Relentless Pursuit (38 page)

And yet despite the pain and the hate, the rejoicing and the sadness, one picture always stood out in his mind. He glanced at Galbraith's strong profile; he would recall it, too. They had swept past the mauled
Halcyon
and he had seen her destruction, the thin threads of scarlet running from her scuppers, as if the ship were bleeding to death. Young Deighton had been there also. And he had heard Galbraith's voice, harsh with emotion.
“They're cheering! Cheering us!”

Somehow
Halcyon
had survived, and her captain with her; James Tyacke had spoken of him when they had met in Freetown. He felt his lips crack into a smile. That seemed so long ago. Tyacke had been a lieutenant in the
Majestic
at the Battle of the Nile, and Christie had been a young midshipman. He thought of the medal now in his strongbox.
The Nile.
It had affected so many in this naval family. The Happy Few . . . Where Tyacke had had half his face blasted away. Just before it had happened, he had saved that young midshipman from breaking. When Christie had become a man.
A better man,
he had later said to Sir Richard. He wiped his mouth with his hand. Less than two years ago, in this same Mediterranean Sea.

“Heave-to, if you please.” He saw Galbraith's eyes. He had remembered.

Deighton called,
“Have despatches on board, sir!”

He could almost feel the tension of those around and closest to him dissipate. The waiting and uncertainty were in the past. Jack always knew . . .

Cristie muttered, “Not wasting any time, is he?”

Unrivalled
came round easily, her sails all aback, that same Corporal Bloxham, now a sergeant, shouting at some marines to form up at the entry port. The deck was still rising and falling heavily while the ship hove-to, so that they swayed in an untidy dance until they found their feet again.

Some of the seamen were grinning broadly. Sailor and “bullock” would never really mix.

Adam watched the frigate's gig pulling strongly across the dark blue water, a cocked hat in the sternsheets. Christie was coming in person.

Galbraith was observing
Halcyon
through a telescope. For some reason, it made him feel like an intruder. Even without the glass he had seen the scarred and blistered paintwork, her figurehead still unrepaired and partly shot away. He lowered the glass. Battered and hard-worked, with obviously little time spent in harbour, but a ship any man would give his right arm to call his own.

The calls trilled and Adam saw Christie climbing from his boat. Tall, a keen, intelligent face;
probably posted a year or so after me.
The sort of man who would catch any woman's eye. The frigate captain.

But when he raised his hat to the guard and quarterdeck Adam saw the legacy of that terrible day.

Above either ear his hair was not merely greying, it was white, as if it had been dyed. The touch of war.

The meeting in
Unrivalled
was brief, Adam sensing both the urgency and the relief of this rendezvous.

One of the wardroom messmen served refreshments, and he was surprised that Christie chose rum.

He said, “My supplies are all in chaos. His lordship has kept us busy indeed. I am glad the muddled thinking is over and done with.”

Adam waited while Yovell unfastened the envelope, and looked up sharply at his visitor as Christie said, “Lord Exmouth sent word to the Dey. Surrender all the Christian slaves, and disband the fleet of renegades—pirates, I'd call them—or defeat is inevitable.” He smiled for the first time, and Adam could see him as Tyacke's midshipman at the Nile. “Needless to say, it was ignored. The emissary was damned lucky to leave alive!”

Adam glanced at the messman, face very intent, ears taking full note of everything that was being said.

He thought of Napier. The sea was calm enough, for the moment. O'Beirne might take the opportunity to extract that one, dangerous splinter.

“Lord Exmouth is joined by a Dutch squadron, six good ships to all accounts. But between ourselves, I'd prefer to act without anyone else becoming involved.”

Adam recalled Jago making much the same remark. “Let the
meneers
stay away an' smoke their own pipes.” The war was over. The mistrust was not.

He stood up and walked to the stern windows, feeling the jerk and tremble of the big rudder. Ready to go. To obey.

He heard himself say, “The day after tomorrow, then.” August twenty-seventh. Exactly a month since Bellairs had given him her note.
Here.

Christie had his hat in his hand, and his glass stood empty. “I must leave. Lord Exmouth is all in haste. He insisted you were to be found without delay.”

Adam followed him to the door.
The last in the line. And the first to lead.

“You have a fine ship, Captain Bolitho.” But there was no envy.

Adam said, “After this, perhaps you may return to England.”

Christie faced him; the messman and the rigid marine sentry meant nothing. They could have been quite alone.

“England has nothing to offer me. They would take my ship from me. Without her . . .” He broke off, and said almost abruptly, “I could ask for no better ship or captain in the van.” He shook Adam's hand, lingering over it. “If you meet Captain Tyacke again . . .” He could not continue.

But when the marine guard and side party stood in swaying ranks to show respect, one ship to another, they saw only the two captains.

Galbraith waited for the gig to bear off from the side and watched some of his own seamen's eyes, critical or impressed as their station dictated. It was something no landsman would ever understand, he thought.

He looked up at the men aloft, and standing loosely by braces and halliards. Waiting for the next order. Their captain would tell them, but everybody from the cook's slush-monkey to the elegant captain of Royal Marines would already know. And soon, sooner rather than later, these guns would be in action again. In earnest and without mercy.

He glanced towards Lieutenant Varlo, who was up by the fore-mast with Rist, the master's mate.

The wardroom had been empty, which was rare in any ship. Even the messmen had been elsewhere; he had made certain of that.

There had been just the two of them. Varlo had been confi-dent, almost amused as he had told him what he thought of his behaviour in general, and in particular over the flogging.

Galbraith had lost his temper. Something he had sworn to avoid. Something he had wanted to do.

Varlo had said, offhandedly, “The captain could have told me himself, if he had thought it important. In all my experience, I've never heard such abuse. As first lieutenant you are entitled to dictate matters of duty if or when it is justified. This is not. I'll take no insolence from any lout, drunk or sober—I'll see the backbones of anyone who tries it!”

Galbraith had listened to his own voice. A different sound, another person.

“
In all your experience.
I was forgetting. Forgive me.” He had seen the slight smile forming. Strangely, it had helped. “Flag lieutenant to a flag officer, albeit a junior one. But he thought highly of you, his aide, so much so that anybody might have expected further promotion.” The smile had gone at that point. “Instead, you were appointed to
Unrivalled,
to fill a dead man's shoes, as it happens. I know some who would have killed for the post, but to a flag lieutenant surely something more promising should have been offered!”

Varlo had snapped back, “I don't know what you mean!”

It had gone far enough. Now, he knew for certain. Soon they would fight.

He had said, “The admiral wanted to end it there. Your liaison.”

Varlo had stared at him, stunned. He had seen him just now, watching him from the foremast trunk. Shock, fury, and something far deeper.

How silent the wardroom had seemed. Even the sounds of rigging and timbers were stilled.

Then Varlo had said softly, “Had we been ashore, anywhere but in this ship, I would have called you out, and you would have danced to a different tune!”

Galbraith had walked to the door. “Do your duty, and remember that you rely on our people, just as they, poor devils, have to depend on you.” He had turned, half expecting a blow or another threat, and had said, “Next time,
Mister
Varlo, ensure that the admiral is safely married, eh?” The pretence was ended. “And call me out when and where you wish. You'll find me ready enough!” He could still hear the door slamming behind him, and remembered the shock and the shame of his own words. But no regrets.

“Get the ship under way, if you please.” The captain was looking at him, his hat still grasped in one hand. “I will speak to the people tomorrow. It may be the last chance.”

Galbraith understood, and turned to call a boatswain's mate. But something made him hesitate.

“You can rely on me, sir.”

The other frigate was already spreading more canvas and going about, the gig hoisted and stowed.

Adam thought of her captain, Robert Christie, who had served under James Tyacke at the Nile.
We are of the same mould, the same generation.
A face you could trust when the signal for close action was flying.

He felt the chill again. The warning.

They would never meet again.

Joseph Sullivan, the ship's best lookout, settled himself comfortably on his perch in the crosstrees and glanced down at the deck far below. It was hard to believe that none of them down there could see what he could see. Not yet. They had been roused early, but nothing out of the normal run of things, almost unhurried, he thought. But purposeful, in earnest. A good breakfast, too; he could still taste the thick slices of pork, washed down with a pint or more of rough red wine. And, of course, some rum. A proper issue, with officers and warrant ranks looking the other way when the older hands pulled out their hoarded supplies. After all, you never knew if it was the last tot in this world.

He looked across the bow and studied the array of ships. They appeared still and unmoving in the morning sunlight, but they were coming right enough, a fleet the like of which they might never see again. Liners keeping perfect formation in the low breeze, all sails set and drawing well, considering. Not yet stripped for action. Frigates too, staying up to windward, ready to run down like terriers if the admiral so ordered. Dutchmen in their own squadron. He drew his knife and carved himself a wedge of chewing tobacco. He had been at sea almost all his life, or all that he could remember. He knew what was essential. Like the changing scarlet pattern of marines, mere puppets from up here, being arranged on the quarterdeck, some to be stationed at hatchways and what the old hands called bolt-holes, where a terrified man might run at the height of battle. A marine would prevent it. There was nowhere to run anyway, but only experience taught you that.

Sullivan was at a loss. The fine model of his old ship
Spartiate,
which had stood in the line at Trafalgar, was finished. It was hard to recall exactly when he had begun it. In his last ship they had pulled his leg about it. But he and the model were still here. The others were not.

He peered down again. More figures about now. On edge, wanting to get on with it. Get it over. He saw steam rising from the sea alongside, and loosened a last piece of pork from his teeth. The galley fire had been doused.
Almost time now.

He twisted round and looked at the shore, no longer a shadow, an unending barrier of sand and stone. He could see the headland, a sudden stab of light, the sun reflecting from a window or telescope. He measured it with his eye. Three miles. It would be noon before they were close enough. He thought of the captain, yesterday, when they had cleared lower deck to hear him speak from the quarterdeck.

It was strange at such times, he thought.
Unrivalled
carried some
250
souls of every age and rank, and in a crowded hull you would expect to know every man-jack of them. And yet, packed together on deck or clinging to shrouds and ratlines to listen, you still found yourself beside someone you had never met before.

Every man-of-war, no matter how crowded, was divided by rank, status, and station. Soon the pattern would change again. Gun crews and powder monkeys, sail-handling parties, and men to repair damage. He watched the land, as if it had altered in some way. Others to drag away the wounded, or to pitch the dead overboard.

The captain had told them about the Christian slaves, and the murder and persecution of helpless people taken at sea or on land in the Dey's name.

He had heard Isaac Dias, the foul-mouthed gun captain, mutter, “They can only spare a few poxy schooners to put screws on the slave trade down south, eh, lads? But it's a whole bloody fleet for the Christians!” It brought a few grins; it did not do to fall out with
Unrivalled
's best gun captain. Sullivan smiled to himself. He was useless for anything else.