he turned on his flag lieutenant, his mind suddenly clear. ‘Gertrude? She is not due for several days, surely, wind or no wind. Send a messenger to the lookout immediately.’

  Onslow added unhappily, ‘And Captain Bouverie of Matchless is here,
Sir Graham.’

  Avery said, ‘I shall leave, sir.’

  Bethune held out his hand.

  ‘Sup with me tonight. Here.’ He knew Avery disliked Bouverie, mainly, he suspected, because he had brought him back to Malta with the French frigate, when Avery would have preferred Adam’s company. The same bond which held them all together. He allowed himself to explore the thought. And Catherine, who has touched us all.

  Avery smiled. ‘I would relish that, sir.’ And meant it.

  Bethune watched him leave, and heard the uneven step retreating. There were many things to deal with: Unrivalled’s unexpected return, and the early arrival of the courier schooner Gertrude. Despatches. Letters from England, orders for the ships and men under his command. It could all wait. He would ask Adam to join them, and, out of courtesy, his flag captain as well. Show no favouritism . . .

  There would be others here tonight. He looked across at the empty balcony and the sealed shutters. Invisible, perhaps, but they would be very close.

  He realised that Onslow was still there.

  ‘I will see Captain Bouverie now. After that, I shall discuss the wine for this evening.’ He pulled on the heavy coat with its bright epaulettes and silver stars. It seemed to make a difference to everyone else around him, but he was the same man underneath.

  Poor Onslow; it was not entirely his fault. He caught him at the half-open door.

  ‘You are invited too, of course.’

  For once, Onslow was unable to control his pleasure. Bethune hoped he would not regret the impulse.

  He thought of Avery, wanting to leave this place, but afraid of the life he might find waiting for him.

  He smiled to himself and faced the door, ready to perform.

  Catherine had visited him once at the Admiralty, privately, if not actually in secret. She had removed her glove so that he could kiss her hand. The knowledge hit him like a fist. Adam, George Avery, and one of the youngest flag officers on the Navy List . . . they were all in love with her.

  The night was warm, but a soft breeze from the sea had driven away the day’s clinging humidity.

  Three officers stood side by side at an open window, watching the lights, boats bobbing like fireflies on the dark water. There were a few pale stars, and from the narrow streets they could hear singing and cheering. Earlier there had been a raucous ringing of bells, until some drunken sailors had been chased out of the church.

  Captain Forbes had made his excuses and had remained in his ship, the captured Tetrarch needing his full attention. She looked larger in harbour against the sloops and brigs, and her valuable cargo of powder, shot and supplies, to say nothing of the vessel herself, would fetch a substantial reward in the prize court.

  But even that seemed secondary, especially in this cool room with its banks of flickering candles.

  It had been a boisterous meal, interspersed with countless toasts and good wishes for absent friends. Lieutenant Onslow had been fast asleep for most of it, and even the servants had been surprised by the amount of wine he had swallowed before sliding on to the floor.

  The little schooner Gertrude had carried overwhelming news: the British and allied armies under the Duke of Wellington had met and fought Napoleon at a place called Waterloo. When Gertrude had weighed anchor to carry her despatches around the fleet there had been little more information than that, except that there had been horrific casualties in a battle fought in mud and thunderstorms, and victory had more than once hung in the balance. But it had been reported that the French army was in retreat. To Paris perhaps, although even as they waited there might still be a reverse in fortune.

  But out there in the harbour aboard ships of every size and type men were cheering, men who had known nothing but war and sacrifice. Bethune remembered that day in London when the news of Napoleon’s defeat had been brought to the Admiralty; he himself had been the one to interrupt the First Lord’s conference and announce it. Fourteen months ago, almost to the day. And since then, the chain of events which had freed the tyrant from Elba, and had set his feet once more on the march for Paris . . .

  He glanced at Adam’s profile, knowing that he was remembering also. When England’s hero, their beloved friend, had fallen to the enemy’s marksman.

  Tomorrow he must draft new orders to his captains and commanders, for no matter how the war was waged ashore the requirements for this squadron, like the whole fleet, were unchanged. To show the flag, to protect, to fight, and if need be, to intimidate, and maintain mastery of the sea which had been won with so much blood.

  Adam felt the scrutiny but kept his eyes on the dark harbour, and the place where he knew Unrivalled was lying. Thinking of them all . . . Galbraith, quietly proud one moment, openly emotional the next. The imposing surgeon, O’Beirne, forgetting himself and capering in a little jig to the shantyman’s fiddle. And the others, faces he had come to know. Faces he had once attempted to hold at a distance.

  And the prisoner, Roddie Lovatt, delirious, but reaching out for his son, speaking in both English and French with equal intensity. Adam had seen the boy, and had recalled Lovatt’s words to him. If there had been any name for the expression on the face of one so young, it could only be hatred.

  A servant had brought yet another tray of filled glasses, one of which he placed carefully with the rest where Onslow still lay snoring loudly.

  Bethune called, ‘To our special friends! They will live forever!’

  Adam felt the locket in his pocket, and shared the moment. And the guilt.

  The three glasses clinked together and a voice said, ‘To Catherine!’

  Across the darkened courtyard Bethune thought he heard her laugh.

  9

  Luckier Than Most

  UNIS ALLDAY PAUSED and brushed a stray hair from her eyes and listened to some of the customers in the ‘long room’, as her brother called it, laughing and banging their tankards on the scrubbed tables. The Old Hyperion had been busy today, busier than she could remember for some months.

  She scraped the slices of apple into a dish and stared out of the kitchen window. Flowers everywhere, bees tapping against the glass, the sun warm across her bare arms. The news of the great battle ‘over there’ had been brought to Falmouth by courier brig and had gone through the port and surrounding villages like wildfire, eventually reaching this little inn which nestled on the Helford River at Fallowfield.

  It was not a rumour this time, it was far beyond that. The people who worked on the farms and estates in the area could only speak of victory, and no longer when or if. Men could go about their affairs without fear of being called to the Colours or snatched up by the hated press gangs. The war had levied a heavy toll; there were still very few young men to be seen in the lanes or around the harbours, unless they held the precious Protection. Even then, they could never be certain how some zealous lieutenant, desperate for recruits and fearful of what his captain might say if he returned to his ship empty-handed, might interpret his duty if the chance offered itself. And there were cripples a-plenty to remind anyone who might believe that the war had kept its distance from Cornwall.

  She thought of her brother John, who had lost a leg when he had been serving with the Thirty-First regiment of foot. She could not have managed without him, when she had taken this inn and had made it prosper. Then her other John, Allday, had come into her life, and they had been wed here in Fallowfield.

  Her brother had said very little since the news of the French collapse had been shouted around the villages, and had seemed to distance himself from the customers. Perhaps he despised the lively banter and the steady sale of cider and ale which kept it close company, remembering now more than ever what the war had cost him, and all those who had stood shoulder to shoulder with him on the right of the line.

  Maybe he would get over it, she thought. He was a kindly man, and had been so good with little Kate when she had been born, with John away at sea. She inspected a pot on its hook without seeing it, and then turned to
look at the model of the Hyperion which John Allday had made for her. The old ship which had changed and directed the lives of so many, hers among them. Her first husband had served in Hyperion as a master’s mate and had been killed in battle. John Allday had been pressed in Falmouth and put aboard a frigate commanded by Captain Richard Bolitho; Hyperion had later become their ship. She would always think of them together, although she knew little of men-of-war, except those which came and left on the tide. It had seemed only right that this inn should now bear Hyperion’s name.

  John Allday was not very good at hiding things from her, neither his love for her and their child, nor his grief.

  People who did not understand always wanted to know, were always asking him, despite her warnings, about Sir Richard Bolitho. What he was like, truly like as a man. And always asking about his death.

  Allday had tried, and was still trying, to fill every day, as if that was the only way he could come to terms with it. As his best friend Bryan Ferguson had confided, ‘Like the old dog losing his master. No point any more.’

  And Unis knew that the old wound was troubling him, although if she had asked him he would have denied it. Ferguson had said that he should have quit the sea long ago, even as he had known, better than anyone, that John Allday would never leave the side of his admiral, his friend, while they were both still needed.

  Unis saw the pain in his face more frequently now, as he made himself useful about the inn, especially when he was lifting barrels of ale on to their trestles. She would get some of the other men to do it in future, if she could manage it without Allday finding out.

  She knew that he went occasionally across to Falmouth, and this was something she could not share, nor attempt to. The ships, the sailors, and the memories. Missing being a part of it, not wanting to become just another old Jack, ‘swinging the lamp’, as he put it.

  Unis often thought of the ones who had become close to her. George Avery, who had stayed here several times, and who wrote her husband’s letters at sea for him, and read hers to him. John had told her that Avery never received any letters himself, and it had saddened her in some way.