O’Beirne nodded grimly, his face sliding out of focus like melting wax. Then it was Jago’s turn. He had torn down the front of Adam’s breeches and was holding something in the hazy sunlight. No blood. No gaping wound. It was the watch, which he always carried in the pocket above his groin. A shot had smashed it almost in two pieces.
He was losing control again. The shop in Halifax. The chiming chorus of clocks. The little mermaid…
Jago was saying, “Christ, you were lucky, sir!” He wanted to lessen it, in his usual way. But the levity would not come. Then he said, “Just hold on.”
Men were cheering, hugging one another, the marines were rounding up prisoners… so much to do, the prizes to be secured, the wounded to be tended. He gasped as someone tried to lift him. And Avery. Avery… I shall have to tell Catherine. A letter. And the locket.
Somehow he was on his feet, staring up at the flag as if to reassure himself. But all he could think of was the little mermaid. Perhaps it was her way; the last farewell.
Then he fainted.
12. Aftermath
LIKE AN unhurried but purposeful beetle, Unrivalled’s gig pulled steadily around and among the many vessels which lay at anchor in Gibraltar ’s shadow.
It was a time of pride, and of triumph, climaxing when they had entered the bay with one prize in tow and the other in the hands of a prize crew. To the men of the fleet, hardened by so many years of setbacks and pain, it had been something to share, to celebrate. Ships had manned their yards to cheer, boats from the shore had formed an unofficial procession until the anchors had splashed down, and order and discipline was resumed.
And the war was over. Finally over. That was the hardest thing to confront. Napoleon, once believed invincible, had surrendered, and had placed himself under the authority of Captain Frederick Maitland of the old Bellerophon in Basque Roads, to be conveyed to Plymouth.
The officer of the guard who had boarded Unrivalled within minutes of her dropping anchor had exclaimed, “When you fought and took the two frigates, we were at peace!”
Adam had heard himself answer shortly, “It made no difference.”
He thought of the men who had fallen in that brief, savage action. Of the letters he had written. To the parents of Midshipman Thomas Homey, who had been killed even as the second frigate had surged into their quarter. Fourteen years old. A life not even begun.
And to Catherine, a long and difficult letter. Seeing Avery’s shocked and unwavering gaze, like an unanswered question.
Midshipman Bellairs was sitting behind him, beside Jago at the tiller.
“Flagship, sir!”
Adam nodded. He had taken a calculated risk, and had won. It was pointless to consider the alternatives. Unrivalled might have been caught in stays, taken aback as she tried to swing through the wind. The two frigates would have used the confusion to cross her stern and rake her, each broadside ripping through the hull. A slaughterhouse.
He stared at the big two-decker which lay directly across their approach, His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Prince Rupert of eighty guns, a rear-admiral’s flag rising and drooping at her mizzen truck.
He made to touch his thigh and saw the stroke oar’s eyes on him, and controlled the impulse. He had examined his body in the looking-glass in his cabin, and found a great, livid bruise, showing the force of the impact. A stray shot perhaps, fired at random as his men had hacked their way on board the enemy.
Even now, four days after the engagement, the pain was almost constant, and caught him unaware, like a reminder.
The surgeon, rarely at a loss for words, had been strangely taciturn. Perhaps when he had fallen unconscious again he had said something, revealed the despair which had tormented him for so long.
O’Beirne had said only, “You are in luck, Captain. Another inch, and I fear the ladies would have been in dire distress!”
He looked up now and saw the flagship towering above them, the gig’s bowman already standing with his boat-hook, and prepared himself for the physical effort of boarding. Seeing his eyes on the ship’s massive tumblehome, the “stairs” up to the gilded entry port, Jago said quietly, “Steady she goes, sir!”
Adam glanced at him, remembering his face when he had torn open his breeches to deal with the wound. Poor Homey’s blood and brains had made it look worse than it was.
He seized the handrope, gritting his teeth as he took the first step.
An unknown voice sang out, “Cap’n comin’ aboard! Stand by… pipe! ”
Adam climbed, step by step, each movement bringing a shaft of pain to his thigh.
The calls shrilled, and as his head rose above the sill he saw the scarlet-coated guard, the seemingly vast area of the flagship’s impeccable deck.
The guard presented arms, and a duplicate of Captain Bosanquet brought down his blade with a flourish.
The flag captain strode to greet him. Adam held his breath. Pym, that was his name. The pain was receding, playing with him.
“Welcome aboard, Captain Bolitho! Your recent exploits had us all drained with envy!” He looked at him more closely. “You were wounded, I hear?”
Adam smiled. It seemed so long since he had done that. “Damaged, sir, nothing lasting!”
They walked together into the poop’s shadow, so huge after Unrivalled. He allowed his mind to stray. Or Anemone…
The flag captain paused. “Rear-Admiral Marlow is still studying your report. I have had your despatches transferred to a courier-she will leave this afternoon. If there is anything else I can do to assist you while you are here, you have only to ask.” He hesitated. “Rear-Admiral Marlow is newly appointed. He still likes to deal with things at first hand.”
It was as good as any warning. Captain to flag rank; he had seen it before. Trust nobody.
Rear-Admiral Elliot Marlow stood with his back to the high stern windows, hands beneath his coat-tails, as if he had been in the same position for some time. A sharp, intelligent face, younger than Adam had expected.
“Good to meet you at last, Bolitho. Take a chair. Some wine, I think.” He did not move or offer his hand.
Adam sat. He knew he was strained and tired, and unreasonable, but even the chair seemed carefully placed. Staged, so that Marlow’s outline remained in silhouette against the reflected sunlight.
Two servants were moving soundlessly around the other side of the cabin, each careful not to look at the visitor.
Marlow said, “Read your report. You were lucky to get the better of two enemies at once, eh? Even if, the perfectionists may insist, you were at war with neither.” He smiled. “But then, I doubt that the Dey of Algiers will wish to associate himself with people who have failed him.” He glanced at his flag captain, and added, “As to your request respecting the son of that damned renegade, I suppose I can have no objection. It is hardly important…”
Pym interrupted smoothly, “And Captain Bolitho has offered to pay all the costs for the boy’s passage, sir.”
“Quite so.” He gestured at the nearest servant. “A glass, eh?”
Adam was glad of a chance to regain his bearings.
He said, “With regard to the prizes, sir.”
Marlow subjected his glass to a pitiless scrutiny. “The prizes, yes. Of course, their role may also have changed in view of the French position. I have heard it said that frigate captains sometimes see prize-money as the price of glory. A view I find difficult to comprehend.”
Adam realised that his glass was empty, and said bluntly, “The Dey of Algiers had three frigates at his disposal, sir. With the reopening of trade routes, those ships could have been a constant threat. That threat was removed, and at some cost. I think it fair enough.”
Captain Pym adroitly changed the subject.
