Allday opened the other door and stared past the fire. There were two people in the room already, a black dog snoozing between them.
For a moment he thought he was mistaken. The wrong surroundings. The wrong background.
Then he strode across the room and grasped the newcomer around his narrow shoulders.
‘Tom! In God’s name, Tom Ozzard! Where in hell have you been hiding?’
‘Oh, here and there. Up home in London, mostly.’
‘Well, I’ll be double-damned! You skipped off the ship the minute we was paid off. Not a word out of you. What are you doing here?’
Ozzard had not changed in one way. He was as curt and abrupt as ever, the pointed features unsmiling.
He said, ‘Thought you’d have a corner where I could pipe down before moving on.’
Moving on. Up home in London. Ozzard had no home.
‘Course you can stay, you old bugger!’
Unis observed this from the doorway, seeing all things which her beloved John did not see, or want to see. The split shoes, and the threadbare coat with its missing button, the fading hair tied back with a piece of worn ribbon. But this man was part of a world which she could only share at a distance, the life which had taken one husband and had given her another, this big, shambling man who was so glad to see one of its ghosts return. He had spoken often of Ozzard, Sir Richard’s personal servant. Like Ferguson, joined now by Yovell up at the house, he was part of the little crew.
She said gently, ‘I’ve some stew on the fire. Maybe you’ve not eaten yet.’
Ozzard stared at her with eyes which were almost hostile. ‘I haven’t come because I need anything!’
Allday said quietly, ‘Easy, Tom. You’re among friends here,’ and frowned as voices echoed from the yard. The first of the road labourers were arriving.
Unis was aware of two things. That Ozzard was wary, even distrustful of women, and that her John’s pleasure was changing to distress.
She said, ‘Come into the parlour. That lot are too noisy for greeting old friends.’
Ozzard sat silently at the table, staring around the room until his eyes came to rest on the model of Hyperion in its place of honour.
Allday wanted to talk, if only to reassure him, but was afraid to break something so tentative, so fragile.
Unis was stirring the pot in the kitchen, but her mind was elsewhere.
She said over her shoulder, ‘Of course, you being used to Sir Richard an’ the likes of other naval gentlemen, you’ll know all about wines an’ that like.’
Ozzard said suspiciously, ‘More than some, yes.’
‘I was thinking. With the trade improving on this road, you could be a help to us. To me. There’s a room over the tack store. You’d be more’n welcome until you want to move on again.’
She sensed Allday’s pleasure and added casually, ‘I can’t vouch for the money though.’
She had to say something, she thought. Anything. She had noticed the torn cuffs and broken, dirty nails. But he was one of the men who had been with her John and Sir Richard in battles she dared not even begin to imagine.
She came over with the bowl and said, ‘Game stew. Get that inside you, an’ think about what I said.’
Ozzard bowed his head and blindly picked up the spoon. Then he broke.
‘I’ve got nowhere else,’ was all he said.
Much later, when they were alone together, and the inn was quiet until the new day, Allday held her in his arms and murmured, ‘How did you know, Unis love?’
She pulled his shaggy head down to her breast. ‘Cause I knows you, John Allday. An’ that’s no error!’
She could taste the rum in his kiss, and she was content.
18
Of One Company
‘HEAVE, LADS! HEAVE away!’
With both of Unrivalled’s capstans fully manned and every available seaman putting his weight on the bars, the cable was barely moving. Adam Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck rail, his hands clasped beneath his coattails, watching the strange light and the low, scudding clouds. The harbour walls, like the waterfront buildings, seemed to glow with a dull yellow texture, and although it was morning it seemed more like sunset.
The wind had risen slightly, hot against his face, and he tasted grit between his teeth, as if they were already standing off some desert shore. He heard Midshipman Sandell shout impatiently, ‘Start that man! Put some weight on the bars there!’
And, instantly, Galbraith’s curt, ‘Belay that! The cable’s moving at last!’ He sounded impatient, frustrated, perhaps because of the time wasted here in Malta since Admiral Lord Rhodes had hoisted his flag, which had been followed by this sudden order to get the ships under way.
Clank. The iron pawl of the capstan dropped into position. Clank, and then the next one.
Someone said, ‘Flagship’s cable is shortening, sir!’
Galbraith retorted, ‘They have six hundred idle hands to play with!’
Adam looked forward where Massie was peering through the beakhead to watch the bar-taut cable. All of Unrivalled’s tonnage and the pressure of wind, set against muscle and sweat.
Clank. Clank. As if to a signal he heard the scrape of a violin and then the shantyman’s quavery voice. So many times. Leaving harbour. For the sailor the future was always unknown, like the next horizon.
When first I went to sea as a lad . . .
Heave, me bullies, heave!
A fine new knife was all I had!
Heave, me bullies, heave!
Adam relaxed slightly. To sea again. But this time under the Flag. The fleet’s apron strings, as he had heard other frigate captains describe it.
And I’ve sailed for fifty years an’ three
Heave, lads, heave!
It was coming in faster now, the capstans turning like human wheels.
To the coasts of gold and ivory!
Midshipman Sandell hurried past, pointing out something to the new member, Midshipman Deighton.
He had heard Jago remark, ‘Look at ’im, will you? Cocking his chest like a half-pay admiral!’
Another memory. What Allday had often said to describe some upstart.
He thought of Admiral Rhodes’ hurried conference aboard the flagship. He had received news of another unwarranted attack on some innocent fishermen. A battery had fired on the vessels, and then chebecks had appeared as if from nowhere and had captured or massacred the luckless crews. One of the squadron’s armed schooners had been nearby and had attempted to offer assistance, only to be driven off herself. It had been a close thing, to all accounts.
Rhodes had been beside himself with anger. An example must be made, before the weather changed yet again. He would delay no longer; all available ships must be ready to sail.
The squadron had been reinforced by a bomb vessel named Atlas. She had sailed at first light with Matchless as escort.
Adam knew from experience that bomb vessels were difficult at the best of times, being clumsy and unhandy sailers. To use just one such craft without waiting for promised reinforcements would be asking for trouble, no matter how experienced her company might be.
At the captains’ conference aboard Frobisher he had said as much. Rhodes had turned on him instantly, as if he had been waiting for the chance.
‘Of course, Captain Bolitho. I almost forgot! A frigate captain of your style and record would condemn the more controlled approach.’
Only Captain Bouverie of Matchless had laughed. The others had waited in silence.
Rhodes had continued, ‘No daring cutting-out, or some hand-to-hand skirmish with undisciplined renegades, so you consider this is not a useful undertaking!’
‘I resent that, my lord.’ The words had hung in the air, while Rhodes had made a point of studying one of his charts. ‘To break the Dey’s hold over the Algerine pirates, as he chooses to call them when it suits his purpose, a fleet action will be required.’
Rhodes had shrugged. ‘Knowledge is not necessarily w
isdom, Captain Bolitho. I trust you will remember it.’ He had looked pointedly at the others. ‘All of you.’
The shantyman’s reedy voice broke into his thoughts again.
And now at the end of a lucky life!
Massie yelled from the forecastle, ‘Anchor’s hove short, sir!’
Adam nodded, satisfied. ‘Loose the heads’ls!’ He stared up at the braced yards. ‘Hands aloft and loose tops’Is!’
Midshipman Cousens, who had not lowered his telescope and was still watching the flagship, shouted, ‘Signal from Flag, sir! General . . . Make haste!’
Adam saw the wind feeling its way into the loosely brailed topsails. It was easy to contain your anger when the enemy was so obvious.
The shantyman ended with a flourish, ‘Well, still I’ve got that same old knife!’
‘Anchor’s aweigh, sir!’
Adam walked to the opposite side to watch the land sliding away, as more men released from the capstan bars hurried to add their weight to the braces, to haul the yards round and capture the wind.
He took a telescope from its rack and trained it on the ancient battlements, and the gaping embrasures where cannon had once dominated the harbour. Where they had held one another. And had loved, impossible though it was to believe.
Galbraith had found him on deck during the morning watch, and had probably imagined he had risen early to see the bomb vessel and the weed-encrusted Matchless clearing the harbour.
Or had he guessed that he had been watching the third ship making an early departure, tall and somehow invulnerable with her spreading canvas. A merchantman, the Aranmore, bound for Southampton. Had she also been on deck to watch the anchored men-of-war, he wondered? Had she already forgotten, or locked it away, another hidden secret?
He said, ‘Take station on the Flag, Mr Galbraith, and lay her on the starboard tack once we are clear.’ He tried to smile, to lighten it. ‘As ordered, remember?’
He paced to the compass box and back again. And then there was Catherine’s letter. Perhaps it would have been better to have sailed earlier, before the latest courier had anchored. My dear Adam . . .
What, after all, had he expected? She had nobody to care for her, to protect her from malicious gossip and worse.
He raised the glass again and waited for the image to focus on the first patch of windblown water. Frobisher. Much as she had been when she had quit Malta with his uncle’s flag at the main. He had felt it when he had walked her deck, sensed it in the watching faces, though few, if any, could have been aboard on that fatal day.
He lowered the glass and looked at his own ship, the seamen flaking down lines and securing halliards. In spite of everything, he had seen the bond grow and strengthen. They were one company.
Perhaps he was wrong about Rhodes, and a show of force was all that it needed. But in his heart he knew it was something else. Unsaid, like that which Bethune had left behind, as dangerous as Unrivalled’s shadow on the seabed when they had entered the shallows.
He saw Napier coming aft with something on a covered tray. The boy who had trusted him enough to come and tell him of Lady Bazeley’s plight. He laid his palm briefly on the polished wood of the ladder where she had been lying helpless.
He should be able to accept it. Instead, he was behaving like some moonstruck youth.
He heard Cristie give a little cough, waiting to make his report, course to steer, estimated time of arrival. Then the purser would come: provisions and fresh water, and this time, no doubt with Forbes’ influence, some welcome casks of beer from the army.
‘Signal from Flag, sir!’ Midshipman Cousens sounded subdued. ‘Make more sail!’
‘Acknowledge.’ Adam turned away and saw Midshipman Deighton speaking with the newly minted lieutenant, Bellairs. It gave him time to think, to recall Forbes’ words on board Frobisher. Not afraid to take a risk if you thought it justified.
He said, ‘Be patient, Mr Cousens. I fear you will be much in demand until we sight an enemy!’
Those around him laughed, and others who were out of earshot paused in their work as if to share it.
Adam looked through the great web of spars and rigging. Perhaps Rhodes was watching Unrivalled at this very moment.
Aloud he said, ‘I’ll see you damned, my lord!’
Bellairs watched the captain walk to the companion way and then gave his attention to the new midshipman again. It was hard to believe that he had been one himself, and so recently given his commission. It would make his parents in Bristol very proud.
The war was over, but for the navy the fighting was never very far away. Like this new challenge, the Algerine pirates. He found violent death more acceptable than the prospect of life as one of those he had seen left wounded and hopelessly crippled.
He touched the fine, curved hanger at his side. He had been astounded when the first lieutenant had told him of the captain’s offer.
He suddenly realised what Midshipman Deighton had been asking him about the ship and her young captain.
He said simply, ‘I’d follow him to the cannon’s mouth.’
He touched the hanger again and grinned. A King’s officer.
Midshipman Cousens lowered the big signals telescope and dashed spray from his tanned features with his sleeve.
‘Boat’s casting off from the flagship now, sir!’
Lieutenant Galbraith crossed to the nettings and stared at the lively, broken water, the crests dirty yellow in the strange glare. The weather had worsened almost as soon as they had left Malta, wind whipping the sea into serried ranks of angry waves, spray pouring from sails and rigging alike as if they were fighting through a tropical rainstorm. If the wind did not ease, the ships would be scattered overnight. As they had been last night, and they had struggled to reform to the admiral’s satisfaction.
As Cristie had often said, the Mediterranean could never be trusted, especially when you needed perfect conditions.
He saw the cutter staggering clear of Frobisher’s glistening side; it was a wonder that it had not capsized in its first crossing. To use the gig had been out of the question. A cutter was heavier and had the extra brawn to carry her through this kind of sea.
He had been both doubtful and anxious when Captain Bolitho had told him he was going across to the flagship to see Rhodes in person, after three signals to the admiral requesting an audience. Each had been denied without explanation, as was any admiral’s right. But it was also the right of any captain to see his flag officer, if he was prepared to risk reprimand for wasting the great man’s time.
With his own coxswain at the tiller Bolitho had headed away, his boat cloak black with spray before they had covered a few yards. It would not have been the first time a captain had been marooned aboard a flagship because of bad weather. Suppose it had happened now? The captain would have had to endure the sight of his own command hove to under storm canvas, and another man’s voice at the quarterdeck rail. Mine.
He watched the cutter lifting, porpoising slightly before riding the next trough of dark water, the oars rising and dipping, holding the hull under control. At other times he could scarcely see more than the bowed heads and shoulders of the boat’s crew, as if they were already going under.
Galbraith felt only relief. He had heard the rumours about Bolitho’s disagreement with the admiral at the last conference, the hostility and the sarcasm, as if Rhodes were trying to goad him into something which would be used against him. It was something personal, and therefore dangerous, even to others who might be tempted to take sides in the matter.
The cutter plunged into a trough and then lifted her stem again like a leaping porpoise. Even without a glass he could see the grin on the captain’s face, stronger than any words or code of discipline. He had seen it at first hand in action, when these same men had doubted their own ability to fight and win, had seen how some of them had touched his arm when he had passed amongst them. The victors.
He called sharply, ‘Stand by to receive the captai
n!’
But the boatswain and his party were already there. Like himself, they had been waiting with their blocks and tackles, perhaps without even knowing why.
He saw a small figure in a plain blue coat, drenched through like the rest of them: Ritzen, the purser’s clerk. A quiet, thoughtful man, and an unlikely one to spark off a chain of events which might end in a court martial, or worse. But Ritzen was different from the others around him. He was Dutch, and had signed on with the King’s navy when he had been rescued by an English sloop after being washed overboard in a storm and left for dead by his own captain.
Ritzen had been ashore in Malta with Tregillis, the purser, buying fruit from local traders rather than spend a small fortune at the authorised suppliers. He had fallen in with some seamen from the Dutch frigate Triton which had called briefly at the island. Her captain, a commodore, had paid a visit to Lord Rhodes.
Galbraith could recall the moment exactly, after another long day of sail and gun drill, and a seemingly endless stream of signals, mostly, it appeared, directed at Unrivalled.
Everyone knew it was wrong, unfair, but who would dare to say as much? Galbraith had gone to the great cabin, where he had found the captain in his chair, some letters open on his lap, and a goblet of cognac quivering beside him to each thud of the tiller head.
Despair, resignation, anger: it had been all and none of them.
After reporting the state of the ship and the preparations for station-keeping overnight, Galbraith had told him about the purser’s clerk. Ritzen had overheard that the Dutch frigate was on passage to Algiers, her sale already approved and encouraged by the Dutch government. It had been like seeing someone coming alive again, a door to freedom opening, when moments earlier there had been only a captive.
‘I knew there was something strange when I heard it aboard Frobisher!’ Adam had gone from the chair to the salt-stained stern windows in two strides, the dark hair falling over his forehead, the weight of command momentarily forgotten. ‘A commodore in charge of a single frigate! That alone should have told me, if nobody else was prepared to!’
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