Relentless Pursuit (6 page)

He recalled Deighton's question. “Oh, one of those rough-and-ready places, you know.” He had never been there.

Deighton saw some figures below the poop. “There they are, sir.”

Bellairs waited for the gunner's mate, Williams, to hustle them over. Two men and a youth. The last was not merely pale, his skin was white.

Williams reported, “Cooper, Dixon and Ede, sir.”

Bellairs surveyed them. Just three new hands, nothing out of the ordinary. Except . . . He glanced at Williams, but his face gave nothing away.

“You will report to Mr Varlo in the first division tomorrow. Gun drill is essential to a man-of-war, and . . .” He looked at the white-faced youth. “Are you unwell, Cooper?”

The man at the other end of the group called, “I'm Cooper, sir!”

The third one grinned broadly.

It was a bad start. Bellairs said sharply, “I asked you a question, Ede is—
that
right?”

Landmen, untrained, and somehow out of place.

Bellairs tried to put it to the back of his mind. He was a lieutenant now. He must look at everything firmly, but fairly.

Even in his own service he had seen most of them. The hard men and the cowards, volunteers and pressed hands, the godly and the liars. But these men stood apart. They had been released from prison only on the understanding that they would redeem themselves by serving in a King's ship. There had been about twenty of them all told, but these last three were still without a proper station in the ship.

Ede said, “I was sick, sir.”

Williams said, “Speak up, boy!”

Bellairs peered at his list. “The surgeon has passed you as fit for work.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then.” Bellairs looked past him. “Do your work with a will and attend your duties, and you'll have nothing to fear!”

He strode aft and added, “He'll soon learn, Mr Deighton.” He caught himself in time. He had almost said,
we all had to.

Deighton glanced back at the three figures with Williams. It was strange that the third lieutenant had not noticed it, he thought. The youth called Ede was not merely sick or feeling out of place. He was terrified.

He put it from his mind. They were heading for Sierra Leone, and there was talk of the slave trade. And today he, Midshipman Richard Deighton, was being invited to the wardroom. Perhaps the first step . . .

He thought of Ede again. Even when these same guns had roared out and men had been cut down in front of him, he had not been afraid. Not as he might have expected. A need to prove something, maybe? No, it went even deeper than that.

But not like the youth named Ede. Deighton had been afraid of only one man. His own father.

He thought suddenly of the way the captain had treated him when he had joined the ship at Malta. It had been like sharing something, as if . . .

“I trust I am not
tiring
you too much, Mr Deighton?” Bellairs had turned to watch him.

Deighton touched his hat.

“Ready, sir!”

Bellairs strode on. He felt more like a lieutenant again.

The meal in
Unrivalled
's wardroom was a surprisingly good one. The centrepiece was a saddle of mutton which had been brought aboard at the last moment before sailing, with a remarkably strong sauce which was one of the cook's own inventions. The fresh bread from Devon and Cornwall had already been consumed, but ship's biscuits, cheese and a variety of wines made it a lively occasion.

As a young lieutenant, Adam had often wondered how a captain felt when he was invited to the wardroom.
A guest in his own ship.
Even now he was not sure, nor was he used to it. A small brig like his very first command, or an ugly bomb like those he had seen off Algiers was a much closer community. A frigate, despite the lack of space, preserved the same barriers and distinctions as a lordly ship of the line.

Only at times like these, with the wine flowing at will, did you see the other side of the coin, the men behind the allotted ranks and roles. As varied as Cristie the sailing master, the true professional whose family had been raised in the same humble street as Lord Collingwood. O'Beirne the surgeon, stabbing the air through the drifting pipe smoke to emphasise the point in some Irish story he had been telling. He was a good surgeon, who had proved his worth several times over, after and during action at sea, or when dealing with the hundred and one accidents that befell even the most experienced seaman going about his work.

Adam eased his back against the chair and knew he had eaten too much. It was nothing compared with his companions, more out of habit. As captain he could choose what and when he ate. Consuming too little was as dangerous as drinking too much, when there was nobody to enchourage or restrain you.

He glanced down at his new coat, made by the same Plymouth tailor as the one he'd worn when
Unrivalled
had been commissioned. The one he had worn for that last fight with
Triton.
Part of the Bolitho legend, or a reckless indifference which might one day kill him?

Either way, it was loose around his body, even though the soft-tongued tailor had insisted it had been cut to the original measurements. He had made it sound almost inconvenient.

He heard shrill laughter from one of the three midshipmen, who had been invited for this special evening while their captain was present. It was the youngest, Hawkins, who was twelve years old.
Unrivalled
was his first ship. The son of a post-captain, grandson of a vice-admiral. He thought of Napier. At least Hawkins would have no doubts about
his
future.

He stared at his goblet, but could not recall when it had last been filled. It would soon be time to make his excuses and leave. Galbraith would go on deck and check the watchkeepers, wind and weather, and that would give the others a chance to speak out, to discuss what they chose without fear of crossing that forbidden bridge, the chain of command.

“May I ask you something, sir?”

It was Varlo, who had been silent, almost detached, for most of the evening.

He kept a good watch, and had never failed to request permission to reef or shorten sail if he considered it necessary. Some lieutenants would rather tear the sticks out of a ship than disturb their captain, for fear of showing a lack of ability or confidence. And yet . . .

He said, “Fire away, Mr Varlo.”

Varlo leaned forward, his neat hair glossy in the lantern light.

“Slavery is illegal, sir. Most of the world powers are agreed on it. I read in the
Gazette
that even the Portuguese have accepted that the Equator shall be the boundary line of the trade.” He glanced along the table, one hand in the air. “But how can we
enforce
such a ruling? We shall have fewer ships, and less senior officers with the authority and experience to carry out anything so widespread.”

Adam said, “That is what we must discover—the purpose of this mission, as I see it.”

Varlo smiled, quickly. “Many people in England do not agree with the ruling, sir. They were and still are against the Bill as it went through Parliament . . .”

Captain Luxmore leaned forward and slopped some wine down his sleeve. Fortunately, it matched the scarlet well.

“No more speeches, George! Leave that to the damned politicians!”

Adam said, “I take your point, Mr Varlo. Some people do not understand. Others perhaps see slavery as the only way to work and produce from those lands for which we are responsible. It is an old argument, but loses its strength when set against the act of enslavement itself.”

Galbraith said, “I have heard it said that Negroes are far better off working in a Christian country than being left in their native barbarism.” His face was troubled. “But it will be hard to contain, no matter what the true rights and wrongs of it.”

Varlo nodded, satisfied. “An enormous task, as I have said. And a proportionate responsibility for any captain.”

He stopped, his hand still in mid-air as Adam brought his knife down on the table.

“We have a proud ship, Mr Varlo.” He looked along the table. This was not as he had intended it to be. “And now, thanks to all your efforts, we have men to serve her. It can be said that conditions in the navy have at times been little better than slavery.” He glanced at his goblet. It was empty. But he could not stop now. “Things will be different, eventually. A man becomes a sailor for all sorts of reasons. Because he is hungry and unemployed, or unemployable. He may be on the wrong side of the law.” He saw Cristie nod. “He may even be driven by dreams of glory. Our company is probably no better and no worse than any you have known, but it will be up to us to mould them into something of true value.
To serve this ship.
”

Varlo smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

Adam held his hand over the goblet as a messman hovered beside him. It was time. Varlo, by design or accident, had made his point. Few people today cared about the rights and wrongs of slavery. It was a fact of life.
So long as they were not ill treated.
He had heard James Tyacke on the subject. He was back on antislavery patrol duty, where it had all started for him. Where he had first met Richard Bolitho, and his life had been changed. He could hear him now.
He gave me back my pride. My will to live.
Another face. Another unbroken link with the past.

He was at the wardroom door; faces were beaming, some shining in the damp air. All the toasts, the stories, the small, tight world which was theirs.
And mine.

Galbraith followed him and said, “It was good of you to come, sir.” He gave a crooked smile. “Sorry about the second lieutenant. Some of it was my fault.” He did not explain. “I'll be glad when we've got some real work to do!”

Adam nodded to the marine sentry and entered his cabin. Only two lanterns were still alight. He saw his boat-cloak hanging near the sleeping quarters, and remembered the girl who had left a lock of hair in the pocket. Where was she, he wondered. Laughing now at that brief but dangerous liaison in Malta. He must have been mad. It could have cost him dearly.
Cost me this ship.

But he had kept the lock of hair.

He saw a goblet wedged in a corner of the desk, the dark cognac tilting and shivering to the thrust of wind and rudder.

He touched the locket beneath his shirt before looking around the cabin, as if he expected to see or hear someone.

Then he raised the goblet to his lips and thought of the toast they had avoided calling in the wardroom.
To absent friends.

Don't leave me.
But the voice was his own.

The afternoon sun was poised directly above the mainmast truck, the glare so hard that it seemed to sear the eyes. The forenoon watch had been relieved and were now below in their messes for a meal, and the smell of rum was still heavy in the air. During the day the wind had veered slightly and dropped, so that the ship appeared to be resting, her decks quite dry, for the first time since leaving England. To any landsman the activity on the upper decks might appear aimless and casual, after the urgency and constant demands which time and time again had dragged all hands to their stations for shortening sail, or for repairing damage aloft.

But to the professional sailors the deck was often “the marketplace,” and any trained eye would soon pick out the many and varied activities which were all part of a ship's daily life.

The sailmaker and his crew sat cross-legged like tailors, needles and palms rising and falling in unison. No canvas was ever wasted. Sails had to be repaired and wind damage made good before the next gale or worse. Scraps were used for patching, for crude but effective pouches, for making new hammocks. For burying the dead.

The boatswain's various parties moved through the hull, greasing block sheaves, replacing whipping on strained or worn rope-work, repairing boats, touching up paintwork wherever needed.

Occasionally men would shade their eyes and peer across the bows to the low, undulating humps, purple and dark blue against the horizon's hard edge. Like very low clouds, except that there were no clouds. It was land.

The shift of wind, with courses and topsails hard put even to remain filled, had changed things. The old hands understood well enough. No captain would want to skulk into a foreign port under cover of darkness without showing his flag. The wiser ones realised that Madeira consisted of five islands, with all the extra hazards of a final approach for the captain to consider.

It would be tomorrow.

“Stand to your guns!”

In the meantime, work and drill would continue.

Only two guns were being used to instruct some of the new hands, the first pair right forward on
Unrivalled
's larboard side. She carried a total of thirty
18
-pounders, her main armament, divided along either beam. They also made up the biggest top-weight, quick to make itself felt in any sort of heavy swell. When the ship had first been laid down, the designers in their wisdom had ordered that the eighteen-pounders be cast a foot shorter than usual, in the hope that the decreased weight would assist stability in bad weather and, more important to their lordships, in action.