Relentless Pursuit

by Alexander Kent

  He watched the leading and nearest slaver. It would surprise them if nothing else.

  But they would know that Unrivalled could not move. If she weighed now, it would take an eternity to clear the treacherous anchorage and give chase. He had already told Varlo what to do; the gun captains would lay and fire without even the movement of the deck to disturb them.

  He realized that Yovell was still on deck, instead of having gone to the orlop, his station when the ship was cleared for action.

  The gun captains were peering aft, fists raised, eyes on the blue-coated figure by the rail, surrounded by many but totally alone.

  “A prayer today, Mr Yovell, might not come amiss.” He raised his arm, and gauged the glittering arrowhead of water which separated them. There was no sound on the quarterdeck; each man was waiting, wondering. Perhaps it was not merely prize-money this time. He thought of Hastilow. Or revenge.

  “As you bear!” His arm sliced down. “Fire!”

  The deck jerked violently, the sun-dried wood flinching to every shock as gun by gun along the ship’s side each eighteen-pounder hurled itself inboard to be restrained by its tackles and crew.

  Many of the shots went far too high. One even splashed down alongside the mastless Paradox. Adam found a moment to wonder if Turnbull had survived, at least long enough to see what he had caused.

  He heard Rist say, “Got that bugger!” Then he seemed to realise he was beside his captain, and added, “Nice one, sir!”

  A lucky shot or a skilled aim, the result was the same. The vessel’s topmast had cracked like a carrot, and the rising wind did the rest. The spars and heavy canvas splashed hard down alongside like one huge sea-anchor, dragged her round broadside-on, and Adam could see tiny ant-like figures running about the brig’s deck, probably expecting the next broadside to smash directly into them.

  Her sails flapped in sudden confusion, as if her master was going to attempt to wear ship, and claw back into the narrows.

  Cristie said flatly, “Aground. Hard an’ bloody fast, rot him!”

  The second vessel was already changing tack. Unrivalled could not fire again without raking the first one.

  Adam said, “Number one gun, larboard battery!” He saw Galbraith turn and stare at him. “We might lose the other brig, but not Albatroz, not this time!”

  Then he took a telescope from its rack and walked to the lar-board side. The brigantine, even fully laden, would still draw less water than the others. That one channel, which had always been avoided by larger craft, was Albatroz’s obvious choice. He thought of his uncle’s words again. The unexpected . . .

  And there she was, exactly as he had remembered. Well handled, her rig, which Partridge had first described, bracing now to carry the vessel closer inshore, where she would tack again and cross Unrivalled’s bows unharmed.

  Galbraith had gone forward and was standing with the gun crew, gesturing, and the gun captain was nodding, red neckerchief already tied firmly around his ears.

  It might take a few more minutes, but one gun firing and reloading without support from the rest of the battery might avoid confusion and over eagerness. Gun crews were used to competing with each other; it was all a part of training and familiarity, not only among gun captains but every member of the teams. A pull here, a turn there, handspikes ready to edge the long barrel around perhaps a mere inch, to get that perfect shot.

  Someone growled, “The bugger’s run up the Portuguese flag!”

  Another retorted, “’E’ll need it to wipe ’is backside with!”

  Adam glanced at the main channel. The first brig was still aground. She had boats in the water. To escape, to attempt to kedge her off? One was pointless; the latter would take too much time. Seven Sisters would be there before long. And the other vessel was making good her escape. He pressed his knuckles against his thighs and stared at the brigantine.

  “Slack off aft, Mr Partridge. Handsomely, now.” He lifted his hand again and saw Rist turn to watch him. “Easy, lads!”

  He knew Varlo was signalling from the forecastle; Unrivalled was taking up to her cable again; the shoreline was as before, as if they had never moved.

  But all he could see were the tan-coloured sails moving slowly from bow to bow, the masthead appearing to brush beneath Unrivalled’s jib-boom.

  “Run out!” After the squeal of trucks and the rumble of heavy guns being run up to their ports, it was almost gentle. And yet nobody moved, and speech was in whispers.

  Albatroz’s master was standing into the narrow channel. There was no turning back. Soon, any second now, and he would see the solitary gun. And he would know. He might run ashore; he could even attempt to kill every slave aboard, but he could not escape. The Portuguese flag was the only thing between him and the rope.

  He heard the gun captain’s voice, saw him lean over to tap one of his men’s shoulders. The seaman even looked up and nodded, his tanned face split into a grin.

  Adam felt some of the tension drain away. He had spoken to that same seaman a few days ago, but at this moment he could not recall his name.

  Cristie remarked, “She’s got a couple of guns run out.” He looked at his captain. “They might, if they’re desperate enough.”

  No one answered him.

  Adam straightened his back and felt the trapped sweat run down his spine and between his buttocks. The brigantine was on course now, all sails drawing and filling well, as if Unrivalled were invisible.

  And if they did open fire? Unrivalled’s guns would offer no quarter.

  He thought suddenly of Avery, and Deighton’s father, and his hand moved as if to touch the locket.

  It only took one shot.

  “Now, as you bear!” He folded his arms and stared at the brigantine’s flag, a splash of colour against the hazy backdrop. “Fire!”

  For an instant longer Adam thought it was another overshoot. Then the maintopmast began to dip very slowly, almost wearily towards the deck, and as shrouds and running rigging snapped under the strain the complete mast with driver and trysails fell with sudden urgency, the sound mingling with the echo of the last shot.

  Adam wanted to wipe his face, his mouth, but could not move.

  Strike, you bastard, strike! His own voice or someone’s beside him, he did not know. Another few minutes and they would have to fire again. He knew from instinct as much as experience that the gun had already been reloaded and run out. After that Albatroz, crippled or not, would be beyond their reach.

  “Ready, sir!”

  It was not his concern. The seizure of any slaver was his duty above and beyond all else. The words of his orders seemed to mock him. But all he could see was the effect of one 18 -pounder ball smashing into a hull packed with helpless, terrified humanity.

  He lifted his arm, but held it there as Bellairs yelled, “They’re anchoring, sir! The buggers are going to strike!”

  Adam breathed out slowly. It sounded like the exhalation of an old man.

  Galbraith stood at the foot of the starboard ladder, staring up.

  “Permission to board, sir?”

  Adam looked across at the anchored brigantine. It was not over yet.

  And there was always the flag.

  The thought made him want to laugh. But, as in the past, he would not be able to stop.

  “No, belay that, Mr Galbraith. Is my gig ready?”

  He ran lightly down the ladder, for a moment shutting out all the others.

  “Take charge here, Leigh. Fire if need be, for by that time it will be your decision.”

  Galbraith walked beside him.

  “Then take Mr Rist, I pray you, sir. He knows these people. You and I do not.”

  There was no sane interlude. He was in the boat, the oars already hacking at the water without, it seemed, moving a limb.

  Like some of the nightmares. It was not next week, or tomorrow. It was now.

  “Stand by to board!”

  Now.

  Suddenly, the other vessel was right
here. Small compared with Unrivalled and yet she seemed to tower above the gig, as if to overwhelm them.

  “Oars!” Jago swung the tiller bar, glancing only briefly at the last few yards, conscious even in this moment of danger of how it must be done, be it for the last time.

  Adam was on his feet, feeling the bottom boards creaking under him, intent on keeping his balance when at any second he expected a shot to smash him down. Figures lined the brigantine’s bulwarks, and some of them shook their weapons, apparently ready and eager to use them.

  “Stand away! Stand off! I warn you now and but once!”

  The voice was loud and clear, and Adam guessed he was using a speaking-trumpet.

  Rist murmured, “It’s Cousens, sir. He’s the one.”

  Adam did not even look at him, but recalled Galbraith’s last words. He knows these people. You and I do not. And there was another sound, which tension had forced into the back of his mind. A strange groaning, many voices blended into one despairing protest, as if Albatroz herself was in pain.

  As the gig moved into the vessel’s shadow he was aware of the stillness, the finality. So unlike the wildness and sometimes the exhilaration of a true sea fight, the triumph and the suffering as an enemy’s flag fell into the smoke. He looked up at the faces; even they were motionless now. It only needed one hothead, that brief incentive to kill, but all he could think was that his own voice seemed detached, disembodied, like someone else, an onlooker.

  “In the King’s name! Stand down and lower your weapons! I am going to board you!”

  “And who speaks with such confidence?” Laughter, an unnatural sound, and Adam noticed that the voices from the vessel’s hull had fallen silent, as if they all knew and thought they understood. They would be expecting more treachery, no different from that which had beaten them into captivity.

  Rist muttered, “He’s bluffing, sir.”

  Jago reached out to prevent it; he had heard Rist’s remark, like the leadsman’s chant. Deeper and deeper into madness . . .

  But Adam looked at him. “If I fall, get the boat away.” He smiled faintly. “Luke.”

  Then he seized the hand-ropes and felt the heat on his face as his head rose above the bulwark. This was the moment. He thought of the broken watch and the boy who treasured it, of Galbraith’s concern, of the church in Penzance . . .

  He jumped down on to the deck. A press of figures seemed to fill it. Seamen: they looked more like pirates. And each man would know that they could hack him down and dispose of the boat’s crew with neither risk nor effort.

  The burly man in a rough blue coat he assumed was Cousens confronted him, his eyes flitting across the epaulettes and sheathed sword, then coming straight to his face. He said again, “And who are you, sir?”

  “Captain Adam Bolitho. My ship you can see for yourself.” He heard an undercurrent run through the listening, watching seamen. “You and your vessel are under arrest, and will be taken to face charges as laid down . . .”

  Cousens did not let him finish. “I had nothing to do with that shooting. Those vessels are barely known to me.” He folded his thick arms. “I am under charter to do this work. I have nothing to hide.” He leaned slightly towards him. “And nothing to fear from you!”

  Adam heard Rist move very slightly by his shoulder, and imagined Jago waiting in the boat alongside. Your decision.

  He said abruptly, “Tell your men to put down their weapons. Now.”

  Someone shouted, in French, Spanish; to Adam it could have been anything. But Cousens turned away, eyes glazed with fury or disbelief as Unrivalled’s larboard battery ran out into the sunlight as if controlled by a single hand. Like a line of blackened teeth.

  He gasped, “I’ll see you in hell first!” And then stared at his men as, singly or in groups, the cutlasses and boarding-pikes clattered to the deck.

  Rist stepped forward. “I’ll take the pistol!” And dragged it from his hand. It was cocked and ready.

  Cousens stared at the frigate again. “They wouldn’t dare!”

  Rist wanted to kill him. It had been too close this time. Insanity.

  He answered, “And would any captain dare to board a slaver alone?”

  Jago and the gig’s crew climbed aboard, and Adam knew other boats were pulling across to join them.

  He was unsure if he should or could move. Dazed, sick, afraid, it was all and none of them.

  Cousens was staring around, baffled, unable to believe what was happening, perhaps wondering if the frigate would have fired, when her captain would have been one of the first to die.

  Adam took two paces away from the side and looked up at the Portuguese flag, but he saw only Galbraith. A nd would he have fired, had it been his choice alone?

  And suddenly there were familiar uniforms and faces, taking up positions on deck and aft in the brigantine’s quarters. Varlo had come across with a fully armed party of seamen and some marines, and they were in no mood for threat or argument now that the tension was broken.

  Rist saw the lieutenant placing some of his men at the swivel guns. He had at least remembered that lesson.

  Rist licked his lips and nodded to Williams, the gunner’s mate who was one of the boarders.

  “Near thing, Frank!” His Welsh accent seemed even more alien here.

  Adam said, “Search the vessel, Mr Rist. Papers, evidence—you know what to do.” He looked at the hatch covers. The silence now was almost unnerving. “Is it safe to open those, d’you think?”

  “It can be done with care, sir. Slowly.”

  Cousens, a Royal Marine on either side of him with a fixed bayonet at the ready, shouted, “I am within my rights, Captain!”

  Adam looked at him, and found himself thinking of his aunt. Dear Nancy, she had so wanted a portrait for the old house. She had nearly lost her chance. But once again the laughter remained trapped in his throat.

  He said, “I would dispute that, but others better qualified will decide in good time. For my own part, I would happily run you up to Unrivalled’s main-yard.” He thought he saw the man flinch, and seemed to hear Rist’s voice. He’s bluffing. “And enjoy it.”

  He swung round at the sound of shouted orders, and a disturbance of some kind from the companion-way by the wheel.

  Williams and another seaman slowly emerged, carrying what looked like a corpse wrapped around with a filthy blanket.

  Williams got down on his knees and laid the bundle carefully on the deck.

  “In the cabin, sir. Tied up, she was.”

  She was a child, naked, wrists and ankles scarred by ropes or shackles. Her feet were badly torn, as if she had been force-marched for some time before she had been dragged aboard Albatroz. To this. She was alive, but unable to see or think, on the verge of hysteria or madness.

  Williams was murmuring softly to her, holding the blanket to shade her face from the glare.

  But Adam was looking at her thighs and legs, caked with dried blood. There were teeth marks on her skin where she had been bitten; she must have been raped repeatedly. A child. He thought of the letter and the sketch . . . maybe the same age as Elizabeth, a girl he did not know any more than this one.

  Varlo said, “One hold is full of women, sir. All ages.”

  Adam looked at Cousens. “Is this your work, too? You are the master of this unspeakable vessel. What say you now?” He did not wait for an answer. “Open that hatch, Mr Varlo, but be well prepared.” So calm still. The tone he might use when asking a midshipman about the weather on deck, when he already knew.

  Then he walked to the hatch as two marines prised it open. The stench he had expected. He had sailed downwind of slavers before, when the world had turned its back. But you never accepted it, or became accustomed to it.

  Jago was beside him; he could hear his breathing. Anger, disgust, or just glad he was out of it. Alive.

  To Rist he said, “Tell them, if you can, that we are here to free them.” He averted his eyes as screams and wild cries burst from t
he hold. What must it be like, flung aboard, chained, not knowing where they were or where bound? Days or weeks, scarcely able to breathe or move in their own filth. Until daylight found them. As slaves.

  Williams called, “She wants to go down to them, sir.” He sounded both anxious and protective. The same man who had helped to blow up a chebeck with his bare hands. With Galbraith, and Rist.

  “Easy with her.” He almost touched the girl as they carried her past, but saw her stare at him with eyes full of terror.

  His fury helped in some way, or perhaps it was some lingering madness after toying with death. Vanity . . .

  “You say you are the master?” His voice must have been low, for Cousens leaned forward to catch his words, and two bayonets rose level with his throat as if to some whispered command. But he managed to nod.

  “You will know the name of the ship with which you intended to rendezvous, to relieve yourself of this cargo. This is too small a vessel to remain at sea for long with so many captives.”

  Rist called, “Three hundred an’ fifty, men an’ women, sir.” He consulted a list in his hand and glanced at Williams. “An’ children.”

  Cousens smiled. Relief, surprise; his confidence was returning. “My orders were to deliver them elsewhere. I will tell any government official, but not here or now. I know my rights, damn you!”

  Adam saw one of the marines watching from the hatchway. It was Corporal Bloxham, the crack shot. A good man in every way, and with luck listed for sergeant at the next opportunity. Adam knew he would kill Cousens here and now at the drop of a hat.

  He repeated, “The name of that ship. Tell me.”

  Cousens did not even shake his head.

  Adam walked to the lip of the hatch again. Staring faces, eyes white in the shafted sunshine, skins like ebony, shining with sweat.

  They had seen him. They would know, understand, or most of them would.

  Without looking over his shoulder, he said, “As master you are expected to care for all persons carried in your vessel, at all times.” Then he did look at Cousens. “We have much to do before we can get under way again. Repairs, a jury-rig, and a prize crew to be quartered aboard when we leave this place.” He watched the smirk on Cousens’s face fade. “I think it fair and proper that as master you should remain below with those women, to reassure them, if you will.” He strode to the side. “See to it, Mr Rist, directly!”