Relentless Pursuit (2 page)

Lady Catherine Somervell had been there with them. So beautiful, so alone despite the crowds. Where was she now? What would become of her? The woman who had defied society and had been Sir Richard's lover and inspiration, and had won the heart of the country.

The deck moved slightly, and he saw the ship in his thoughts as clearly as he had this morning. A thoroughbred. Like the carved inscription beneath her figurehead.
Second to None.

Unrivalled
was eager to move. The first and perhaps the last of her kind: in the yard where she had been laid down, built and launched, Galbraith had seen her only sister ship. The same fine lines, the pride of any craftsman. But abandoned. Unfinished. Dead.

He stared along the deck, at the two lines of eighteen-pounders, their tackles and breechings taut and neat, and recalled Massie, who had been the next senior in the wardroom. A flag officer's son and a gunnery man to his fingertips, not one you would ever know. Quiet and self-contained even on the day he had been killed, shot down as he had rallied his people.

He had been replaced here in Plymouth by Lieutenant George Varlo, a complete contrast. Lively, talkative, and in his mid-twenties, he must have had some influence; every appointment now was like pure gold. Galbraith had decided that he would bide his time with Varlo. He almost smiled. Maybe he had got that from the captain.

He turned in his pacing as the noon gun echoed mournfully across the water and the watching veterans. Even without the large, old-fashioned watch he had always carried, Captain Bolitho would be right on time.

He heard Midshipman Sandell's sharp, petulant voice, berating one of the new men. They were over fifty hands short of approved complement. Petty tyrants like Sandell would be no loss at all.

“Gig's in sight!” That was Bellairs, the third lieutenant, who had been the senior midshipman when
Unrivalled
had commissioned. It would be a challenge to him, Galbraith thought. Some of the old Jacks would recall him as just another “young gentleman,” neither fish nor fowl, and still look for some weakness to exploit. But he was a popular choice and had settled into the wardroom well, and seemed grateful for his change of circumstance.

He smiled again and walked to the entry port. The marines were fallen in and dressed in two impeccable ranks, swaying very gently to the ship's quiet motion.

He saw O'Beirne, the portly surgeon, hurrying to the companion, down to his own world on the orlop, where some had died and others had survived.

He watched the gig returning, pulling around one of the abandoned ships. Bolitho's coxswain was another rebel, or so it had first appeared.

The boat was turning toward the main chains, the bowman already standing with his hook raised.

“Royal Marines,
ready!
”

The boatswain's mates moistened their silver calls on their tongues and gazed at the entry port.

Galbraith gripped his sword and pressed it to his side.

For two weeks he had been in charge of this ship and every hour of her routine. Completing repairs, taking on stores and fresh water, powder and shot. Men to be sworn in and issued with clothing. It was a far cry from some ships he had known, when some of the poor wretches dragged aboard by the press gangs had worn their own clothes to shreds before a grasping purser could be persuaded to dole out garments from his slop chest.

And now that responsibility was over. The captain had returned.

Galbraith stepped forward, his hand to his hat as the calls shrilled in salute and the marines went through their drill.

He watched the captain as he climbed through the entry port, eyes moving quickly over and above his ship. At moments like this, a stranger again.

Adam took his hand and shook it.

“A long two weeks.” He glanced at the other officers and then forward, the length of the ship.

Galbraith waited, feeling it all again. They had done so much in a year of action and triumph, disappointment and grief.

He was surprised, ashamed even. This man, who could be so youthful one moment, so grimly determined when he had made a decision which might affect each one of them, was still so distant, so unknown.

Galbraith recognised it, the old enemy which he had thought laid to rest. Envy.

“Welcome aboard, sir!”

It was done.

Adam Bolitho walked to the sloping windows of the stern cabin and stared out at the anchorage. The other ships looked even more desolate through the wet, misty glass. And it was cold, only to be expected in December, but a far cry from the Mediterranean, Malta or Algiers.
Unrivalled
was a big frigate, but the only heat came from her galley stove.

He should be used to it, able to accept or ignore it. He knew Galbraith was watching him, his tall frame slightly angled between the deck beams. The boy Napier was just inside the sleeping compartment; he could see his shadow moving up and down as he unpacked one of his captain's chests, doubtless with a ready ear cocked in case he was needed.

“You've done well, Leigh.” He turned away from the damp glass in time to catch the expression on the strong features. Galbraith still found it hard to accept a captain's use of his first name. In his absence the barrier had returned. Perhaps it had never truly gone away. “Are the new people settled in?”

Galbraith seemed to consider it, as if taken aback by the question when all he and most of the others had been concerned about were their orders, their place in things, their world.

“I've warned the officers to be ready in the wardroom.”

“Yes, I shall want to speak with them.” He shivered and moved restlessly to the opposite quarter. Strain, excitement, or the fact that he had not had more than a few hours' sleep for days. He thought of Galbraith's words.
In the wardroom.
He had noticed the plume of smoke from the galley funnel, had caught the heavy smell of rum even as he had been piped aboard. Small, real things. They also reminded him that he had not eaten since yesterday.

He said abruptly, “Men. We must get more hands. We can train them.” Almost bitterly it came out. “We shall have all the time we need!”

“I've done what I can with the watch bills, sir. A mixture of old and new hands in each part of ship.”

Adam said, “I am told that we may attract some experienced hands in Penzance.” He looked at the stern windows again, trying to accept it. “One of the big packet companies has been forced to give way to competition. With so many trained seamen tossed on the beach they can pick and choose, it would seem!” He made another attempt. “I have obtained some posters. Usher can deal with it.”

He stared at the small empty table by the screen door, where Usher his clerk had always sat, quiet and attentive, making notes and copying letters and orders, a handkerchief always balled in one fist, trying valiantly to stifle the coughs. A nervous man who had once been a purser's assistant, he had seemed totally out of place in the crowded confines of a fighting ship.

His lungs had been diseased, all too common in a man-of-war. As the surgeon had put it, Usher had been dying a day at a time.

“Forgive me.” It was as if he had spoken to the little clerk, who had finally died on their passage back from Gibraltar, within a day's sighting of the Cornish coast.

They had buried him at sea. There were no details of home or relatives. He stared at the curved beams and the reflection of the black and white checkered deck covering. This ship had been Usher's home, too.

He thought suddenly, painfully, of the big grey house in Falmouth, people crowding around, kindness, warmth, and curiosity.

He touched the sword at his hip and then unclipped it. The constant reminder, if he had needed one, like all the old portraits in the house, the watching faces, some with ships in the background, some not. But always the sword.

How empty the house had seemed. Bryan Ferguson had been overjoyed to see him, and had tried not to disturb him with the signing of papers relating to the estate and the farms, the people who had always known there was a Bolitho to care for them, or his lady when he was at sea. Now there were only memories.

He had intended to make the journey to Fallowfield to visit the little inn, The Old Hyperion, but Ferguson had persuaded him against it. The roads were deeply rutted, unsafe; he had seen ice for himself in the place where roses would bloom again in the new year. Catherine's roses.

Or had Ferguson been afraid of the effect on Allday if they had met so unexpectedly?
Or on me?

Galbraith saw the play of emotions on his captain's face. Like a young colt, someone had once described him. Hair so dark that it was almost black, a mouth which could be determined, even hard. Equally, it could show a rare sensitivity. As it had now, at the mention of Usher's name. That was the true difference. He cared for these people he led and commanded; in some ships Galbraith had known, it was not always the same thing. Abrupt, impatient, stubborn, Adam Bolitho had revealed each mood throughout the months they had served together. But Galbraith felt privileged to have sometimes seen the other side to this youthful copy of the famous Richard Bolitho, and to have shared it.

Adam said, “I shall leave you to take charge of recruiting parties. Remember, we are looking for men, not
begging
for them.” He smiled quickly. “That was unnecessary, Leigh. I am bad company today.”

Galbraith was about to reply when he sensed something like an unspoken warning. Adam Bolitho had originally come from Penzance, or very close to it. Was that the reason for his dismissal of the task?

He said, “I can deal with it, sir. Our marines will put on a good display.”

Adam scarcely heard him. “I saw the Flag Officer, Plymouth. Twice, in fact.”

“Vice-Admiral Keen, sir. You have known him a long time, I believe.”

“Yes.” He saw the boy watching from the screen and said, “Fetch me something hot, will you?” He laid the sword on the bench seat. “Some cognac too, I think.”

The door closed. Only the marine sentry stood between them and the whole ship.

“In confidence.” He raised his hand, as if to dispel something. “But it must be between ourselves.” He glanced toward the table again, as if expecting the cough, or one of Usher's usual meticulous explanations of what he was doing. “We shall leave Plymouth tomorrow.” He gazed at Galbraith directly. “Does that present a problem?”

Galbraith said, “No, sir,” and saw the dark, restless eyes return to the old sword.

“After Penzance, where additional orders will be waiting for us, we shall proceed to Gibraltar.” He attempted to smile. “Better weather, with good fortune!” But it eluded him.

Galbraith was suddenly tense. No routine orders; they were not rejoining the fleet or one of the local squadrons. He considered all the laid-up ships.
What was left of them.

Adam said quietly, “Sierra Leone. I shall receive full instructions when their lordships believe me fit and ready to proceed.”

Galbraith waited. Like a burning fuse: that day among the islands, the charges exploding in what might have been a suicide attack, a reckless and ambitious operation. He recalled once more what Cristie had told him.
I'll roast in hell before I leave Galbraith to die in their hands!

Sierra Leone. To Galbraith and most other sea officers it meant the slave trade. He could dismiss that idea;
Unrivalled
was too big and powerful to be wasted on hit-and-miss anti-slavery patrols. Schooners and brigs were the usual choice.

He was surprised to find that he did not care. The ship,
their ship,
was to go into service again. They were fully repaired and supplied. And if they could get a few volunteers, they would be ready. A fighting ship once more.

“I would sail her single-handed, sir, just to get away from this graveyard!”

Adam smiled. It was far better to be like Galbraith. He was reminded suddenly of Keen, in that spacious house commanding the sea and the countryside in one unending panorama. Where he himself had walked with Keen's wife Zenoria, for so short a time before her tragic death.

Keen's second wife Gilia had been there this time, and had made him more than welcome, and her pleasure had matched only Keen's pride in the revelation that a child was expected in the spring.

It was obvious that Gilia had never told Valentine Keen what she knew of Adam's love for her predecessor, who had thrown herself from a clifftop after her son by Keen had died.

If Keen suspected, he hid it well. He had confined their conversations to
Unrivalled
's return to duty, and her performance against the renegade frigate
Triton.

Only once, Adam had sensed something, as Keen had remarked on the “fine piece of work” when they had caught and destroyed the big ex-Dutchman. By rescuing
Aranmore,
the government had been saved the embarrassment of having to parley with the Dey of Algiers for the release of hostages. One glowing report of the chase and action had been sent by Sir Lewis Bazeley, one of the passengers and, it was said, a friend of the prime minister.