EIGHT DAYS after her arrival at Gibraltar, Unrivalled was to all intents once more ready for sea. Pym, the rear-admiral’s flag captain, had been true to his word, and had supplied as much as he could to speed repairs and replace standing and running rigging which was beyond recovery.
But it went far deeper than that. Adam Bolitho had seen and felt it from the first day. There was a new stubbornness in the men, and a kind of resentment that anyone should think Unrivalled’s own ship’s company could not manage without outside help or interference.
Some of the wounded who had been transferred ashore to more comfortable surroundings had returned on board, eager to help, unwilling to be separated from the faces and voices they knew.
Adam had imagined that he would be able to weigh and sail unimpeded by the passenger Rear-Admiral Marlow had described.
The written orders had explained little, merely emphasising the need for haste and, above all, safety. As Pym had said, “No more battles, Bolitho!”
Curiously, it had been the third lieutenant, Daniel Wynter, who had been able to supply more information. Sir Lewis Bazeley was well known in the political circles frequented by Wynter’s father. A hard-headed businessman who had been largely responsible for designing and building defences along England’s south coast from Plymouth to the Nore when a French invasion had seemed a very real possibility, he had been knighted for his efforts, and it was suggested that his next appointment was Malta, where the fortifications had altered little since the first cannon had been mounted. If there had been any lingering doubts about Malta ’s future, they had been dispersed. A fortress in the Mediterranean’s narrows, who commanded it held the key to Gibraltar and the Levant.
But Adam’s hopes were dashed by the arrival at the Rock of the Cumberland, a stately Indiaman; he had been with Galbraith the previous morning when she had dropped anchor. Like most of John Company’s ships she was impressively armed, and, he had no doubt, equally well manned. The H.E.I.C. paid generously, and offered other financial benefits to officers and seamen alike. Adam’s thoughts on that score were shared by most sea officers: if as much money and care had been lavished on the King’s navy, the war might have ended in half the time.
There was to be no ceremony, he had been told; the great man would transfer to the more spartan comforts of the frigate and be on his way.
The sooner the better, Adam thought.
He had visited the flagship this morning, and Pym had congratulated him on the appearance of his ship, and the speed with which the scars of battle had been hidden, if not removed. Tar, paint and polish could work wonders, and Adam was proud of the men who had done it.
The severe bruising to his groin had been given little opportunity to improve, and inevitably the pain returned when he most needed all his energy and patience.
The greater, and far more pleasant, surprise had been at the twenty or so seamen who had volunteered to sign on, after his promise to do what he could for anyone who would fight for Unrivalled. Galbraith had not shared the surprise, and said only that he thought the whole lot should have put their names down without question. Ten of those same men had been killed or wounded in the fight.
Adam wondered what Lovatt would have made of it.
As he had written in his report to the Admiralty, “I gave them my word. Without them, my ship would have been lost.” It might blow a few cobwebs away from that place. He also wondered what Bethune might have done, given the same choice. A man between two separate roles. The one he had known as a young captain. The one he was living now.
Unrivalled’s gig was turning in a wide arc as she returned from the flagship. Adam leaned forward, his eyes slitted against the glare, studying the line and the trim of his command. He had been pulled around the ship every day, making certain that the additional stores, even the movement of powder and shot from one part of the hull to another, would in no way impede her agility under all conditions. He smiled to himself. Even in action again.
He thought of the noisy celebration to welcome Bellairs to the wardroom. He had made the right decision; Bellairs had all the marks of a fine officer. He recalled the rear-admiral’s interest. Has he family? Connections? But there were many senior officers who thought exactly like Marlow when it came to promotion; he could recall one post-captain who had been quite frank about his reluctance to promote any man from the lower deck to commissioned rank. “All you do,” he had insisted, “is lose a good man, and create a bad officer!”
Midshipman Fielding had the tiller, and Adam guessed it had been Galbraith’s decision. Homey, the midshipman who had been killed, had been his best friend. A good choice for two reasons.
Fielding said, “Boats alongside, sir!”
Sir Lewis Bazeley and his party had arrived in his absence. No ceremony, Marlow had said.
Adam said, “Pull right round the ship, Mr Fielding. I am not yet done.”
Jago was watching Fielding’s performance on the tiller, but his thoughts were elsewhere, on the day when the dead Lovatt’s son had been sent for. Told to collect his gear and report to the quarterdeck. Just a boy, with a long journey before him, to caring people in Kent. Jago had heard the captain dictating a letter to his clerk. And all paid for out of Adam Bolitho’s pocket. There had been a sea-fight and men had died. It happened, and would continue to happen as long as ships sailed the seven seas and men were mad enough to serve them. Lovatt had died, but so had the flag lieutenant who had served the captain’s uncle. And young Homey, who had not been a bad little nipper for a “young gentleman.” He thought of the other one, Sandell. San-dell. Nobody would have shed a tear for that little ratbag.
He looked over at the captain now. Remembering his face when he had torn open his breeches, the dead midshipman’s blood and bone clinging to his fingers. Then the surprise when he had found the smashed watch, pieces of broken glass like bloody thorns. Why surprise? That I should care?
He felt the captain touch his arm. “Bring her round now.” They both looked up as the jib-boom swung overhead like a lance, the beautiful figurehead too proud to offer them a glance, her eyes already on another horizon.
He heard him say, “Fine sight, eh?”
But all Jago could think of was the small figure of Lovatt’s son, his father’s sword tucked under one arm, pausing only to hold the hand of the cabin servant Napier, who had cared for him.
Jago had felt anger then. Not even a word or a look for the one man who had tried to help his father. And him.
He stared over towards the two prizes. They had done it, together…
Adam was watching the Indiaman, already making sail, her yards alive with men, and imagined what Catherine must have felt, leaving Malta for the last time in such a vessel.
Midshipman Fielding cleared his throat noisily. “Bows!”
The side party was already in position. The captain was coming aboard. Adam tested his leg and felt the pain again. The decks of that same Indiaman were probably lined with rich passengers, observing the little ceremony about to take place aboard just another of His Majesty’s ships.
“Toss your oars… up!”
Jago winced, and saw the bowman thrust out to soften the impact alongside. But he would learn. He saw the captain reach for the first handhold, felt his muscles tighten in sympathy as if sharing his uncertainty.
Then the captain turned and looked down at him, and Jago saw the grin he remembered from that day when they had blown up the battery, before the attack on Washington.
Adam said, “Equal strain on all parts, eh?”
Jago saw the young midshipman standing in the boat, hat in hand but grinning up at his captain, all else, for the moment, forgotten.
Jago nodded slowly. “You’ll do me, sir! ” Then he laughed out loud, because he found that he meant it.
Sir Lewis Bazeley was tall, but gave an immediate impression of strength rather than height. Broad-shouldered, and with a mane of thick grey hair which, although cut in the modern style, still singled him out from anyone else.
Adam strode from the entry port and extended his hand.
“I am sorry that I was not aboard to greet you, Sir Lewis.”
The handshake too was strong: a man not afraid of hard work, or of showing an example to others.
Bazeley smiled and waved vaguely towards the open sea.
“I knew this was not one of John Company’s ships, Captain. I’ll expect no special favours. A quick passage, and I can see for myself she’s a fine sailer, and I’ll ask no more of any man.” The smile broadened. “I am sure that the
