It was little enough to go on. Perhaps Captain Bolitho had summed it up when he had told him about the new orders.
“I’ll not be sorry to see the back of Freetown, Leigh. Let’s get to sea again!”
In his way, he had spoken for the whole ship.
8 DIRECT ACTION
CAPTAIN Adam Bolitho shaded his eyes to peer up at the flap-ping driver and the masthead pendant. He could feel the deck shudder as the rudder responded slowly to the thrust of wind, the helm creaking while the bare-backed seamen put their weight on the spokes.
“Hold her steady!” That was Cristie, his eyes flitting from compass to flapping topsails. “Nor’-east by north!”
Adam let his arms drop to his sides, his mind blurred by the heat, the slow response from the tall pyramid of canvas, and always, always aware of the monotonous coastline. The Gulf of Guinea again, and it had taken them nearly two weeks to work into position, a cross on the chart south of the Niger delta and some two hundred miles north of the notorious St Thomas Island, where slaves could be loaded and shipped with impunity once they had been brought from the mainland.
A handful of vessels, stretched across the approaches and the escape routes like the noose of a trap. On a chart it was easier to see Turnbull’s strategy. Tyacke’s Kestrel was in position to the east, Unrivalled on the western side, while in between, and trying to maintain contact with one another, were the brigs and schooners which made up the flotilla.
“Take the slack off the lee forebrace, Mr Fielding! Your people are like old women today!”
Galbraith’s voice, unusually sharp. Adam walked to the nettings and stared at the empty sea. It was even affecting his first lieutenant. The endless strain of wearing ship, altering course a degree or so throughout every watch, just to gain a cupful of wind. The seamen were responding well enough, but boredom, the barely edible food, salt pork or beef from the cask, and the need to conserve water were taking their toll. The usual water casks, where a man could snatch a mug or wipe his mouth to give an illusion of refreshment, were gone, and marine sentries were posted below decks to ensure that the daily ration was strictly observed.
Adam turned slightly to allow the warm breeze to fan his body through the open shirt. He wondered how the commodore was managing aboard the topsail schooner Paradox, “the flagship,” he had heard some of the older hands scornfully call it. No matter what shortages they had aboard Paradox, he imagined Turnbull always clean and smartly turned out.
He thought about Paradox’s captain also. Galbraith had discovered from someone or somewhere that his name was Hastilow, a lieutenant, and like many of his contemporaries on this station senior for his rank. He and Finlay, his second-in-command, had been together for two years. On this station that must be an eternity. Like brothers, Galbraith had heard. So like the navy, Adam thought; there was always someone who knew, or who had been told a piece of the whole story. Hastilow was also dedicated, as if the anti-slavery campaign had become something personal. It was not difficult to imagine how he would be feeling now.
He saw Lieutenant Varlo walking along the starboard battery of eighteen-pounders, gun by gun, with Williams, a gunner’s mate, at his side. He thought he saw Williams glance up at Galbraith as they passed. Williams was good, and with Rist had been on the island raid when the chebecks had been destroyed. They were closer than some of the others because of that. Unconsciously, he clenched a fist. When I risked this ship.
The helmsmen were being relieved, the last topmen sliding down backstays to the deck, their work aloft done. Until the next pipe.
Adam looked at the unending panorama of glittering water again. No wonder men driven to desperation had been persuaded by the ever-lurking devil to slake their thirst from the sea. He had seen two men die, mad and unrecognisable, after doing just that.
And there was always the other temptation. At night, when the ship offered a hint of cooler air, and the sounds were muffled by the cabin timbers, there was no law to prevent a captain from drinking too much in a different way, but one no less dangerous in the end.
And night brought other forms of torment. Lying naked in his cot, his limbs bathed in sweat, and unable to sleep, listening and interpreting every sound, no matter how small and unimportant. As if the ship were driving herself, indifferent to all the souls she carried.
And in sleep there were dreams, one in particular. The girl, beckoning and arousing him, sometimes speaking his name, reaching out. Mocking him. Only the faces remained blurred, uncertain. Zenoria or Catherine, neither of whom had ever been his to love, or even the desirable Lady Bazeley, Rozanne, who had taken and responded with a fierceness of passion which had surprised, perhaps shocked them both.
He thought of the little tablet in the church at Penzance. Or perhaps my own mother? At such times he had been thankful that Napier had taken to locking the cabinet where the cognac was stowed.
He paced slowly aft, his feet avoiding flaked lines and ring-bolts without conscious effort. He pictured his aunt, dear Nancy, reading the letter he had put ashore in Freetown. Trying to imagine what we are doing here, sharing it as she had done with others in her family. While we shall be tacking up and down, week in, week out. Going slightly mad, and wondering why we do it.
Or we might all be dead by the time she reads it.
“Deck there! Sail on the starboard bow!”
Men about to creep into the shadow of gangway or bulwark, or those who had just been relieved from trimming the great yards and now making for the mess-deck’s brief refuge, paused and stared up at the masthead.
Friend, enemy, prize or victim, it did not matter. They were no longer alone on this blistering ocean.
Adam returned to the quarterdeck rail.
“Must be looking for us, Leigh. She’d have run by now otherwise.” He was thinking aloud, only partly aware of the listening, watching faces, tanned or burned raw by the sun. “We shall alter course two points to starboard. It will make it easier for our friend to converge on us. He’ll be finding less wind than we have under our coat-tails at present.”
He grinned, and felt his lips crack as if the effort had drawn blood. But it was infectious.
Some wag called, “Moight be ’nother prize, Cap’n! Fair shares this toime!”
Others laughed and punched their friends’ arms, something which only seconds ago would have been answered with a genuine blow.
“Pipe the hands to the braces! We will steer nor’-east by east.”
Lines and halliards came alive, snaking through blocks as more men ran to their stations, their fatigue momentarily gone.
“Put up your helm! Now steady, lads! Handsomely does it!”
“Be ready to make our number!” That was Midshipman Cousens, very conscious of his position in charge of the signals party.
And just as quickly, “Belay that, Mr Cousens! Everyone will know this ship!” Lieutenant Bellairs, who such a short time ago had been a midshipman, doing Cousens’s work.
Adam saw the swift exchange, and felt it for himself. Pride. It never left you. Like Galbraith and young Napier, or the scarred and mutilated seaman who had come to see him at Penzance. Pride for Anemone, the ship which had done that to him, but had left him no less a man.
“Nor’-east by east, sir! Steady as she goes!”
Adam saw Cristie making some notes in his personal log. The lines meeting on a chart somewhere. It would probably amount to nothing. A few words on a page, soon forgotten.
A captain’s responsibility was total. He saw Cristie pause to look at him. The date, perhaps: had he remembered?
Adam resumed his pacing. All he could do was wait, then decide.
On this day, his beloved uncle had died.
He nodded to a seaman who was expertly coiling a halliard, although he did not notice his surprise.
He could still reach out. The hand was still there.
Luke Jago watched the jolly-boat being warped alongside, then turned to stare at the topsail schooner which lay h
ove-to down-wind of the frigate. The signal Captain repair on board had been hauled down in time with Unrivalled’s acknowledgment, and Jago was still fuming about it. The commodore’s broad-pendant shone like silk from Paradox’s masthead, and as Cristie remarked, “They could shout a message from there, damn them!”
Jago heard Galbraith calling to a boatswain’s mate, and knew the captain was coming up. Bloody Turnbull. Who the hell does he think he is? He had been surprised that the captain had shown neither surprise nor resentment at the signal. Jago looked at him now and was partly satisfied; he was wearing his old sea-going coat and had tied a neckcloth loosely into place. Jago smiled to himself. The commodore could think what he liked.
He said, “I could have the gig swayed out, sir.”
Adam smiled. “Take too long. Ceremonial can go too far!” He touched his hat to the side party and looked directly at Galbraith. “Maybe the waiting is over?”
The jolly-boat seemed to plunge into a deep trough as they cast off from the chains and the oars dipped for the first pull.
Adam twisted round to look at his ship. How large she appeared from the boat, the yards and flapping canvas blotting out the land completely. She never seemed so big when you shared her hull with some 250 seamen and marines.
He shifted on the thwart to study the other vessel. Smart, lowlying, rakish. A fine command for a young officer with one foot on the ladder. For one more senior, like Hastilow, it might appear very different.
“Bows!” Then Jago said under his breath, “I’ll be ready, sir.”
Their eyes met.
“Never doubted it.”
Hastilow was waiting to receive him as he clambered up and across the bulwark.
“Welcome aboard, Captain Bolitho.”
Hastilow’s eyes said the opposite. Tall and lean, even thin, with his lank brown hair tied back in the style still followed by some older sailors. But the eyes were very different, dark, almost black in the glaring sunshine, deepset and wary, as if on guard for something.
He added, “The commodore is below.” The slightest hesitation. “Sir.”
Each commanding one of His Majesty’s ships, and yet miles apart. The lieutenant and the post-captain. Schooner and fifth-rate. Usually it did not matter when men met like this. Here, it obviously did.
Adam followed the other officer aft, but glanced at the sailors working on deck, or waiting to trim the sails for getting under way again. All were so burned by the sun and wind that they could have been Africans. A large company for so small a vessel; for prize crews. And he could sense hostility, as if he was from another world which they had all rejected. They were probably remembering the men who had been butchered.
He could almost hear Finlay’s words. Where were you?
Below deck it was very dark, and Adam was reminded of the meeting with Herrick. The thick shutters, the narrow strips of sunlight, the remaining hand drumming on the table beside the tray of ginger beer.
The cabin was small, the deckhead low enough to make him stoop. There was one skylight, so that Commodore Turnbull appeared to be on display in the shaft of dusty sunlight. He was, Adam saw, as immaculately dressed as if he were in a ship of the line.
“A fortunate rendezvous, Bolitho.” He gestured to a bench seat; he even did that elegantly. “You came with all haste.” The eyes moved only slightly, but seemed to take in Adam’s thread-bare coat and soiled shirt. “Captain Tyacke is in position by now.” Without seeming to move he dragged a chart from another seat and laid it flat on the table. “Here, and here. As planned. Unrivalled will remain on station at the south-west approaches.” He tapped the chart to emphasise each point. “The slavers are there, in the delta as reported. Three vessels, maybe more. It’s a maze of channels and sandbars, safe for them, dangerous for a ship of any size.” He smiled gently. “But then, you’re aware of that?” He hurried on. “I intend to catch them before they can reach open water. They might try to withdraw upriver, of course. In which case it will take longer.” He looked around the dark cabin as if seeing it for the first time. “Hastilow’s fellows know their work well. They can outsail most slavers, and can use carronades to settle the majority of arguments.”
Adam bent across the chart, and studied the location where Unrivalled would mount guard, almost precisely as Cristie had described. A perilous place on a lee shore. Worse if you ran on to one of the sandbars.
Turnbull said, “You will anchor.”
Adam studied the chart again, wondering why Hastilow had not been asked to join them, in his own command.
Turnbull might have taken his silence for doubt.
He said, “Slavers know these inlets and beaches far better than we do. But once at sea, it is a different story. My latest information is that these vessels are to transport slaves to St Thomas, as I anticipated. There they will be transferred to a larger ship. But we will take them before that. None will escape, no matter which way they run.”
Adam leaned back, and felt the schooner moving around him. Eager to go.
He said, “They may sail at night.” Why had he stated the obvious? Giving himself time. Turnbull’s plan made sense. If the worst happened and they only seized one of the slavers, it would show others that the navy could and would take action on the doorstep, as Jago had put it.
Turnbull reached down and opened a cupboard. “I hope they do, but I doubt it. Hastilow thinks it will be at first light.” He lifted a bottle and two goblets from somewhere and looked questioningly across the table.
“Not Madeira, I promise you!”
Adam watched him pour two large measures. Cognac. So what was wrong? Confident, pleasant enough. He saw the beautiful cuffs, the glittering lace on the coat. The new navy emerging? He was younger even than Hastilow.
“Provided nothing changes before we can act, I intend to make an attack as close to dawn as possible.” He sipped his cognac. “At least we’ll not have to depend on this damnable wind!”
For a second or two Adam thought he had misheard.
“Landing parties, sir?”
Turnbull poured himself another drink. “You surprise me in some ways, Bolitho. A fellow with your record—I’d have thought you would be fully aware of such tactics.” He shook his head. “Direct action, that’s my belief!” He pushed the chart aside. “Hastilow understands. He’s cut out for the work, and he wants revenge.”
“A boat action, sir?” It was like hearing someone else’s voice.
Turnbull regarded him curiously. “You were hoping for something different, a sea-fight or a chase. A true frigate captain to the end!” He gave the soft chuckle again. “I shall need Unrivalled right enough, but the first blow will be dealt in amongst them. The brig Seven Sisters will be there, and Kittiwake in reserve.” He looked up, his eyes very steady. “I shall lead the attack in Paradox.”
Adam heard voices somewhere on deck, and pictured Jago in the jolly-boat, and the others in Unrivalled waiting and wondering at the outcome. He thought of the shoreline, closer now, somehow threatening, or was that only his imagination? Because of a boat action which even in the most favourable circumstances could end in disaster.
He looked at the commodore again. It was already decided. You could almost feel it in the man.
Turnbull took out a large envelope. “For you, Bolitho.” He smiled broadly. “In case anything unpleasant should happen to me.” He was serious again. “I’ll not come on deck just now. I’ve some last details to arrange. I am sure that our new Crown Agent will want to be fully informed.”
It was a dismissal.
Hastilow was waiting to see him over the side; he could barely conceal his impatience. But he could not prevent his deepset eyes from settling on the bulky envelope under Adam’s arm.
Then he said bluntly, “The commodore’s told you then, sir?”
“Most of it.”
Hastilow said, “We’ll teach them a lesson they’ll never forget!”
He seemed to contain his anger with a physical effort
and stood aside to allow Adam to climb on to the bulwark.
Adam saw some of the schooner’s company watching him leave. Defiant, contemptuous, glad he was going back to his own ship.
Perhaps Turnbull was right. It was their kind of action. But all he could think about was the one glaring flaw. Revenge. He thought of the renegade captain who had died of his wound in Unrivalled’s great cabin. Perhaps he had been right after all. He had called it vanity.
After the shuttered lanterns in the chartroom, the quarterdeck seemed pitch black. But not for long. Adam walked to the rail and stared along the full length of the ship, his eyes eventually picking out shapes and small groups of seamen at their stations, bodies pale against the guns and the familiar rigging. For another long day they had remained clear of the land, using the light airs to tack this way and that, but never losing their mean course for a final rendezvous.
Apart from the occasional slap of canvas, or the creak of the wheel, you could believe the ship to be motionless. There were no lights anywhere on deck, so that the tiny glow of the compass lamp seemed like a beacon.
It was always the same, he told himself. You could feel the solid landmass creeping out on either bow, like some giant trap. But he held the image of the chart firmly in his mind. Most of the anonymous figures relied on trust. They would do what they were told when the time came. That hardly ever changed. But Cristie would know, and would be measuring his own doubts against his captain’s skill, or lack of it.
Adam moved aft again and saw the white crossbelts of the marines, stark against the dark water alongside and beyond. Armed and ready, with others, the best marksmen, stationed in the fighting-tops somewhere overhead.
He turned quickly as a large fish broke surface and then splashed down into a trail of phosphorescence, like submerged fireflies.
His lips felt parched. He could smell rum; it was all they had found time for after the galley fire had been doused. He tried to think clearly. Two hours ago?
Relentless Pursuit Page 14
