Relentless Pursuit (18 page)

He had heard Adam Bolitho refer to the navy as a family. Richard Bolitho had done so as well. It was no mere coincidence that the other frigate anchored at Freetown when they had arrived had been under James Tyacke's command. Tyacke in his brig
Larne
had found that open boat and saved them from certain death.

And now there was Thomas Herrick. To Yovell it seemed only yesterday since he had accompanied Catherine to Herrick's house in Kent, where they had found his wife in the grip of typhus. Sir Richard's wife Belinda had been there but had left immediately when she had realized the nature of the illness.

He had heard that Herrick had asked for forgiveness for his behaviour after that. Yovell was ashamed that he found it hard to believe.

Galbraith strode aft and paused to say, “Nothing to see, I'm afraid.” He glanced at the partly-manned capstan. “But there's still time, I suppose.”

He half-turned. “You going up, Sullivan?”

The seaman nodded. “Cap'n asked me, sir.” He sounded troubled. “I hate this place. I was here before, once. Long time ago.” His clear eyes were distant, reminiscent. “We was ashore on a waterin' party, and them devils took one of our lads. The cap'n sent th' marines ashore, but they was too late. They'd cut off his eyelids so that he couldn't close them against the sun, then they pegged him out on an anthill an' watched him die. It must have taken a long time, sir.”

They watched him leap into the shrouds, like a young boy, before he began to climb up towards the maintop.

Yovell removed his spectacles and mopped his face with a large handkerchief.

“I often marvel that such men return to sea again and again, even after what they have seen!”

Galbraith grinned. “He's no different from the rest of us!” He touched Yovell's plump arm. “Or you, for that matter!”

“Deck there! Sail to the nor'-east!”

Galbraith almost ran up the ladder and saw Bolitho already opening a telescope. Sullivan might resent the other lookout calling a sighting before him.

Galbraith nodded to Midshipman Cousens as he offered his own glass. He heard Bolitho say, “She's
Paradox.
Makes a fine sight!”

Galbraith adjusted the telescope with care. It was strange at first: with
Unrivalled
lying at anchor the other vessel appeared to be much further out. It was an illusion;
Paradox
was standing towards the larger of the two inlets, tacking well enough, although the offshore wind had her almost aback at one point. She had all her boats in the water, towing or alongside. Galbraith bit his lip. That would do nothing to help steerage-way. The dawn haze was clearing slowly. He moved the glass again and saw another fan of sails, the hull still hidden in mist or smoke, as if she had fired a silent broadside. That would be
Seven Sisters.
He looked at
Paradox
again. Clearer and sharper now. The broad-pendant seemed far too large for so sleek a vessel, he thought. She had shortened sail, and he could see one of the boats, then another, being hauled alongside, the occasional glint of weapons as men clambered down into them.

Adam Bolitho said, “Too soon! The oarsmen will be exhausted before they can work into position!”

Galbraith handed the big signals telescope to Cousens. “Watch the commodore.” He looked forward. All work had ceased, and most of the hands were either standing on the guns or clinging to the shrouds, spectators, as if they had no part in it.

“Deck there!” This time it was Sullivan. “Sail in sight, sir!”

Adam raised his glass again even as he heard Cristie exclaim, “There's another of 'em, fine across the inlet!”

Paradox
was on the move again, her sails changing shape as she shifted to the opposite tack.

Cousens called huskily,“From Commodore, sir!
Enemy in sight!
”

Adam flinched as a gun banged out over the cruising wavelets. Small and dull, without menace.

Paradox
would close with the other vessels and fire a few shots into them. There would be no point in their trying to resist, especially with
Seven Sisters
already making more sail.

Adam walked quickly to the rail, barely seeing the marines standing by or against the packed hammock nettings. He felt helpless, anchored and unable to offer support.

He turned abruptly and asked, “How long shall we hold this lie to the cable?”

Cristie answered instantly, “'Bout an hour, sir. Then we shall begin to swing.”

Adam stared at the green mass of land. Between
Unrivalled
and the first sandbars there was a channel. It was badly charted, but doubtless well enough known to the slavers and those who hunted for them. Hastilow must know this coastline better than most. Creeks and beaches, inlets and places where even the biggest craft could lie undisturbed.

Paradox
fired again. Aiming for the sails. If the vessel was packed with slaves it would be sheer murder to fire into the hull.

“Deck there! Third sail leavin' the inlet, sir!”

Adam heard Galbraith say, “They've left it too late! They can never come about in time!”

Adam turned as Cristie said, “I may be speaking out of turn, sir, but . . .”

Afterwards, Adam recalled the sailing master's surprise when he had gripped his arm as if to shake him.

“
Tell me,
man! What's wrong?”

“
Paradox
is on the wrong bearing.” Then, more firmly, “No, I'm damn sure of it.”

Adam said, “Mr Galbraith, beat to quarters, if you please, and have the starboard battery loaded.” He held up one hand, like a rider quieting his mount. “But not run out!” He swung round and saw Jago watching him. As if he was waiting for it. “You were offering to sway out the gig, remember? Then do it now, larboard side.”

He sensed his servant, Napier, by his side and reached out to grasp his shoulder. All the while he was watching the converging pattern of sails, like the fins of sharks closing for the kill.

“Fetch my coat and sword, David.”

“Sir?” Napier stared at him, not understanding.

He squeezed the shoulder. A boy his mother should be proud to have.

“They might think twice before firing on one of the King's captains!”

Galbraith must have heard him; the urgent rattle of drums beating to quarters had ceased, the spectators had formed into tried and tested patterns. The ship seemed suddenly still, the occasional bark of gunfire remote and unreal. He exclaimed, “You will not do it, sir!” He was shaking with emotion.

There was a great chorus of shouts and groans, and Adam heard someone cry, “She's struck!
Paradox
has driven aground!”

He looked past Galbraith and saw it for himself.
Paradox
was slewing round, her fore-topmast falling as he watched, soundless in distance but no less terrible.

“You know, Leigh, I don't think there's any choice.” Then, half to himself, “There never was.”

When he looked again,
Paradox
was mastless. A wreck.

Seven Sisters
would not be in time, and the other vessels in Turnbull's flotilla would be hard put to cut off the remaining slavers.

There was only
Unrivalled,
and she was anchored and impotent, unable to move even into the other channel without sharing the same fate as
Paradox.

“All guns loaded, sir!”

He held out his arms for Napier to assist him with his coat. Then he took the old sword, and thought again of the renegade's words. Bravado, courage, or vanity?

Cousens called, “They're firing on
Paradox
's boats, sir!” He sounded sickened, outraged.

The flat, dull bangs of carronades, packed with canister and at point-blank range. Turnbull's proud gesture was in bloody rags.

He said, “Man your capstans, Leigh. Let us see what we can do today,” and looked directly at him. “Together.”

9 PIKE IN THE
R
EEDS

A
DAM
B
OLITHO
forced himself to remain motionless, his coat brushing the quarterdeck rail while he stared along
Unrivalled
's deck and beyond to the main channel. The other vessels were still making good use of the offshore breeze, sails barely slackening as they altered course slightly, their outlines overlapping and distorted in the harsh light. He could hear more shots, small and individual now, marksmen, he thought, shooting at anyone in the water who had survived the carronades.
Paradox
had swung with the wind and tide but was still fast on the sandbar. The nearest slaver, a brig, fired two guns as she drew abeam, but there was no response.

The third vessel changed tack again, showing herself for the first time since she had left the inlet. A brigantine, if he had harboured any doubts. Cristie quenched them. “It's that bloody
Albatroz!
” And his mate's quick response. “And not empty this time, by God!”

Adam said, “Keep your men down and out of sight, Mr Varlo.” He wanted to move, to climb the shrouds for a better view, but he did neither. He did not need a telescope to see that the brig
Seven Sisters
had come about and was attempting to alter course on to a converging tack with the leading slaver. How they must be hugging themselves, the first shock of seeing
Paradox,
and then an anchored frigate, giving way to something like jubilation. People would yarn about it for years, and more and more slavers would be prepared to take the risk because of it.

“Ready on the capstan, Mr Galbraith. Take in the slack from aft.” He did not raise his voice. “Impress on the gun captains to aim high, rigging and nothing below it.”

“Heave, lads!
Heave!
”

Adam saw Lieutenant Bellairs urging more men from aft to add their weight to the capstan bars, feet and toes slipping as they matched their strength against the ship and the anchor cable.

Adam watched the land; it was moving, but so slowly. He stared at the three other vessels, spreading out now, with all the room they needed to avoid
Unrivalled
's challenge. Except for the unmarked channels. Each of the three masters would know all about them, and be ready to choose his escape route to the sea.

If they took no chances, they could do it. Full human cargoes would increase their risk of sharing
Paradox
's fate. And they had fired on a King's ship, had killed Turnbull's men in the water. Yes, every man aboard would know the penalty of failure now.

Unrivalled
was swinging, but not fast enough. It had to be soon. Adam gripped his sword and pressed it against his thigh until the pain steadied him. It was now.

“Open the ports! Run out!”

He watched the leading and nearest slaver. It would surprise them if nothing else.

But they would know that
Unrivalled
could not move. If she weighed now, it would take an eternity to clear the treacherous anchorage and give chase. He had already told Varlo what to do; the gun captains would lay and fire without even the movement of the deck to disturb them.

He realized that Yovell was still on deck, instead of having gone to the orlop, his station when the ship was cleared for action.

The gun captains were peering aft, fists raised, eyes on the blue-coated figure by the rail, surrounded by many but totally alone.

“A prayer today, Mr Yovell, might not come amiss.” He raised his arm, and gauged the glittering arrowhead of water which separated them. There was no sound on the quarterdeck; each man was waiting, wondering. Perhaps it was not merely prize-money this time. He thought of Hastilow.
Or revenge.

“As you bear!” His arm sliced down.
“Fire!”

The deck jerked violently, the sun-dried wood flinching to every shock as gun by gun along the ship's side each eighteen-pounder hurled itself inboard to be restrained by its tackles and crew.

Many of the shots went far too high. One even splashed down alongside the mastless
Paradox.
Adam found a moment to wonder if Turnbull had survived, at least long enough to see what he had caused.

He heard Rist say, “Got that bugger!” Then he seemed to realise he was beside his captain, and added, “Nice one, sir!”

A lucky shot or a skilled aim, the result was the same. The vessel's topmast had cracked like a carrot, and the rising wind did the rest. The spars and heavy canvas splashed hard down alongside like one huge sea-anchor, dragged her round broadside-on, and Adam could see tiny ant-like figures running about the brig's deck, probably expecting the next broadside to smash directly into them.

Her sails flapped in sudden confusion, as if her master was going to attempt to wear ship, and claw back into the narrows.

Cristie said flatly, “Aground. Hard an' bloody fast, rot him!”

The second vessel was already changing tack.
Unrivalled
could not fire again without raking the first one.

Adam said, “Number one gun, larboard battery!” He saw Galbraith turn and stare at him. “We might lose the other brig, but not
Albatroz,
not this time!”

Then he took a telescope from its rack and walked to the lar-board side. The brigantine, even fully laden, would still draw less water than the others. That one channel, which had always been avoided by larger craft, was
Albatroz
's obvious choice. He thought of his uncle's words again.
The unexpected . . .

And there she was, exactly as he had remembered. Well handled, her rig, which Partridge had first described, bracing now to carry the vessel closer inshore, where she would tack again and cross
Unrivalled
's bows unharmed.

Galbraith had gone forward and was standing with the gun crew, gesturing, and the gun captain was nodding, red neckerchief already tied firmly around his ears.

It might take a few more minutes, but one gun firing and reloading without support from the rest of the battery might avoid confusion and over eagerness. Gun crews were used to competing with each other; it was all a part of training and familiarity, not only among gun captains but every member of the teams. A pull here, a turn there, handspikes ready to edge the long barrel around perhaps a mere inch, to get that perfect shot.

Someone growled, “The bugger's run up the Portuguese flag!”

Another retorted, “'E'll need it to wipe 'is backside with!”

Adam glanced at the main channel. The first brig was still aground. She had boats in the water. To escape, to attempt to kedge her off? One was pointless; the latter would take too much time.
Seven Sisters
would be there before long. And the other vessel was making good her escape. He pressed his knuckles against his thighs and stared at the brigantine.

“Slack off aft, Mr Partridge. Handsomely, now.” He lifted his hand again and saw Rist turn to watch him. “Easy, lads!”

He knew Varlo was signalling from the forecastle;
Unrivalled
was taking up to her cable again; the shoreline was as before, as if they had never moved.

But all he could see were the tan-coloured sails moving slowly from bow to bow, the masthead appearing to brush beneath
Unrivalled
's jib-boom.

“Run out!”
After the squeal of trucks and the rumble of heavy guns being run up to their ports, it was almost gentle. And yet nobody moved, and speech was in whispers.

Albatroz
's master was standing into the narrow channel. There was no turning back. Soon, any second now, and he would see the solitary gun. And he would know. He might run ashore; he could even attempt to kill every slave aboard, but he could not escape. The Portuguese flag was the only thing between him and the rope.

He heard the gun captain's voice, saw him lean over to tap one of his men's shoulders. The seaman even looked up and nodded, his tanned face split into a grin.

Adam felt some of the tension drain away. He had spoken to that same seaman a few days ago, but at this moment he could not recall his name.

Cristie remarked, “She's got a couple of guns run out.” He looked at his captain. “They might, if they're desperate enough.”

No one answered him.

Adam straightened his back and felt the trapped sweat run down his spine and between his buttocks. The brigantine was on course now, all sails drawing and filling well, as if
Unrivalled
were invisible.

And if they did open fire?
Unrivalled
's guns would offer no quarter.

He thought suddenly of Avery, and Deighton's father, and his hand moved as if to touch the locket.

It only took one shot.

“Now, as you bear!” He folded his arms and stared at the brigantine's flag, a splash of colour against the hazy backdrop.
“Fire!”

For an instant longer Adam thought it was another overshoot. Then the maintopmast began to dip very slowly, almost wearily towards the deck, and as shrouds and running rigging snapped under the strain the complete mast with driver and trysails fell with sudden urgency, the sound mingling with the echo of the last shot.

Adam wanted to wipe his face, his mouth, but could not move.

Strike, you bastard, strike!
His own voice or someone's beside him, he did not know. Another few minutes and they would have to fire again. He knew from instinct as much as experience that the gun had already been reloaded and run out. After that
Albatroz,
crippled or not, would be beyond their reach.

“Ready, sir!”

It was not his concern. The seizure of any slaver was
his duty above and beyond all else.
The words of his orders seemed to mock him. But all he could see was the effect of one
18
-pounder ball smashing into a hull packed with helpless, terrified humanity.

He lifted his arm, but held it there as Bellairs yelled, “They're anchoring, sir! The buggers are going to strike!”

Adam breathed out slowly. It sounded like the exhalation of an old man.

Galbraith stood at the foot of the starboard ladder, staring up.

“Permission to board, sir?”

Adam looked across at the anchored brigantine. It was not over yet.

And there was always the flag.

The thought made him want to laugh. But, as in the past, he would not be able to stop.

“No, belay that, Mr Galbraith. Is my gig ready?”

He ran lightly down the ladder, for a moment shutting out all the others.

“Take charge here, Leigh. Fire if need be, for by that time it will be your decision.”

Galbraith walked beside him.

“Then take Mr Rist, I pray you, sir. He knows these people. You and I do not.”

There was no sane interlude. He was in the boat, the oars already hacking at the water without, it seemed, moving a limb.

Like some of the nightmares. It was not next week, or tomorrow. It was now.

“Stand by to board!”

Now.

Suddenly, the other vessel was right here. Small compared with
Unrivalled
and yet she seemed to tower above the gig, as if to overwhelm them.

“Oars!”
Jago swung the tiller bar, glancing only briefly at the last few yards, conscious even in this moment of danger of how it must be done, be it for the last time.

Adam was on his feet, feeling the bottom boards creaking under him, intent on keeping his balance when at any second he expected a shot to smash him down. Figures lined the brigantine's bulwarks, and some of them shook their weapons, apparently ready and eager to use them.

“Stand away! Stand off! I warn you now and but once!”

The voice was loud and clear, and Adam guessed he was using a speaking-trumpet.

Rist murmured, “It's Cousens, sir. He's the one.”

Adam did not even look at him, but recalled Galbraith's last words.
He knows these people. You and I do not.
And there was another sound, which tension had forced into the back of his mind. A strange groaning, many voices blended into one despairing protest, as if
Albatroz
herself was in pain.

As the gig moved into the vessel's shadow he was aware of the stillness, the finality. So unlike the wildness and sometimes the exhilaration of a true sea fight, the triumph and the suffering as an enemy's flag fell into the smoke. He looked up at the faces; even they were motionless now. It only needed one hothead, that brief incentive to kill, but all he could think was that his own voice seemed detached, disembodied, like someone else, an onlooker.