Relentless Pursuit

4. Obsession

FRANK RIST, Unrivalled's senior master's mate, pressed one hand on the sill of an open port and stared at the colour and reflected movement of Funchal harbour. He had visited Madeira several times, a place always ready with a bargain to tempt the sailorman, even if the price doubled at the first sign of a King's ship.

He felt the heat of the timber through his palm, something he never tired of, and smiled as a boat loaded with brightly painted pottery hovered abeam, apparently deaf to the bellowed warnings to stand clear from one of Captain Luxmore's "bullocks."

He withdrew his head into the chartroom and waited for his eyes to accept the gloom of the low deckhead after the glare off the water. He rubbed them with his knuckles and tried to shrug it off. It was when he looked at a chart in uncertain light, or by the glow of a small lamp on the quarterdeck during the night watches that he noticed it most. Like most sailors Rist was used to staring into great distances, taking the bearing of some headland or hill, or gauging the final approach to an anchorage like this morning.

He heard the first lieutenant's footsteps overhead and the shrill of a call as another hoist of stores was hauled inboard, the purser doubtless counting every item and checking it against a list, as if it was all coming out of his own pocket.

Unrivalled suited him, despite the gaps in her complement, and the new hands who were either old Jacks who had volunteered for a further commission, or those totally untrained in the ways of the sea like the youth Ede, who was quietly clearing up the chart space as if the ship was still out of sight of land, or he was afraid of making contact with those people and boats out there in the harbour.

Ede was so young, and it troubled Rist when he considered it.

lie was a good master's mate and the senior of the ship's three. He tried to push it aside. He was also one of the oldest men in the company. Rist was forty-two years old, twenty-eight of which had been spent at sea in one sort of ship or another. He had done well, better than most, but he had to face it, unless old Cristie was offered another appointment or dropped dead, any hope of promotion was remote. And now his sight. It was common enough in sailors. He clenched his fist. But not now.

He glanced at the youth, still so pale despite the sun which had greeted their course south of Biscay. Neat, almost delicate hands, more like a girl's than a youngster going to sea for the first time. He could read and write, and had been an apprentice at some instrument maker's shop in Plymouth or nearby.

In the navy it was usually better not to know too much of a man's past. It was what he did now, how he stood for or against the things which really mattered in a man-of-war. When it came down to it, the loyalty and courage of your mates counted more than anything. Rist looked around the chartroom. Old Cristies' second home. You could still smell the paint and pitch from the repairs after that last savage battle.

He stared through the port again. There was a Spanish frigate at anchor nearby. She had dipped her ensign when Unrivalled had glided past her. Hard to accept, to get used to. Ile shook his head. Such a short while ago and their young firebrand of a captain would have beaten to quarters and had the guns run out before the poor Spaniards had finished their siesta!

It was strange. But it was what he did best. Ile thought about the rumours and the endless gossip in the mess. To most of them slavery was just a word. Others saw it as a possibility for prize money, even slave bounty, or so the lower deck lawyers insisted.

Rist had already considered something else. If Unrivalled was to be involved, which seemed unlikely at close quarters, there might be prizes. Any such capture would require a prize-master.

It was hard not to consider it. Captain Bolitho could not spare a lieutenant for the task, and the midshipmen were either too young or incompetent. It would be the one chance he needed. He could see no other.

He turned and exclaimed, "If the master sees you handling that, he'll hang your guts out to dry, my lad!"

Ede looked at him across the sextant, which he had been about to place in its well-worn case.

He said, almost shyly, "I used to work with these, sir. A Parsons model, one of the earliest I ever saw."

In the sudden silence Rist saw the pain in his eyes, and wondered how it had all gone wrong. Attempted murder, they said. Youth and something else had saved him from the gibbet. Rist pushed it aside. It happened. Ede was paying the price for whatever it was. After all, you didn't ask forgiveness when you were trying to hack out an enemy's guts with dirk or cutlass!

He asked, "What about magnifying glasses? For chart work and that sort of thing." He turned away. Far enough, you idiot.

But Ede said, "I can repair them, sir. I made some once for my…" His employer, he had nearly said. The man he had stabbed almost to death.

Rist nodded. "I'll speak to the first lieutenant. Can't promise anything, but we could find work for you here." He added scathingly, "Anything to keep some snotty blowhard out from under my feet!"

He did not mention Sandell. He did not need to.

Rist was thinking of Galbraith, how they had been together in that raid off the African coast, the exploding charges, the chebecks like fireballs while they had floundered to safety. He liked the first lieutenant; they got on well. Galbraith would be thinking much the same about his own dwindling chances of promotion. Others seemed to get it as if it were their right. Or because they knew somebody…

He heard the bell chime from the forecastle, and thought of the rum which would soon be served in the warrant officers' mess. After that, he had been ordered to take a boat ashore and stay in company with the captain's new clerk, a strange old bird if ever there was one. But afterwards, if he could find the house, if it was still there, he might seek a little pleasure with one of the girls.

He was forty-two, but told himself that he did not look it.

Adam glanced through the open port again, at another vessel which was swinging to her anchor, to make a perfect twin with her reflection.

A Portuguese flag; it was a joke when you thought about it. All the big powers beating the drum about banning slavery, Portugal most of all.

He gave a wry smile. And yet they shipped more black ivory than any one.

He looked at his hands in the dusty sunlight.

Slavers, then. He turned away. And I was one of them.

Captain Adam Bolitho climbed through Unrivalled's entry port and paused to raise his hat to the quarterdeck, and the flag which hung so limply that it was scarcely moving. As he walked past the side-party he felt the sweat run down his spine and gather above his belt, and yet despite the busy afternoon ashore, the rituals of meeting the Governor and clearing the ship to take on supplies and fresh water, he felt strangely alert. Perhaps it was just being back on board, something he knew and trusted.

Like the faces around him, some so familiar they could have been aboard since the ship had first run up her colours, when the world had been so very different. For all of us. Yet he knew that several of them had only joined at Penzance, mere days ago. Were they regretting it? An impulse, seeking something they had believed lost?

Galbraith greeted him and said, "Fresh water will be brought out by lighters in the forenoon tomorrow, sir." His strong features were full of questions, but he added only, "Two hands for punishment, sir." It sounded like an apology. "Working on the jetty, drunk. There was a fight."

Adam glanced past him, feeling the heat striking down through the taut rigging, the neatly furled sails. "Who was in charge?"

"Mr Midshipman Fielding, sir. He is usually very good in such matters. He is young…"

"All the more reason why he should be respected, not abused because of it."

Fielding, the midshipman who had once awakened him from a dream. That same dream. Another memory.

He said, "Deal with it when we are at sea." He shaded his eyes to study the other anchored ships nearby. Mostly small local craft, they would have no difficulty clearing the harbour even with a light breeze. He thought of the people he had seen on the waterfront. The watching faces, interested, indifferent, it was impossible to tell. Like some Spanish officers from the visiting frigate; there had been a group of them waiting for their boat by the stairs. They had doffed their hats; a couple of them had smiled politely. Was it really so simple, so easy to forget, to wipe out the madness, the ferocity of battle which they had all suffered? Could I?

He saw Partridge, the barrel-chested boatswain, giving instructions to one of his mates. A flogging, then. Partridge would never even question it. When it came down to it, the Articles of War and a thin line of marines was the final extent of a captain's authority.

He turned his head, missing something Galbraith was saving.

It was Partridge, big fists on his hips, an amused grin on his sun-reddened face.

"She may 'ave a fancy Portuguese name, my son, but I knows er of old!" He seemed to realise that Adam was listening and explained, "The brigantine over yonder, sir. The old Rebecca as she was in them days. First tasted salt water in Brixham."

Adam stared over his massive shoulder. Like the flaw in the pattern, the face in the crowd which is so easily missed.

"You're certain?"

Parker, one of the boatswain's mates, grinned. "Never forgets, sir!"

Partridge seemed to realise it was not merely idle comment. He said, "My father worked at the yard in Brixham, sir. There was money trouble, and someone else paid for Rebecca to he completed." His eyes sharpened. "The rig I remembers most. The extra trys'l. Rare, unless you've got spare 'ands to manage 'em. She were in all kinds o' trouble, even had a run-in with the Revenue boys. Then she vanished out o' Brixham. Disappeared." He looked around at their faces. "Till now."

Galbraith said, "She's taken on no stores since we anchored, sir. And she's unloaded none, either. Time in harbour costs money. Unless…"

Adam touched his sleeve. "Come aft with me." He looked across the water again. Perhaps it was meant to he. Or maybe he needed to delude himself. There was no mail or message for Unrivalled. Nothing. So why had he noticed the black-hulled brigantine? Even the name Albatroz across her counter, when the gig had pulled him hack to the ship.

"You've a good memory, Mr Partridge. It may be a great help."

Partridge rubbed his chin and said, "Well, she's not in ballast, sir. My guess is she'll be up an' away before dawn. I could take a party o' picked men an' go over…"

He looked down, surprised as his captain gripped his arm.

"A Portuguese ship, in a Portuguese harbour, Mr Partridge? It goes beyond our powers. Some might even say it is what certain people are expecting, hoping we might do." He smiled suddenly. "But we shall see, eh?"

Galbraith followed him aft beneath the poop, saw him glance at the nearest ladder as if he had remembered something.

Adam said, "Call all hands early, Leigh. Mr Partridge may be right. I want to work clear of the anchorage as soon as possible. We shall use boats to warp her out if need be." He gave that rare smile again. "My orders state quite clearly, with all despatch. So be it, then."

He entered his cabin and hesitated. "There was no mail for the ship, Leigh, new or old. It will doubtless catch up with us one day!" The smile would not return. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a letter to write."

He walked to the stern windows and stared at the nearest ships and the waterfront beyond them. On his way to pay his respects to the Governor he had seen a little stall; it could hardly be called a shop. But it had reminded him of the one in Malta, where on a reckless impulse he had purchased the small silver sword with the single word Destiny engraved on the reverse. Like some mindless, lovesick midshipman. But she had taken it, and had worn it. With him and for him.

And she had been here, in this ship. In this cabin.

He sat down and pulled open his shirt to cool his body.

Destiny. Perhaps that, too, was another dream.

Daniel Yovell laid down his pen by its little well and tugged out a handkerchief to mop his brow. It looked soiled and crumpled, but he was an old enough hand to appreciate the value of fresh water, no matter what size the ship.

Ile had heard the familiar slap of feet overhead, the bark of orders, the response of squealing blocks and sun-taut cordage. He had always allowed it to remain a mystery, something outside his own daily life. Even here in the great cabin it was stiflingly hot, the deck barely moving, the shadows angled across the beams and frames, unchanged.

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 Alhatroz?

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 northwesterly 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. MyAdmiral ofEngland, 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 naw. 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 had enough. Imagine how it must be for the antislavery 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 fine, the slavers had called him. Tyacke, who had become his uncle's flag captain in Frobisher. Who had been with hirer. 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 ojjend 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 northwesterly, 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 how. 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 hustled 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.

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 jollyboat. 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 quarterdeck, 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? Nly 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.