8. No Escape

DENIS O’BEIRNE, Unrivalled’s surgeon, climbed wearily up the quarterdeck ladder and paused to recover his breath. The sea was calmer, the sun very low on the horizon.

The ship’s company was still hard at work. There were men high in the yards, splicing a few remaining breakages, and on the main deck the sailmaker and his crew were sitting cross-legged like so many tailors, their palms and needles moving in unison, ensuring that not a scrap of canvas would be wasted. Apart from the unusual disorder, it was hard to believe that the ship had exchanged fire on this same day, that men had died. Not many, but enough in a small, self-contained company.

O’Beirne had served in the navy for twelve years, mostly in larger vessels, ships of the line, always teeming with humanity, overcrowded and, to a man of his temperament, oppressive. Blockade duty in all weathers, men forced aloft in a screaming gale, only to be recalled to set more sail if the weather changed in their favour. Bad food, crude conditions; he had often wondered how the sailors endured it.

A frigate was something else. Lively, independent if her captain was ambitious and able to free himself from the fleet’s apron strings, and imbued with a sense of companionship which was entirely different. He had observed it with his usual interest, seen it deepen in the few months since Unrivalled had commissioned on that bitterly cold day at Plymouth, and the ship’s first captain had read himself in.

As surgeon he was privileged to share the wardroom with the officers, and during that period he had learned more about his companions than they probably knew. He had always been a good listener, a man who enjoyed sharing the lives of others without becoming a part of them.

A surgeon was classed as a warrant officer, his status somewhere between sailing-master and purser. A craftsman rather than a gentleman. Or as one old sawbones had commented, neither profitable, comfortable, nor respectable.

In recent years the Sick and Hurt Office had worked diligently to improve the naval surgeon’s lot, and to bring them into line with army medical officers. Either way, O’Beirne could not imagine himself doing anything else.

He was entitled to one of the hutch-like cabins allotted to the lieutenants, but preferred his own company in the sickbay below the waterline. His world. Those who visited him voluntarily came in awe; others who were carried to him, like those he had left on the orlop deck, or had seen being put over the side in a hasty burial, had no choice.

He glanced around the quarterdeck. Here, in this place of authority and purpose, the roles were reversed.

Unrivalled was rolling steeply despite the sea’s calmer face, lying to as she had for the entire day, with the battered Tetrarch under her lee, the air alive with hammers and squealing blocks as the boarding party had used every trick and skill known to seamen to erect a jury-rig, enough for Tetrarch to get under way again, and be escorted to Malta.

The little brig had capsized and vanished even before many of her wounded could be ferried to safety. He had heard few regrets from anyone, and even the loss of potential prize-money had seemed insignificant.

Two ships, and the sun already low above its reflection. He saw the captain staring up at their new fore-topgallant sail, while Cristie, the master, pointed out something where the topmen were still working.

O’Beirne thought of his latest charge, Tetrarch’s captain. He had borne up well, considering the angle of the pistol shot and a great loss of blood. The ball had been fired point-blank, and his waistcoat had been singed and stained with powder smoke. Only one thing had saved his life: he had been wearing one of the outdated crossbelts which some officers had still been using when O’Beirne had first gone to sea. It had a heavy buckle, like a small horseshoe. The ball had been deflected by it, and had broken in half.

They had stripped him naked and the loblolly boys had held him spread-eagled on the makeshift table, already ingrained with the blood of those who had gone before him.

O’Beirne could shut his ears and concentrate on the work in hand, but his mind was still able to record the inert shapes which lay in the shadows, or propped against the frigate’s curved timbers. There had been no time to separate or distinguish the living from the dead. He had become accustomed to it, but still liked to believe he had not become hardened by it. He remembered the powder monkey who had lost a leg: it had been a challenge not to watch his face, his eyes so filled with terror as the knife had made its first incision. He had died on the table before the saw could complete the necessary surgery.

O’Beirne had seen his surgeon’s mate scribble in a dog-eared log book. The powder monkey had been ten years old.

O’Beirne came from a large family, seven boys and three girls. Three brothers had entered the Church, two had donned the King’s coat in a local regiment of foot, another had gone to sea in a packet ship. His sisters had married honest farmers and were raising families of their own. The brother who had gone to sea was no more; neither were the two who had “gone for a soldier.”

He smiled to himself. There was something to be said for the Church after all.

He realised that the captain was looking at him. He seemed clear-eyed and attentive while he listened to what Cristie had to say, and yet O’Beirne knew he had been on deck or close to it since dawn.

Adam walked away from the rail and stared down at the sailmaker’s crew.

“What is it?”

“The captain, sir.” He hesitated as the dark eyes met his. “Captain Lovatt.”

“The prisoner, you mean. Is he dead?”

O’Beirne shook his head. “I’ve done what I could, sir. There is some internal bleeding, but the wound may heal, given time.”

He had not considered the man a prisoner, or anything but a wounded survivor. He had fainted several times, but had managed to smile when he had finally come to his senses. O’Beirne had prevented him from moving his arms, telling him it might aggravate the inner wound, but they all did it, usually after they had been rendered incapable of thought or protest by liberal helpings of rum. Just to make certain their arms were still there, and not pitched into the limbs and wings tub like so much condemned meat.

He saw a muscle tighten in the captain’s jaw. Not impatience, but strain. Something he was determined to conceal.

He said, “He asked about you, sir, while I was dressing the wound. I told him, of course. It helps to keep their minds busy.”

“If that is all…” He turned away, and then back abruptly. “I am sorry. You are probably more tired than all the rest of us!”

O’Beirne observed him thoughtfully. It was there again, a kind of youthful uncertainty, so at odds with his role as captain, of this ship and all their destinies.

He knew Lieutenant Wynter and a master’s mate were trying to catch the captain’s eye; the list of questions and demands seemed endless.

He said, “He knew your name, sir.”

Adam looked at him sharply.

“Because of my uncle, no doubt.”

“Because of your father, sir.”

Adam returned to the rail and pressed both palms upon it, feeling the ship’s life pulsating through the warm woodwork. Shivering, every stay and shroud, halliard and brace, extensions of himself. Like hearing his first sailing-master in Hyperion, so many years ago. An equal strain on all parts and you can’t do better. And now it was back. Was there no escape? No answers to all those unspoken questions?

Midshipman Bellairs called, “Signal from Tetrarch, sir! Ready to proceed!”

He stared across the water, purple now with shadow, and saw the other ship angled across the dying sunlight, pale patches of new canvas marking the extent of Galbraith’s efforts.

“Thank you, Mr Bellairs. Acknowledge.” He looked at the portly surgeon without seeing him. “Make to Mr Galbraith, With fair winds. Good luck. ” Then, aware of the lengthening shadows,» Roundly does it!”

O’Beirne was surprised, that this youthful man should take the time to send a personal message when he had so many urgent matters demanding his attention, and more so that he himself could be moved by it.

Adam was very conscious of the scrutiny, and moved away from it to the rail again and stood watching the greasy smoke rising from the galley funnel. The working parties were fewer, and some of the old hands were loitering, looking on as Tetrarch tested her jury-rig for the first time.

Men had died this day, and others lay in fear of living. But there was a smell of pitch and tar in the air, spun yarn and paint, Unrivalled shaking off the barbs of war, and her first sea-fight. “I shall get the ship under way.” He saw the surgeon turn, and knew he thought his visit had been in vain. “After that, I shall come below and see the prisoner, if that is what you desire.” Calls shrilled and men ran once more to halliards and braces: the sailors’ way, exhausted one minute, all energy the next.

O’Beirne lowered himself carefully down the steep ladder, his mind lingering on the captain’s last remark.

Half aloud, he said, “What you need, more like, if I’m any judge.”

But it was lost in the hiss and boom of canvas as Unrivalled once again responded to those who served her.

They faced one another, the moment intensified by the stillness of O’Beirne’s sickbay below the waterline. Adam Bolitho seated himself in the surgeon’s big leather chair, which seemed to dominate this private place like a throne.

He looked at the other man, who was propped in a kind of trestle, one of O’Beirne’s own inventions. It helped to ease the breathing, and lessened the risk of the lung filling with blood.

Two captains. He could not think of them as victor and vanquished. We are only two men.

Lovatt was not what he had expected. A strong but sensitive face, with hair as fair as Valentine Keen’s. The hands, too, were well shaped, one clenching and unclenching against the throbbing pain of his wound, the other resting as if untroubled against the curved timbers of the hull.

Lovatt spoke first.

“A fine ship, Captain. You must be proud to have her.” He gazed at the nearest frame. “Grown, not cut by saw. Natural strength, rare enough in these hard times.”

Adam nodded. It was indeed rare, with most of the oak forests hacked down over the years to supply the demands of the fleet.

He thought of Galbraith’s hastily written message, and said, “What did you hope to achieve?”

Lovatt almost shrugged. “I obey orders. Like you, Captain. Like all of us.” The fist opened and closed again as if he had no control over it. “You will know that I was expecting to be met, to be escorted the remainder of the passage to Algiers.”

Adam said quietly, “ La Fortune was taken. She is a prize, like Tetrarch.” Half his mind was still with the scene he had left on deck. A lively breeze, a steadier motion with the wind almost across the taffrail. A soldier’s wind, the old hands called it. It would help Galbraith’s jury-rig, and it allowed Unrivalled to hold up to windward in case they required assistance.

He glanced around O’Beirne’s domain, at the piles of well thumbed books, the cupboards, and racks of bottles and jars clinking occasionally with the vibration of the rudder-head.

The smell here was different too. Potions and powders, rum and pain. Adam hated the world of medicine and what it could do to a man, even the bravest, under knife and saw. The price of victory. He looked at his companion again. And defeat.

“You asked to see me?” He curbed his impatience. His was the need.

Lovatt regarded him with calm eyes.

“My father fought alongside yours in the struggle for independence. They knew one another, although I did not know about you, the son.”

Adam wanted to leave, but something compelled him to remain. “But you were a King’s officer.”

“When I am handed over to the right authority I shall be condemned as one. No matter-my son is all I have now. He will forget.”

Adam heard boots scrape outside the door. A marine sentry. O’Beirne was taking no chances. On either of us.

Lovatt was saying, “I left America and returned to England, to Canterbury, where I was born. I had an uncle who sponsored my entry as midshipman. The rest is past history.”

“Tell me about Tetrarch.”

“I was third lieutenant in her… a long time ago. She was a fourth-rate then, but past her best. There was bad feeling ’twixt the captain and the senior lieutenant, and the people suffered because of it. When I spoke up on their behalf I discovered I had stepped into a trap. Because of my father, an Englishman on the wrong side, I was left in no doubt as to how my future would be destroyed. Even the second lieutenant, whom I had thought a friend, saw me as a threat to his own advancement.” He gave a sad smile. “Not unknown to you perhaps, sir?”

Midshipman Fielding peered around the door. “Mr Wynter’s respects, sir, and he wishes to take in another reef.” His eyes were fixed on Lovatt.

“I shall come up.” Adam turned back, and saw something like desperation in the hazel eyes.

“There was no mutiny. They simply refused to stand to their guns. I agreed to remain aboard until their case had been put to the French.” The eyes were distant now. “Most of them were exchanged, I believe. I was branded a traitor. But an American privateer came into Brest… Until then I had been a trusted prisoner of the French navy. On parole, on my honour.” It seemed to amuse him. “And I had met a girl there. Paul is our son.”

Adam stood, his hair brushing the deckhead. “And now you are a prisoner again. Did you think your mention of my father could buy you privilege? If so, then you do not know me.” It was time to go. Now.

Lovatt sank back against the trestle. “I knew your name, what it has come to mean to sailors of all flags. My wife is dead. There is only Paul. I was planning to obtain passage to England. Instead, I was given command of Tetrarch.” He shook his head. “That damned, wretched ship. I should have forced you to fire on us. Finished it!”

The deck moved slightly. They would all be up there waiting for him. The chain of command.

Adam stopped, his hand on the door. “ Canterbury? You have people there still?”

Lovatt nodded. The effort of conversation was taking its toll.

“Good friends. They will care for Paul.” He looked away, and Adam saw the despair in his clenched fist. “But he will come to hate me, I think.”

“He is still your son.”

Again the faint smile. “Be content, Captain. You have your ship.”

O’Beirne filled the doorway, his eyes everywhere.

Adam said, “I have finished here.” He regarded Lovatt coldly. The enemy, no matter which flag he served or for what reason.

But he said, “I shall do what I can.”

O’Beirne opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of brandy, which he had been saving for some special occasion although he had not known what. He recalled the even, Cornish voice as the captain had spoken a simple prayer before the corpses were put over the side. Most of the dead were unknown. Protestant, Catholic, pagan or Jew, it made no difference to them now.

He found two glasses and held them up to the light of the gently spiralling lantern to see if they were clean, and noticed the dried blood, like paint, on his cuff.

Lovatt cleared his throat, and said, “I believe he meant it.”

O’Beirne pushed a glass towards him. “Here-kill or cure. Then you must rest.”

He lingered over the glass. Some special occasion… He saw the brandy tilting with the rhythm of the sea, and imagined Captain Bolitho with his men, watching the stars, holding station on this man’s ship.

He said, “Of course he meant it.” But Lovatt had fallen into an exhausted sleep.

From somewhere aft he heard the sound of a fiddle, probably in the junior warrant officers’ mess. Badly played, and out of tune.

To Denis O’Beirne, ship’s surgeon, it was the most beautiful sound he had heard for a long time.


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 shanty man’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.

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