Relentless Pursuit (5 page)

He was reminded of the handshake which, for him, had decided things. And he was glad of it.

Adam rested his hand on the breech of one of the eighteen-pounders which shared his quarters and sensed the movement under his palm. Something he had never grown used to, never truly accepted, that a ship was alive and responding in her own way.

He shook his head, dismissing the notion, and glanced around the cabin. Young Napier had been busy; there was nothing lying about, everything was in its place.

How many in
Unrivalled
's company were feeling regret and anxiety, he wondered. It was easy to laugh it off, for the old hands to brag about it after a few tots of rum on their messdecks. But that was then.
Unrivalled
was ready to leave. Alive.

The wind had backed a little, which might allow some of the new men time to become accustomed to the complications of getting under way. You never forgot the first time. Everyone else seemed to know exactly what was expected of him.

He heard the shrill of a call; the ship was restless, straining at her cable, her fully laden hull matched against the men labouring at the capstan bars. Yes, there would be a few faint hearts on this cold December forenoon.

He stood away from the gun as if he had heard someone speak, and patted his worn, seagoing coat to make certain he had everything he needed, and glanced at the small desk where he kept his personal log book. He had placed Catherine's letter carefully between its pages to press out the wear and tear of its journey.

My dear Adam.
He could hear her voice, had tried to picture her writing it. How she felt, what she was doing. How she looked.

She had mentioned George Avery, and had thanked him for writing to her of his death. She had touched only briefly on its effect on Sillitoe, Avery's uncle.

But it was clear enough; she was with Sillitoe. She had spoken of his strength, his protection, and that she was accompanying him on some business venture.

Adam was still surprised by his own foolishness, his naïveté. After what she had endured, the grief and the enmity, it was a wonder she had written at all.

He half-listened to the sudden thud of feet overhead, the shouts as a petty officer chased some confused newcomer to his right station. They would learn. They had to.

He recalled the dry wording of his final orders.

You are to repair in the first instance to Freetown, Sierra Leone, and avail yourself of the latest intelligence concerning the forts and settlements on that coast. You will reasonably assist the senior officer of the patrolling squadron in whatever way you consider conforms with these said orders.

But on passage
Unrivalled
would call into Funchal, Madeira, to replenish stores, and perhaps make more sense out of such vague instructions.

The slave trade was a fact, although banned officially by Britain. A felony, to the delight of the anti-slavery movement in Parliament and elsewhere.

A show of strength, then. He wondered how Galbraith and the others regarded it. They were safe, lucky to be employed; they had seen that for themselves in Plymouth and Penzance.

For the practical ones, like Cristie, the master, it was all a matter of sea-miles logged, favourable winds and faith in the stars. To Tregillis the purser, it was food, drink, and a minimum of waste for every one of those miles, with enough left over for emergencies.

He plucked at his shirt and felt the locket against his skin. The bare throat and shoulders, the high cheekbones . . . it was over because it had never begun. Nor would it. They might never meet again. Perhaps she only truly existed in this locket.

Napier came in from the sleeping quarters, careful, he noticed, to walk lightly on the restless deck.

He could see it now. The boy on
Triton
's deck, falling with a jagged splinter deep in his thigh like some obscene dart.
Triton
was like many Dutch vessels; her builders had used a lot of teak, something hated by English sailors. The splinters were known to poison and cause gangrene to spread at an alarming rate. Even O'Beirne had been troubled about it, and had wanted to put the boy ashore at Gibraltar where he might have received better attention.

Napier had insisted that he wanted to stay with the ship. He had suffered for it, and would carry the scars of O'Beirne's surgery until his dying day.

O'Beirne had said severely, “You'll always have a limp, my boy!”

Napier had been equally stubborn. And he seemed to be overcoming his limp.

Adam had written to the boy's widowed mother. She should be proud of the child she had allowed to be signed on without, it seemed, much hesitation.

He touched the locket again and carefully released it. Catherine had sent no address. It was as if she simply needed him to know that she was there. Like the day at the memorial service at Falmouth, when Galbraith had asked to join him.

He looked at Napier. “It's time.” He had heard the muffled chimes of eight bells, and beyond it the slow, regular clank of the capstan pawls.

He thought of the men who had come with Yovell to sign on. How were they now?

And Yovell himself. He had settled down as if he had never left the sea. He was sharing a tiny cabin space which also served as a store for the purser's records with Ritzen, the purser's assistant, a Dutchman who had played an unlikely but vital part in discovering the role and purpose of
Triton
in that last battle. Adam sensed that Yovell had needed to get away from his hard-won security, if only to hold on to something far more precious.

Napier said, “Can I come up with you, sir?”

Adam smiled. “Regrets?”

The youth thought about it, his face serious. “My
place,
sir.”

They walked through the screen door, where the marine sentry was already stiffly at attention, and probably wishing he was on deck with his mates.

Adam touched his hat to the figures by the quarterdeck rail and looked at the slowly revolving capstan; its twin would be keeping time below decks. The fiddle was going, the shantyman beating time with his foot, his voice all but lost in the creak and rattle of blocks and rigging.

They were all here, Cristie with his master's mates, Galbraith by the rail, and young Bellairs at the foot of the towering main-mast. Here the marines, their coats very bright in the hazy light, waited with the afterguard to control the mizzen sheets and braces. The simplest mast in the ship,
all they were any use for,
as the old Jacks proclaimed. And right forward, one arm outstretched and dwarfed by the beautiful figurehead, was the new lieutenant, Varlo, watching the jerk of the incoming cable.

And young Midshipman Cousens with the big signals telescope turned toward the land. He was Bellairs' successor, and the next obvious candidate for promotion when the opportunity offered itself. If he was lucky.

Adam nodded to Galbraith. “The wind's steady. Stand by.” He even recalled his own words that day before the fight.
Trust me.
So many times.

Another midshipman's voice. That was Martyns, the one who had been with Jago in the gig.

“Anchor's hove short, sir!”
Repeating Varlo's call from the beakhead, his voice broke in a shrill squeak.

Adam saw one of the helmsmen glance away from the flap-ping masthead pendant just long enough to grin at his companion.

“Stand by, the capstan!”

More calls and running feet. “Loose th' heads'ls!” Adam tensed. This was the moment.

“Hands aloft and loose tops'ls!”

The cable was coming home, much faster now. Or was it his heart? He looked toward the shore, hardly another sail moving. But many eyes would be watching today. Some relieved, others already feeling the ache of separation.

He thought of the crippled seaman who had served with him in
Anemone,
the ship which had begun so much, and had opened the way for him. A shattered man, who lived from day to day with his woman, two lost souls, each needing the other.

They would be there today.

Men scurried past him, one pausing to stare at him. The captain.
What's he like?

The yell from forward.
“Anchor's aweigh, sir!”

He felt the deck stagger, and dashed spray from his face as the ship appeared to ride her bowsprit up and over the timeless barrier of St Michael's Mount.

Small details stood out. Cristie's hand gesturing at an extra man to throw his weight on the wheel as the helm went down. Hoarse cries from overhead as the sails broke free, then filled and bellied out to the wind. Blocks squeaking, men hauling on the braces to drag the great yards round still further, to capture the wind, so that the rudder-head sounded like a drumbeat.

“Steady she goes!”

Adam looked again. That would be Newlyn village over there as
Unrivalled
continued to pivot round, but it was lost in haze and drifting spray.

“Sou'-west by south, sir!”

Galbraith, his hands cupped to make his voice carry. “More men on the weather forebrace, Mr Partridge!
Lively there!
”

Adam gripped the quarterdeck ladder rail, reminded of the night Napier had come to tell him of the girl who was lying just there.

And what had happened later, in Malta . . . A dangerous madness, potentially no less lethal than a teak splinter, or the shots which had cut down so many over the months . . . the years.

He pushed away from the rail and walked stiffly up to the weather side. He knew Jago was watching him, standing near the signals party in case he was needed, but careful not to show it. Perhaps that was his strength . . .

He said, “Steer sou'-west until we weather the headland, Mr Cristie!” and saw his approval.

To Galbraith he shouted, “We'll get the fore and main courses on her directly!”

The ship heeled still further, some bare feet sliding, a few men sprawling, too concerned with watching the land which was already fading away.

There were kicks and curses too. Leadership and knowledge would follow.

“Steady she goes, sir!
Full an' bye!
”

He considered the calculations he had made and compared with the taciturn sailing master.

With a pause at Funchal,
Unrivalled
could complete her passage to the Windward Coast in about a month. Less.

He looked up as more shouts came from the maintop.

Galbraith was peering aloft also, but seemed satisfied. Drill, drill and more drill; there were no passengers in a King's ship.

Time to train and to prepare. Adam shaded his eyes and stared across the quarter, but the land was just a blurred, misshapen barrier.

He touched the locket beneath his sodden shirt.

And time to forget.

He was free.

3 “TO
S
ERVE THIS SHIP”

L
IEUTENANT
Leigh Galbraith paused at the foot of the companion ladder and clung momentarily to the handrails, gauging the mood and energy of the ship and the deck which awaited him. It was four in the morning, or very soon would be, but time seemed to have lost all meaning. Even during the middle watch he had been summoned from his cabin in response to the call for
all hands.
To shorten sail yet again, the sea a wilderness of leaping spectres, and waves surging along the hull like a tide race.

His whole body ached, and he could not remember being dry and warm. Five days of it, not long when you considered what they had already achieved in this ship. He smiled bitterly, hearing his captain's words.
That was then.

Even the handrail was clammy, and his stomach contracted as he heard somebody retching uncontrollably.

He climbed the rest of the ladder and waited for the wind to greet him. A few moments more while his eyes grew accustomed to it: the wet, huddled shapes of the watchkeepers, the three helmsmen joined like statuary as they clung to the big double wheel, eyes seen occasionally in the compass light as they peered aloft at the iron-hard canvas, tightly reefed though it was, fighting their own war with sea and rudder.

Varlo was waiting for him, slim figure angled to the deck as if nothing could shift him.

Galbraith listened to his report, although the chart had been engraved on his mind even in the discomfort of his swaying cot, the boom of the sea alongside.

Nine hundred miles since they had tacked clear of Mounts Bay. It felt ten times that.

Beating clear of Brest and then down into Biscay, the weather following them with barely a let-up. It was surprising that they had got this far without losing a man or sustaining any serious damage. There were injuries a-plenty, especially amongst the land-men, who had never set foot in a ship of any kind before. Brave lunatics, the surgeon O'Beirne had called them. Men thrown from their feet by water surging over the gangways, or flung against stanchions, or worse, one of the guns. Others caught by the unexpected rush of a line snaking through a block to catch the unwary in a noose like a trap. A man could lose fingers in a block, or have the skin scored from his bones by the deadly cordage.

Varlo said, “South by east, sir!” Clipped and formal, perhaps to remind Galbraith that his watch was waiting to be relieved. “Wind's steady as before.”

Galbraith winced as spray dashed against his face. On the chart it was clear, certain.
Unrivalled
was eighty or ninety miles to the north-west of Lisbon, across the fortieth parallel. But even Cristie seemed doubtful, and had muttered, “I'll feel better when we can see something!” It was quite an admission for him.

Galbraith said, “It's easing.” Water was still splashing down from the shrouds, but not cutting across the deck like the last time. He groaned.
Was that only three hours ago?
He waited for the moment and seized the quarterdeck rail. His eyes could make out details now; the deck and rigging was stark against the seething water as it surged abeam.

He pointed suddenly. “Those men. What are they doing?”

Varlo replied offhandedly, “Bailing the boats. Idle bastards, they'll know in future not to drag their feet on
my
watch!”

Rist, the master's mate of the morning watch, called, “The watch is aft, sir!” A good man. Astute too, and wise enough to have marked the friction between his officers.

Galbraith said, “Most of them are raw, untrained! You can't expect them to learn it all in five days, man!”

“I see no sense in being soft with them,
sir!
”

“I'll be the judge of that, Mr Varlo! Now carry on, and dismiss those hands.” They faced one another like enemies, all else forgotten. “Or bring them aft and charge them. Make it official!”

Varlo turned and walked to the companion-way without another word.

Galbraith peered at the swaying compass card, giving himself time. Angry, because he knew he had overreacted, or because Varlo had seemed unmoved by it.

Rist said, “We can get some 'ands aloft at first light, sir. There'll be a bit o' fancy splicing to be done after this little lot.”

Doing his best. Bridging the gap.

Galbraith nodded. “Aye, we'll do that. And thank you.” He walked to the opposite side, alone again.

Rist sighed. A warrant officer was always in the middle, had to be.

Galbraith was a good first lieutenant, brave too. But Varlo . . . he was just plain dangerous.

But still, a couple more days and they should sight Madeira, or Mr Cristie would be wanting to know why not.

That would take the edge off things, for a while anyway. Some of that heavy red wine, and bold stares from the women.

Someone called to him urgently and he turned away.

The sailor's dream.

Adam Bolitho put his signature to yet another letter and stared at the pile beside it on the desk, all in Yovell's effortless, round hand.

He was sitting opposite, gold spectacles perched once more on his forehead.

“I thought you were over hasty in offering your services in Penzance. I thought you might well live to regret it.” He smiled, the strain already gone. “Now I am only thankful!” His mind returned to Falmouth, the big grey house. “Bryan Ferguson will be cursing me for taking you.”

Yovell regarded him thoughtfully. “It was time, sir. I knew that within a few days of my return. I did manage to complete a few details with the lawyers,” and glanced away. “It is their world, not mine, I fear.”

Adam leaned back in the chair and felt the sun across his cheek from the stern windows. The glass was thick and the warmth an illusion, but it was enough, after days of wind and angry sea.

He heard muffled shouts from the deck, and the sound of fresh cordage being hauled over the planking, ready to be spliced and then hoisted to the upper yards to repair some of the storm damage.

And tomorrow they would sight Madeira. A first landfall for many of
Unrivalled
's people. It might make up for the hardship, the knocks and the bruises along the way. At least they had not lost a single man. A real risk on any first passage.

He thought of the letters which would be landed in Funchal to await the next courier to England. Yovell had advised him on some of them. Was there nothing he could not do or understand?
Their world, not mine.
The estate had to be run, the farms overseen and encouraged. In his mind he had often seen that room overlooking the sea, with its portraits of Cheney and Catherine. A place full of memories and hopes, but an empty house for all that.

Yovell watched him, seeing the changing emotions, recognising some of them as he had known, and perhaps feared he would.

It had not been easy, and on more than one occasion he had found himself questioning his own common sense for putting himself in this position. As Adam had warned him,
Unrivalled
was no liner, and in the long nights as the ship had reeled and plunged in that invisible sea, he had been close to despair.

He had been surprised how easily he had been accepted in the ship. Perhaps because he was a stranger.

He saw Adam glance at the skylight and tense again, his ear catching some false note in the constant chorus of wind and rigging. Others saw him as the captain, the final authority as far as sailors were concerned, the one man who could promote, reward, flog or destroy any of them, if he chose. It was only at moments like this that one glimpsed the real man. The uncertainties and doubts, that rare wistfulness in his dark eyes when his mind had slipped away from the role he was expected to play at all times.

Yovell was a patient man, and had always been prepared to wait before forming his true opinions.

He turned his head as the door opened and the young servant, Napier, padded into the cabin.

Of Napier Adam had said, almost casually, “He has no father, and I've never been able to discover his mother's thoughts about his future, if she has any. He can read and write, and he has courage, true courage.” Yovell had seen that look just now when Adam had been thinking about Falmouth. He had added, “See what you can do for him, will you?”

Just like that.
Few would ever see that side of their lord and master.

Napier said, “I've got out your best coat, sir.”

Adam looked at him, his mind clearing. “I had all but forgot. I am to sup in the wardroom tonight. Mr Cristie assures me it will remain calm enough for that!”

He glanced at the two of them. “You may make use of these quarters while I am being entertained.”

He walked to the stern bench and leaned both hands on it, watching the sea fling spray up from the rudder. A flock of gulls rose and dipped soundlessly, their shapes distorted by the salt-stained glass, waiting for scraps from the galley. They probably nested in Madeira.

The youth placed two goblets on the desk beside a bottle, and then quietly departed to the adjoining cabin.

Yovell waited. Somehow he knew this was the real cause of the tension, the quick changes of mood, the eagerness to find some kind of solution in routine ship's affairs. Like all the letters and reports they had gone through together; he had felt it even then.

Something which was holding them apart, like a barrier. And it was the one thing which had first drawn them together.

Adam said quietly, “This is a good ship. I am a lucky man to command her, for so many reasons, but most because I need her.” He smiled, but only briefly, so that Yovell saw the youth again, the image of his uncle. “There were so many who were there,
that day.
I was not one of them.”

Yovell sat very still in the chair, feeling it, seeing it.

Adam continued, “Sometimes I feel he is still very close to me.” He nodded. “I have known it several times. Always the hand, reaching out. I have spoken of this to no one else, except . . .” He turned away from the glass.
“Tell me.”

“I was not there, either.” Yovell was polishing his spectacles again, probably without realising he had removed them. “I was assisting the wounded. I prayed with some of them. But something made me go on deck, although he always ordered me to stay clear of the guns.” He looked at Adam but his eyes were very distant. “They were all cheering, and some were firing their muskets to signal a victory. But on that deck there was utter silence; all the din was outside, somewhere else.”

Adam nodded, but did not interrupt.

“It was over. I knelt down on that bloodied deck, and I prayed. Not for him, but for us. I shall never forget.”

In the adjoining sleeping cabin, Napier crouched with his ear against the slats of the screen partition, one hand resting on the fine dress coat which had been brought aboard in Plymouth. To replace the one the captain had been wearing when they had boarded the enemy ship, and the splinter had pierced Napier's leg.

The captain could have been killed that day, like the uncle they had just been talking about.
But he came to help me. He put me first.

He glanced at the swaying cot where the rebel captain Lovatt had died,
thinking I was his son.
Captain Bolitho had even cared about that. Just as he had been concerned about his mother's failure to reply to his letters. She had other things on her mind now that he was here in
Unrivalled.
A man. It had not taken her long to forget.

But how could Captain Bolitho be expected to understand anything so cheap, so heartless?

It could not last forever. Nothing did. His mother had said that often enough. Other ships, and perhaps one day . . . He almost ran from the screen.

“You called, sir?”

They did not move, and Napier realised they had neither heard, nor called out for him.

He stood quite still, feeling the regular rise and fall of the cabin around him.
And he was a part of it.

Lieutenant James Bellairs turned his shoulders into the wind and peered at his list. It had been handed round from watch to watch and was barely readable. Fortunately there were only a few more names left on it. Midshipman Deighton stood close by, frowning with concentration. Learning, listening or merely pretending to be interested, it was hard to tell. Bellairs had been a midshipman himself so recently that he often found himself thinking like one, especially when he was left to explain something.

He knew the old arguments.
We had to learn the hard way, so why not them?
He might even become like that himself. One day.

He tried again.

“The first lieutenant wants to reduce the number of idlers before we reach our destination. And more hands are needed for gun drill.”

Deighton asked, “What is Sierra Leone like, sir?”

Bellairs tapped one foot impatiently. Deighton was new to the ship but experienced, and had served in another frigate which had since been paid off for refit. At fifteen, his previous service put him ahead of most of the others. Reserved, almost withdrawn, he had proved what he could do under fire. But he rarely smiled, and Bellairs knew it was because of the rumours which surrounded the death of his father, an acting-commodore. Killed in action; he had heard the others talking about it. But it was now said that he had in fact been shot down by one of his own men. Another ship, but Captain Adam Bolitho had been in command of her also.