Alexander Kent - Second to None

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.

SIR WILFRED LAFARGUE waited while Spicer, his clerk, gathered up a bulky file of documents, and then folded his hands on the empty desk.

“I foresee several problems, perhaps serious ones, arising in the near future. But insurmountable? I think not.”

Normally, such a comment would leave a client hopeful, if not entirely satisfied. But Lafargue, as a lawyer and the senior partner of this prestigious firm which bore his name, was conscious only of its lack of substance.

He knew it was because of his visitor, standing now by the far window in this vast office. It was Lafargue’s favourite view of the City of London, and the dome of St Paul ’s, a constant reminder of its power and influence.

Lafargue was always in command; from the moment the tall doors were opened to admit a client, potential or familiar, his routine never varied. There was a chair directly opposite this imposing desk, forcing the client to face the full light of the windows, more like a victim than one who would eventually be charged a fee which might make him blanch and reconsider before returning. Except that they always did return.

But this one was different. He had known Sillitoe for a good many years; Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick, as he now was. The Prince Regent’s Inspector-General, and a man of formidable connections long before that. Feared, hated, but never ignored. Those who did regretted it dearly.

Sillitoe was a man of moods, and this again unsettled Lafargue; it broke the pattern of things and was disconcerting. Restless, unable to remain still for more than a few minutes, he seemed disturbed by something which had not yet been revealed.