A courier brig had arrived, but no mail had been delivered to them. Galbraith was not expecting any, but hope was always contagious.
Adam Bolitho’s friend, and his uncle’s last flag captain, James Tyacke, was still at sea. In case the missing slaver attempted to return to the inlet, which seemed unlikely, or to continue with another endless patrol.
I hate this place. He wiped his face and tried to dismiss it. Better here than on half-pay in some place full of others rejected by the one life they knew. Needed. Slavery was evil. Weighed against that, their presence here was necessary, if colonies were to survive against peacetime conditions. It still did not make sense . . .
He had heard some of the older hands talking about it. A few had boasted of their liaisons with women like those they had freed only days ago. Campbell, it would be him, insisted there was nothing to touch them. Nice bit o’ black velvet to get you goin’.”
Midshipman Cousens called, “Boat shoving off from the jetty now, sir!”
Always alert, perhaps thinking of his hoped-for promotion.
“My respects to the captain. Would you tell him?” He beckoned to a boatswain’s mate. “Pipe for the guard, Creagh, then man the side.”
He relented; his voice had been sharper than he intended. It was affecting him more than he had believed. Maybe it was only the heat. And all for just another official visit, this time the Crown Agent.
He thought of the captain’s expression, the last time they had been here. Rear-Admiral Herrick had been his uncle’s oldest friend; he had heard that several times, but when Bolitho had returned on board it was as if they had met as strangers.
The Royal Marines were already falling in by the entry port, Sergeant Everett checking the dressing, watching for any flaw in the pattern. There was none. Guard of honour or shooting down an enemy, it seemed to be one and the same to this elite corps. The seamen often joked about it; it made no difference. Captain Luxmore was also present, his face almost matching his tunic. Galbraith turned to watch for the boat. An ornate affair, almost a barge, it belonged to the governor, and was manned by seamen “borrowed” for His Excellency’s convenience.
He refrained from using a telescope; the rear-admiral would know. He half-smiled. They always seemed to know such things.
He heard the captain’s step on the companion ladder and said, “Clear all idlers off the upper deck, Mr Cousens.” He turned and touched his hat. “Right on time, sir.”
Adam glanced along the main deck. Galbraith had done well. Everything was in its place. Ready for sea.
Herrick would miss nothing. He had once been Richard Bolitho’s first lieutenant, a lifetime ago. He wondered if he still remembered.
Galbraith said, “I spoke with the purser, sir. There is ginger beer in the cabin.” He did not think it was the time to mention Tregillis’s list of complaints after he had returned with his crew from the stores.
“Drinking water, they call it? I’d not wash a horse in it! And the salt beef! Three years in the cask—that fellow Sullivan could carve a fleet of models from it. It’s like iron!”
But a purser was rarely content.
Adam watched the approaching boat. Another senior officer. Think of it like that. He had noticed that Cousens’s signals party had already bent on a flag for Herrick, and were ready to run it to the mizzen truck as he came aboard. Herrick would decline it; he was coming as an agent of the government, not in the capacity his rank implied. A matter of courtesy then.
He saw the bowman toss his oar and replace it with his boat-hook. The barge was still turning, and the man almost lost his balance.
Jago was looking on. It was not hard to guess what he was thinking.
He could see Herrick’s cocked hat now; he was wearing his best uniform. Then he thought of Unrivalled, how she must appear to Herrick, not just another frigate, surely, but as a singular ship. Perhaps I misjudged him. Thought of my own pain rather than his.
The boatswain’s mates moistened their silver calls on their tongues, and Captain Luxmore brought his sword to the carry.
“Pipe!” As the calls shrilled in salute and the marine guard brought their muskets to the present, Herrick’s head and shoulders appeared in the entry port.
Adam removed his hat and stepped forward. He heard a gasp of alarm and saw Herrick lose his grip on the guide-rope. He knew Herrick never made any allowance for having only one hand, but this time he had misjudged it. The guard of honour, the hard glare from the harbour, an error of timing. Or was it emotion? Could it be that?
Jago was there in a second, before even the boatswain’s mates could move, seizing Herrick by the wrist, yet still managing to remove his own hat, while even the disciplined marines gaped with astonishment.
Herrick stepped on to the planking and doffed his hat. Then he looked for Jago and said, “That was nearly a very short visit. I thank you for your alertness.” Then he glanced up. In the sudden confusion Cousens’s assistant, Midshipman Fielding, had misunderstood his instructions. Lazily, defiantly even, the rear-admiral’s flag had broken from the mizzen.
Herrick nodded, as if he had heard someone speak, and looked directly at Unrivalled’s captain.
The full uniform gave him a stature which had been lacking at their last meeting. There were lines about his mouth but his eyes were as blue and clear as that young lieutenant of years past.
Adam said, “You are welcome here, sir.”
He saw Herrick wince as he shook his hand. The empty sleeve was a constant reminder.
They walked aft beneath the poop, and Adam was aware for the first time that the same eager and anxious aide had come aboard with him. The marine sentry snapped to attention, the screen doors were open wide, and young Napier was waiting, wearing his best jacket. And shoes.
Herrick hesitated and looked closely at the Royal Marine. “I know you! Lucas, isn’t it?”
The man’s eyes barely blinked beneath his leather hat.
“Yessir. Th’ old Benbow, sir!”
“You were younger then. We all were.”
It would be all over the marines’ mess-deck, the barracks as they called it, within the hour. No, Herrick had not forgotten.
They walked into the great cabin, Adam sensing that Herrick was moving almost uncertainly, as if unprepared for this moment. So many ships, so many situations; he must have seen it all on his way up the ladder of promotion from his humble beginnings.
Napier said anxiously, “This is the best chair, sir.”
The blue, clear eyes turned to him. “And you look after the captain, do you?”
Napier considered it, frowning slightly. “We take care of each other, sir, that is . . .”
“Well said.”
But he went to the wide bench seat beneath the stern windows, and gazed out at the anchored shipping and tangle of masts and rigging. His eyes were far away; he was somewhere else.
Adam said, “We have some ginger beer, sir. From the army mess.”
Herrick grimaced. “It would be.” He looked past him towards the sleeping cabin. “I would relish a drink, however.”
Adam nodded to Napier, and saw him frown once more as his shoes clicked noisily across the deck.
Herrick said, “I have read your reports with great care. The seizure of the two slavers was commendable, and a useful example of what can be achieved with the will behind it. This ship performed well, although I cannot judge if her exact position at the time was the most suitable.” He looked up calmly. “For I was not there.” Then he smiled. “That was an observation, not necessarily a criticism,” and repeated, “I was not there.”
Adam heard the shoes returning and said, “I was obeying orders.”
Herrick glanced at the silver tray and the two goblets. “From the very beginning we are told, orders will be carried out at all times without question. Obey. Do your duty.” He took the proferred goblet of cognac and studied it gravely. “But as we move up the ladder, we discover that there is more to it than obeying order
s. There is the responsibility, the conscience, if you like. You will know that better than many, I suspect.” He swallowed some of the spirit and closed his eyes. “This takes me back.” He changed tack again, as if he had momentarily lost control of his thoughts. “My aide will give you all the relevant details, or as much as you and I are intended to know, but I want this to remain between us.”
“You have my word on it, sir.”
“You see, I have always done my duty, or tried to. I never allowed myself to question the minds of those who dictated the orders. You make friends and you make enemies. A friend is everything, but he can break your heart.” He did not explain. He did not need to.
“I never wanted to quit the sea, the navy, even after this . . .” He looked down at the empty sleeve with more than a suggestion of hatred. “In the end I was offered an appointment with the revenue service at Plymouth. Someone blocked the way—I’ll not mention his name, but his word was accepted, and I was given this role of Crown Agent. At best a dead end, at worst a scapegoat.” He shrugged. “I accept that. I have no choice. Not anymore.”
Adam looked quickly at his own goblet, surprised that it was empty; he remembered nothing of it. Herrick was speaking of Valentine Keen. It explained so much. A missing link.
Herrick continued, “So personal matters can intrude, even with the wary and the righteous.” He waited until Napier had refilled the goblets and the pantry door was closed.
He said quietly, “Commodore Turnbull made full use of his time after Paradox was disabled—er, wrecked. He is a lucky man.”
Adam waited, but there was no hint of suspicion, whatever he might voice in his private report to the Admiralty and the Foreign Office.
Herrick shifted his position and reached for his drink.
“I am all but finished here. I have seen and made enough reports to carpet Portsmouth Point. Some will be acted upon, others will be ‘considered.’ The fleet was cut down to a dangerous level when the last French flag was lowered. As Our Nel, and—” he hesitated “—Sir Richard proclaimed many times to deaf ears, the main need will always be for frigates. There have never been enough. Nothing has changed.”
Adam watched his hand smoothing the goblet as if to seek a reason for breaking his own severe code of loyalty.
Then Herrick did look at him, his eyes very direct, calm. As if he had come to a decision, any previous doubts dispelled.
“There is to be another offensive in the Mediterranean. Very shortly. Frigates are few enough, experienced captains hard to find. You will know what I am saying, where the last offensive failed.” He almost smiled. “You were there.”
“Lord Rhodes?”
Herrick shook his head. “You may discount that.” He leaned forward on the bench, the sun across his shoulders and epaulettes. “Unrivalled will be leaving for England in a day or so, after Captain Tyacke returns here.” He gazed at him impassively. “You were asked for by name . More, I cannot say.”
Adam stared around the cabin, scarcely able to believe what he had heard. England, the Mediterranean again, and there could be no doubt in his mind that Algiers was the destination. It was like turning back the calendar to last year, when men in this ship had paid dearly for Rhodes’ arrogance and stupidity.
Herrick said quietly, “Slavery does not begin or end here. I fear you will be ordered back to Freetown when you are available for duty. Small, fast vessels, and their lordships will have to provide them.” He smiled again. “Eventually. I shall be leaving too, in the courier, for Spithead. We shall say our farewells today.” He doubled his hand into a fist and added, “Take heed. Lord Rhodes is still powerful, and he makes a bad enemy.” He dragged out his watch and opened the guard with some difficulty; his wrist seemed to be troubling him after his near accident at the entry port.
Adam waited, and imagined the aide loitering and bobbing beyond the screen door. He was leaving Freetown, and returning to something familiar, which he had trained himself to accept. But he had known Thomas Herrick long enough to be sure he had not come out to the ship merely to wish him well. Perhaps Unrivalled was the only venue where he felt safe. At liberty to speak.
Herrick said, “You’re like him in many ways, you know. Head-strong, reckless . . . he was often like that.” He stood up and looked for his hat.
Then he turned and stood beneath the sealed skylight, his face suddenly determined.
“In your report you wrote of the barque Osiris. We lost her this time, but in the end we shall meet up with her again. And there’ll be others like her, while the pickings get richer.” He looked slowly around the cabin, like someone who did not expect to see it again.
“I wronged Lady Somervell. I have tried to make good my ignorance, but I wronged her nonetheless. She was very dear to your uncle, and now I can understand why.” He added with sudden bitterness, “Now that it’s too late!”
Adam faced him by the desk. “Tell me.”
“Osiris is a slaver, and she wears Spanish colours.” He glanced at the screen door where a marine he had once known stood at yet another post. “But she plies her trade for a company in the City of London. Baron Sillitoe is the force behind it.” He clenched his fist again. “His father built his empire on slaves, did you know that?”
There were shouts from on deck; another boat was coming alongside.
Adam could hardly believe what he had heard. Sillitoe, feared, respected, influential, a confidante of the Prince Regent, and his Inspector-General until recently. And Catherine had nobody else to protect her when she most needed it.
He said, “Thank you for telling me, sir. I will never forget.”
Herrick examined his hat, as if he was glad he had unburdened himself.
“I wanted to tell you when we first met in this damnable hole!” He smiled, and it made him look incredibly sad. “Duty, remember?”
They left the cabin together, Napier wearing an expression of surprise, Herrick’s lieutenant of relief.
As they passed the wardroom Herrick stopped, and saw Yovell stepping aside to lose himself in shadows.
He did not offer his hand, but said, “So you could not leave it either, eh? I wish you well.”
Yovell watched them walk forward, towards the sunshine beyond the poop. The grey-haired rear-admiral, with one shoulder stooped against the constant pain, and Unrivalled’s captain, like a young colt, Richard Bolitho had often said. So unlike one another, but the bond was there.
“God mind you,” he said quietly. “But keep up your bright swords.” He shook his head. The coxswain was right, he was getting past it.
Herrick stood by the entry port as the governor’s gilded barge was manoeuvred alongside. He saw Partridge with some of his seamen trying to conceal a boatswain’s chair, in case he was unable to make the descent unaided.
He shook his head. “But thank you.” He turned and looked up once more at the listless flag at the mizzen, then at the waiting officers and midshipmen, the scarlet-coated marines. No detail escaped him.
He held out his hand and said, “Short and sweet, how every flag officer’s visit should be. Take good care, Adam. I shall think of you. And heed what I said. There are many enemies in our work. Not least is envy!”
He doffed his hat abruptly to the quarterdeck and walked to the entry port, where Jago was standing, vigilant but apparently unconcerned.
Galbraith watched the barge pulling away from Unrivalled’s shadow and into the relentless glare.
Adam said, “Fall out guard and side party, Mr Galbraith.” Their eyes met and he smiled. “Leigh.”
Galbraith glanced again at the slow-moving barge. Herrick did not look back. Perhaps he dared not.
Adam said, “Come aft presently. We are to receive orders today.”
When Commodore Turnbull has discovered their content.
He followed Galbraith’s gaze and added, “There goes a part of the old navy, Leigh.” He touched his arm and walked aft again. “None better!”
Captain James Tyacke
pushed his servant to one side and finished tying his neckcloth himself.
“Don’t fuss, Roberts! I have to see the commodore, not the Almighty!”
He looked into his hanging mirror and then at Adam, who was sitting in one of the cabin chairs with a glass in his hand. “Good of you to come aboard at such short notice, Adam.” He seemed to hesitate over the name, as if he were not yet used to such informality. “I met up with Seven Sisters on passage here and spoke to her captain.” He looked at him in the mirror again. “About this and that.”
Adam smiled. He had watched Kestrel enter harbour, working her way slowly and expertly under minimum sail to where the guard-boat loitered to mark her point to anchor.
He said, “I’ve received orders. To return to Plymouth.” He heard the words drop into the silence; he had not yet accepted it, nor did he know his true feelings.
Tyacke nodded, buttoning his waistcoat. “So I heard. You know the navy—I expect the whole west coast knows about it by now!” He turned and regarded him thoughtfully. “I expect you’ll be ordered to return here. One step at a time.”
Adam noticed that Tyacke no longer betrayed any discomfort or self-consciousness. The devil with half a face, the slavers had called him when he had come to this station, and had welcomed its solitude. He had said more than once of Sir Richard Bolitho, he gave me back my self-respect, and whatever dignity I still possess. People still stared at the melted skin, his legacy from the Nile, young midshipmen dropped their eyes; others showed pity, the one thing Tyacke despised.
Adam had told him about Osiris, and what he had learned about her. Tyacke was like steel, and would never indulge in gossip, especially if it concerned, no matter how remotely, the reputation of Catherine, Lady Somervell.
While Adam sipped some wine Tyacke had shaved himself, waving his harassed servant aside with the razor. “If I can’t shave my own face, I’m ready to go over the side!”
A difficult captain to serve, but he had the feeling that they thrived on it.
Relentless Pursuit Page 18
