Relentless Pursuit

by Alexander Kent

  It was a sail. Maybe two masts, but not very large. He was already losing it in the clinging heat haze. He bit his lip. They were getting a better share of the wind than Unrivalled, that was certain.

  A waste of time. But there had to be a reason.

  “Get the t’gallants on her now.” He stared up, surprised as the maintopsail writhed and then banged away from its yard. Wind. Like an omen. He heard the creak of steering gear and saw one of the helmsmen turn to grin at his companion.

  “That’s woke ’er up, Ted!”

  Adam walked to the opposite side, his mind busy with the frugal intelligence at his disposal. An explosion. Only the one. And yet a vessel was standing away from whatever had caused it. Fear or guilt? There was nothing to choose.

  He knew that Cristie was watching him. Thinking of that last time when his captain had taken this ship through a channel which was scarcely known. Adam often thought about it. Holding his breath while Unrivalled’s great shadow had risen inexorably from the sea bed for a final embrace.

  A terrible risk, and Galbraith would remember it better than anyone. It had saved his life that day.

  He glanced at the ensign as it curled away from the peak. It would not last. But while it did . . .

  Deighton yelled down again. “Deck there!” He seemed to falter. “Something in the water, sir! Same bearing!”

  “What the hell does he think he’s doing?” Varlo had arrived.

  Adam cupped his hands and waited as the sudden flurry of wind through canvas and shrouds eased into a sigh.

  “Tell me. Take your time.” Somehow he knew it was Sullivan up there. It was his watch, but he would have been there anyway. Would have known. The seaman who had fought at Trafalgar under Our Nel, and who was still working on a fine model of his old ship, the Spartiate. Strange how one thought linked to the other. Spartiate was a French prize taken by Nelson at the Nile, seven years before Trafalgar. His uncle’s last flagship, Frobisher, had been a prize too. Did ships feel it . . . ?

  “Deck there!”

  Adam stared up at the mainmast, seeing the midshipman’s struggle, his efforts to remain calm.

  “Some wreckage, sir. Very small, and . . .”

  Adam said quietly, “Tell me. Between us!” He did not realise he had spoken aloud, nor did he see Galbraith’s look of compassion.

  “Blood, sir.”

  Cristie said, “How could it be? Even with a glass he could never see . . .” He broke off as his senior mate Rist retorted harshly, “He would, you know, if there’s enough of it!”

  Adam folded his arms. “Mr Cousens, go aloft and bring him down.” He held the signals midshipman’s eyes. “With care, do you understand?”

  He did not turn. “Take in the t’gallants, Mr Galbraith, and have the jolly-boat made ready for lowering.” He counted the seconds and said, “Go yourself, Leigh.”

  Then he crossed to the quarterdeck rail and stood beside the sailing master.

  “I shall take every care, Mr Cristie.” He tried to smile. “But put a good leadsman in the chains if it will help to ease your mind.”

  All the unemployed hands turned to watch as Midshipman Deighton jumped down from the shrouds and walked across to his captain.

  Adam said, “You did well, Deighton. Now tell me the rest. In your own time.”

  He saw Jago by the hatch. He would know what to do.

  The midshipman said, “I—I thought it was the sea, sir, changing colour. But it was spreading, and spreading.” He looked at the water, unable to believe it. “It was all alive, sir.” He dropped his head and said in a small voice, “Sullivan said they were sharks, sir. Hundreds . . .”

  Jago was here, guiding the youth to a fire bucket, roughly and without sympathy.

  “Here, spew into this!”

  Deighton would have cracked if he had offered gentleness.

  It seemed to take an eternity, the ship gliding through the offshore current with scarcely a ripple beneath her stem. And all the while the sea seemed to open up across the bows, stained in drifting patterns of pink with tendrils of darker red reaching up like weed to wander amongst the surface litter of flotsam. Broken spars, an upturned boat, planks and scraps of canvas, most of which were charred.

  And in the centre, as if there by accident, was a drifting hatch cover, and on it a human figure, stretched out, staring at the sun, as if crucified.

  Varlo said thickly, “Must be dead too!”

  And then Partridge, the boatswain, abrupt, angry. “Don’t say that, sir! Th’ poor devil wears your coat!”

  Adam said, “Heave-to, if you please. Mr Varlo, take over the watch. Stand by to lower the jolly-boat. Lawson, pick your crew, don’t waste time asking for volunteers! It’s running out!” He glanced over the nettings and saw the sea come alive again as two sharks or more broke surface, somehow lithe and graceful. Obscene in their frenzy.

  He knew Midshipman Deighton was watching, nodding as if to reassure Jago, or himself.

  Their eyes met and Adam smiled. He was sickened by it, but it was important, perhaps vital for this youth who would one day be a King’s officer. And would remember.

  Unrivalled came unsteadily into the wind, her sails scarcely flapping in protest, as if she was glad to be standing away from the invisible murders. Adam barely heard the boat pulling away from the quarter but saw Galbraith standing in the sternsheets, one arm out-thrust, leaning over to speak with Lawson the coxswain.

  Then he took a glass and levelled it with care. The jolly-boat, Galbraith’s head and shoulders leaping into focus, one of the oars-men squinting in the glare as he lay back on his loom. Then past and beyond, the small pieces of flotsam, and the hatch cover. Even as he watched he saw a shark thrusting against it, lifting it slightly in an effort to pitch the inert figure into the water. Partridge was right. The man was wearing a lieutenant’s coat, like seeing yourself. Someone gave a gasp as the figure let his arm slip to the edge of the hatch cover. Another exclaimed, “ ’E’s alive!”

  The shark surged against the cover again, the cruel crescent-shaped mouth starkly visible in the telescope lens.

  A last hope or some lingering instinct, who could tell after what he must have seen and endured? But he moved his arm again, so that the shark scraped past, lashing at the misty water, turning instantly for another attack.

  Adam lowered the glass and wiped his forehead. It was as if he had just climbed from the sea himself. The jolly-boat was there, the sole survivor already manhandled across the stroke oars-man to the sternsheets.

  Adam heard the surgeon’s deep tones as he gave instructions to his assistants.

  He moved to the compass box, his feet dragging on the melting pitch.

  Perhaps they would discover what had happened, and why.

  He shook himself impatiently. “When we recover the boat, you may bring her back to her original course.” He glanced at the curling masthead pendant and saw Sullivan framed against the empty sky, looking down at him.

  Adam raised his hand in a slow salute. Then turned towards Cristie again.

  The rest would have to wait. The ship came first.

  Cristie watched and was satisfied. For a short while he had been troubled; now it was past.

  The captain was himself again.

  And the ship came first.

  Denis O’Beirne, Unrivalled’s surgeon, had already rolled up his sleeves, and was gesturing unhurriedly as if to impress the need for care rather than haste.

  Adam stood in one corner of the sickbay as the loblolly boys carried the survivor to the table, their faces intent but devoid of expression. They were hardened to it. They would not survive otherwise.

  He hated the sounds and smells of this place; it was something he had never grown used to, in any ship. He had known men pray and plead to be left on deck to die after being wounded in battle, anything, rather than face the saw and knife on the orlop.

  He half-listened to the sounds from overhead, muffled and somehow remote. Galbraith was in c
harge now, bringing the ship round to catch the feeble offshore airs. He had said quickly, “Name’s Finlay, sir. Lieutenant in the Paradox. He was in charge of a prize crew aboard a slaver. He kept losing track of it, delirious. I don’t think he knew what was happening when we pulled him on board.”

  Adam watched O’Beirne’s hands, deft, busy, like extensions to his mind. A big man, awkward in many ways, but his hands were small, and very strong.

  The figure on the table could already be dead, one arm hanging over the side as on the hatch cover which had saved him. Skin badly burned, a livid bruise on his forehead where he had been struck down.

  Adam forced his brain to examine the few, bare facts at his command. Paradox was one of the anti-slavery schooners. For a few seconds he wondered why the name seemed familiar, then it came to him. She had been mentioned in Tyacke’s notes, as the vessel Commodore Turnbull had been using to visit the limits of the patrol area. She was small, so this lieutenant was likely her senior officer. A rich prize, then. But where was Paradox now? And why had the captured slaver been left unescorted?

  He heard a gasp and saw the man named Finlay trying to prevent O’Beirne’s assistants from removing his coat. Perhaps in his tortured thoughts it represented a last link, his only identity.

  O’Beirne was saying, half to himself, “A bad wound, left hip, knife. Deep, and infected.” He laid one hand on Finlay’s shoulder and said quietly, “Easy now, you’re among friends.” He nodded sharply to his men, and the uniform coat was removed.

  Then Finlay spoke, his voice quite strong.

  “Must tell the captain . . .”

  O’Beirne was watching his senior assistant, the instruments gleaming in the swaying lantern light like something evil.

  He said, “The captain is here now, as you speak!” He looked at Adam. “A few words, sir?”

  Adam approached the table and saw the man trying to focus his eyes, fighting to retain his senses.

  “My name is Bolitho. I command here.” He put one hand on the arm. The skin was cold, clammy.

  He was naked now, and Adam did not have to look around to know that the others had taken up their positions, ready to pin him down, to hold him still, no matter what. Only their shadows moved, leaping across the white-painted timbers like ghouls.

  The other man murmured vaguely, “New out here.” He tried again, pausing while a hand came out to dab his mouth with a wet cloth. “We ran down a slaver.” He groaned and moved his head from side to side. “Three days back, I—I can’t remember. The commodore was with us. We had struck it lucky!”

  “What happened after that?”

  “I took command. Boarding party, ten good hands, and young Mr Coles. His first attempt.” He closed his eyes tightly. “Paradox had to leave us. Can’t remember why. We were to make for Freetown as ordered.”

  O’Beirne remarked, “Not much longer, sir.”

  Adam glanced at him. “A minute.”

  Finlay said suddenly, “Then we saw this other vessel closing with us. A brig. Spanish colours. Nothing unusual about that.” He was remembering, seeing it. “Then she ran up a black flag and ran out her guns. I had the slaver’s crew locked up and under guard, but poor Coles must have got careless. They broke out and attacked my people. It was over in minutes.”

  Adam felt the men tense around him and saw O’Beirne reaching into his bag. He persisted, “The slaves, what happened to them?”

  Finlay let his head fall back on the table, his eyes suddenly dull. Defeated.

  “There were over two hundred of them. Most were in manacles, we couldn’t spare the time to free them. But they knew they were saved. Some of them used to sing about it.”

  Adam realised that the eyes were now looking directly into his.

  “They must have sighted your tops’ls, Captain Bolitho. I was helpless.” He attempted to touch his side, and perhaps knew for the first time that he was being held motionless. “They slaughtered my lads there and then. Young Coles took longer. Even out there on that raft, I thought I could hear him screaming. Like a girl being tortured, I thought. They must have thought me dead. Then there was an explosion. They’d planted charges before abandoning her. Then I was in the water. I think somebody pulled me on to the raft. I—I can’t remember. And there were sharks. As the slaver went down I heard them screaming. It’s shallow there. The sharks would get them before they drowned, poor bastards!”

  He did not speak again, or resist as a leather strap was forced between his teeth, and the knife showed itself for the first time.

  Adam walked from the sickbay and thought of the unknown midshipman who had been tortured to death, and the seamen who had been killed like pigs in a slaughterhouse. And he thought of Midshipman Deighton, who had seen it. The great, spreading stain, to mark where over two hundred helpless captives had been torn apart.

  They would never know who Finlay’s unseen rescuer had been. He had probably been taken by the sharks too.

  He heard Finlay’s strangled cry, and wanted to go back to him. To tell him that he and his men would be avenged.

  Instead he went on deck, his mouth raw, as if he had vomited like Deighton.

  Everything was as before. A glance aloft told him that the yards were braced to hold the breeze, but the ensign was scarcely lifting.

  Galbraith stood by the larboard ladder, but made ready to move when his captain appeared. Nobody looked at him, but Adam knew they saw his every emotion.

  Napier, the cabin servant, was waiting with Jago. The boy hesitated and then moved towards him, a tray held carefully in one hand, a clean cloth covering it.

  “That was thoughtful, David.” He did not notice Napier start at the use of his first name.

  It was a glass of white wine, kept almost cool somewhere in the bilges. Until now.

  He looked at Galbraith and shrugged. “They were all killed.”

  Then he tilted the glass, his eyes blinded by the sun, or something stronger which he could no longer control.

  He saw O’Beirne’s heavy figure climbing the quarterdeck ladder, peering around as he always did when he visited this place of command. Different from the man in the sickbay, with the strong and steady hand. His world apart.

  O’Beirne said, almost casually, “Lost him, I’m afraid, sir. I don’t know how he stayed alive as long as he did.” He spat out the word. “Poisoned. Deliberately, if I’m any judge.” He turned only briefly as the sailmaker and one of his loblolly boys crossed the main-deck together. A burial then. The corpse well weighted for a swift passage down into eternal darkness.

  He added softly, “Just before the end he looked up at me.” He smiled, and it made him appear intensely sad. “Right at me, and he asked, where were you?” He shook his head. “Then he died.”

  Who had he meant? His own captain? This ship? Adam turned abruptly and stared astern. The sea was smooth again. The stain was gone.

  Perhaps he was speaking for them.

  At dusk the masthead sighted a sail to the east. It was Paradox. At daylight tomorrow they would speak.

  But before that, with the purple shadows of sunset suddenly upon them, they buried Lieutenant Finlay in the same ocean which had decided that he should remain the only witness.

  As he closed the prayer book Adam heard instead those other words, and knew he would never forget them.

  Where were you?

  Commodore Arthur Turnbull walked easily across the black and white checkered deck covering, pausing only to touch one of the beams above his head.

  “I relish the space, Bolitho, room to stand upright instead of ducking to save your skull! They become used to it in small vessels, I’m told.” It seemed to amuse him. “The drawbacks outweigh the advantages, I’d say.” He turned with his back towards the stern windows, the movement light and without effort, like his walk. “You did well, Bolitho. We’d have been totally ignorant but for your prompt action.”

  Framed against the dancing reflection and the glare from astern it was impossible to s
ee his face, gauge his attitude.

  Turnbull was younger than Adam had expected, or so he seemed. But he was a senior post-captain, and Tyacke had told him that prior to being appointed to Freetown he had been in command of a big three-decker. He had done well. But even in the short time since he had arrived on board Adam had sensed a restlessness, an impatience which was at odds with his air of self-assurance.

  Finlay, who had been buried the evening before, had been Paradox’s first lieutenant, the same age and rank as the commanding officer. Turnbull had listened carefully to the account of his rescue and subsequent death but had said only, “Paradox’s captain will miss the fellow. They were quite close, I believe. But there it is.”

  Adam had thought it strange that he had not been summoned to go aboard the topsail schooner, which was even now tacking slowly across Unrivalled’s quarter. A smart, well-handled vessel, and he could well imagine how two officers could become close and dependent on one another. Perhaps Turnbull preferred that this interview should be here, away from the eyes and ears of the men among whom he had lived on this last patrol. Certainly the last for Finlay and his boarding party.

  “The other ship, sir. A known slaver, perhaps?”

  Turnbull shrugged. “Could be one of three which I have in mind.” He did not elaborate. “Recaptured the prize and intended to take her inshore, where the cargo would be transferred to a larger vessel. As it is, nobody has gained anything, and we have lost a prize.” He sat down in a chair and crossed his legs, his eyes moving around the cabin again as if seeking something. “Your arrival on the station will carry some weight, Bolitho. Endless patrols are not enough. We must hit the slavers on their home ground. Destroy them before they make our efforts look like a useless campaign to save face in London.” He glanced at Napier as he walked carefully into the cabin with a tray and some glasses. The boy waited beside the desk, his eyes averted from the visitor.

  Turnbull said suddenly, “Of course, you have known Captain Tyacke for some time. In fact, he was your uncle’s flag captain?” He hurried on. “But he learned his skills out here too. I’d see him commodore when I leave, if their lordships would agree.” Again, something appeared to amuse him. “Tyacke is the only one I’ve met on this godforsaken station who seems at ease here!”