The wardroom had been empty, which was rare in any ship. Even the messmen had been elsewhere; he had made certain of that.
There had been just the two of them. Varlo had been confident, almost amused as he had told him what he thought of his behaviour in general, and in particular over the flogging.
Galbraith had lost his temper. Something he had sworn to avoid. Something he had wanted to do.
Varlo had said, offhandedly, 'The captain could have told me himself, if he had thought it important. In all my experience, I've never heard such abuse. As first lieutenant you are entitled to dictate matters of duty if or when it is justified. This is not. I'll take no insolence from any lout, drunk or sober-I'll see the backbones of anyone who tries it!'
Galbraith had listened to his own voice. A different sound, another person.
'In all your experience. I was forgetting. Forgive me.' He had seen the slight smile forming. Strangely, it had helped. 'Flag lieutenant to a flag officer, albeit a junior one. But he thought highly of you, his aide, so much so that anybody might have expected further promotion.' The smile had gone at that point. 'Instead, you were appointed to Unrivalled, to fill a dead man's shoes, as it happens. I know some who would have killed for the post, but to a flag lieutenant surely something more promising should have been offered!'
Varlo had snapped hack, 'I don't know what you mean!'
It had gone far enough. Now, he knew for certain. Soon they would fight.
He had said, 'The admiral wanted to end it there. Your liaison.
Varlo had stared at him, stunned. I le had seen him just now, watching him from the foremast trunk. Shock, fury, and something far deeper.
How silent the wardroom had seemed. Even the sounds of rigging and timbers were stilled.
Then Varlo had said softly, 'I lad we been ashore, anywhere but in this ship, I would have called you out, and you would have danced to a different tune!'
Galbraith had walked to the door. 'Do your duty, and remember that you rely on our people, just as they, poor devils, have to depend on you.' Ile had turned, half expecting a blow or another threat, and had said, 'Next time, Mister Varlo, ensure that the admiral is safely married, eh?' The pretence was ended. 'And call me out when and where you wish. You'll find one ready enough!' He could still hear the door slamming behind him, and remembered the shock and the shame of his own words. But no regrets.
'Get the ship under way, if you please.' The captain was looking at him, his hat still grasped in one hand. 'I will speak to the people tomorrow. It may be the last chance.'
Galbraith understood, and turned to call a boatswain's mate. But something made him hesitate.
'You can rely on me, sir.'
The other frigate was already spreading more canvas and going about, the gig hoisted and stowed.
Adam thought of her captain, Robert Christie, who had served under James Tyacke at the Nile. We are of the same mould, the same generation. A face you could trust when the signal for close action was flying.
He felt the chill again. The warning.
They would never meet again.
Joseph Sullivan, the ship's best lookout, settled himself comfortably on his perch in the crosstrees and glanced down at the deck far below. It was hard to believe that none of them down there could see what he could see. Not yet. They had been roused early, but nothing out of the normal run of things, almost unhurried, he thought. But purposeful, in earnest. A good breakfast, too; he could still taste the thick slices of pork, washed down with a pint or more of rough red wine. And, of course, some rum. A proper issue, with officers and warrant ranks looking the other way when the older hands pulled out their hoarded supplies. After all, you never knew if it was the last tot in this world.
He looked across the bow and studied the array of ships. They appeared still and unmoving in the morning sunlight, but they were coming right enough, a fleet the like of which they might never see again. Liners keeping perfect formation in the low breeze, all sails set and drawing well, considering. Not yet stripped for action. Frigates too, staying up to windward, ready to run down like terriers if the admiral so ordered. Dutchmen in their own squadron. He drew his knife and carved himself a wedge of chewing tobacco. He had been at sea almost all his life, or all that he could remember. He knew what was essential. Like the changing scarlet pattern of marines, mere puppets from up here, being arranged on the quarterdeck, some to be stationed at hatchways and what the old hands called bolt-holes, where a terrified man might run at the height of battle. A marine would prevent it. There was nowhere to run anyway, but only experience taught you that.
Sullivan was at a loss. The fine model of his old ship Spartiate, which had stood in the line at Trafalgar, was finished. It was hard to recall exactly when he had begun it. In his last ship they had pulled his leg about it. But he and the model were still here. The others were not.
He peered down again. More figures about now. On edge, wanting to get on with it. Get it over. He saw steam rising from the sea alongside, and loosened a last piece of pork from his teeth. The galley fire had been doused. Almost time now.
He twisted round and looked at the shore, no longer a shadow, an unending barrier of sand and stone. He could see the headland, a sudden stab of light, the sun reflecting from a window or telescope. He measured it with his eye. Three miles. It would be noon before they were close enough. He thought of the captain, yesterday, when they had cleared lower deck to hear him speak from the quarterdeck.
It was strange at such times, he thought. Unrivalled carried some 250 souls of every age and rank, and in a crowded hull you would expect to know every man-jack of them. And yet, packed together on deck or clinging to shrouds and ratlines to listen, you still found yourself beside someone you had never met before.
Every man-of-war, no matter how crowded, was divided by rank, status, and station. Soon the pattern would change again. Gun crews and powder monkeys, sail-handling parties, and men to repair damage. He watched the land, as if it had altered in some way. Others to drag away the wounded, or to pitch the dead overboard.
The captain had told them about the Christian slaves, and the murder and persecution of helpless people taken at sea or on land in the Dey's name.
He had heard Isaac Dias, the foul-mouthed gun captain, mutter, 'They can only spare a few poxy schooners to put screws on the slave trade down south, eh, lads? But it's a whole bloody fleet for the Christians!' It brought a few grins; it did not do to fall out with Unrivalled's best gun captain. Sullivan smiled to himself. He was useless for anything else.
He wondered what the captain thought about it. Really thought. His ship, his men, and his neck if things went badly wrong. He had asked his coxswain about him, but Jago was as tight as a clam. 'He'll do me,' was his only reply. Funny, for a man who had always loathed officers.
Sullivan looked at the fleet again. It was not possible, but they were closer now. He could see the Cross of St George at the masthead of the big three-decker at the head of the line, Queen Charlotte. The admiral's ship; a hundred guns or more, they said. The enemy had prepared and well-sited artillery. In all his years at sea he had heard the arguments about ships set against shoremounted guns. He grinned. Who would be an admiral today?
He looked down between his bare feet at the great main-yard angled below him, overlapping either beam. Young Midshipman Cousens had fallen across it when he had been thrown from up here. If I had been with him… He shut it from his mind. He was not here. Another face had moved on.
He saw that the marines were climbing into the fighting-tops, marksmen, and a few to handle the deadly swivel guns, which could kill or maim more of your own mates than the enemy if badly laid and trained. Daisy-cutters. Invented by somebody who never had to use one, he thought.
He realised that one of the marines was gesturing at him with his musket. Sullivan waved. Somebody was coming… Did he never sleep? Sullivan had seen the skylight shining throughout the night, and had heard of him visiting the magazine, where Old Stranace the gunner ruled the roost, and even the sickbay, where his servant shared the space with the man who had been flogged. His lip curled. Because of Mister bloody Varlo. Like Sandell, he would not be missed.
He looked suddenly at his big, rough hands; scarred and pitted with tar, but they could still fashion a perfect ship's likeness.
Would I be missed?
He watched the captain climb the last few feet, hatless, his brown face shining with sweat. He was still able to smile.
