when they were piped on deck for any emergency. Their reason for being.
Jago glanced at the tables as he passed. Some of the men looked at him and nodded, others avoided his eye. It suited him well enough. He recalled that the captain had said he could use the little store which adjoined the cabin pantry for his meals, but he had declined. He had been surprised by Captain Bolitho’s offer, and that he should even care about it.
He half-listened to the loud murmur of voices and the clatter of plates. The forenoon watchkeepers were already tucking into their boiled meat, and what looked like oatmeal. The new cook was far better than his predecessor; at least he was not so mean with his beef and pork. And there was bread, too. The captain had sent a working party to one of the garrisons in Malta: the army always seemed to live well when it was not in the field. And there was butter, while it lasted. When the purser had supervised the issue to all the messes, you would have thought he was parting with his own skin. But they were always like that.
To these men, experienced or raw recruits, such small items, taken for granted by those ashore, were luxuries. When they were exhausted it would be back to iron-hard ship’s biscuits, with slush skimmed off the galley coppers to make them edible. He grinned inwardly. A sailor’s lot.
He saw the glint of metal and scarlet coats, marine sentries, and, crowded together while the food was ladled out, the prisoners from the ill-fated Tetrarch. Jago had seen them eating so voraciously when they had been brought aboard that it seemed they had not been properly fed for years. Now some were even working with the various parts of ship, under supervision of sorts. But Jago thought that no matter what lay ahead for these men, they were somehow glad to be back in the world which had once been their own.
The admiral at Malta, Bethune, had wanted to get rid of them as quickly as possible, the British ones at any rate. Someone else would have to decide their fate. Would anybody bother to investigate the circumstances, he wondered? Mutineers, deserters, or men who had been misled? The end of a rope was the usual solution.
He thought of the captain again. He had given orders that these men were to receive the same rations as the ship’s company. Troublemakers would be punished. Instantly. He could see Bolitho’s face as he had said it. Jago knew that most captains would have kept these men on deck in all weathers, and in irons. As an example. As a warning. And it was cheaper, too.
He paused by one of the tables and studied a finely carved model of a seventy-four. Unrivalled had been in commission for only six months, and during that time he had watched this superb carving take on meaning and life.
The seaman raised his head. It was Sullivan, the keen-eyed lookout.
“Almost done, ’Swain.”
Jago rested one hand on his shoulder. He knew the history of the model: she was the Spartiate, a two-decker which had been in Nelson’s Weather Division at Trafalgar. Sullivan kept to himself, but was a popular man by any standard. Trafalgar: even the word gave him a sort of presence. He had been there, in the greatest naval battle of all time, had cheered with all the others when they had broken through the French line, only to be stunned by the signal that Lord Nelson, “Our Nel,” had fallen.
When Jago had watched the captain he had found himself wondering if he ever compared the death of his uncle, Sir Richard Bolitho, a man who had been as well liked and respected as Nelson, but had been killed in what might have been an accidental engagement. In the end, it was the same for both of them.
He looked over Sullivan’s head at the next mess, where the ship’s boys were quartered. Signed on by parents who wanted to be rid of them, and others like Napier, who had been appointed the captain’s servant, living in the hope of outside sponsorship, and the eventual chance of a commission. He remembered the captain’s face when he had told him that the boy John Whitmarsh had been killed. He had intended to sponsor the boy as midshipman, and all the while Whitmarsh had wanted only to remain with him.
There was another boy at the mess table, the one called Paul, son of the Tetrarch’s renegade captain. Had he continued the fight and faced one of Unrivalled’s broadsides with his holds filled to the deckhead beams with powder… at least it would have been a quick death, Jago thought.
Sullivan did not look up, but said, “What’ll they do with ’im?”
Jago shrugged. “Put him ashore, maybe.” He frowned, angry without knowing why. “War is no game for children!”
Sullivan chuckled. “Since when?”
Jago glanced around the partly filled messdeck, the swaying rays of sunlight probing down through the gratings and an open hatchway.
This was his world, where he belonged, where he could catch the feel of the ship, something which would be denied him if he accepted the captain’s offer.
His eyes fell on the burly seaman named Campbell, who had been sentenced to a flogging for threatening a petty officer. There had been two men brought aft for punishment, but the other had been killed during the opening shots of the engagement, and the captain had ordered that Campbell ’s punishment should be stood over. He was sitting there now, his face blotchy with sweat from too much rum. Wets from others, for favours done, or perhaps the need to keep on the good side of this seemingly unbreakable troublemaker.
One of the hard men, Campbell had received a checkered shirt at the gangway several times. Jago knew what it was like to be flogged; although the punishment had been carried out unjustly, and despite the intervention of an officer on his behalf, he would carry the scars to the grave. No wonder men deserted. He had nearly run himself, twice, in other ships, and for reasons he could scarcely remember.
What had held him back? He grimaced. Certainly not loyalty or devotion to duty.
Again he recalled the day he had shaken hands with Captain Bolitho after they had driven off the big Yankee. A bargain, something done on the spur of the moment while the blood was still pounding with the wildness of battle. It was something new to him, which he did not understand. And that, too, troubled him.
Campbell looked at him. “This is an unexpected honour, eh, lads? To ’ave the Cap’n’s cox’n amongst the likes of us!”
Jago relaxed. Men like Campbell he could handle.
“Far enough, Campbell. I’ll take no lip from you. You’ve been lucky, so make the best of it.”
Campbell seemed disappointed. “I never meant nuthin’!”
“One foot, just put one foot wrong and I’ll drag you aft myself!”
Somebody asked, “Why are we goin’ to Gib again, ’Swain?”
Jago shrugged. “Despatches, to land Tetrarch’s people-”
Campbell said harshly, “Run ’em up to the main-yard, that’s what I’d do!” He pointed at the boy in the other mess. “’Is bloody father for a start!”
Jago smiled. “That’s more like it, Campbell. A ten-year-old boy. A fair match, I’d say!”
Sullivan said softly, “Officer on the deck, ’Swain!”
Someone else murmured, “Bloody piglet, more like!”
It was Midshipman Sandell, striding importantly past the messes, chin in the air and not bothering to remove his hat, a courtesy observed by most officers. Jago ducked beneath one of the massive deckhead beams and realised that the midshipman was still able to walk upright, even wearing the hat. Sandell was carrying a gleaming, and, Jago guessed, very expensive sextant, probably a parting gift from his parents. Earlier he had seen the midshipmen assembled on the quarterdeck taking their noon sights, watched critically by Cristie, the master, as they had tried to estimate the ship’s position for their logs.
Cristie missed very little, and Jago had heard him give Sandell the rough edge of his tongue more than once, to the obvious glee of the others.
Jago faced him calmly. It made upstarts like him dangerous.
“Oh, you’re here, are you?” Sandell peered around, as if he had never set foot on the lower deck before. “I want the boy, Lovatt. He is to lay aft, now.”
“I’ll fetch him, Mr Sandell.”
“How many times do I have to tell people?” He was almost beside himself. “Sandell! That’s easy enough, surely?”
Jago murmured, “Sorry, sir.” It had been worth it just to see the shot go home. As he had intended it would.
He beckoned to the boy, and asked, “The captain wants him, sir?”
Sandell stared at him, as if astonished that anyone should dare to question him. But, angry or not, some inner
