Relentless Pursuit (9 page)

He looked over his spectacles and saw the captain leaning against his table, his hands pressed on a chart, some brass dividers where he had just dropped them.

It was over a week since they had quit Funchal, with a better wind than anyone who was interested had expected.

Yovell picked up the pen once more and was thankful for his freedom to come and go in this part of the ship. And more so for the privilege of sharing it without being compromised.

He watched Adam Bolitho now, one hand moving on the chart, as if it was feeling the way. Testing something. Preparing for some unknown obstacle.

Only here, in his own quarters, did he ever seem to show uncertainty, doubt. Like the day they had left Funchal, after discovering that the Portuguese brigantine which had caught his attention had weighed and slipped out of harbour without anyone seeing her leave.

The water lighters had come out to the ship, and once again Yovell had sensed the captain's mood. Why waste time taking on water when they might be at sea, chasing and running down the mysterious
Albatroz?

But it had been the right decision. Water was like gold dust, and along this invisible coastline it might be weeks before they could obtain fresh supplies.

And the brigantine? Like most of
Unrivalled
's company, he was beginning to think that she was a need rather than a threat.

It was like being totally abandoned, he thought. Every day the horizon was empty, with not even a cry from the masthead. He watched Adam's hand move again, the dividers marking off some new calculation. Yovell had seen the other side to the captain, despite whatever doubts he might have about the purpose of his mission. He had told the first lieutenant to reduce the time spent aloft by all lookouts.
They are my eyes. I want them always to be fresh and alert.
And he recalled when Galbraith had come aft to ask about the new hand, Ede, and the possibility of his working with the master's mates, for which he seemed more suited than general seamanship.

Some captains might have told their senior lieutenant to deal with it, and not to distract them from more important duties. Instead, Captain Bolitho had said, “I read his report. I think it is a sensible idea. Keep me informed.”

As watch followed watch, the daily routine took precedence over everything. Sail and gun drill, boat-handling when
Unrivalled
had been becalmed under a cloudless sky, before a light north-westerly had taken pity on them. Out of necessity or discipline they were becoming used to one another. Making the best of it.

Despite his inner caution, Yovell often found himself making comparisons. He had seen Sir Richard Bolitho trying to distance himself from the hard reality of punishment. As an admiral he had been spared the tradition and spectacle of a flogging, something which he had seemed unable to accept even after his years of service from midshipman to flag officer.
My Admiral of England,
as he had heard Lady Somervell call him several times. A secret between them, and something very dear to her.

Adam Bolitho could not do that. As captain he had to order the relevant punishment, according to the Articles of War, which held the power of life and death over every man aboard.

The old Jacks made light of it.
Getting a checkered shirt at the gangway
was their casual dismissal of a flogging, no matter what they thought of the rights and wrongs of the punishment. The hard men like Campbell bared their own scars from the cat with something like pride. Or Jago, the captain's coxswain who had once been unjustly flogged, in defiance, even against the authority he served and upheld.

Adam Bolitho would have been at the quarterdeck rail with his officers while the punishment had been carried out. The beat of a drum, the master-at-arms counting each stroke aloud, the boatswain's mate wielding the lash, probably with little thought for the victim but very aware of his own performance,
without fear or favour
as Partridge would put it.

Neither of the two men under punishment were new to the navy. After two dozen lashes each they were cut down and hauled below to the sickbay, without uttering a sound.

Curiously, Yovell thought, the midshipman who had been involved in the drunken affray had almost fainted.

A shadow dipped over the desk; the captain was looking down at him.

“A few more days, my friend.” Adam glanced at the skylight. “No wonder the West African station is so unpopular. For us it is bad enough. Imagine how it must be for the anti-slavery patrols, small vessels for the most part, brigs, schooners, even cutters.” He thought suddenly of James Tyacke, who had served on such patrols.
The devil with half a face,
the slavers had called him. Tyacke, who had become his uncle's flag captain in
Frobisher. Who had been with him.
He swung away from the desk, angry for allowing it to pierce his defences.

And Tyacke was back there again. In a frigate, but not as a frigate. Adam had heard one long-serving lieutenant describe the work as fit only for “the haunted and the damned.”

He heard Napier padding about beyond the screen, shoeless, because he was feeling the heat.
Or because he does not want to offend me.

He looked at Yovell's round shoulders.
Have I been so intolerant, so obsessed?
He strode to the stern windows, feeling the deck tilt more steeply.
The wind.
But when he thrust open one of the windows he felt the air on his face and chest, like the door of an open furnace.

He stared at the blue water, the small ridge of crests breaking towards the ship. Little slivers of silver too, flying fish, so there would be sharks as well. Something else for the new men to get used to. Not many could swim if they fell overboard.

It was like sailing into nowhere. His orders were vague, to be interpreted by the senior officer at Freetown, or by the Crown Agent, as the new appointment was grandly called. Probably a civilian, and conferred as a reward or an escape.

He walked away from the glare and then paused abruptly by the desk again.

“What was that?”

Yovell peered up at him. “I heard nothing, sir.”

Adam listened to the sounds of rigging and the occasional thud of the great rudder.

He clenched his fists. Sailing into nowhere.

Feet outside, then the marine sentry's call. “First Lieutenant,
sir!
”

Galbraith entered, his forehead reddened where his hat had been jammed down to shade his eyes.

“What is it?”

Galbraith glanced at Yovell, as if to share it.

“Masthead, sir. Sail on the larboard bow. Standing away.”

Adam wanted to swallow, to moisten his mouth. He could do neither.

He said, “Call the hands, Leigh. Get the t'gallants on her. My compliments to Mr Cristie. I'd like him in the chartroom without delay.” He looked at him calmly. “It could be any vessel.” It was infectious; even Yovell was nodding and beaming.

Galbraith grinned. “I think not, sir!”

Adam snatched up his notes and strode to the screen door, but stopped and looked aft again, where Yovell remained hunched at the desk in silhouette against the dazzling blue backdrop.

He said simply, “When next you have the will to pray, my friend, I'd be grateful if you'd speak for me.”

Then he was gone, and for the first time since he could remember, Daniel Yovell was guilty of pride.

Lieutenant George Varlo jumped down from the mizzen shrouds, his shirt blackened with tar. Everyone on watch was busy about his duties, like badly rehearsed players, he thought angrily. Careful to avoid his eyes, and no doubt amused by his stained and dishevelled appearance.

He looked up at the topgallant sails, free and bulging now to the steady north-westerly, such as it was, the seamen already sliding down backstays to the deck while the landmen and novices took a slower but safer route by the ratlines, urged on by threats and yells as one mast vied with the other.

The masthead pendant was licking out towards the southern horizon, and Varlo could feel the ship coming to life again, dipping her lee bulwark towards the water.

The masthead lookout had reported a sail, somewhere out there beyond the larboard bow. Miles away; even by climbing up into the weather shrouds Varlo had been unable to see it. A desert of glaring water. And even if the lookout was not mistaken . . .

He turned and saw Galbraith climbing through the companion hatchway. Strong, dependable, and as popular as any first lieutenant could safely be, he thought. And yet they were rivals, and would remain strangers through this or any other commission.

Galbraith strode to the compass and consulted it after checking the new display of canvas,
Unrivalled
's
skyscrapers,
as the old hands termed them. The first thing you ever saw of a friend or an enemy, cutting above the horizon's edge.

Varlo was twenty-six years old. He glanced at Midshipman Hawkins, the newest and youngest member of the gunroom, a
baby,
the one with the beautiful sextant which the master had admired. Impossible to believe he had ever been so shallow, so ignorant even of the basic terms of seamanship and naval discipline. He moved to the side again and felt his shoes sticking to the deck seams, his stained shirt clinging like another skin.

He thought suddenly of his father. It was common enough over all the years of war for families to be separated, held together only by memory and the occasional letter. His father had been a post-captain, and one of considerable merit. Varlo accepted that he had learned more about him from others who had known or served with him; when he considered it, he realised that he had probably only seen his father half a dozen times in his life, if that. Grave, overwhelming in some ways, warmly human at other times. Each like a separate portrait. Different.

His father had died in a ship-to-ship action in the West Indies nearly ten years ago. It was still hard to believe. He had not lived long enough to be proud of his only son when he had eventually been commissioned.

He heard someone say, “Captain's coming up, sir.”

He felt it again. Like an unquenchable anger.
Would they have warned me?

He waited while Captain Bolitho checked the wind direction and studied the set of every sail.

Old Cristie had come up with the captain, his expression giving nothing away. He was the same in the wardroom. Like an oracle: while some of the others chatted emptily about the possibilities of prize-money, or moving to a better station, he remained aloof. Unless he was with his charts, or like now, gauging the captain's mood, like those of the wind and tide.

Varlo had found nobody he could talk to, or meet at what he considered a like level. Not O'Beirne, the surgeon, the listener, who hoarded information and indiscreet revelations perhaps for some future yarn, or one of his endless Irish jokes. Nor Lieutenant Bellairs, who was keen and very conscious of his new rank. Still a midshipman at heart. Like Cristie, the other senior warrant officers who shared the wardroom and its privileges, because of their circumstances were kept apart. And there was Galbraith. Brave and obviously respected, but yearning for a command of his own. A rival, then.

He heard the captain say suddenly, “Masthead lookout?”

And Galbraith's immediate reply. Expecting it. “Sullivan, sir.”

Bolitho said, “I wonder . . .” He looked at Cristie. “Bring her up two points. If the wind holds . . .” Again he left it unsaid.

“Man the braces! Stir yourselves!”

Bolitho took a telescope from the rack and glanced briefly at Varlo.

“If he runs, we can head him off.”

Varlo watched him as he trained the glass to windward, sidestepping as some seamen bustled past him, gasping with exertion as they hauled at the mizzen braces, the marines clumping along with them.

Varlo had heard most of the stories surrounding the captain. About his famous uncle, killed aboard his flagship at the moment of Napoleon's escape from Elba, and of his father, Captain Hugh Bolitho, a traitor to his country who had fought with the Revolutionary Navy of America.

Not married, but it was said that he was popular with women. Gossip, but where was the
man?
As calm and unruffled as he now appeared, turning to smile as a young seaman cannoned into a corporal of marines and paused to apologise. The marine, who was built like a cliff and had probably felt nothing, answered with equal formality, “One 'and for the King, matey!”

Spray spattered over the quarterdeck nine-pounders, to dry instantly in the unwavering sun.

“Deck there! She's makin' more sail!”

“Then so shall we. Set the forecourse, Mr Galbraith. More hands on the main brace.” He looked round briefly as the helmsman called, “East by south, sir! Full an' bye!”

Unrivalled
was taking it well, her weather rail rising to the horizon and remaining there, the great shadow of the forecourse spreading and darkening the scurrying figures at sheets and braces.