warning seemed to prevent another outburst. Jago’s demeanour, and the fine blue jacket with gilt buttons, appeared to make him hesitate.
He said loftily, “The captain, yes.” He snapped his fingers. “Move yourself, boy!”
Jago watched them leave. Sandell would never change. He had shown no sign of fear during the fight, but that meant little; his kind were usually more afraid of revealing their fear to others than of fear itself. He winked at Sullivan. But if Sandell wanted to climb the ladder of promotion, he would be wise not to turn his back.
Unrivalled’s wardroom, which was built into the poop structure on the gun deck, seemed spacious after other frigates George Avery had known. Unlike the lower deck, the ship’s officers shared the cabin and dining space with six eighteen-pounders, three on either side.
The midday meal had been cleared away, and Avery sat by an open gunport watching some gulls diving and screaming alongside, probably because the cook had pitched some scraps outboard.
Two days out of Malta, on passage for Gibraltar, as if everything else was unreal. The dinner with Vice-Admiral Bethune and Adam Bolitho, then the excitement at being a part of something which he had begun with Sir Richard, had all been dashed by the arrival of another courier vessel. Unrivalled would take Bethune’s despatches to the Rock and pass them on to the first available ship bound for England. Whatever Bethune really thought about it, he had made himself very clear. His latest orders were to contain the activities of the Dey’s corsairs, but to do nothing to aggravate the situation until more ships were put under his flag.
Adam had been quietly resentful, although Unrivalled was the obvious choice: she was faster and better armed than any other frigate here or anywhere else in the fleet. There had been reports of several smaller vessels being attacked, taken or destroyed by the corsairs, and communications between the various squadrons and bases had never been so important. There was still no definite news of a total victory over Napoleon’s army. Waterloo had broken his hold over the line, and it seemed as if all French forces were in full retreat. Even Marshal Ney’s formidable cavalry had been defeated by the red-coated squares of infantry.
And he, Lieutenant George Avery, had received orders which countermanded all others. He was to return to England and present himself to their lordships, perhaps to add his report to all those which must have gone before. He laid his hand on the gun, warm, as if it had been recently fired. Perhaps he was too close. It was not another report they wanted. It was a post-mortem.
He looked around at his companions. It was a friendly enough wardroom, and he was after all a stranger, a temporary member of their small community.
And it was always in the air. It was only natural, and he knew he was being unreasonable to expect otherwise. I was there. When he fell.
Galbraith, the first lieutenant, understood, and confined his questions to the subject of Avery’s visit to the Dey’s stronghold, and if there was any real risk that the attacks on shipping and the seizure of Christians would spark off a bigger confrontation. The war with France would soon be over; it probably already was. Galbraith would be thinking of his own future, thankful that he was at least in a stronger position than many, in a new and powerful frigate, with a captain whose name was known because of his famous uncle as well as his own past successes.
Massie, the second lieutenant, remained scornful, if not openly critical of Bethune’s change of direction.
“When Boney surrenders this time, their lordships will cut the fleet to the bare bones! We’ll have less chance than ever to topple these would-be tyrants!” To recover from such a costly war every nation, former friends and enemies alike, would be seeking fresh trade routes, and would still need the ships and men to protect them.
He saw Noel Tregillis, the purser, poring over one of his ledgers. He rarely stopped work even in here.
Captain Bosanquet of the Royal Marines was asleep in his chair, an empty goblet still clasped in his fingers, and his second-in-command Lieutenant Luxmore had gone to share a drink with his sergeant.
The portly surgeon, O’Beirne, had made his excuses and had gone aft to the great cabin, leaving his food untouched. The prisoner, Lovatt, was unwell; the wound was not healing to O’Beirne’s satisfaction.
He had said sharply, “He should have been put ashore in Malta. All this is quite unnecessary.” The severity of the comment was uncharacteristic of this generally quiet, affable man, who Avery knew took his work very seriously.
Even O’Beirne had touched on the subject, on their first night at sea. He had known Lefroy, Frobisher’s bald surgeon. It was to be expected: the fraternity of fleet surgeons was even more close-knit than the family of sea officers.
But once more it had all come back. The surgeon rising from his knees, from the bloodstained deck where Allday had held his admiral with such terrible anguish, and saying, “He’s gone, I’m afraid.” In so few words.
Through a skylight he heard someone laugh. It was young Bellairs, sharing the afternoon watch with Lieutenant Wynter. What must it be like to be seventeen again, with the examination for lieutenant anticipated with every despatch satchel? A boy to a man, midshipman to officer, and Bellairs would deserve it. Avery thought of Adam, and how he had changed, confidence and maturing tempering him like the old sword he now wore. He smiled. A man of war. Perhaps…
And me? A passed-over luff with memories but no prospects.
He thought of Sillitoe, his energy, his manipulations, and of the last time they had met and parted. He had never believed that he could have felt something like pity for him.
Feet scraped outside the screen door, and Galbraith looked up from an old and much handled news-sheet.
“What is it, Parker? D’ you want me?”
The boatswain’s mate nodded towards Avery and said, “The cap’n’s compliments, zur, an’ ’e’d like you to step aft, directly.”
Galbraith stood up. “The prisoner?”
The boatswain’s mate gazed curiously around the wardroom. Just another part of the same ship. But so different.
He said, “Dyin’, I thinks, zur.”
The purser glanced up from his ledger, his face trained to give nothing away. One less mouth to feed.
Galbraith reached out and took the empty goblet from Bosanquet’s limp hand. He said, “If you need me…”
Avery picked up his hat. “Thank you. I know.”
He walked into the deeper shadows of the poop and saw the Royal Marine sentry standing outside the screen door of the great cabin. The seat of command, which he himself would never know. Also the loneliest place in any King’s ship.
The sentry straightened his back and tapped his musket smartly on the deck.
“Flag lieutenant, sir! ”
Avery glanced at him. A homely, unknown face.
“Not any more, I’m afraid.”
The marine’s eyes did not even flicker beneath his leather hat.
“You always will be to us, sir!”
Afterwards, he thought it was like a hand reaching out to him.
So let’s be about it.
Adam Bolitho put a finger to his lips as Avery began to speak.
He said quietly, “Come aft,” and led the way to the sloping stern windows. With the sun directly overhead, the panorama of blue water and cloudless sky was like some vast painting.
“Thank you for coming so quickly.” He turned his head as he heard Lovatt’s rambling voice again. More like a conversation than one man. Questions and answers, and, just once, a tired laugh. And coughing. “He’s dying. O’Beirne’s done all he can. I’ve been with him, too.”
Avery watched the dark profile, the strain around the eyes and mouth. He could feel the energy too, refusing to submit. When he had entered the cabin, his mind still clinging to the sentry’s words, he had taken in the coat tossed carelessly on to a chair, one of Cristie’s charts weighed down on a table by the bench seat, some brass dividers, the master’s notebook. An untouched cup of coffee and an empty glass beside it. The captain was driving himself again; perhaps in truth he did resent the change of orders. Avery knew well enough that there were few bonds as strong as the one he had enjoyed with Richard Bolitho anywhere in the navy. Rank and responsibility did not allow it.
Or did he blame himself in some way? What captain would tolerate a prisoner, even a wounded one, in his own quarters?
Adam said, “He’s delirious for much of the time. Young Napier’s in there with the surgeon-he’s a good lad.” He
