Relentless Pursuit

by Alexander Kent

  He heard the small squad of Royal Marines which had accompanied the recruiting party, voices loud and untroubled in the other “long room.” Corporal Bloxham would make certain that none of his men got drunk or misbehaved; he had an eye for such things. He was the detachment’s crack shot. Galbraith recalled that last hour aboard the Triton’s scarred and bloodied deck, the captain trying to assist his servant, who had been hit by a wood splinter, and unable to reach the enemy commander who was aiming to kill him.

  Like a little tableau, the injured boy cradled in Bolitho’s arms, the old sword pointing impotently across the deck, and then Bloxham, quite calm, as if he had been on the range somewhere with his faithful musket.

  Yes, Corporal Bloxham would keep an eye on things. He would be thinking of a sergeant’s stripes before too long.

  He stared around the low-beamed room, with its smoke-stained pictures and pieces of polished brass. He sighed. One more stop and it was over. He glared at the empty glass. A bloody waste of time. Three men; one man and two boys was closer to the truth. Waste of time.

  The door banged open and he tried to relax his mind and body.

  There was something about Lieutenant George Varlo which seemed to unsettle him. He scarcely knew him, and accepted that that was mostly his own fault, and yet . . . Varlo was alert, keen-eyed, efficient. Very light on his feet, like a dancer or one used to matching swords for pleasure, or in earnest. Fair hair, short and fastidiously kept, like his clothing: the perfect officer. Galbraith was not normally an intolerant man, but Varlo made him feel clumsy and awkward in almost everything.

  Maybe it was because he had served as flag lieutenant to some senior officer. Or maybe you were chosen because of those qualities? But he considered George Avery, who had died when they had boarded the enemy, and his own words to Captain Bolitho. I think he knew he was going to die. He had given up the will to live. No, not like Avery at all . . .

  Varlo glanced around, a small smile on his lips. “I’ve told Mr Rist to watch the others until we’re ready to move.”

  Galbraith said, “Rist knows what to do!” He was being stupid. Unfair. How could Varlo know what Rist, the best master’s mate in the ship, was like? How, on that day when they had launched a boat attack amongst the islands, Rist had been a tower of strength, even when they had landed on the wrong beach.

  The landlord had reappeared. “A glass, zur?”

  Varlo shook his head. “Later.”

  Galbraith said, “I will.” He sensed the man’s resentment and added sharply, “Just what I needed.”

  He made another attempt. “The next place is in Market Jew Street.” He opened his notebook. “Must have had a Jewish community at some time.”

  Varlo studied him, amused. “Actually, no. It’s the old Cornish tongue, marhas you, which means Thursday Market.” The smile widened. “Or close enough!”

  Galbraith said curtly, “I didn’t know.”

  Varlo shrugged elegantly. “Why should you? Not really our concern, is it?”

  There were shouts and cheers from the street. The army recruiting sergeant was returning to his barracks with his haul. Probably too drunk to know what they had done.

  He said, “We might have better luck tomorrow.”

  Varlo said directly, “You’ve been with Unrivalled since she was first commissioned? With her captain, too?” The little smile again. “A Cornishman, no less.”

  “Yes.”

  “What is he like? One hears so many things, as you well know, but if we are to be away from England and the fleet, it is sensible to be prepared.”

  He was goading him, drawing him out into the open, and enjoying it.

  Galbraith said, “The best captain I’ve yet served. He has high standards, and expects them acted upon.” He tried to smile, to put it in perspective. “Even from Cornishmen.”

  Varlo nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you for the warning. If it was so intended.”

  Rist, the master’s mate, peered in at them. “Ready, sir!”

  Galbraith picked up his hat and straightened his sword against his hip. Varlo probably had some influence behind him. A flag lieutenant, and now appointed to a fine frigate when so many were being laid up. Influence. With a view to getting a command of his own? He nodded his thanks to the innkeeper. Like me.

  He felt the salt air on his lips. Back to sea. He was eager to leave.

  Adam Bolitho ran his hand along the smooth, cold stone of the sea wall, worn away by every sort of weather. Peace or war, it made no difference here.

  He felt for his watch and remembered, and thought of the boy who had asked his permission to keep the pieces after the musket ball had smashed it to fragments. It had saved his life. The little mermaid.

  Tomorrow they would be leaving here. It was not the voyage to West Africa which disturbed him, or the countless demands and challenges of a ship still undermanned.

  It was not that. He had held a command since he was twenty-three. He was prepared for most difficulties.

  Tomorrow was the problem. Leaving here, where he had been born and brought up by the woman whose name he had touched in the church. A place where he had learned to take care of himself, even as a child, and yet he had never considered it his home. Falmouth, and the great house which was now his by right, no matter what legal arrangements still had to be made, was home, Falmouth and the ocean, wherever it beckoned him.

  But not today. With Unrivalled at sea again he would find time to laugh at himself and his sentimentality. It happens, sir. He thought of Jago’s words at the church. It’s the way of things. He was down there mustering the gig’s crew now, and probably questioning his own decision to stay on as coxswain. If he had ever stopped doing so.

  He sighed. Galbraith would be returning very soon. They would share a glass once they were aboard. He thought of the cases of wine from the address in St James’s Street, Catherine’s gift when Unrivalled had been commissioned. A lifetime ago.

  He heard Jago’s footsteps on the stone stairs. It was time.

  But Jago shook his head. “Thought I’d better come and tell you, sir. There’s a gentleman who wants to see you.” He added bluntly, “Insists, more like.”

  Adam bit his lip. Another one, like the crippled ex-topman and the spectre on the moored hulk. Too many reminders.

  Jago watched him grimly. “He’s in the coastguard post yonder, sir. I can tell him to shove off, if you like.”

  “No. I’ll come.”

  The room was almost dark, a fire dying in the grate.

  Adam stepped into a patch of light from the solitary window and said, “I understand, sir . . .”

  The figure sitting by the window was round-shouldered, portly; there were small gold spectacles propped on his forehead.

  Adam held out both hands. “Daniel Yovell! Of all people!”

  Yovell got to his feet and came to him, dropping his spectacles into place with the gesture Adam remembered. A man of learning, who lived with and by his Bible, once his uncle’s clerk and then his secretary and friend. Catherine’s, too.

  Yovell said, “When you visited Falmouth I was away on business in Bodmin. I only heard when I returned there. Bryan Ferguson was very upset that your stay was curtailed. There was so much, you see . . .” He did not continue.

  “It is good to see you, old friend.” Even that reminded him again of Allday.

  “I heard that your ship was calling here. You know how news travels, sir, especially amongst sailors.”

  Anybody less seamanlike was hard to imagine. Stooped, devout and gentle, Yovell had been one of Sir Richard’s little crew, as he had called them. He had been given a cottage adjoining the big house and had become a great help to Ferguson, the estate’s one-armed steward. Another veteran.

  “How can I help you?”

  Yovell smiled, and it was like a cloud clearing from the sun.

  He said, “I have a letter for you. I fear it has taken its time finding its way to Falmouth.”

  Adam took it,
seeing the marks and the official signatures. From Catherine.

  “I thought to send it across by the boat, but I judged it best to see you first.”

  Adam turned the letter over in his hands. She hadn’t forgotten.

  Jago was still standing by the door, arms folded, face expressionless. Yovell regarded him sternly. “This fellow said I should take cover in here, better for one of my age, indeed!”

  Jago grinned. “No disrespect, sir!”

  Adam turned, angered by the interruption. Galbraith was shouting to his men, and there were other voices, loud and excited.

  Jago said patiently, “I was about to say, Cap’n. We seem to have gathered some recruits. Volunteers!”

  Yovell was watching him, his eyes both warm and sad. “I meant no harm. But these men came across in the packet from Falmouth. With me.”

  “Do I know any of them?”

  “Perhaps not. All of them served under Sir Richard.”

  “My God.” Adam looked past him, knowing, understanding what it must have cost Yovell, a man closer to his uncle than almost any one.

  And now there was a letter from the woman who had loved him.

  He said, “I shall go out to them,” and walked blindly across the familiar cobbles. Like part of a dream. The lifeline.

  Yovell polished his spectacles with a handkerchief and remarked, “It seemed the thing to do, you see. The letter gave me the idea.” He didn’t add that Allday had known nothing about it.

  Adam came back, inexplicably disturbed and moved. Hard hands reaching out as he had passed among them, tattoos and weathered faces, every one a prime seaman.

  It was as if he had known all of them, but in his heart he knew that they had seen and heard another Bolitho when he had spoken to them.

  He said quietly, “That was a fine thing you did.” And to Jago, “Gig ready?”

  Jago nodded. “Say the word, sir.”

  Adam looked at the round-shouldered man who, in his own quiet way, had changed everything.

  “Will you stay in Penzance a while?”

  Yovell shrugged, and seemed almost apologetic.

  “I have some things with me, sir. I had heard that you lost your clerk recently, so I thought I would offer my services until something better presents itself.” He was smiling, but there was no doubt of his sincerity. His need.

  “Are you sure, man? She’s no ship of the line, you know!”

  Yovell said severely, “I was Sir Richard’s clerk before becoming his secretary. I can adapt, even for one of my age.”

  Jago picked up the newcomer’s chest and followed them out into the keen air. He had seen his captain’s face when those men had crowded around him, as if it was the start of some big and glorious venture, just as he had seen it in that church nearby.

  He was reminded of the handshake which, for him, had decided things. And he was glad of it.

  Adam rested his hand on the breech of one of the eighteen-pounders which shared his quarters and sensed the movement under his palm. Something he had never grown used to, never truly accepted, that a ship was alive and responding in her own way.

  He shook his head, dismissing the notion, and glanced around the cabin. Young Napier had been busy; there was nothing lying about, everything was in its place.

  How many in Unrivalled’s company were feeling regret and anxiety, he wondered. It was easy to laugh it off, for the old hands to brag about it after a few tots of rum on their messdecks. But that was then. Unrivalled was ready to leave. Alive.

  The wind had backed a little, which might allow some of the new men time to become accustomed to the complications of getting under way. You never forgot the first time. Everyone else seemed to know exactly what was expected of him.

  He heard the shrill of a call; the ship was restless, straining at her cable, her fully laden hull matched against the men labouring at the capstan bars. Yes, there would be a few faint hearts on this cold December forenoon.

  He stood away from the gun as if he had heard someone speak, and patted his worn, seagoing coat to make certain he had everything he needed, and glanced at the small desk where he kept his personal log book. He had placed Catherine’s letter carefully between its pages to press out the wear and tear of its journey.

  My dear Adam. He could hear her voice, had tried to picture her writing it. How she felt, what she was doing. How she looked.

  She had mentioned George Avery, and had thanked him for writing to her of his death. She had touched only briefly on its effect on Sillitoe, Avery’s uncle.

  But it was clear enough; she was with Sillitoe. She had spoken of his strength, his protection, and that she was accompanying him on some business venture.

  Adam was still surprised by his own foolishness, his naïveté. After what she had endured, the grief and the enmity, it was a wonder she had written at all.

  He half-listened to the sudden thud of feet overhead, the shouts as a petty officer chased some confused newcomer to his right station. They would learn. They had to.

  He recalled the dry wording of his final orders.

  You are to repair in the first instance to Freetown, Sierra Leone, and avail yourself of the latest intelligence concerning the forts and settlements on that coast. You will reasonably assist the senior officer of the patrolling squadron in whatever way you consider conforms with these said orders.

  But on passage Unrivalled would call into Funchal, Madeira, to replenish stores, and perhaps make more sense out of such vague instructions.

  The slave trade was a fact, although banned officially by Britain. A felony, to the delight of the anti-slavery movement in Parliament and elsewhere.

  A show of strength, then. He wondered how Galbraith and the others regarded it. They were safe, lucky to be employed; they had seen that for themselves in Plymouth and Penzance.

  For the practical ones, like Cristie, the master, it was all a matter of sea-miles logged, favourable winds and faith in the stars. To Tregillis the purser, it was food, drink, and a minimum of waste for every one of those miles, with enough left over for emergencies.

  He plucked at his shirt and felt the locket against his skin. The bare throat and shoulders, the high cheekbones . . . it was over because it had never begun. Nor would it. They might never meet again. Perhaps she only truly existed in this locket.

  Napier came in from the sleeping quarters, careful, he noticed, to walk lightly on the restless deck.

  He could see it now. The boy on Triton’s deck, falling with a jagged splinter deep in his thigh like some obscene dart. Triton was like many Dutch vessels; her builders had used a lot of teak, something hated by English sailors. The splinters were known to poison and cause gangrene to spread at an alarming rate. Even O’Beirne had been troubled about it, and had wanted to put the boy ashore at Gibraltar where he might have received better attention.

  Napier had insisted that he wanted to stay with the ship. He had suffered for it, and would carry the scars of O’Beirne’s surgery until his dying day.

  O’Beirne had said severely, “You’ll always have a limp, my boy!”

  Napier had been equally stubborn. And he seemed to be overcoming his limp.

  Adam had written to the boy’s widowed mother. She should be proud of the child she had allowed to be signed on without, it seemed, much hesitation.

  He touched the locket again and carefully released it. Catherine had sent no address. It was as if she simply needed him to know that she was there. Like the day at the memorial service at Falmouth, when Galbraith had asked to join him.

  He looked at Napier. “It’s time.” He had heard the muffled chimes of eight bells, and beyond it the slow, regular clank of the capstan pawls.

  He thought of the men who had come with Yovell to sign on. How were they now?

  And Yovell himself. He had settled down as if he had never left the sea. He was sharing a tiny cabin space which also served as a store for the purser’s records with Ritzen, the purser’s assistant, a Dutchman wh
o had played an unlikely but vital part in discovering the role and purpose of Triton in that last battle. Adam sensed that Yovell had needed to get away from his hard-won security, if only to hold on to something far more precious.

  Napier said, “Can I come up with you, sir?”

  Adam smiled. “Regrets?”

  The youth thought about it, his face serious. “My place, sir.”

  They walked through the screen door, where the marine sentry was already stiffly at attention, and probably wishing he was on deck with his mates.

  Adam touched his hat to the figures by the quarterdeck rail and looked at the slowly revolving capstan; its twin would be keeping time below decks. The fiddle was going, the shantyman beating time with his foot, his voice all but lost in the creak and rattle of blocks and rigging.

  They were all here, Cristie with his master’s mates, Galbraith by the rail, and young Bellairs at the foot of the towering main-mast. Here the marines, their coats very bright in the hazy light, waited with the afterguard to control the mizzen sheets and braces. The simplest mast in the ship, all they were any use for, as the old Jacks proclaimed. And right forward, one arm outstretched and dwarfed by the beautiful figurehead, was the new lieutenant, Varlo, watching the jerk of the incoming cable.

  And young Midshipman Cousens with the big signals telescope turned toward the land. He was Bellairs’ successor, and the next obvious candidate for promotion when the opportunity offered itself. If he was lucky.

  Adam nodded to Galbraith. “The wind’s steady. Stand by.” He even recalled his own words that day before the fight. Trust me. So many times.

  Another midshipman’s voice. That was Martyns, the one who had been with Jago in the gig.

  “Anchor’s hove short, sir!” Repeating Varlo’s call from the beakhead, his voice broke in a shrill squeak.

  Adam saw one of the helmsmen glance away from the flap-ping masthead pendant just long enough to grin at his companion.