Second to None

10. Captain to Captain

LUKE JAGO made his way unhurriedly aft, his lean body angled easily to the deck. Unrivalled was heading west again, steering close-hauled on the starboard tack under topsails and topgallants, the wind light but enough to hold her steady.

Here on the ship’s messdeck the air was heady with rum, and the smell of the midday meal. Unlike a ship of the line, there were no guns on this deck. Each mess was allotted a scrubbed table and bench seats, with hooks overhead where the hammocks would be slung when the ship piped down for the night. In larger vessels the guns were a constant reminder to seamen and marines alike, when they swung themselves into their hammocks, and when they were piped on deck for any emergency. Their reason for being.

Jago glanced at the tables as he passed. Some of the men looked at him and nodded, others avoided his eye. It suited him well enough. He recalled that the captain had said he could use the little store which adjoined the cabin pantry for his meals, but he had declined. He had been surprised by Captain Bolitho’s offer, and that he should even care about it.

He half-listened to the loud murmur of voices and the clatter of plates. The forenoon watchkeepers were already tucking into their boiled meat, and what looked like oatmeal. The new cook was far better than his predecessor; at least he was not so mean with his beef and pork. And there was bread, too. The captain had sent a working party to one of the garrisons in Malta: the army always seemed to live well when it was not in the field. And there was butter, while it lasted. When the purser had supervised the issue to all the messes, you would have thought he was parting with his own skin. But they were always like that.

To these men, experienced or raw recruits, such small items, taken for granted by those ashore, were luxuries. When they were exhausted it would be back to iron-hard ship’s biscuits, with slush skimmed off the galley coppers to make them edible. He grinned inwardly. A sailor’s lot.

He saw the glint of metal and scarlet coats, marine sentries, and, crowded together while the food was ladled out, the prisoners from the ill-fated Tetrarch. Jago had seen them eating so voraciously when they had been brought aboard that it seemed they had not been properly fed for years. Now some were even working with the various parts of ship, under supervision of sorts. But Jago thought that no matter what lay ahead for these men, they were somehow glad to be back in the world which had once been their own.

The admiral at Malta, Bethune, had wanted to get rid of them as quickly as possible, the British ones at any rate. Someone else would have to decide their fate. Would anybody bother to investigate the circumstances, he wondered? Mutineers, deserters, or men who had been misled? The end of a rope was the usual solution.

He thought of the captain again. He had given orders that these men were to receive the same rations as the ship’s company. Troublemakers would be punished. Instantly. He could see Bolitho’s face as he had said it. Jago knew that most captains would have kept these men on deck in all weathers, and in irons. As an example. As a warning. And it was cheaper, too.

He paused by one of the tables and studied a finely carved model of a seventy-four. Unrivalled had been in commission for only six months, and during that time he had watched this superb carving take on meaning and life.

The seaman raised his head. It was Sullivan, the keen-eyed lookout.

“Almost done, ’Swain.”

Jago rested one hand on his shoulder. He knew the history of the model: she was the Spartiate, a two-decker which had been in Nelson’s Weather Division at Trafalgar. Sullivan kept to himself, but was a popular man by any standard. Trafalgar: even the word gave him a sort of presence. He had been there, in the greatest naval battle of all time, had cheered with all the others when they had broken through the French line, only to be stunned by the signal that Lord Nelson, “Our Nel,” had fallen.

When Jago had watched the captain he had found himself wondering if he ever compared the death of his uncle, Sir Richard Bolitho, a man who had been as well liked and respected as Nelson, but had been killed in what might have been an accidental engagement. In the end, it was the same for both of them.

He looked over Sullivan’s head at the next mess, where the ship’s boys were quartered. Signed on by parents who wanted to be rid of them, and others like Napier, who had been appointed the captain’s servant, living in the hope of outside sponsorship, and the eventual chance of a commission. He remembered the captain’s face when he had told him that the boy John Whitmarsh had been killed. He had intended to sponsor the boy as midshipman, and all the while Whitmarsh had wanted only to remain with him.

There was another boy at the mess table, the one called Paul, son of the Tetrarch’s renegade captain. Had he continued the fight and faced one of Unrivalled’s broadsides with his holds filled to the deckhead beams with powder… at least it would have been a quick death, Jago thought.

Sullivan did not look up, but said, “What’ll they do with ’im?”

Jago shrugged. “Put him ashore, maybe.” He frowned, angry without knowing why. “War is no game for children!”

Sullivan chuckled. “Since when?”

Jago glanced around the partly filled messdeck, the swaying rays of sunlight probing down through the gratings and an open hatchway.

This was his world, where he belonged, where he could catch the feel of the ship, something which would be denied him if he accepted the captain’s offer.

His eyes fell on the burly seaman named Campbell, who had been sentenced to a flogging for threatening a petty officer. There had been two men brought aft for punishment, but the other had been killed during the opening shots of the engagement, and the captain had ordered that Campbell ’s punishment should be stood over. He was sitting there now, his face blotchy with sweat from too much rum. Wets from others, for favours done, or perhaps the need to keep on the good side of this seemingly unbreakable troublemaker.

One of the hard men, Campbell had received a checkered shirt at the gangway several times. Jago knew what it was like to be flogged; although the punishment had been carried out unjustly, and despite the intervention of an officer on his behalf, he would carry the scars to the grave. No wonder men deserted. He had nearly run himself, twice, in other ships, and for reasons he could scarcely remember.

What had held him back? He grimaced. Certainly not loyalty or devotion to duty.

Again he recalled the day he had shaken hands with Captain Bolitho after they had driven off the big Yankee. A bargain, something done on the spur of the moment while the blood was still pounding with the wildness of battle. It was something new to him, which he did not understand. And that, too, troubled him.

Campbell looked at him. “This is an unexpected honour, eh, lads? To ’ave the Cap’n’s cox’n amongst the likes of us!”

Jago relaxed. Men like Campbell he could handle.

“Far enough, Campbell. I’ll take no lip from you. You’ve been lucky, so make the best of it.”

Campbell seemed disappointed. “I never meant nuthin’!”

“One foot, just put one foot wrong and I’ll drag you aft myself!”

Somebody asked, “Why are we goin’ to Gib again, ’Swain?”

Jago shrugged. “Despatches, to land Tetrarch’s people-”

Campbell said harshly, “Run ’em up to the main-yard, that’s what I’d do!” He pointed at the boy in the other mess. “’Is bloody father for a start!”

Jago smiled. “That’s more like it, Campbell. A ten-year-old boy. A fair match, I’d say!”

Sullivan said softly, “Officer on the deck, ’Swain!”

Someone else murmured, “Bloody piglet, more like!”

It was Midshipman Sandell, striding importantly past the messes, chin in the air and not bothering to remove his hat, a courtesy observed by most officers. Jago ducked beneath one of the massive deckhead beams and realised that the midshipman was still able to walk upright, even wearing the hat. Sandell was carrying a gleaming, and, Jago guessed, very expensive sextant, probably a parting gift from his parents. Earlier he had seen the midshipmen assembled on the quarterdeck taking their noon sights, watched critically by Cristie, the master, as they had tried to estimate the ship’s position for their logs.

Cristie missed very little, and Jago had heard him give Sandell the rough edge of his tongue more than once, to the obvious glee of the others.

Jago faced him calmly. It made upstarts like him dangerous.

“Oh, you’re here, are you?” Sandell peered around, as if he had never set foot on the lower deck before. “I want the boy, Lovatt. He is to lay aft, now.”

“I’ll fetch him, Mr Sandell.”

“How many times do I have to tell people?” He was almost beside himself. “Sandell! That’s easy enough, surely?”

Jago murmured, “Sorry, sir.” It had been worth it just to see the shot go home. As he had intended it would.

He beckoned to the boy, and asked, “The captain wants him, sir?”

Sandell stared at him, as if astonished that anyone should dare to question him. But, angry or not, some inner warning seemed to prevent another outburst. Jago’s demeanour, and the fine blue jacket with gilt buttons, appeared to make him hesitate.

He said loftily, “The captain, yes.” He snapped his fingers. “Move yourself, boy!”

Jago watched them leave. Sandell would never change. He had shown no sign of fear during the fight, but that meant little; his kind were usually more afraid of revealing their fear to others than of fear itself. He winked at Sullivan. But if Sandell wanted to climb the ladder of promotion, he would be wise not to turn his back.

Unrivalled’s wardroom, which was built into the poop structure on the gun deck, seemed spacious after other frigates George Avery had known. Unlike the lower deck, the ship’s officers shared the cabin and dining space with six eighteen-pounders, three on either side.

The midday meal had been cleared away, and Avery sat by an open gunport watching some gulls diving and screaming alongside, probably because the cook had pitched some scraps outboard.

Two days out of Malta, on passage for Gibraltar, as if everything else was unreal. The dinner with Vice-Admiral Bethune and Adam Bolitho, then the excitement at being a part of something which he had begun with Sir Richard, had all been dashed by the arrival of another courier vessel. Unrivalled would take Bethune’s despatches to the Rock and pass them on to the first available ship bound for England. Whatever Bethune really thought about it, he had made himself very clear. His latest orders were to contain the activities of the Dey’s corsairs, but to do nothing to aggravate the situation until more ships were put under his flag.

Adam had been quietly resentful, although Unrivalled was the obvious choice: she was faster and better armed than any other frigate here or anywhere else in the fleet. There had been reports of several smaller vessels being attacked, taken or destroyed by the corsairs, and communications between the various squadrons and bases had never been so important. There was still no definite news of a total victory over Napoleon’s army. Waterloo had broken his hold over the line, and it seemed as if all French forces were in full retreat. Even Marshal Ney’s formidable cavalry had been defeated by the red-coated squares of infantry.

And he, Lieutenant George Avery, had received orders which countermanded all others. He was to return to England and present himself to their lordships, perhaps to add his report to all those which must have gone before. He laid his hand on the gun, warm, as if it had been recently fired. Perhaps he was too close. It was not another report they wanted. It was a post-mortem.

He looked around at his companions. It was a friendly enough wardroom, and he was after all a stranger, a temporary member of their small community.

And it was always in the air. It was only natural, and he knew he was being unreasonable to expect otherwise. I was there. When he fell.

Galbraith, the first lieutenant, understood, and confined his questions to the subject of Avery’s visit to the Dey’s stronghold, and if there was any real risk that the attacks on shipping and the seizure of Christians would spark off a bigger confrontation. The war with France would soon be over; it probably already was. Galbraith would be thinking of his own future, thankful that he was at least in a stronger position than many, in a new and powerful frigate, with a captain whose name was known because of his famous uncle as well as his own past successes.

Massie, the second lieutenant, remained scornful, if not openly critical of Bethune’s change of direction.

“When Boney surrenders this time, their lordships will cut the fleet to the bare bones! We’ll have less chance than ever to topple these would-be tyrants!” To recover from such a costly war every nation, former friends and enemies alike, would be seeking fresh trade routes, and would still need the ships and men to protect them.

He saw Noel Tregillis, the purser, poring over one of his ledgers. He rarely stopped work even in here.

Captain Bosanquet of the Royal Marines was asleep in his chair, an empty goblet still clasped in his fingers, and his second-in-command Lieutenant Luxmore had gone to share a drink with his sergeant.

The portly surgeon, O’Beirne, had made his excuses and had gone aft to the great cabin, leaving his food untouched. The prisoner, Lovatt, was unwell; the wound was not healing to O’Beirne’s satisfaction.

He had said sharply, “He should have been put ashore in Malta. All this is quite unnecessary.” The severity of the comment was uncharacteristic of this generally quiet, affable man, who Avery knew took his work very seriously.

Even O’Beirne had touched on the subject, on their first night at sea. He had known Lefroy, Frobisher’s bald surgeon. It was to be expected: the fraternity of fleet surgeons was even more close-knit than the family of sea officers.

But once more it had all come back. The surgeon rising from his knees, from the bloodstained deck where Allday had held his admiral with such terrible anguish, and saying, “He’s gone, I’m afraid.” In so few words.

Through a skylight he heard someone laugh. It was young Bellairs, sharing the afternoon watch with Lieutenant Wynter. What must it be like to be seventeen again, with the examination for lieutenant anticipated with every despatch satchel? A boy to a man, midshipman to officer, and Bellairs would deserve it. Avery thought of Adam, and how he had changed, confidence and maturing tempering him like the old sword he now wore. He smiled. A man of war. Perhaps…

And me? A passed-over luff with memories but no prospects.

He thought of Sillitoe, his energy, his manipulations, and of the last time they had met and parted. He had never believed that he could have felt something like pity for him.

Feet scraped outside the screen door, and Galbraith looked up from an old and much handled news-sheet.

“What is it, Parker? D’ you want me?”

The boatswain’s mate nodded towards Avery and said, “The cap’n’s compliments, zur, an’ ’e’d like you to step aft, directly.”

Galbraith stood up. “The prisoner?”

The boatswain’s mate gazed curiously around the wardroom. Just another part of the same ship. But so different.

He said, “Dyin’, I thinks, zur.”

The purser glanced up from his ledger, his face trained to give nothing away. One less mouth to feed.

Galbraith reached out and took the empty goblet from Bosanquet’s limp hand. He said, “If you need me…”

Avery picked up his hat. “Thank you. I know.”

He walked into the deeper shadows of the poop and saw the Royal Marine sentry standing outside the screen door of the great cabin. The seat of command, which he himself would never know. Also the loneliest place in any King’s ship.

The sentry straightened his back and tapped his musket smartly on the deck.

“Flag lieutenant, sir! ”

Avery glanced at him. A homely, unknown face.

“Not any more, I’m afraid.”

The marine’s eyes did not even flicker beneath his leather hat.

“You always will be to us, sir!”

Afterwards, he thought it was like a hand reaching out to him.

So let’s be about it.

Adam Bolitho put a finger to his lips as Avery began to speak.

He said quietly, “Come aft,” and led the way to the sloping stern windows. With the sun directly overhead, the panorama of blue water and cloudless sky was like some vast painting.

“Thank you for coming so quickly.” He turned his head as he heard Lovatt’s rambling voice again. More like a conversation than one man. Questions and answers, and, just once, a tired laugh. And coughing. “He’s dying. O’Beirne’s done all he can. I’ve been with him, too.”

Avery watched the dark profile, the strain around the eyes and mouth. He could feel the energy too, refusing to submit. When he had entered the cabin, his mind still clinging to the sentry’s words, he had taken in the coat tossed carelessly on to a chair, one of Cristie’s charts weighed down on a table by the bench seat, some brass dividers, the master’s notebook. An untouched cup of coffee and an empty glass beside it. The captain was driving himself again; perhaps in truth he did resent the change of orders. Avery knew well enough that there were few bonds as strong as the one he had enjoyed with Richard Bolitho anywhere in the navy. Rank and responsibility did not allow it.

Or did he blame himself in some way? What captain would tolerate a prisoner, even a wounded one, in his own quarters?

Adam said, “He’s delirious for much of the time. Young Napier’s in there with the surgeon-he’s a good lad.” He added with some bitterness, “Lovatt believes he’s his son!”

Avery had seen Lovatt’s son on the way here, waiting with one of the midshipmen as escort. He could guess the rest.

When Adam turned, he was calm again.

“I asked you to come here because I think you can help me.”

Why had he sent for him, and not the first lieutenant?

Adam said, “In your original report to Sir Graham Bethune, you made mention of a Captain Martinez, whom you described as adviser to Mehmet Pasha, the governor and commander-in-chief in Algiers. Spanish…”

He broke off as Lovatt shouted, “Helm a’ lee, man! Are you blind, damn you!” It was followed by a bout of coughing, and Avery heard O’Beirne’s resonant voice for the first time.

Adam continued, “A renegade, you said?”

Avery forced himself to think, aware of the controlled urgency in the captain’s tone.

“Yes, sir. He changed sides several times, but is useful to the Dey. He has or had connections in Spain when we met him. But the Dey is a hard man to serve, and Martinez will be very aware of it.”

Adam said, “Lovatt spoke of him this morning. He said that the powder and shot, and other supplies not listed, were provided by Spanish sources, the whole of Tetrarch’s cargo to be exact.”

Avery tried to shut his ears to the pitiful muttering and retching from the sleeping compartment. This was important, it had to be, and yet it made no sense.

Adam said, “He also told me that a second supply ship was to follow Tetrarch.” He gestured impatiently to the chart. “Tomorrow we shall be north of Bona. The hornets’ nest, eh?” He almost smiled. “You will doubtless remember it well?”

Avery was silent for a moment, seeing it in his mind, as he had done in the past.

“It would make sense, sir. Our patrols, such as they are, would be less likely to sight them, and even then…”

Adam touched his sleeve. “And even then, supporting ships would be required, and the admiral would have to be informed, and consulted-it is an old and familiar story!”

So he was bitter about Bethune’s change of heart. Avery said, “News travels fast in these waters, sir. Tetrarch’s capture, and your cutting out of La Fortune, will put an edge on things.”

The door opened slightly, and O’Beirne peered into the cabin.

“If you still wish it, sir, I think this might be the time.”

Adam acknowledged it. He meant, the only time.

“So be it.” He looked briefly at his coat, hesitated and then slipped his arms into the sleeves. Then, to Avery, he said softly, “Captain to captain, remember?”

To Avery the scene was nightmarish. Lovatt was propped up in the surgeon’s makeshift trestle, one hand gripping it as if it was moving, his arm around the waist of the boy called Napier. O’Beirne was wedged into a corner, fingers interlaced on his knees, as if he had to force them to stay still.

“Aha, Captain! No urgent matters to keep you occupied?”

Lovatt’s voice was stronger again, but that was all. His face seemed sunken, and his hazel eyes very bright, like somebody else looking out from a feverish mask.

Avery saw his hand tighten around the boy’s body, and noticed that Napier had removed the noisy shoes, and his feet were bare on the checkered deck covering.

“Young Paul here is a comfort!” He contained another cough, and Napier dabbed his forehead with a damp cloth, gently and without hesitation, as if he had been trained for it.

But he was nothing like Lovatt’s son in appearance, being taller and about four years older. Was Lovatt really deceived? Or perhaps it was a need, a desperate need.

Adam rested his hands on the trestle. “You spoke earlier of the other supply ship, Captain Lovatt?”

Lovatt twisted his head from side to side, as if he could hear something. Or someone.

“Mercenaries! War makes us all hunger for something!” He was quiet again as the cloth moved gently over his brow. “I could not offer my men a reason for dying, you see? It was a gesture. A final conceit!”

He seemed to see Avery for the first time.

“Who is this? A spy? A witness?”

O’Beirne moved as if to restrain him but Adam shook his head.

“This is George Avery. He is a friend.”

“Good.” Lovatt closed his eyes and O’Beirne gestured quickly to another basin. It contained a folded dressing, soaked in blood.

Avery watched a thin tendril drip from Lovatt’s mouth, like red silk against his ashen skin. The boy dabbed it away, frowning with concentration as Avery had seen him do when he had poured the captain’s wine.

“Thanks, Paul. I-I’m so sorry…”

Avery had seen many men suffer, and had endured great pain himself. And yet still he thought, with immense bitterness, why did death have to be so ugly, so without dignity?

Pain, suffering, humiliation. A man who had once hoped and loved, and lost.

“Where lies the land, Captain?” Stronger again.

Adam said quietly, “We are nor’-east of Bona. Ship’s head, west-by-south.”

The eyes found and settled on his face. “You will see to his safety, Captain?”

“I will do what I can.” He hesitated. Where was the point? “You have my word on it, Captain Lovatt.”

Lovatt let his head fall back and stared at the white deckhead. Adam saw the boy Napier show fear for the first time, and guessed that he thought Lovatt had died.

He must not leave it now. Could not.

“There were two other frigates in harbour.” He repeated the question, and saw the hazel eyes focus again.

“Two. Did I tell you that?” He looked at Napier and tried to smile. “So like your mother, you know? So… like… her.”

Adam leaned over the trestle, hating it, the despair, the pain, the surrender. The very stench of death.

He asked sharply, “Will they sail?”

He could feel O’Beirne’s disapproval, his unspoken objections. Avery was very still, a witness; it was impossible to guess what he was thinking.

Something thudded on the deck overhead, and there were sounds of tackle being hauled through the blocks. Normal, everyday shipboard noises. And there were men up there too. Who depend on me.

I must not care what others think.

He persisted, “Will they sail?”

“Yes.” Lovatt seemed to nod. “So run while you can, Captain.” His voice was failing, but he tried once more. “But promise me…” He gave one small cry and more blood choked the words in his throat. This time it did not stop.

O’Beirne dragged the dead man’s arm from Napier’s waist and pushed him away, knowing that any show of sentiment would make a lasting impression.

Adam laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“That was well done. I am proud of you.”

Napier was still staring at Lovatt’s contorted, bloodied face. Although he seemed quite calm, his body was shaking uncontrollably.

Adam said, “Send for the first lieutenant.”

He kept his hand on Napier’s shoulder. For his sake or for mine?

O’Beirne said, “I shall have my people clean up in here, sir.” He studied the captain, as if he was discovering something he had previously missed. “He should be buried soon, I think.”

“Tell the sailmaker. Did he have any possessions?” Did. Already in the past. Not a man any more. A thing.

As if reading his thoughts, O’Beirne said bluntly, “It were better he had been killed outright!”

Galbraith was already in the great cabin, grim-faced, reassuring.

Adam said, “We shall bury him at dusk.”

Avery listened intently, afraid something had eluded him. Some seamen were here now, accustomed to death, and to concealing their feelings in its presence.

Galbraith said, “He had nothing but the sword, sir.”

Adam looked at him, his eyes distant. But promise me… What had he been going to say? He turned and saw the dead man’s son standing just inside the door, his eyes wide and unblinking. He stared at the trestle bed, and may have seen Lovatt’s face before one of the seamen covered it with a piece of canvas. The same boy who had refused to come to his father’s side when he was dying, even at the last… His anger faded as quickly as it had flared. The boy was quite alone. As I once was. As I am now. He had nothing left.

He turned away, aware that Avery was watching him. There was so much to do. Lovatt had called it a final conceit. Was that all it meant?

The boy said, “I would like the sword, capitaine.” His voice was very controlled, and clear, so that even his mother’s French inflection was noticeable.

Adam said to Napier, “Take him forrard and report to my cox’n. He will tell you what to do.”

Then, to the boy, he said, “We will speak of the sword later.”

He walked to the stern windows and stared at the sky, feeling the ship around him. Second to none.

Galbraith was back. “Orders, sir?” Once again, the lifeline. To normality. To their world.

“Sail drill, Mr Galbraith. See if the topmen can improve their timing.”

Galbraith smiled.

“And tomorrow I thought we might exercise the eighteen pounders, sir.”

Adam looked back at the sleeping compartment. It was bare but for his own cot, which he had been unable to use. There was only Lovatt’s sword leaning against the hanging wardrobe. Final.

He recalled Galbraith’s remark.

“I think not, Leigh.” He saw Avery clench his fist. So he already knew. “I fear that tomorrow it will be in earnest.”