Relentless Pursuit

14. Sudden Death

JAMES BELLAIRS, Unrivalled's young third lieutenant, touched his hat and said, "I relieve you, sir."

Eight bells had just rung out from the forecastle. The first watch was about to begin.

Lieutenant Varlo saw his own men hurrying away to their various messes and remarked, "If you are certain you can manage 'til the hour of midnight?"

Bellairs watched him walk to the companionway and tried not to dislike him. A competent officer, but never without the lastminute jibe, the sarcastic quip at someone else's expense.

One of Bellairs' watch had been adrift when the hands had mustered aft; he had fallen and injured his wrist. Varlo had remarked, "Shall we rouse out the master-at-arms to find him, eh?"

He allowed his anger to settle. It was not in his nature, and anyway… He spread his arms and stared along the length of the ship. Already in deep shadow, with an incredible orange glow to starboard as the sun dipped towards the horizon. To larboard it was lost in a purple haze. You could sense the nearness of land. He put Varlo from his mind and smiled. Not so near: Lisbon lay about sixty miles abeam according to the last calculation. He listened to the creak and hum of taut rigging as Unrivalled leaned more steeply on the larboard tack. Every watch brought him fresh confidence, like the sounds which had once made him uneasy, but usually unwilling to call for advice from a lieutenant. Now he was a lieutenant himself, and those years as a "young gentleman" seemed a lifetime ago.

He glanced at the cabin skylight. There was a glow there, brighter than usual. The captain, going over his orders again. Was he ever unsure, he wondered, with nobody to advise him?

He walked to the compass, the two helmsmen watching him as he passed. Soon it would be too dark to recognise faces, but it no longer mattered. He felt that he knew every man in the ship. Even the had ones. He grinned. Especially the had ones…

He thought of Plymouth, now five days astern. A smooth if lively passage so far. Skirting the Bay and its foul moods, they had been out of sight of Cape Finisterre except from the masthead, when they had changed tack yet again to steer south-west by south and follow the coast of Portugal. Standing well out to sea, perhaps to avoid rumour or suspicion. lie had heard the older hands joking about it. That everybody in the whole world would know more than Unrivalled's people.

He peered at the compass card. South-south-west. Two more days, maybe less, and they would he beneath the Rock's great shadow.

His thoughts returned to Plymouth. His parents and sister had come to see him, to present him with the new sword they had purchased to mark his commission. He looked again at the skylight. Before that, he had worn a curved hanger which belonged to Captain Bolitho.

Galbraith had remarked, "I can't say I've heard of anv other captain doing that!"

He allowed his mind to return to the girl named Jane, who had also been there. A friend of his sister's. A ready smile and dancing violet eyes; they had got on well together, encouraged, he realised, by his sister. She was of a good family, so what prospects could he offer as a lowly luff?

But she lived at Dartmouth, which was not that far from Plymouth. When Unrivalled returned after completing this mission, he might be able to see her again.

"Cap'n's comin' up, sir."

"Thank you, Tucker." He had learned well the risk of trying to be popular, or showing favouritism to this man or that. All the same, he could not imagine anyone warning Varlo if the captain was on the move.

He saw one of the helmsmen turn his head to make sure the windvane was in position. It got dark very suddenly hereabouts.

Bellairs waited near the wheel while the captain walked to the compass, and the log which was protected by a canvas hood; he had probably already been in the chartroom to make his own estimate of their progress. He made it seem so effortless; even when he stared up into the black tangle of rigging and the trimmed angle of each yard, it was as if he already knew. When they had been in action it had been impossible to register every act or injury. Only afterwards, when your heart and breathing steadied, could you realise what you had done. And those who had not come through it.

Bellairs could recall the captain's part in it. His apparent disregard for both danger and the nearness of sudden death. Or, far worse, a lingering despair in the agony of the surgeon's knife.

He straightened up as Bolitho said, "Holding her course and progress well, Mr. Bellairs." He tapped the pale planking with his shoe. "But she's feeling it, with all that extra weight of stores and shot." He turned away to watch a leaping fish, bright gold in the sunset. "We'll be needing all of it, I daresay."

He could have been talking to the ship.

Adam could feel Bellairs watching him. It was strange: when he had been a lieutenant he had never considered his captains young in thought and heart. Except his uncle. They had sometimes been mistaken for brothers.

He would know nothing until he was in Gibraltar. The prospects of battle might all have blown away by then. It happened often enough. But until then he thought of his carefully worded orders. Nothing which any captain could misinterpret if an opportunity offered itself. Lord Exmouth had been a great frigate captain. He would know every trick in the hook.

Like the vessel they had sighted two days back after they had weathered Cape Finisterre. He had sent Sullivan aloft, and had then joined him with a telescope, as if something had driven him.

A large ship, a barque as far as they could tell; there had been a stiff wind and a lot of spray which made proper recognition almost impossible. But they had seen her again, and she had immediately changed tack, her sails like pink shells in the dawn light. To avoid Unrivalled's closer scrutiny? Cristie had suggested that she might be standing closer inshore and heading for Vigo. It made sense. But Adam could not shift it from his mind. There were hundreds of ships in these waters, probably the busiest seaway in the world. And some of them would be barques. In any case his orders were clear. Blunt.

He said, "I hear you had the good fortune to meet a young lady during our stay in Plymouth."

He was aware of Bellairs' confusion. Had it been full daylight, he might have been blushing.

"This is a small ship, remember!"

Bellairs said, "A friend of my sister's, sir." He faltered. "She cannot yet be seventeen."

"I see." Adam walked to the rail and stared down at the boat tier. Bellairs was just nineteen. Whereas I… He stopped it there.

They were at sea. It was all that counted.

He said, "Time will pass quickly. You will know if your feelings are strong enough to endure the life we follow."

He took two paces away, angry that he should or could offer advice.

He said, "I note from the log that there are two men for punishment tomorrow?" Like cutting a cord. Safe in their ordered world.

"Yes, sir. One for drunkenness." It was now too dark to see his expression, but Adam knew he was frowning. "Craigie. The other one is Lucas, maintopman. He threatened a warrant officer." No hesitation this time. "Mr Midshipman Sandell."

"I shall speak with the first lieutenant directly. I am not pleased about this." He sighed. And it would be another two years before Sandell could even be considered for promotion to lieutenant. What Luke Jago would call "the rotten apple." He had heard his uncle say that it only needed one.

He said suddenly, "We shall alter course two points, Mr Bellairs. I fear the wind is backing a little."

He half-listened to the rush of feet, the shrill of calls, as more men ran to braces and halliards.

It might give an extra knot. At least it would keep his mind from her face. Her body framed against the soiled canvas, the imaginary rock, her eyes so dark, defiant, challenging him.

So different from the girl in the church, her pleasure over the rose which would be in that portrait. He touched his empty belt. And the sword.

"Steer sou'-west! Helm a-lee there!"

The squeal of blocks, men hauling on snaking lines and halliards before they could fling a sailor off his feet. Even the new hands were working like veterans.

Adam crossed to the empty nettings and waited for the deck to sway upright again. Still, faintly, he could see the beautiful figurehead's naked shoulders, showing only for a moment through the gloom while Unrivalled's stem ploughed into a deeper trough in a welter of bursting spray.

Like the girl on the rock. Helpless and in need.

IIe heard Bellairs say something and then laugh, somehow carefree despite the chorus of sea and thrashing canvas.

"Steady she goes, sir! Sou'-west, full an' bye!"

Adam raised one hand to Bellairs and walked to the companionway. The first watch could settle down, without its lord and master overseeing every move.

I Ic went down the ladder, feeling the ship closing around him. The marine sentry, his figure angled effortlessly against the deck, stiffened as he passed, and Napier had the screen door open, as if he had been listening for his step on the ladder.

Everything as it should be, and a weighted-down pile of letters and orders in Yovell's round hand awaiting his signature.

He stared at the sloping stern windows, one side in darkness, spray dappling the thick glass like spectres, the other tinged with dull copper, the last of the sun on the western horizon.

The whole ocean, and yet he was hound by his orders, tied to the fleet's apron strings.

Napier asked, "May I bring your meal, sir

Adam stared at him and was touched by his concern. Ile knew what it must have done to him to be so well received in Falmouth, as if he was one of the family.

"Not too much, David. I'll have some cognac while I sign that little mountain."

lie saw the boy smile and hurry away to the pantry. Why was it so easy to help others when you were helpless to rally your own sp irits?

Tomorrow things might seem different. The final approach to Gibraltar. The formalities. The new orders. If any.

Bellairs would he thinking of the girl he had met in Plymouth; Napier might still be remembering the excitement and laughter over his first ride on the new pony.

The hands had piped down now, and the ship was unusually silent. Overhead, the watchkeepers took note of the course and behaviour of the wind, and in the wardroom there might still he a few lively enough for a game of cards, or the unfinished letter to a wife or lover somewhere.

He yawned and sipped at the goblet Napier had put by his side before returning just as silently to the pantry, feet pale against the checkered deck covering.

And tomorrow he would speak with Galbraith about the punishment book. But he looked at the desk and pictured the rose pressed in the small log. It was little enough. He watched Napier arranging the table for him, a plate rattling suddenly in time with the rudder as the keel sliced into another long trough.

He moved to another chair and regarded the neatly laid table. Being captain kept you apart from the ship's routine, watchkeeping and everyday work on hull and rigging; it also left you without an ordered programme of eating and sleeping. The carefully prepared meal consisted of slices of fat pork, fried pale brown with bread crumbs. That must be the last of the loaves, he thought; iron-hard biscuit from now on until the next time. And there was a bottle of red wine.

He looked at Napier and smiled. "You do a good deal for me, David, with precious little thanks."

The boy poured some wine, frowning slightly as he usually did.

He said simply, "It's what I want, sir."

He walked back to the pantry, and Adam noticed that he was limping again. Not much, but he would mention it to the surgeon.

Later when Napier came to clear the table he found the captain in the one deep chair, legs outthrust, and fast asleep.

He carried the tray to the pantry again, pausing occasionally to allow for the deck's erratic movements. Then he closed the shutter on one of the lanterns and stood beside the chair again, uncertain but characteristically determined.

Using two fingers he loosened the captain's neckcloth, holding his breath, waiting for the motion to settle.

The captain opened his eyes wide and stared at him, seizing his wrist, holding it, but saying nothing.

Napier waited. He knew that the captain was still asleep. It was important that he should remain so.

He released his hand and backed away, satisfied.

It was what he wanted.

When Adam did awaken it took a few moments to recover his awareness, the instinct of any sailor, the feel and movement of his ship, no matter what hour of day or night it might be.

Too much cognac, or that red wine which rasped on the tongue. It was neither. He had hardly slept since leaving Plymouth. And now…

He stared at the partly shuttered lantern, and the empty table. It was still dark, but the sounds overhead were different. He sat upright, feeling his way. It must be eight bells. The morning watch was taking over.

He had been dreaming. He touched his neckcloth. In the dream she had been there, with him.

He saw the figure darkly outlined against the white paintwork. He pushed his fingers through his unruly hair and said, "You should have roused me, man!"

Luke Jago stood up and looked at him. "I would've. I just thought I ought to come."

He was instantly wide awake. Like those other times, so many of them. Like a fox's scent of danger. Even his voice was clear, sharp.

"What is it? Trouble?"

Jago turned his head and glanced at the shuttered skylight, as if he could see the disruption in the order and discipline.

He said flatly, "Mr Sandell's gone missin', sir."

Adam was on his feet. "Are you sure?" His mind was reaching out like a beam of light, a warning. Galbraith had had the middle watch. He would not leave it for somebody else to act.

Jago replied, "They've searched the ship, sir."

Napier was here now, a jug of water held ready. Adam wiped his face and neck with a wet cloth, seeing it for himself. Sandell was in Galbraith's watch. The night was reasonably calm but for a steady wind; an unemployed person could not come on deck without being seen by one of the watchkeepers. An accident? Somebody would have seen that too.

He blinked as Jago unshuttered the lantern. It would be first light very soon, the ship coming awake to a new day.

Jago lifted a hand as someone shouted something, the voice carried away by the wind.

He said, "They've not found him, sir."

Adam looked at him. Nobody liked Sandell; some hated him. He should never have been selected. He could guess what Jago thought about it.

He turned and faced the door, hearing Galbraith's familiar footsteps. The responsibility, as always, lay here, in this cabin.

He heard the sentry stamp his boots outside the screen door.

Accept it, then. It was murder.

Lieutenant Galbraith strode aft, his shoes sticking on the deck seams as the sun bore down on the anchored ship. It had been a long and slow approach to the anchorage, as if the Rock's majestic presence defied the wind to intrude. He squinted his eyes against the reflected glare at the other ships anchored nearby, and the guardboat which had waited with tossed oars to mark their journey's end, rolling evenly above its own image.

He looked at the fortifications and batteries, which seemed like part of the Rock itself, a flag flapping listlessly above one of them. "There was a lot to do. All boats would be lowered no matter how short their stay here, to seal the sun-baked hulls. The captain would expect windsails to be rigged, to draw what air there was into the cramped quarters between decks. Galbraith had known captains who would never have contemplated it, would have insisted that the ungainly canvas spoiled their ship's appearance, no matter what discomfort they averted. But not this captain. The gig was already being hoisted out over the starboard gangway, Jago's voice urging or threatening as required.

He saw Lieutenant Varlo speaking with I lastie, the master-atarms, arranging another search, maybe. The captain had told the second lieutenant to carry out a final investigation, although it seemed unlikely that anything would he gained by it. But Galbraith could feel a difference in the ship and amongst the various sections of men he had come to know so well. Resentment, suspicion; it went deeper than these.

To many of them it would seem a betrayal of something personal and intimate, that bond in any fighting ship which made each man look out for his friends. Sailors owned little enough, and a thief, if caught by his fellows, would suffer a far harsher fate than that meted out by the Articles of War. And a man who would kill another in this ship was like something unclean. Midshipman Sandell would not be missed, but the threat would remain.

He saw the captain by the taffrail, a telescope trained towards the main anchorage, but unmoving, as if he was unwilling to let it go.

Galbraith touched his hat and waited. "Ship secured, sir. The gig is being lowered now."

He followed Bolitho's telescope. A little apart from the other vessels, and larger than most of them: they had seen her on the last two cables before the anchor had plummeted down and the cable had taken the strain.

A receiving-ship, they called such vessels, used mainly as temporary accommodation for officers and personnel on passage to other appointments. Mastless, and with most of her upper deck covered by a protective awning, her gun ports empty and opened to attract any offshore breeze, she was another hulk. The last time they had seen her, she had worn an admiral's flag at the mainmast truck. Was that only last year? Even now, her "gingerbread," the ornate scrollwork about her stern and counter, was still brightly gilded in the sunlight, and her name, Frobisher, was not to be forgotten. Least of all by the man at his side.

Adam said, "Is that all they could find for her, Leigh?" He closed the glass with a snap and looked directly at him.

I saw my uncle's old coxswain when I went to Falmouth." He looked at the ship again, but Galbraith knew he was seeing something else. "I am only thankful that John Allday is not here today to see this!"

He seemed to pull himself out of it with a great effort and said, "I will be going ashore directly. In the meantime, perhaps Mr Tregillis will loosen his purse strings again and attempt to obtain some fresh bread. The garrison will be the best chance."

"I'll deal with that, sir."

He looked down, surprised, as Bolitho's hand gripped his arm.

"What do you think happened to Midshipman Sandell?"

"Lucas, the maintopman accused of threatening him, denies all knowledge, sir. And in any case he was in the care of the ship's corporal, in irons during that watch." He added bitterly, "My watch!"

Adam released his grip and stared at the towering Rock. There was mist or low cloud around the summit; Cristie had said it might promise a wind for the return passage.

Varlo seemed to be enjoying his investigation, had even made a sketch showing where every man would or should have been stationed in what he had calculated was the last half hour of Sandell's life. At the second eighteenpounder on the starboard side he had discovered that two halls were missing from the shot garland. Enough to carry a body swiftly down before the keel had had time to pass over it. And up forward, so close to the lively bow wave, it would hardly make a sound.

Sandell had had the makings of a tyrant, given the opportunity. But it could have been anybody.

You never spoke of it, but it was always there. When you realised that if the worst happened and you were sailing alone, only the afterguard and the thin line of marines stood between a captain and mutiny.

He saw Jago at the top of the ladder, his dark features expressionless. Waiting.

"I want both counts of punishment to be stood down. One man was drunk, and you know from experience that flogging has never yet cured a drunkard. As for Lucas, he is a good hand. Remember how he saved two raw landmen from falling to the deck when we first commissioned? A man of spirit and courage, and I'll not see him broken without proper evidence."

"Sandell's people are quite important, I believe, sir?"

Adam was looking at the Frobisher again. "They shall have the truth, Leigh. When I know it."

He walked to the rail and joined his coxswain.

"Man the side! Attention on the upper deck!"

Rist, master's mate, stood with the others while the calls trilled and the captain went quickly down the side into his gig.

He said, "You reckon Mr Sandell's gone to the sharks?"

Cristie overheard and said calmly, "If I was a shark I'd throw the little bastard right back at us!"

Rist forced a smile, but turned away as the calls shrilled once more and work recommenced.

He thought about it again; he had done little else since it had happened. It would soon be forgotten, and as everybody knew but would not say, Midshipman Sandell with his arrogance and secretive cruelty was no loss to anyone. Think of it, man. The fleet was growing again, you could see that for yourself at Plymouth, and here beneath the Rock there were more craft than on their last visit. The real cutting down was over. For now, anyway. Rist was not young, but young enough for promotion if it was offered or fell his way. To sailing master like old Cristie, or maybe to a command of his own, no matter how small, just given the time and the chance.

He watched the first lieutenant speaking to Partridge, the boatswain. He liked and respected Galbraith, trusted him also.

He faced it for the hundredth time. How long would that last if he revealed that he had witnessed the murder?

He had to go down to the chart room. It was no use just going over it again. He felt the fine new spyglass the youth Ede had made for him. Put yourself first. But it would not go away.

Luke Jago perched his buttocks against a massive stone bollard and picked his teeth with a piece of whalebone. The stone was still warm, and yet looking across the dark, heaving water there were already lights showing on some of the ships, like fireflies at his home in Dover. What he could still remember of it.

The gig's crew was close by, where he could keep a weather eye open for some lastminute chancer, although he had to admit they had become a fairly reliable boat's crew. He heard someone kicking stones into the water. Midshipman Deighton, doing his share on this duty. A "young gentleman," and one day he would be a lieutenant, and maybe another jumped-up slave driver. But he had to admit that he liked him, shared something which even his keen mind could not define or accept. Always ready to listen and learn, never threw his weight about even with the most junior hands, but it went deeper than that. Like the one most important thing which had brought them together, the fact that Jago had been there when Deighton's father had died. Shot down by one of his own men, although nobody ever spoke of it. Not even the captain.

He thought of the missing midshipman. Sandell. He smiled grimly. Sandell, as he had always insisted. Nobody spoke much about that, either. Deighton was affected by it, although he had never liked the other midshipman. It was like a presence moving between decks.

Captain Bolitho had been ashore for most of the day, but had sent word by messenger that the gig would not be needed. Until now.

He watched the passing throng of people; it was always the same at the Rock. It was funny when you thought about it. A few years back and you could imagine the Dons, just over the water at Algeiras, waiting to spy, on ships arriving and leaving here, ready to send fast horsemen with the news, where from? or where hound? The enemy. Now there were ships of a dozen flags at anchor here. He could recall all too easily when there was only one flag. The rest were the foe.

But they were not making much of a secret of their presence here; he had heard the first lieutenant say as much to young Bellairs. Why Unrivalled? Any fast schooner or courier brig could have done it. They did it every day somewhere or other.

He hid a smile in the dying sunlight.

Two sailors from another vessel had looked at the gig, and had asked what was their ship?

When he had told them, one had exclaimed, "That's Captain Bolitho's ship, matey!"

Jago had been forced to give in to a feeling of pride, which before would have been laughable.

Neither of those two Jacks had ever laid eyes on the captain. But the name was enough.

Deighton stood up and brushed his white trousers. "The captain's coming."

Jago pushed himself away from the bollard and spat the whalebone into the water. Must be getting old. Deighton had seen him first.

He could sense the impatience, anger even, as the captain stepped down into the nodding boat.

Jago gauged the mood. Took a chance.

"We sailin' again, sir?"

He saw the upturned face, the dark eyes framed by the hair, the familiar cocked hat. He had gone too far this time.

But Adam said quietly, "We are so, my friend. In Falmouth I heard of an errand boy who rose to be a rich and powerful man. Now you can see a captain who has become an errand boy!"

The boat's crew shifted on their thwarts, sharing it, some without understanding. Midshipman Deighton rested one hand on the tiller to lean forward and listen. So very different, yet these two men had filled his life when he had believed himself to be alone.

He remembered the day he had met Captain Bolitho for the first time. He had been sympathetic, but not out of mere duty, as his father would have reminded him. Like a friend. Someone who had understood what he was going through.

"Cast off! Bear off forrard!" His voice confident and strong.

As the gig pulled away into the lengthening shadows, Midshipman Richard Deighton would have changed roles with no one.

Jago smiled and settled back to watch the regular rise and fall of the blades.

Once, he saw the captain turn to look at the big hulk he had seen on their arrival. The last time had been when Admiral Lord Rhodes had ordered Unrivalled to stand fast, to discontinue the chase of the renegade frigate, and this captain had ignored the signal. And together they had won the day.

But in his heart Jago knew he was seeing the moored hulk and her empty gun ports as she had once been, as his uncle's flagship.

He saw him remove his hat and hold it against his breast, and was surprised that it touched him so deeply.

And yet, beyond even that, he felt something else. Like a warning.

It was the scent of danger.

Two days out of Gibraltar, Unrivalled was heading north again after standing well clear of Cape St Vincent to find more sea room. As was expected, Cristie's prophecy about the wind had proved true. Within an hour of leaving the Strait, the Rock had vanished into thick mist, probably rain deeper inland, and now, close-hauled on the starboard tack and leaning steeply into the wind despite her reefed topsails, the frigate was constantly swept by a sea which thundered over her weather side, making any movement on deck dangerous.

At first light the masthead had reported a sail directly to the north, but with such poor visibility any recognition was pure guesswork.

While they reeled over, fighting into a wind which at times seemed to be from directly abeam, most of the hands, especially the older ones, were glad they were well clear of the land.

Adam climbed to the quarterdeck as the forenoon watch relieved other soaked and exhausted seamen, who, under these conditions, were unlikely to be offered anything to warm their insides before they were called once more to trim or reef the salthardened canvas. But rum could work wonders; he had even heard two of the relieved topmen sharing a joke as they groped their way below, no doubt wondering what all the fuss and urgency had been about.

Adam wondered also. He had had a meeting with the Captainin-Charge at Gibraltar; the acting flag officer was otherwise engaged, being entertained aboard one of the visiting Dutch ships. How long would it take to accept this change of allegiance, enemies becoming friends overnight?

The captain had told him that the information he had given to be carried in Unrivalled would be useful and important to Lord Exmouth. He had not said that it was vital.

Nothing, it seemed, had changed. Several small vessels had been attacked by Algerine pirates, their crews taken as prisoners to the Dey's stronghold. There had been other reports of innocent fishermen being slaughtered by Turkish soldiers at Bona, a port Adam had good cause to remember.

The documents and despatches were now locked in the strongbox, to be guarded at all times, the Captainin-Charge had insisted.

He braced himself as his head and shoulders emerged from the companion, his hair blowing unheeded as he waited for the deck to rear up again.

Bellairs greeted him, eyes reddened by the onslaught of wind and spray.

"Steady she goes, sir! Nor' by west!"

Adam gripped the rail, feeling the ship plunge and rear again, like a thoroughbred fighting a halter. Despite his weariness, his regular visits to this windswept place of command, he could still feel the old excitement. The challenge: man, ship, and ocean.

He stared along the upper deck, aware of the sharply braced yards, the spray pouring from the hard-bellied canvas like icy pellets, conscious that everything was in its proper place, stays and running rigging taking the strain, boats on their tier firmly secured. With this sea, it must have been a fight just to accomplish that…

He watched the water boil against the guns on the lee side, saw crouched figures snatching at handholds until the miniature tidal wave had passed over them before running to the next task, another repair to cordage and canvas.

"Deck there! Sail on the starboard how.'" There must have been a momentary lull as the lookout yelled again, "Two sail, sir!"

Bellairs wiped his streaming face with his sleeve. "Our two companions of yesterday, sir?"

"Perhaps." Adam peered up at the swaying topmasts, trying to picture Unrivalled as another lookout might see her. Whatever they were they were not running away, or trying to avoid an encounter. Common enough when ships' masters knew there was a man-of-war about, on their lawful occasions or not. They had not forgotten the press-gangs, either.

He thought of the Dutch ships he had seen at Gibraltar. Part of Exmouth's plan? Or was it mere coincidence?

He saw a man clambering up the main shrouds, fingers and toes expertly hooked around the ratlines as the hull reeled over again, so that he appeared to be hanging bodily above the leaping wave crests. He saw the seaman turn and stare down at him. It was Lucas, whom Sandell had accused of threatening behaviour. It was still hard to believe that an officer had gone missing. They might never discover what had happened. He tried to shut it out. Somebody knew.

lie glanced at the masthead again. "Mr Cousens, take your glass and go aloft, will you? I'd value a second pair of eyes up there."

Cousens grinned. Signals midshipman, as Bellairs had been such a short while ago, and with luck the next one for the board for lieutenant. He should do well; he worked at his studies, but had a reputation for practical jokes. Also, he had a good head for heights.

Woodthorpe, the master's mate of the watch, asked carefully, "D' you think them ships want to speak with us, sir?"

Adam watched the midshipman climbing steadily up the shrouds, the signals telescope hanging across his shoulders like a small cannon.

"We shall likely lose them soon." He looked at the compass, imagining the spread of shark-blue ocean which separated the vessels. The bearing was the same, as far as he could estimate in this unruly sea. A converging tack, then. With the benefit of a wind under their coat-tails they should pass well ahead, heading west, deep into the Atlantic.

"Deck there! Leading ship is a frigate, sir."

Some of the seamen on deck had stopped work to listen, anything to break the aching monotony of hauling on ropes and hammering wedges into position. Adam moved a little apart from the others. Without looking, he knew Cristie had come on deck. In a moment Galbraith would appear. They never had to be told.

He swallowed and tasted the treacle he had spread on a biscuit, with some of Napier's strong coffee. He had questioned him about his leg, and Napier had said that he had picked up a splinter in his foot; otherwise he was quite well. In some ways the boy reminded him of himself at that age. He was not a very good liar, either. He would speak to the surgeon.

"Deck there! She's a Yankee!"

Someone gave an ironic cheer, and a boatswain's mate remarked, "Don't them buggers 'ave somethin' useful to do?" Another man laughed.

Adam looked at the masthead again, the spray running over his face like rain. Come on. Come on. With that big telescope Cousens would be able to see the ship well enough to identify it. But what about the other? What was an American ship doing out here? Perhaps, after all, the United States government was taking the slave trade seriously, although until now they had strongly resisted any attempt by patrols to stop and search their vessels in the known vicinity.

Adam took a telescope from the rack and climbed up into the weather shrouds. He was soaked through in any case; he hated wearing a heavy tarpaulin coat. If you slipped it could carry you down as quickly as any round shot…

He waited, the tarred shrouds biting into his skin while the hull went over once again. Unrivalled must have lifted suddenly on a freak crest; he saw the other ship quite strongly, her buff sails and most of her shining side before she dipped into the sea again. But not before he had seen the bright patch of colour standing out from her peak like polished metal, the Stars and Stripes.

He clambered down again and saw Galbraith waiting for him.

He said, "Yankee frigate." He looked at hire, his eyes steady despite the biting spray. "The other one's a barque."

"The barque?"

"Could be. In which case…"

"Deck there! The next vessel's a prize-she's flyin' the same flag!"

Adam hit his lip. "In which case, the Americans have beaten us to it. This time."

Galbraith said, "They're still closing with us, sir."

Adam turned away and walked down to the leeward side. Perhaps RearAdmiral Herrick had made a report to their lordships about Osiris, the mystery slaver. It would further involve Sillitoe. He frowned. And therefore Catherine. He pictured Herrick again, aboard this ship. Intense, stubborn, but sincere. Finding it impossible to break a code he had almost been born to uphold. Sir Richard's oldest friend

He climbed into the shrouds again, hearing two bells chime from the forecastle as he settled himself in a suitable position. An hour had passed. It felt like mere minutes since he had come on deck.

He tried again. It was clearer this time, the other frigate much closer, two miles at the most. He shifted the glass with great care, gritting his teeth against the raw pain in his arm and thigh with each steep plunge. The Stars and Stripes were very bright and clear now. And men too, lining the gangway and clinging to the rigging to stare at this ship. He moved the glass again. To gloat, probably. Then he found the barque, graceful for her size, closer but angled away from the frigate's quarter. And he saw the flag. It was flying above another which had been crudely tied into a knot, the mark of submission. The prize.

He saw some of the sailors waving from the other frigate, well aware that telescopes were watching them.

Cristie said, "Proud as peacocks now, ain't they?"

Bellairs said, "The wind's easing, sir." It was a question rather than a report.

Adam nodded, impatient to end it. "Call all hands. Shake out those reefs, and we shall take her closer to the wind." He glanced at Cristie. "Show them how it's done, eh?"

High on his perch in the crosstrees, Midshipman Cousens heard the faint squeal of calls, and guessed what was happening far beneath his dangling legs. Clinging to a stay, the lookout watched him patiently, eager to be alone again. Cousens trained his glass. It felt like a bar of ballast in his wet hands.

He studied the frigate and then wiped his eye, thinking he had missed something. Somehow the picture had changed, which was impossible.

The waving, cheering sailors, soundless and tiny in the lens, were gone, and… he could scarcely believe it… the Stars and Stripes had vanished also.

Even as he watched, the line of ports opened, as one or so it seemed, and he stared with disbelief at the guns which shone in the hard light like black teeth.

He groped for the lookout and punched his arm.

Alarm! Alarm!"

All else was blotted out by the growling roar of a broadside, and one last scream as he fell.