Second to None Read online

  He held the candles closer to the third portrait, which Catherine had given to Richard after the Golden Plover disaster. Of herself, in the seamen’s clothing with which she had covered her body in the boat she had shared with the despairing survivors. ‘The other Catherine’, she had called it. The woman few had ever seen, he thought, apart from the man she had loved more than life itself. She must have paused here before leaving with Nancy; there was a smell of jasmine, like her skin when she had kissed him, had held him tightly as if unable or unwilling to break away.

  He had taken her hand to his lips but she had shaken her head, and had looked into his face, as if afraid to lose something. He could still feel it like a physical force.

  ‘No, dear Adam. Just hold me.’ She had lifted her chin. ‘Kiss me.’

  He touched the bed, trying to keep the image at bay. Kiss me. Were they both so alone now that they needed reassurance? Was that the true reason for Catherine’s departure on this terrible day?

  He closed the door behind them and walked down the stairs. Some of the candles had gone, or had burned so low as to be useless, but those by the hearth had been replaced. One of the servant girls must have done it. He smiled. No secrets in this old house.

  He swallowed some brandy and ran his fingers along the carvings above the fireplace. The family motto, For My Country’s Freedom, worn smooth by many hands. Men leaving home. Men inspired by great deeds. Men in doubt, or afraid.

  He sat down again.

  The house, the reputation he must follow, the people who relied on him, it would all take time to accept or even understand.

  And tomorrow he would be the captain again, all he had ever wanted.

  He looked at the darkening stairs and imagined Bolitho coming down to face some new challenge, to accept a responsibility which might and did finally destroy him.

  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!

  2

  No Longer A Stranger

  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 ex
act 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.

  He heard a slight cough behind him. That was Usher, the captain’s clerk, who had once been the purser’s assistant, a small, nervous man who seemed totally out of place in a ship of war. O’Beirne, the ruddy-faced surgeon, had confided that the man was dying, ‘a day at a time’, as he had put it. His lungs were diseased, only too common in the confines of a ship. He thought of Yovell, the clerk who had become his uncle’s secretary. A scholar who was never without his Bible. He would have been there when . . . He turned away and closed his mind to it.r />
  ‘Yes, Usher?’

  ‘I’ve done copies of the lists, sir. Three of each.’ He always found it necessary to explain every detail of his work.

  ‘Very well. I shall sign them after I have eaten.’

  ‘Deck there! Sail on the larboard quarter!’

  Everyone looked up. The voice of the masthead lookout had been heard only rarely on this passage.

  The master tugged down his hat and said, ‘Shall I send another man aloft, sir?’

  Adam glanced at him. Cristie was a professional; he would not be here otherwise. It was not an idle comment. And here was Wynter, the third lieutenant and officer-of-the-watch, hurrying from the chart room, but with biscuit crumbs on his coat to betray his other activities. Young, efficient and keen, when required he could put on such a blank expression that it was impossible to know what he was thinking, which was unusual for a junior lieutenant. But his father was a member of Parliament, so perhaps that might explain it.

  Adam said, ‘Your glass, Mr Fielding. I shall go up directly.’ He thought he saw Cristie’s deepset eyes sharpen. ‘I shall not shorten sail. Yet.’ He wedged his hat inside the companion way and felt his hair wet against his forehead. ‘A trader seeking the company of a frigate?’ He shook his head as if someone had answered. ‘I think not. I know a few King’s officers who would not be slow to press a few prime hands, no matter what the Admiralty directs us to do!’

  Cristie gave a rare grin. He would know. Even sailors with the genuine Protection, the document which should have defended them against the demands of a hungry fleet, had been pressed. It would take months for someone to find out and do something about it.

  Cristie said, ‘If she holds up to wind’rd we’ll never be able to reach her.’

  Adam looked up at the towering masts. Why? Was it a demonstration of something? Bravado, perhaps?