Somebody, Galbraith had thought Captain Bosanquet of the Royal Marines, had asked about the sailor they had rescued and later buried at sea.
Captain Bolitho had answered shortly, “Probably one of many.” And again something like bitterness had crept into his voice.
“Which is why Captain Bouverie intends to make a peaceful approach. Vice-Admiral Bethune’s squadron is hard pressed as it is. He sees no alternative.”
Bouverie was the senior captain, as he reminded them often enough by hoisting signals at every opportunity. Galbraith half smiled. He would make a good admiral one day.
The master’s mate of the watch said softly, “Cabin light’s out, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Woodthorpe. I am glad you are awake!” He saw the man’s teeth in the dimness.
How would it be this time? He thought of the moment when they had shared wine together; it had shown him another side of Adam Bolitho. He had even touched on his early days at sea as a midshipman, and had spoken of his uncle, his first captain. Opening out, demonstrating a warmth which Galbraith had not suspected.
After his visit to the flagship, he had shut that same door. At first Galbraith thought that he had expected some priority, a preference because of his famous surname, and had resented Bouverie’s slower, more cautious approach. But Adam Bolitho was a postcaptain of some fame, and had not come by it easily. He would be used to Bouveries in the navy’s tight world.
It was deeper than that. Driving him, like some unstoppable force. Something personal.
Like the brigantine, which might or might not be following Unrivalled. Twice on this passage they had sighted an unknown sail. The lookouts had not been certain; even the impressive Sullivan could not swear to it. But Captain Bolitho had no such doubts. When he had signalled Bouverie for permission to break company and give chase, the request had been denied with a curt negative.
Galbraith had heard him exclaim, “This is a ship of war! I’m no grocery captain, damn his eyes!”
Galbraith recognised the light step now, and heard his passing comment to the master’s mate. Then he saw the open shirt, rippling in the soft wind, and remembered the savage scar he had seen above his ribs when he had found him shaving in his cabin. He was lucky to be alive.
Bolitho had seen his eyes, and said, “They made a good job of it!” And had grinned, and only for a second or so Galbraith had seen the youth override the experience and the memories.
A good job. Galbraith had heard the surgeon mention that when Adam Bolitho had been captured, more dead than alive, he had been operated on by the American ship’s surgeon, who had in fact been French.
“Good morning, Mr Galbraith. Everything is as it was, I see?” He was looking up at the topsails. “I could make her fly if I got the word!”
Pride? It was stronger than that. It was more like love.
He moved to the compass box and nodded to the helmsmen, and their eyes followed him further still, to the canvas-covered table.
“We shall exercise the main battery during the forenoon, Mr Galbraith.”
Galbraith smiled. That would go round the ship like a fast fuse. But it had to be said that the gun crews were improving.
“And call the hands a quarter-hour earlier. I expect a smart ship today. And I want our people properly fed, not making do with muck!”
Another side. Captain Bolitho had already disrated the cook for wasting food and careless preparation. Many captains would not have cared.
He was holding the same little lamp, but did not seem to be looking at the chart, and Galbraith heard him say quietly, “June sixth. I had all but forgot!”
“May I share it, sir?”
For a moment he thought he had gone too far. But Adam merely looked at him, his face hidden in shadow.
“I was thinking of some wild roses, and a lady.” He turned away, as if afraid of what he might disclose. “On my birthday.” Then, abruptly, “The wind! By God, the wind! ”
It was as though the ship had sensed his change of mood. Blocks and halliards rattled, and then above their heads the maintopsail boomed like a drum.
Adam said, “Belay my last order! Call all hands directly!” He gripped Galbraith’s arm as if to emphasise the importance of what he was saying. “We shall sight land today! Don’t you see, if we are being followed it’s their last chance to outreach us!”
Galbraith knew it was pointless to question his sudden excitement. At first light they should be changing tack to take station on Matchless again. There was not a shred of evidence that the occasional sightings of a far-off sail were significant, or connected in any way. But the impetuous grip on his arm seemed to cast all doubt to the rising wind.
He swung round. “Pipe all hands, Mr Woodthorpe! And send for the master, fast as you can!”
He turned back to the indistinct outline. “Captain Bouverie may not approve, sir.”
Adam Bolitho said quietly, “But Captain Bouverie is not yet in sight, is he?”
Men rushed out of the shadows, some still dazed by sleep, staring around at the flapping canvas and straining rigging until order and discipline took command.
The master, feet bare, stumped across the sloping deck, muttering, “Is there no peace?” Then he saw the captain. “New course, sir?”
“We will wear ship, Mr Cristie! As close to the wind as she’ll come!”
Calls shrilled and men scrambled aloft, the perils of working in darkness no longer a threat now to most of them. Blocks squealed, and someone stumbled over a snaking line, which was slithering across the damp planking as if it were truly alive.
But she was answering, from the instant that the big double wheel was hauled over.
Galbraith gripped a backstay and felt the deck tilting still further. In the darkness everything was wilder, louder, as if the ship were responding to her captain’s recklessness. He dashed spray from his face and saw pale stars spiralling around the masthead pendant. It was all but dawn. He looked towards the captain. Suppose the sea was empty? And there was no other vessel? He thought of Bouverie, what might happen, and knew, without understanding why, that this was a contest.
Unrivalled completed her turn, water rushing down the lee scuppers as the sails refilled on the opposite tack, the jib cracking loudly, as close to the wind as she could hold.
Cristie shouted, “Steady as she goes, sir! East-by-south!”
Afterwards, Galbraith thought it was the only time he had ever heard the master either impressed or surprised.
“Make fast! Belay! ”
Men ran to obey each command; to any landsman it would appear a single, confused tangle of canvas and straining cordage.
Adam Bolitho gripped the rail and said, “Now she flies! Feel her!”
Galbraith turned, but shook his head and did not speak. The captain was quite alone with his ship.
“Hands aloft, Mr Lomax! Get the t’gallants on her and put more men on the main course! They’re like a pack of old women today!”
Lieutenant George Avery stood beneath the mizzen-mast, where the marines of the afterguard had been mustered for nearly an hour. He had heard a few whispered curses when the galley fire had been doused before some of the watchkeepers had managed to snatch a quick meal.
He felt out of place aboard Matchless, alien. Everything worked smoothly enough, as might be expected in a frigate which had been in commission for over three years. But he had sensed a lack of the companionship he himself had come to recognise and accept. Every move, each change of tack or direction, seemed to flow from one man. No chain of command as Avery knew it, but a single man.
He could see him now, feet apart, hand on his hip, a square figure in the strengthening daylight. He considered the word; it described Captain Emlyn Bouverie exactly. Even when the ship heeled to a change of tack, Bouverie remained like a rock. His hands were square too, strong and hard, like the man.