flew in all directions, but the chebec came on.
Massie gauged the range, his whistle to his lips. After one shot from the “smasher,” many men were too deaf to hear a shouted order.
The second carronade belched fire, and the ball must have exploded deep within the slender hull.
Adam called, “As you bear!” He gripped the boy’s shoulder. “I want them to know, to feel what it’s like!”
There was more firing in the far distance, like thunder on the hills: Halcyon in pursuit of the third chebec, her captain perhaps believing that his consort had been wrecked.
“By th’ mark…” The rest was lost in the crash of gunfire as Massie strode aft, pausing only to watch each eighteen-pounder fling itself inboard and pour a murderous charge into the stricken chebec. There were still a few figures waving weapons and firing across the littered water. Even when the final charge smashed into the capsizing hull Adam imagined he could still hear their demented fury.
“By the mark fifteen!”
Adam saw the lead splash down again, could picture the seabed suddenly sliding away into depths of darkness.
“We will heave-to directly, Mr Cristie.” He raised his voice; even that was an effort. “Mr Wynter, stand by to retrieve those boats. Inform the surgeon. I want him on deck when they come aboard.”
He stared at the headland, misty now with drifting smoke.
“I’ll take the gig, sir.” It was Jago. “Fetch Mr Galbraith.”
Adam said, “I’d be obliged.” He looked away as men hurried past him. “And, thank you.”
Jago hesitated by the ladder and looked over his shoulder. The captain was standing quite still as orders were shouted and, with her sails in disorder, his ship came slowly round into the wind.
He had kept his word. Jago could hear the boats pulling towards the ship, their crews exhausted but still able to cheer.
He heard the sailing-master say quietly to his mate, “Not a choice I would have cared to make, Mr Woodthorpe.”
Jago shook his head. Not yours to make, was it?
As if to put a seal on it, the leadsman, forgotten in the forechains, yelled, “No bottom, sir!”
They were through.
16. In Good Hands
THE LETTER lay on the cabin table, held down by the knife Adam had used to open it, its flap moving slightly in a faint breeze from the stern windows, the broken seal shining in the sunlight like droplets of blood. He tried to think it through rationally, as he had taught himself to do with most things.
Unrivalled had anchored that morning, with Halcyon entering harbour close astern. A moment of triumph, a lingering excitement after the short, savage encounter with the chebecs and the sheer pleasure of greeting a filthy but grinning Galbraith, his shirt scorched almost from his back, and his equally dirty but jubilant companions.
Adam had taken his report ashore, only to be told that Bethune was neither at his headquarters nor aboard his flagship Montrose. He had boarded one of the squadron’s brigs, and with Sir Lewis Bazeley had gone to examine potential sites for new defences in Malta and the offshore islands.
He had already noticed that the courier schooner Gertrude was in harbour, and she was preparing to weigh and make sail again by the time he had returned to Unrivalled. As was the way of fleet couriers.
He had been expecting a letter from Catherine, hoping for one. It was stupid of him and he knew it. She would be recovering from her loss, and would need time to decide what she must do in the immediate future and with the rest of her life. But he had hoped, all the same.
Instead, there had been this letter. The same neat, round handwriting which had followed him from ship to ship, from despair to hope. Always warm, as she had been ever since that first day when he had arrived exhausted at the Roxby house after walking all the way from Penzance. From his mother’s deathbed.
Aunt Nancy, Richard Bolitho’s youngest sister, was the last person from whom he had been expecting to hear, and yet in his heart he knew there was none better suited to this task.
He walked to the stern windows and stared across at Halcyon, swinging to her cable and surrounded by harbour craft, with scarlet coats on her gangways to deter unwanted visitors. He had sent Captain Christie a copy of his report. Halcyon had done well, and between them they had lost only four men.
He looked at the letter again, as if his mind were refusing to lose itself in matters concerning the ship and the squadron. That other world seemed very close: rugged cliffs, treacherous rocks, and in contrast rolling hillside pastures and great, empty moors. A county which had produced many fine sailors, probably more than any other part of England. He could see Falmouth in his thoughts… the people, the quality of strength in its seamen and fisher folk.
Where Belinda, whose hand had once rested on his cuff as he had led her up the aisle to marry Falmouth ’s most famous son, had been killed. Thrown from a horse. Killed instantly, Nancy had written. And yet he could not come to terms with it. Perhaps he had never really known Belinda, or been close enough to understand what had destroyed his uncle’s marriage; she had always been beautiful, proud, but distant. She had been at the old house, and Adam could guess why, although the family lawyer had touched only in passing on it. Not wishing to trouble a King’s officer, fighting for his country’s rights.
And there was his cousin, Elizabeth. She would be about twelve or thirteen by now. She would stay with Nancy until things were “more settled.” Adam could almost hear her saying the words.
Nancy had also written to Catherine. The mare given to her by his uncle was now stabled at the Roxby house. Adam had known instantly that Belinda had been riding Tamara at the time of the accident.
The letter ended, “You must take good care of yourself, dear Adam. Here is your home, nobody can ever deny you that.”
The ink was smudged, and he knew she had been crying as she wrote, doubtless angry with herself for giving into it. A sailor’s daughter, and the sister of one of England ’s finest sea officers, she had had plenty of experience of separation and despair. And now that her husband was dead she was alone once again. Elizabeth would be a blessing to her. He picked up the letter, and smiled. As you were to me.
Catherine was in London. He wondered if she was alone, and was surprised by how much it could hurt him. Absurd… He glanced at the skylight, hearing voices, Jago’s carrying easily as he called out to the gig’s crew. Vivid memories: the leadsman’s chant, the closeness of danger on all sides, Massie and Wynter, and the boy who would rather risk death than take refuge below when the iron began to fly.
And he thought of Falmouth again. The house. The grave portraits, the sea always out there, waiting for the next Bolitho.
He turned almost guiltily as someone rapped at the door. It was Bellairs, who was assisting Wynter as officer of the watch.
“Yes?”
Bellairs glanced around the cabin. His examination was in orders, here in Malta. The next step, or the humiliation of failure.
“Mr Wynter’s respects, sir, and a new midshipman has come aboard to join.” He did not blink, although he must have been recalling his own time as a young gentleman.
“Ask Mr Galbraith…” He held up his hand. “No. I’ll see him now.”
Bellairs hurried away, mystified that his captain, who had just inflicted a crushing defeat on some Algerine pirates, should concern himself with such trivialities.
Adam walked to one of the eighteen-pounders which shared his quarters and touched the black breech. Remembering; how could he forget? Anxious, worried, even defiant because he had imagined that his first captain, his uncle, would find fault or cause to dismiss him on that day which was so important to him.
He heard the marine sentry say, “Go in, sir.” Guarded, yet to be proved. A midshipman was neither fish nor fowl.
He saw the newcomer standing by the screen door, his hat beneath his arm.
“Come over here where I can see you!” Again the assault of memory. They were the very words his uncle had
