Relentless Pursuit (20 page)

He looked at the captain now, shirtless, his dark hair clinging to his neck and forehead. Galbraith had heard that he had stripped naked and had ordered some seamen to use a washdeck pump to drench him from head to foot. Salt water maybe, but it seemed to help. To cleanse away something foul, and not only from his body.

Adam raised his eyes from the log book on his deck. They were clear, the aftermath of what he had done fallen into place, recognised if not accepted.

They had clasped hands when he had returned aboard. Even his voice had sounded different. Hard, as if he were expecting a confrontation.

“Fast as you can, Leigh! Tell the carpenter, and have Mr Partridge send a crew across. I want us out of here today.”

Shortly afterwards another brig,
Kittiwake,
had arrived. She had not managed to catch the third slaver; she had not even been a spectator.

She had sailed past them, heading for open water, many of her company clinging to the shrouds to cheer and wave. They were going to Freetown.

It had been then that they had seen the commodore's broad-pendant streaming from the brig's masthead, and through the glass Galbraith had glimpsed Turnbull himself, aft with one of the lieutenants. He had raised his hat to
Unrivalled,
and he had been smiling.

Galbraith had turned to comment but had heard Adam Bolitho say, “I'll see you damned for this.”

They had not been alone together again, until now.

Adam said, “How goes it, Leigh? I can see from here that the jury-rig is raised and working. And the surgeon tells me that the wounded are settled in. Are we ready?”

“One hour, sir. The wind is holding and steady. I've told Rist to remain with the prize. He's doing well.”

Adam leaned back in the chair and tasted the coffee which Napier had made for him. That had been almost the worst part of his return on board. He had been only just holding on. Facing them, the captain again. And then here in the cabin, his sanctuary, Napier had taken his hand in both of his and had stammered, “I thought . . . I thought . . .” It was all he had been able to say. Even Yovell, who rarely revealed emotion, as if it was something too private to share, had said, “What you did was pure courage.” He had paused, perhaps to measure how much more Adam could take. “But if another had done as much, you would have been the first to call him foolhardy and reckless.”

Adam said, “You all are, Leigh.” He put the cup aside; the coffee had been laced with rum.

“We will remain in company with
Seven Sisters
and the two prizes. We can't be certain of anything yet. The other slaver had six hundred on board. In a brig, how can they expect them to stay alive?”

Galbraith said, “I have put Cousens in irons, sir. I would not trust him an inch.”

Adam opened a drawer and took out the bundle of notes Tyacke had given him.

He said, “The ship everyone knows about but no one has seen is named
Osiris.
” He shut the pitiful gibbering from his mind. Maybe he should have had Cousens thrown into that hold. He looked at the paper with the vessel's name scrawled on it. Cousens had hardly been able to grasp the pen.

Galbraith repeated it. “
Osiris.
Strange name, sir.”

Yovell's pen paused in mid-air, and he murmured, “Judge of the dead.”

Adam smiled. Like a severe schoolmaster with a slightly backward pupil.

He said, “Rist discovered a few pieces of the puzzle, I did not ask how.
Osiris
is, or was, an American vessel, built around
1812
for use as a privateer.”

Galbraith nodded. “Against us.” He saw the captain's hand move unconsciously to his side, to the ugly, livid scar he had seen only once.

“Yes. She's big and fast, and well armed. As the war against the trade becomes fiercer and more dangerous, so the prices will rise, and the rewards will be all the greater for those successful or aggressive enough to fight it.” He realized that his hand had moved to the wound. The mere reminder of it.
Anemone
's last fight against the American frigate
Unity.
When he had been cut down by a metal splinter,
as big as your thumb,
someone had told him at the time. It had never left him. The colours cut down in surrender, when he had been unable to prevent it. Afterwards, as a prisoner of war, he had escaped, only to face a court martial for the loss of
Anemone.
He saw the crippled sailor again in his mind.
The finest in the fleet.

He glanced around the cabin.
Until you, my lass.

He looked towards the stern windows, but
Unrivalled
had swung again to her cable. There was only the land.
Albatroz
and the wrecked schooner were temporarily hidden from view.

“Feed the hands by sections, two parties to each watch. A double tot of rum too, no matter what wringing of hands you get from Mr Tregellis.”

He touched the wound again, without thinking.

“We'll man the capstans this afternoon. Make it seven bells— the light will be good for hours, God and Mr Cristie permitting!”

They both laughed. Yovell did not raise his head but gave a quiet sigh of approval. Like sand running from a glass, the strain was going. This time . . .

Then he heard Adam say, “But I'll find this
Osiris,
somehow, some day. Cousens and his breed are dangerous, but without the power behind them they are little fish.” He banged his hand on the scrap of paper. “The pike in the reeds,
he's
the one we want!”

His mood changed just as swiftly. “But the Crown Agent must decide. And our commodore will see him before any of us.”

The explosion was like something thudding against
Unrivalled
's lower bilges, only a sensation. But a ship was dying.

Adam walked to the quarter window and shaded his eyes to watch the column of black smoke rising above the middle channel, torn by the hot wind like some ragged garment, or shroud.

No ship should die like that. He thought of Hastilow, and the action which had cost him so dearly.

What price revenge now?

Foolhardy and reckless.

Like a court martial, the sword could point in either direction at the end.

10 CODE OF
C
ONDUCT

“C
APTAIN
'
S
comin', sir!”

Denis O'Beirne straightened his back and wiped his hands on a piece of rag. A seaman lay on the sickbay table, his naked limbs like wax in the spiralling lantern light. He could have been dead, but a faint heartbeat and the flickering eyelids said otherwise.

“Move him presently.” O'Beirne looked at the bandaged stump and sighed inwardly. Another one-armed survivor to end up on a waterfront somewhere. But at least he was alive. He seemed to realise what his assistant had said and turned to see Captain Bolitho in the doorway, his body at a steep angle as
Unrivalled
leaned her shoulder into the sea, the wind strong and steady across her quarter.

“You wanted me?” He glanced around the sickbay with its bottles and swabs, its smell of suffering and death. Above all, the stronger aroma of rum. The navy's cure, to kill pain, to offer hope even when there was none. He hated this place and all like it. It was stupid, but he had long since given up fighting it.

O'Beirne took it in with practised eyes. Strain, anger perhaps.

“There is someone asking to speak with you, sir. One of
Paradox
's men, her boatswain.” He paused briefly to examine his hands. “He has not long, I fear.”

Some last spark of resistance or disbelief; a dying declaration was not unknown among sailors.
What would I say?

“Very well.” He regarded the surgeon more closely. Outwardly he showed no sign of exhaustion, although he had been working here or aboard the prize,
Intrepido,
since the brief action had ceased.
Seven Sisters
also carried a surgeon. O'Beirne's comment,
of a sort,
said it all.

Adam followed his large figure into the darker interior of the orlop, which seemed to be full of wounded or injured men. Some lay still, recovering or quietly dying, it was impossible to tell. Others were propped up against the ship's timbers, their eyes moving, following the swaying lanterns, or just staring into the shadows. Stunned by the realisation that they had survived, and as yet only half-aware of the injuries O'Beirne's small, strong fingers had explored and dealt with. And here too was the stench of rum.

Three had died, and had been buried after dark, their second night at sea after leaving the anchorage, with the wrecked and burned-out
Paradox
a lingering reminder; each corpse was double-shotted to carry it swiftly into the depths. There were always sharks following patiently, but sailors believed the dead were safer at night.

O'Beirne murmured, “His name is Polglaze. It was grapeshot. There was nothing more I could do.”

Adam gripped his arm, sensing his sadness, so rare in a manof-war, where a surgeon often had to face sights far worse than in the height of battle.

He knelt beside the dying man who, like the others, was propped against one of the frigate's massive frames; he could hear his breathing, the rattle in his throat. He was bleeding to death.

Adam felt the steeper roll of the hull. The wind had found them, too late for this man and others like him.

“You came, zur.” The eyes settled on his face, reflecting the light from the nearby lantern, and fixed on the tarnished gold lace and gilt buttons. Something he understood. Not a young man, but powerfully built, or had been. When he reached out to take Adam's hand it was unable to grasp him.

Adam said, “Polglaze. A fine Cornish name, am I right?”

The man struggled to sit up and perhaps lean forward, but the pain halted him like another piece of grape.

His grip strengthened almost imperceptibly. “St Keverne, Cap'n.”

“You can't get much further south than that. A wild coast when it wants to be, eh?” He wanted to leave. He was not helping. This man who had been born not so far from Penzance was beyond aid now.

But the boatswain named Polglaze might even have smiled as he muttered, “'Tes a wild shore right enough. The Manacles claimed more'n a few vessels when I were a lad there!”

O'Beirne said softly, “I think that's time enough.”

Adam half-turned, wondering which one of them he meant.

He felt the man's hard hand tighten around his, as if all his remaining strength was there, and the need which was keeping him alive.

He said quietly, “I'll be here. Be certain of it.”

He listened to the uneven breathing. Wanting it to stop, to end his suffering. He had done enough; this hard, rough hand said it all. The countless leagues sailed, ropes fought and handled, sea, wind, and now this.

He could hear Tyacke's words. Bitter, scathing.
And for what?

Polglaze said suddenly, “I wanted to tell you about
Paradox,
Cap'n. How it was, what they did. A fine little craft she was.”

Adam tried not to swallow or move. Did he know what had happened in the end? The rising pall of smoke.

“It was all planned, see, the boats was put down, and some of our best men sent aboard.” His voice seemed stronger. Reliving it. “Our Mr Hastilow was ready, too. He'd done it often enough, see.”

He broke into a fit of coughing. A hand came from the shadows with a cloth to dab his mouth. There was blood on it when it withdrew.

Polglaze groaned and then said, “We was too far off, an' the wind too hard on 'em. I thought mebbee we should have waited
'
til the others came. An' then the lieutenant orders a change of tack. I dunno why, exactly.”

Adam recalled Cristie's surprise.
The wrong bearing.
And the schooner's ragged sailors, their obvious hostility. But as a company they were as one. Polglaze could not even remember the lieutenant's name. He had replaced the luckless Finlay, but he was not
one of them.
Now he never would.

Polglaze gave a great sigh. “An' then we struck. Nobody's fault, we was just obeyin' orders.” He sighed again, but the grip was just as strong. “We never carried a senior officer afore, see?”

Adam bowed his head to hear other, unformed words. Turnbull must have ordered the change of tack, and the new lieutenant would obey; he did not know that coast like the others.

Polglaze was looking at him intently. “The winter'll be lettin' go in Cornwall now, I reckon?” His head fell forward and he was dead.

O'Beirne stooped to prise the fingers from Adam's hand.

“Yes, it will.” Adam stood, his hair brushing a deckhead beam, the cool timber quietening him, sustaining him, although his mind was still blurred with anger and with sorrow.

He said, “Thank you for fetching me. It was something he needed to tell me, to share, in his own fashion.” He knew O'Beirne's men were lurking in the shadows, ready to carry the dead boatswain to the sailmaker.
For his last voyage,
as one captain had described it.

And one day perhaps, in the tiny village of St Keverne, where the land looked out over those treacherous rocks, the Manacles, if there was still anyone who cared, the man named Polglaze would be remembered, he hoped for his courage and his loyalty.

He turned to leave, to face Galbraith's unspoken questions.

But he paused and looked down again.

You were murdered.

O'Beirne watched him go. He had not caught what the captain had just murmured, but he had seen the dark eyes in the lantern's glow, and believed he knew him well enough to guess.

He recalled the sights which had confronted him upon his visit to the slaver
Intrepido.
Spanish, but she could have been under any flag. Only a brig, yet she had carried over six hundred slaves crammed into her holds, packed so tightly that they could barely breathe. In a hold filled with women, like
Albatroz,
one had already died and others were in a terrible state, corpse and dying chained together amongst the ordure.

He signalled to his men. Sailors like the dead boatswain endured much on this godforsaken coast. They obeyed orders. He thought of Adam Bolitho's face. Sometimes it was not enough.

At nightfall, that same captain read the familiar lines from his prayer book, and they buried his fellow Cornishman with full honours.

The last voyage.

Leigh Galbraith walked to the entry port, wincing as he left the shadow of one of the awnings. Freetown was unchanged, except that it seemed even hotter, as if all the air had been sucked out of that wide harbour, up as far as the majestic Lion Mountain.

Even the excitement of their return had dimmed. He shaded his eyes and looked across at the two anchored prizes,
Intrepido
and
Albatroz,
abandoned now but for a few red uniforms, under guard to await developments. Galbraith recalled the wild cheering from some of the ships when they had come to their anchorage, the slaves being ferried ashore, laughing, sobbing, and confused. They were free. But how they would manage to return to their villages or settlements was difficult to understand, and, far worse, some would doubtless be trapped and returned to one of the barracoons along that same hostile coast to await the next ship, and another buyer.

Unrivalled
had been at anchor for two days, and only the purser's crew and two working parties had been allowed ashore.
To await orders.
He heard the bell chime from forward. And that was today.

The brig
Kittiwake
had taken on stores and had departed almost immediately. Commodore Turnbull was with the Crown Agent. Galbraith had sensed the disappointment and resentment amongst
Unrivalled
's people. Two slavers as prizes. There would have been none but for their action, anchored or not.

A courier brig had arrived, but no mail had been delivered to them. Galbraith was not expecting any, but hope was always contagious.

Adam Bolitho's friend, and his uncle's last flag captain, James Tyacke, was still at sea. In case the missing slaver attempted to return to the inlet, which seemed unlikely, or to continue with another endless patrol.

I hate this place.
He wiped his face and tried to dismiss it. Better here than on half-pay in some place full of others rejected by the one life they knew. Needed. Slavery was evil. Weighed against that, their presence here was necessary, if colonies were to survive against peacetime conditions. It still did not make sense . . .

He had heard some of the older hands talking about it. A few had boasted of their liaisons with women like those they had freed only days ago. Campbell, it would be him, insisted there was nothing to touch them.
Nice bit o' black velvet to get you goin'.
”

Midshipman Cousens called, “Boat shoving off from the jetty now, sir!”

Always alert, perhaps thinking of his hoped-for promotion.

“My respects to the captain. Would you tell him?” He beckoned to a boatswain's mate. “Pipe for the guard, Creagh, then man the side.”

He relented; his voice had been sharper than he intended. It was affecting him more than he had believed. Maybe it was only the heat. And all for just another official visit, this time the Crown Agent.

He thought of the captain's expression, the last time they had been here. Rear-Admiral Herrick had been his uncle's oldest friend; he had heard that several times, but when Bolitho had returned on board it was as if they had met as strangers.

The Royal Marines were already falling in by the entry port, Sergeant Everett checking the dressing, watching for any flaw in the pattern. There was none. Guard of honour or shooting down an enemy, it seemed to be one and the same to this elite corps. The seamen often joked about it; it made no difference. Captain Luxmore was also present, his face almost matching his tunic. Galbraith turned to watch for the boat. An ornate affair, almost a barge, it belonged to the governor, and was manned by seamen “borrowed” for His Excellency's convenience.

He refrained from using a telescope; the rear-admiral would know. He half-smiled. They always seemed to know such things.

He heard the captain's step on the companion ladder and said, “Clear all idlers off the upper deck, Mr Cousens.” He turned and touched his hat. “Right on time, sir.”

Adam glanced along the main deck. Galbraith had done well. Everything was in its place.
Ready for sea.

Herrick would miss nothing. He had once been Richard Bolitho's first lieutenant, a lifetime ago. He wondered if he still remembered.

Galbraith said, “I spoke with the purser, sir. There
is
ginger beer in the cabin.” He did not think it was the time to mention Tregillis's list of complaints after he had returned with his crew from the stores.

“Drinking water, they call it? I'd not wash a horse in it! And the salt beef! Three years in the cask—that fellow Sullivan could carve a fleet of models from it. It's like iron!”