Alexander Kent - Second to None

“May I share it, sir?”

For a moment he thought he had gone too far. But Adam merely looked at him, his face hidden in shadow.

“I was thinking of some wild roses, and a lady.” He turned away, as if afraid of what he might disclose. “On my birthday.” Then, abruptly, “The wind! By God, the wind! ”

It was as though the ship had sensed his change of mood. Blocks and halliards rattled, and then above their heads the maintopsail boomed like a drum.

Adam said, “Belay my last order! Call all hands directly!” He gripped Galbraith’s arm as if to emphasise the importance of what he was saying. “We shall sight land today! Don’t you see, if we are being followed it’s their last chance to outreach us!”

Galbraith knew it was pointless to question his sudden excitement. At first light they should be changing tack to take station on Matchless again. There was not a shred of evidence that the occasional sightings of a far-off sail were significant, or connected in any way. But the impetuous grip on his arm seemed to cast all doubt to the rising wind.

He swung round. “Pipe all hands, Mr Woodthorpe! And send for the master, fast as you can!”

He turned back to the indistinct outline. “Captain Bouverie may not approve, sir.”

Adam Bolitho said quietly, “But Captain Bouverie is not yet in sight, is he?”

Men rushed out of the shadows, some still dazed by sleep, staring around at the flapping canvas and straining rigging until order and discipline took command.

The master, feet bare, stumped across the sloping deck, muttering, “Is there no peace?” Then he saw the captain. “New course, sir?”

“We will wear ship, Mr Cristie! As close to the wind as she’ll come!”

Calls shrilled and men scrambled aloft, the perils of working in darkness no longer a threat now to most of them. Blocks squealed, and someone stumbled over a snaking line, which was slithering across the damp planking as if it were truly alive.

But she was answering, from the instant that the big double wheel was hauled over.

Galbraith gripped a backstay and felt the deck tilting still further. In the darkness everything was wilder, louder, as if the ship were responding to her captain’s recklessness. He dashed spray from his face and saw pale stars spiralling around the masthead pendant. It was all but dawn. He looked towards the captain. Suppose the sea was empty? And there was no other vessel? He thought of Bouverie, what might happen, and knew, without understanding why, that this was a contest.

Unrivalled completed her turn, water rushing down the lee scuppers as the sails refilled on the opposite tack, the jib cracking loudly, as close to the wind as she could hold.

Cristie shouted, “Steady as she goes, sir! East-by-south!”

Afterwards, Galbraith thought it was the only time he had ever heard the master either impressed or surprised.

“Make fast! Belay! ”

Men ran to obey each command; to any landsman it would appear a single, confused tangle of canvas and straining cordage.

Adam Bolitho gripped the rail and said, “Now she flies! Feel her!”

Galbraith turned, but shook his head and did not speak. The captain was quite alone with his ship.

“Hands aloft, Mr Lomax! Get the t’gallants on her and put more men on the main course! They’re like a pack of old women today!”

Lieutenant George Avery stood beneath the mizzen-mast, where the marines of the afterguard had been mustered for nearly an hour. He had heard a few whispered curses when the galley fire had been doused before some of the watchkeepers had managed to snatch a quick meal.

He felt out of place aboard Matchless, alien. Everything worked smoothly enough, as might be expected in a frigate which had been in commission for over three years. But he had sensed a lack of the companionship he himself had come to recognise and accept. Every move, each change of tack or direction, seemed to flow from one man. No chain of command as Avery knew it, but a single man.

He could see him now, feet apart, hand on his hip, a square figure in the strengthening daylight. He considered the word; it described Captain Emlyn Bouverie exactly. Even when the ship heeled to a change of tack, Bouverie remained like a rock. His hands were square too, strong and hard, like the man.

Bouverie said, “Attend the lookouts, Mr Foster, you should know my orders by now!” His voice always carried without any apparent effort, and Avery had never seen him deign to use a speaking-trumpet, even in the one patch of wind they had encountered after leaving Malta.

He heard a lieutenant yelling out names, and thought he knew why. Soon now Unrivalled would be sighted, provided Adam Bolitho had kept on station as instructed. He recalled the meeting aboard the flagship. Bouverie had vetoed the suggestion that Avery should sail with Unrivalled instead of “the senior officer’s ship,” and Bethune had concurred. Looking back, Avery still wondered if it was because he had truly agreed, or if he had simply needed to demonstrate that no favouritism would be shown Sir Richard Bolitho’s nephew.

He gazed aloft as the topgallant sails broke free from their yards and filled to the wind, the topmen spread out on either side, all aware of their captain’s standards.

Pride, jealousy? It was difficult to have one without the other. Matchless had been in these waters for more than three years, and despite her coppered hull was heavy with weed and marine growths. Unrivalled had been forced to shorten sail several times during the day to remain on station, while at night they must be almost hove-to. He could imagine Adam Bolitho’s frustration and impatience. And yet I hardly know him. That was the strangest part. Like handing over the locket. When I wanted it for myself.

He realised that Bouverie had joined him by the mizzen. He could move swiftly when it suited him.

“Bored, Mr Avery? This may seem a mite tame after your last appointment!”

Avery said, “I feel like a passenger, sir.”

“Well spoken! But I cannot disrupt the running of my command with a wrong note, eh?”

He laughed. In fact, Bouverie laughed frequently, but it rarely reached his eyes.

“All secure, sir!” Somebody scuttled past; nobody walked in Matchless.

Bouverie nodded. “I’ve read the notes and observations on your last visit to Algiers. Could be useful.” He broke off and shouted, “Take that man’s name, Mr Munro! I’ll have no damned laggards this day!”

That man. After three years in commission, a captain should have known the name of every soul aboard.

Again, the ambush of memory. How Richard Bolitho had impressed upon his officers the importance of remembering men’s names. It is often all they can call their own.

He turned, startled, as Bouverie said, “You must miss the admiral,” as if he had been reading his thoughts.

“I do indeed, sir.”

“I never met him. Although I too was at Copenhagen, in Amazon, Captain Riou. My first stint as a lieutenant. A real blooding, I can tell you!” He laughed again, but nobody turned from his duties to watch or listen. Not in Matchless.

Bouverie’s arm jerked out once more. “Another pull on the weather forebrace and belay! Far too slow! ”

He changed, just as suddenly. “Did you have much to do with Lady Somervell? Turn a man’s heart to water with a glance, I’m told. A true beauty-caused more than a few ripples in her time!”

“A woman of courage also, sir.”

Bouverie was studying him in the gloom. Avery could feel it, like the stare of a prosecuting officer at a court martial. As he could feel his own rising resentment.

Bouverie swayed back on his heels. “If you say so. I’d have thought-” He broke off and almost lost his balance. “What the hell was that?”