Relentless Pursuit (28 page)

She walked out into the dusty air again. Afraid to stop and consider, even to look back.

Francis and a stable boy were by the horse; the dour-faced servant had disappeared. She might have imagined all of it.

She thought of Adam and his ship, under orders again after so brief a respite. It was his life, and she was a sailor's daughter and the sister of England's naval hero. She took Francis' arm and pulled herself up into the carriage before glancing back at the house.
But now, I am Adam's aunt.

She saw a brief movement by a window. Pale blue. Where she had seen the harp, and the other painting.

She said aloud, “There
is
nobody else!”

As the carriage moved away, she imagined she heard Roxby laugh.

Rear-Admiral Thomas Herrick got up from the chair and walked to a nearby window. He could not remember how many times he had done so, or how long he had been here.

He stared down at the familiar scene, the unending parade of carriages, mostly open to the watery sunshine, a few bright parasols and the wide-brimmed hats of ladies being driven from one form of amusement to another. A troop of dragoons trotting past, a young helmeted cornet turning in his saddle as a straight-backed man stepped from the crowd to raise his hat to the colours at the head of the troop. He had only one arm.

Herrick turned away, angry with himself, unable to ignore or forget the raw pain in the stump of his own arm, even at the slightest movement, and all the more so in his heavy dress coat.

He sat again and stared at the opposite wall, and two paintings of sea fights: colours flying, swirling gunsmoke, the enemy's canvas riddled with shot-holes. But they never showed the blood, the dead men, and the pieces of men.

He studied the polished marble, the neat array of gilded chairs. It must take the equivalent of a watch of seamen to maintain this great vault of a building. He grunted and eased the shoulder of his coat, beneath the heavy bullion epaulette whose presence could still surprise him.

This was the Admiralty, where their lordships and an army of staff officers controlled the strands of the web connecting them to every squadron, every ship, and every captain on every ocean where their flag flew, almost unchallenged.

And after this? He thought of the lodgings he was using close to Vauxhall. Not fashionable, especially for a flag officer, but comfortable enough. And cheap. He had never been careless with his hard-earned money. He had come up the hard way, and was well aware of the navy's habit of reversing a man's fortunes along with his destiny.

He had been at the Admiralty the whole forenoon, going over the charts and reports of the anti-slavery patrols with the admiral concerned, and he knew men well enough to understand that the admiral, pleasant though he was, had not the least idea what Freetown and the appalling conditions of slavery entailed. Perhaps it was better, safer that way.

There would be more discussions tomorrow; a Member of Parliament on the interested committee would also be there. Her-rick had explained in his reports, and face to face, that they needed ten times the number of agile patrol vessels, and a diligent leadership in direct command, before any real results would be manifest. Money was always the objection; there was none to spare for an overall increase. And yet Herrick had been hearing nothing else since he had arrived in London but the rumour of a massive show of force against the Algerine pirates and the Dey who had persisted in defying all attempts to unseat him. This time it would be no less than a fleet, and under the command of Pellew himself. Herrick could not be bothered with the frills and fancies of grand titles; “Pellew” was good enough for him.

There did not seem to be much in the way of secrecy; even
The Times
had hinted at a “determined intervention” to free the Christian slaves who languished in the Dey's prisons.

And now this had happened. A messenger had caught him just as he had been about to leave the building.

He had been requested to present himself to Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune, the newly appointed deputy, and no stranger to the lords of admiralty.

He had no thoughts on Bethune as a senior officer.
I was Richard's first lieutenant a year after Bethune was one of his midshipmen. Now he outranks me.
He had grown used to such distinctions. He did not have to like them.

He found that he was at the window again. Perhaps Adam Bolitho had told a superior officer, maybe Keen, what he had divulged about Sillitoe and his part in the slave trade. No. Adam might be hot-headed, even indiscreet, but he would not violate something as strong as personal trust. He watched a smart carriage passing among some market vehicles, saw the woman who sat alone, her face shaded by a broad-brimmed hat. It could have been Richard's mistress.
That woman.
Why had he told Adam Bolitho? Concern, or was it guilt?

It had been Adam who had brought the news to him, that his own very dear Dulcie had died. Just as Herrick had once carried the tragic news of Bolitho's young wife's death . . .

He stared with something like hatred at the garishly painted battles. The roots and memories were stronger than many believed.

He heard unhurried footsteps approaching, and braced himself. Perhaps it was a mistake, or Bethune had taken another appointment.

“Sir Graham Bethune can see you now, sir.”

Herrick stood up, and winced as the heavy dress coat dragged at his stump. So damned typical of this place.
Can
see you now. As if it was a favour!

He knew he was being unreasonable, and blamed his pain for it. He hated the way people stared, or clucked sympathetically when they met him. He could recall a surgeon suggesting that he should wear ostrich quills on his coat to steer people away from jostling or reopening the wound. He could even hear himself.

Afraid of war, are they? Or of what it does to those who have to fight it?

If Dulcie had been alive . . . He saw the doors swing inward, and Bethune waiting to greet him. Standing, his arm outstretched, his left arm, to match his own.

“Good to see you, Thomas!” His handshake was firm, his palm still that of a sailor. “Seat yourself. There'll be some wine in a moment, but we are served by snails in this cathedral!”

Herrick sat down, taking time to adjust himself in the chair, like someone searching for a trap. Then he looked directly at Bethune. He had always prided himself in being honest and open with others, and grudgingly he recognised those qualities in Bethune, something which the vice-admiral's lace and the grand office could not hide.

Bethune said, “I saw your reports. I was particularly interested in your views on Freetown and the Windward Coast—I have said as much to the First Lord. You should get the credit you deserve. I suspect you may be requested to return to that or some other aspect of the slave trade, but I don't suppose you'll mind about that.” It was not a question.

Herrick almost smiled.
Requested;
a term they used when you had attained flag rank. It still meant that you had no choice in the matter.

Bethune strode to a window and opened it, admitting the ceaseless din of iron-shod wheels and the clatter of many horses: London on the move, never at rest.

Herrick watched him. He too was restless, full of energy. Still a young man, like the one who had commanded that fine frigate depicted in this room's only painting.

Bethune went on, “I especially liked your report on Captain Tyacke, another officer who might well have gone unnoticed, passed over, but for someone caring enough to act.”

Herrick clenched his remaining fist. As if Tyacke were also in this room, listening to the street, watching the dragoons, like the man in the crowd. He said without hesitation, “Sir Richard did as much for me, Sir Graham.”

Bethune nodded, satisfied perhaps. “You served with him at the Nile?”

Herrick rubbed the arm of his chair. This was not what he had expected.

“Yes. In
Lysander.
I was Sir Richard's flag captain then.”

Bethune turned from the window. Herrick would say no more, but it was enough.

“Tyacke was at the Nile also, where he was so cruelly wounded.”

A servant entered and began to place glasses on a tiny square of cloth. More like a woman than a grown man, Herrick thought.

For a moment he thought he had misheard as Bethune dismissed the servant and repeated, “Lady Somervell. I saw her here, in London.” He glanced over at him. “This is Rhenish—I hope it will suit? It should be cool, although after its journey up those stairs one can only hope!” And laughed, completely relaxed. Or was he?

Herrick said, “It is some time since I saw her. It was in Falmouth, when I was intending to take up an appointment with the revenue service.”

Bethune critically examined a glass. He knew about that, and thought he knew why Keen had intervened. Not all grudges faded with the years.

He said, “A brave and lovely woman. I admire her greatly.” He thought of the Nile medal she had entrusted to him. Another link. But it had always been there. He suspected that she knew how he felt.

He tried to shut it from his mind and said, “I think that Baron Sillitoe may become more involved with his business affairs in the West Indies, even Cuba.”

Herrick stiffened. Cuba, still the world's clearing house for slaves.

Bethune said, “We must put all past disagreement aside. The fleet is committed to the Algiers venture, as it is elsewhere where the trade flourishes. You know this, and I know it. I would take it as a great favour if you would pass on to me what you may hear about said involvement, so that the innocent can be protected.” He raised his glass very slowly until their eyes met.

Herrick swallowed; if the hock was warm or ice-cold, he did not notice it.

“I understand, Sir Graham.” It was utter madness, and if anything went wrong Bethune would deny any association.

He watched Bethune's tanned hand refilling the glasses.

When Dulcie had died of typhus, Lady Somervell . . . he hesitated even over her name . . . Catherine had stood by her. The only one, to the end. She could so easily have been infected by the fever herself. But she had stayed.

“It shall be done.”

Their glasses touched.

Committed, then. And Thomas Herrick was suddenly alive again. Restored.

Tomorrow he might regret it. He smiled quite openly.

But that was tomorrow.

14
S
UDDEN DEATH

J
AMES
B
ELLAIRS
,
Unrivalled
's young third lieutenant, touched his hat and said, “I relieve you, sir.”

Eight bells had just rung out from the forecastle. The first watch was about to begin.

Lieutenant Varlo saw his own men hurrying away to their various messes and remarked, “If you are certain you can manage
'
til the hour of midnight?”

Bellairs watched him walk to the companion-way and tried not to dislike him. A competent officer, but never without the last-minute jibe, the sarcastic quip at someone else's expense.

One of Bellairs' watch had been adrift when the hands had mustered aft; he had fallen and injured his wrist. Varlo had remarked, “Shall we rouse out the master-at-arms to find him, eh?”

He allowed his anger to settle. It was not in his nature, and anyway . . . He spread his arms and stared along the length of the ship. Already in deep shadow, with an incredible orange glow to starboard as the sun dipped towards the horizon. To larboard it was lost in a purple haze. You could sense the nearness of land. He put Varlo from his mind and smiled. Not so near: Lisbon lay about sixty miles abeam according to the last calculation. He listened to the creak and hum of taut rigging as
Unrivalled
leaned more steeply on the larboard tack. Every watch brought him fresh confidence, like the sounds which had once made him uneasy, but usually unwilling to call for advice from a lieutenant. Now he was a lieutenant himself, and those years as a “young gentleman” seemed a lifetime ago.

He glanced at the cabin skylight. There was a glow there, brighter than usual. The captain, going over his orders again. Was he ever unsure, he wondered, with nobody to advise
him?

He walked to the compass, the two helmsmen watching him as he passed. Soon it would be too dark to recognise faces, but it no longer mattered. He felt that he knew every man in the ship. Even the bad ones. He grinned. Especially the bad ones . . .

He thought of Plymouth, now five days astern. A smooth if lively passage so far. Skirting the Bay and its foul moods, they had been out of sight of Cape Finisterre except from the mast-head, when they had changed tack yet again to steer south-west by south and follow the coast of Portugal. Standing well out to sea, perhaps to avoid rumour or suspicion. He had heard the older hands joking about it. That everybody in the whole world would know more than
Unrivalled
's people.

He peered at the compass card. South-south-west. Two more days, maybe less, and they would lie beneath the Rock's great shadow.

His thoughts returned to Plymouth. His parents and sister had come to see him, to present him with the new sword they had purchased to mark his commission. He looked again at the skylight. Before that, he had worn a curved hanger which belonged to Captain Bolitho.

Galbraith had remarked, “I can't say I've heard of any other captain doing that!”

He allowed his mind to return to the girl named Jane, who had also been there. A friend of his sister's. A ready smile and dancing violet eyes; they had got on well together, encouraged, he realised, by his sister. She was of a good family, so what prospects could he offer as a lowly luff?

But she lived at Dartmouth, which was not that far from Plymouth. When
Unrivalled
returned after completing this mission, he might be able to see her again.

“Cap'n's comin' up, sir.”

“Thank you, Tucker.” He had learned well the risk of trying to be popular, or showing favouritism to this man or that. All the same, he could not imagine anyone warning Varlo if the captain was on the move.

He saw one of the helmsmen turn his head to make sure the windvane was in position. It got dark very suddenly hereabouts.

Bellairs waited near the wheel while the captain walked to the compass, and the log which was protected by a canvas hood; he had probably already been in the chartroom to make his own estimate of their progress. He made it seem so effortless; even when he stared up into the black tangle of rigging and the trimmed angle of each yard, it was as if he already knew. When they had been in action it had been impossible to register every act or injury. Only afterwards, when your heart and breathing steadied, could you realise what you had done. And those who had not come through it.

Bellairs could recall the captain's part in it. His apparent disregard for both danger and the nearness of sudden death. Or, far worse, a lingering despair in the agony of the surgeon's knife.

He straightened up as Bolitho said, “Holding her course and progress well, Mr. Bellairs.” He tapped the pale planking with his shoe. “But she's feeling it, with all that extra weight of stores and shot.” He turned away to watch a leaping fish, bright gold in the sunset. “We'll be needing all of it, I daresay.”

He could have been talking to the ship.

Adam could feel Bellairs watching him. It was strange: when he had been a lieutenant he had never considered his captains young in thought and heart. Except his uncle. They had sometimes been mistaken for brothers.

He would know nothing until he was in Gibraltar. The prospects of battle might all have blown away by then. It happened often enough. But until then he thought of his carefully worded orders. Nothing which any captain could misinterpret if an opportunity offered itself. Lord Exmouth had been a great frigate captain. He would know every trick in the book.

Like the vessel they had sighted two days back after they had weathered Cape Finisterre. He had sent Sullivan aloft, and had then joined him with a telescope, as if something had driven him.

A large ship, a barque as far as they could tell; there had been a stiff wind and a lot of spray which made proper recognition almost impossible. But they had seen her again, and she had immediately changed tack, her sails like pink shells in the dawn light. To avoid
Unrivalled
's closer scrutiny? Cristie had suggested that she might be standing closer inshore and heading for Vigo. It made sense. But Adam could not shift it from his mind. There were hundreds of ships in these waters, probably the busiest seaway in the world. And some of them would be barques. In any case his orders were clear. Blunt.

He said, “I hear you had the good fortune to meet a young lady during our stay in Plymouth.”

He was aware of Bellairs' confusion. Had it been full daylight, he might have been blushing.

“This is a small ship, remember!”

Bellairs said, “A friend of my sister's, sir.” He faltered. “She cannot yet be seventeen.”

“I see.” Adam walked to the rail and stared down at the boat tier. Bellairs was just nineteen.
Whereas I . . .
He stopped it there.

They were at sea. It was all that counted.

He said, “Time will pass quickly. You will know if your feelings are strong enough to endure the life we follow.”

He took two paces away, angry that he should or could offer advice.

He said, “I note from the log that there are two men for punishment tomorrow?” Like cutting a cord. Safe in their ordered world.

“Yes, sir. One for drunkenness.” It was now too dark to see his expression, but Adam knew he was frowning. “Craigie. The other one is Lucas, maintopman. He threatened a warrant officer.” No hesitation this time. “Mr Midshipman Sandell.”

“I shall speak with the first lieutenant directly. I am not pleased about this.” He sighed. And it would be another two years before Sandell could even be considered for promotion to lieutenant. What Luke Jago would call “the rotten apple.” He had heard his uncle say that it only needed one.

He said suddenly, “We shall alter course two points, Mr Bel-lairs. I fear the wind is backing a little.”

He half-listened to the rush of feet, the shrill of calls, as more men ran to braces and halliards.

It might give an extra knot. At least it would keep his mind from her face. Her body framed against the soiled canvas, the imaginary rock, her eyes so dark, defiant, challenging him.

So different from the girl in the church, her pleasure over the rose which would be in that portrait. He touched his empty belt. And the sword.

“Steer sou'-west! Helm a-lee there!”

The squeal of blocks, men hauling on snaking lines and halliards before they could fling a sailor off his feet. Even the new hands were working like veterans.

Adam crossed to the empty nettings and waited for the deck to sway upright again. Still, faintly, he could see the beautiful figurehead's naked shoulders, showing only for a moment through the gloom while
Unrivalled
's stem ploughed into a deeper trough in a welter of bursting spray.

Like the girl on the rock. Helpless and in need.

He heard Bellairs say something and then laugh, somehow carefree despite the chorus of sea and thrashing canvas.

“Steady she goes, sir! Sou'-west, full an' bye!”

Adam raised one hand to Bellairs and walked to the companion-way. The first watch could settle down, without its lord and master overseeing every move.

He went down the ladder, feeling the ship closing around him. The marine sentry, his figure angled effortlessly against the deck, stiffened as he passed, and Napier had the screen door open, as if he had been listening for his step on the ladder.

Everything as it should be, and a weighted-down pile of letters and orders in Yovell's round hand awaiting his signature.

He stared at the sloping stern windows, one side in darkness, spray dappling the thick glass like spectres, the other tinged with dull copper, the last of the sun on the western horizon.

The whole ocean, and yet he was bound by his orders, tied to the fleet's apron strings.

Napier asked, “May I bring your meal, sir?”

Adam stared at him and was touched by his concern. He knew what it must have done to him to be so well received in Falmouth, as if he was one of the family.

“Not too much, David. I'll have some cognac while I sign that little mountain.”

He saw the boy smile and hurry away to the pantry. Why was it so easy to help others when you were helpless to rally your own spirits?

Tomorrow things might seem different. The final approach to Gibraltar. The formalities. The new orders. If any.

Bellairs would be thinking of the girl he had met in Plymouth; Napier might still be remembering the excitement and laughter over his first ride on the new pony.

The hands had piped down now, and the ship was unusually silent. Overhead, the watchkeepers took note of the course and behaviour of the wind, and in the wardroom there might still be a few lively enough for a game of cards, or the unfinished letter to a wife or lover somewhere.

He yawned and sipped at the goblet Napier had put by his side before returning just as silently to the pantry, feet pale against the checkered deck covering.

And tomorrow he would speak with Galbraith about the punishment book. But he looked at the desk and pictured the rose pressed in the small log. It was little enough. He watched Napier arranging the table for him, a plate rattling suddenly in time with the rudder as the keel sliced into another long trough.

He moved to another chair and regarded the neatly laid table. Being captain kept you apart from the ship's routine, watchkeeping and everyday work on hull and rigging; it also left you without an ordered programme of eating and sleeping. The carefully prepared meal consisted of slices of fat pork, fried pale brown with bread crumbs. That must be the last of the loaves, he thought; iron-hard biscuit from now on until the next time. And there was a bottle of red wine.

He looked at Napier and smiled. “You do a good deal for me, David, with precious little thanks.”

The boy poured some wine, frowning slightly as he usually did.

He said simply, “It's what I want, sir.”

He walked back to the pantry, and Adam noticed that he was limping again. Not much, but he would mention it to the surgeon.

Later when Napier came to clear the table he found the captain in the one deep chair, legs out-thrust, and fast asleep.

He carried the tray to the pantry again, pausing occasionally to allow for the deck's erratic movements. Then he closed the shutter on one of the lanterns and stood beside the chair again, uncertain but characteristically determined.

Using two fingers he loosened the captain's neckcloth, holding his breath, waiting for the motion to settle.

The captain opened his eyes wide and stared at him, seizing his wrist, holding it, but saying nothing.

Napier waited. He knew that the captain was still asleep. It was important that he should remain so.

He released his hand and backed away, satisfied.

It was what he wanted.

When Adam did awaken it took a few moments to recover his awareness, the instinct of any sailor, the feel and movement of his ship, no matter what hour of day or night it might be.