Relentless Pursuit

by Alexander Kent

  He saw Lieutenant Varlo speaking with Hastie, the master-at-arms, arranging another search, maybe. The captain had told the second lieutenant to carry out a final investigation, although it seemed unlikely that anything would be gained by it. But Galbraith could feel a difference in the ship and amongst the various sections of men he had come to know so well. Resentment, suspicion; it went deeper than these.

  To many of them it would seem a betrayal of something personal and intimate, that bond in any fighting ship which made each man look out for his friends. Sailors owned little enough, and a thief, if caught by his fellows, would suffer a far harsher fate than that meted out by the Articles of War. And a man who would kill another in this ship was like something unclean. Midshipman Sandell would not be missed, but the threat would remain.

  He saw the captain by the taffrail, a telescope trained towards the main anchorage, but unmoving, as if he was unwilling to let it go.

  Galbraith touched his hat and waited. “Ship secured, sir. The gig is being lowered now.”

  He followed Bolitho’s telescope. A little apart from the other vessels, and larger than most of them: they had seen her on the last two cables before the anchor had plummeted down and the cable had taken the strain.

  A receiving-ship, they called such vessels, used mainly as temporary accommodation for officers and personnel on passage to other appointments. Mastless, and with most of her upper deck covered by a protective awning, her gun ports empty and opened to attract any offshore breeze, she was another hulk. The last time they had seen her, she had worn an admiral’s flag at the main-mast truck. Was that only last year? Even now, her “gingerbread,” the ornate scrollwork about her stern and counter, was still brightly gilded in the sunlight, and her name, Frobisher, was not to be forgotten. Least of all by the man at his side.

  Adam said, “Is that all they could find for her, Leigh?” He closed the glass with a snap and looked directly at him.

  “I saw my uncle’s old coxswain when I went to Falmouth.” He looked at the ship again, but Galbraith knew he was seeing something else. “I am only thankful that John Allday is not here today to see this!”

  He seemed to pull himself out of it with a great effort and said, “I will be going ashore directly. In the meantime, perhaps Mr Tregillis will loosen his purse strings again and attempt to obtain some fresh bread. The garrison will be the best chance.”

  “I’ll deal with that, sir.”

  He looked down, surprised, as Bolitho’s hand gripped his arm.

  “What do you think happened to Midshipman Sandell?”

  “Lucas, the maintopman accused of threatening him, denies all knowledge, sir. And in any case he was in the care of the ship’s corporal, in irons during that watch.” He added bitterly, “My watch!”

  Adam released his grip and stared at the towering Rock. There was mist or low cloud around the summit; Cristie had said it might promise a wind for the return passage.

  Varlo seemed to be enjoying his investigation, had even made a sketch showing where every man would or should have been stationed in what he had calculated was the last half hour of Sandell’s life. At the second eighteen-pounder on the starboard side he had discovered that two balls were missing from the shot garland. Enough to carry a body swiftly down before the keel had had time to pass over it. And up forward, so close to the lively bow wave, it would hardly make a sound.

  Sandell had had the makings of a tyrant, given the opportunity. But it could have been anybody.

  You never spoke of it, but it was always there. When you realised that if the worst happened and you were sailing alone, only the afterguard and the thin line of marines stood between a captain and mutiny.

  He saw Jago at the top of the ladder, his dark features expressionless. Waiting.

  “I want both counts of punishment to be stood down. One man was drunk, and you know from experience that flogging has never yet cured a drunkard. As for Lucas, he is a good hand. Remember how he saved two raw landmen from falling to the deck when we first commissioned? A man of spirit and courage, and I’ll not see him broken without proper evidence.”

  “Sandell’s people are quite important, I believe, sir?”

  Adam was looking at the Frobisher again. “They shall have the truth, Leigh. When I know it.”

  He walked to the rail and joined his coxswain.

  “Man the side! Attention on the upper deck!”

  Rist, master’s mate, stood with the others while the calls trilled and the captain went quickly down the side into his gig.

  He said, “You reckon Mr Sandell’s gone to the sharks?”

  Cristie overheard and said calmly, “If I was a shark I’d throw the little bastard right back at us!”

  Rist forced a smile, but turned away as the calls shrilled once more and work recommenced.

  He thought about it again; he had done little else since it had happened. It would soon be forgotten, and as everybody knew but would not say, Midshipman Sandell with his arrogance and secretive cruelty was no loss to anyone. Think of it, man. The fleet was growing again, you could see that for yourself at Plymouth, and here beneath the Rock there were more craft than on their last visit. The real cutting down was over. For now, anyway. Rist was not young, but young enough for promotion if it was offered or fell his way. To sailing master like old Cristie, or maybe to a command of his own, no matter how small, just given the time and the chance.

  He watched the first lieutenant speaking to Partridge, the boatswain. He liked and respected Galbraith, trusted him also.

  He faced it for the hundredth time. How long would that last if he revealed that he had witnessed the murder?

  He had to go down to the chart room. It was no use just going over it again. He felt the fine new spyglass the youth Ede had made for him. Put yourself first. But it would not go away.

  Luke Jago perched his buttocks against a massive stone bollard and picked his teeth with a piece of whalebone. The stone was still warm, and yet looking across the dark, heaving water there were already lights showing on some of the ships, like fireflies at his home in Dover. What he could still remember of it.

  The gig’s crew was close by, where he could keep a weather eye open for some last-minute chancer, although he had to admit they had become a fairly reliable boat’s crew. He heard someone kicking stones into the water. Midshipman Deighton, doing his share on this duty. A “young gentleman,” and one day he would be a lieutenant, and maybe another jumped-up slave driver. But he had to admit that he liked him, shared something which even his keen mind could not define or accept. Always ready to listen and learn, never threw his weight about even with the most junior hands, but it went deeper than that. Like the one most important thing which had brought them together, the fact that Jago had been there when Deighton’s father had died. Shot down by one of his own men, although nobody ever spoke of it. Not even the captain.

  He thought of the missing midshipman. San dell. He smiled grimly. San dell, as he had always insisted. Nobody spoke much about that, either. Deighton was affected by it, although he had never liked the other midshipman. It was like a presence moving between decks.

  Captain Bolitho had been ashore for most of the day, but had sent word by messenger that the gig would not be needed. Until now.

  He watched the passing throng of people; it was always the same at the Rock. It was funny when you thought about it. A few years back and you could imagine the Dons, just over the water at Algeiras, waiting to spy on ships arriving and leaving here, ready to send fast horsemen with the news, where from? or where bound? The enemy. Now there were ships of a dozen flags at anchor here. He could recall all too easily when there was only one flag. The rest were the foe.

  But they were not making much of a secret of their presence here; he had heard the first lieutenant say as much to young Bel-lairs. Why Unrivalled? Any fast schooner or courier brig could have done it. They did it every day somewhere or other.

  He hid a smile in the dying su
nlight.

  Two sailors from another vessel had looked at the gig, and had asked what was their ship?

  When he had told them, one had exclaimed, “That’s Captain Bolitho’s ship, matey!”

  Jago had been forced to give in to a feeling of pride, which before would have been laughable.

  Neither of those two Jacks had ever laid eyes on the captain. But the name was enough.

  Deighton stood up and brushed his white trousers. “The captain’s coming.”

  Jago pushed himself away from the bollard and spat the whale-bone into the water. Must be getting old. Deighton had seen him first.

  He could sense the impatience, anger even, as the captain stepped down into the nodding boat.

  Jago gauged the mood. Took a chance.

  “We sailin’ again, sir?”

  He saw the upturned face, the dark eyes framed by the hair, the familiar cocked hat. He had gone too far this time.

  But Adam said quietly, “We are so, my friend. In Falmouth I heard of an errand boy who rose to be a rich and powerful man. Now you can see a captain who has become an errand boy!”

  The boat’s crew shifted on their thwarts, sharing it, some without understanding. Midshipman Deighton rested one hand on the tiller to lean forward and listen. So very different, yet these two men had filled his life when he had believed himself to be alone.

  He remembered the day he had met Captain Bolitho for the first time. He had been sympathetic, but not out of mere duty, as his father would have reminded him. Like a friend. Someone who had understood what he was going through.

  “Cast off! Bear off forrard!” His voice confident and strong.

  As the gig pulled away into the lengthening shadows, Midshipman Richard Deighton would have changed roles with no one.

  Jago smiled and settled back to watch the regular rise and fall of the blades.

  Once, he saw the captain turn to look at the big hulk he had seen on their arrival. The last time had been when Admiral Lord Rhodes had ordered Unrivalled to stand fast, to discontinue the chase of the renegade frigate, and this captain had ignored the signal. And together they had won the day.

  But in his heart Jago knew he was seeing the moored hulk and her empty gun ports as she had once been, as his uncle’s flagship.

  He saw him remove his hat and hold it against his breast, and was surprised that it touched him so deeply.

  And yet, beyond even that, he felt something else. Like a warning.

  It was the scent of danger.

  Two days out of Gibraltar, Unrivalled was heading north again after standing well clear of Cape St Vincent to find more sea room. As was expected, Cristie’s prophecy about the wind had proved true. Within an hour of leaving the Strait, the Rock had vanished into thick mist, probably rain deeper inland, and now, close-hauled on the starboard tack and leaning steeply into the wind despite her reefed topsails, the frigate was constantly swept by a sea which thundered over her weather side, making any movement on deck dangerous.

  At first light the masthead had reported a sail directly to the north, but with such poor visibility any recognition was pure guesswork.

  While they reeled over, fighting into a wind which at times seemed to be from directly abeam, most of the hands, especially the older ones, were glad they were well clear of the land.

  Adam climbed to the quarterdeck as the forenoon watch relieved other soaked and exhausted seamen, who, under these conditions, were unlikely to be offered anything to warm their insides before they were called once more to trim or reef the salt-hardened canvas. But rum could work wonders; he had even heard two of the relieved topmen sharing a joke as they groped their way below, no doubt wondering what all the fuss and urgency had been about.

  Adam wondered also. He had had a meeting with the Captain-in-Charge at Gibraltar; the acting flag officer was otherwise engaged, being entertained aboard one of the visiting Dutch ships. How long would it take to accept this change of allegiance, enemies becoming friends overnight?

  The captain had told him that the information he had given to be carried in Unrivalled would be useful and important to Lord Exmouth. He had not said that it was vital.

  Nothing, it seemed, had changed. Several small vessels had been attacked by Algerine pirates, their crews taken as prisoners to the Dey’s stronghold. There had been other reports of innocent fishermen being slaughtered by Turkish soldiers at Bona, a port Adam had good cause to remember.

  The documents and despatches were now locked in the strong-box, to be guarded at all times, the Captain-in-Charge had insisted.

  He braced himself as his head and shoulders emerged from the companion, his hair blowing unheeded as he waited for the deck to rear up again.

  Bellairs greeted him, eyes reddened by the onslaught of wind and spray.

  “Steady she goes, sir! Nor’ by west!”

  Adam gripped the rail, feeling the ship plunge and rear again, like a thoroughbred fighting a halter. Despite his weariness, his regular visits to this windswept place of command, he could still feel the old excitement. The challenge: man, ship, and ocean.

  He stared along the upper deck, aware of the sharply braced yards, the spray pouring from the hard-bellied canvas like icy pellets, conscious that everything was in its proper place, stays and running rigging taking the strain, boats on their tier firmly secured. With this sea, it must have been a fight just to accomplish that . . .

  He watched the water boil against the guns on the lee side, saw crouched figures snatching at handholds until the miniature tidal wave had passed over them before running to the next task, another repair to cordage and canvas.

  “Deck there! Sail on the starboard bow!” There must have been a momentary lull as the lookout yelled again, “Two sail, sir!”

  Bellairs wiped his streaming face with his sleeve. “Our two companions of yesterday, sir?”

  “Perhaps.” Adam peered up at the swaying topmasts, trying to picture Unrivalled as another lookout might see her. Whatever they were they were not running away, or trying to avoid an encounter. Common enough when ships’ masters knew there was a man-of-war about, on their lawful occasions or not. They had not forgotten the press-gangs, either.

  He thought of the Dutch ships he had seen at Gibraltar. Part of Exmouth’s plan? Or was it mere coincidence?

  He saw a man clambering up the main shrouds, fingers and toes expertly hooked around the ratlines as the hull reeled over again, so that he appeared to be hanging bodily above the leaping wave crests. He saw the seaman turn and stare down at him. It was Lucas, whom Sandell had accused of threatening behaviour. It was still hard to believe that an officer had gone missing. They might never discover what had happened. He tried to shut it out. Somebody knew.

  He glanced at the masthead again. “Mr Cousens, take your glass and go aloft, will you? I’d value a second pair of eyes up there.”

  Cousens grinned. Signals midshipman, as Bellairs had been such a short while ago, and with luck the next one for the board for lieutenant. He should do well; he worked at his studies, but had a reputation for practical jokes. Also, he had a good head for heights.

  Woodthorpe, the master’s mate of the watch, asked carefully, “D’ you think them ships want to speak with us, sir?”

  Adam watched the midshipman climbing steadily up the shrouds, the signals telescope hanging across his shoulders like a small cannon.

  “We shall likely lose them soon.” He looked at the compass, imagining the spread of shark-blue ocean which separated the vessels. The bearing was the same, as far as he could estimate in this unruly sea. A converging tack, then. With the benefit of a wind under their coat-tails they should pass well ahead, heading west, deep into the Atlantic.

  “Deck there! Leading ship is a frigate, sir!”

  Some of the seamen on deck had stopped work to listen, anything to break the aching monotony of hauling on ropes and hammering wedges into position. Adam moved a little apart from the others. Without looking, he knew Cristie had
come on deck. In a moment Galbraith would appear. They never had to be told.

  He swallowed and tasted the treacle he had spread on a biscuit, with some of Napier’s strong coffee. He had questioned him about his leg, and Napier had said that he had picked up a splinter in his foot; otherwise he was quite well. In some ways the boy reminded him of himself at that age. He was not a very good liar, either. He would speak to the surgeon.

  “Deck there! She’s a Yankee!”

  Someone gave an ironic cheer, and a boatswain’s mate remarked, “Don’t them buggers ’ave somethin’ useful to do?” Another man laughed.

  Adam looked at the masthead again, the spray running over his face like rain. Come on. Come on. With that big telescope Cousens would be able to see the ship well enough to identify it. But what about the other? What was an American ship doing out here? Perhaps, after all, the United States government was taking the slave trade seriously, although until now they had strongly resisted any attempt by patrols to stop and search their vessels in the known vicinity.

  Adam took a telescope from the rack and climbed up into the weather shrouds. He was soaked through in any case; he hated wearing a heavy tarpaulin coat. If you slipped it could carry you down as quickly as any round shot . . .

  He waited, the tarred shrouds biting into his skin while the hull went over once again. Unrivalled must have lifted suddenly on a freak crest; he saw the other ship quite strongly, her buff sails and most of her shining side before she dipped into the sea again. But not before he had seen the bright patch of colour standing out from her peak like polished metal, the Stars and Stripes.

  He clambered down again and saw Galbraith waiting for him.

  He said, “Yankee frigate.” He looked at him, his eyes steady despite the biting spray. “The other one’s a barque.”

  “The barque?”

  “Could be. In which case . . .”