Relentless Pursuit (16 page)

Rist watched the lights ashore and found himself wondering again if there were people there who knew about the proposed mission, which would begin tomorrow. He tried to laugh it off.
If so, it's more than we do!
But it would not come.

He had never forgotten the risks in the trade. When they had boarded
Albatroz
with the high-and-mighty Lieutenant Varlo, he had been tensed up hard, and ready. And once aboard he had made sure that two of the swivel guns were loaded and primed, and trained inboard. At the first hint of danger, a daisy-cutter could have swept the decks as clean as a parson's plate.

Somebody must have got slack, over-confident. The appearance of the second vessel had tipped the balance. He had heard some of the hands exclaim, “There was no need to kill our lads! They could've let 'em run for it!”

Rist knew differently. There would be
every
need to kill them.

It was when they had arrived in Freetown and the boarding party had been relieved by a military guard from the barracks that it had happened. The big, hard-faced master, Cousens, had called out, “You'll never hold on to us!” Then, as Varlo was climbing into the jolly-boat, he had added sharply, “I knows you from somewhere, don't I?” And he had smiled, sneered. “Don't worry, matey, it'll come to me, then we'll see!”

It was unlikely. But it was not impossible. All those years, some he could scarcely remember, others he still tried to forget. It was just possible.

“You have the watch, I believe?”

Rist knew it was Varlo. You couldn't help knowing.

“Sir?”

“Time for Rounds. Send for a bosun's mate and ship's corporal.”

Never a please, or offer of thanks. He could smell the drink on his breath too. Maybe he would fall down a ladder and break his poxy neck.

Albatroz
had sailed. They would probably never lay eyes on her again.

He turned as two more figures appeared by the companion-way. One was the first lieutenant; the other was Hawkins, the ship's newest and youngest midshipman.

Varlo said, “I'm about to carry out Rounds, Mr Galbraith.”

Rist relaxed, muscle by muscle, glad of the interruption. The evening ritual of Rounds, when the lieutenant on duty would inspect all aspects of cleanliness, security and safety. Mess-deck to magazines, defaulters, if any, to be inspected also or given extra work.

Galbraith said, “Hands will be called two hours early. Both watches will be fed before the boats are hoisted. Weigh anchor at eight bells.”

Rist could almost feel their exchange of glances. No love lost there.

Galbraith continued in a more informal fashion, “And, Mr Hawkins—first time doing Rounds, I hear?” The boy stammered something, and Galbraith said, “Just remember, when you are on the mess-deck it is a part of ship, but it is also
their home
. So show respect, as I'm sure you would elsewhere!”

Rist kept his face straight. For Varlo's benefit, he thought. The boy was too young to know anything.

Galbraith watched the little group move away, and soon he could hear the shrill twitter of the call, and imagined men in their messes, at their scrubbed tables, loose gear stowed away, illegal bottles of hoarded rum well hidden from the officer's prying eye.

Men who would fight and if necessary kill when ordered. Die too, if the cards played a false hand. Tough and hardened men like Isaac Dias, the gun captain who could measure the fall of each shot with accuracy, although he could neither read nor write. And Sullivan, who had been at Trafalgar, and Campbell who seemed to cherish the scars on his back like battle honours. And youngsters like Napier, the captain's servant, somehow untainted by the violence and crude language around him. He wondered if Adam Bolitho realized what he had done for the boy. It went far beyond hero worship. Or the youth he had seen talking to Rist, who now had work he understood and could usefully do in the chart room. In some ways, an escape from the past which must still haunt him.

He frowned. And Rist himself. He had probably worked more closely with him than anyone. Except the captain . . .

But Rist was still a stranger despite their mutual respect.

He leaned back on his heels and peered up at the masthead, the pendant barely visible against the banks of stars and patches of cloud.

But he could
feel
it. The ship beneath his feet. The shrouds and running rigging, the blocks clicking and rattling quietly in the offshore breeze. And breeze was all it amounted to.

Tomorrow might change everything. He thought of Varlo. A man he would never know, and he realised it was mostly his own fault. He was the first lieutenant. Mess-deck or wardroom, hero or villain, he was supposed to be able to assess each man's value, as well as his weakness.

Varlo had been a flag officer's aide. He should have had his life and career at his feet. Something had gone badly wrong. It was said that another officer had died because of it. A fight, a duel, an accident? Perhaps even the captain did not know.

Varlo's admiral had obviously thought enough of him to arrange his appointment to
Unrivalled,
at a time when such chances were almost impossible to come by. Or perhaps, and he knew he was being unfair again, perhaps the admiral had done it to rid himself of any possible embarrassment?

He recalled the captain's return on board after his visit to the headquarters building, just over there across the black water. Rear-Admiral Herrick . . . Galbraith had scarcely heard of him. Except that he had known Sir Richard Bolitho, and had once faced a court martial for misconduct and neglect of duty.

It was little enough to go on. Perhaps Captain Bolitho had summed it up when he had told him about the new orders.

“I'll not be sorry to see the back of Freetown, Leigh. Let's get to sea again!”

In his way, he had spoken for the whole ship.

8 DIRECT
A
CTION

C
APTAIN
Adam Bolitho shaded his eyes to peer up at the flap-ping driver and the masthead pendant. He could feel the deck shudder as the rudder responded slowly to the thrust of wind, the helm creaking while the bare-backed seamen put their weight on the spokes.

“Hold her steady!” That was Cristie, his eyes flitting from compass to flapping topsails. “Nor'-east by north!”

Adam let his arms drop to his sides, his mind blurred by the heat, the slow response from the tall pyramid of canvas, and always, always aware of the monotonous coastline. The Gulf of Guinea again, and it had taken them nearly two weeks to work into position, a cross on the chart south of the Niger delta and some two hundred miles north of the notorious St Thomas Island, where slaves could be loaded and shipped with impunity once they had been brought from the mainland.

A handful of vessels, stretched across the approaches and the escape routes like the noose of a trap. On a chart it was easier to see Turnbull's strategy. Tyacke's
Kestrel
was in position to the east,
Unrivalled
on the western side, while in between, and trying to maintain contact with one another, were the brigs and schooners which made up the flotilla.

“Take the slack off the lee forebrace, Mr Fielding! Your people are like old women today!”

Galbraith's voice, unusually sharp. Adam walked to the nettings and stared at the empty sea. It was even affecting his first lieutenant. The endless strain of wearing ship, altering course a degree or so throughout every watch, just to gain a cupful of wind. The seamen were responding well enough, but boredom, the barely edible food, salt pork or beef from the cask, and the need to conserve water were taking their toll. The usual water casks, where a man could snatch a mug or wipe his mouth to give an illusion of refreshment, were gone, and marine sentries were posted below decks to ensure that the daily ration was strictly observed.

Adam turned slightly to allow the warm breeze to fan his body through the open shirt. He wondered how the commodore was managing aboard the topsail schooner
Paradox,
“the flagship,” he had heard some of the older hands scornfully call it. No matter what shortages they had aboard
Paradox,
he imagined Turnbull always clean and smartly turned out.

He thought about
Paradox
's captain also. Galbraith had discovered from someone or somewhere that his name was Hastilow, a lieutenant, and like many of his contemporaries on this station senior for his rank. He and Finlay, his second-in-command, had been together for two years. On this station that must be an eternity. Like brothers, Galbraith had heard. So like the navy, Adam thought; there was always someone who knew, or who had been told a piece of the whole story. Hastilow was also dedicated, as if the anti-slavery campaign had become something personal. It was not difficult to imagine how he would be feeling now.

He saw Lieutenant Varlo walking along the starboard battery of eighteen-pounders, gun by gun, with Williams, a gunner's mate, at his side. He thought he saw Williams glance up at Galbraith as they passed. Williams was good, and with Rist had been on the island raid when the chebecks had been destroyed. They were closer than some of the others because of that. Unconsciously, he clenched a fist.
When I risked this ship.

The helmsmen were being relieved, the last topmen sliding down backstays to the deck, their work aloft done. Until the next pipe.

Adam looked at the unending panorama of glittering water again. No wonder men driven to desperation had been persuaded by the ever-lurking devil to slake their thirst from the sea. He had seen two men die, mad and unrecognisable, after doing just that.

And there was always the other temptation. At night, when the ship offered a hint of cooler air, and the sounds were muffled by the cabin timbers, there was no law to prevent a captain from drinking too much in a different way, but one no less dangerous in the end.

And night brought other forms of torment. Lying naked in his cot, his limbs bathed in sweat, and unable to sleep, listening and interpreting every sound, no matter how small and unimportant. As if the ship were driving herself, indifferent to all the souls she carried.

And in sleep there were dreams, one in particular. The girl, beckoning and arousing him, sometimes speaking his name, reaching out. Mocking him. Only the faces remained blurred, uncertain. Zenoria or Catherine, neither of whom had ever been his to love, or even the desirable Lady Bazeley, Rozanne, who had taken and responded with a fierceness of passion which had surprised, perhaps shocked them both.

He thought of the little tablet in the church at Penzance.
Or perhaps my own mother?
At such times he had been thankful that Napier had taken to locking the cabinet where the cognac was stowed.

He paced slowly aft, his feet avoiding flaked lines and ring-bolts without conscious effort. He pictured his aunt, dear Nancy, reading the letter he had put ashore in Freetown.
Trying to imagine what we are doing here,
sharing it as she had done with others in her family.
While we shall be tacking up and down, week in, week out. Going slightly mad, and wondering why we do it.

Or we might all be dead by the time she reads it.

“Deck there! Sail on the starboard bow!”

Men about to creep into the shadow of gangway or bulwark, or those who had just been relieved from trimming the great yards and now making for the mess-deck's brief refuge, paused and stared up at the masthead.

Friend, enemy, prize or victim, it did not matter. They were no longer alone on this blistering ocean.

Adam returned to the quarterdeck rail.

“Must be looking for us, Leigh. She'd have run by now otherwise.” He was thinking aloud, only partly aware of the listening, watching faces, tanned or burned raw by the sun. “We shall alter course two points to starboard. It will make it easier for our friend to converge on us. He'll be finding less wind than we have under our coat-tails at present.”

He grinned, and felt his lips crack as if the effort had drawn blood. But it was infectious.

Some wag called, “Moight be 'nother prize, Cap'n! Fair shares this toime!”

Others laughed and punched their friends' arms, something which only seconds ago would have been answered with a genuine blow.

“Pipe the hands to the braces! We will steer nor'-east by east.”

Lines and halliards came alive, snaking through blocks as more men ran to their stations, their fatigue momentarily gone.

“Put up your helm! Now steady, lads! Handsomely does it!”

“Be ready to make our number!” That was Midshipman Cousens, very conscious of his position in charge of the signals party.

And just as quickly, “Belay that, Mr Cousens! Everyone will know
this
ship!” Lieutenant Bellairs, who such a short time ago had been a midshipman, doing Cousens's work.

Adam saw the swift exchange, and felt it for himself. Pride. It never left you. Like Galbraith and young Napier, or the scarred and mutilated seaman who had come to see him at Penzance. Pride for
Anemone,
the ship which had done that to him, but had left him no less a man.

“Nor'-east by east, sir! Steady as she goes!”

Adam saw Cristie making some notes in his personal log.
The lines meeting on a chart somewhere.
It would probably amount to nothing. A few words on a page, soon forgotten.

A captain's responsibility was total. He saw Cristie pause to look at him. The date, perhaps: had he remembered?

Adam resumed his pacing. All he could do was wait, then decide.

On this day, his beloved uncle had died.

He nodded to a seaman who was expertly coiling a halliard, although he did not notice his surprise.

He could still reach out. The hand was still there.

Luke Jago watched the jolly-boat being warped alongside, then turned to stare at the topsail schooner which lay hove-to down-wind of the frigate. The signal
Captain repair on board
had been hauled down in time with
Unrivalled
's acknowledgment, and Jago was still fuming about it. The commodore's broad-pendant shone like silk from
Paradox
's masthead, and as Cristie remarked, “They could shout a message from there, damn them!”

Jago heard Galbraith calling to a boatswain's mate, and knew the captain was coming up.
Bloody Turnbull. Who the hell does he think he is?
He had been surprised that the captain had shown neither surprise nor resentment at the signal. Jago looked at him now and was partly satisfied; he was wearing his old sea-going coat and had tied a neckcloth loosely into place. Jago smiled to himself. The commodore could think what he liked.

He said, “I could have the gig swayed out, sir.”

Adam smiled. “Take too long. Ceremonial can go too far!” He touched his hat to the side party and looked directly at Galbraith. “Maybe the waiting is over?”

The jolly-boat seemed to plunge into a deep trough as they cast off from the chains and the oars dipped for the first pull.

Adam twisted round to look at his ship. How large she appeared from the boat, the yards and flapping canvas blotting out the land completely. She never seemed so big when you shared her hull with some
250
seamen and marines.

He shifted on the thwart to study the other vessel. Smart, lowlying, rakish. A fine command for a young officer with one foot on the ladder. For one more senior, like Hastilow, it might appear very different.

“Bows!”
Then Jago said under his breath, “I'll be ready, sir.”

Their eyes met.

“Never doubted it.”

Hastilow was waiting to receive him as he clambered up and across the bulwark.

“Welcome aboard, Captain Bolitho.”

Hastilow's eyes said the opposite. Tall and lean, even thin, with his lank brown hair tied back in the style still followed by some older sailors. But the eyes were very different, dark, almost black in the glaring sunshine, deepset and wary, as if on guard for something.

He added, “The commodore is below.” The slightest hesitation. “Sir.”

Each commanding one of His Majesty's ships, and yet miles apart. The lieutenant and the post-captain. Schooner and fifth-rate. Usually it did not matter when men met like this. Here, it obviously did.

Adam followed the other officer aft, but glanced at the sailors working on deck, or waiting to trim the sails for getting under way again. All were so burned by the sun and wind that they could have been Africans. A large company for so small a vessel; for prize crews. And he could sense hostility, as if he was from another world which they had all rejected. They were probably remembering the men who had been butchered.

He could almost hear Finlay's words.
Where were you?

Below deck it was very dark, and Adam was reminded of the meeting with Herrick. The thick shutters, the narrow strips of sunlight, the remaining hand drumming on the table beside the tray of ginger beer.

The cabin was small, the deckhead low enough to make him stoop. There was one skylight, so that Commodore Turnbull appeared to be on display in the shaft of dusty sunlight. He was, Adam saw, as immaculately dressed as if he were in a ship of the line.

“A fortunate rendezvous, Bolitho.” He gestured to a bench seat; he even did that elegantly. “You came with all haste.” The eyes moved only slightly, but seemed to take in Adam's thread-bare coat and soiled shirt. “Captain Tyacke is in position by now.” Without seeming to move he dragged a chart from another seat and laid it flat on the table. “Here, and here. As planned.
Unrivalled
will remain on station at the south-west approaches.” He tapped the chart to emphasise each point. “The slavers are there, in the delta as reported. Three vessels, maybe more. It's a maze of channels and sandbars, safe for them, dangerous for a ship of any size.” He smiled gently. “But then, you're aware of that?” He hurried on. “I intend to catch them before they can reach open water. They might try to withdraw upriver, of course. In which case it will take longer.” He looked around the dark cabin as if seeing it for the first time. “Hastilow's fellows know their work well. They can outsail most slavers, and can use carronades to settle the majority of arguments.”

Adam bent across the chart, and studied the location where
Unrivalled
would mount guard, almost precisely as Cristie had described. A perilous place on a lee shore. Worse if you ran on to one of the sandbars.

Turnbull said, “You will anchor.”

Adam studied the chart again, wondering why Hastilow had not been asked to join them, in his own command.

Turnbull might have taken his silence for doubt.

He said, “Slavers know these inlets and beaches far better than we do. But once at sea, it is a different story. My latest information is that these vessels are to transport slaves to St Thomas, as I anticipated. There they will be transferred to a larger ship. But we will take them before that. None will escape, no matter which way they run.”