Galbraith was peering up at the mainmast crosstrees, as if willing Bellairs to confirm or deny it.
“Beat to quarters, sir?” Even his voice seemed hushed.
“Not yet.” Adam held out his hand, remembering Avery’s despair. “There’ll be another out there somewhere.” He watched the low banks of cloud. “They will have had plenty of time to prepare. We’ve had the sun behind us since first light-a blind man could see us.”
Galbraith moved closer, excluding all the others.
“We still have time, too, sir.”
Adam looked at him.
“To run?”
“We shall be hard put to stand and fight.”
Adam touched his arm, and felt it tense as if he had been expecting a blow.
“That was well said, Leigh. I respect you for it.”
He could see the two ships in his mind, as if they were within range instead of miles distant, visible only to the masthead lookout and Bellairs. He would learn something today. If he lived through it.
“How many extra hands do we have aboard?”
“Fifty-five, and two injured. I’ll clap the whole lot in irons if you think-”
What had Lovatt called it? A gesture. But too late.
He said suddenly, “Clear lower deck, and have all hands lay aft.” He attempted to smile, but his mouth refused. “Though it would seem they are already here!”
He walked to the compass once more, hearing the sound of his shoes on the deck, like that day at his court martial at Portsmouth. So impossibly long ago. He heard the trill of calls below decks, and a few idlers running to join the mass of figures already on deck.
Galbraith said, “Lower deck cleared, sir.”
Adam touched the compass box, remembering the brief moments of clarity before Lovatt had died.
I could not offer them a reason for dying.
He could have been speaking at this very moment.
Adam turned and strode to the quarterdeck rail and looked out across the sea of upturned faces. The others he had already seen, the afterguard, and the swarthy Lieutenant Massie who was responsible for the gunnery of this ship. And young Wynter, whose father was a member of Parliament. And the two scarlet coated marine officers, standing a little apart from the others; the midshipmen and the master’s mates; men and faces which had become so familiar within six months.
“You will know by now that two ships are standing to the west’rd of us.”
There were some quick, uncertain glances, and he sensed the sudden understanding as Bellairs’ clear voice called, “Second ship, starboard bow! Square-rigged, sir!”
“They are not there by accident. It is their intention to engage, seize, or destroy Unrivalled.”
He saw some of them looking at the black eighteen-pounders, perhaps already considering the hazards-the older men would call it folly-of engaging two frigates at once. Heeling to the wind, it would require brute force to haul the guns back to their ports on the weather side once they had been fired.
“The war with Napoleon has likely been over for some time. We shall be told eventually. I hope.”
He saw old Stranace, the gunner, offer a dour grin. It was little enough, but it was all he had.
Adam pointed at the empty sea.
“These ships will respect no treaty, no pieces of paper applauded by old men in government. They are already outlaws!” He let his arm drop and recalled Lovatt’s words. We are all mercenaries in war.
He laid both hands on the rail and said deliberately, “I need trained men today.” He saw some of Unrivalled’s people looking at those who had been thrust amongst them. None had forgotten the days, so recently passed, when men had been seized and dragged aboard King’s ships by the hated press-gangs with no less severity.
“I can promise you nothing, but I can offer the chance of a new beginning. If we lose the day, our fate at the hands of the enemy will be prolonged and terrible. If we win, there is the possibility of freedom.” He thought of Avery, and said, “Of England. You have my word upon it.” What he had said to Lovatt…
Galbraith pointed. “That man! Speak up!”
It was a seaman who would not have seemed out of place in any ship, any port.
“An’ if we refuse, Cap’n? If we stands by our rights?”
There was a growl of agreement.
“Rights?” Adam patted a quarterdeck nine-pounder by his knee. “Speak to me of those rights when these are silent, eh?”
He nodded to Galbraith. He had made a mistake; the gesture had misfired. Galbraith joined him by the rail.
“Show of hands!”
The silence was physical. Crushing. Far worse than if they had jeered at his inability to reach them.
Then he heard Partridge, the massive boatswain, bawling out as if it were a part of normal routine.
“Right, then, you lot over ’ere. Lively, lads! Creagh, take their names, if you still knows ’ow to write!”
And somebody laughed. Laughed.
Adam turned towards them again. The crowd was breaking into groups, pushed and sorted into small parties, the blues and whites of warrant officers moving amongst them, taking control. He tried to remember; how many had Galbraith mentioned? Over fifty: not an army, but it might make the difference. Men who had been cheated, lied to and ill-treated for most of their lives, when loyalty to one another carried far more weight than flag or country, they had decided.
Galbraith was beside him again.
“I would never have believed it, sir.” He hesitated. “Would you tell me? How did you do it?”
Adam saw the one man who had challenged him. Their eyes met across the bustling figures and frantic petty officers, and then the man gave a shrug. Resignation, or was it trust after all?
He murmured, “Perhaps I offered them a reason for living.”
He felt spray dash across his cheek. The wind was still rising. The chance.
But all he heard was Lovatt’s mocking laugh.
He turned on his heel and said, “Now you may beat to quarters, and clear for action, Mr Galbraith.” He saw the boy Napier watching from beside the capstan, and called, “Fetch my coat, will you? My sword, too.” But Jago was already there, the old sword held casually, almost indifferently.
“Here, sir.”
Adam held out his arms and felt him clip the sword into place. Was this, too, a final conceit?
Jago stood back. “Scum they may be, sir, but fight they will. Like me, they don’t know nothing else!”
At that moment the drums began their staccato roll to beat to quarters.
Adam stared at the sea until his eyes misted over. He felt no fear. If anything, it was pride.
Adam Bolitho brushed a lock of loose hair from his eyes and used his sleeve as a shield against the glare from a lively sea, broken now by the strengthening wind.
One bell chimed from forward, and he saw Midshipman Fielding apparently jerk out of his thoughts and turn the half-hour glass before someone rebuked him.
So little time since the first hint of danger; two hours, or less. It was hard to remember, but it would all be noted in the log. He licked his dry lips. For posterity.
Even the ship had changed in that time. Cleared for action, Unrivalled was stripped, like the gun crews who had discarded their shirts but retained their neckerchiefs to tie over their ears against the roar of battle, of her main and mizzen courses and staysails, so that the deck felt open and vulnerable. Under topsails and topgallants, with the big forecourse loosely brailed, she was making a fair speed through the water, spray constantly breaking over the beak-head and forecastle. Nets had been rigged to protect the gun deck from falling wreckage. Adam faced each possibility like a challenge, the margin between winning and losing. And lastly the boats. He did not move from his place on the weather side of the quarterdeck but could see the boat tier, each hull already bailed and steaming in the hot sunshine.
It was always a bad moment when the boats were lowered and cast adrift on a sea-anchor, to await collection by the victors. Even seasoned sailors never accepted or became accustomed to it. The boats were their last hope of survival. Adam had seen some of them watching Partridge’s crew rigging the tackles in readiness for hoisting and then swinging each boat outboard. Abandoned…