Alexander Kent - Second to None

Galbraith said, “I am well content here, sir…”

Adam held up his hand. “Never say that. Never even think it. My uncle once described a command, especially a first one, as the most coveted gift. I have never forgotten it. Nor must you.”

They both looked at the glittering water beyond the anchored vessels astern as the first crash of cannon fire rolled across the harbour. The response, gun by gun, from the battery wall seemed even louder.

Adam said, “We’ll go up, shall we?”

He clipped on the old sword, then he said, “Mr Bellairs will have no sword as yet.” He gestured to his own curved hanger in its rack. “He may have that one if he chooses to wait until his parents do him the honour!”

He touched the sword at his hip. So many times. So many hands. And he was reminded of the note Catherine had written for him, and had left with the sword at Falmouth.

The sword outwore its scabbard. Wear it with pride, as he always wanted.

Frobisher was back. And he would know.

Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune winced as the Royal Marine guard of honour slammed to attention once more, a cloud of pipeclay floating over their leather hats like smoke while the band struck up a lively march. The ceremony was almost finished. Bethune could not recall how many he had witnessed or participated in since he had entered the navy. Probably thousands. He tried to relax his muscles. Why, then, was he so disturbed, even agitated, when this was opening new doors to his own future?

He glanced at the man for whose benefit this ceremony had been mounted. His successor: to him it might seem the end of everything, rather than a fresh challenge.

Admiral Lord Rhodes was shaking hands with the governor’s representative, but it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

Rhodes had been at the Admiralty when Bethune had been appointed there, and for a good many years before that, and they had met occasionally, but Bethune had never really known him. His elevation to First Lord had been taken for granted, until the day Sillitoe had burst unannounced into the office and had demanded to speak with Rhodes. Bethune had learned only then that he had been appointed the Prince Regent’s Inspector General.

It had been Rhodes ’ cousin, once Frobisher’s captain, who had attempted to rape Catherine. Because I allowed her to go home

unescorted. He thought of Adam’s face when he had mentioned

Rhodes ’ particular interest in Sir Richard Bolitho’s flagship. He had been ashamed that he could conceal the full truth, but it would have helped no one, least of all Catherine, and he had to consider what old hatreds might do to his own future, as well as Adam’s.

But the much-used code of conduct failed to afford him any comfort. It seemed in this instance merely a device which placed expediency before honour and friendship.

He studied his successor once more. Rhodes was tall and heavily built, and had once been handsome. His face was dominated by a strong, beaked nose which made his eyes appear small by comparison, but the eyes, overshadowed though they were, missed nothing. The band was comprised of soldiers borrowed at short notice from the garrison commander, a friend of Captain Forbes; the frigates carried Royal Marine drummers and fifers but they had not yet paraded together. Rhodes had commented on the music, a military quick march, which he thought inappropriate.

The walls had been lined with people watching the ceremony, and Bethune had found himself wondering how long it would take news of Rhodes ’ appointment to reach the Dey of Algiers.

He walked across the dusty jetty as the guard was dismissed and the onlookers began to disperse. He saw Sir Lewis Bazeley standing in the shade of a clump of sun-dried trees; how would he get along with Rhodes, if he stayed in Malta? An energetic man, eager, Bethune had thought, to impress on younger men what he could do, although Bethune could not imagine him having anything in common with the girl he had married. He had never known if Lady Bazeley had really been in ill health when she had declined to accompany them in the brig. He had thought about Adam’s presence here during that time, but Forbes had said nothing to him on the subject, and he was, after all, his flag captain.

And finally, he considered England, the grey skies and chill breezes of October. He smiled. It would be wonderful.

Rhodes strode over to join him. “Smart turn-out, Sir Graham. Standards-they count more than ever, eh?”

Bethune said, “I shall show you the temporary headquarters building, m’ lord. I have sent for a carriage.”

Rhodes grinned. “Not a bit of it, we’ll walk. I can see the great barn of a place from here!” He gestured to his flag lieutenant. “Tell the others!”

Bethune sighed. Another Bazeley, or so it seemed.

By the time they had gone halfway Rhodes was breathing heavily, and his face was blotched with sweat, but he had never stopped firing questions. About the six frigates in the squadron, and the expectations of getting more. About the many smaller craft, brigs, schooners and cutters which were the eyes and ears of the man whose flag flew in command.

They paused in deep, refreshing shadow while Rhodes turned to stare at the anchored men-of-war, shimmering in haze above their reflections.

“And Unrivalled’s one of them, is she?” He looked at Bethune, his eyes like black olives. “Bolitho, what’s he like?”

“A good captain, m’ lord. Successful as well as experienced. What the navy is going to need more than ever now.”

“Ambitious, then?” He looked at the ships again. “He’s done well, I’ll give him that. Father a traitor, mother a whore. He’s done very well, I’d say!” He laughed and strode on.

Bethune contained his fury, at Rhodes and with himself. When he reached the Admiralty perhaps he could discover some way to transfer Adam. But not without Unrivalled. She was all he had.

Rhodes had stopped once more, his breathless retinue filling the street.

“And who is that, sir?”

Bethune saw a flash of colour on the balcony as Lady Bazeley withdrew into the shadows.

“Sir Lewis Bazeley’s wife, m’ lord. I explained-”

Rhodes grunted, “Women in their place, that’s one thing.” Again the short, barking laugh Bethune had often heard in London. “But I’ll not have them lifting their skirts to my staff!”

Bethune said nothing. But if it came to drawing a card, his own money would be on Bazeley rather than Rhodes.

And then he knew he was glad to be leaving Malta.

Luke Jago bowed his legs slightly and peered at Halcyon’s stout anchor cable to gauge the distance as the gig swept beneath her tapering jib-boom, then glanced at the stroke oar and over the heads of the crew, easing the tiller-bar until the flagship appeared to be pinioned on the stem-head. They were a good boat’s crew, and he would make certain they stayed that way.

He saw the captain’s bright epaulettes catch the sunlight as he leaned over to gaze at the anchored seventy-four.

Professional interest? It was more than that and Jago knew it.

Felt it. There were plenty of other boats arriving and leaving at God’s command.

Vice-Admiral Bethune at least had seemed human enough, and had obviously got on well with the captain. Now he had gone. Jago had seen Captain Bolitho and the first lieutenant watching the courier brig as she had made sail, with the vice-admiral her only passenger. Most senior officers would have expected something grander than a brig, he thought. Bethune must have been that eager to get away.

And now there was Lord Rhodes, a true bastard to all

accounts. More trouble.

Jago looked at the midshipman sitting below him. The new one, Deighton. Very quiet, so far, not like his father had been. He wondered if the boy had any idea of the truth. Killed in action, for King and Country. His lip almost curled with contempt.