Alexander Kent - Man of War

It was a life he had grown used to, accepted, and one he lived with a zeal which often surprised his contemporaries. He took care of himself; although he enjoyed good wine with the company to match it, he was always careful not to slide into overindulgence. He had seen too many senior officers deteriorate and age before their time. It was sometimes impossible to imagine them, sword in hand, walking their own decks while death whined and stung all around them. He moved to the desk again, the restlessness stronger than before.

And what of me?

Some chose to ignore it, imagined perhaps that rank and seniority were everlasting. He touched the folder uppermost on the desk. And upon his mind.

At the close of the previous year the Navy List had carried two hundred admirals, and eight hundred and fifty captains. Commanders and mere lieutenants added up to another five thousand. The great fleet and all the squadrons, even those commanded by highly successful or famous officers, had been cut to the bone. Whole forests had been felled to build those ships, and now every anchorage and waterway had its sad reminders.

And what of me?

There was not an admiral left under the age of sixty, so that all promotion was at a standstill. A captain, if he was lucky enough still to be employed, could remain thirty years in that rank without moving.

He grimaced. Or survive on half-pay, shadowy figures who walked the se afront watching. Remembering. Dreading.

He thought of his wife. Lady Bethune. It was hard now to think of her any other way. "You can retire when you wish it, Graham. You're not a pauper. You can see more of the children." Their two 'children' were adults, and they met like pleasant strangers. His wife was in control. Like the night at that reception when she had smiled while Catherine Somervell had been humiliated. The night Catherine might have been raped, even killed, but for the intervention of Sillitoe and some of his men.

Bethune still relived it, again and again. He had entertained her here in this opulent room in the seat of Admiralty. The youngest vice-admiral on the Navy List since Nelson. And might remain so if things got even worse.

And she, the woman who had outraged society when she and Sir Richard Bolitho had lived openly together.

He looked at the chair where she had been seated, remembering her scent of jasmine. Her eyes when she smiled. Laughed, then… Maybe he could obtain an appointment in one of the dockyards, like Valentine Keen. He had also served under Richard as a midshipman; now his flag flew over the Nore. But a navy without ships was no inspiration. The old, eternal enemies were uneasy allies now, in name anyway.

Like the anti-slavery campaign, which many had believed over after Exmouth's victory at Algiers.

He walked past the chair and tried again to shut it, and her, from his mind. Sillitoe was her protector, although many hinted that they were lovers also. He, too, had made a fool of himself when he had expressed his feelings and his fears for her.

He recalled the meetings he had had with the First Lord.

"Slavery will not go just go away because of an Act of Parliament, Graham. Too many fortunes have been made from it, and survive on it still… Their lordships and I have considered it deeply and often. A new command, entrusted with a difficult and possibly dangerous task. A show of force, enough to make plain our determination, but fluid enough not to antagonize or disrupt our "allies" in this matter.

"You will know, Graham, that there is no shortage of applicants." He had let the words hang in the air. "But I would prefer you to take it."

Bethune was at the window again, looking down at the endless movement. People and the din of traffic, horses and iron-shod wheels. Another world, in which he would be a stranger; and some one else would be sitting here in this room.

He liked the company of women, and they his. But a risk was a risk all the same. And in any case, he might retain this present position for months. He sighed. Years.

He tugged down the front of his waistcoat and stared at his reflection in the rain-dappled glass, and thought of Richard Bolitho again. As if it were yesterday. His eyes as he had watched an oncoming enemy, the pain there when he considered the cost in lives. His decision, and a voice very level. So be it, then.

There was a tap at the ornate doors, timed to the minute.

"Well, Tolan?"

"Captain Adam Bolitho is here, Sir Graham."

The shadow moved over the rich carpet, his face as Bethune remembered it. Like a younger version of Richard; even then, people had often taken them for brothers.

The same firm handshake; the elusive smile. And something else, desperation. It would have been uppermost in his thoughts all the way from Cornwall. The journey would have taken almost five days, changing horses, sharing a carriage with strangers, and, all the time, wondering…

Adam Bolitho had more than proved his worth, his skill, and his courage. The armchair strategists at the Admiralty had described him as reckless. But then, they would.

He recalled his own uncertainty, which had made him write Trust me on the back of the orders to this dark, youthful man. I was like him. The frigate captain. That was then.

To prolong this meeting which could be the start of many, or the last, would be insulting to both of them.

He said, more abruptly than he had intended, "I have been given a new appointment, Adam, and I want you for my flag captain." He held up his hand as Adam seemed about to speak. "You have done a great deal, and you have won the approval of my senior officers, as well as the un stinting praise of Lord Exmouth. I, too, have seen you in action, which is why I want…" He reconsidered. "I need you as my flag captain."

Adam realized that the elderly servant had dragged up a chair for him and vanished into an adjoining room.

It was all he could do to put events into some kind of order. The endless journey, his arrival here at the Admiralty. Blank faces, and heads bowed to listen, as if he were speaking a foreign language.

He looked up at the gilded ceiling as somewhere high in the roof a clock began to chime, and he was aware of birds flapping in alarm, although they must hear the same sound at every half-hour.

He massaged his eyes and tried to clear his mind, but the images remained. He had told Young Matthew to take a different route into Plymouth, where he had been instructed to change carriages.

He could see the words like blood. Never look back.

With a telescope he had eventually found Unrivalled, not far from her previous anchorage. In a week she had changed almost beyond recognition, topmasts and standing rigging gone, her decks littered with discarded cordage and spars, crates and casks piled where the eighteen-pounders had once been ranged like marines at their sealed ports. The ports empty. Dead.

Only the figurehead remained intact and unchanged. Head flung back, breasts out thrust proud and defiant. And, like the girl in the studio, helpless.

Never look back. He should have known.

Bethune was saying in his quiet, even voice, "You have been in commission for a long time without much rest, Adam. But time is not on my side. Your appointment will take effect as soon as convenient to their lordships."

Adam was on his feet, as if invisible hands were forcing him to leave.

Instead he asked, equally quietly, "What ship, sir?"

Bethune breathed out slowly, half-smiling. "She's the Athena, seventy-four. She is completing fitting-out at Portsmouth." He glanced at the painting of the embattled ships, a flicker of regret crossing his features. "Not a frigate, I'm afraid."

Adam reached out and clasped his hand. Was it said so easily, the most important moment for any captain? He looked at Bethune and thought he understood.