Relentless Pursuit

5. The Haunted And The Damned

ADAM BOLITHO could not recall how many times he had climbed into the weather shrouds to obtain a better view of the brigantine, or how long it had been since the other vessel had been sighted. He had played with the idea of going aloft where Sullivan, the eagle-eyed lookout, was watching the performance of both vessels in comparative comfort.

But there was no time. It had to be soon. The wind had freshened still more, and he could feel the ease with which Unrivalled's hull was ploughing over and through the new array of shallow rollers.

The wind was an ally; it was also a possible threat. Even without his small telescope, his spyglass as he had heard young Napier describe it, he had seen the brigantine standing away on the larboard bow, not running but standing close to the wind, reaching into it, it seemed with every stitch of canvas spread, thrusting over as steeply as any vessel could lie under such pressure.

He glanced now along the full length of his command. Men not employed at braces and halliards were watching, probably betting on the outcome of this unlikely contest. The new hands were openly excited; it was their first experience of ship-handling. The reasons were unimportant.

He had to admit that Albatroz was being handled superbly. Her master knew exactly what he was doing. By clawing closer and closer to the wind he held on to a chance of coming about and cutting across Unrivalled's stern. If he succeeded, he could wait for darkness and with luck make a full escape. He had the whole ocean. On the other hand, if he ran south-east with a soldier's wind he could not outpace the frigate, but if the wind grew any stronger it would be impossible to put down a boat with any hope of boarding her. He cannot fight us, so why must he run? Unless he has something to hide. A Portuguese vessel, sailing from a Portuguese harbour, should have nothing to fear. By the latest agreement, it had been reluctantly accepted that Portugal could even continue loading and shipping slaves from her own territories, provided they were south of the Equator.

Adam strode to the rail where Cristie and two of his master's mates were in close discussion, but they had to raise their voices to be heard above the boom of canvas and the noisy sluice of water which surged almost to the lee gun ports.

One, Woodthorpe, was saying, "Bastard's got everything but the cook's bloody apron spread! He'll give us the slip yet, damn his eyes!"

Cristie saw the captain and said harshly, "Two miles, sir. Another hour and he'll see some sense. But if he lulls, an' comes hard about." He shook his head. "You know what it's like."

Some of the others were listening, and his own words came back to him like a fist. My responsibility.

He shaded his eyes to look up at the yards, the quivering thrust of the topgallant sails, holding the sun now to mark the change of direction. Cristie had made his point.

He said, "Ask the gunner to come aft."

Rist, the other master's mate, showed his strong teeth in a grin.

"Mr Stranace is here now, sir!"

"Old Stranace, " as he was called behind his hack, shuffled out of the driver's great shadow and touched his forehead.

His face was a mass of wrinkles, and his years at sea, much of the time bent and groping in one magazine or another, surrounded by enough powder to blast him and the ship to fragments, had given him a permanent stoop. But his eye was as sharp as Sullivan's and his judgment relating to his precious artillery had not been faulted.

He asked, "Two mile, did 'e say, sir?" He bared his uneven teeth, a grin or disdain it was hard to tell. "Less 'n that in my view." He nodded. "You want 'im dismasted?"

Adam stared across the water, to give himself time. What would people say in England, he wondered. With their fixed ideas of the Heart of Oak, or the sure shield as William Pitt had once called the navy, if they could witness this? The frigate captain with his grubby shirt, a rent in one shoulder, hatless, with no sword or gold lace to mark him out from those around him. And Old Stranace, bent, with shaggy grey hair, and the shapeless felt slippers he wore to guard against striking sparks in or around the magazines.

He said, "If I alter course a few degrees to the south'rd, the wind will lay us over still further." He saw the gunner's eyes move quickly to the larboard battery of eighteenpounders, the sea barely visible as the hull tilted across her own shadow.

Then he grunted, "I'll lay it meself, sir. Number One, larboard."

Adam added, "I want her stopped, that's all." He was never sure if Old Stranace could hear him. So many broadsides, and countless other occasions from saluting to putting down a careering chebeck, had left him partially deaf. It was common enough among deepwater sailormen.

But there was nothing wrong with his ears today.

"I'll part 'is bloody 'air, sir!"

"Stand by on the quarterdeck! Braces, there!"

"Helm a-lee! Steady! Hold her, steer sou'-east!"

Cristie rubbed his chin and watched the gunner clawing his way down the lee ladder, calling out names as he went, his cracked voice carrying effortlessly over the chorus of wind and rigging.

Cristie said dourly, "Albatroz's master will think we're giving up.

He sounded mistrustful of the new arrangements.

By the time Unrivalled had settled on her new course the first gun on the windward side was almost ready, its crew kneeling and bowing around their charge like worshippers at some pagan ritual.

Old Stranace had been a gun captain himself. It must have been a long, long time ago, but he had forgotten nothing. He selected one ball from the garland, fondling it in both hands, then changing it for another with the same performance until he was satisfied. He even supervised the loading of the charge and the tamping down of the wad, and then the ball itself, but allowing one of the gun crew to tap it home.

Cristie said dryly, "He'll not use a flintlock either. The crafty old bugger!"

Adam found time to recognise the affection as well as the amusement. Unlike the hammer of a musket which was brought violently into play by a strong spring, the deck gun was worked by jerking a lanyard. If it failed to strike a spark instantly, the gun misfired. So great and regular was the risk in close action that slow-matches were always kept ready burning in protected tubs of sand.

Adam raised his spyglass again and waited for the brigantine to lift above the blue water like some great, avenging bird.

"Ready, sir!" That was Galbraith, his voice unusually hushed.

Adam looked forward at the small pattern of figures around the eighteenpounder closest to the forecastle. The port was open, the gun had already been run out, extra hands were throwing their weight on the tackles to haul the weapon up to and through it. He saw Old Stranace put his hand over the forearm of one of the crew, guiding the handspike while the muzzle was raised to its full elevation. And to his satisfaction.

If the shot scored a direct hit, the repercussions would be severe. If it went widely astray it would be no less harmful. He wondered only briefly if the men on the brigantine's deck had noticed that 46-gun frigate of the world's greatest navy was standing away. Giving up the chase. And would it really matter?

He closed his mind to it. "Fire as you bear!"

He saw Stranace glance aft for just a few seconds. The responsibility was not his to carry.

Adam saw his arm move with the speed of light, the puff of smoke like steam from a heated pipe. He felt the grip of ice around his stomach. Mi fire.

There was a sharp bang and the eighteenpounder seemed to come to life, hurling itself inboard, down the sloping planking until the tackles slowed and then brought the truck to a jolting halt.

Nobody made a move to sponge out the gun, as if the single shot had somehow paralysed them.

There was something like a great sigh, changing and rising to a wild cheer as a tall waterspout, white and solid against the dark water, burst skywards off the brigantine's quarter. At this range it was impossible to determine the exact fall of shot.

But Everett, the sergeant of marines, exclaimed, "Much closer an' them buggers'd be swimmin' with th' sharks!"

Adam said, "Bring her back on course, if you please."

Rist called, "They're shortenin' sail, sir!"

"Call away the boat's crew and inform the bosun." Adam plucked at his shirt. It did not sound like his own voice. What had he expected, and what would he have done?

He looked again. The brigantine was broaching to, her canvas in disorder while they prepared to await instructions.

Varlo was close by. "Ready, sir!"

Adam barely heard him. "So let's be about it, eh?"

Lieutenant Varlo made another attempt to get to his feet in the swaying jollyboat, but had to find support in the coxswain's shoulder.

It was a hard pull, the small boat veering and dipping in a succession of troughs and broken crests, spray bursting over the oarsmen like rain.

He shouted, "Don't feather, man! Lay back on it!"

Rist sat wedged in the sternsheets with two armed seamen, his eyes slitted against the spray, gauging the flapping sails of the drifting brigantine, waiting for the unexpected.

A part of him was still able to sense the bitterness and resentment in the boat. It was a hand-picked crew; he had chosen each man himself. Good, experienced seamen, every one of them. Not one would crack and run if shooting started, or worse, a burst of grape was fired. It could only take one shot to finish the jollyboat at this range. No matter what Unrivalled did after that, it would not help any of them.

He caught the stroke oarsman's eye, then saw him look away, astern, while he lay back on his loom, probably watching their ship. It was better not to look back once you had started, Rist thought. The ship always seemed so far away. He peered hard at the brigantine again. Pierced for several guns, six maybe, but none run out or manned. Yet.

Varlo called, "We'll go under her lee!"

Rist swallowed hard. He did not know Varlo. Never would, in all likelihood. One thing was clear, he was out of his depth in this sort of trick. He had been some admiral's flag lieutenant, the gossip said. More used to picking out the right people for his lord and master to meet and entertain than doing his stuff as a sea officer.

He said, "She's still swingin' sir. But the chains are the best chance!"

Varlo turned and stared at him, as if searching for criticism or defiance.

"So I can see!" He gripped the coxswain's shoulder again as the hull bounced over.

Then he said, "Suppose they don't speak English?"

Rist almost grinned. "No matter, sir." He touched the hilt of the short fighting sword under his coat. "This'll do the talkin'!"

The brigantine was right over them now, or so it appeared; they could even hear the clamour of loose rigging and flapping canvas above the din of oars and sea.

Rist watched closely, trying to stay unruffled. Like all those other times. Just one stupid mistake. A man loosing off a pistol by mischance. It was all it took.

But seamanship came first.

"Bows!" He held his breath as the bowman boated his oar and changed it for a boathook. Just in time: with this sea running they could have driven straight into the other vessel, splintering oars. Disaster.

He saw the helmsman glance at him, hardly a blink. It was enough. The tiller bar swung over and the boat reeled around toward the brigantine's rounded hull.

"Oars." Varlo had recovered himself. "Boat your oars!"

They were alongside, the trapped water leaping between the vessels while men groped for their weapons, some staring up at the nearest gun port.

Varlo snapped, "With me, Mr Rist!"

Rist stumbled after him, gripping a shoulder here, a steadying hand there. It was all wrong. For both of them to board together was madness. They could be killed as they climbed aboard. Now.

It was then that it hit him. Varlo would never admit it in two centuries, but he needed him.

The next moment they were pulling themselves up and over the bulwark. Figures and peering faces seemed to loom on every side, and Rist felt the menace like something physical.

Through it all a voice boomed, "By what right do you board my ship?"

Varlo had drawn his sword, and set against the brigantine's seamen looked completely out of place in his spray-dappled blue coat. He had somehow managed to retain his hat through the crossing.

His voice was quite unemotional and steady. As if on parade. Or, Rist thought, facing a firing squad. He would be the same in either situation.

"In the King's name!"

The remainder of the boarding party had climbed aboard, peering around, weapons ready. Something they knew and understood from hard experience. A false move now and there would be blood. Rist strode forward. But not our blood. He stared through the shrouds and saw Unrivalled for the first time since they had shoved off.

He had never thought of a ship as being beautiful before. As a trained seaman you saw her in so many different guises. And she was there. Waiting.

fie turned as Varlo finished his little speech about the right to stop and search, and the fact that Albatroz's master should be well aware of the said agreement.

Rist examined the master. Broad and heavy without being overweight, all muscle: a man who could and would know how to use it. About his own age, he thought, but it was hard to tell, the face was so weathered and tanned by sun and sea that he could have been anything. But Rist was certain of one thing: this man was as English as he was. He had a hard but vaguely familiar accent, like Loveday, Unrivalled's cooper. Loveday was a Londoner, and had been a Thames waterman in the Limehouse district for several years before he had volunteered or been pressed by some overeager lieutenant. As a waterman, he would have had the precious protection.

Varlo said sharply, "Post guards!" Ile pointed to one of several swivel guns. "Put a man there!"

The master said, "This is a Portuguese vessel, Lieutenant. We have no part in smuggling or unlawful trading." He shrugged. "You can see my papers."

Rist watched carefully. Very sure of himself. But he must have known Unrivalled was the ship which had been in Funchal, and been ready for this. So why had he tried to run? In the end they would have caught him, blown this vessel out of the water had he fired a single shot. With slaves you had a chance, given time. But to fire on a King's ship was another matter. Piracy. A hanging matter, and briskly done.

His own thought came back at him. Given time.

Varlo was calling to a boatswain's mate, gesturing at him as if he were a new recruit. The vessel would be searched.

Rist glanced at the brigantine's powerful master. He was speaking with another man, probably his mate. Like one of those prizefighters you saw in more doubtful harbours around the Mediterranean, squat, bald and neckless, with bare arms as thick as a youngster's legs. Turkish, maybe. The man looked over at him now; you could almost feel his eyes. Like metal. Merciless.

Varlo strode over to him. "Now we shall see, eh?" He snatched out his handkerchief and dabbed his mouth. He sounded out of breath.

Rist jerked his head towards the two figures by the wheel.

"What about the master, sir?"

Varlo had to drag his mind back. "Him? Name's Cousens. English. This is all he can do, I suppose. It will be up to the captain…" He broke off as two seamen emerged from a hatchway and one called, "Nothin' down there, sir!"

Varlo dabbed his mouth again. "Must be something. He was running away." He stared around at the silent, staring figures. "I can't simply take his word for it!"

Rist waited. That same uncertainty. But never an admission.

He was suddenly angry. Of course this vessel was a slaver. The fresh paint and tarred-down rigging meant nothing. She was empty, probably on passage to one of the countless islets which stretched along the Atlantic shoreline where larger ships waited to bargain and to complete their business for the most valuable cargo in the world.

He had seen it and been a part of it. Shut his eyes and ears to the inhuman treatment, as men, women and sometimes children had been dragged aboard and packed into darkened holds where the conditions had been too foul to believe. And I did it.

Ile tried to contain his anger. Leave it to Lieutenant Varlo. You'll get no praise or recognition for doing his work for him. Nor would he recognise it if'you did

Someone else reported, "Empty, sir."

Lawson, the jollyboat's coxswain, touched his arm. "Reckon the Cap'n'll be spittin' fire by now!" He was enjoying it.

Then he murmured, "Watch out for squalls!"

It was Alhatroz's master, very confident, even pushing a levelled musket aside as he walked over to join the small group by the main hatch.

"I have work to do, money to earn so that my men can be paid!" He did not attempt to conceal his contempt. "We stopped for you because you fired on my ship. But my employers will take this to a higher authority than your quarterdeck!"

Varlo snapped, "How dare you speak to me in this fashion…" He looked down as Rist plucked his sleeve. As if he had been struck.

Rist said calmly, "You had a lively passage, Cap'n. We were hard put to catch you!" Ile was still gripping Varlo's coat, and was more conscious of that than his own self-control.

"So you can speak too, eh?" Beyond, the bald, neckless mate gave a grimace, probably intended as a grin.

Rist smiled. "I've been at sea all my life." Ile felt Varlo staring at him, doubtless unable to accept that his subordinate was daring to interfere. "One thing I was taught, on pain o' death. Never light fires in a had seaway. There's nothin' that can't wait til you're snug at anchor, right?"

He turned aside and added evenly, "Pitch, sir. I could smell it when we came on board. My mind didn't grapple it, that's all."

Varlo said, "Tell me."

Rist beckoned to the boatswain's mate. "Selby, take two hands down the main hold." He raised one hand. "An' yes, I know you've already searched it."

Selby glared at his companion and said, "Saw the pitch boiler, sir. Coolin', so I thought best to leave it be."

Rist touched the hilt of his hanger and allowed the coat to fall open so that it shone dully in the late sunlight.

"Tip it out. The rest of you, stand fast where you are!" To Lawson he added, "Be ready with the signal." At any second he expected Varlo to shout him down, even put him under arrest for insubordination, although he doubted if the others would obey any such order.

It was no longer mere routine. The sailor's lot with nothing at the end of it.

Rist looked at the brigantine's master and said almost softly, "If you try any tricks, Captain Cousens, I promise you'll get it first!"

It took another ten minutes. It felt like an hour or more. Across the glittering strip of water Unrivalled had changed tack again, almost bows-on to the smaller vessel, as if poised to draw even closer in case of a delay, or some trick which might still give Albatroz time to prolong what Adam Bolitho probably now believed was a calculated error on his part.

Rist saw Varlo take a pace away as Selby came on deck, with what appeared to be a wad of tarred rags grasped in a pair of tongs. Varlo said nothing and nobody moved, so that the sea and shipboard noises intruded like some wild fanfare.

Rist said, "On the deck."

The metal was so clogged with partly set pitch that it could have been anything. Rist's hanger was quite steady in his hand, although he barely recalled drawing it.

"Easy, Mister Cousens. I'd not want to spit you here an' now, but in God's sight I will if needs be!"

Selby shook out some more pieces of metal, iron manacles. Rist stared at them. For that first horrific voyage.

It was Varlo who broke the silence.

"Very well, Lawson. Make the signal to Unrivalled."

Rist took a long, hard breath. A close run thing.

Freetown, the largest natural harbour on the African continent, was always teeming with vessels of every kind, and a nightmare even for any experienced master making his first approach. Some of the larger merchantmen, loading or discharging cargo, were surrounded by lighters and local traders, while stately Arab dhows and smaller coastal craft wended amongst the busy moorings with apparent disregard or any respect for the right of way.

Slightly apart from the merchant shipping, the frigate lay at her cable, her black and huff reflection almost perfect on the barely moving water. Awnings were in position, white and bartaut in the relentless glare, windsails too, to bring even slight relief to the close confines of the lower decks. She mounted a fine figurehead, a fierce-looking kestrel with widely spread wings, head slightly turned as if about to take to the air.

She was in fact His Britannic Majesty's frigate Kestrel of 38 guns, although any trained eye would quickly notice several of her ports were empty, without even the customary wooden "quakers" to give the impression that she was fully armed. There were some men working aloft on the braced yards and neatly furled sails, their bodies deeply tanned, while others did what they could to find patches of shade beneath awnings or the tight pattern of rigging. A White Ensign at the taffrail was barely moving, a masthead pendant occasionally lifted and licked out like a whip to make a lie of the oppressive heat. All her boats were in the water alongside, to ensure that the seams remained tightly sealed, and a Royal Marine sentry paced along each gangway, undaunted it seemed by his full scarlet uniform, his sole occupation to watch out for thieves. It was not unknown for swimmers to pick upon a moored longboat, cut its painter and remove it without anyone seeing or raising the alarm. A replacement was hard to get, and the marine would not hesitate to use his musket if it was attempted during his tour of duty.

Apart from Lion Mountain, there was little to distinguish the shore from any of the other anchorages on the Windward Coast. Huddled white dwellings and some native huts by the water, with the unending backdrop of green scrub and forest which seemed to be waiting to reclaim its territory from the intruders. And the whole panorama appeared to be moving in a heat haze, dust too; you could feel it between your teeth, everywhere, even out here, in a King's ship.

To some of the newer hands it was still something of an adventure. Strange tongues, and the noise and bustle of harbour life, something completely alien to men from villages and farms in England.

For others, the endless patrols were hated above all else. The monotony of handling salthardened canvas in blazing heat, again and again throughout each watch to contain the light tropical airs, and the periods of windless calm when men would turn on each other at the slightest provocation, with the inevitable aftermath of punishment. And always the fear of fever, something never far from a sailor's thoughts along this unending coastline.

A few could see beyond the discomfort and monotony. One was Kestrel's captain.

Standing now in his stern cabin, his body partially in shadow, he watched the haphazard pattern of harbour traffic with professional interest. Captain James Tyacke was used to it, even though his return to the antislavery patrols had been a fresh beginning. He touched the hot timbers. And in a new ship.

Although classed as a fifth-rate, Kestrel had been prepared for her new role. A third of her heavier armament had been removed, to allow for more stores space and the extended sea passages she would be required to take. She carried a full complement, however, enough for excursions ashore when needed, and for prize-crews should they run down a slaver when the chance offered itself.

Tvacke was an old hand at it. Ile had gained his first command, a little brig, when he had been pitting his wits against the slavers. Ile touched the mutilated side of his face, burned away like wax, with only the eve undamaged. A miracle, they had said at Haslar. That had been after the great battle at Aboukir Bay, Nelson's resounding victory over the French fleet, which had destroyed Napoleon's planned conquest of Egypt and beyond. The Battle of the Nile, it was called now, although most people had probably forgotten it, he thought. Ile could even do that without bitterness now, something he had once believed impossible. He touched his skin again. The legacy. It had earned him the nickname, "the devil with half a face, " among the slavers.

It had been very different then. England had been at war, and the antislavery patrols had taken second place to everything else. Slavers had been active then, war or not, and justice had been swift, when you could catch them.

Now, with the coming of peace, there were pious demands from the old enemies for stricter controls not only of slavery but also the administering of justice. Irrefutable proof of every mime. The word of a captain and his officers was no longer enough. So it took longer and it cost more money. They never learned.

He stiffened as he saw a vessel moving, seemingly at a snail's pace, towards the roadstead. A pyramid of pale canvas, each sail expertly braced to catch the air in this windless harbour.

Going to England. Ile could think about that without regret, without questioning his motives.

More to the point, she was carrying the recently appointed government agent who had been sent to Freetown to investigate and assess the navy's antislavery activities. The climate had got to him almost immediately, and drink had done the rest; he would not live very long after the ship landed him in England.

He glanced around his cabin. Spartan, some would call it, with little to hint at the character and the courage of Kestrel's captain.

The government agent had come aboard soon after his arrival. Tyacke could see him now. Concerned, sincere, probably genuinely interested in what he had been sent to discover. To pass back to some desk in London. At least their lordships of Admiralty, no matter what you thought of them, were usually content to leave it to the flag officer or captain in charge of the station in question. Not so with the civilian authority, the Foreign Office.

Even trying to describe the area which was required to be under constant surveillance had been like talking to a block of wood. Just a handful of men-of-war like Kestrel, but relying for the most part on smaller vessels, brigs and schooners. The area extended from twelve degrees north of the Equator to some fifteen degrees south. Even using a chart, he had been unable to make the agent understand, so he had described the navy's patrol as being akin to sailing from the northern tip of Scotland down and through the Dover Strait and back up and around to the Clyde. He had made some impression, but he doubted if it would make much sense when it reached that desk in London.

A needle in a haystack. Perhaps that was what appealed to him.

He heard footsteps, firm and assured: John Raven, his secondin-command. Old for his rank, he had come up the hard way, from the lower deck. If they were good, there were none better. And John Raven was good.

They had grown to respect one another more as individuals, men, rather than through the necessary division of ranks. If it was personal, it went no further than this cabin. Unlike some ships, where a captain's habits and weaknesses would become common gossip in the wardroom and throughout the command. Raven had been married, but was no longer. He had served in brigs also, and was at ease in the cramped familiarity of smaller craft.

And doubtless he knew his captain, how his face had been burned away at the Nile, how he had lost his girl because of it. And had found her again.

He turned towards the door as the sentry called, "First lieutenant, sir. III

Then I left her, for this.

He smiled. "News, John?"

Raven was strongly built, with a still young face, at odds with hair which was completely grey.

"The guardboat has just come alongside, sir. Seven Sisters is returning from patrol. They report the frigate Unrivalled making her final approach." He hesitated, watching his captain's blue eyes. It had been impossible at first not to stare at the terrible disfigurement, but he had noticed almost from the beginning of the commission that Tyacke seemed able to accept it. Carry it.

The eyes were considering now. Seven Sisters was one of their brigs, but it was not that.

"Unrivalled, sir. Forty-six guns." He paused, but saw Tyacke's expression soften.

"Yes, I know her. She's commanded by Captain Adam Bolitho."

He turned away to watch the guardboat pulling strongly around the larboard quarter. They all said the navy was a family. Love it, hate it, damn it or die for it, it was still a family.

Like that last time in England, when Kestrel had called at Falmouth. He had intended to call upon Catherine Somervell. He did not notice that he was touching his face again, nor that Raven was observing him, perhaps discovering something; he was thinking of the day when she had boarded his ship, and had kissed him, on this burned skin, in front of the whole company. And they had loved her for it. As 1 did.

He was still not sure if he had been relieved that she had been away, in London, they had said. That neither of them would have been able to surmount it. The one thing which drew them together now forced them apart. The Happy Few.

Now, another memory.

But John Aliday, Sir Richard's coxswain, his oak, had come aboard in Falmouth. Had sat in that very chair where John Raven was standing. Bolitho had died in his arms on that day Tyacke could never forget.

He spoke again, calmer now. "Sir Richard's nephew. A fine officer."

They both looked up at the open skylight as a call trilled, and hands were piped to some new task on the forecastle.

"I knew another frigate would be joining us." He smiled. "Perhaps it's time to stop running, eh?"

Half an hour before sunset, Unrivalled dropped anchor.