There was another boy at the mess table, the one called Paul, son of the Tetrarch’s renegade captain. Had he continued the fight and faced one of Unrivalled’s broadsides with his holds filled to the deckhead beams with powder… at least it would have been a quick death, Jago thought.
Sullivan did not look up, but said, “What’ll they do with ’im?”
Jago shrugged. “Put him ashore, maybe.” He frowned, angry without knowing why. “War is no game for children!”
Sullivan chuckled. “Since when?”
Jago glanced around the partly filled messdeck, the swaying rays of sunlight probing down through the gratings and an open hatchway.
This was his world, where he belonged, where he could catch the feel of the ship, something which would be denied him if he accepted the captain’s offer.
His eyes fell on the burly seaman named Campbell, who had been sentenced to a flogging for threatening a petty officer. There had been two men brought aft for punishment, but the other had been killed during the opening shots of the engagement, and the captain had ordered that Campbell ’s punishment should be stood over. He was sitting there now, his face blotchy with sweat from too much rum. Wets from others, for favours done, or perhaps the need to keep on the good side of this seemingly unbreakable troublemaker.
One of the hard men, Campbell had received a checkered shirt at the gangway several times. Jago knew what it was like to be flogged; although the punishment had been carried out unjustly, and despite the intervention of an officer on his behalf, he would carry the scars to the grave. No wonder men deserted. He had nearly run himself, twice, in other ships, and for reasons he could scarcely remember.
What had held him back? He grimaced. Certainly not loyalty or devotion to duty.
Again he recalled the day he had shaken hands with Captain Bolitho after they had driven off the big Yankee. A bargain, something done on the spur of the moment while the blood was still pounding with the wildness of battle. It was something new to him, which he did not understand. And that, too, troubled him.
Campbell looked at him. “This is an unexpected honour, eh, lads? To ’ave the Cap’n’s cox’n amongst the likes of us!”
Jago relaxed. Men like Campbell he could handle.
“Far enough, Campbell. I’ll take no lip from you. You’ve been lucky, so make the best of it.”
Campbell seemed disappointed. “I never meant nuthin’!”
“One foot, just put one foot wrong and I’ll drag you aft myself!”
Somebody asked, “Why are we goin’ to Gib again, ’Swain?”
Jago shrugged. “Despatches, to land Tetrarch’s people-”
Campbell said harshly, “Run ’em up to the main-yard, that’s what I’d do!” He pointed at the boy in the other mess. “’Is bloody father for a start!”
Jago smiled. “That’s more like it, Campbell. A ten-year-old boy. A fair match, I’d say!”
Sullivan said softly, “Officer on the deck, ’Swain!”
Someone else murmured, “Bloody piglet, more like!”
It was Midshipman Sandell, striding importantly past the messes, chin in the air and not bothering to remove his hat, a courtesy observed by most officers. Jago ducked beneath one of the massive deckhead beams and realised that the midshipman was still able to walk upright, even wearing the hat. Sandell was carrying a gleaming, and, Jago guessed, very expensive sextant, probably a parting gift from his parents. Earlier he had seen the midshipmen assembled on the quarterdeck taking their noon sights, watched critically by Cristie, the master, as they had tried to estimate the ship’s position for their logs.
Cristie missed very little, and Jago had heard him give Sandell the rough edge of his tongue more than once, to the obvious glee of the others.
Jago faced him calmly. It made upstarts like him dangerous.
“Oh, you’re here, are you?” Sandell peered around, as if he had never set foot on the lower deck before. “I want the boy, Lovatt. He is to lay aft, now.”
“I’ll fetch him, Mr Sandell.”
“How many times do I have to tell people?” He was almost beside himself. “Sandell! That’s easy enough, surely?”
Jago murmured, “Sorry, sir.” It had been worth it just to see the shot go home. As he had intended it would.
He beckoned to the boy, and asked, “The captain wants him, sir?”
Sandell stared at him, as if astonished that anyone should dare to question him. But, angry or not, some inner warning seemed to prevent another outburst. Jago’s demeanour, and the fine blue jacket with gilt buttons, appeared to make him hesitate.
He said loftily, “The captain, yes.” He snapped his fingers. “Move yourself, boy!”
Jago watched them leave. Sandell would never change. He had shown no sign of fear during the fight, but that meant little; his kind were usually more afraid of revealing their fear to others than of fear itself. He winked at Sullivan. But if Sandell wanted to climb the ladder of promotion, he would be wise not to turn his back.
Unrivalled’s wardroom, which was built into the poop structure on the gun deck, seemed spacious after other frigates George Avery had known. Unlike the lower deck, the ship’s officers shared the cabin and dining space with six eighteen-pounders, three on either side.
The midday meal had been cleared away, and Avery sat by an open gunport watching some gulls diving and screaming alongside, probably because the cook had pitched some scraps outboard.
Two days out of Malta, on passage for Gibraltar, as if everything else was unreal. The dinner with Vice-Admiral Bethune and Adam Bolitho, then the excitement at being a part of something which he had begun with Sir Richard, had all been dashed by the arrival of another courier vessel. Unrivalled would take Bethune’s despatches to the Rock and pass them on to the first available ship bound for England. Whatever Bethune really thought about it, he had made himself very clear. His latest orders were to contain the activities of the Dey’s corsairs, but to do nothing to aggravate the situation until more ships were put under his flag.
Adam had been quietly resentful, although Unrivalled was the obvious choice: she was faster and better armed than any other frigate here or anywhere else in the fleet. There had been reports of several smaller vessels being attacked, taken or destroyed by the corsairs, and communications between the various squadrons and bases had never been so important. There was still no definite news of a total victory over Napoleon’s army. Waterloo had broken his hold over the line, and it seemed as if all French forces were in full retreat. Even Marshal Ney’s formidable cavalry had been defeated by the red-coated squares of infantry.
And he, Lieutenant George Avery, had received orders which countermanded all others. He was to return to England and present himself to their lordships, perhaps to add his report to all those which must have gone before. He laid his hand on the gun, warm, as if it had been recently fired. Perhaps he was too close. It was not another report they wanted. It was a post-mortem.
He looked around at his companions. It was a friendly enough wardroom, and he was after all a stranger, a temporary member of their small community.
And it was always in the air. It was only natural, and he knew he was being unreasonable to expect otherwise. I was there. When he fell.
Galbraith, the first lieutenant, understood, and confined his questions to the subject of Avery’s visit to the Dey’s stronghold, and if there was any real risk that the attacks on shipping and the seizure of Christians would spark off a bigger confrontation. The war with France would soon be over; it probably already was. Galbraith would be thinking of his own future, thankful that he was at least in a stronger position than many, in a new and powerful frigate, with a captain whose name was known because of his famous uncle as well as his own past successes.