Relentless Pursuit

by Alexander Kent

  In his absence Adam looked around the littered room. Empty canvases, a half-finished painting of sea birds circling a ruined belfry, the chapel he had seen when he had approached the house. How long ago was that? Even the filtered sunlight should have told him. He had been here for over an hour.

  How had it happened? Was it Montagu’s restless energy, his ability to switch moods and subjects with the ease of creating different images in his mind? He had not thought of Unrivalled once during this time. Not of Turnbull, nor of Herrick, nor even of the array of shipping at Plymouth. The smell of action. This was another world. He thought of the girl again, her arms pinioned above her head, her breasts full and taut. Montagu saw beyond the sheets and the untidy trestles. It was or soon would be a great rock, where the beautiful Andromeda waited, chained and helpless, a sacrifice to the monster. It was clear, without doubt or question. Imagination, he had said. It was far more than that.

  Montagu was back, wiping his stained fingers on a rag.

  “I think that will suffice, Captain. I shall work on it tonight. I find it suits the subject.” The keen eyes settled on him again. “You have been badly hurt, I think. That will come into it.”

  Adam smiled, surprised that the tension within himself had dissipated.

  “In the navy, it is a risk we have to accept.”

  Montagu smiled politely. “The hurt I see goes deeper than any wound of battle.” He shook his head. “But no matter, Captain, it will come to me.” He gestured to the tall harp Adam had seen by an open fireplace; he had assumed it to be mere set-dressing for another painting. “Music of the gods, yes?”

  Then he said, “Tomorrow, then?” Again, he did not wait for an answer. “I would not wish to interrupt your birthday celebrations, when you have so little freedom from the sea.”

  The adjoining room was deserted, the sheets folded untidily, the trestles waiting to be transformed into a rock for a lovely captive. The chains lay where she had been sitting. Only the sunlight had moved.

  Adam heard the horse stamping outside the entrance. In seconds he would make a fool of himself, perhaps destroy the only moment of peace he had found in this old house and its strange, ageless owner.

  But he heard himself say, “Please, the girl who was here, Sir Gregory . . .”

  Montagu faced him again, almost like a duellist now, measuring the distance, the threat.

  “She sits for me, and those I choose for their potential. She is very skilled. It is not merely the act of disrobing, posing before men with neither expertise nor scruples.” He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “And she plays the harp to perfection.”

  The main doors were open, the sky was still clear; in a moment he would be out on the road again.

  Montagu held out his hand. “Does that answer your question —the one you did not ask me?”

  Adam saw the stable boy waiting expectantly and felt for a coin. They would doubtless laugh at him once the door had closed behind him.

  “She is very beautiful.” He expected the other man to interrupt, but Montagu said only, quietly, “She was badly hurt also. Do not harm her.” He hesitated. “Do I have your word?”

  It was hard to believe they had only just met. That he could respond without any hesitation.

  “You have it, Sir Gregory.”

  He tried to smile, to reassure him, or perhaps for his own sake. He would never see her again, and she would remain as much a mystery as the poses of those myths of which he knew so little.

  He climbed into the saddle and heard the boy call something and grin up at him. He could have put a guinea into his hand for all the notice he had taken.

  He reined the horse round towards the gates and halted, hearing the harp from one of the tall windows, and imagining her as he had seen her.

  Then he urged the horse out on to the road; he did not once look back. He dared not; he was afraid of destroying something.

  He felt the horse pounding beneath him, as if his mood was infectious.

  It made no sense, it defied all reason. He had always been made welcome in Falmouth. Nancy, Bryan Ferguson and his wife, and faces he knew only by sight on the estate or at the harbour. But he had always felt like a stranger, an intruder.

  This was the first time he had ever felt he belonged.

  12 TRUST

  LUKE JAGO slitted his eyes against the reflected glare and gauged the gig’s passage through the mass of anchored shipping. It must have been a long time since Plymouth had seen such an array of naval strength, he thought. Not a day had passed since Unrivalled’s return from West Africa without more vessels arriving, gathering around the flagship, Queen Charlotte. It was strange if you considered it. The flagship was only ten years old and carried a full armament of one hundred guns, a new vessel by naval standards. Some other well-known ships of the line had been over forty years old when they had been abandoned to the breakers, or had become melancholy hulks like those he had seen elsewhere. And yet Queen Charlotte was unlikely ever to stand ship-to-ship in any line of battle. They had seen the last of it.

  He glanced at Lieutenant Galbraith, upright in the stern-sheets, his strong features composed. On his way to the flagship, and Jago could guess what he was thinking. The captain was still away, and Galbraith had the weight. He smiled inwardly. Why I called away the gig. Make it look right.

  Midshipman Martyns was in charge, but Jago had to nudge his arm as a barge-like craft pulled slowly abeam, obviously looking for trade like the rest of the boats which were never far from this impressive fleet. There was a colourful canopy rigged aft, and he could see several women sitting beneath it, their gowns and painted faces leaving no doubt as to what they were preparing to barter.

  Midshipman Martyns gulped and actually blushed. There was some hope for him after all, Jago decided.

  His thoughts returned to the captain. He had never seen anyone so torn between taking leave of absence from his ship and remaining for everyone to see, in command. Others would never have hesitated, especially with a flag officer’s blessing.

  He had considered the captain’s suggestion that he join him in Falmouth; he had laughed at the idea, but it had not gone away. He had even mentioned it to Old Blane, the carpenter, who had responded scornfully, “I always thought you was a fool, Luke, but never that much of one! I wish t’ God someone’d make me the offer!”

  And now they were on the move again. There had been no official orders, or speeches from the officers; you just knew it. The collection of ships had become a fleet. The flagship was like the hub of a great wheel, and when the word came, it would be sudden. The navy’s way.

  He glanced at the young midshipman’s hand on the tiller bar, the watchful eyes of the stroke oarsman, as if the flag-ship’s presence had touched each one of them. If not the big three-decker, then certainly the admiral whose flag curled only occasionally at the masthead: Lord Exmouth now, but better known and remembered as Sir Edward Pellew, who during the wars with France and Spain had become famed and respected as the navy’s most successful frigate captain. The new title had been bestowed on him at the end of hostilities. Like most of Jago’s contemporaries, Pellew had grown up in the navy, and wanted nothing else. He might have been expecting enforced retirement; it had happened to many officers of similar stature. Jago looked up at the towering masts and crossed yards. Not for me. He himself had served in a ship of the line, an old two-decker and by no means as grand as Queen Charlotte. He had been with her for over a year before being transferred to a frigate, and in all that time he had never ceased to meet people he had never laid eyes on before. A floating town, names you never remembered, officers who did not care to find out about any man outside his own immediate authority.

  “Boat ahoy?”

  Jago grinned and cupped his hands. “Aye, aye!” Just to let them know there was an officer coming aboard, but, dear me, not a ship’s captain who’d need all the proper ceremony and respect. Only a lieutenant, this time.

  He touched the midshipman’
s arm and murmured, “Take ’er in now.”

  He remembered the rear-admiral named Herrick; he would have fallen outboard but for his quick action. Strange, he thought; there were plenty of senior officers he would have happily aided over the side if he had believed he would get away with it.

  Oars tossed, bowman hooked on to the chains, and the flag-ship’s gleaming tumblehome rising above them like a cliff.

  Galbraith said, “Stand off, Cox’n. I’ll not be long delayed, on this occasion.”

  Jago touched his hat and watched him seize one of the hand-ropes and jump on to the lower “stair.” As he had observed before, Galbraith was very light on his feet for so powerful a man. He was not soft or easy-going, nor did he try to be popular like some first lieutenants Jago had known.

  Being close to the captain, he had got to know him better than most, or so Jago told himself. Enough, for instance, to catch the bitterness in Galbraith’s tone. He knew the story, or most of it. Galbraith had had his own command. He watched the blue and white figure moving steadily up and around the curved hull, his sword slapping against his thigh. Not a big ship, just a little brig, Vixen she was named. And his own. A lot of junior officers started that way. Captain Bolitho’s first command had also been a brig, and so, he heard, had been the cruelly disfigured Captain Tyacke’s.

  But Galbraith’s promotion had stopped right there. The full story would be worth knowing.

  He saw Galbraith reach the entry port and barked, “Cast off! Shove off forrard! Be ready to out oars!” The last order was for the midshipman’s benefit. Martyns was daydreaming again. Staring at the flagship. His eyes saying if only.

  Jago snorted. He could have it.

  Lieutenant Leigh Galbraith paused to doff his hat to the quarterdeck and the flag, pleased if surprised that he was not out of breath after the steep climb. The deck seemed vast after Unrivalled ; you could lay two hulls here and still have room enough to drill the marines.

  A lieutenant took his name and sent a midshipman scurrying away with a message. He recalled his own brief command. It was like no other feeling. Lowly or not, you were received with hon-ours paid, as if you were already posted. He thought about it a lot. Too much.

  “Ah, Mr Galbrice!”

  He turned to see a lanky lieutenant with the twist of gold lace on his shoulder that distinguished him from all other mortals. The admiral’s flag lieutenant.

  He corrected calmly, “Galbraith, sir.”

  “Quite. Your captain is not aboard, I understand?” It sounded like an accusation.

  “Flag Officer, Plymouth, insisted he should take some days’ leave of absence . . .”

  The flag lieutenant shrugged. “Vice-Admiral Keen has hauled down his flag. Things are moving more quickly. I have a letter for you to take when you leave this ship. Arrange a fast courier, will you? Now, if you will follow me you may sign for your orders.” He let the words sink in. “Your responsibility, you understand?”

  He did not need to hear it from the lieutenant. Captain Bolitho was being recalled. Galbraith could not determine if he was relieved or resentful.

  He followed the other officer beneath the poop. Everything was larger than life. And there was no sense of movement, as if the great ship were hard aground. He was reminded suddenly of Varlo: he had been somebody’s flag lieutenant before he had joined Unrivalled, replacing the dead Lieutenant Massie.

  Wounds healed quickly under such circumstances. It was only a short time ago, and yet he could scarcely recall what Massie had looked like, how he had sounded. The unwritten rule. His name was never mentioned, either.

  He signed for the sealed orders, observed by a small, darting man who must be the clerk or secretary to someone higher. No one asked him to be seated.

  The flag lieutenant said, “That seems in order, Mr, er, Galbraith.” He looked up, startled, as a shadow fell across the door.

  The newcomer was tall, well-built, and dressed in what appeared to be a towelling robe, of the kind Galbraith had seen worn by wealthy people at a local spa. His large feet were bare, and he had left wet impressions across the perfect deck covering.

  He could only be the legendary admiral. Nobody else would dare.

  He held out a big hand and said abruptly, “Exmouth. You’re from Unrivalled, I believe.” He smiled, easing out the lines and wrinkles. A sailor’s face. “Glad to have you with me. I read the report your captain left with Valentine Keen. I found it inspiring. Could make all the difference when I am allowed to proceed with matters.” He looked piercingly at his aide, who was open-mouthed at this casual display of informality. “A glass of something would not be unappreciated!”

  Galbraith said, “I had better call my boat, my lord.”

  The admiral nodded gravely. “It takes some getting used to, believe me.”

  He waited for the flag lieutenant to scuttle away and added, “Gunnery, that will prove and win the day. If anything will.” His eyes were distant. “All these ships at my command. But Unrivalled is the only one which was there.”

  Galbraith felt the tension drain from his muscles. So it was Algiers. He was surprised to discover that he was heartened by the confirmation. The land had nothing to offer anymore.

  The admiral regarded him steadily. “I shall be glad to have Captain Bolitho in the van.” His voice softened. “I knew his uncle. Great days.” He patted Galbraith’s arm. “Best not to dwell on old times, but great they were. And he was a fine man.” His eyes hardened as the lieutenant returned with some wine.

  “You will stay and take a glass with me?” Again, the unexpected smile. “It is an order.”

  The admiral waited, the glass delicate in strong fingers. “Yours, Mr Galbraith.”

  Galbraith presented his own glass and said quietly, “Absent friends, my lord.”

  Their eyes met.

  “Well said.”

  Later, when Galbraith waited for the gig to be signalled alongside, he thought of that encounter with the admiral. It would be all over the flagship within the hour, about the lieutenant who had joined Lord Exmouth for a glass of wine. Like old shipmates.

  And tomorrow Captain Bolitho would receive his recall. Glad or sorry, which would he be?

  He considered his own feelings. The bitterness was gone.

  The old glebe house was exactly as he remembered it: he had thought of little else since his visit. And yet there seemed so much more to see and hear; the hedgerows along the lane were alive with movement, birds, and other furtive sounds of the countryside. Some jackdaws watched his approach, as if to time the exact moment when they would all take to the air in noisy unison, before returning after he had ridden a few yards. And wild roses. He reached down and plucked one, remembering that other time, the only time . . .

  The same stable boy hurried to greet him and waited as Adam swung himself down from the saddle.

  There were flowers here too, foxgloves, almost wild in the sprawling garden. A place of memories, he thought, where time had come to a halt.

  The boy said, “Th’ master’s with a gentleman, zur.” His eyes were fixed on the old sword at Adam’s hip. Young though he was, he probably knew of the Bolitho family, the sailors commemorated in the church of King Charles the Martyr. Where he had stood beside Catherine at the memorial service, and Galbraith had asked to attend with him. It had been their first true moment of intimacy and understanding, not merely as captain and first lieutenant, but as men.

  The dour-faced servant had arrived, and said unhelpfully, “You’re a piece early, Captain. Sir Gregory’s engaged at the moment.”

  The stable boy, anxious not to offend, and with the prospect of another coin or two glimmering in his mind, said, “I told ’ n.” He pointed to a walled garden. “You could look at th’ bees, zur?”

  Adam patted the horse’s flank. He must have ridden harder than he had realised. Nervous? Anxious? What is the matter with me?

  He had hardly touched his breakfast, and he had felt Ferguson’s eyes on him as he had wait
ed for Lukey to be brought from the stables. He had even tried to concern himself with Unrivalled, and what might lie ahead when the final orders were settled. He had gone to the room and looked at his uncle’s portrait again. Could almost hear his voice. Trust the professionals in your ship. You lead, they’ll not let you down.

  He had heard him say that several times. The professionals. The warrant officers, and the time-serving men like Sullivan, the sharpest lookout he had ever known, and Partridge, the bluff, heavy-handed boatswain. And Cristie, with a lifetime’s experience of currents and tides, shoals and stars. He knew them, and had been with them in calm and storm, broadside and the grim aftermath.

  The servant took his silence for annoyance, and said almost grudgingly, “I can tell you the instant Sir Gregory is ready, sir.” He shuffled away. Maybe he had been with the old house when Montagu had bought it . . .

  Adam walked slowly along a winding path, and found himself listening for the sound of a harp. He tried again to shrug it off. Like a bumbling midshipman . . . But it would not release him.

  He thought about this day, his birthday. Nancy would be coming to the house. There would be a few friends, Grace Ferguson would supervise the food and wine, and would probably cry a little. And perhaps John Allday would come across from Fallowfield on the Helford River. To celebrate, or to mourn? There was only one would have made it complete.

  He looked up and saw her coming towards him. She was dressed from neck to toe in pale grey, a gown so fine that it seemed to float around her body. She carried an armful of yellow roses, and he noticed that her skin had been browned by the sun, that her throat was bare, and the gown had almost slipped from one shoulder.

  She had stopped on this same path, her gown catching at other flowers Adam neither saw nor recognised.

  Above all, he knew she was about to turn and retrace her steps. If need be, run, to avoid the inevitable contact.