Relentless Pursuit

by Alexander Kent

  “Tyacke was at the Nile also, where he was so cruelly wounded.”

  A servant entered and began to place glasses on a tiny square of cloth. More like a woman than a grown man, Herrick thought.

  For a moment he thought he had misheard as Bethune dismissed the servant and repeated, “Lady Somervell. I saw her here, in London.” He glanced over at him. “This is Rhenish—I hope it will suit? It should be cool, although after its journey up those stairs one can only hope!” And laughed, completely relaxed. Or was he?

  Herrick said, “It is some time since I saw her. It was in Falmouth, when I was intending to take up an appointment with the revenue service.”

  Bethune critically examined a glass. He knew about that, and thought he knew why Keen had intervened. Not all grudges faded with the years.

  He said, “A brave and lovely woman. I admire her greatly.” He thought of the Nile medal she had entrusted to him. Another link. But it had always been there. He suspected that she knew how he felt.

  He tried to shut it from his mind and said, “I think that Baron Sillitoe may become more involved with his business affairs in the West Indies, even Cuba.”

  Herrick stiffened. Cuba, still the world’s clearing house for slaves.

  Bethune said, “We must put all past disagreement aside. The fleet is committed to the Algiers venture, as it is elsewhere where the trade flourishes. You know this, and I know it. I would take it as a great favour if you would pass on to me what you may hear about said involvement, so that the innocent can be protected.” He raised his glass very slowly until their eyes met.

  Herrick swallowed; if the hock was warm or ice-cold, he did not notice it.

  “I understand, Sir Graham.” It was utter madness, and if anything went wrong Bethune would deny any association.

  He watched Bethune’s tanned hand refilling the glasses.

  When Dulcie had died of typhus, Lady Somervell . . . he hesitated even over her name . . . Catherine had stood by her. The only one, to the end. She could so easily have been infected by the fever herself. But she had stayed.

  “It shall be done.”

  Their glasses touched.

  Committed, then. And Thomas Herrick was suddenly alive again. Restored.

  Tomorrow he might regret it. He smiled quite openly.

  But that was tomorrow.

  14 SUDDEN DEATH

  JAMES BELLAIRS, Unrivalled’s young third lieutenant, touched his hat and said, “I relieve you, sir.”

  Eight bells had just rung out from the forecastle. The first watch was about to begin.

  Lieutenant Varlo saw his own men hurrying away to their various messes and remarked, “If you are certain you can manage ’ til the hour of midnight?”

  Bellairs watched him walk to the companion-way and tried not to dislike him. A competent officer, but never without the last-minute jibe, the sarcastic quip at someone else’s expense.

  One of Bellairs’ watch had been adrift when the hands had mustered aft; he had fallen and injured his wrist. Varlo had remarked, “Shall we rouse out the master-at-arms to find him, eh?”

  He allowed his anger to settle. It was not in his nature, and anyway . . . He spread his arms and stared along the length of the ship. Already in deep shadow, with an incredible orange glow to starboard as the sun dipped towards the horizon. To larboard it was lost in a purple haze. You could sense the nearness of land. He put Varlo from his mind and smiled. Not so near: Lisbon lay about sixty miles abeam according to the last calculation. He listened to the creak and hum of taut rigging as Unrivalled leaned more steeply on the larboard tack. Every watch brought him fresh confidence, like the sounds which had once made him uneasy, but usually unwilling to call for advice from a lieutenant. Now he was a lieutenant himself, and those years as a “young gentleman” seemed a lifetime ago.

  He glanced at the cabin skylight. There was a glow there, brighter than usual. The captain, going over his orders again. Was he ever unsure, he wondered, with nobody to advise him?

  He walked to the compass, the two helmsmen watching him as he passed. Soon it would be too dark to recognise faces, but it no longer mattered. He felt that he knew every man in the ship. Even the bad ones. He grinned. Especially the bad ones . . .

  He thought of Plymouth, now five days astern. A smooth if lively passage so far. Skirting the Bay and its foul moods, they had been out of sight of Cape Finisterre except from the mast-head, when they had changed tack yet again to steer south-west by south and follow the coast of Portugal. Standing well out to sea, perhaps to avoid rumour or suspicion. He had heard the older hands joking about it. That everybody in the whole world would know more than Unrivalled’s people.

  He peered at the compass card. South-south-west. Two more days, maybe less, and they would lie beneath the Rock’s great shadow.

  His thoughts returned to Plymouth. His parents and sister had come to see him, to present him with the new sword they had purchased to mark his commission. He looked again at the skylight. Before that, he had worn a curved hanger which belonged to Captain Bolitho.

  Galbraith had remarked, “I can’t say I’ve heard of any other captain doing that!”

  He allowed his mind to return to the girl named Jane, who had also been there. A friend of his sister’s. A ready smile and dancing violet eyes; they had got on well together, encouraged, he realised, by his sister. She was of a good family, so what prospects could he offer as a lowly luff?

  But she lived at Dartmouth, which was not that far from Plymouth. When Unrivalled returned after completing this mission, he might be able to see her again.

  “Cap’n’s comin’ up, sir.”

  “Thank you, Tucker.” He had learned well the risk of trying to be popular, or showing favouritism to this man or that. All the same, he could not imagine anyone warning Varlo if the captain was on the move.

  He saw one of the helmsmen turn his head to make sure the windvane was in position. It got dark very suddenly hereabouts.

  Bellairs waited near the wheel while the captain walked to the compass, and the log which was protected by a canvas hood; he had probably already been in the chartroom to make his own estimate of their progress. He made it seem so effortless; even when he stared up into the black tangle of rigging and the trimmed angle of each yard, it was as if he already knew. When they had been in action it had been impossible to register every act or injury. Only afterwards, when your heart and breathing steadied, could you realise what you had done. And those who had not come through it.

  Bellairs could recall the captain’s part in it. His apparent disregard for both danger and the nearness of sudden death. Or, far worse, a lingering despair in the agony of the surgeon’s knife.

  He straightened up as Bolitho said, “Holding her course and progress well, Mr. Bellairs.” He tapped the pale planking with his shoe. “But she’s feeling it, with all that extra weight of stores and shot.” He turned away to watch a leaping fish, bright gold in the sunset. “We’ll be needing all of it, I daresay.”

  He could have been talking to the ship.

  Adam could feel Bellairs watching him. It was strange: when he had been a lieutenant he had never considered his captains young in thought and heart. Except his uncle. They had sometimes been mistaken for brothers.

  He would know nothing until he was in Gibraltar. The prospects of battle might all have blown away by then. It happened often enough. But until then he thought of his carefully worded orders. Nothing which any captain could misinterpret if an opportunity offered itself. Lord Exmouth had been a great frigate captain. He would know every trick in the book.

  Like the vessel they had sighted two days back after they had weathered Cape Finisterre. He had sent Sullivan aloft, and had then joined him with a telescope, as if something had driven him.

  A large ship, a barque as far as they could tell; there had been a stiff wind and a lot of spray which made proper recognition almost impossible. But they had seen her again, and she had immediately chang
ed tack, her sails like pink shells in the dawn light. To avoid Unrivalled’s closer scrutiny? Cristie had suggested that she might be standing closer inshore and heading for Vigo. It made sense. But Adam could not shift it from his mind. There were hundreds of ships in these waters, probably the busiest seaway in the world. And some of them would be barques. In any case his orders were clear. Blunt.

  He said, “I hear you had the good fortune to meet a young lady during our stay in Plymouth.”

  He was aware of Bellairs’ confusion. Had it been full daylight, he might have been blushing.

  “This is a small ship, remember!”

  Bellairs said, “A friend of my sister’s, sir.” He faltered. “She cannot yet be seventeen.”

  “I see.” Adam walked to the rail and stared down at the boat tier. Bellairs was just nineteen. Whereas I . . . He stopped it there.

  They were at sea. It was all that counted.

  He said, “Time will pass quickly. You will know if your feelings are strong enough to endure the life we follow.”

  He took two paces away, angry that he should or could offer advice.

  He said, “I note from the log that there are two men for punishment tomorrow?” Like cutting a cord. Safe in their ordered world.

  “Yes, sir. One for drunkenness.” It was now too dark to see his expression, but Adam knew he was frowning. “Craigie. The other one is Lucas, maintopman. He threatened a warrant officer.” No hesitation this time. “Mr Midshipman Sandell.”

  “I shall speak with the first lieutenant directly. I am not pleased about this.” He sighed. And it would be another two years before Sandell could even be considered for promotion to lieutenant. What Luke Jago would call “the rotten apple.” He had heard his uncle say that it only needed one.

  He said suddenly, “We shall alter course two points, Mr Bel-lairs. I fear the wind is backing a little.”

  He half-listened to the rush of feet, the shrill of calls, as more men ran to braces and halliards.

  It might give an extra knot. At least it would keep his mind from her face. Her body framed against the soiled canvas, the imaginary rock, her eyes so dark, defiant, challenging him.

  So different from the girl in the church, her pleasure over the rose which would be in that portrait. He touched his empty belt. And the sword.

  “Steer sou’-west! Helm a-lee there!”

  The squeal of blocks, men hauling on snaking lines and halliards before they could fling a sailor off his feet. Even the new hands were working like veterans.

  Adam crossed to the empty nettings and waited for the deck to sway upright again. Still, faintly, he could see the beautiful figurehead’s naked shoulders, showing only for a moment through the gloom while Unrivalled’s stem ploughed into a deeper trough in a welter of bursting spray.

  Like the girl on the rock. Helpless and in need.

  He heard Bellairs say something and then laugh, somehow carefree despite the chorus of sea and thrashing canvas.

  “Steady she goes, sir! Sou’-west, full an’ bye!”

  Adam raised one hand to Bellairs and walked to the companion-way. The first watch could settle down, without its lord and master overseeing every move.

  He went down the ladder, feeling the ship closing around him. The marine sentry, his figure angled effortlessly against the deck, stiffened as he passed, and Napier had the screen door open, as if he had been listening for his step on the ladder.

  Everything as it should be, and a weighted-down pile of letters and orders in Yovell’s round hand awaiting his signature.

  He stared at the sloping stern windows, one side in darkness, spray dappling the thick glass like spectres, the other tinged with dull copper, the last of the sun on the western horizon.

  The whole ocean, and yet he was bound by his orders, tied to the fleet’s apron strings.

  Napier asked, “May I bring your meal, sir?”

  Adam stared at him and was touched by his concern. He knew what it must have done to him to be so well received in Falmouth, as if he was one of the family.

  “Not too much, David. I’ll have some cognac while I sign that little mountain.”

  He saw the boy smile and hurry away to the pantry. Why was it so easy to help others when you were helpless to rally your own spirits?

  Tomorrow things might seem different. The final approach to Gibraltar. The formalities. The new orders. If any.

  Bellairs would be thinking of the girl he had met in Plymouth; Napier might still be remembering the excitement and laughter over his first ride on the new pony.

  The hands had piped down now, and the ship was unusually silent. Overhead, the watchkeepers took note of the course and behaviour of the wind, and in the wardroom there might still be a few lively enough for a game of cards, or the unfinished letter to a wife or lover somewhere.

  He yawned and sipped at the goblet Napier had put by his side before returning just as silently to the pantry, feet pale against the checkered deck covering.

  And tomorrow he would speak with Galbraith about the punishment book. But he looked at the desk and pictured the rose pressed in the small log. It was little enough. He watched Napier arranging the table for him, a plate rattling suddenly in time with the rudder as the keel sliced into another long trough.

  He moved to another chair and regarded the neatly laid table. Being captain kept you apart from the ship’s routine, watchkeeping and everyday work on hull and rigging; it also left you without an ordered programme of eating and sleeping. The carefully prepared meal consisted of slices of fat pork, fried pale brown with bread crumbs. That must be the last of the loaves, he thought; iron-hard biscuit from now on until the next time. And there was a bottle of red wine.

  He looked at Napier and smiled. “You do a good deal for me, David, with precious little thanks.”

  The boy poured some wine, frowning slightly as he usually did.

  He said simply, “It’s what I want, sir.”

  He walked back to the pantry, and Adam noticed that he was limping again. Not much, but he would mention it to the surgeon.

  Later when Napier came to clear the table he found the captain in the one deep chair, legs out-thrust, and fast asleep.

  He carried the tray to the pantry again, pausing occasionally to allow for the deck’s erratic movements. Then he closed the shutter on one of the lanterns and stood beside the chair again, uncertain but characteristically determined.

  Using two fingers he loosened the captain’s neckcloth, holding his breath, waiting for the motion to settle.

  The captain opened his eyes wide and stared at him, seizing his wrist, holding it, but saying nothing.

  Napier waited. He knew that the captain was still asleep. It was important that he should remain so.

  He released his hand and backed away, satisfied.

  It was what he wanted.

  When Adam did awaken it took a few moments to recover his awareness, the instinct of any sailor, the feel and movement of his ship, no matter what hour of day or night it might be.

  Too much cognac, or that red wine which rasped on the tongue. It was neither. He had hardly slept since leaving Plymouth. And now . . .

  He stared at the partly shuttered lantern, and the empty table. It was still dark, but the sounds overhead were different. He sat upright, feeling his way. It must be eight bells. The morning watch was taking over.

  He had been dreaming. He touched his neckcloth. In the dream she had been there, with him.

  He saw the figure darkly outlined against the white paintwork. He pushed his fingers through his unruly hair and said, “You should have roused me, man!”

  Luke Jago stood up and looked at him. “I would’ve. I just thought I ought to come.”

  He was instantly wide awake. Like those other times, so many of them. Like a fox’s scent of danger. Even his voice was clear, sharp.

  “What is it? Trouble?”

  Jago turned his head and glanced at the shuttered skylight, as if he could see
the disruption in the order and discipline.

  He said flatly, “Mr Sandell’s gone missin’, sir.”

  Adam was on his feet. “Are you sure?” His mind was reaching out like a beam of light, a warning. Galbraith had had the middle watch. He would not leave it for somebody else to act.

  Jago replied, “They’ve searched the ship, sir.”

  Napier was here now, a jug of water held ready. Adam wiped his face and neck with a wet cloth, seeing it for himself. Sandell was in Galbraith’s watch. The night was reasonably calm but for a steady wind; an unemployed person could not come on deck without being seen by one of the watchkeepers. An accident? Somebody would have seen that too.

  He blinked as Jago unshuttered the lantern. It would be first light very soon, the ship coming awake to a new day.

  Jago lifted a hand as someone shouted something, the voice carried away by the wind.

  He said, “They’ve not found him, sir.”

  Adam looked at him. Nobody liked Sandell; some hated him. He should never have been selected. He could guess what Jago thought about it.

  He turned and faced the door, hearing Galbraith’s familiar footsteps. The responsibility, as always, lay here, in this cabin.

  He heard the sentry stamp his boots outside the screen door.

  Accept it, then. It was murder.

  Lieutenant Galbraith strode aft, his shoes sticking on the deck seams as the sun bore down on the anchored ship. It had been a long and slow approach to the anchorage, as if the Rock’s majestic presence defied the wind to intrude. He squinted his eyes against the reflected glare at the other ships anchored nearby, and the guard-boat which had waited with tossed oars to mark their journey’s end, rolling evenly above its own image.

  He looked at the fortifications and batteries, which seemed like part of the Rock itself, a flag flapping listlessly above one of them. There was a lot to do. All boats would be lowered no matter how short their stay here, to seal the sun-baked hulls. The captain would expect windsails to be rigged, to draw what air there was into the cramped quarters between decks. Galbraith had known captains who would never have contemplated it, would have insisted that the ungainly canvas spoiled their ship’s appearance, no matter what discomfort they averted. But not this captain. The gig was already being hoisted out over the starboard gangway, Jago’s voice urging or threatening as required.