Relentless Pursuit

by Alexander Kent

  He heard Cristie murmuring to one of his mates, then he called, “Ready to begin sounding, sir.”

  “Carry on.” He imagined the leadsman up forward in the chains, swinging the great lead, beyond and behind his perch, then up and over, the lead and line snaking well ahead of the ship’s slow progress.

  He walked to the rail again and rested his palms on it. Cool and wet. In another couple of hours it would be like a furnace bar.

  He tensed as the splash came from ahead, like another leaping fish.

  The leadsman’s voice was clear and unhurried. “No bottom, sir!”

  He sounded almost bored. Even Galbraith had seemed surprised by the precautions. Doubtless he thought his captain was overdoing it, had lost confidence in himself.

  Adam gazed up at the topsails, which, with the jib, were the only canvas spread for this final approach. Some overnight fisherman might otherwise see the frigate. He gritted his teeth. And do what? Turnbull was no fool, and would take no unnecessary risks. The horizon already seemed paler; in an hour Paradox and the others would begin their plan of attack.

  He thought of Hastilow, experienced and eager to avenge his men and his friend. How much might he be influenced by a senior officer like Turnbull, whose last command at sea had been a ship of the line?

  “By th’ mark thirteen!”

  Adam imagined the leadsman, up there in the gloom, hauling in his line and feeling for the telltale marks, bunting, pieces of leather or simple knots. Strong, tarred fingers, an expert in his work.

  Thirteen fathoms. Cristie would be making calculations. Unrivalled drew three. A safe margin, but with so many sandbars and unmarked spits you could never be confident.

  He heard something fall heavily on deck, and an instant mouthful of curses from whoever was in charge.

  The anchor party was in position, poised and ready to let go. As soon as they were anchored Galbraith would supervise the running out of a stern rope, right round the ship and then fastened to the mooring cable. An anchored man-of-war, even one as powerful and well-drilled as Unrivalled, was almost helpless to defend herself against oared vessels which could work around a ship’s stern and fire directly into it. The chebecks had reinforced that lesson, and it was not one he would forget, no matter what Galbraith thought about it.

  He saw the chart in his mind again. So many channels which led from the main river and into the first open water.

  “By th’ mark ten!”

  Galbraith had joined him. “Soon now, sir.” It sounded like a question.

  Adam did not reply directly. If they anchored too far out, there might be a dozen passages of escape for any slaver which slipped past Turnbull.

  “Not yet.” He walked to the compass box and peered up at the maintopsail. He could see the entire span of it now. The sun would appear over those hills which Cristie had noted so carefully. After that . . .

  “An’ deep eight!” Not so bored now.

  It was not difficult to imagine the seabed rising relentlessly to greet Unrivalled’s keel.

  He peered at the little dogvane, and knew the helmsmen were watching him intently.

  Cristie said meaningly, “Wind’s freshened a bit, sir.”

  Adam considered it. Cristie never wasted time with idle comment. And he could feel the strengthening offshore breeze, hear it in the sails. It would be hard work for Turnbull’s boats, pulling directly into it. The slavers, if any were still there, would use it to advantage. Perhaps Turnbull had already decided to wait and allow their quarry to make the first move. At the same time, he knew he would not.

  He recalled something he had heard his uncle say, as if he had spoken the words aloud. The only thing a captain can take for granted is the unexpected!

  He was surprised that he could sound so calm.

  “Bring her about, Mr Galbraith. We will anchor.”

  Orders were passed with no more than necessary noise, and men who had tripped and fumbled with every move only months, weeks ago, scampered to sheets and braces as if they had been doing it all their lives.

  “Lee braces, there! Hands wear ship!”

  Adam reached for the locket beneath his shirt and was surprised that it was missing. He had left it in his strongbox, where it would remain until this episode was just another entry in Cristie’s log.

  But it felt strange, different. The ship cleared as if for action, but none of the main armament loaded. Over cautious? Or losing it, as the old Jacks termed it.

  He listened to the rebellious canvas as the seamen kicked and fisted it into submission.

  He saw the two Royal Marine officers by the boat tier, every feature so much clearer now.

  The leadsman coming aft along the starboard gangway, his line neatly coiled over one shoulder.

  Midshipman Deighton standing beside Galbraith . . . thinking what?

  “Let go!”

  He saw the spray burst up beneath the larboard cathead, heard Varlo calling out somebody’s name.

  Then he saw the land, swinging slowly past the bows, the beautiful figurehead’s naked shoulders suddenly etched against the hills which were still in deep, purple shadow.

  “All fast, sir!”

  Adam saw Napier speaking with the other youth, Ede, gesturing as if to explain something which was happening by the capstan. One with a mother who no longer wrote to inquire after her son’s well-being, the other, so deft and gentle with his hands, who had tried to murder his employer.

  So he was being over cautious this time. It was his decision.

  He smiled briefly. And they were ready.

  Daniel Yovell stood below one of the quarterdeck ladders, his hat pulled down to shade his eyes from the first fierce glare of sunlight. He disliked the heat, but made no allowance for it in his dress. His father had been much the same, as far as he could remember. What keeps out the cold, keeps out the heat had been a rule with him. He knew it was a source of amusement to Unrivalled’s ship’s company, but he was used to that too.

  He took a deep breath as he watched the golden glow spreading across the choppy water, giving life to the shoreline with its hills and the darker green of forest further inland. It was a time of day he tried never to miss. He had no responsibilities, no duties; he could merely observe and enjoy it. He had grown used to avoiding the normal rush and urgency of a man-of-war, without being a part of it.

  Like now, he thought. One of the boats had been pulling a long rope from aft and had hauled it beyond the bows to lash it to the anchor cable. He had heard that it was to swing the ship if need be, to train the guns when there was no other way.

  He heard Partridge the boatswain bawling at some men on the capstan bars.

  “’Ard work, did you say, Robbins? If the wind gets any live-lier it’ll be a bloody sight ’arder!”

  Without turning or looking up, Yovell could hear Captain Bolitho speaking with one of his officers. Calm, unruffled. But in the great cabin Yovell had seen the other side of him. Not the captain, but the man, who cared, and was often hurt because of it.

  Like the time he had returned on board after his visit to the headquarters at Freetown, after he’d met Rear-Admiral Herrick. Yovell knew a good deal about Herrick, and had served with him when he was Sir Richard Bolitho’s secretary. Stubborn, pig-headed, with a fine edge between right and wrong. He had known of Herrick’s refusal to accept Lady Somervell . . . Catherine . . . to see her true strength and value as more than merely Bolitho’s lover.

  He felt privileged to have shared it. He had seen Catherine’s courage in the open boat after the loss of Golden Plover. Unable to conceal her discomfort, her borrowed sailor’s garb barely hiding her body from a boat full of men, she had still managed to inspire and encourage them all. Most of them had given up any hope of survival. Yovell had taken comfort from his Bible, but even he had had moments of doubt.

  He had heard Adam Bolitho refer to the navy as a family. Richard Bolitho had done so as well. It was no mere coincidence that the other frigate anchored at
Freetown when they had arrived had been under James Tyacke’s command. Tyacke in his brig Larne had found that open boat and saved them from certain death.

  And now there was Thomas Herrick. To Yovell it seemed only yesterday since he had accompanied Catherine to Herrick’s house in Kent, where they had found his wife in the grip of typhus. Sir Richard’s wife Belinda had been there but had left immediately when she had realized the nature of the illness.

  He had heard that Herrick had asked for forgiveness for his behaviour after that. Yovell was ashamed that he found it hard to believe.

  Galbraith strode aft and paused to say, “Nothing to see, I’m afraid.” He glanced at the partly-manned capstan. “But there’s still time, I suppose.”

  He half-turned. “You going up, Sullivan?”

  The seaman nodded. “Cap’n asked me, sir.” He sounded troubled. “I hate this place. I was here before, once. Long time ago.” His clear eyes were distant, reminiscent. “We was ashore on a waterin’ party, and them devils took one of our lads. The cap’n sent th’ marines ashore, but they was too late. They’d cut off his eyelids so that he couldn’t close them against the sun, then they pegged him out on an anthill an’ watched him die. It must have taken a long time, sir.”

  They watched him leap into the shrouds, like a young boy, before he began to climb up towards the maintop.

  Yovell removed his spectacles and mopped his face with a large handkerchief.

  “I often marvel that such men return to sea again and again, even after what they have seen!”

  Galbraith grinned. “He’s no different from the rest of us!” He touched Yovell’s plump arm. “Or you, for that matter!”

  “Deck there! Sail to the nor’-east!”

  Galbraith almost ran up the ladder and saw Bolitho already opening a telescope. Sullivan might resent the other lookout calling a sighting before him.

  Galbraith nodded to Midshipman Cousens as he offered his own glass. He heard Bolitho say, “She’s Paradox. Makes a fine sight!”

  Galbraith adjusted the telescope with care. It was strange at first: with Unrivalled lying at anchor the other vessel appeared to be much further out. It was an illusion; Paradox was standing towards the larger of the two inlets, tacking well enough, although the offshore wind had her almost aback at one point. She had all her boats in the water, towing or alongside. Galbraith bit his lip. That would do nothing to help steerage-way. The dawn haze was clearing slowly. He moved the glass again and saw another fan of sails, the hull still hidden in mist or smoke, as if she had fired a silent broadside. That would be Seven Sisters. He looked at Paradox again. Clearer and sharper now. The broad-pendant seemed far too large for so sleek a vessel, he thought. She had shortened sail, and he could see one of the boats, then another, being hauled alongside, the occasional glint of weapons as men clambered down into them.

  Adam Bolitho said, “Too soon! The oarsmen will be exhausted before they can work into position!”

  Galbraith handed the big signals telescope to Cousens. “Watch the commodore.” He looked forward. All work had ceased, and most of the hands were either standing on the guns or clinging to the shrouds, spectators, as if they had no part in it.

  “Deck there!” This time it was Sullivan. “Sail in sight, sir!”

  Adam raised his glass again even as he heard Cristie exclaim, “There’s another of ’em, fine across the inlet!”

  Paradox was on the move again, her sails changing shape as she shifted to the opposite tack.

  Cousens called huskily,“From Commodore, sir! Enemy in sight!”

  Adam flinched as a gun banged out over the cruising wavelets. Small and dull, without menace.

  Paradox would close with the other vessels and fire a few shots into them. There would be no point in their trying to resist, especially with Seven Sisters already making more sail.

  Adam walked quickly to the rail, barely seeing the marines standing by or against the packed hammock nettings. He felt helpless, anchored and unable to offer support.

  He turned abruptly and asked, “How long shall we hold this lie to the cable?”

  Cristie answered instantly, “’Bout an hour, sir. Then we shall begin to swing.”

  Adam stared at the green mass of land. Between Unrivalled and the first sandbars there was a channel. It was badly charted, but doubtless well enough known to the slavers and those who hunted for them. Hastilow must know this coastline better than most. Creeks and beaches, inlets and places where even the biggest craft could lie undisturbed.

  Paradox fired again. Aiming for the sails. If the vessel was packed with slaves it would be sheer murder to fire into the hull.

  “Deck there! Third sail leavin’ the inlet, sir!”

  Adam heard Galbraith say, “They’ve left it too late! They can never come about in time!”

  Adam turned as Cristie said, “I may be speaking out of turn, sir, but . . .”

  Afterwards, Adam recalled the sailing master’s surprise when he had gripped his arm as if to shake him.

  “Tell me, man! What’s wrong?”

  “Paradox is on the wrong bearing.” Then, more firmly, “No, I’m damn sure of it.”

  Adam said, “Mr Galbraith, beat to quarters, if you please, and have the starboard battery loaded.” He held up one hand, like a rider quieting his mount. “But not run out!” He swung round and saw Jago watching him. As if he was waiting for it. “You were offering to sway out the gig, remember? Then do it now, larboard side.”

  He sensed his servant, Napier, by his side and reached out to grasp his shoulder. All the while he was watching the converging pattern of sails, like the fins of sharks closing for the kill.

  “Fetch my coat and sword, David.”

  “Sir?” Napier stared at him, not understanding.

  He squeezed the shoulder. A boy his mother should be proud to have.

  “They might think twice before firing on one of the King’s captains!”

  Galbraith must have heard him; the urgent rattle of drums beating to quarters had ceased, the spectators had formed into tried and tested patterns. The ship seemed suddenly still, the occasional bark of gunfire remote and unreal. He exclaimed, “You will not do it, sir!” He was shaking with emotion.

  There was a great chorus of shouts and groans, and Adam heard someone cry, “She’s struck! Paradox has driven aground!”

  He looked past Galbraith and saw it for himself. Paradox was slewing round, her fore-topmast falling as he watched, soundless in distance but no less terrible.

  “You know, Leigh, I don’t think there’s any choice.” Then, half to himself, “There never was.”

  When he looked again, Paradox was mastless. A wreck.

  Seven Sisters would not be in time, and the other vessels in Turnbull’s flotilla would be hard put to cut off the remaining slavers.

  There was only Unrivalled, and she was anchored and impotent, unable to move even into the other channel without sharing the same fate as Paradox.

  “All guns loaded, sir!”

  He held out his arms for Napier to assist him with his coat. Then he took the old sword, and thought again of the renegade’s words. Bravado, courage, or vanity?

  Cousens called, “They’re firing on Paradox’s boats, sir!” He sounded sickened, outraged.

  The flat, dull bangs of carronades, packed with canister and at point-blank range. Turnbull’s proud gesture was in bloody rags.

  He said, “Man your capstans, Leigh. Let us see what we can do today,” and looked directly at him. “Together.”

  9 PIKE IN THE REEDS

  ADAM BOLITHO forced himself to remain motionless, his coat brushing the quarterdeck rail while he stared along Unrivalled’s deck and beyond to the main channel. The other vessels were still making good use of the offshore breeze, sails barely slackening as they altered course slightly, their outlines overlapping and distorted in the harsh light. He could hear more shots, small and individual now, marksmen, he thought, shooting at anyone in the water
who had survived the carronades. Paradox had swung with the wind and tide but was still fast on the sandbar. The nearest slaver, a brig, fired two guns as she drew abeam, but there was no response.

  The third vessel changed tack again, showing herself for the first time since she had left the inlet. A brigantine, if he had harboured any doubts. Cristie quenched them. “It’s that bloody Albatroz!” And his mate’s quick response. “And not empty this time, by God!”

  Adam said, “Keep your men down and out of sight, Mr Varlo.” He wanted to move, to climb the shrouds for a better view, but he did neither. He did not need a telescope to see that the brig Seven Sisters had come about and was attempting to alter course on to a converging tack with the leading slaver. How they must be hugging themselves, the first shock of seeing Paradox, and then an anchored frigate, giving way to something like jubilation. People would yarn about it for years, and more and more slavers would be prepared to take the risk because of it.

  “Ready on the capstan, Mr Galbraith. Take in the slack from aft.” He did not raise his voice. “Impress on the gun captains to aim high, rigging and nothing below it.”

  “Heave, lads! Heave!”

  Adam saw Lieutenant Bellairs urging more men from aft to add their weight to the capstan bars, feet and toes slipping as they matched their strength against the ship and the anchor cable.

  Adam watched the land; it was moving, but so slowly. He stared at the three other vessels, spreading out now, with all the room they needed to avoid Unrivalled’s challenge. Except for the unmarked channels. Each of the three masters would know all about them, and be ready to choose his escape route to the sea.

  If they took no chances, they could do it. Full human cargoes would increase their risk of sharing Paradox’s fate. And they had fired on a King’s ship, had killed Turnbull’s men in the water. Yes, every man aboard would know the penalty of failure now.

  Unrivalled was swinging, but not fast enough. It had to be soon. Adam gripped his sword and pressed it against his thigh until the pain steadied him. It was now.

  “Open the ports! Run out!”