Relentless Pursuit (10 page)

A good wind, across the larboard quarter. More spray, and Varlo saw some seamen twist their half-naked bodies, grinning as it soaked them like rain. He noticed that one of them had been flogged. But he was sharing the moment with his mates. Men he knew and trusted. Perhaps the only ones.

Varlo swung away, angry with himself. There was no comparison.

“Mr Varlo?” Adam Bolitho did not move nearer nor did he appear to lower his glass. “I suggest you go below and seek out a clean shirt.”

Varlo saw Galbraith turn, suddenly stiff-backed. Surprised? Shocked? Then Bolitho did look at him, frowning. “It may be nothing, but we have to know what this vessel is about. Whatever we do, we shall be unpopular, both with those who are making money out of slavery and those who are losing it because of us.” He smiled. “You are the King's man today, Mr Varlo. Dress accordingly.” He levelled the glass again. “My cabin servant will give you one of mine if you are in need. Believe me, I have not forgotten the failings of the wardroom messmen!”

Varlo swallowed hard. He did not know what to say. Even Galbraith seemed taken aback.

Varlo tried again. “I'm to board her, sir?”

Bolitho's jaw tightened, then he said, almost lightly, “Take the jolly-boat. I suggest you have Mr Rist with you. He is an old dog when it comes to a search!”

He handed, almost tossed, the telescope to Midshipman Hawkins and said, “I
saw
her.” He glanced around the quarter-deck, embracing them. “
Albatroz,
as I thought it might be!”

Varlo had one foot on the companion ladder when the voice stopped him.

“Take care. Be on your guard when you board her.”

Varlo ducked his head below the coaming and did not hear Galbraith say, “I could go over to her, sir.”

Nor did he hear the quiet but incisive answer.

“Perhaps you are
too
experienced, eh, Leigh? My responsibility, remember?”

He saw Jago at the weather ladder, one foot on the top step, his head turning as if searching for danger.

Adam said, “A different war, my friends, but just as deadly to those who must fight it.”

Afterwards Galbraith thought he had been speaking to himself. And the ship.

5 THE
H
AUNTED AND THE DAMNED

A
DAM
B
OLITHO
could not recall how many times he had climbed into the weather shrouds to obtain a better view of the brigantine, or how long it had been since the other vessel had been sighted. He had played with the idea of going aloft where Sullivan, the eagle-eyed lookout, was watching the performance of both vessels in comparative comfort.

But there was no time. It had to be soon. The wind had freshened still more, and he could feel the ease with which
Unrivalled
's hull was ploughing over and through the new array of shallow rollers.

The wind was an ally; it was also a possible threat. Even without his small telescope, his spyglass as he had heard young Napier describe it, he had seen the brigantine standing away on the lar-board bow, not running but standing close to the wind, reaching into it, it seemed with every stitch of canvas spread, thrusting over as steeply as any vessel could lie under such pressure.

He glanced now along the full length of his command. Men not employed at braces and halliards were watching, probably betting on the outcome of this unlikely contest. The new hands were openly excited; it was their first experience of ship-handling. The reasons were unimportant.

He had to admit that
Albatroz
was being handled superbly. Her master knew exactly what he was doing. By clawing closer and closer to the wind he held on to a chance of coming about and cutting across
Unrivalled
's stern. If he succeeded, he could wait for darkness and with luck make a full escape. He had the whole ocean. On the other hand, if he ran south-east with a soldier's wind he could not outpace the frigate, but if the wind grew any stronger it would be impossible to put down a boat with any hope of boarding her.
He cannot fight us, so why must he run? Unless he has something to hide.
A Portuguese vessel, sailing from a Portuguese harbour, should have nothing to fear. By the latest agreement, it had been reluctantly accepted that Portugal could even continue loading and shipping slaves from her own territories, provided they were south of the Equator.

Adam strode to the rail where Cristie and two of his master's mates were in close discussion, but they had to raise their voices to be heard above the boom of canvas and the noisy sluice of water which surged almost to the lee gun ports.

One, Woodthorpe, was saying, “Bastard's got everything but the cook's bloody apron spread! He'll give us the slip yet, damn his eyes!”

Cristie saw the captain and said harshly, “Two miles, sir. Another hour and he'll see some sense. But if he luffs, an' comes hard about.” He shook his head. “You know what it's like.”

Some of the others were listening, and his own words came back to him like a fist.
My responsibility.

He shaded his eyes to look up at the yards, the quivering thrust of the topgallant sails, holding the sun now to mark the change of direction. Cristie had made his point.

He said, “Ask the gunner to come aft.”

Rist, the other master's mate, showed his strong teeth in a grin.

“Mr Stranace is here now, sir!”

“Old Stranace
,”
as he was called behind his back, shuffled out of the driver's great shadow and touched his forehead.

His face was a mass of wrinkles, and his years at sea, much of the time bent and groping in one magazine or another, surrounded by enough powder to blast him and the ship to fragments, had given him a permanent stoop. But his eye was as sharp as Sullivan's and his judgment relating to his precious artillery had not been faulted.

He asked, “Two mile, did 'e say, sir?” He bared his uneven teeth, a grin or disdain it was hard to tell. “Less 'n that in
my
view.” He nodded. “You want 'im dismasted?”

Adam stared across the water, to give himself time. What would people say in England, he wondered. With their fixed ideas of the Heart of Oak, or the
sure shield
as William Pitt had once called the navy, if they could witness this? The frigate captain with his grubby shirt, a rent in one shoulder, hatless, with no sword or gold lace to mark him out from those around him. And Old Stranace, bent, with shaggy grey hair, and the shapeless felt slippers he wore to guard against striking sparks in or around the magazines.

He said, “If I alter course a few degrees to the south'rd, the wind will lay us over still further.” He saw the gunner's eyes move quickly to the larboard battery of eighteen-pounders, the sea barely visible as the hull tilted across her own shadow.

Then he grunted, “I'll lay it meself, sir. Number One, larboard.”

Adam added, “I want her stopped, that's all.” He was never sure if Old Stranace could hear him. So many broadsides, and countless other occasions from saluting to putting down a careering chebeck, had left him partially deaf. It was common enough among deepwater sailormen.

But there was nothing wrong with his ears today.

“I'll part 'is bloody 'air, sir!”

“Stand by on the quarterdeck! Braces, there!”

“Helm a-lee! Steady! Hold her, steer sou'-east!”

Cristie rubbed his chin and watched the gunner clawing his way down the lee ladder, calling out names as he went, his cracked voice carrying effortlessly over the chorus of wind and rigging.

Cristie said dourly, “
Albatroz
's master will think we're giving up.”

He sounded mistrustful of the new arrangements.

By the time
Unrivalled
had settled on her new course the first gun on the windward side was almost ready, its crew kneeling and bowing around their charge like worshippers at some pagan ritual.

Old Stranace had been a gun captain himself. It must have been a long, long time ago, but he had forgotten nothing. He selected one ball from the garland, fondling it in both hands, then changing it for another with the same performance until he was satisfied. He even supervised the loading of the charge and the tamping down of the wad, and then the ball itself, but allowing one of the gun crew to tap it home.

Cristie said dryly, “He'll not use a flintlock either. The crafty old bugger!”

Adam found time to recognise the affection as well as the amusement. Unlike the hammer of a musket which was brought violently into play by a strong spring, the deck gun was worked by jerking a lanyard. If it failed to strike a spark instantly, the gun misfired. So great and regular was the risk in close action that slow-matches were always kept ready burning in protected tubs of sand.

Adam raised his spyglass again and waited for the brigantine to lift above the blue water like some great, avenging bird.

“Ready, sir!” That was Galbraith, his voice unusually hushed.

Adam looked forward at the small pattern of figures around the eighteen-pounder closest to the forecastle. The port was open, the gun had already been run out, extra hands were throwing their weight on the tackles to haul the weapon up to and through it. He saw Old Stranace put his hand over the forearm of one of the crew, guiding the handspike while the muzzle was raised to its full elevation. And to his satisfaction.

If the shot scored a direct hit, the repercussions would be severe. If it went widely astray it would be no less harmful. He wondered only briefly if the men on the brigantine's deck had noticed that
46
-gun frigate of the world's greatest navy was standing away. Giving up the chase.
And would it really matter?

He closed his mind to it.
“Fire as you bear!”

He saw Stranace glance aft for just a few seconds. The responsibility was not his to carry.

Adam saw his arm move with the speed of light, the puff of smoke like steam from a heated pipe. He felt the grip of ice around his stomach.
Misfire.

There was a sharp bang and the eighteen-pounder seemed to come to life, hurling itself inboard, down the sloping planking until the tackles slowed and then brought the truck to a jolting halt.

Nobody made a move to sponge out the gun, as if the single shot had somehow paralysed them.

There was something like a great sigh, changing and rising to a wild cheer as a tall waterspout, white and solid against the dark water, burst skywards off the brigantine's quarter. At this range it was impossible to determine the exact fall of shot.

But Everett, the sergeant of marines, exclaimed, “Much closer an' them buggers'd be swimmin' with th' sharks!”

Adam said, “Bring her back on course, if you please.”

Rist called, “They're shortenin' sail, sir!”

“Call away the boat's crew and inform the bosun.” Adam plucked at his shirt. It did not sound like his own voice. What had he expected, and what would he have done?

He looked again. The brigantine was broaching to, her canvas in disorder while they prepared to await instructions.

Varlo was close by. “Ready, sir!”

Adam barely heard him. “So let's be about it, eh?”

Lieutenant Varlo made another attempt to get to his feet in the swaying jolly-boat, but had to find support in the coxswain's shoulder.

It was a hard pull, the small boat veering and dipping in a succession of troughs and broken crests, spray bursting over the oarsmen like rain.

He shouted, “Don't
feather,
man! Lay back on it!”

Rist sat wedged in the sternsheets with two armed seamen, his eyes slitted against the spray, gauging the flapping sails of the drifting brigantine, waiting for the unexpected.

A part of him was still able to sense the bitterness and resentment in the boat. It was a hand-picked crew; he had chosen each man himself. Good, experienced seamen, every one of them. Not one would crack and run if shooting started, or worse, a burst of grape was fired. It could only take one shot to finish the jolly-boat at this range. No matter what
Unrivalled
did after that, it would not help any of them.

He caught the stroke oarsman's eye, then saw him look away, astern, while he lay back on his loom, probably watching their ship. It was better not to look back once you had started, Rist thought. The ship always seemed so far away. He peered hard at the brigantine again. Pierced for several guns, six maybe, but none run out or manned. Yet.

Varlo called, “We'll go under her lee!”

Rist swallowed hard. He did not
know
Varlo. Never would, in all likelihood. One thing was clear, he was out of his depth in this sort of trick. He had been some admiral's flag lieutenant, the gossip said. More used to picking out the right people for his lord and master to meet and entertain than doing his stuff as a sea officer.

He said, “She's still swingin
'
sir. But the chains are the best chance!”

Varlo turned and stared at him, as if searching for criticism or defiance.

“So I can see!” He gripped the coxswain's shoulder again as the hull bounced over.

Then he said, “Suppose they don't speak English?”

Rist almost grinned. “No matter, sir.” He touched the hilt of the short fighting sword under his coat. “This'll do the talkin'!”

The brigantine was right over them now, or so it appeared; they could even hear the clamour of loose rigging and flapping canvas above the din of oars and sea.

Rist watched closely, trying to stay unruffled.
Like all those other times.
Just one stupid mistake. A man loosing off a pistol by mischance. It was all it took.

But seamanship came first.

“Bows!”
He held his breath as the bowman boated his oar and changed it for a boat-hook. Just in time: with this sea running they could have driven straight into the other vessel, splintering oars. Disaster.

He saw the helmsman glance at him, hardly a blink. It was enough. The tiller bar swung over and the boat reeled around toward the brigantine's rounded hull.

“Oars!”
Varlo had recovered himself. “Boat your oars!”

They were alongside, the trapped water leaping between the vessels while men groped for their weapons, some staring up at the nearest gun port.

Varlo snapped, “With
me,
Mr Rist!”

Rist stumbled after him, gripping a shoulder here, a steadying hand there. It was all wrong. For both of them to board together was madness. They could be killed as they climbed aboard.
Now.

It was then that it hit him. Varlo would never admit it in two centuries, but he needed him.

The next moment they were pulling themselves up and over the bulwark. Figures and peering faces seemed to loom on every side, and Rist felt the menace like something physical.

Through it all a voice boomed, “By what right do you board my ship?”