Second to None (4 page)

I would give everything I have just to hear your voice and take your hand again, Uncle.

But only the wind answered him.

The two riders had dismounted and stood partly sheltered by fallen rock, holding their horses' heads, staring out at the whitecapped waters of Falmouth Bay.

‘Reckon she'll come, Tom?'

The senior coastguard tugged his hat more securely over his forehead. ‘Mister Ferguson seemed to think so. Wanted us to keep an eye open, just in case.'

The other man wanted to talk. ‘'Course, you
knows
her ladyship, Tom.'

‘We've had a few words once or twice.' He would have smiled, but his heart was too heavy. His young companion meant well enough, and with a few years of service along these shores he might amount to something. Know Lady Catherine Somervell? How could he describe her? Even if he had wanted to?

He watched the great span of uneasy water, the serried ranks of short waves broken as if by some giant's comb, while the wind tested its strength.

It was noon, or soon would be. When they had ridden up from town along the cliff path he had seen the small groups of people. It was uncanny, like some part of a Cornish myth, and there were plenty of those to choose from. A town, a port which lived off the sea, and had lost far too many of its sons to have no respect for the dangers.

Describe her?
Like the time he had tried to prevent her from seeing the slight, battered corpse of the girl who had committed suicide from Trystan's Leap. He had watched her hold the girl in her arms, unfasten her torn and soaking clothes to seek a scar, some identifying mark, when all features had been destroyed by the fall and the sea. On that little crescent of beach in the dropping tide after they had dragged her through the surf. It was something he would never forget, nor wanted to.

At length he said, ‘A beautiful lady.' He recalled what one of Ferguson's friends had said of her. ‘A sailor's woman.'

He had been in the church with all the others, had seen her then, so upright, so proud.
Describe her?

‘Never too busy or too important to pass the time o' day. Made you feel like you
was
somebody. Not like a few I could mention!'

His companion looked at him and thought he understood.

Then he said, ‘You was right, Tom. She's comin' now.'

Tom removed his hat and watched the solitary figure approaching.

‘Say nothing. Not today.'

She was wearing the faded old boat cloak she often used for these clifftop walks, and her hair was unfastened and blowing freely in the wind. She turned and faced the sea at the place where she often paused on her walks; the best view of all, the locals said.

The young coastguard said uneasily, ‘You don't think she . . .'

Tom turned his head, his eye trained to every movement and mood of the sea and these approaches.

‘No.'
He saw the fine edge of the ship as she tacked around Pendennis Point and its brooding castle, close-hauled and hard over, clawing into the wind before standing towards St Anthony Head. She carried more canvas than might be expected, but he
knew what the captain intended, to weather the headland and those frothing reefs before coming about to head into open waters for more sea-room, with the wind as an ally.

A tight manoeuvre, well executed if
Unrivalled
was as short-handed as was rumoured. Some might call it reckless. Tom recalled the dark, restless young captain in the church and all those other times. He had seen him grow from midshipman to this moment in his life, which must be the greatest challenge of all.

He saw the woman unfasten her shabby boat cloak and stand unmoving in the blustery wind. Not in black, but in a dark green robe. Tom had seen her waiting on this same path for the first sign of another ship. So that he would see her, sense her welcome.

He watched the frigate heeling over and imagined the squeal of blocks and the bang of wild canvas as the yards were hauled round. He had seen it all so many times before. He was a simple man who did his duty, peace or war.

What ship did
she
see, he wondered. What moment was she sharing?

Catherine walked past the two horses but did not speak.

Don't leave me!

ADAM BOLITHO RESTED
one hand on the quarterdeck rail and watched the misty horizon tilt as if to dislodge the entire ship. For most of the forenoon they had been engaged in sail drill, an exercise made even more uncomfortable than usual by the blustery wind. It was directly from the north, and strong enough to force
Unrivalled
to lean until the sea spattered against the sealed gunports and drenched the men working aloft and on deck like a tropical storm.

Three days since the rugged Cornish coastline had vanished astern, and each one had been put to good use.

The hands were sliding down to the deck now, the landsmen and others less confident holding tightly to the ratlines when the ship heeled over to leeward, so that the sea appeared to be directly beneath them. There was a smell of rum even in the wind, and he had already noticed a thin trail of greasy smoke from the galley funnel.

He saw the first lieutenant waiting by the starboard ladder, his face giving nothing away.

‘That was better, Mr Galbraith.' He thought he saw Galbraith's eyes drop to the pocket where he carried the old timepiece and wondered what it must be like to take orders as a lieutenant again, instead of being in command. ‘Dismiss the watch below.' He heard the seamen running from their stations, glad to be spared further discomfort, and to curse their captain over a tot of rum.

He knew the sailing master was watching him from his usual position, near his helmsmen whenever the ship was altering course or changing tack.

Adam walked to the weather side and wiped spray from his face, his body angled to the deck as the sails filled out like breastplates again. The sea was lively with cruising white horses, although it was calmer than when they had been in Biscay. There was too much spray to make out the lie of the land, but it was there, a long, purple hump, as if a bank of cloud had dropped from the sky. Cape St Vincent. And despite all the drills, the alterations of course to test the topmen and new hands alike, this was the exact landfall. He had seen the sailing master's calculations and his daily estimates of distance covered.

His name was Joshua Cristie, and he had a face so weathered and creased that he looked like the Old Man of the Sea, although Adam knew he was in his forties. He had served in almost every size and class of vessel from schooner to second-rate, and had been a sailing master for some ten years. If the senior warrant officers were the backbone of any man-of-war, the sailing master must surely be her rudder.
Unrivalled
was lucky to have him.

Adam joined him and said, ‘Gibraltar tomorrow, eh?'

Cristie regarded him impassively. ‘I see no problems, sir.' He had a clipped, matter-of-fact manner, and did not waste words.

Adam realised that Galbraith had come aft again, this time with one of the ship's five midshipmen. He tested his memory. Sandell, that was his name.

Galbraith was saying, ‘I was observing you, Mr Sandell.
Twice
, I've warned you before. Discipline is one thing, force another!'

The midshipman retorted, ‘He was doing it on purpose, sir. Hanging back so that my party was delayed.'

It was unusual for Galbraith to reveal such anger, especially with some of the watchkeepers close enough to hear. He seemed to calm himself with an effort.

‘I know you must control the men in your charge. If you are to become a King's officer that is all a part of it. Inspire them, persuade them if you like, but
do not abuse them.
I'll not remind you again!'

The midshipman touched his hat and retreated. Adam caught only a glimpse of his profile. Galbraith had made an enemy there, as was the way of first lieutenants everywhere.

Galbraith walked up the sloping deck and said, ‘Young ruffian! Too ready with his starter by far. I know his part of the drill was held up by the man in question, I saw it myself. But with sixty hands short, and some of those aboard little better than bumpkins, it needs more care.'

It was like mist clearing from a telescope. Adam suddenly remembered hearing that a midshipman had been put ashore to await a court martial after a sailor had been accidentally killed at sea. The matter had never come to court martial and the midshipman had been sent to another vessel. He had been an admiral's son. It had been about the time when Galbraith had seen his promised promotion cancelled. Nobody could prove there was a connection; few would even care. Except Galbraith. And he was here, second-in-command of one of the navy's most powerful frigates. Would he remain content, or would he be too afraid for what was left of his career to show the spirit which had once earned him a command of his own?

‘Any orders, sir?'

Adam glanced at the nearest eighteen-pounders. Another difference.
Unrivalled
's armament consisted mainly of such guns, and they made up the bulk of her topweight. The designers had insisted that these eighteen-pounders, usually nine feet in length, be cast a foot shorter in an effort to reduce some of the weight.

A frigate was only as good as her firepower and her agility, and he had taken careful note of the sea creaming almost as high as the ports on the lee side. In a fierce ship-to-ship action, a captain could no longer rely on supremacy merely by taking and holding the wind-gage.

He said, ‘We shall exercise the larboard battery this afternoon, Mr Galbraith. I want our people to know their guns like their own minds. As you remarked, we are short-handed, and if required to engage on both sides at once we shall be busy indeed.' He saw the slight frown. ‘I know we may not be called to fight. The war might be over already for all we know.' He touched his arm and felt him flinch at the contact. ‘But
if
we fight, I intend this ship to be the victor!'

Galbraith touched his hat and walked away, no doubt to face the questions and displeasures of the wardroom.

Adam walked to the dripping hammock nettings and steadied himself as the deck lurched to another strong gust. The land was almost gone from view. Cape St Vincent, the scene of one of the war's greatest engagements, where Nelson had scorned the rigidity of Fighting Instructions and attacked the Spanish flagship
Santissima Trinidad
of one hundred and thirty guns, the largest warship in the world. So like his uncle, he thought. Sir Richard Bolitho had never allowed the conventional rules of battle to preclude initiative and personal daring. It seemed wrong that the admirals so admired and so loved by those they had led had never met face to face.

He ran a sodden handkerchief over skin streaming now with spray. Identical to the handkerchief he had given Catherine in the church, knowing she had used it to dry her eyes behind the veil. Galbraith had seen that too . . .

He shook himself angrily and walked to the rail. A few of the hands were splicing and repairing; as in any frigate, the miles of cordage needed constant attention. Some of them raised their eyes and immediately looked away. Men who could make or break any ship. He smiled grimly.
Any captain.
Some of them were from the assize courts, debtors and thieves, tyrants and cowards. The alternatives were transportation or the rope. He watched spray bursting through the beakhead, making the beautiful figurehead shine like a nymph rising from the sea itself.

Unrivalled
would draw them together, as a team, as one company.

And when they reached Gibraltar, what orders would he find waiting? To return to England, or be redirected to some other squadron in a different ocean? If nothing had changed he would continue on to Malta, to join the new squadron under the flag of Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune. He was dismayed by the return of the pain. Bethune had been sent to relieve Sir Richard Bolitho, but Fate had decided otherwise. But for that, it might have been Bethune who had died, and Richard Bolitho would have been reunited with his Catherine.
Kate
.

Like himself, Bethune had been one of Bolitho's midshipmen, in his first command, the little
Sparrow.
As Valentine Keen had been a midshipman when Sir Richard had been
captain of a frigate. So many missing faces. We
Happy Few
. Now there were hardly any.

He saw two of the ‘young gentlemen' dodging along the slippery maindeck, calling to one another above the bang of canvas and the sluice of water, apparently without a care in the world.

Here there were only five of them. He would make an effort to get to know each one. Galbraith's sharp comment about inspiration and leadership cut both ways; it always had. In larger ships, which carried broods of midshipmen, there was always the risk of bullying and petty tyranny. He had discovered it soon enough for himself, like so many things which had taught him to defend himself and stand up for those less able to do so.

Today, his reputation with both blade and pistol would end any trouble before it could begin. But it had not been easy. How slow he had been to understand, to come to terms with it. The regular lessons with a local teacher, and later, when he had learned to handle a sword, the intricacies of defence and attack. Slow? Or had he merely decided that he did not want to know how it was all paid for? Until he heard his teacher in the next room, in bed with his mother. And the others.

It was different now. They could think what they liked, but they dared not slander her name in his presence.

But the memory remained, like an unhealed wound.

He saw the midshipman of the watch, Fielding, writing something on his slate, his lip pouting with concentration. The same midshipman who had called him one morning when he had been powerless to break that same dream.

He thought of Catherine again, that last desperate kiss before she had left the house.
To protect my reputation.
There was no defence against dreams. Just as, in those same dreams, she had never resisted him.