Two ships, and the sun already low above its reflection. He saw the captain staring up at their new fore- topgallant sail, while Cristie, the master, pointed out something where the topmen were still working.
O’Beirne thought of his latest charge, Tetrarch’s captain. He had borne up well, considering the angle of the pistol shot and a great loss of blood. The ball had been fired point-blank, and his waistcoat had been singed and stained with powder smoke. Only one thing had saved his life: he had been wearing one of the outdated crossbelts which some officers had still been using when O’Beirne had first gone to sea. It had a heavy buckle, like a small horseshoe. The ball had been deflected by it, and had broken in half.
They had stripped him naked and the loblolly boys had held him spread-eagled on the makeshift table, already ingrained with the blood of those who had gone before him.
O’Beirne could shut his ears and concentrate on the work in hand, but his mind was still able to record the inert shapes which lay in the shadows, or propped against the frigate’s curved timbers. There had been no time to separate or distinguish the living from the dead. He had become accustomed to it, but still liked to believe he had not become hardened by it. He remembered the powder monkey who had lost a leg: it had been a challenge not to watch his face, his eyes so filled with terror as the knife had made its first incision. He had died on the table before the saw could complete the necessary surgery.
O’Beirne had seen his surgeon’s mate scribble in a dog-eared log book. The powder monkey had been ten years old.
O’Beirne came from a large family, seven boys and three girls. Three brothers had entered the Church, two had donned the King’s coat in a local regiment of foot, another had gone to sea in a packet ship. His sisters had married honest farmers and were raising families of their own. The brother who had gone to sea was no more; neither were the two who had “gone for a soldier.”
He smiled to himself. There was something to be said for the Church after all.
He realised that the captain was looking at him. He seemed clear-eyed and attentive while he listened to what Cristie had to say, and yet O’Beirne knew he had been on deck or close to it since dawn.
Adam walked away from the rail and stared down at the sailmaker’s crew.
“What is it?”
“The captain, sir.” He hesitated as the dark eyes met his. “Captain Lovatt.”
“The prisoner, you mean. Is he dead?”
O’Beirne shook his head. “I’ve done what I could, sir. There is some internal bleeding, but the wound may heal, given time.”
He had not considered the man a prisoner, or anything but a wounded survivor. He had fainted several times, but had managed to smile when he had finally come to his senses. O’Beirne had prevented him from moving his arms, telling him it might aggravate the inner wound, but they all did it, usually after they had been rendered incapable of thought or protest by liberal helpings of rum. Just to make certain their arms were still there, and not pitched into the limbs and wings tub like so much condemned meat.
He saw a muscle tighten in the captain’s jaw. Not impatience, but strain. Something he was determined to conceal.
He said, “He asked about you, sir, while I was dressing the wound. I told him, of course. It helps to keep their minds busy.”
“If that is all…” He turned away, and then back abruptly. “I am sorry. You are probably more tired than all the rest of us!”
O’Beirne observed him thoughtfully. It was there again, a kind of youthful uncertainty, so at odds with his role as captain, of this ship and all their destinies.
He knew Lieutenant Wynter and a master’s mate were trying to catch the captain’s eye; the list of questions and demands seemed endless.
He said, “He knew your name, sir.”
Adam looked at him sharply.
“Because of my uncle, no doubt.”
“Because of your father, sir.”
Adam returned to the rail and pressed both palms upon it, feeling the ship’s life pulsating through the warm woodwork. Shivering, every stay and shroud, halliard and brace, extensions of himself. Like hearing his first sailing-master in Hyperion, so many years ago. An equal strain on all parts and you can’t do better. And now it was back. Was there no escape? No answers to all those unspoken questions?
Midshipman Bellairs called, “Signal from Tetrarch, sir! Ready to proceed!”
He stared across the water, purple now with shadow, and saw the other ship angled across the dying sunlight, pale patches of new canvas marking the extent of Galbraith’s efforts.
“Thank you, Mr Bellairs. Acknowledge.” He looked at the portly surgeon without seeing him. “Make to Mr Galbraith, With fair winds. Good luck. ” Then, aware of the lengthening shadows,» Roundly does it!”
O’Beirne was surprised, that this youthful man should take the time to send a personal message when he had so many urgent matters demanding his attention, and more so that he himself could be moved by it.
Adam was very conscious of the scrutiny, and moved away from it to the rail again and stood watching the greasy smoke rising from the galley funnel. The working parties were fewer, and some of the old hands were loitering, looking on as Tetrarch tested her jury-rig for the first time.
Men had died this day, and others lay in fear of living. But there was a smell of pitch and tar in the air, spun yarn and paint, Unrivalled shaking off the barbs of war, and her first sea-fight. “I shall get the ship under way.” He saw the surgeon turn, and knew he thought his visit had been in vain. “After that, I shall come below and see the prisoner, if that is what you desire.” Calls shrilled and men ran once more to halliards and braces: the sailors’ way, exhausted one minute, all energy the next.
O’Beirne lowered himself carefully down the steep ladder, his mind lingering on the captain’s last remark.
Half aloud, he said, “What you need, more like, if I’m any judge.”
But it was lost in the hiss and boom of canvas as Unrivalled once again responded to those who served her.
They faced one another, the moment intensified by the stillness of O’Beirne’s sickbay below the waterline. Adam Bolitho seated himself in the surgeon’s big leather chair, which seemed to dominate this private place like a throne.
He looked at the other man, who was propped in a kind of trestle, one of O’Beirne’s own inventions. It helped to ease the breathing, and lessened the risk of the lung filling with blood.
Two captains. He could not think of them as victor and vanquished. We are only two men.
Lovatt was not what he had expected. A strong but sensitive face, with hair as fair as Valentine Keen’s. The hands, too, were well shaped, one clenching and unclenching against the throbbing pain of his wound, the other resting as if untroubled against the curved timbers of the hull.
Lovatt spoke first.
“A fine ship, Captain. You must be proud to have her.” He gazed at the nearest frame. “Grown, not cut by saw. Natural strength, rare enough in these hard times.”
Adam nodded. It was indeed rare, with most of the oak forests hacked down over the years to supply the demands of the fleet.
He thought of Galbraith’s hastily written message, and said, “What did you hope to achieve?”
Lovatt almost shrugged. “I obey orders. Like you, Captain. Like all of us.” The fist opened and closed again as if he had no control over it. “You will know that I was expecting to be met, to be escorted the remainder of the passage to Algiers.”
Adam said quietly, “ La Fortune was taken. She is a prize, like Tetrarch.” Half his mind was still with the scene he had left on deck. A lively breeze, a steadier motion with the wind almost across the taffrail. A soldier’s wind, the old hands called it. It would help Galbraith’s jury-rig, and it allowed Unrivalled to hold up to windward in case they required assistance.
He glanced around O’Beirne’s domain, at the piles of well thumbed books, the cupboards, and racks of bottles and jars clinking occasionally with the vibration of the rudder-head.
The smell here was different too. Potions and powders, rum and pain. Adam hated the world of medicine and what it could do to a man, even the bravest, under knife and saw. The price of victory. He looked at his companion again. And defeat.
