Second to None by Alexander Kent Page B

the canvas hood from the master’s chart table and peered at the log with the aid of a tiny lantern. They would sight land before noon, according to Cristie. He had never known him to be wrong.
    He steadied the light with care. The coast of North Africa: to most sailors a place of mystery and strange superstitions, and best avoided.
    He studied Cristie’s fine handwriting.
6th June, 1815.
What would this day bring?
    Captain Bolitho had called his officers and those of senior warrant rank together in his cabin. Galbraith straightened his back and glanced at the skylight again. Remembering it.
    The captain had described the mission. A visit to Algiers, to investigate. Their intentions were peaceful, but guns’ crews would exercise twice a day all the same. It was said that Algiers was protected by some six hundred guns. It would not be much of a contest if the worst happened.
    The captain had looked at their faces and had said, ‘There was a French frigate named
La Fortune
in the Western Mediterranean before Napoleon’s surrender. Others too, and it is known that the Dey of Algiers and the Bey of Tunis have offered sanctuary to such men-of-war in exchange for their services. The prisons are still filled with Christians, people snatched from passing vessels, and held on no more serious charge than their religious beliefs. Torture, slavery, and open acts of aggression against merchantmen sailing under our protection – the list is endless. With our “allies” . . .’ he had made no effort to conceal his contempt ‘ . . . we had a chance to put paid to this piracy once and for all. Now with Napoleon at the head of his armies again, the Dey in particularmay use our predicament to gain even more control of these waters, and beyond.’
    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.’
    â€˜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 post-captain 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