Relentless Pursuit

by Alexander Kent

  Apart from Lion Mountain, there was little to distinguish the shore from any of the other anchorages on the Windward Coast. Huddled white dwellings and some native huts by the water, with the unending backdrop of green scrub and forest which seemed to be waiting to reclaim its territory from the intruders. And the whole panorama appeared to be moving in a heat haze, dust too; you could feel it between your teeth, everywhere, even out here, in a King’s ship.

  To some of the newer hands it was still something of an adventure. Strange tongues, and the noise and bustle of harbour life, something completely alien to men from villages and farms in England.

  For others, the endless patrols were hated above all else. The monotony of handling salt-hardened canvas in blazing heat, again and again throughout each watch to contain the light tropical airs, and the periods of windless calm when men would turn on each other at the slightest provocation, with the inevitable aftermath of punishment. And always the fear of fever, something never far from a sailor’s thoughts along this unending coastline.

  A few could see beyond the discomfort and monotony. One was Kestrel’s captain.

  Standing now in his stern cabin, his body partially in shadow, he watched the haphazard pattern of harbour traffic with professional interest. Captain James Tyacke was used to it, even though his return to the anti-slavery patrols had been a fresh beginning. He touched the hot timbers. And in a new ship.

  Although classed as a fifth-rate, Kestrel had been prepared for her new role. A third of her heavier armament had been removed, to allow for more stores space and the extended sea passages she would be required to take. She carried a full complement, however, enough for excursions ashore when needed, and for prize-crews should they run down a slaver when the chance offered itself.

  Tyacke was an old hand at it. He had gained his first command, a little brig, when he had been pitting his wits against the slavers. He touched the mutilated side of his face, burned away like wax, with only the eye undamaged. A miracle, they had said at Haslar. That had been after the great battle at Aboukir Bay, Nelson’s resounding victory over the French fleet, which had destroyed Napoleon’s planned conquest of Egypt and beyond. The Battle of the Nile, it was called now, although most people had probably forgotten it, he thought. He could even do that without bitterness now, something he had once believed impossible. He touched his skin again. The legacy. It had earned him the nickname, “the devil with half a face,” among the slavers.

  It had been very different then. England had been at war, and the anti-slavery patrols had taken second place to everything else. Slavers had been active then, war or not, and justice had been swift, when you could catch them.

  Now, with the coming of peace, there were pious demands from the old enemies for stricter controls not only of slavery but also the administering of justice. Irrefutable proof of every crime. The word of a captain and his officers was no longer enough. So it took longer and it cost more money. They never learned.

  He stiffened as he saw a vessel moving, seemingly at a snail’s pace, towards the roadstead. A pyramid of pale canvas, each sail expertly braced to catch the air in this windless harbour.

  Going to England. He could think about that without regret, without questioning his motives.

  More to the point, she was carrying the recently appointed government agent who had been sent to Freetown to investigate and assess the navy’s anti-slavery activities. The climate had got to him almost immediately, and drink had done the rest; he would not live very long after the ship landed him in England.

  He glanced around his cabin. Spartan, some would call it, with little to hint at the character and the courage of Kestrel’s captain.

  The government agent had come aboard soon after his arrival. Tyacke could see him now. Concerned, sincere, probably genuinely interested in what he had been sent to discover. To pass back to some desk in London. At least their lordships of Admiralty, no matter what you thought of them, were usually content to leave it to the flag officer or captain in charge of the station in question. Not so with the civilian authority, the Foreign Office.

  Even trying to describe the area which was required to be under constant surveillance had been like talking to a block of wood. Just a handful of men-of-war like Kestrel, but relying for the most part on smaller vessels, brigs and schooners. The area extended from twelve degrees north of the Equator to some fif-teen degrees south. Even using a chart, he had been unable to make the agent understand, so he had described the navy’s patrol as being akin to sailing from the northern tip of Scotland down and through the Dover Strait and back up and around to the Clyde. He had made some impression, but he doubted if it would make much sense when it reached that desk in London.

  A needle in a haystack. Perhaps that was what appealed to him.

  He heard footsteps, firm and assured: John Raven, his second-in-command. Old for his rank, he had come up the hard way, from the lower deck. If they were good, there were none better. And John Raven was good.

  They had grown to respect one another more as individuals, men, rather than through the necessary division of ranks. If it was personal, it went no further than this cabin. Unlike some ships, where a captain’s habits and weaknesses would become common gossip in the wardroom and throughout the command. Raven had been married, but was no longer. He had served in brigs also, and was at ease in the cramped familiarity of smaller craft.

  And doubtless he knew his captain, how his face had been burned away at the Nile, how he had lost his girl because of it. And had found her again.

  He turned towards the door as the sentry called, “First lieutenant, sir!”

  Then I left her, for this.

  He smiled. “News, John?”

  Raven was strongly built, with a still young face, at odds with hair which was completely grey.

  “The guard-boat has just come alongside, sir. Seven Sisters is returning from patrol. They report the frigate Unrivalled making her final approach.” He hesitated, watching his captain’s blue eyes. It had been impossible at first not to stare at the terrible disfigurement, but he had noticed almost from the beginning of the commission that Tyacke seemed able to accept it. Carry it.

  The eyes were considering now. Seven Sisters was one of their brigs, but it was not that.

  “Unrivalled, sir. Forty-six guns.” He paused, but saw Tyacke’s expression soften.

  “Yes, I know her. She’s commanded by Captain Adam Bolitho.”

  He turned away to watch the guard-boat pulling strongly around the larboard quarter. They all said the navy was a family. Love it, hate it, damn it or die for it, it was still a family.

  Like that last time in England, when Kestrel had called at Falmouth. He had intended to call upon Catherine Somervell. He did not notice that he was touching his face again, nor that Raven was observing him, perhaps discovering something; he was thinking of the day when she had boarded his ship, and had kissed him, on this burned skin, in front of the whole company. And they had loved her for it. As I did.

  He was still not sure if he had been relieved that she had been away, in London, they had said. That neither of them would have been able to surmount it. The one thing which drew them together now forced them apart. The Happy Few.

  Now, another memory.

  But John Allday, Sir Richard’s coxswain, his oak, had come aboard in Falmouth. Had sat in that very chair where John Raven was standing. Bolitho had died in his arms on that day Tyacke could never forget.

  He spoke again, calmer now. “Sir Richard’s nephew. A fine officer.”

  They both looked up at the open skylight as a call trilled, and hands were piped to some new task on the forecastle.

  “I knew another frigate would be joining us.” He smiled. “Perhaps it’s time to stop running, eh?”

  Half an hour before sunset, Unrivalled dropped anchor.

  6 THE WITNESS

  DESPITE the heat, Unrivalled’s chartroom seemed almost cool, compared with the quarterdeck above.
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  Adam Bolitho waited by the table while the sailing master wrote a few more notes in his log.

  They had been on deck for the noon sights, but with the sun blazing down from almost directly above the mainmast truck it had been hard to concentrate. The same undulating green coastline, on and on, without any apparent change. Even the midshipmen with their sextants had been unusually subdued. Like sailing into nowhere.

  He watched Cristie’s strong brown hands, clumsy, most people would think. And yet his notes, like his carefully pencilled bearings and calculations, were fine, almost delicate. Adam sighed. It was as he had expected. They had logged some eight hundred miles since leaving Freetown, south-east, and then east again into the Gulf of Guinea. And it had taken them nearly nine days. Unrivalled had been designed to sail and fight in another sea, against the Americans with their powerful frigates, larger and better armed than most British ships. Unrivalled was fast under the right circumstances, and had more than proved her agility in close combat. But this . . . He clenched both fists and felt his shirt tug against his back like a wet rag. This snail’s pace was a test of endurance.

  He thought of his meeting with James Tyacke before receiving his orders to put to sea again. He stared at the chart, and wiped the sweat from his eyes to calm himself.

  He had expected to meet Tyacke, but he knew Unrivalled’s arrival had come as a surprise to the other captain, and he had recalled their reunion many times since they had quit Freetown. Warm but wary, some sentiment present which was stronger than perhaps he had realised.

  Tyacke had done his best to explain the immediate problems of the anti-slavery patrols, and had even provided some notes on the subject and about some of the other vessels and commanders Adam might encounter along the way. Tyacke made no secret of his displeasure at being kept in harbour. The station’s commodore, Arthur Turnbull, was at sea in one of the patrol schooners. It was his way, Tyacke said. He could not, apparently, accept the need to remain in Freetown, tied to a shore administration for which he was probably unsuited in any case.

  Adam had known several captains like that. Promoted suddenly to commodore or flag rank, something totally unexpected in most cases, they had still yearned for the separate and personal authority of command. A ship.

  So until Turnbull returned to Freetown, Tyacke was in charge.

  He obviously hated the prospect.

  There had been reports of several suspicious vessels in the area. A big ocean, but, as Tyacke had remarked, the landing points where slaves could be bargained for and then shipped out were known, even though some were almost inaccessible for anything bigger than a cutter.

  It had been brewing for months. Slaving captains were becoming more daring, and prepared to bargain against their own kind for one more rich cargo. Their ships were built for the purpose, designed for service in the light airs of these latitudes. Against them, the British fleet had older ships which had been constructed for the endless blockade of Ushant and all the French ports where ships of war might lie, and for riding out those heavy seas. A few ships like Unrivalled might tip the balance, and allow smaller craft to penetrate the rivers and lagoons and confront the slavers before they could reach open water, and run to the markets of Brazil and Cuba.

  Tyacke had said, “Diplomacy has many pitfalls, Adam. Good intentions and greed go hand in hand. And with Turnbull at sea, the acting governor seems unwilling to lift a finger!”

  And a new Crown Agent was expected at any time. An improvement?

  Tyacke obviously doubted it.

  “Let me get Kestrel back to sea, Adam. The diplomats can stew!”

  Adam realised that Cristie had said something.

  Cristie gave his twisted grin. “A few more days, sir. Five maybe, an’ we shall sight the island of St Thomas.” He tapped the chart and waited for Adam to lean over it. “The furthest leg of the patrol area. After that . . .”

  Adam nodded. “We shall return to Freetown.” He felt a drop of sweat splash on his hand. Even then, they might fail to make contact with the commodore. And then what? More orders?

  He tried to recall what Tyacke had written in his notes about St Thomas. A small Portuguese island right on the Equator. Barely twenty miles long. Insignificant. He straightened his back and frowned. But it had shipped many thousands of slaves, protected by the clause in the agreement which allowed Portugal to use her own ports to trade in human lives south of the Equator without interference. It was madness, and it was cruelly unfair. He shrugged, and said, “I wonder what will happen to our prize, the Albatroz?”

  Cristie did not blink. He was becoming used to the captain’s occasional disclosures, and his doubts. Strangely, it seemed to add to the man rather than the reverse.

  He had heard Lieutenant Varlo bragging about the brigantine they had taken into Freetown. The impression it would make.

  His mate Rist had said hotly, “A few manacles? It’ll take more than that to pin a charge on that bugger Cousens!”

  Cristie had hoarded that, too. Rist knew more than he realised. But he was probably right. With bounty being offered for every slave freed and recovered, a captain and his ship’s company could be expected to share among them a purse which ranged from sixty pounds for a male slave to ten pounds for a child. But the prize court would require more than a few irons or manacles as proof.

  It was all most of the sailors could think about.

  It was strange about Rist, he thought. He wanted to be a prize-master, the only way up the ladder for a man of his service and rank, but had returned from the Albatroz angry, troubled about something. It was unlike him. He was a good master’s mate, and a good friend when you needed one.

  In a man-of-war, that was most of the time.

  Adam did not notice the master’s amusement. He was looking at the open log, the notes and the observations, ship’s position and course, a man for punishment, an issue of grog. Unrivalled’s life story.

  But it was the date. Almost a year since his uncle had fallen. Tyacke must have been thinking of it too, but had said nothing.

  He felt the locket sticking to his skin. And Catherine.

  He crossed to an open port and stared at the unchanging pattern of land abeam. Misty in some places, hard and sharp in others. Were there eyes over there watching this ship, he wondered. Like the playful dolphins he had seen around Unrivalled’s slow-moving stem this morning, or the gulls which seemed too tired to leave the water as the ship had passed them by. The hot, unmoving air quivered very slightly. More a sensation than a sound. He straightened.

  “A storm, d’ you think?”

  Cristie turned. Bare feet thudded overhead as the watch on deck came alive. He studied the captain’s profile, and thought unexpectedly of his home on the Tyne. It was probably snowing there. Bitter too.

  But all he said was, “Gunfire, sir.”

  Lieutenant Galbraith strode to the larboard nettings and levelled the telescope he had just snatched from its rack by the compass box. He winced as the sun burned across his shoulders when he stepped out of the driver’s shadow. He had sent Midshipman Deighton clattering down the companion ladder, but knew in his heart that the captain would have heard the distant echoes.

  He ignored the buzz of voices nearby, speculation, a welcome break from the airless torpor of watchkeeping.

  He swore under his breath. The lens had misted over. The masthead lookout might see something. But it had been gunfire. Not heavy, but rapid. Now there was utter silence.

  He heard the captain’s voice now. He smiled to himself. No longer a stranger.

  “Bring her up a point, if she’ll take it. Mr Deighton, aloft with you and speak with the masthead.” He turned away and must have glanced at the serious-faced midshipman. “An extra pair of eyes won’t do any harm!”

  Galbraith cupped his hands. “Pipe the hands to the braces, Mr Partridge!”

  Cristie was here, too. “T’gallants, sir?” A question, or a gentle reminder; you could never be sure with the master.
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  Adam nodded. “Yes. Hands aloft. East-nor’-east.”

  Galbraith waited for the confusion to settle into a pattern. Topmen swarming up the shrouds like monkeys, marines at the mizzen braces. A master’s mate using his hat to deflect the glare from the compass so that the helmsmen could see it.

  “Helm a-lee!”

  The big double wheel creaked over, like everything else bone dry. Galbraith licked his lips and tried not to think of a tankard of ale in some impossible situation.

  He started, as another sound sighed against the hull. Just one. An explosion. A ship in trouble? On fire?

  Adam joined him by the nettings. “Too much haze coming offshore. And in any case . . .” He did not finish, as Deighton called down, “Deck there! Sail on the larboard bow, sir!” He paused; perhaps the lookout had told him something. Then, “Very fine on the bow, sir! Moving inshore!”

  Cristie said, “Not too smartly charted hereabouts. We’ll be close enough presently!”

  Someone else murmured, “I’ll bet the bastard knows it, too!”

  Galbraith accepted it. A few sounds, a vague sighting of a sail, probably quite small to be standing so close inshore. Not much to go on, and yet these men around him had already given it a form and personality. Somebody to hate.

  Adam took a glass and climbed into the shrouds again. The coastline was unchanged, moving slightly in the haze. No wonder men went mad in the desert. He forced himself to ignore the tarred cordage which was burning through his breeches like a furnace bar.