Alexander Kent - Second to None

When first I went to sea as a lad…

Heave, me bullies, heave!

A fine new knife was all I had!

Heave, me bullies, heave!

Adam relaxed slightly. To sea again. But this time under the Flag. The fleet’s apron strings, as he had heard other frigate captains describe it.

And I’ve sailed for fifty years an’ three

Heave, lads, heave!

It was coming in faster now, the capstans turning like human wheels.

To the coasts of gold and ivory!

Midshipman Sandell hurried past, pointing out something to the new member, Midshipman Deighton.

He had heard Jago remark, “Look at ’im, will you? Cocking his chest like a half-pay admiral!”

Another memory. What Allday had often said to describe some upstart.

He thought of Admiral Rhodes’ hurried conference aboard the flagship. He had received news of another unwarranted attack on some innocent fishermen. A battery had fired on the vessels, and then chebecs had appeared as if from nowhere and had captured or massacred the luckless crews. One of the squadron’s armed schooners had been nearby and had attempted to offer assistance, only to be driven off herself. It had been a close thing, to all accounts.

Rhodes had been beside himself with anger. An example must be made, before the weather changed yet again. He would delay no longer; all available ships must be ready to sail.

The squadron had been reinforced by a bomb vessel named Atlas. She had sailed at first light with Matchless as escort.

Adam knew from experience that bomb vessels were difficult at the best of times, being clumsy and unhandy sailers. To use just one such craft without waiting for promised reinforcements would be asking for trouble, no matter how experienced her company might be.

At the captains’ conference aboard Frobisher he had said as much. Rhodes had turned on him instantly, as if he had been waiting for the chance.

“Of course, Captain Bolitho. I almost forgot! A frigate captain of your style and record would condemn the more controlled approach.”

Only Captain Bouverie of Matchless had laughed. The others had waited in silence.

Rhodes had continued, “No daring cutting-out, or some hand-to-hand skirmish with undisciplined renegades, so you consider this is not a useful undertaking!”

“I resent that, my lord.” The words had hung in the air, while Rhodes had made a point of studying one of his charts. “To break the Dey’s hold over the Algerine pirates, as he chooses to call them when it suits his purpose, a fleet action will be required.”

Rhodes had shrugged. “Knowledge is not necessarily wisdom, Captain Bolitho. I trust you will remember it.” He had looked pointedly at the others. “All of you.”

The shantyman’s reedy voice broke into his thoughts again.

And now at the end of a lucky life!

Massie yelled from the forecastle, “Anchor’s hove short, sir!”

Adam nodded, satisfied. “Loose the heads’ls!” He stared up at the braced yards. “Hands aloft and loose tops’ls!”

Midshipman Cousens, who had not lowered his telescope and was still watching the flagship, shouted, “Signal from Flag, sir!

General… Make haste! ”

Adam saw the wind feeling its way into the loosely brailed topsails. It was easy to contain your anger when the enemy was so obvious.

The shantyman ended with a flourish, “Well, still I’ve got that same old knife!”

“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”

Adam walked to the opposite side to watch the land sliding away, as more men released from the capstan bars hurried to add their weight to the braces, to haul the yards round and capture the wind.

He took a telescope from its rack and trained it on the ancient battlements, and the gaping embrasures where cannon had once dominated the harbour. Where they had held one another. And had loved, impossible though it was to believe.

Galbraith had found him on deck during the morning watch, and had probably imagined he had risen early to see the bomb vessel and the weed-encrusted Matchless clearing the harbour.

Or had he guessed that he had been watching the third ship making an early departure, tall and somehow invulnerable with her spreading canvas. A merchantman, the Aranmore, bound for Southampton. Had she also been on deck to watch the anchored men-of-war, he wondered? Had she already forgotten, or locked it away, another hidden secret?

He said, “Take station on the Flag, Mr Galbraith, and lay her on the starboard tack once we are clear.” He tried to smile, to lighten it. “As ordered, remember?”

He paced to the compass box and back again. And then there was Catherine’s letter. Perhaps it would have been better to have sailed earlier, before the latest courier had anchored. My dear Adam…

What, after all, had he expected? She had nobody to care for her, to protect her from malicious gossip and worse.

He raised the glass again and waited for the image to focus on the first patch of windblown water. Frobisher. Much as she had been when she had quit Malta with his uncle’s flag at the main. He had felt it when he had walked her deck, sensed it in the watching faces, though few, if any, could have been aboard on that fatal day.

He lowered the glass and looked at his own ship, the seamen flaking down lines and securing halliards. In spite of everything, he had seen the bond grow and strengthen. They were one company.

Perhaps he was wrong about Rhodes, and a show of force was all that it needed. But in his heart he knew it was something else. Unsaid, like that which Bethune had left behind, as dangerous as

Unrivalled’s shadow on the seabed when they had entered the shallows.

He saw Napier coming aft with something on a covered tray. The boy who had trusted him enough to come and tell him of Lady Bazeley’s plight. He laid his palm briefly on the polished wood of the ladder where she had been lying helpless.

He should be able to accept it. Instead, he was behaving like some moonstruck youth.

He heard Cristie give a little cough, waiting to make his report, course to steer, estimated time of arrival. Then the purser would come: provisions and fresh water, and this time, no doubt with Forbes’ influence, some welcome casks of beer from the army.

“Signal from Flag, sir!” Midshipman Cousens sounded subdued. “Make more sail!”

“Acknowledge.” Adam turned away and saw Midshipman Deighton speaking with the newly-minted lieutenant, Bellairs. It gave him time to think, to recall Forbes’ words on board Frobisher. Not afraid to take a risk if you thought it justified.

He said, “Be patient, Mr Cousens. I fear you will be much in demand until we sight an enemy!”

Those around him laughed, and others who were out of earshot paused in their work as if to share it.

Adam looked through the great web of spars and rigging. Perhaps Rhodes was watching Unrivalled at this very moment.

Aloud he said, “I’ll see you damned, my lord!”

Bellairs watched the captain walk to the companion-way and then gave his attention to the new midshipman again. It was hard to believe that he had been one himself, and so recently given his commission. It would make his parents in Bristol very proud.

The war was over, but for the navy the fighting was never very far away. Like this new challenge, the Algerine pirates. He found violent death more acceptable than the prospect of life as one of those he had seen left wounded and hopelessly crippled.

He touched the fine, curved hanger at his side. He had been astounded when the first lieutenant had told him of the captain’s offer.

He suddenly realised what Midshipman Deighton had been asking him about the ship and her young captain.

He said simply, “I’d follow him to the cannon’s mouth.”