Alexander Kent - Second to None

Click… click… click. Napier wore ill-fitting shoes for this new employment, probably bought from one of the traders who hung around the King’s ships, and the sound grated on Adam’s nerves.

“Napier!” He saw the youth stiffen, and changed his mind. “No matter. Fetch me some of that wine.” He curbed his impatience, knowing he himself was at fault. What is the matter with me? The boy he was going to sponsor for midshipman, the boy he had been trying to fashion in his own image, if he was honest enough to admit it, was dead.

Napier hurried away, pleased to be doing something. Click… click… click. He thought of the state of the French frigate’s stores. La Fortune had been down to her last resources when she had been seized, her powder and shot, salted meat, and even the cheese the Frenchmen took as a part of life almost finished.

He recalled Jago’s remarks about wine, and smiled. There had indeed been plenty of that, under lock and key until Bosanquet of the Royal Marines had shattered it with a well-aimed pistol shot.

Napier brought the bottle and a glass and placed them with great care beside the log book.

Adam could feel the eyes on him as he poured a glass. The Captain. Who lived in this fine cabin and was oblivious to the cramped conditions and brutal humour of the messdecks. Who wanted for nothing.

The wine was cool, and he imagined Catherine selecting it for him. Who else would care about such things? He would eke it out. Like the memory: hold on to it.

The glass almost broke in his fingers as he exclaimed, “Hell’s teeth, boy!” He saw Napier cringe, and said urgently, “No! Not you!” Like calming a frightened animal; he was ashamed that it was always so easy. For the Captain.

He said evenly, “Tell the sentry to fetch the first lieutenant, will you?”

Napier twisted his hands together, staring at the glass.

“Did I do somethin’ wrong, sir?”

Adam shook his head.

“A bad lookout is the one who sees only what he expects to see, or what others have told him to expect.” He raised his voice. “Sentry!» When the marine thrust his head around the screen door he said, “My compliments to the first lieutenant, and would you ask him to come aft.” He looked back at the boy. “Today, I am that bad lookout!”

Napier said slowly, “I see, sir.”

Adam smiled. “I think not, but fetch another bottle, will you?”

It was probably only a flaw in his memory. Something to cover his anger at Bouverie’s arrogant but justified action over the prize.

And what of La Fortune? Were there still people who did not know or believe that ships had souls? She was not a new vessel, and must have seen action often enough against the flag which the marine had hoisted at her peak. Now she would probably be sold, most likely to the Dutch government. Another old enemy. Several prizes had already been disposed of in that manner, and yet, as the vice-admiral himself had pointed out, the fleet was as short of frigates as ever.

Galbraith entered the cabin, his eyes taking in the wine, and the anxious servant.

“Sir?”

“Be seated. Some wine?”

He saw the first lieutenant relax slightly.

“The Frenchman we took-she was short of everything, especially powder and shot.”

Galbraith took time to pick up and examine the glass. “We were saying as much earlier, sir.”

So they had been discussing it in the wardroom, and most of all, he had no doubt, the prize-money which might eventually be shared out.

“And yet there was a letter, which Lieutenant Avery translated.” Remembering his bitterness. “To La Fortune ’s captain. Supposedly from a lady.” He noted the immediate interest, and then the doubt. “I can see you think as I did.” He grinned ruefully. “Eventually!”

Galbraith said, “It seems strange that anyone would be able to send a letter to a ship whose whereabouts were largely unknown.”

Adam nodded, his skin ice-cold in spite of the cabin’s warmth.

“To promise the delivery of the one thing they did not need. Wine!”

Galbraith stared past him. “Daniel… I mean, Mr Wynter made a note of the dates in Rosario ’s log, sir.”

“Did he indeed? We may have cause to thank him for his dedication.”

He was on his feet, his shadow angled across the white-painted timbers, as if the hull was leaning hard over.

“My orders are to remain on this station and to await instructions. That I must do. But we shall be seen to be here. There are those who might believe that Matchless has gone to obtain assistance, and that time is now more precious than ever.”

Galbraith watched him, seeing the changing emotions, could almost feel him thinking aloud.

He ventured, “They are expecting supplies, above all powder and shot. If there are other ships sheltering in Algiers…”

Adam paused and touched his shoulder. “And they still have La Fortune ’s captain to help matters along, remember?”

“And we are alone, sir.”

Adam nodded slowly, seeing the chart in his mind. “The Corsican tyrant once said, ‘Wherever wood can swim, there I am sure to find this flag of England.’” The mood left him as quickly. “The truest words he ever spoke.” He realised for the first time that the servant, Napier, had been in the cabin the whole time, and was already refilling the glasses. With the wine from St James’s Street in London. He said, “We have no choice.”

He walked to the stern windows, but there was only a fine line to separate sky from sea. Almost dark. My birthday.

He thought of her, whom he had loved and had lost, and when he looked at the old sword hanging from its rack, reflecting the lantern light, he thought of another who had helped him and was rarely out of his thoughts. Neither had been his to lose in the first place.

He said suddenly, “How did it feel today, having a command of your own again?”

Galbraith did not appear to hesitate.

“Like me, sir, I think the ship felt uneasy without her captain.”

Their eyes met, and held. The barrier was down.

There was nothing else. For either of them.

The carriage with its perfectly matched greys wheeled sharply into the drive and halted at the foot of the steps. Sillitoe jumped down with barely a glance at his coachman.

“Change the horses, man! Quick as you can!”

He knew he was allowing his agitation to show itself, but he was powerless against it. He left the carriage door open, the watery sunlight playing on its crest. Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick.

A servant was sweeping the steps but removed the broom and averted his eyes as Sillitoe ran past him and threw open the double doors before anyone could be there to greet him.

He was late. Too late. And all because he had been delayed by the Prime Minister: some errand for the Prince Regent. It could have waited. Should have waited.

He saw his minute secretary, Marlow, coming towards him from the library. A man who knew all his master’s moods but had remained loyal to him, perhaps because of rather than in spite of them, Marlow recognised his displeasure now, and that there was no point in attempting to appease him.

“She is not here, m’ lord.”

Sillitoe stared up and around the bare, elegant staircase. There were few paintings, although the portrait of his father, the slaver, was a notable exception, and fewer objets d’art. Spartan, some called it. It suited him.

“Lady Somervell was to wait here for me! I told you exactly what I intended-” He stopped abruptly; he was wasting more time. “Tell me.”

He felt empty, shocked that it had been so simple to deceive him. It had to be the case. No one else would dare, dare even to consider it.

Marlow said, “Lady Somervell was here, m’ lord.” He glanced at the open library door, seeing her in his mind. All in black but so beautiful, so contained. “I tried to make her comfortable, but as time passed she became… troubled.”