Alexander Kent - Second to None

Adam sat opposite him, the cognac and the easy use of his first name driving some of his doubts away. The flag captain was obviously making the most of Bethune’s absence, although it was apparent from the occasional pause in mid-sentence to listen that, like most serving captains, he was ill at ease away from his ship.

Forbes added, “I still believe that raids on known anchorages, though damn useful and good for our people’s morale, will never solve the whole problem. Like hornets, destroy the nest. Time enough later to catch the stragglers.”

Adam agreed and tried to recall how many glasses he had drunk as Forbes peered at the bottle and shook it against the fading sunlight. “I’d have given anything to be there with you.” Then he grinned. “But with any luck Montrose will be a private ship again quite soon!”

“You’re leaving the squadron?”

Forbes shook his head. “No. But we are being reinforced by two third-rates, and about time too. Sir Graham Bethune will likely shift his flag to one of them. A damn nice fellow,” he grinned again, “for an admiral, that is. But I believe he is eager to leave, to get back to a stone frigate, the Admiralty again, most likely. I’ll not be sorry. Like you, I prefer to be free of flag officers, good or bad.”

Adam recalled Bethune’s restlessness, his sense of displacement even in a world he had once known so well. And there was a wife to consider.

Forbes changed tack. “I hear that you’ve got a new midshipman, a replacement for the one who was killed. Deighton-I knew his father, y’ know. We were lieutenants together in the old Resolution for a year or so. Didn’t know him all that well, of course…” He hesitated and peered at Adam as though making a decision. “But when I read the account of your fight with the Yankee Defender, in the Gazette I think it was, I was a little surprised. He never really struck me as being in the death-or-glory mould, one who would fall in battle like that. His son must be proud of him.” He sat back and smiled. Like a cat, Adam thought, waiting to see which way the mouse would run.

“He was killed by a single shot. It is common enough.”

Forbes exclaimed, “Thoughtless of me! Your uncle… I should have kept my damn mouth shut.”

Adam shrugged, remembering when Keen had left Halifax to return to England for promotion and high command at Plymouth. And to marry again… Deighton was to remain as commodore in charge until otherwise decided. He could remember Keen’s words to him, like a warning. Or a threat.

“Be patient with him. He is not like us. Not like you. ”

He said, “How is Sir Graham getting along with his visitor?”

Forbes gave him the grin again, obviously glad of the change of subject.

“They both know about wine, anyway!”

Adam smiled. “Claret, of course.”

A servant appeared with another bottle but Forbes waved him away.

He said, “I shall be dining with the army tonight. Don’t want to let our end down!”

Adam prepared to depart. It had been a friendly, informal discussion, but he had been a flag captain himself, and a flag lieutenant to his uncle. Both roles had taught him to sift fact from gossip, truth from rumour, and in this brief meeting he had learned that a new admiral was about to be appointed, and that Bethune would be leaving. The new flag would decide all future operations, as so ordered by the Admiralty. An aggressive demonstration of sea power might deter the Dey from any further attacks on shipping, or from offering refuge to any pirate or turncoat who offered his services in return for sanctuary.

Forbes had made a point of not mentioning Lady Bolitho’s death, although it was no doubt common knowledge in a place like this. Adam himself had said nothing about it; it was private, if not personal. Belinda was dead. I never knew her. But was it so simple?

Forbes frowned as a shadow moved restlessly beneath the door.

“Not like a ship, Adam. Too many callers, always wanting things. I’d never make an admiral in a thousand years!”

Adam left, cynically amused. He could see Forbes as precisely that.

Outside he paused to study the copper sky. It was a fine, warm evening, and in England the summer was over. It would be the first Christmas without war. And without his uncle.

Forbes had also avoided mentioning Bazeley’s lovely young wife. He wondered if she had fared any better aboard the brig, with its cramped quarters and limited comforts. After an Indiaman and then Unrivalled, a brig would seem like a work-boat. Eyes watching her every move, men deprived of a woman’s touch, the sound of a woman’s voice.

He had told Jago to return to the ship, saying that he would take a duty boat from the jetty. He grinned in the shadows. He had been expecting Forbes to ask him to stay. Instead, he would return to his own, remote cabin.

Something moved in a doorway, and his hand was on the hilt of his sword in a second, unconsciously.

“Who is there?”

The action and strain had cost him more than he would have believed.

It was a woman. Not a beggar or a thief.

“Captain Bolitho. It is you!”

He turned in a patch of golden light and recognised Lady Bazeley’s companion.

“I did not know you were here, ma’am. I thought you would be with Sir Lewis and his lady.”

The woman stood very still, and he felt the intensity of her eyes, although her features remained hidden in shadow.

She said, “We did not go. Her ladyship was unwell. It seemed the safest thing to do.”

He heard footsteps, measured, precise, and relaxed again. It was the marine sentry at the gates, pacing his post, his mind doubtless far removed from this place.

The woman touched his arm, and then withdrew her hand just as quickly, like an unwilling conspirator.

“My lady would like to see you before you leave, sir. We saw you earlier in the day. And then you came back.” She hesitated. “It is safe, if you will allow me to lead.”

Adam looked back, but there was only silence. Forbes must have known that the women had stayed behind, but had made a point of not mentioning that either.

Was she really unwell, or was she merely bored, needing to be amused? At my expense.

He said, “Lead on, ma’am.” Perhaps she wanted to remind him of his awkward advances, his clumsiness. He thought of the leadsman’s cry. No bottom! What it had meant, after the risk he had taken for what Lovatt would have called a gesture, a conceit.

The woman walked swiftly ahead of him, untroubled by the rough paving where he guessed guns had stood in the past when Malta had been in constant fear of attack. Perhaps she was used to running errands for her mistress. He recognised the same parapet as before, but knew it was at the opposite side of the rambling building, in shadow now, the old embrasures touched with colour from the melting light.

And the view was the same. When he had held her, and the invisible orchestra had offered its private gift of music. Ships anchored as before, some already displaying lights, topmasts clinging to the last copper glow, flags limp, barely moving.

And then he saw her, her gown pale against the dull stone, the fan open in her hand.

She said, “So you came, Captain. You honour us.”

He moved closer and took the hand she offered him.

“I thought you were away, m’ lady. Otherwise-”

“Ah, that word again.” She did not flinch as he kissed her hand. “I heard there was fighting. That you were fighting.”

It sounded like an accusation, but he said nothing. Nor did he release her hand.

She said in the same level tone, “But you are safe. I heard you laugh just now. Recognised it. Enjoying some of Sir Graham’s cognac in his absence, yes?”

He smiled. “Something like that. And you, I hear you were ill?”