Relentless Pursuit (17 page)

Adam leaned back, and felt the schooner moving around him. Eager to go.

He said, “They may sail at night.” Why had he stated the obvious? Giving himself time. Turnbull's plan made sense. If the worst happened and they only seized one of the slavers, it would show others that the navy could and would take action
on the doorstep,
as Jago had put it.

Turnbull reached down and opened a cupboard. “I hope they do, but I doubt it. Hastilow thinks it will be at first light.” He lifted a bottle and two goblets from somewhere and looked questioningly across the table.

“Not Madeira, I promise you!”

Adam watched him pour two large measures. Cognac. So what was wrong? Confident, pleasant enough. He saw the beautiful cuffs, the glittering lace on the coat. The new navy emerging? He was younger even than Hastilow.

“Provided nothing changes before we can act, I intend to make an attack as close to dawn as possible.” He sipped his cognac. “At least we'll not have to depend on this damnable wind!”

For a second or two Adam thought he had misheard.

“Landing parties, sir?”

Turnbull poured himself another drink. “You surprise me in some ways, Bolitho. A fellow with your record—I'd have thought you would be fully aware of such tactics.” He shook his head. “Direct action, that's my belief!” He pushed the chart aside. “Hastilow understands. He's cut out for the work, and he wants revenge.”

“A boat action, sir?” It was like hearing someone else's voice.

Turnbull regarded him curiously. “You were hoping for something different, a sea-fight or a chase. A true frigate captain to the end!” He gave the soft chuckle again. “I shall need
Unrivalled
right enough, but the first blow will be dealt in amongst them. The brig
Seven Sisters
will be there, and
Kittiwake
in reserve.” He looked up, his eyes very steady. “I shall lead the attack in
Paradox.
”

Adam heard voices somewhere on deck, and pictured Jago in the jolly-boat, and the others in
Unrivalled
waiting and wondering at the outcome. He thought of the shoreline, closer now, somehow threatening, or was that only his imagination? Because of a boat action which even in the most favourable circumstances could end in disaster.

He looked at the commodore again. It was already decided. You could almost feel it in the man.

Turnbull took out a large envelope. “For you, Bolitho.” He smiled broadly. “In case anything unpleasant should happen to me.” He was serious again. “I'll not come on deck just now. I've some last details to arrange. I am sure that our new Crown Agent will want to be fully informed.”

It was a dismissal.

Hastilow was waiting to see him over the side; he could barely conceal his impatience. But he could not prevent his deepset eyes from settling on the bulky envelope under Adam's arm.

Then he said bluntly, “The commodore's told you then, sir?”

“Most of it.”

Hastilow said, “We'll teach them a lesson they'll never forget!”

He seemed to contain his anger with a physical effort and stood aside to allow Adam to climb on to the bulwark.

Adam saw some of the schooner's company watching him leave. Defiant, contemptuous, glad he was going back to his own ship.

Perhaps Turnbull was right. It was their kind of action. But all he could think about was the one glaring flaw.
Revenge.
He thought of the renegade captain who had died of his wound in
Unrivalled
's great cabin. Perhaps he had been right after all. He had called it vanity.

After the shuttered lanterns in the chartroom, the quarterdeck seemed pitch black. But not for long. Adam walked to the rail and stared along the full length of the ship, his eyes eventually picking out shapes and small groups of seamen at their stations, bodies pale against the guns and the familiar rigging. For another long day they had remained clear of the land, using the light airs to tack this way and that, but never losing their mean course for a final rendezvous.

Apart from the occasional slap of canvas, or the creak of the wheel, you could believe the ship to be motionless. There were no lights anywhere on deck, so that the tiny glow of the compass lamp seemed like a beacon.

It was always the same, he told himself. You could feel the solid landmass creeping out on either bow, like some giant trap. But he held the image of the chart firmly in his mind. Most of the anonymous figures relied on trust. They would do what they were told when the time came. That hardly ever changed. But Cristie would know, and would be measuring his own doubts against his captain's skill, or lack of it.

Adam moved aft again and saw the white crossbelts of the marines, stark against the dark water alongside and beyond. Armed and ready, with others, the best marksmen, stationed in the fighting-tops somewhere overhead.

He turned quickly as a large fish broke surface and then splashed down into a trail of phosphorescence, like submerged fireflies.

His lips felt parched. He could smell rum; it was all they had found time for after the galley fire had been doused. He tried to think clearly. Two hours ago?

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.