Second to None by Alexander Kent

and pressed her face into the fair hair. Richard’s sister had told her that Melwyn meant
honey-fair
in the old Cornish tongue.
    â€˜You’re no mere servant, Melwyn.’ She embraced her again. ‘Tomorrow, then.’
    The girl said, ‘Sir Richard will expect it.’
    Catherine nodded very slowly. She had nearly given in, broken down, unable to go through with it. She lifted her chin, felt the anger giving way to pride.
    She said, ‘He will, indeed,’ and smiled at a memory the girl would never know or understand. ‘So let’s be about it, then!’

4
New Beginning
    CAPTAIN ADAM BOLITHO ran lightly up the companion ladder and paused as the bright sunshine momentarily dazzled him. He glanced around the quarterdeck, fitting names to faces, noting what each man was doing.
    Lieutenant Vivian Massie had the afternoon watch, and seemed surprised by his appearance on deck. Midshipman Bellairs was working with his signals party, observing each man to see if he was quick to recognise every flag, folded in its locker or not. It was hard enough with other ships in company, but alone, with no chance to regularly send and receive signals, there was always a danger that mistakes born out of boredom would be made.
    Four bells had just chimed from the forecastle. He looked up at the masthead pendant, whipping out half-heartedly in a wind which barely filled the sails. He walked to the compass box. East-by-south. He could feel the eyes of the helmsmen on him, while a master’s mate made a business of examining a midshipman’s slate. All as usual. And yet . . .
    â€˜I heard a hail from the masthead, Mr Massie?’
    â€˜Aye, sir.’ He gestured vaguely towards the starboard bow. ‘Driftwood.’
    Adam frowned and looked at the master’s log book. Eight hundred miles since leaving Gibraltar, in just under five days. The ship was a good sailer despite these unreliable winds, conditions which might be expected in the Mediterranean.
    No sight of land. They could be alone on some vast, uncharted ocean. The sun was hot but not oppressively so,and he had seen a few burns and blisters amongst the seamen.
    â€˜Who is the lookout?’
    He did not turn, but guessed Massie was surprised by what seemed so trivial a question.
    He did not recognise the name.
    â€˜Send Sullivan,’ he said.
    The master’s mate said, ‘He’s off watch below, sir.’
    Adam stared at the chart. Unlike those in the chart room, it was stained and well used; there was even a dark ring of something where a watchkeeper had carelessly left a mug.
    â€˜Send him.’ He traced the coastline with his fingers. Fifty miles or so to the south lay Algiers. Dangerous, hostile, and little known except by those unfortunate enough to fall into the hands of Algerine pirates.
    He saw the seaman Sullivan hurrying to the main shrouds, his bare feet hooking over the hard ratlines. His soles were like leather, unlike some of the landsmen, who could scarcely hobble after a few hours working aloft, although even they were improving. He heard Partridge, the ship’s barrel-chested boatswain, call out something, and saw Sullivan’s brown face split into a grin.
    He knew that Cristie, the master, had arrived on deck. That was not unusual. He checked his log at least twice in every watch. His entire world was the wind and the currents, the tides and the soundings; he could probably discover the exact condition of the seabed merely by arming the lead with tallow and smelling the fragment hauled up from the bottom. Without his breed of mariner a ship was blind, could fall a victim to any reef or sandbar. Charts were never enough. To men like Cristie, they never would be, either.
    Adam shaded his eyes and peered up at the mainmast again.
    â€˜Deck, there!’
    Adam waited, picturing Sullivan’s bright, clear eyes, like those of a much younger man peering through a mask.
    â€˜Wreckage off the