Relentless Pursuit (39 page)

He wondered what the captain thought about it. Really thought. His ship, his men, and his neck if things went badly wrong. He had asked his coxswain about him, but Jago was as tight as a clam. “He'll do me,” was his only reply. Funny, for a man who had always loathed officers.

Sullivan looked at the fleet again. It was not possible, but they were closer now. He could see the Cross of St George at the masthead of the big three-decker at the head of the line,
Queen Charlotte.
The admiral's ship; a hundred guns or more, they said. The enemy had prepared and well-sited artillery. In all his years at sea he had heard the arguments about ships set against shore-mounted guns. He grinned. Who would be an admiral today?

He looked down between his bare feet at the great main-yard angled below him, overlapping either beam. Young Midshipman Cousens had fallen across it when he had been thrown from up here.
If I had been with him . . .
He shut it from his mind. He was not here. Another face had moved on.

He saw that the marines were climbing into the fighting-tops, marksmen, and a few to handle the deadly swivel guns, which could kill or maim more of your own mates than the enemy if badly laid and trained.
Daisy-cutters.
Invented by somebody who never had to use one, he thought.

He realised that one of the marines was gesturing at him with his musket. Sullivan waved. Somebody was coming . . . Did he never sleep? Sullivan had seen the skylight shining throughout the night, and had heard of him visiting the magazine, where Old Stranace the gunner ruled the roost, and even the sickbay, where his servant shared the space with the man who had been flogged. His lip curled. Because of Mister bloody Varlo. Like Sandell, he would not be missed.

He looked suddenly at his big, rough hands; scarred and pitted with tar, but they could still fashion a perfect ship's likeness.

Would I be missed?

He watched the captain climb the last few feet, hatless, his brown face shining with sweat. He was still able to smile.

“A fine day for it, Sullivan!”

Surprisingly, he thought of an earlier captain he had served. In a boat's crew, he had accidentally brushed against the officer as they had come alongside the ship. The captain had damned his eyes for it, and had threatened to have him charged with assault. But at least you knew where you were with a bloody-minded tyrant.

Sullivan was close enough to reach out and touch him. A man like himself, without the authority and the Articles of War. He sighed. It was no use. Jago was probably right.

He saw the captain touch his side and take some deep breaths, his eyes first on the shore, then up to the masthead pendant, as if to take the measure of the wind.

Adam was aware of the lookout's scrutiny. One of
Unrivalled
's best seamen, but more than that, like one of a ship's strongest timbers.
The men you lead.

He studied the array of ships, and wondered how the brooding land mass would appear to the admiral. Like sailing into a giant trap. He checked the wind again. Almost easterly, as Cristie had assured him it would be this day. “Off this patch of the coast it's more likely easterly than westerly. Very definite, it is.” He'd said it without a trace of a smile. Perhaps it was something he had had drummed into him many years ago, in this same sea.

He thought suddenly of the studio at the old house with the ruined chapel. Deserted now. Empty. She would know all about these waters, when the Pharaohs had ruled, and before that. Another world.

He looked at Sullivan.

“Noon?”

Sullivan nodded. “As near as hell's kitchen, sir.”

They both laughed, and some of the marines in the maintop leaned out to try and hear.

He looked down at the ship again. Undisturbed, unhurried, as he had intended. It would be hard enough for them to stand to their guns and take the first onslaught without all the usual clam-our and call to arms. But soon now. Very soon.

He pictured Midshipman Deighton, with his telescope trained on the flagship. Just one signal, and
Unrivalled
with
Halcyon
close astern would lead the attack.

Galbraith had said, when they had discussed the possibilities, “Simple enough, if you don't think too much about it!”

Surprisingly relaxed, even cheerful. He would need all of that today. If only he had been able to sleep, but it had evaded him. Except once, when he had fallen into an exhausted doze, neither one thing nor the other.

Then he had seen her, watched her fighting, her screams silent but no less terrible. The shapeless, beast-like forms holding her down, exploring her nakedness, tormenting and entering her.

He had awakened, fighting off the blanket, his body running with sweat, calling her name.

He had almost expected Napier to burst in from the pantry, but as his mind quietened he had remembered that he was still in the sickbay.

He had dragged on his shirt and gone through the ship, speaking with watchkeepers or men who were merely squatting on deck, like himself unable to sleep, without knowing what he had said or heard in reply.

But the dream had remained, stark and terrible. As it must have been.

He had found Napier asleep, the confined space heavy with rum.

O'Beirne had been there with one of his assistants, checking his instruments, which had glittered and shivered on the table as if they were alive.

He had said, “He took it well, sir. It was a deep incision—I found the thing after a struggle.” He had almost smiled. “Brave lad. His only worry seems to be that he wants to be with you when the action begins.”

Adam had put his hand on the boy's bare shoulder, and had seen the frown ease away from his unconscious face. As if he had known.

“You shall have your pony ride, my lad. Be sure of that.”

He had left, the others staring after him.

He came out of his thoughts and realised that the foretop had also been occupied by a squad of marines. He looked at the land. A thousand guns, or more. Again he tested his feelings, but there was no fear, no uncertainty. It was more like a dull acceptance.

He felt inside his breeches pocket. The little note was there. All he had.

He thrust his leg out from the crosstrees and waited for the pain. There was none. That, too, was numb.

He said, “Remember, Sullivan?”

He grinned, the youthful eyes very bright in an old seaman's face.

“Aye, sir.
For th' King!
” Then, as if surprised at what he was doing, he reached out and shook hands.

Adam took his time, pausing occasionally to stare through the rigging at the panorama of ships and sails. And men, hundreds of them . . . into the inevitable.

I want you in the van.

He swung out and around the shrouds and dropped the last few feet to the deck. Cristie gave him a quick, crinkled smile.

Captain Luxmore, “the true soldier
,”
as Galbraith had called him, looked as if he were about to mount a parade or a guard of honour. The new wheel was fully manned; Midshipman Deighton, assisted by young Martyns, a mere child, was with his small party of men by the flag locker. Bellairs, Rist, and Varlo, who was up forward again by the first division of eighteen-pounders. Unsmiling, even subdued. He wondered what Galbraith had said to him.

High above the main deck the chain-slings had already been shackled to the yards, to prevent heavy spars falling on to men working at sails or guns. Nets would be spread as well, and most of the boats cast adrift before they closed still further with the land. Always a bad moment for the sailors in any ship, but necessary; flying splinters cut down more men than any solid shot.

Two small fifers were standing by the weather side, moistening their instruments with their tongues, their eyes on their captain.

But only their drums would be used this day.

Jago walked towards him, eyes very calm, but watchful, no doubt taking in the breeches smeared with tar after his descent, and the open shirt, the neckcloth tied loosely around his bare throat. He was hatless, and wearing the familiar, sea-going coat with its faded and tarnished lace. Jago nodded in silent approval, as if he was putting his seal on it. No foolish chances today.
But still the Captain.

He held up his arms and Jago clipped the old sword into place.

Deighton's voice shattered the momentary stillness.

“From Flag, sir!
Prepare for battle!
”

“Acknowledge!”

Jago said, “We've heard that a few times, eh, sir?”

Adam grinned and impetuously seized his arm. It had been a close thing. Jago must have seen just how close.

He said, “And a few more yet, old friend!”

He swung away, without seeing Jago's relief. “Come on, you drummers! Beat to quarters, and clear for action!”

He felt the waiting figures hesitate, and then come alive as if something far stronger controlled them.

Adam looked up at the long masthead pendant, streaming out now, pointing the way.

Men stampeding to their stations, screens being torn down, the hull alive with noise and purpose. A ship of war.

It was now.

19 CAPTAIN'S
L
EGACY

A
DAM
B
OLITHO
glanced at the compass and strode to the packed hammock nettings to train his telescope. In those few paces he saw the helmsmen watching the peak of the driver, flapping now as a warning, while
Unrivalled
held as close to the wind as was possible in the gentle pressure off the land.

So slow. So slow.
He steadied the glass and watched the jagged spur of land reaching out towards the ships. It was as he remembered it: the rough landscape, where it was sometimes hard to distinguish between the country itself and the crumbling fortifications, and weathered towers built of sand-coloured stone, which looked older than time itself.

He swung the glass across the quarter.
Halcyon
was holding on station, a second ensign hoisted now, clean and very bright above the tanned sails and scarred hull. Their other companion, the
14
-gun brig
Magpie,
was further astern, tiny against the great array of sails where the fleet was on its final approach.

Adam returned to the quarterdeck rail, and saw several of the seamen look up at him from the nearest eighteen-pounders. So many times, and yet you were never certain. He ran his eyes along the length of the ship. The decks had been sanded to prevent men slipping in the height of battle, and to soak up the blood of the first to fall. That was always the hardest to accept. Not that men would die, but that they were faces and voices you knew, of which you had become a part. He saw the slow-matches, each in a bucket of sand beside every gun. It was still not unknown for the modern flintlock to fail because of a gun captain's haste, or over eagerness to beat the others to a first broadside.

The nets were spread overhead, and the boat tier was empty, so that the deck seemed more spacious than it should. The gig and jolly-boat were towing astern; the rest were well away by now, drifting to a canvas sea anchor. Waiting for the victor to recover them, no matter which flag was still flying.

The land was curving away again, like the neck of a poacher's bag. He trained the glass ahead, moving to avoid shrouds and stays, or faces, intent as they leaped into the lens. He could see the main anchorage, exactly as it was described in the orders, and as his uncle's flag lieutenant, Avery, had reported after that first visit.

Adam lowered the glass and stared into the distance. There were ships at anchor, some no doubt waiting to attack and harry the slow-moving vessels of Lord Exmouth's fleet once his intentions were recognised. He had heard four bells chime, but precisely when, he could not remember. It was a wonder that the seaman had kept his head and was able to mark the hour.

Sullivan had been right. They had closed the land at noon. That was two hours ago.

He looked at the gun crew directly below him. Stripped and ready, their bodies shining with sweat, neckerchiefs tied around their ears, cutlasses freshly sharpened at the grindstone and within reach. Another glance aloft. The big yards were braced so tightly that they appeared almost fore-and-aft; she was as close-hauled as she would come. He heard the wheel creak sharply, and one of the helmsmen mutter something as if to silence it.

He saw Galbraith by the starboard ladder, speaking with Rist, master's mate, and Williams, the gunner's mate who had been with him on the chebeck raid. He dabbed his lips with his sleeve.
A lifetime ago.

Bellairs called, “Flagship is altering course, sir!”

Adam moved the glass. It was impossible to imagine the strength and effort now responding to Exmouth's signal. Ponderous, slow, and some badly out of station, but the ships were moving as one, their shapes lengthening as they tacked like floating leviathans towards the shore.

It was still too far, but he could imagine the lines of guns running out, the muscle and sweat of hundreds of men like these around him, preparing to match their skills against the enemy. If Lord Exmouth had been expecting some last-minute submission he would be disappointed. The Dey was relying on his massive armament. Adam thought of that brief meeting.
Trick for trick.
Exmouth was still a frigate captain at heart.

There was a dull bang, the sound dragged out by echoes from the land, then they saw the ball splash down before ripping across the water like an enraged dolphin.

Cristie had his watch in one hand, but his voice was almost indifferent.

“Make a note in the log, Mr Bremner. At half past two o'clock, the enemy opened fire.”

Adam turned away. Nothing seemed to unsettle the old sailing master. He had even remembered the name of the midshipman who had only recently joined the ship. Like a rock. The man who had been born in the next street to Collingwood.

Perhaps the watchers on the shore had expected the fleet to sail directly into the anchorage, loose off a few shots at long range, and then go about without risking the mauling of close action. If so, they were wrong. A flag dipped above the
Queen Charlotte
and the air was split apart by the crash of gunfire. Unlike any broadside, it went on without cease, guns firing and reloading with barely a pause, the bay and the land already covered by drifting smoke.

What the gun crews must have trained for, all the way from Plymouth, and from Gibraltar to this mark on the chart.

Adam gripped the rail and felt the vibration of the bombardment jerking at the wood, as if some of the shots had smashed down alongside.

He thought of his own service in a ship of the line, and knew that
Halcyon
's captain would be remembering it also. The incredible din, which scraped the inner walls of a man's mind, so that only drill and discipline saved him from madness. Down on those gun decks, the overhead timbers brushing your hair, the confined space thick with smoke and the stench of burning powder, and only an open port beyond each crew, a hazy outline or shadow which had to be the enemy.

Sponge out! Load! Run out! Ready!
Nothing else existed.

Adam called, “Two points, Mr Cristie! Steer sou' by west!” It was impossible, but he could feel his mouth fixed in a grin. “That'll give her more freedom!”

He swung round to watch a twisting column of sparks rising far beyond the nearest ships. Perhaps one had blown up, or a random shot had found its mark in one of the citadel's magazines. Nobody could survive that.

He beckoned to Jago. “We shall be up to the anchorage directly. Keep with Mr Galbraith.” He lifted the glass again and held his breath until he had found the vessel in question. A schooner, moored apart from all the others. He moved the glass slightly and saw the frigate, anchored fore-and-aft, a floating battery, another man-of-war lying just beyond her. Guarding the anchorage, the ships which were the Dey's lifeblood. “You know what to do, yes?”

He realised that Jago had remained silent. He looked at him, his ears cringing to yet another tremendous explosion, and saw the expression he had come to recognise since that day when they had settled on a handshake.

Jago said flatly, “My place is 'ere. With you.” He saw Lieutenant Varlo hurry past with a party of seamen. “Let 'im go!”

Adam contained his sudden anger. “I did not hear that, Luke.” He waved his hand towards the anchored ships. “That schooner is our weapon. The wind is right. Boat action, over quickly. Trust me.”

Jago touched the double-bladed weapon at his belt. “Burn the bastards out, before they can cut an' run.”

Adam nodded. “Or get amongst the fleet. Some of our ships will be in a bad way by now.”

Jago frowned, his eyes elsewhere. Recalling another battle perhaps.

He said shortly, “Gig
an'
jolly-boat. Might leave you short-'anded.” He glanced at somebody below the rail. “Some still wet behind the ears. If you gets boarded . . .” He looked at him and shrugged. “You command,
sir.
” Adam felt his limbs shaking. Not fear. It was worse. The madness.
Just being here.
It made no sense, and never would.

Jago was staring around, already seeking faces, names. “I'm ready.”

He swung himself down the ladder, his eyes still lifted to the quarterdeck, to the helmsmen barely moving as the sails filled again to the wind. Even that was full of acrid smoke. And when you looked astern it seemed the whole fleet had been swallowed up in it, broken here and there by flashes of gunfire, and the lasting patterns of burning timbers. Like a scene from hell.

This deck was quiet by comparison: Cristie beside his small rigged table, his eyes moving restlessly from masthead pendant to compass, from individual sails to his master's mates and assistants, Midshipman Deighton at the flag locker, Bellairs waiting to make more sail, and the marines in position behind the hammock nettings, their only protection when the time came.

Jago said, “Watch yer back, sir.” Then he was gone.

More flashes darted through the smoke. From the anchorage this time. Adam winced as iron thudded into the lower hull. Not dangerous. He tried not to move, or to wipe his face. Even the slightest change in behaviour might be seen as doubt, or loss of confidence.

The frigate which was anchored fore-and-aft fired again, but the shots were haphazard, the gun crews perhaps confused by the spreading barrier of smoke. Adam crossed to the side and looked for the brig. She was holding on station. It was only too easy to close on one another, if only for a false sense of security.

He heard Cristie say, “That's the same ship, sir! No Yankee colours this time, God rot him!”

Adam felt someone beside him. It was Napier, his eyes defiant as if he expected the worst.

But Adam said only, “Stay with me, David. Get down if I tell you.” He saw the youth nod, and then bite his lip as he took the weight on his injured leg.

“The surgeon said . . .”

Adam gripped his shoulder. “I can imagine what he said— much as he did to me, I have no doubt!”

Some seamen at the quarterdeck nine-pounders watched and nudged one another. The captain passing the time of day with his servant, as if they were still at Plymouth. It could not be that bad.

Galbraith was here. He looked very alert, no more time left for mistakes.

“Ready, sir. I'm taking Rist as my second-in-command—he's a good hand. Williams has made up the charges. I already know what he can do!”

Adam did not look away as a ragged broadside crashed and echoed across the anchorage.

Bellairs exclaimed, “
Halcyon
's hit, sir!”

Adam shut it from his mind and concentrated on Galbraith. A good officer who was used to taking risks. Who was about to lay his life on the line yet again. Who wanted his own command, and was watching
Halcyon
's fore-topmast stagger and then pitch down into the water alongside. As if he was seeing his own ship under fire.

“I shall come about as soon as you slip the boats. If everything goes against us, then make your own way to the fleet. As you see fit, Leigh. I already know what
you
can do, too!”

Galbraith touched his hat and ran lightly down the ladder, shouting orders as he went. He paused only once, to stare across at
Halcyon
as she was raked by another full broadside. Then he, too, was gone.

Adam saw Partridge turn and wave his arm; the boats had cast off, and they were already pulling like madmen towards the anchorage.

He measured the distance as if he were studying a giant chart.

Varlo would remain up forward to direct the guns when
Unrivalled
came about. That inner voice persisted.
If the wind holds.
He could also be called to command if the worst happened and the quarterdeck became a bloody shambles. He looked around, at Bellairs with the afterguard, Captain Luxmore with Sergeant Bloxham and his marines. He had already sent his lieutenant, Cochrane, to cover and protect the carronade crews on the forecastle. He saw Midshipman Deighton staring at him over his signal locker, and his unexpected smile when Adam tossed him a casual wave. Casual? It was like raising the dead.

“Stand by on the quarterdeck!”

Cristie was waiting, slightly hunched as if anticipating a stray shot. Beside him the boy Ede, who had been spared the rope for an attempted murder, made an unlikely companion on the threshold of battle. Cristie had proclaimed that none of his navigational equipment had ever been in such good hands. It was praise indeed.

He counted seconds, all else but the narrowing triangle of smoke-hazed water thrust aside.

Another quick glance aloft: the masthead pendant was lifting and falling as before. But steady. The wind held.

His hand had found the folded note he had crammed into his breeches pocket.

Lowenna.
In the old Cornish tongue it meant “joy.”

He swallowed, but his mouth was dry.
So it will be.

“Ready ho! Put the helm down!”