to break the contact. He noticed, too, that the visitor paused and glanced almost involuntarily at the mainmast truck, as if he still expected to see a flag there.
In his cabin once more, Adam took out the locket and read the inscription, and her voice seemed to speak to him as it did whenever he received a letter from her.
May Fate always guide you.
May love always protect you.
She must have remembered those words when she had watched Unrivalled standing out into Falmouth Bay. As she would always look for the ship which would never come.
He turned as Galbraith appeared by the open screen door.
“Concerning tomorrow, sir?”
It was the only way. Perhaps Galbraith understood, and in time might share it.
“Take a glass with me first, eh?”
He slipped the locket into his pocket, out of sight. But the voice still persisted.
“There is something we must discuss, before I meet the vice admiral tomorrow. You see, I have a plan…”
It was a new beginning for all of them.
5. A Contest
LIEUTENANT Leigh Galbraith strode across the quarterdeck and reported, “The watch is aft, sir!” Like his unerring steps over and past ringbolts and other obstacles, it was part of an unchanging routine at sea. He even touched his hat to the shadowy shape of Lieutenant Massie, whom he was about to relieve.
It was still quite dark, but when his eyes eventually became accustomed he would see the approach of dawn in the fading stars, the hardening of the horizon. Massie stifled a yawn.
“West-by-south, sir.” He stared up at the pale outlines of the sails, filling only occasionally with the wind across the starboard quarter.
Galbraith glanced at the helmsmen, eyes flickering in the shaded light from the compass. Other shapes were moving into position: the morning watch, when the ship would come alive again.
Galbraith looked at the tiny glow from the cabin skylight. Was the captain awake, or was it a ploy to keep the watch on its toes?
He thought of Captain Bolitho’s return from his meeting with the vice-admiral. Galbraith had no idea what had been said, but the captain had come back on board barely able to conceal his anger.
Galbraith tried to dismiss it. At first light they would sight and resume contact with another frigate, Matchless of forty-two guns. She had been in the Mediterranean for three years attached to one squadron or another, and would therefore be very familiar with shipping movements and the lurking danger of pirates. Corsairs.
Matchless was commanded by a senior post-captain named Emlyn Bouverie, a man who came from a proud naval family, and was thought likely for promotion to flag rank in the near future. Galbraith did not know him, but those who did apparently heartily disliked him. Not a tyrant or martinet like some he had known, but a perfectionist, who was quick to reprimand or punish anyone who fell below his own high standards.
He said, “You are relieved, sir.” He lifted the canvas hood from the master’s chart table and peered at the log with the aid of a tiny lantern. They would sight land before noon, according to Cristie. He had never known him to be wrong.
He steadied the light with care. The coast of North Africa: to most sailors a place of mystery and strange superstitions, and best avoided.
He studied Cristie’s fine handwriting. 6TH June, 1815. What would this day bring?
Captain Bolitho had called his officers and those of senior warrant rank together in his cabin. Galbraith straightened his back and glanced at the skylight again. Remembering it.
The captain had described the mission. A visit to Algiers, to investigate. Their intentions were peaceful, but guns’ crews would exercise twice a day all the same. It was said that Algiers was protected by some six hundred guns. It would not be much of a contest if the worst happened.
The captain had looked at their faces and had said, “There was a French frigate named La Fortune in the Western Mediterranean before Napoleon’s surrender. Others too, and it is known that the Dey of Algiers and the Bey of Tunis have offered sanctuary to such men-of-war in exchange for their services. The prisons are still filled with Christians, people snatched from passing vessels, and held on no more serious charge than their religious beliefs. Torture, slavery, and open acts of aggression against merchantmen sailing under our protection-the list is endless. With our ‘allies’…” he had made no effort to conceal his contempt “… we had a chance to put paid to this piracy once and for all. Now with Napoleon at the head of his armies again, the Dey in particular may use our predicament to gain even more control of these waters, and beyond.”
Somebody, Galbraith had thought Captain Bosanquet of the Royal Marines, had asked about the sailor they had rescued and later buried at sea.
Captain Bolitho had answered shortly, “Probably one of many.” And again something like bitterness had crept into his voice.
“Which is why Captain Bouverie intends to make a peaceful approach. Vice-Admiral Bethune’s squadron is hard pressed as it is. He sees no alternative.”
Bouverie was the senior captain, as he reminded them often enough by hoisting signals at every opportunity. Galbraith half smiled. He would make a good admiral one day.
The master’s mate of the watch said softly, “Cabin light’s out, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Woodthorpe. I am glad you are awake!” He saw the man’s teeth in the dimness.
How would it be this time? He thought of the moment when they had shared wine together; it had shown him another side of Adam Bolitho. He had even touched on his early days at sea as a midshipman, and had spoken of his uncle, his first captain. Opening out, demonstrating a warmth which Galbraith had not suspected.
After his visit to the flagship, he had shut that same door. At first Galbraith thought that he had expected some priority, a preference because of his famous surname, and had resented Bouverie’s slower, more cautious approach. But Adam Bolitho was a postcaptain of some fame, and had not come by it easily. He would be used to Bouveries in the navy’s tight world.
It was deeper than that. Driving him, like some unstoppable force. Something personal.
Like the brigantine, which might or might not be following Unrivalled. Twice on this passage they had sighted an unknown sail. The lookouts had not been certain; even the impressive Sullivan could not swear to it. But Captain Bolitho had no such doubts. When he had signalled Bouverie for permission to break company and give chase, the request had been denied with a curt negative.
Galbraith had heard him exclaim, “This is a ship of war! I’m no grocery captain, damn his eyes!”
Galbraith recognised the light step now, and heard his passing comment to the master’s mate. Then he saw the open shirt, rippling in the soft wind, and remembered the savage scar he had seen above his ribs when he had found him shaving in his cabin. He was lucky to be alive.
Bolitho had seen his eyes, and said, “They made a good job of it!” And had grinned, and only for a second or so Galbraith had seen the youth override the experience and the memories.
A good job. Galbraith had heard the surgeon mention that when Adam Bolitho had been captured, more dead than alive, he had been operated on by the American ship’s surgeon, who had in fact been French.
“Good morning, Mr Galbraith. Everything is as it was, I see?” He was looking up at the topsails. “I could make her fly if I got the word!”
Pride? It was stronger than that. It was more like love.
He moved to the compass box and nodded to the helmsmen, and their eyes followed him further still, to the canvas-covered table.
“We shall exercise the main battery during the forenoon, Mr Galbraith.”
Galbraith smiled. That would go round the ship like a fast fuse. But it had to be said that the gun crews were improving.
