Alexander Kent - Second to None

“Yes, Usher?”

“I’ve done copies of the lists, sir. Three of each.” He always found it necessary to explain every detail of his work.

“Very well. I shall sign them after I have eaten.”

“Deck there! Sail on the larboard quarter!”

Everyone looked up. The voice of the masthead lookout had been heard only rarely on this passage.

The master tugged down his hat and said, “Shall I send another man aloft, sir?”

Adam glanced at him. Cristie was a professional; he would not be here otherwise. It was not an idle comment. And here was Wynter, the third lieutenant and officer-of-the-watch, hurrying from the chartroom, but with biscuit crumbs on his coat to betray his other activities. Young, efficient and keen, when required he could put on such a blank expression that it was impossible to know what he was thinking, which was unusual for a junior lieutenant. But his father was a member of Parliament, so perhaps that might explain it.

Adam said, “Your glass, Mr Fielding. I shall go up directly.” He thought he saw Cristie’s deep-set eyes sharpen. “I shall not shorten sail. Yet.” He wedged his hat inside the companion-way and felt his hair wet against his forehead. “A trader seeking the company of a frigate?” He shook his head as if someone had answered. “I think not. I know a few King’s officers who would not be slow to press a few prime hands, no matter what the Admiralty directs us to do!”

Cristie gave a rare grin. He would know. Even sailors with the genuine Protection, the document which should have defended them against the demands of a hungry fleet, had been pressed. It would take months for someone to find out and do something about it.

Cristie said, “If she holds up to wind’rd we’ll never be able to reach her.”

Adam looked up at the towering masts. Why? Was it a demonstration of something? Bravado, perhaps?

He slung the big telescope over his shoulder and strode forward to the main chains before gazing up again at the swaying crosstrees, where the lookout would be perched like a sea bird, uncaring, or indifferent to the other world far beneath his dangling legs.

The others watched until Lieutenant Wynter exclaimed, “What ails him, Mr Cristie? How can he know anything more than the rest of us?”

“The Cap’n don’t miss much, Mr Wynter.” He gestured to the biscuit crumbs. “Your little pleasures, for instance!”

A seaman murmured, “First lieutenant’s comin’ up, sir!”

“Damn!” Wynter stared at the captain’s slim figure, leaning back and outwards above the creaming water surging from the finely raked stem. Wynter was twenty-two years old and could remember the congratulations and the envy alike when he had been appointed to Unrivalled. The first of her class, the kind of frigate which had been denied them when they had needed them most in the war against the new American navy. With the fleet being cut down and officers as well as seamen being discharged or put on half-pay without any visible prospects, he had been fortunate. Like Galbraith, the senior, who seemed old for his rank when compared with most lieutenants; he must have seen this appointment as a last chance rather than a new beginning.

A new ship, and commanded by one already proclaimed a brave and resourceful officer. The name alone was enough, part of the legend, and now of the mourning for the admiral who had inspired and shocked the nation.

Wynter had been serving in an elderly third-rate when his appointment had been posted. He still had no idea why he had been selected. His father, a rising member of Parliament and one well known for his outspoken criticism of naval and military affairs, was certainly not behind it. Even when he had first gone to sea as a midshipman, his father had offered little encouragement.

“A good regiment would have been preferable. I could have bought you a comfortable living where you would have served with gentlemen, not uncouth ruffians! Don’t come to me for pity when you lose an arm or a leg through some captain’s hunger for glory!”

And Wynter had never been in a sea-fight, mainly because the old seventy-four had been too slow to chase an enemy, and was often left far behind the rest of the squadron. She would doubtless be hulked, like so many of the other worn-out ships which had stood between England and her natural enemies for so many years. He saw Bellairs, the senior midshipman, in charge of Unrivalled ’s signals and with any luck the next in line for lieutenant’s examination, talking to the sailing-master, ready to muster his men if something unusual happened. Even he had seen action, several times if he was to be believed, when he had served with the Channel Fleet in a small thirty-two gun frigate.

Wynter stared up at the captain again. He was almost there now, apparently untroubled by the height, and the unnerving

shake and quiver of the masts under their great weight of spars

and cordage.

He knew something of Captain Adam Bolitho’s past. A command at twenty-three, and a list of successes against the Americans and the French, with prize-money to show for it. Nobody spoke of the other matter, the disgrace to his family when his father had changed sides to command a privateer against his own country during the American War of Independence. But everybody knew about it. How must he feel? He turned away as

a shaft of watery sunlight lanced into his eyes. How would I feel?

He heard Cristie telling the first lieutenant about the masthead’s sighting. He did not hear any reply or comment, but

Galbraith was like that. Easy to talk to in the wardroom, on matters relating to shipboard duties or the watch bill. Ready to give advice about the suitability of certain men for the various parts of ship. On a personal level, or when asked to offer an opinion about the course of the war or the reliability of the higher command, he would close up like a clam. Unlike some of the others. Captain Louis Bosanquet, the officer in charge of the

ship’s Royal Marines, was the complete opposite. Like a steel blade to his men, he was outspoken about almost everything in the mess, especially when he had had too much to drink. His second-in-command, Lieutenant John Luxmore, on the other hand, went by the book, and seemed to live only for the drilling and betterment of his “bullocks.” O’Beirne, the surgeon from Galway, who knew more jokes than anyone Wynter had ever met, and Tregillis the purser were easy enough to share a mess with, no better or worse than men in any other ship of this size. The exception was Vivian Massie, the swarthy second lieutenant, who had seen plenty of action and did not bother to hide a driving

ambition. Beyond that he could be withdrawn, almost secretive, as if any personal revelation might be considered weakness. Good in a battle, but a bad enemy, Wynter had decided.

He stiffened as Galbraith joined him by the rail.

Captain Bolitho had almost reached the crosstrees. But even he could make a mistake. If he slipped and fell, if he missed hitting a spar or the ship herself, the fall would knock him senseless. It would take far too long to heave-to and lower a boat. He glanced at Galbraith’s strong profile. Then he would be in command. Perhaps only temporarily, but it would offer him the recognition he needed and must crave. It happened in battle, just as it had struck down the captain’s uncle. Dead men’s shoes. Nobody mentioned it, but it was on most people’s minds when it came to promotion.

Wynter shaded his eyes and peered up again through the maze of rigging and flapping canvas.

Why should the captain do it? Did he trust no one? He had heard Bosanquet remark once that he knew the captain no better than when he had stepped aboard. Galbraith had been present, and had answered, “I could say the same about you, sir!” That had ended it. That time.