Relentless Pursuit

by Alexander Kent

“Well, then.” Bellairs looked past him. “Do your work with a will and attend your duties, and you’ll have nothing to fear!”

  He strode aft and added, “He’ll soon learn, Mr Deighton.” He caught himself in time. He had almost said, we all had to.

  Deighton glanced back at the three figures with Williams. It was strange that the third lieutenant had not noticed it, he thought. The youth called Ede was not merely sick or feeling out of place. He was terrified.

  He put it from his mind. They were heading for Sierra Leone, and there was talk of the slave trade. And today he, Midshipman Richard Deighton, was being invited to the wardroom. Perhaps the first step . . .

  He thought of Ede again. Even when these same guns had roared out and men had been cut down in front of him, he had not been afraid. Not as he might have expected. A need to prove something, maybe? No, it went even deeper than that.

  But not like the youth named Ede. Deighton had been afraid of only one man. His own father.

  He thought suddenly of the way the captain had treated him when he had joined the ship at Malta. It had been like sharing something, as if . . .

  “I trust I am not tiring you too much, Mr Deighton?” Bellairs had turned to watch him.

  Deighton touched his hat.

  “Ready, sir!”

  Bellairs strode on. He felt more like a lieutenant again.

  The meal in Unrivalled’s wardroom was a surprisingly good one. The centrepiece was a saddle of mutton which had been brought aboard at the last moment before sailing, with a remarkably strong sauce which was one of the cook’s own inventions. The fresh bread from Devon and Cornwall had already been consumed, but ship’s biscuits, cheese and a variety of wines made it a lively occasion.

  As a young lieutenant, Adam had often wondered how a captain felt when he was invited to the wardroom. A guest in his own ship. Even now he was not sure, nor was he used to it. A small brig like his very first command, or an ugly bomb like those he had seen off Algiers was a much closer community. A frigate, despite the lack of space, preserved the same barriers and distinctions as a lordly ship of the line.

  Only at times like these, with the wine flowing at will, did you see the other side of the coin, the men behind the allotted ranks and roles. As varied as Cristie the sailing master, the true professional whose family had been raised in the same humble street as Lord Collingwood. O’Beirne the surgeon, stabbing the air through the drifting pipe smoke to emphasise the point in some Irish story he had been telling. He was a good surgeon, who had proved his worth several times over, after and during action at sea, or when dealing with the hundred and one accidents that befell even the most experienced seaman going about his work.

  Adam eased his back against the chair and knew he had eaten too much. It was nothing compared with his companions, more out of habit. As captain he could choose what and when he ate. Consuming too little was as dangerous as drinking too much, when there was nobody to enchourage or restrain you.

  He glanced down at his new coat, made by the same Plymouth tailor as the one he’d worn when Unrivalled had been commissioned. The one he had worn for that last fight with Triton. Part of the Bolitho legend, or a reckless indifference which might one day kill him?

  Either way, it was loose around his body, even though the soft-tongued tailor had insisted it had been cut to the original measurements. He had made it sound almost inconvenient.

  He heard shrill laughter from one of the three midshipmen, who had been invited for this special evening while their captain was present. It was the youngest, Hawkins, who was twelve years old. Unrivalled was his first ship. The son of a post-captain, grandson of a vice-admiral. He thought of Napier. At least Hawkins would have no doubts about his future.

  He stared at his goblet, but could not recall when it had last been filled. It would soon be time to make his excuses and leave. Galbraith would go on deck and check the watchkeepers, wind and weather, and that would give the others a chance to speak out, to discuss what they chose without fear of crossing that forbidden bridge, the chain of command.

  “May I ask you something, sir?”

  It was Varlo, who had been silent, almost detached, for most of the evening.

  He kept a good watch, and had never failed to request permission to reef or shorten sail if he considered it necessary. Some lieutenants would rather tear the sticks out of a ship than disturb their captain, for fear of showing a lack of ability or confidence. And yet . . .

  He said, “Fire away, Mr Varlo.”

  Varlo leaned forward, his neat hair glossy in the lantern light.

  “Slavery is illegal, sir. Most of the world powers are agreed on it. I read in the Gazette that even the Portuguese have accepted that the Equator shall be the boundary line of the trade.” He glanced along the table, one hand in the air. “But how can we enforce such a ruling? We shall have fewer ships, and less senior officers with the authority and experience to carry out anything so widespread.”

  Adam said, “That is what we must discover—the purpose of this mission, as I see it.”

  Varlo smiled, quickly. “Many people in England do not agree with the ruling, sir. They were and still are against the Bill as it went through Parliament . . .”

  Captain Luxmore leaned forward and slopped some wine down his sleeve. Fortunately, it matched the scarlet well.

  “No more speeches, George! Leave that to the damned politicians!”

  Adam said, “I take your point, Mr Varlo. Some people do not understand. Others perhaps see slavery as the only way to work and produce from those lands for which we are responsible. It is an old argument, but loses its strength when set against the act of enslavement itself.”

  Galbraith said, “I have heard it said that Negroes are far better off working in a Christian country than being left in their native barbarism.” His face was troubled. “But it will be hard to contain, no matter what the true rights and wrongs of it.”

  Varlo nodded, satisfied. “An enormous task, as I have said. And a proportionate responsibility for any captain.”

  He stopped, his hand still in mid-air as Adam brought his knife down on the table.

  “We have a proud ship, Mr Varlo.” He looked along the table. This was not as he had intended it to be. “And now, thanks to all your efforts, we have men to serve her. It can be said that conditions in the navy have at times been little better than slavery.” He glanced at his goblet. It was empty. But he could not stop now. “Things will be different, eventually. A man becomes a sailor for all sorts of reasons. Because he is hungry and unemployed, or unemployable. He may be on the wrong side of the law.” He saw Cristie nod. “He may even be driven by dreams of glory. Our company is probably no better and no worse than any you have known, but it will be up to us to mould them into something of true value. To serve this ship.”

  Varlo smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

  Adam held his hand over the goblet as a messman hovered beside him. It was time. Varlo, by design or accident, had made his point. Few people today cared about the rights and wrongs of slavery. It was a fact of life. So long as they were not ill treated. He had heard James Tyacke on the subject. He was back on antislavery patrol duty, where it had all started for him. Where he had first met Richard Bolitho, and his life had been changed. He could hear him now. He gave me back my pride. My will to live. Another face. Another unbroken link with the past.

  He was at the wardroom door; faces were beaming, some shining in the damp air. All the toasts, the stories, the small, tight world which was theirs. And mine.

  Galbraith followed him and said, “It was good of you to come, sir.” He gave a crooked smile. “Sorry about the second lieutenant. Some of it was my fault.” He did not explain. “I’ll be glad when we’ve got some real work to do!”

  Adam nodded to the marine sentry and entered his cabin. Only two lanterns were still alight. He saw his boat-cloak hanging near the sleeping quarters, and remembered the girl who had left a lock of hair in the pocket. Wh
ere was she, he wondered. Laughing now at that brief but dangerous liaison in Malta. He must have been mad. It could have cost him dearly. Cost me this ship.

  But he had kept the lock of hair.

  He saw a goblet wedged in a corner of the desk, the dark cognac tilting and shivering to the thrust of wind and rudder.

  He touched the locket beneath his shirt before looking around the cabin, as if he expected to see or hear someone.

  Then he raised the goblet to his lips and thought of the toast they had avoided calling in the wardroom. To absent friends.

  Don’t leave me. But the voice was his own.

  The afternoon sun was poised directly above the mainmast truck, the glare so hard that it seemed to sear the eyes. The forenoon watch had been relieved and were now below in their messes for a meal, and the smell of rum was still heavy in the air. During the day the wind had veered slightly and dropped, so that the ship appeared to be resting, her decks quite dry, for the first time since leaving England. To any landsman the activity on the upper decks might appear aimless and casual, after the urgency and constant demands which time and time again had dragged all hands to their stations for shortening sail, or for repairing damage aloft.

  But to the professional sailors the deck was often “the marketplace,” and any trained eye would soon pick out the many and varied activities which were all part of a ship’s daily life.

  The sailmaker and his crew sat cross-legged like tailors, needles and palms rising and falling in unison. No canvas was ever wasted. Sails had to be repaired and wind damage made good before the next gale or worse. Scraps were used for patching, for crude but effective pouches, for making new hammocks. For burying the dead.

  The boatswain’s various parties moved through the hull, greasing block sheaves, replacing whipping on strained or worn rope-work, repairing boats, touching up paintwork wherever needed.

  Occasionally men would shade their eyes and peer across the bows to the low, undulating humps, purple and dark blue against the horizon’s hard edge. Like very low clouds, except that there were no clouds. It was land.

  The shift of wind, with courses and topsails hard put even to remain filled, had changed things. The old hands understood well enough. No captain would want to skulk into a foreign port under cover of darkness without showing his flag. The wiser ones realised that Madeira consisted of five islands, with all the extra hazards of a final approach for the captain to consider.

  It would be tomorrow.

  “Stand to your guns!”

  In the meantime, work and drill would continue.

  Only two guns were being used to instruct some of the new hands, the first pair right forward on Unrivalled’s larboard side. She carried a total of thirty 18 -pounders, her main armament, divided along either beam. They also made up the biggest top-weight, quick to make itself felt in any sort of heavy swell. When the ship had first been laid down, the designers in their wisdom had ordered that the eighteen-pounders be cast a foot shorter than usual, in the hope that the decreased weight would assist stability in bad weather and, more important to their lordships, in action.

  At the first gun, its captain Isaac Dias wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and glared at the next group of men. Dias was thickset and deep-chested, a gun captain of long standing both in Unrivalled and in other ships before that. His gun was in the first division, and as such was usually the earliest to engage the enemy. He wore his shaggy hair in an old-style pigtail, and stripped of his shirt his body was scarred in several places from splinters and from brawls ashore and afloat, and like his massive arms was thick with hair. Fiercesome and incredibly ugly, he was also the best gun captain in the ship, and he knew it.

  He squinted up at the topgallant mast and noted the lie of it toward the horizon. The windward side of the ship. Not much of a blow, but still a muscle-tearing sweat to haul the gun up to the open port. He ran his eyes over the waiting hands. You were born a gunner. You didn’t just become one because some poxy officer said it was to be.

  Someone murmured, “’Ere comes trouble, Isaac.”

  Dias grinned. It made him look even uglier. “Goin’ to tell us what to do, eh?”

  The trouble in question was Midshipman Sandell, walking as he always did, with his dragging springy step, as if he was already strutting his own quarterdeck, Dias thought.

  But Dias was an old hand. He knew about the young gentlemen and how far you could go. Not like some of them, Sandell actually enjoyed being hated, and hated he was. When he was eventually commissioned lieutenant he would make life hell for everyone. It was to be hoped he would be killed before that happened.

  Sandell stood, hands on hips, his lips pursed in what might have been a smile.

  “You know your places. When I give the word, go to them, roundly so!”

  The last words came out sharply and he turned to point a finger at one who had been startled.

  “Name?”

  It was the youth Ede, even paler in the harsh glare.

  “Ede, sir.”

  Sandell regarded him keenly. “I remember. Yes. The one who would not go aloft when ordered!”

  Ede shook his head. “No, sir, I was excused at that time.”

  Sandell nodded. “Of course. Afraid of heights, someone said.” He glanced round; some men had stopped work to watch or listen, and Midshipman Deighton was at the second gun with more untrained hands. Sandell was beginning to enjoy the audience.

  He snapped, “Gun captain, take your station now! Facing the port!”

  Dias said, “I know my station, Mr Sandell!”

  Sandell flinched. “San- dell, damn you! I shall be watching you, Dias, old Jack or not!”

  Dias looked away to hide his grin. It was so easy with this little maggot.

  Sandell cleared his throat. “Now take stations!” He flicked the starter he always carried across a man’s bare shoulder, and added, “In action you might find yourself in charge, everyone else killed, think on that, you oaf!”

  The man’s name was Cooper. He had been picked from Bellairs’ list along with Ede. They had been in the same prison together.

  Cooper ducked down and seized the handspike nearest him. Sandell was already snapping at someone else and did not see the fire in his stare. Almost to himself, he muttered, “And you’ll be the first to get it!”

  The drill continued, with some of the regular gun crews going through every move before handing over to the others.

  Sandell had seen Dias looking at the foremast and said, “Prepare to run out!”

  Dias stooped over to add his weight but stood aside as Sandell shouted, “Not you, Dias. You were just killed!”

  It was heavy going, backs and muscles unused to handling a great gun, bare feet slipping on the deck as it tilted over yet again, the eighteen-pounder dragging at its tackles to make their efforts seem puny.

  At the second gun Deighton shouted, “Together, lads! Heave!”

  The two guns trundled up to their ports and groaned into position.

  “Point! Ready! Fire!” Sandell was beating time with his starter as if he alone could see and hear this empty gun in action.

  He lashed out again at the one named Ede. “Don’t let go, you idiot! Put your weight on it!” He struck him again and Ede slipped and fell, his legs beneath the truck.

  “Belay that!” The voice was sharp, incisive. “Secure the gun!”

  It was Lieutenant Varlo, his eyes everywhere as he walked along the gangway and stopped directly above the first gun.

  Sandell exclaimed, “It was deliberate, sir!” He gestured towards Ede. “Nothing but trouble since we began!”

  Varlo said, “Stand up, Ede.” Then, “Had this gun been in action it would have recoiled inboard when fired and you would have had both legs crushed.” He watched him calmly, but his voice was meant for the midshipman. “Do you understand?”

  Ede nodded shakily. “Yes, sir.”

  Varlo looked at the foremast. “Afraid of heights, eh? That won
’t do. This is a fighting ship. We depend on one another.” He glanced coldly at Sandell. “We have no choice.”

  A boatswain’s mate touched his forehead. “Cap’n’s compliments, Mr Varlo, sir, you can dismiss the drill now.”

  Varlo nodded. “Carry on.” He looked at Ede again. “No choice. Remember that.”

  The others gathered round, the regular gun crews peering at everything as if their own smartness and efficiency was being questioned. Isaac Dias spat on his hands.

  “Come on, show ’em how it’s really done, eh?”

  The laughter seemed to break the spell, although nobody looked at Sandell as he strode aft, barely able to contain his fury.

  Only Ede remained, one hand on his arm where Sandell’s rope starter had left its mark.

  Deighton was about to leave when something made him say, “I was scared of going aloft.” He checked himself. What was the matter with him? But he added, “For a long time. But I learned a lot from the old Jacks, watched how they did it. One hand for the King, they always said, but keep one for yourself!”

  Ede was staring at him, as if he had just realised he was there.

  “But . . . you’re an officer, sir . . .” He stared aft, watching for Sandell.

  Deighton said, “It makes no difference, up there.” He thought suddenly of his father’s intolerance. “Come up with me in the dog watches.” The youth was still staring at the criss-cross of rigging, the aimlessly flapping foretopsail, and he recognised the fear and something more.

  “Would you, sir?” Almost pleading, almost desperate. “Just the two of us?”

  Deighton grinned, relieved, but for whom he did not know.

  “I’ll try, sir, if you think . . .” He did not go on.

  Deighton touched his arm. “I’m sure.” Then he walked away, into the market-place.

  He did not know how gratitude would look, but now he knew how it felt.

  He thought of the captain’s words in the wardroom. Things will be different. Eventually.

  For both of them it was a challenge.

  After the blinding glare of the sun, the dazzling reflections thrown up from a clean blue sea, the night was like a cloak.