Second to None

2. No Longer a Stranger

ADAM BOLITHO rested one hand on the quarterdeck rail and watched the misty horizon tilt as if to dislodge the entire ship. For most of the forenoon they had been engaged in sail drill, an exercise made even more uncomfortable than usual by the blustery wind. It was directly from the north, and strong enough to force Unrivalled to lean until the sea spattered against the sealed gunports and drenched the men working aloft and on deck like a tropical storm.

Three days since the rugged Cornish coastline had vanished astern, and each one had been put to good use.

The hands were sliding down to the deck now, the landsmen and others less confident holding tightly to the ratlines when the ship heeled over to leeward, so that the sea appeared to be directly beneath them. There was a smell of rum even in the wind, and he had already noticed a thin trail of greasy smoke from the galley funnel.

He saw the first lieutenant waiting by the starboard ladder, his face giving nothing away.

“That was better, Mr Galbraith.” He thought he saw Galbraith’s eyes drop to the pocket where he carried the old timepiece and wondered what it must be like to take orders as a lieutenant again, instead of being in command. “Dismiss the watch below.” He heard the seamen running from their stations, glad to be spared further discomfort, and to curse their captain over a tot of rum.

He knew the sailing-master was watching him from his usual position, near his helmsmen whenever the ship was altering course or changing tack.

Adam walked to the weather side and wiped spray from his face, his body angled to the deck as the sails filled out like breastplates again. The sea was lively with cruising white horses, although it was calmer than when they had been in Biscay. There was too much spray to make out the lie of the land, but it was there, a long, purple hump, as if a bank of cloud had dropped from the sky. Cape St Vincent. And despite all the drills, the alterations of course to test the topmen and new hands alike, this was the exact landfall. He had seen the sailing-master’s calculations and his daily estimates of distance covered.

His name was Joshua Cristie, and he had a face so weathered and creased that he looked like the Old Man of the Sea, although Adam knew he was in his forties. He had served in almost every size and class of vessel from schooner to second-rate, and had been a sailing-master for some ten years. If the senior warrant officers were the backbone of any man-of-war, the sailing-master must surely be her rudder. Unrivalled was lucky to have him.

Adam joined him and said, “ Gibraltar tomorrow, eh?”

Cristie regarded him impassively. “I see no problems, sir.” He had a clipped, matter-of-fact manner, and did not waste words.

Adam realised that Galbraith had come aft again, this time with one of the ship’s five midshipmen. He tested his memory. Sandell, that was his name.

Galbraith was saying, “I was observing you, Mr Sandell. Twice, I’ve warned you before. Discipline is one thing, force another!”

The midshipman retorted, “He was doing it on purpose, sir. Hanging back so that my party was delayed.”

It was unusual for Galbraith to reveal such anger, especially with some of the watch keepers close enough to hear. He seemed to calm himself with an effort.

“I know you must control the men in your charge. If you are to become a King’s officer that is all a part of it. Inspire them, persuade them if you like, but do not abuse them. I’ll not remind you again!”

The midshipman touched his hat and retreated. Adam caught only a glimpse of his profile. Galbraith had made an enemy there, as was the way of first lieutenants everywhere.

Galbraith walked up the sloping deck and said, “Young ruffian! Too ready with his starter by far. I know his part of the drill was held up by the man in question, I saw it myself. But with sixty hands short, and some of those aboard little better than bumpkins, it needs more care.”

It was like mist clearing from a telescope. Adam suddenly remembered hearing that a midshipman had been put ashore to await a court martial after a sailor had been accidentally killed at sea. The matter had never come to court martial and the midshipman had been sent to another vessel. He had been an admiral’s son. It had been about the time when Galbraith had seen his promised promotion cancelled. Nobody could prove there was a connection; few would even care. Except Galbraith. And he was here, second-in-command of one of the navy’s most powerful frigates. Would he remain content, or would he be too afraid for what was left of his career to show the spirit which had once earned him a command of his own?

“Any orders, sir?”

Adam glanced at the nearest eighteen-pounders. Another difference. Unrivalled’s armament consisted mainly of such guns, and they made up the bulk of her top-weight. The designers had insisted that these eighteen-pounders, usually nine feet in length, be cast a foot shorter in an effort to reduce some of the weight.

A frigate was only as good as her firepower and her agility, and he had taken careful note of the sea creaming almost as high as the ports on the lee side. In a fierce ship-to-ship action, a captain could no longer rely on supremacy merely by taking and holding the wind-gage.

He said, “We shall exercise the larboard battery this afternoon, Mr Galbraith. I want our people to know their guns like their own minds. As you remarked, we are short-handed, and if required to engage on both sides at once we shall be busy indeed.” He saw the slight frown. “I know we may not be called to fight. The war might be over already for all we know.” He touched his arm and felt him flinch at the contact. “But if we fight, I intend this ship to be the victor!”

Galbraith touched his hat and walked away, no doubt to face the questions and displeasures of the wardroom.

Adam walked to the dripping hammock nettings and steadied himself as the deck lurched to another strong gust. The land was almost gone from view. Cape St Vincent, the scene of one of the war’s greatest engagements, where Nelson had scorned the rigidity of Fighting Instructions and attacked the Spanish flagship Santissima Trinidad of one hundred and thirty guns, the largest warship in the world. So like his uncle, he thought. Sir Richard Bolitho had never allowed the conventional rules of battle to preclude initiative and personal daring. It seemed wrong that the admirals so admired and so loved by those they had led had never met face to face.

He ran a sodden handkerchief over skin streaming now with spray. Identical to the handkerchief he had given Catherine in the church, knowing she had used it to dry her eyes behind the veil. Galbraith had seen that too…

He shook himself angrily and walked to the rail. A few of the hands were splicing and repairing; as in any frigate, the miles of cordage needed constant attention. Some of them raised their eyes and immediately looked away. Men who could make or break any ship. He smiled grimly. Any captain. Some of them were from the assize courts, debtors and thieves, tyrants and cowards. The alternatives were transportation or the rope. He watched spray bursting through the beak-head, making the beautiful figurehead shine like a nymph rising from the sea itself.

Unrivalled would draw them together, as a team, as one company.

And when they reached Gibraltar, what orders would he find waiting? To return to England, or be redirected to some other squadron in a different ocean? If nothing had changed he would continue on to Malta, to join the new squadron under the flag of Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune. He was dismayed by the return of the pain. Bethune had been sent to relieve Sir Richard Bolitho, but Fate had decided otherwise. But for that, it might have been Bethune who had died, and Richard Bolitho would have been reunited with his Catherine. Kate.

Like himself, Bethune had been one of Bolitho’s midshipmen, in his first command, the little Sparrow. As Valentine Keen had been a midshipman when Sir Richard had been captain of a frigate.

So many missing faces. We Happy Few. Now there were hardly any.

He saw two of the “young gentlemen” dodging along the slippery main deck, calling to one another above the bang of canvas and the sluice of water, apparently without a care in the world.

Here there were only five of them. He would make an effort to get to know each one. Galbraith’s sharp comment about inspiration and leadership cut both ways; it always had. In larger ships, which carried broods of midshipmen, there was always the risk of bullying and petty tyranny. He had discovered it soon enough for himself, like so many things which had taught him to defend himself and stand up for those less able to do so.

Today, his reputation with both blade and pistol would end any trouble before it could begin. But it had not been easy. How slow he had been to understand, to come to terms with it. The regular lessons with a local teacher, and later, when he had learned to handle a sword, the intricacies of defence and attack. Slow? Or had he merely decided that he did not want to know how it was all paid for? Until he heard his teacher in the next room, in bed with his mother. And the others.

It was different now. They could think what they liked, but they dared not slander her name in his presence.

But the memory remained, like an unhealed wound.

He saw the midshipman of the watch, Fielding, writing something on his slate, his lip pouting with concentration. The same midshipman who had called him one morning when he had been powerless to break that same dream.

He thought of Catherine again, that last desperate kiss before she had left the house. To protect my reputation. There was no defence against dreams. Just as, in those same dreams, she had never resisted him.

He heard a slight cough behind him. That was Usher, the captain’s clerk, who had once been the purser’s assistant, a small, nervous man who seemed totally out of place in a ship of war. O’Beirne, the ruddy-faced surgeon, had confided that the man was dying, “a day at a time,” as he had put it. His lungs were diseased, only too common in the confines of a ship. He thought of Yovell, the clerk who had become his uncle’s secretary. A scholar who was never without his Bible. He would have been there when… He turned away and closed his mind to it.

“Yes, Usher?”

“I’ve done copies of the lists, sir. Three of each.” He always found it necessary to explain every detail of his work.

“Very well. I shall sign them after I have eaten.”

“Deck there! Sail on the larboard quarter!”

Everyone looked up. The voice of the masthead lookout had been heard only rarely on this passage.

The master tugged down his hat and said, “Shall I send another man aloft, sir?”

Adam glanced at him. Cristie was a professional; he would not be here otherwise. It was not an idle comment. And here was Wynter, the third lieutenant and officer-of-the-watch, hurrying from the chartroom, but with biscuit crumbs on his coat to betray his other activities. Young, efficient and keen, when required he could put on such a blank expression that it was impossible to know what he was thinking, which was unusual for a junior lieutenant. But his father was a member of Parliament, so perhaps that might explain it.

Adam said, “Your glass, Mr Fielding. I shall go up directly.” He thought he saw Cristie’s deep-set eyes sharpen. “I shall not shorten sail. Yet.” He wedged his hat inside the companion-way and felt his hair wet against his forehead. “A trader seeking the company of a frigate?” He shook his head as if someone had answered. “I think not. I know a few King’s officers who would not be slow to press a few prime hands, no matter what the Admiralty directs us to do!”

Cristie gave a rare grin. He would know. Even sailors with the genuine Protection, the document which should have defended them against the demands of a hungry fleet, had been pressed. It would take months for someone to find out and do something about it.

Cristie said, “If she holds up to wind’rd we’ll never be able to reach her.”

Adam looked up at the towering masts. Why? Was it a demonstration of something? Bravado, perhaps?

He slung the big telescope over his shoulder and strode forward to the main chains before gazing up again at the swaying crosstrees, where the lookout would be perched like a sea bird, uncaring, or indifferent to the other world far beneath his dangling legs.

The others watched until Lieutenant Wynter exclaimed, “What ails him, Mr Cristie? How can he know anything more than the rest of us?”

“The Cap’n don’t miss much, Mr Wynter.” He gestured to the biscuit crumbs. “Your little pleasures, for instance!”

A seaman murmured, “First lieutenant’s comin’ up, sir!”

“Damn!” Wynter stared at the captain’s slim figure, leaning back and outwards above the creaming water surging from the finely raked stem. Wynter was twenty-two years old and could remember the congratulations and the envy alike when he had been appointed to Unrivalled. The first of her class, the kind of frigate which had been denied them when they had needed them most in the war against the new American navy. With the fleet being cut down and officers as well as seamen being discharged or put on half-pay without any visible prospects, he had been fortunate. Like Galbraith, the senior, who seemed old for his rank when compared with most lieutenants; he must have seen this appointment as a last chance rather than a new beginning.

A new ship, and commanded by one already proclaimed a brave and resourceful officer. The name alone was enough, part of the legend, and now of the mourning for the admiral who had inspired and shocked the nation.

Wynter had been serving in an elderly third-rate when his appointment had been posted. He still had no idea why he had been selected. His father, a rising member of Parliament and one well known for his outspoken criticism of naval and military affairs, was certainly not behind it. Even when he had first gone to sea as a midshipman, his father had offered little encouragement.

“A good regiment would have been preferable. I could have bought you a comfortable living where you would have served with gentlemen, not uncouth ruffians! Don’t come to me for pity when you lose an arm or a leg through some captain’s hunger for glory!”

And Wynter had never been in a sea-fight, mainly because the old seventy-four had been too slow to chase an enemy, and was often left far behind the rest of the squadron. She would doubtless be hulked, like so many of the other worn-out ships which had stood between England and her natural enemies for so many years. He saw Bellairs, the senior midshipman, in charge of Unrivalled ’s signals and with any luck the next in line for lieutenant’s examination, talking to the sailing-master, ready to muster his men if something unusual happened. Even he had seen action, several times if he was to be believed, when he had served with the Channel Fleet in a small thirty-two gun frigate.

Wynter stared up at the captain again. He was almost there now, apparently untroubled by the height, and the unnerving

shake and quiver of the masts under their great weight of spars

and cordage.

He knew something of Captain Adam Bolitho’s past. A command at twenty-three, and a list of successes against the Americans and the French, with prize-money to show for it. Nobody spoke of the other matter, the disgrace to his family when his father had changed sides to command a privateer against his own country during the American War of Independence. But everybody knew about it. How must he feel? He turned away as

a shaft of watery sunlight lanced into his eyes. How would I feel?

He heard Cristie telling the first lieutenant about the masthead’s sighting. He did not hear any reply or comment, but

Galbraith was like that. Easy to talk to in the wardroom, on matters relating to shipboard duties or the watch bill. Ready to give advice about the suitability of certain men for the various parts of ship. On a personal level, or when asked to offer an opinion about the course of the war or the reliability of the higher command, he would close up like a clam. Unlike some of the others. Captain Louis Bosanquet, the officer in charge of the

ship’s Royal Marines, was the complete opposite. Like a steel blade to his men, he was outspoken about almost everything in the mess, especially when he had had too much to drink. His second-in-command, Lieutenant John Luxmore, on the other hand, went by the book, and seemed to live only for the drilling and betterment of his “bullocks.” O’Beirne, the surgeon from Galway, who knew more jokes than anyone Wynter had ever met, and Tregillis the purser were easy enough to share a mess with, no better or worse than men in any other ship of this size. The exception was Vivian Massie, the swarthy second lieutenant, who had seen plenty of action and did not bother to hide a driving

ambition. Beyond that he could be withdrawn, almost secretive, as if any personal revelation might be considered weakness. Good in a battle, but a bad enemy, Wynter had decided.

He stiffened as Galbraith joined him by the rail.

Captain Bolitho had almost reached the crosstrees. But even he could make a mistake. If he slipped and fell, if he missed hitting a spar or the ship herself, the fall would knock him senseless. It would take far too long to heave-to and lower a boat. He glanced at Galbraith’s strong profile. Then he would be in command. Perhaps only temporarily, but it would offer him the recognition he needed and must crave. It happened in battle, just as it had struck down the captain’s uncle. Dead men’s shoes. Nobody mentioned it, but it was on most people’s minds when it came to promotion.

Wynter shaded his eyes and peered up again through the maze of rigging and flapping canvas.

Why should the captain do it? Did he trust no one? He had heard Bosanquet remark once that he knew the captain no better than when he had stepped aboard. Galbraith had been present, and had answered, “I could say the same about you, sir!” That had ended it. That time.

A figure moved from the gun deck and paused, gazing at the sea. It was Jago, the captain’s coxswain, the only man aboard who had actually served with Adam Bolitho before. He had a lean, darkly tanned face and hair tied in a neat, old-fashioned queue, like the gunner’s mate he had been. A man with a past, he had been flogged in another ship, wrongly it was said, by a sadistic captain, and there was still a certain anger about him, a contained defiance. Wynter had seen him stripped and sluicing his body at the wash deck pump; the scars had been familiar enough, but Jago carried them differently, almost with pride. Bloody arrogance, Massie had called it.

Whatever the truth of it, he would know their captain better than any of them. He had been with him when they had stormed a battery during an attack by the combined forces on the dockyards and principal buildings in Washington. Some claimed that raid was revenge for the American invasion of Canada and the attack on York; others said it was a final show of strength in a war no one could win.

Luke Jago knew the officers on the quarterdeck were watching him and could make a fair bet as to their thoughts. He, too, was surprised to find himself here, in his new station, when all he had wanted was to quit the navy, with only bitterness in his soul.

He could recall exactly when Captain Bolitho had asked him to be his coxswain; could remember his refusal. Bolitho was one of only a few officers Jago had ever liked or trusted, but his mind had been made up. Determined. Until that last battle, the deck raked by the enemy’s fire, men crying out and falling from aloft. When the commodore had pitched on to his side, already beyond aid. He knew the rumours like all the rest of them, that the commodore had been shot by somebody aboard their own ship, but he had heard no more about it. He gave a quick grin. He couldn’t even remember the bloody man’s name any more.

Unlike the boy John Whitmarsh, the captain’s servant, who had survived when Anemone had gone down. He remembered him well enough. The smile faded. The Yankees had hanged Bolitho’s old coxswain for ensuring that Anemone would not live to become their prize.

Captain Bolitho had taken a liking to the boy; maybe he had seen something of himself in him. He had wanted to sponsor him with his own money, so he could finish his education and wear the King’s coat some day. Jago could remember the boy showing him the dirk the captain had given him, probably the only gift he had ever received. Without a tremor in his voice, he had told Jago that he wanted to stay with his captain. It was all he wanted, he said.

He had watched Adam Bolitho’s face when he had told him Whitmarsh had been killed. A ball had shattered against one of the guns, and the iron splinter had ended his young life instantly; he had died without a trace of pain or terror.

And the exact moment when he had made up his mind, or had it made up for him. He was still uncertain, unwilling to believe it was not his decision alone. They had shaken hands on it with the smoke still hanging in the air, when the enemy frigate had broken off the action. “A victory, sir,” he had heard himself say. “Or as good as.” He had thought himself mad then. Until they had buried their dead, including the boy John Whitmarsh, with the beautiful dirk still strapped to his side.

One hundred and sixty feet above their heads and oblivious to their thoughts, Adam Bolitho eased himself into position and looked down at the ship, which seemed to pivot from side to side as if his perch in the crosstrees was motionless. He had never tired of the sight since he had made his first dash aloft as a midshipman in his uncle’s old Hyperion. Even when he had been mastheaded for some prank or indiscretion, he had always managed to marvel at what he saw. The ship, far beneath his shoes, the little blue and white shapes of the officers and master’s mates, the clusters of seamen and scarlet-coated marines. His ship, all one hundred and fifty feet of her, over a thousand tons of weapons, masts and spars, and the men to serve and fight her.

His uncle had confided that he had always hated heights, had feared going aloft when his ship had made or reefed sails. Another lesson Adam had learned, that fear could be contained if it seemed more dangerous to reveal it.

He glanced at his companion. A leathery face and a pair of the keenest eyes he had seen, like polished glass.

He hesitated. “Sullivan, isn’t it?”

The seaman showed his uneven teeth. “Thass me, sir.” He smiled slightly as Adam unslung the telescope.

“Where away?” It was strange: despite his attempt to stay at arm’s length, the ship was closing in. A face he could barely recall. A typical Jack, some would say. Hard, rough, and, in their way, simple men.

“Same bearin’, sir.”

He steadied the glass, raising it very carefully as breaking crests leaped into view, magnified into small tidal waves in the powerful lens.

He felt the spar quiver and shake against his body, mast upon mast, down to the ship’s keelson. He could remember the genuine pleasure and pride of the men who had built her when he had insisted they come aboard for her commissioning.

And there she was, rising and dipping, her canvas dark against the scudding clouds.

The lookout said, “Square-rigged at the fore, sir.”

Adam nodded and waited for the glass to steady again. A brigantine, handling well in the offshore wind, almost bows-on. When he lowered the glass she seemed to drop away to a mere sliver of colour and movement. It never failed to surprise him that men like Sullivan, who would scorn a telescope, or trade it for a new knife or fresh clothing, or drink if it was offered, could still see and recognise another vessel when a landsman might not even notice it.

“Local, d’ you think?”

Sullivan watched him with sudden interest. “Spaniard, I’d say, sir. I seen ’em afore, as far to the south’rd as Good Hope. Handy little craft.” He added doubtfully, “Rightly ’andled, ’er course, sir!”

Adam took another look. The master was right. They would never catch her with the wind against them. And why should they care? Lose more time and distance when tomorrow they should lie in the shadow of the Rock?

It was like yesterday. He had been returning to Plymouth and it had been reported that a boat had been heading out to meet them. Not merely a boat: an admiral’s barge, the flag officer himself coming to tell him, to be the first to prepare him for the news of his uncle’s death. Vice-Admiral Valentine Keen. His uncle’s friend. He felt the same stab of guilt; he would never lose it. Zenoria’s husband. After her death he had married again. But like that moment alone in the silence of the house, he had thought only of Zenoria. What he had done.

Keen had told him what he knew, the circumstances of Bolitho’s death and of his burial at sea. Nothing was definite, except that his flagship had engaged two frigates, manned by renegades and traitors who, with others, had aided Napoleon’s escape from Elba; he had marched on Paris almost before the allies had recovered from the shock.

Bethune would know more of the details by now, where the frigates had taken refuge prior to their unexpected meeting with Frobisher, who was involved, how it had been planned. He found he was gripping the telescope so tightly that his knuckles were almost white. Spain was an ally now. And yet a Spaniard had been involved.

He repeated quietly, “Spaniard, you say?”

The man regarded him thoughtfully. Sir Richard Bolitho’s nephew. A fire-eater, they said. A fighter. Sullivan had been at sea on and off for most of his forty years, and had served several captains, but could not recall ever speaking to one. And this one had even known his name.

“I’d wager a wet on it, sir.”

A wet. What John Allday would say. Where was he now? How would he go on? The old dog without his master.

Adam smiled. “A wager it is then. A wet you shall have!” He seized a stay and began to slide towards the deck, heedless of the tar on his white breeches. Instinct? Or the need to prove something? When he reached the deck the others were waiting for him.

“Sir?” Galbraith, poised and guarded.

“Spanish brigantine. He’s a damned good lookout.”

Galbraith relaxed slowly. “Sullivan? The best, sir.”

Adam did not hear him. “That vessel is following us.” He looked at him directly. It was there. Doubt. Caution. Uncertainty. “I shall not forget that craft, Mr Galbraith.”

Wynter leaned forward and said eagerly, “An enemy, sir?”

“An assassin, I believe, Mr Wynter.”

He swung away; Jago was holding his hat for him. “See that the wardroom mess provides a double tot for Sullivan when he is relieved.”

They watched him walk to the companion-way, as if, like the two midshipmen he had seen earlier, he did not have a care in the world.

Midshipman Fielding stood examining the telescope which the captain had just returned to him. He would put it in the next letter to his parents, when he got round to it. How the captain had spoken to him. No longer a stranger… He smiled, pleased at the aptness of the phrase. That was it.

He recalled the time he had gone to waken the captain when Lieutenant Wynter had been concerned about the wind. He had dared to touch his arm. It had been hot, as if the captain had had a fever. And he had called out something. A woman’s name.

He would leave that out of the letter. It was private.

But he wondered who the woman was.

It was like sharing something. He thought of the captain’s easy confidence when he had slithered down to the deck like one of the topmen. Perhaps the others had not noticed it.

He smiled again, pleased with himself. No longer a stranger.

Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune walked to the quarter window of the great cabin and observed the activity of countless small craft in the shadow of the Rock. He had visited Gibraltar many times throughout his career, never thinking that one day his own flagship would be lying here, with himself at the peak of his profession. Although a frigate captain earlier in the war, he had been surprised and not a little dismayed to discover how his post at the Admiralty had softened him.

He glanced at the dress coat with its heavy gold-laced epaulettes which hung on one of the chairs, the measure of the success which had brought him to this. He was one of the youngest flag officers on the Navy List. He had always told himself that he would not change, that he was no different from that young, untried captain in his first serious encounter with the enemy, with only his own skills and determination to sustain him.

Or from the midshipman. He stared at the shadowed side of the Rock. Aboard the little sloop-of-war Sparrow, Richard Bolitho’s first command.

He still could not come to terms with it. He could remember the signal being brought to his spacious rooms at the Admiralty, the writing blurring as he had read and understood that the impossible had happened: Napoleon had surrendered. Abdicated. It had ended. A release for so many, but for him like a great door being slammed shut.

He stared around the cabin, the rippling reflections of water on the low deckhead. It had seemed so small, so cramped after his life in London. He had changed.

He could hear the movement of the men on the upper deck, the creak of tackles as stores sent across from one of the supply vessels from England were hoisted inboard.

His thoughts returned to Catherine Somervell, from whom they were never far away. That night at the reception at Castlereagh’s home, when Admiral Lord Rhodes had stunned the guests by calling Bolitho’s wife to join him and share the applause for her absent husband. When Bethune had begged to be allowed to escort Catherine to her Chelsea house, she had refused. She had been composed enough to consider him; there was enough scandal. Later he had heard of the attack at her home, a disgusting attempt to rape her by a Captain Oliphant, apparently a cousin of Rhodes. After that, things had moved quickly. Rhodes had not become First Lord as he had hoped and expected, and his cousin had not been heard of since.

He looked at the heavy coat again. And I was ordered here. In command of a small group of frigates entrusted with patrol and search operations, too late to relieve Sir Richard Bolitho at Malta, nor even in England when the news of his death had broken. No wonder he had changed. He had once imagined himself comfortably, if not happily, married to a woman who suited his role and shared his ambitions. Now even their life together had been soured by those events, and he suspected his wife had been a willing partner in Rhodes’ attempt to humiliate and insult Catherine at that reception for Wellington.

He crossed to the opposite quarter and shaded his eyes against the glare to gaze at the mainland. Spain. It was hard not to think of it as the enemy; in Algeciras there had always been eyes watching for the arrival of a new sail, with riders ready to gallop to the next post where the message could be relayed. Another ship from England. Where bound? For what purpose?

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.