Relentless Pursuit

by Alexander Kent

  Jago muttered, “They’ll tear him apart, sir.” He was staring at him, searching for something. Like that day in the church.

  “I don’t doubt it. Call the gig alongside. Mr Varlo can remain in charge. He is discovering a great deal today, I believe!”

  The marines were dragging Cousens along the deck. Others ran to assist. He was a powerful man, but his voice, strong as it was, broke in a scream as they reached the open hatch.

  The scream was almost drowned by the combined din from the hold. Like one great beast, baying for vengeance.

  Rist stared at Jago and then at his captain.

  “He wants to talk, sir. To tell you . . .” He glanced at the hatchway. “Anything but that!”

  Adam looked across to Unrivalled, so bright, so clean in the sunlight.

  He said, “It soils all of us. Not only the guilty!”

  The master’s mate strode away, and Jago said, “Would you have done it, sir?”

  Adam swung around sharply, and felt the claws slackening, releasing him.

  “I hope I never know.” And punched his arm. “Luke.”

  Galbraith ducked beneath a deckhead beam and stood by the small desk. On the opposite side of the great cabin Yovell was seated at his table, absorbed in the notes he was copying unhurriedly in his round hand. No wonder they called them quill-pushers in the navy, he thought, Yovell was utterly engrossed, as if completely alone. As if this had been an ordinary day.

  And the captain. Hard to believe he was the same man Galbraith had watched through a telescope climbing aboard the anchored Albatroz, unaccompanied and vulnerable. He was still scarcely able to accept what had happened.

  As if to mock him, he heard eight bells ring out from the forecastle. Noon: six hours, if that, since they had seen Paradox strike bottom, and her masts and sails fold over her on the water like a dying seabird.

  Work had not stopped since. Boats plying back and forth, slaves being released on Albatroz’s deck, carefully guarded and separated from the vessel’s crew, some of whom were in irons. Varlo was obeying orders. Take no chances. With anyone.

  The brig Seven Sisters had been busy, too, securing the other slaver, Intrepido, and kedging her into deeper water. Other boats had been ferrying guns and stores from Paradox, anything which might be used against her original owners. Paradox could not be moved, and in these currents and this climate it was doubtful if she would last much longer.

  Commodore Turnbull had survived, completely unhurt. Before he had come below Galbraith had seen one last boat lying alongside the dejected topsail schooner, by then a mastless wreck. They would set her ablaze, a suitable pyre for all those who had died for one man’s folly. Hastilow had been killed, among others. The wounded were shared between Unrivalled and Seven Sisters. Some would not last until Freetown.

  He looked at the captain now, shirtless, his dark hair clinging to his neck and forehead. Galbraith had heard that he had stripped naked and had ordered some seamen to use a washdeck pump to drench him from head to foot. Salt water maybe, but it seemed to help. To cleanse away something foul, and not only from his body.

  Adam raised his eyes from the log book on his deck. They were clear, the aftermath of what he had done fallen into place, recognised if not accepted.

  They had clasped hands when he had returned aboard. Even his voice had sounded different. Hard, as if he were expecting a confrontation.

  “Fast as you can, Leigh! Tell the carpenter, and have Mr Partridge send a crew across. I want us out of here today.”

  Shortly afterwards another brig, Kittiwake, had arrived. She had not managed to catch the third slaver; she had not even been a spectator.

  She had sailed past them, heading for open water, many of her company clinging to the shrouds to cheer and wave. They were going to Freetown.

  It had been then that they had seen the commodore’s broad-pendant streaming from the brig’s masthead, and through the glass Galbraith had glimpsed Turnbull himself, aft with one of the lieutenants. He had raised his hat to Unrivalled, and he had been smiling.

  Galbraith had turned to comment but had heard Adam Bolitho say, “I’ll see you damned for this.”

  They had not been alone together again, until now.

  Adam said, “How goes it, Leigh? I can see from here that the jury-rig is raised and working. And the surgeon tells me that the wounded are settled in. Are we ready?”

  “One hour, sir. The wind is holding and steady. I’ve told Rist to remain with the prize. He’s doing well.”

  Adam leaned back in the chair and tasted the coffee which Napier had made for him. That had been almost the worst part of his return on board. He had been only just holding on. Facing them, the captain again. And then here in the cabin, his sanctuary, Napier had taken his hand in both of his and had stammered, “I thought . . . I thought . . .” It was all he had been able to say. Even Yovell, who rarely revealed emotion, as if it was something too private to share, had said, “What you did was pure courage.” He had paused, perhaps to measure how much more Adam could take. “But if another had done as much, you would have been the first to call him foolhardy and reckless.”

  Adam said, “You all are, Leigh.” He put the cup aside; the coffee had been laced with rum.

  “We will remain in company with Seven Sisters and the two prizes. We can’t be certain of anything yet. The other slaver had six hundred on board. In a brig, how can they expect them to stay alive?”

  Galbraith said, “I have put Cousens in irons, sir. I would not trust him an inch.”

  Adam opened a drawer and took out the bundle of notes Tyacke had given him.

  He said, “The ship everyone knows about but no one has seen is named Osiris.” He shut the pitiful gibbering from his mind. Maybe he should have had Cousens thrown into that hold. He looked at the paper with the vessel’s name scrawled on it. Cousens had hardly been able to grasp the pen.

  Galbraith repeated it. “Osiris. Strange name, sir.”

  Yovell’s pen paused in mid-air, and he murmured, “Judge of the dead.”

  Adam smiled. Like a severe schoolmaster with a slightly backward pupil.

  He said, “Rist discovered a few pieces of the puzzle, I did not ask how. Osiris is, or was, an American vessel, built around 1812 for use as a privateer.”

  Galbraith nodded. “Against us.” He saw the captain’s hand move unconsciously to his side, to the ugly, livid scar he had seen only once.

  “Yes. She’s big and fast, and well armed. As the war against the trade becomes fiercer and more dangerous, so the prices will rise, and the rewards will be all the greater for those successful or aggressive enough to fight it.” He realized that his hand had moved to the wound. The mere reminder of it. Anemone’s last fight against the American frigate Unity. When he had been cut down by a metal splinter, as big as your thumb, someone had told him at the time. It had never left him. The colours cut down in surrender, when he had been unable to prevent it. Afterwards, as a prisoner of war, he had escaped, only to face a court martial for the loss of Anemone. He saw the crippled sailor again in his mind. The finest in the fleet.

  He glanced around the cabin. Until you, my lass.

  He looked towards the stern windows, but Unrivalled had swung again to her cable. There was only the land. Albatroz and the wrecked schooner were temporarily hidden from view.

  “Feed the hands by sections, two parties to each watch. A double tot of rum too, no matter what wringing of hands you get from Mr Tregellis.”

  He touched the wound again, without thinking.

  “We’ll man the capstans this afternoon. Make it seven bells— the light will be good for hours, God and Mr Cristie permitting!”

  They both laughed. Yovell did not raise his head but gave a quiet sigh of approval. Like sand running from a glass, the strain was going. This time . . .

  Then he heard Adam say, “But I’ll find this Osiris, somehow, some day. Cousens and his breed are dangerous, but without the power behind them they are
little fish.” He banged his hand on the scrap of paper. “The pike in the reeds, he’s the one we want!”

  His mood changed just as swiftly. “But the Crown Agent must decide. And our commodore will see him before any of us.”

  The explosion was like something thudding against Unrivalled’s lower bilges, only a sensation. But a ship was dying.

  Adam walked to the quarter window and shaded his eyes to watch the column of black smoke rising above the middle channel, torn by the hot wind like some ragged garment, or shroud.

  No ship should die like that. He thought of Hastilow, and the action which had cost him so dearly.

  What price revenge now?

  Foolhardy and reckless.

  Like a court martial, the sword could point in either direction at the end.

  10 CODE OF CONDUCT

  “CAPTAIN’S comin’, sir!”

  Denis O’Beirne straightened his back and wiped his hands on a piece of rag. A seaman lay on the sickbay table, his naked limbs like wax in the spiralling lantern light. He could have been dead, but a faint heartbeat and the flickering eyelids said otherwise.

  “Move him presently.” O’Beirne looked at the bandaged stump and sighed inwardly. Another one-armed survivor to end up on a waterfront somewhere. But at least he was alive. He seemed to realise what his assistant had said and turned to see Captain Bolitho in the doorway, his body at a steep angle as Unrivalled leaned her shoulder into the sea, the wind strong and steady across her quarter.

  “You wanted me?” He glanced around the sickbay with its bottles and swabs, its smell of suffering and death. Above all, the stronger aroma of rum. The navy’s cure, to kill pain, to offer hope even when there was none. He hated this place and all like it. It was stupid, but he had long since given up fighting it.

  O’Beirne took it in with practised eyes. Strain, anger perhaps.

  “There is someone asking to speak with you, sir. One of Paradox’s men, her boatswain.” He paused briefly to examine his hands. “He has not long, I fear.”

  Some last spark of resistance or disbelief; a dying declaration was not unknown among sailors. What would I say?

  “Very well.” He regarded the surgeon more closely. Outwardly he showed no sign of exhaustion, although he had been working here or aboard the prize, Intrepido, since the brief action had ceased. Seven Sisters also carried a surgeon. O’Beirne’s comment, of a sort, said it all.

  Adam followed his large figure into the darker interior of the orlop, which seemed to be full of wounded or injured men. Some lay still, recovering or quietly dying, it was impossible to tell. Others were propped up against the ship’s timbers, their eyes moving, following the swaying lanterns, or just staring into the shadows. Stunned by the realisation that they had survived, and as yet only half-aware of the injuries O’Beirne’s small, strong fingers had explored and dealt with. And here too was the stench of rum.

  Three had died, and had been buried after dark, their second night at sea after leaving the anchorage, with the wrecked and burned-out Paradox a lingering reminder; each corpse was double-shotted to carry it swiftly into the depths. There were always sharks following patiently, but sailors believed the dead were safer at night.

  O’Beirne murmured, “His name is Polglaze. It was grapeshot. There was nothing more I could do.”

  Adam gripped his arm, sensing his sadness, so rare in a manof-war, where a surgeon often had to face sights far worse than in the height of battle.

  He knelt beside the dying man who, like the others, was propped against one of the frigate’s massive frames; he could hear his breathing, the rattle in his throat. He was bleeding to death.

  Adam felt the steeper roll of the hull. The wind had found them, too late for this man and others like him.

  “You came, zur.” The eyes settled on his face, reflecting the light from the nearby lantern, and fixed on the tarnished gold lace and gilt buttons. Something he understood. Not a young man, but powerfully built, or had been. When he reached out to take Adam’s hand it was unable to grasp him.

  Adam said, “Polglaze. A fine Cornish name, am I right?”

  The man struggled to sit up and perhaps lean forward, but the pain halted him like another piece of grape.

  His grip strengthened almost imperceptibly. “St Keverne, Cap’n.”

  “You can’t get much further south than that. A wild coast when it wants to be, eh?” He wanted to leave. He was not helping. This man who had been born not so far from Penzance was beyond aid now.

  But the boatswain named Polglaze might even have smiled as he muttered, “’Tes a wild shore right enough. The Manacles claimed more’n a few vessels when I were a lad there!”

  O’Beirne said softly, “I think that’s time enough.”

  Adam half-turned, wondering which one of them he meant.

  He felt the man’s hard hand tighten around his, as if all his remaining strength was there, and the need which was keeping him alive.

  He said quietly, “I’ll be here. Be certain of it.”

  He listened to the uneven breathing. Wanting it to stop, to end his suffering. He had done enough; this hard, rough hand said it all. The countless leagues sailed, ropes fought and handled, sea, wind, and now this.

  He could hear Tyacke’s words. Bitter, scathing. And for what?

  Polglaze said suddenly, “I wanted to tell you about Paradox, Cap’n. How it was, what they did. A fine little craft she was.”

  Adam tried not to swallow or move. Did he know what had happened in the end? The rising pall of smoke.

  “It was all planned, see, the boats was put down, and some of our best men sent aboard.” His voice seemed stronger. Reliving it. “Our Mr Hastilow was ready, too. He’d done it often enough, see.”

  He broke into a fit of coughing. A hand came from the shadows with a cloth to dab his mouth. There was blood on it when it withdrew.

  Polglaze groaned and then said, “We was too far off, an’ the wind too hard on ’em. I thought mebbee we should have waited ’ til the others came. An’ then the lieutenant orders a change of tack. I dunno why, exactly.”

  Adam recalled Cristie’s surprise. The wrong bearing. And the schooner’s ragged sailors, their obvious hostility. But as a company they were as one. Polglaze could not even remember the lieutenant’s name. He had replaced the luckless Finlay, but he was not one of them. Now he never would.

  Polglaze gave a great sigh. “An’ then we struck. Nobody’s fault, we was just obeyin’ orders.” He sighed again, but the grip was just as strong. “We never carried a senior officer afore, see?”

  Adam bowed his head to hear other, unformed words. Turnbull must have ordered the change of tack, and the new lieutenant would obey; he did not know that coast like the others.

  Polglaze was looking at him intently. “The winter’ll be lettin’ go in Cornwall now, I reckon?” His head fell forward and he was dead.

  O’Beirne stooped to prise the fingers from Adam’s hand.

  “Yes, it will.” Adam stood, his hair brushing a deckhead beam, the cool timber quietening him, sustaining him, although his mind was still blurred with anger and with sorrow.

  He said, “Thank you for fetching me. It was something he needed to tell me, to share, in his own fashion.” He knew O’Beirne’s men were lurking in the shadows, ready to carry the dead boatswain to the sailmaker. For his last voyage, as one captain had described it.

  And one day perhaps, in the tiny village of St Keverne, where the land looked out over those treacherous rocks, the Manacles, if there was still anyone who cared, the man named Polglaze would be remembered, he hoped for his courage and his loyalty.

  He turned to leave, to face Galbraith’s unspoken questions.

  But he paused and looked down again.

  You were murdered.

  O’Beirne watched him go. He had not caught what the captain had just murmured, but he had seen the dark eyes in the lantern’s glow, and believed he knew him well enough to guess.

 
He recalled the sights which had confronted him upon his visit to the slaver Intrepido. Spanish, but she could have been under any flag. Only a brig, yet she had carried over six hundred slaves crammed into her holds, packed so tightly that they could barely breathe. In a hold filled with women, like Albatroz, one had already died and others were in a terrible state, corpse and dying chained together amongst the ordure.

  He signalled to his men. Sailors like the dead boatswain endured much on this godforsaken coast. They obeyed orders. He thought of Adam Bolitho’s face. Sometimes it was not enough.

  At nightfall, that same captain read the familiar lines from his prayer book, and they buried his fellow Cornishman with full honours.

  The last voyage.

  Leigh Galbraith walked to the entry port, wincing as he left the shadow of one of the awnings. Freetown was unchanged, except that it seemed even hotter, as if all the air had been sucked out of that wide harbour, up as far as the majestic Lion Mountain.

  Even the excitement of their return had dimmed. He shaded his eyes and looked across at the two anchored prizes, Intrepido and Albatroz, abandoned now but for a few red uniforms, under guard to await developments. Galbraith recalled the wild cheering from some of the ships when they had come to their anchorage, the slaves being ferried ashore, laughing, sobbing, and confused. They were free. But how they would manage to return to their villages or settlements was difficult to understand, and, far worse, some would doubtless be trapped and returned to one of the barracoons along that same hostile coast to await the next ship, and another buyer.

  Unrivalled had been at anchor for two days, and only the purser’s crew and two working parties had been allowed ashore. To await orders. He heard the bell chime from forward. And that was today.

  The brig Kittiwake had taken on stores and had departed almost immediately. Commodore Turnbull was with the Crown Agent. Galbraith had sensed the disappointment and resentment amongst Unrivalled’s people. Two slavers as prizes. There would have been none but for their action, anchored or not.