Relentless Pursuit (31 page)

And when he had seen the captain stagger and then fall to his knees, he had heard himself speaking aloud.
Anyone but him. Please, God, not him!

It was like a voice.
Because you could not have done it. Nor will you.

He stared at the flag locker, overturned in that brief but savage encounter.

“Attend to it, Mr Cousens!”

Then he turned away, sickened, remembering, and murmured, “Forgive me.”

There was nobody to hear him.

Daniel Yovell critically regarded the nib of a new pen before testing it against his thumbnail. Beyond the white-painted screen he could hear the constant sounds and movements of men working to repair damage, reeving new cordage, or replacing sails which had been shot through in the engagement.

It seemed that the work had never stopped, and it was sometimes difficult to believe that the brief action had been more than four days ago.

It was as if the labour was a need, the only way sailors could put their anger and sadness behind them. Yovell had watched men die, and had been there when they had made their last journey, down into permanent darkness.

He looked across the littered table at the sheaf of notes the captain had used to compile his report. In spite of the wound he seemed unable to rest, or make any allowances for his pain and loss of blood.

Even O'Beirne seemed baffled by the will and determination which was driving him.

He was with the captain now, in the sleeping quarters. They made a good pair, Yovell thought, neither willing to give in to the other.

He saw Napier by the stern windows, watching some gulls swooping across
Unrivalled
's lively wake, their strident screams lost in this cabin. It was like a haven, separate from the rest of the ship, yet closely linked by the comings and goings of officers and messengers from the working parties, no matter how lowly. The captain had to be informed.

Yovell thought of his own part in it. Assisting the surgeon, seeing men he had come to know suffer and sometimes die, stretched out on that bloodied table. He had held the hand of one seaman and had recited a prayer for him, inserting his own words when he had forgotten some of it, and all the while the dying sailor had been very still, watching him. Finally O'Beirne had pulled the man's hand away and signalled for his assistants.

“Gone, I'm afraid.” Almost callous. How else could he do his work?

He thought, too, of the burials, the uncanny silence falling over the ship as if even the dead were listening.

Anonymous canvas bundles, weighted with round shot. But as each name was read out the face would come to mind, with maybe a word or a deed remembered.

Captain Bolitho had insisted on doing that as well, the familiar, much-thumbed prayer book in one hand, this boy, Napier, holding his hat, and Jago standing at his elbow, ready to support him if the pain became too much.

O'Beirne came into the cabin and dragged on his coat; Yovell had already seen the dark stains of blood on his shirt. He did not seem to need sleep, either.

O'Beirne saw Napier pouring a glass of brandy.

“Well trained, boy!” But the usual humour evaded him. He looked at Yovell and waved one hand despairingly. “Can't
you
do anything about it? The man will kill himself if he keeps to this pace.” He swallowed the brandy gratefully and held out the goblet to be refilled. “When we reach Plymouth I shall submit my papers for a transfer, see if I don't!” Then he did grin, very wearily.

They both knew he had no intention of quitting
Unrivalled.

Yovell asked quietly, “How is he?”

O'Beirne tilted the goblet in a shaft of sunlight. “Lucky, I would say without hesitation. The musket ball cut across the old wound he received when he lost his other command,
Anemone.
We'll not know the total damage for a while. I've stitched him up as well as I may under these circumstances. Another inch . . .” he shook his head, “...and he'd have gone outboard with those other poor fellows.”

He closed his worn leather bag with a snap. “I'm away now, before he makes me forget my sacred oath!”

He paused by the screen door. “Napier, come and see me later. I want to have a look at that leg of yours.” The door closed behind him.

Yovell sighed. The captain had even found time to tell O'Beirne about the boy's injury.

Adam Bolitho heard the door, and O'Beirne's unmistakable voice as he spoke with the sentry.

With care, he sat on a chest and leaned forward to study himself in the hanging mirror. Calmly and intently, as he might examine some failing subordinate.

He was naked to the waist, his sunburned skin dark against the most recent layer of bandages. Like a tight waistcoat, and a constant reminder, throbbing now after O'Beirne's examination. The bowl was beside the hanging cot, some bloodstained water shivering in time with the dull boom of the rudder-head.

He listened, seeing the ship as she must appear to any other vessel, responding to a freshening wind. It had veered overnight, south-easterly. He found that he was holding his side, reliving it. The closeness of disaster: death had seemed almost secondary.

Tomorrow would see them off Ushant: the Western Approaches, and the English Channel.

But he could find no satisfaction in it. He could only think about the unknown barque; there was no certainty that she was
Osiris.
But she had made the signal causing the frigate to cast off when they had been about to grapple and board
Unrivalled.
So that the barque's master could bring his own armament to bear. But for the unexpected sighting of another sail,
it could have ended there.
The unknown vessel had made off almost immediately, as had their two attackers.

The barque had made the signal. So she must have the authority and the intelligence to plan and undertake so dangerous a venture. His mind repeated it. It could have ended there.

He glanced around the sleeping quarters. Quieter now; a stand-easy must have been piped to allow his men to rest from their countless tasks.

He thought of Jago by his side, dark features grim and challenging as they had buried the dead.

During the action and in the days which had followed they had lost a total of fourteen men. Some others lingered on the verge, but O'Beirne was hopeful. Fourteen, then. Too many.

In his mind's eye he could still see them. Midshipman Cousens racing up the shrouds, the big telescope swaying over his shoulder.
So full of life.
A boatswain's mate named Selby. Adam had not known much about him; perhaps in some way he had avoided it. Selby had been the alias used by his own father when he had been escaping justice.
When he saved my life, and I did not know him.
The Royal Marine, Fisher, an old sweat who had never gained promotion in the Corps. But a popular man, who had always been proud to boast of his service in the old third-rate
Agamemnon,
Horatio Nelson's last command as a captain. It had marked him out, lent him a certain celebrity. He had died without knowing that he had nearly killed his own captain.

He found he was holding his side again. Fourteen men. He stood up slowly and grimaced as the pain seared across his ribs.
And Midshipman Sandell.

The hammers had started up once more. Stand-easy was over.

He saw Napier by the door, and that he had a clean shirt over his arm.

Adam smiled. He could not remember the last time he had done so.

“We'll go on deck, David. Are you ready?”

Napier shook out the clean shirt and nodded gravely. It was what he had been waiting to hear.

“Aye,
ready,
sir!”

Yovell looked up as they entered the great cabin. “Mr Midshipman Deighton was here, sir. I told him it was not convenient . . .” He saw the clean breeches and shirt and Napier's face.

Adam said, “I sent for him. I am appointing him signals midshipman. He is more experienced than the others, keen too.” He raised his hand. “Never fear, my friend, I shall see him directly. On deck.”

Yovell pushed the spectacles on to his forehead and gazed at his hands. They felt as if they were shaking. With God's help he could usually conceal emotion. It was not like him at all.

He heard the door close, and the stamp of the sentry's boots.

It was what they all needed.

The captain was back.

The admiral's servant moved the chair a few inches as if to indicate that it had already been selected for the visitor. Adam had noticed that there was little conversation between Lord Exmouth and his personal servant; perhaps they had been together for so long that spoken instruction had become unnecessary.

He lowered himself into the chair, afraid that the pain would return at this moment when he needed to be fully alert. Galbraith had warned him about it, had almost pleaded with him, and Jago had been unable to conceal his indignation.

“What do they expect, sir? You have been wounded—you shouldn't be here at all, by rights!”

Adam thought of Herrick, overcoming his disablement, visiting
Unrivalled
at Freetown, and the stubborn determination which had made him refuse the offer of a bosun's chair to hoist him aboard.

He had had misgivings of his own as the gig had approached the flagship's side. Like a cliff; he was still not sure how he had reached the entry port without losing his hold and falling headlong, as Herrick would have done but for Jago's swift action.

Jago had touched his hat, standing in the gig while Adam had reached out to pull himself on to the “stairway
,”
and he had heard him murmur softly, “Nice an' easy does it, sir.”

And now he was here, in the admiral's great cabin. The din of his reception had been the worst part, not the calls, or the slap and click of muskets, but the faces on the fringe of the side party and the waiting officers. Curiosity or excitement, he was not certain. Like the silence which had fallen over Plymouth's busy harbour and jetties as
Unrivalled
was moved slowly to her allotted anchorage. Her company had worked without complaint, for him, for the ship, and for one another, but they could not conceal the scars of battle, and only the most pressing tasks could be accomplished while the ship was still under way.

It was the first anyone had known of the action, and he had sensed the shocked stillness of those same vessels which had seen them depart less than three weeks ago. Some store ships had stopped work when the frigate's shadow had glided slowly abeam, the hoists and derricks motionless, as if it were a mark of respect.

The request for his appearance on board the flagship
Queen Charlotte
had been brought by the guard-boat and not by any signal, and the officer of the guard had signed for and carried the secret despatches to this very cabin.

Lord Exmouth sat back in his chair, outwardly relaxed, but his keen eyes missed nothing.

“I read your report, Bolitho. Very thorough, especially under the circumstances.” His hand moved very slightly and a tray with two fine glasses appeared on his table. Another small movement, and the servant began to pour wine. “You might like this. I keep it for myself, usually.”

He continued, “I also read other things which you did
not
put in your report, and I appreciate how you felt,
feel,
about the sly and unprovoked attack made under false colours.” He shook his head. “An old trick. But you were under orders.
My
orders. Which is why I selected you in the first place. Any other vessel, brig or fast schooner, would have stood no chance at all.”

There was a discreet tap on the door and a lieutenant moved soundlessly to the table and placed a note by the admiral's glass. He left the cabin just as quietly, giving Adam only a brief glance in passing.

Lord Exmouth read the note and screwed it into a tight ball.

“It is as I surmised, Bolitho. The Dey has gathered more ships to his flag, like the frigate which attacked
Unrivalled.
French, Dutch, who can say? But I don't have to explain that to you, do I?” He made another small gesture and the glasses were refilled.