The captain could have been killed that day, like the uncle they had just been talking about. But he came to help me. He put me first.
He glanced at the swaying cot where the rebel captain Lovatt had died, thinking I was his son. Captain Bolitho had even cared about that. Just as he had been concerned about his mother's failure to reply to his letters. She had other things on her mind now that he was here in Unrivalled. A man. It had not taken her long to forget.
But how could Captain Bolitho be expected to understand anything so cheap, so heartless?
It could not last forever. Nothing did. His mother had said that often enough. Other ships, and perhaps one day… He almost ran from the screen.
"You called, sir?"
They did not move, and Napier realised they had neither heard, nor called out for him.
He stood quite still, feeling the regular rise and fall of the cabin around him. And he was a part of it.
Lieutenant James Bellairs turned his shoulders into the wind and peered at his list. It had been handed round from watch to watch and was barely readable. Fortunately there were only a few more names left on it. Midshipman Deighton stood close by, frowning with concentration. Learning, listening or merely pretending to be interested, it was hard to tell. Bellairs had been a midshipman himself so recently that he often found himself thinking like one, especially when he was left to explain something.
He knew the old arguments. We had to learn the hard way, so why not them? He might even become like that himself. One day.
He tried again.
"The first lieutenant wants to reduce the number of idlers before we reach our destination. And more hands are needed for gun drill."
I)eighton asked, "What is Sierra Leone like, sir?"
Bellairs tapped one foot impatiently. Deighton was new to the ship but experienced, and had served in another frigate which had since been paid off for refit. At fifteen, his previous service put him ahead of most of the others. Reserved, almost withdrawn, he had proved what he could do under fire. But he rarely smiled, and Bellairs knew it was because of the rumours which surrounded the death of his father, an acting-commodore. Killed in action; he had heard the others talking about it. But it was now said that he had in fact been shot down by one of his own men. Another ship, but Captain Adam Bolitho had been in command of her also.
Ile recalled Deighton's question. "Oh, one of those roughand-ready places, you know." He had never been there.
Deighton saw some figures below the poop. "There they are, sir."
Bellairs waited for the gunner's mate, Williams, to hustle them over. Two men and a youth. The last was not merely pale, his skin was white.
Williams reported, "Cooper, Dixon and Ede, sir."
Bellairs surveyed them. Just three new hands, nothing out of the ordinary. Except… Ile glanced at Williams, but his face gave nothing away.
"You will report to Mr Varlo in the first division tomorrow. Gun drill is essential to a man-of-war, and…" He looked at the white-faced youth. "Are you unwell, Cooper?"
The man at the other end of the group called, "I'm Cooper, sir!"
The third one grinned broadly.
It was a bad start. Bellairs said sharply, "I asked you a question, Ede is-that right?"
Landmen, untrained, and somehow out of place.
Bellairs tried to put it to the back of his mind. He was a lieutenant now. He must look at everything firmly, but fairly.
Even in his own service he had seen most of them. The hard men and the cowards, volunteers and pressed hands, the godly and the liars. But these men stood apart. They had been released from prison only on the understanding that they would redeem themselves by serving in a King's ship. There had been about twenty of them all told, but these last three were still without a proper station in the ship.
Ede said, "I was sick, sir."
Williams said, "Speak up, boy!"
Bellairs peered at his list. "The surgeon has passed you as fit for work."
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then." Bellairs looked past him. "Do your work with a will and attend your duties, and you'll have nothing to fear!"
He strode aft and added, "He'll soon learn, Mr Deighton." He caught himself in time. He had almost said, we all had to.
Deighton glanced back at the three figures with Williams. It was strange that the third lieutenant had not noticed it, he thought. The youth called Ede was not merely sick or feeling out of place. He was terrified.
He put it from his mind. They were heading for Sierra Leone, and there was talk of the slave trade. And today he, Midshipman Richard Deighton, was being invited to the wardroom. Perhaps the first step…
He thought of Ede again. Even when these same guns had roared out and men had been cut down in front of him, he had not been afraid. Not as he might have expected. A need to prove something, maybe? No, it went even deeper than that.
But not like the youth named Ede. Deighton had been afraid of only one man. His own father.
He thought suddenly of the way the captain had treated him when he had joined the ship at Malta. It had been like sharing something, as if…
"I trust I am not tiring you too much, Mr lleighton?" Bellairs had turned to watch him.
Deighton touched his hat.
"Ready, sir."
Bellairs strode on. He felt more like a lieutenant again.
The meal in Unrivalled's wardroom was a surprisingly good one. The centrepiece was a saddle of mutton which had been brought aboard at the last moment before sailing, with a remarkably strong sauce which was one of the cook's own inventions. The fresh bread from Devon and Cornwall had already been consumed, but ship's biscuits, cheese and a variety of wines made it a lively occasion.
As a young lieutenant, Adam had often wondered how a captain felt when he was invited to the wardroom. Aguest in his own ship. Even now he was not sure, nor was he used to it. A small brig like his very first command, or an ugly bomb like those he had seen off Algiers was a much closer community. A frigate, despite the lack of space, preserved the same barriers and distinctions as a lordly ship of the line.
Only at times like these, with the wine flowing at will, did you see the other side of the coin, the men behind the allotted ranks and roles. As varied as Cristie the sailing master, the true professional whose family had been raised in the same humble street as Lord Collingwood. O'Beirne the surgeon, stabbing the air through the drifting pipe smoke to emphasise the point in some Irish story he had been telling. He was a good surgeon, who had proved his worth several times over, after and during action at sea, or when dealing with the hundred and one accidents that befell even the most experienced seaman going about his work.
Adam eased his back against the chair and knew he had eaten too much. It was nothing compared with his companions, more out of habit. As captain he could choose what and when he ate. Consuming too little was as dangerous as drinking too much, when there was nobody to enchourage or restrain you.
He glanced down at his new coat, made by the same Plymouth tailor as the one he'd worn when Unrivalled had been commissioned. The one he had worn for that last fight with Triton. Part of the Bolitho legend, or a reckless indifference which might one day kill him?
Either way, it was loose around his body, even though the softtongued tailor had insisted it had been cut to the original measurements. He had made it sound almost inconvenient.
He heard shrill laughter from one of the three midshipmen, who had been invited for this special evening while their captain was present. It was the youngest, Hawkins, who was twelve years old. Unrivalled was his first ship. The son of a post-captain, grandson of a vice-admiral. He thought of Napier. At least Hawkins would have no doubts about his future.