Relentless Pursuit

6. The Witness

DESPITE the heat, Unrivalled's chartroom seemed almost cool, compared with the quarterdeck above.

Adam Bolitho waited by the table while the sailing master wrote a few more notes in his log.

They had been on deck for the noon sights, but with the sun blazing down from almost directly above the mainmast truck it had been hard to concentrate. The same undulating green coastline, on and on, without any apparent change. Even the midshipmen with their sextants had been unusually subdued. Like sailing into nowhere.

He watched Cristie's strong brown hands, clumsy, most people would think. And yet his notes, like his carefully pencilled hearings and calculations, were fine, almost delicate. Adam sighed. It was as he had expected. They had logged some eight hundred miles since leaving Freetown, south-east, and then east again into the Gulf of Guinea. And it had taken them nearly nine days. Unrivalled had been designed to sail and fight in another sea, against the Americans with their powerful frigates, larger and better armed than most British ships. Unrivalled was fast under the right circumstances, and had more than proved her agility in close combat. But this… He clenched both fists and felt his shirt tug against his back like a wet rag. This snail's pace was a test of endurance.

He thought of his meeting with James Tyacke before receiving his orders to put to sea again. IIe stared at the chart, and wiped the sweat from his eyes to calm himself

lie had expected to meet Tyacke, but he knew Unrivalled's arrival had come as a surprise to the other captain, and he had recalled their reunion many times since they had quit Freetown. Warm but wary, some sentiment present which was stronger than perhaps he had realised.

Tyacke had done his best to explain the immediate problems of the antislavery patrols, and had even provided some notes on the subject and about some of the other vessels and commanders Adam might encounter along the way. Tyacke made no secret of his displeasure at being kept in harbour. The station's commodore, Arthur Turnbull, was at sea in one of the patrol schooners. It was his way, Tyacke said. Ile could not, apparently, accept the need to remain in Freetown, tied to a shore administration for which he was probably unsuited in any case.

Adam had known several captains like that. Promoted suddenly to commodore or flag rank, something totally unexpected in most cases, they had still yearned for the separate and personal authority of command. A ship.

So until Turnbull returned to Freetown, Tyacke was in charge.

He obviously hated the prospect.

There had been reports of several suspicious vessels in the area. A big ocean, but, as Tyacke had remarked, the landing points where slaves could be bargained for and then shipped out were known, even though some were almost inaccessible for anything bigger than a cutter.

It had been brewing for months. Slaving captains were becoming more daring, and prepared to bargain against their own kind for one more rich cargo. Their ships were built for the purpose, designed for service in the light airs of these latitudes. Against them, the British fleet had older ships which had been constructed for the endless blockade of Ushant and all the French ports where ships of war might lie, and for riding out those heavy seas. A few ships like Unrivalled might tip the balance, and allow smaller craft to penetrate the rivers and lagoons and confront the slavers before they could reach open water, and run to the markets of Brazil and Cuba.

Tyacke had said, "Diplomacy has many pitfalls, Adam. Good intentions and greed go hand in hand. And with Turnbull at sea, the acting governor seems unwilling to lift a finger!"

And a new Crown Agent was expected at any time. An improvement?

Tyacke obviously doubted it.

"Let me get Kestrel back to sea, Adam. The diplomats can stew!"

Adam realised that Cristie had said something.

Cristie gave his twisted grin. "A few more days, sir. Five maybe, an' we shall sight the island of St Thomas." He tapped the chart and waited for Adam to lean over it. "The furthest leg of the patrol area. After that…"

Adam nodded. "We shall return to Freetown." He felt a drop of sweat splash on his hand. Even then, they might fail to make contact with the commodore. And then what? More orders?

He tried to recall what Tyacke had written in his notes about St Thomas. A small Portuguese island right on the Equator. Barely twenty miles long. Insignificant. He straightened his hack and frowned. But it had shipped many thousands of slaves, protected by the clause in the agreement which allowed Portugal to use her own ports to trade in human lives south of the Equator without interference. It was madness, and it was cruelly unfair. He shrugged, and said, "I wonder what will happen to our prize, the Alhatroz?"

Cristie did not blink. He was becoming used to the captain's occasional disclosures, and his doubts. Strangely, it seemed to add to the man rather than the reverse.

He had heard Lieutenant Varlo bragging about the brigantine they had taken into Freetown. The impression it would make.

His mate Rist had said hotly, "A few manacles? It'll take more than that to pin a charge on that hugger Cousens!"

Cristie had hoarded that, too. Rist knew more than he realised. But he was probably right. With bounty being offered for every slave freed and recovered, a captain and his ship's company could be expected to share among them a purse which ranged from sixty pounds for a male slave to ten pounds for a child. But the prize court would require more than a few irons or manacles as proof.

It was all most of the sailors could think about.

It was strange about Rist, he thought. He wanted to be a prize-master, the only way up the ladder for a man of his service and rank, but had returned from the Albatroz angry, troubled about something. It was unlike him. He was a good master's mate, and a good friend when you needed one.

In a man-of-war, that was most of the time.

Adam did not notice the master's amusement. He was looking at the open log, the notes and the observations, ship's position and course, a man for punishment, an issue of grog. Unrivalled's life story.

But it was the date. Almost a year since his uncle had fallen. Tyacke must have been thinking of it too, but had said nothing.

He felt the locket sticking to his skin. And Catherine.

He crossed to an open port and stared at the unchanging pattern of land abeam. Misty in some places, hard and sharp in others. Were there eyes over there watching this ship, he wondered. Like the playful dolphins he had seen around Unrivalled's slow-moving stem this morning, or the gulls which seemed too tired to leave the water as the ship had passed them by. The hot, unmoving air quivered very slightly. More a sensation than a sound. He straightened.

"A storm, d' you think?"

Cristie turned. Bare feet thudded overhead as the watch on deck came alive. He studied the captain's profile, and thought unexpectedly of his home on the Tyne. It was probably snowing there. Bitter too.

But all he said was, "Gunfire, sir."

Lieutenant Galbraith strode to the larboard nettings and levelled the telescope he had just snatched from its rack by the compass box. He winced as the sun burned across his shoulders when he stepped out of the driver's shadow. He had sent Midshipman Deighton clattering down the companion ladder, but knew in his heart that the captain would have heard the distant echoes.

He ignored the buzz of voices nearby, speculation, a welcome break from the airless torpor of watchkeeping.

He swore under his breath. The lens had misted over. The masthead lookout might see something. But it had been gunfire. Not heavy, but rapid. Now there was utter silence.

He heard the captain's voice now. He smiled to himself. No longer a stranger.

"Bring her up a point, if she'll take it. Mr Deighton, aloft with you and speak with the masthead." He turned away and must have glanced at the serious-faced midshipman. "An extra pair of eyes won't do any harm!"

Galbraith cupped his hands. "Pipe the hands to the braces, Mr Partridge!"

Cristie was here, too. "T'gallants, sir?" A question, or a gentle reminder; you could never be sure with the master.

Adam nodded. "Yes. Hands aloft. East-nor'-east."

Galbraith waited for the confusion to settle into a pattern. Topmen swarming up the shrouds like monkeys, marines at the mizzen braces. A master's mate using his hat to deflect the glare from the compass so that the helmsmen could see it.

"Helm a-lee!"

The big double wheel creaked over, like everything else bone dry. Galbraith licked his lips and tried not to think of a tankard of ale in some impossible situation.

He started, as another sound sighed against the hull. Just one. An explosion. A ship in trouble? On fire?

Adam joined him by the nettings. "Too much haze coming offshore. And in any case…" lie did not finish, as Deighton called down, "Deck there! Sail on the larboard bow, sir!" He paused; perhaps the lookout had told him something. Then, "Very fine on the how, sir! Moving inshore!"

Cristie said, "Not too smartly charted hereabouts. We'll be close enough presently!"

Someone else murmured, "I'll bet the bastard knows it, too!"

Galbraith accepted it. A few sounds, a vague sighting of a sail, probably quite small to be standing so close inshore. Not much to go on, and yet these men around him had already given it a form and personality. Somebody to hate.

Adam took a glass and climbed into the shrouds again. The coastline was unchanged, moving slightly in the haze. No wonder men went mad in the desert. He forced himself to ignore the tarred cordage which was burning through his breeches like a furnace bar.

It was a sail. Maybe two masts, but not very large. He was already losing it in the clinging heat haze. He bit his lip. They were getting a better share of the wind than Unrivalled, that was certain.

A waste of time. But there had to be a reason.

"Get the t'gallants on her now." He stared up, surprised as the maintopsail writhed and then banged away from its yard. Wind. Like an omen. He heard the creak of steering gear and saw one of the helmsmen turn to grin at his companion.

"That's woke 'er up, Ted!"

Adam walked to the opposite side, his mind busy with the frugal intelligence at his disposal. An explosion. Only the one. And yet a vessel was standing away from whatever had caused it. Fear or guilt? There was nothing to choose.

He knew that Cristie was watching him. Thinking of that last time when his captain had taken this ship through a channel which was scarcely known. Adam often thought about it. Holding his breath while Unrivalled's great shadow had risen inexorably from the sea bed for a final embrace.

A terrible risk, and Galbraith would remember it better than anyone. It had saved his life that day.

He glanced at the ensign as it curled away from the peak. It would not last. But while it did…

Deighton yelled down again. "Deck there!" He seemed to falter. "Something in the water, sir! Same bearing!"

"What the hell does he think he's doing?" Varlo had arrived.

Adam cupped his hands and waited as the sudden flurry of wind through canvas and shrouds eased into a sigh.

"Tell me. Take your time." Somehow he knew it was Sullivan up there. It was his watch, but he would have been there anyway. Would have known. The seaman who had fought at Trafalgar under Our Nel, and who was still working on a fine model of his old ship, the Spartiate. Strange how one thought linked to the other. Spartiate was a French prize taken by Nelson at the Nile, seven years before Trafalgar. His uncle's last flagship, Frobisher, had been a prize too. Did ships feel it…?

"Deck there!"

Adam stared up at the mainmast, seeing the midshipman's struggle, his efforts to remain calm.

"Some wreckage, sir. Very small, and…"

Adam said quietly, "Tell me. Between us!" He did not realise he had spoken aloud, nor did he see Galbraith's look of compassion.

"Blood, sir."

Cristie said, "How could it be? Even with a glass he could never see…" He broke off as his senior mate Rist retorted harshly, "He would, you know, if there's enough of it!"

Adam folded his arms. "Mr Cousens, go aloft and bring him down." He held the signals midshipman's eyes. "With care, do you understand?"

He did not turn. "Take in the t'gallants, Mr Galbraith, and have the jollyboat made ready for lowering." He counted the seconds and said, "Go yourself, Leigh."

Then he crossed to the quarterdeck rail and stood beside the sailing master.

"I shall take every care, Mr Cristie." He tried to smile. "But put a good leadsman in the chains if it will help to ease your mind."

All the unemployed hands turned to watch as Midshipman Deighton jumped down from the shrouds and walked across to his captain.

Adam said, "You did well, Deighton. Now tell me the rest. In your own time.

He saw Jago by the hatch. He would know what to do.

The midshipman said, "I-I thought it was the sea, sir, changing colour. But it was spreading, and spreading." He looked at the water, unable to believe it. "It was all alive, sir." He dropped his head and said in a small voice, "Sullivan said they were sharks, sir. Hundreds…"

Jago was here, guiding the youth to a fire bucket, roughly and without sympathy.

"Here, spew into this!"

Deighton would have cracked if he had offered gentleness.

It seemed to take an eternity, the ship gliding through the offshore current with scarcely a ripple beneath her stem. And all the while the sea seemed to open up across the bows, stained in drifting patterns of pink with tendrils of darker red reaching up like weed to wander amongst the surface litter of flotsam. Broken spars, an upturned boat, planks and scraps of canvas, most of which were charred.

And in the centre, as if there by accident, was a drifting hatch cover, and on it a human figure, stretched out, staring at the sun, as if crucified.

Varlo said thickly, "Must be dead too!"

And then Partridge, the boatswain, abrupt, angry. "Don't say that, sir! Th' poor devil wears your coat!"

Adam said, "Heave-to, if you please. Mr Varlo, take over the watch. Stand by to lower the jollyboat. Lawson, pick your crew, don't waste time asking for volunteers! It's running out!" He glanced over the nettings and saw the sea come alive again as two sharks or more broke surface, somehow lithe and graceful. Obscene in their frenzy.

He knew Midshipman Deighton was watching, nodding as if to reassure Jago, or himself.

Their eyes met and Adam smiled. He was sickened by it, but it was important, perhaps vital for this youth who would one day be a King's officer. And would remember.

Unrivalled came unsteadily into the wind, her sails scarcely flapping in protest, as if she was glad to be standing away from the invisible murders. Adam barely heard the boat pulling away from the quarter but saw Galbraith standing in the sternsheets, one arm outthrust, leaning over to speak with Lawson the coxswain.

Then he took a glass and levelled it with care. The Jollyboat, Galbraith's head and shoulders leaping into focus, one of the oarsmen squinting in the glare as he lay back on his loom. Then past and beyond, the small pieces of flotsam, and the hatch cover. Even as he watched he saw a shark thrusting against it, lifting it slightly in an effort to pitch the inert figure into the water. Partridge was right. The man was wearing a lieutenant's coat, like seeing yourself. Someone gave a gasp as the figure let his arm slip to the edge of the hatch cover. Another exclaimed, "'E's alive!"

The shark surged against the cover again, the cruel crescentshaped mouth starkly visible in the telescope lens.

A last hope or some lingering instinct, who could tell after what he must have seen and endured, But he moved his arm again, so that the shark scraped past, lashing at the misty water, turning instantly for another attack.

Adam lowered the glass and wiped his forehead. It was as if he had just climbed from the sea himself. The jollyboat was there, the sole survivor already manhandled across the stroke oarsman to the sternsheets.

Adam heard the surgeon's deep tones as he gave instructions to his assistants.

He moved to the compass box, his feet dragging on the melting pitch.

Perhaps they would discover what had happened, and why.

He shook himself impatiently. "When we recover the boat, you may bring her back to her original course." He glanced at the curling masthead pendant and saw Sullivan framed against the empty sky, looking down at him.

Adam raised his hand in a slow salute. Then turned towards Cristie again.

The rest would have to wait. The ship came first.

Cristie watched and was satisfied. For a short while he had been troubled; now it was past.

The captain was himself again.

And the ship came first.

Denis O'Beirne, Unrivalled's surgeon, had already rolled up his sleeves, and was gesturing unhurriedly as if to impress the need for care rather than haste.

Adam stood in one corner of the sickbay as the loblolly boys carried the survivor to the table, their faces intent but devoid of expression. They were hardened to it. They would not survive otherwise.

He hated the sounds and smells of this place; it was something he had never grown used to, in any ship. He had known men pray and plead to be left on deck to die after being wounded in battle, anything, rather than face the saw and knife on the orlop.

He half-listened to the sounds from overhead, muffled and somehow remote. Galbraith was in charge now, bringing the ship round to catch the feeble offshore airs. He had said quickly, "Name's Finlay, sir. Lieutenant in the Paradox. He was in charge of a prize crew aboard a slaver. He kept losing track of it, delirious. I don't think he knew what was happening when we pulled him on board."

Adam watched O'Beirne's hands, deft, busy, like extensions to his mind. A big man, awkward in many ways, but his hands were small, and very strong.

The figure on the table could already he dead, one arm hanging over the side as on the hatch cover which had saved him. Skin badly burned, a livid bruise on his forehead where he had been struck down.

Adam forced his brain to examine the few, hare facts at his command. Paradox was one of the antislavery schooners. For a few seconds he wondered why the name seemed familiar, then it came to him. She had been mentioned in Tyacke's notes, as the vessel Commodore Turnbull had been using to visit the limits of the patrol area. She was small, so this lieutenant was likely her senior officer. A rich prize, then. But where was Paradox now? And why had the captured slaver been left unescorted?

He heard a gasp and saw the man named Finlay trying to prevent O'Beirne's assistants from removing his coat. Perhaps in his tortured thoughts it represented a last link, his only identity.

O'Beirne was saying, half to himself, "A had wound, left hip, knife. Deep, and infected." lie laid one hand on Finlay's shoulder and said quietly, "Easy now, you're among friends." He nodded sharply to his men, and the uniform coat was removed.

Then Finlay spoke, his voice quite strong.

"Must tell the captain…"

O'Beirne was watching his senior assistant, the instruments gleaming in the swaying lantern light like something evil.

He said, "The captain is here now, as you speak!" He looked at Adam. "A few words, sir?"

Adam approached the table and saw the man trying to focus his eyes, fighting to retain his senses.

"My name is Bolitho. I command here." He put one hand on the arm. The skin was cold, clammy.

He was naked now, and Adam did not have to look around to know that the others had taken up their positions, ready to pin him down, to hold him still, no matter what. Only their shadows moved, leaping across the white-painted timbers like ghouls.

The other man murmured vaguely, "New out here." He tried again, pausing while a hand came out to dab his mouth with a wet cloth. "We ran down a slaver." He groaned and moved his head from side to side. "Three days back, I-I can't remember. The commodore was with us. We had struck it lucky!"

"What happened after that?"

"I took command. Boarding party, ten good hands, and young Mr Coles. His first attempt." He closed his eyes tightly. "Paradox had to leave us. Can't remember why. We were to make for Freetown as ordered."

O'Beirne remarked, "Not much longer, sir."

Adam glanced at him. "A minute."

Finlay said suddenly, "Then we saw this other vessel closing with us. A brig. Spanish colours. Nothing unusual about that." He was remembering, seeing it. "Then she ran up a black flag and ran out her guns. I had the slaver's crew locked up and under guard, but poor Coles must have got careless. They broke out and attacked my people. It was over in minutes."

Adam felt the men tense around him and saw O'Beirne reaching into his bag. He persisted, "The slaves, what happened to them?"

Finlay let his head fall back on the table, his eyes suddenly dull. Defeated.

"There were over two hundred of them. Most were in manacles, we couldn't spare the time to free them. But they knew they were saved. Some of them used to sing about it."

Adam realised that the eyes were now looking directly into his.

"They must have sighted your tops'ls, Captain Bolitho. I was helpless." He attempted to touch his side, and perhaps knew for the first time that he was being held motionless. "They slaughtered my lads there and then. Young Coles took longer. Even out there on that raft, I thought I could hear him screaming. Like a girl being tortured, I thought. They must have thought me dead. Then there was an explosion. They'd planted charges before abandoning her. Then I was in the water. I think somebody pulled me on to the raft. I-I can't remember. And there were sharks. As the slaver went down I heard them screaming. It's shallow there. The sharks would get them before they drowned, poor bastards!"

He did not speak again, or resist as a leather strap was forced between his teeth, and the knife showed itself for the first time.

Adam walked from the sickbay and thought of the unknown midshipman who had been tortured to death, and the seamen who had been killed like pigs in a slaughterhouse. And he thought of Midshipman Deighton, who had seen it. The great, spreading stain, to mark where over two hundred helpless captives had been torn apart.

They would never know who Finlay's unseen rescuer had been. He had probably been taken by the sharks too.

He heard Finlay's strangled cry, and wanted to go back to him. To tell him that he and his men would be avenged.

Instead he went on deck, his mouth raw, as if he had vomited like Deighton.

Everything was as before. A glance aloft told him that the yards were braced to hold the breeze, but the ensign was scarcely lifting.

Galbraith stood by the larboard ladder, but made ready to move when his captain appeared. Nobody looked at him, but Adam knew they saw his every emotion.

Napier, the cabin servant, was waiting with jago. The boy hesitated and then moved towards him, a tray held carefully in one hand, a clean cloth covering it.

"That was thoughtful, David." Ile did not notice Napier start at the use of his first name.

It was a glass of white wine, kept almost cool somewhere in the bilges. Until now.

He looked at Galbraith and shrugged. "They were all killed."

Then he tilted the glass, his eyes blinded by the sun, or something stronger which he could no longer control.

He saw O'Beirne's heavy figure climbing the quarterdeck ladder, peering around as he always did when he visited this place of command. Different from the man in the sickbay, with the strong and steady hand. His world apart.

O'Beirne said, almost casually, "Lost him, I'm afraid, sir. I don't know how he stayed alive as long as he did." He spat out the word. "Poisoned. Deliberately, if I'm any judge." He turned only briefly as the sailmaker and one of his loblolly boys crossed the main-deck together. A burial then. The corpse well weighted for a swift passage down into eternal darkness.

He added softly, "Just before the end he looked up at me." He smiled, and it made him appear intensely sad. "Right at me, and he asked, where were you?" He shook his head. "Then he died."

Who had he meant? His own captain? This ship? Adam turned abruptly and stared astern. The sea was smooth again. The stain was gone.

Perhaps he was speaking for them.

At dusk the masthead sighted a sail to the east. It was Paradox. At daylight tomorrow they would speak.

But before that, with the purple shadows of sunset suddenly upon them, they buried Lieutenant Finlay in the same ocean which had decided that he should remain the only witness.

As he closed the prayer book Adam heard instead those other words, and knew he would never forget them.

Where were you?

Commodore Arthur Turnbull walked easily across the black and white checkered deck covering, pausing only to touch one of the beams above his head.

"I relish the space, Bolitho, room to stand upright instead of ducking to save your skull! They become used to it in small vessels, I'm told." It seemed to amuse him. "The drawbacks outweigh the advantages, I'd say." He turned with his hack towards the stern windows, the movement light and without effort, like his walk. "You did well, Bolitho. We'd have been totally ignorant but for your prompt action."

Framed against the dancing reflection and the glare from astern it was impossible to see his face, gauge his attitude.

Turnbull was younger than Adam had expected, or so he seemed. But he was a senior post-captain, and Tyacke had told him that prior to being appointed to Freetown he had been in command of a big three-decker. He had done well. But even in the short time since he had arrived on board Adam had sensed a restlessness, an impatience which was at odds with his air of self-assurance.

Finlay, who had been buried the evening before, had been Paradox's first lieutenant, the same age and rank as the commanding officer. Turnbull had listened carefully to the account of his rescue and subsequent death but had said only, "Paradox's captain will miss the fellow. They were quite close, I believe. But there it is."

Adam had thought it strange that he had not been summoned to go aboard the topsail schooner, which was even now tacking slowly across Unrivalled's quarter. A smart, well-handled vessel, and he could well imagine how two officers could become close and dependent on one another. Perhaps Turnbull preferred that this interview should be here, away from the eyes and ears of the men among whom he had lived on this last patrol. Certainly the last for Finlay and his boarding party.

"The other ship, sir. A known slaver, perhaps?"

Turnbull shrugged. "Could be one of three which I have in mind." He did not elaborate. "Recaptured the prize and intended to take her inshore, where the cargo would be transferred to a larger vessel. As it is, nobody has gained anything, and we have lost a prize." He sat down in a chair and crossed his legs, his eyes moving around the cabin again as if seeking something. "Your arrival on the station will carry some weight, Bolitho. Endless patrols are not enough. We must hit the slavers on their home ground. Destroy them before they make our efforts look like a useless campaign to save face in London." He glanced at Napier as he walked carefully into the cabin with a tray and some glasses. The boy waited beside the desk, his eyes averted from the visitor.

Turnbull said suddenly, "Of course, you have known Captain Tyacke for some time. In fact, he was your uncle's flag captain?" He hurried on. "But he learned his skills out here too. I'd see him commodore when I leave, if their lordships would agree." Again, something appeared to amuse him. "Tyacke is the only one I've met on this godforsaken station who seems at ease here!"

Adam relaxed, muscle by muscle. Turnbull was letting him know how well informed he was about all those under his command. And from his last remark, it was obvious that he was already thinking of his own next appointment.

He poured two glasses of wine, while Napier dared to look at the commodore for the first time.

Turnbull said, "This is a fine ship, Bolitho. Your record matches it, I believe. A frigate will bring you fame, but beyond that, I'm not so sure." He sipped the wine and smiled gently. "You put into Funchal, I see. Fair, I'd say, but a mite too sweet for my taste." He changed tack again. "When we return to Freetown we shall be busy. The new Crown Agent should have arrived, and I intend to impress on him the need to carry out some sharp attacks on the various collecting areas. The trade is thriving, the prices are going higher by the day, and some of the traders are making it worse by bribing local chiefs to get the slaves for them." He looked up, his eyes sharp. "Bribing them with muskets. And you know where that will lead."

There was a tap at the door and the sentry shouted, "Midshipman of the watch, sir."

Napier hurried to the screen, bare feet soundless on the painted canvas. Turnbull took out his timepiece. It seemed to glow in the cabin, and Adam guessed it was set with diamonds. He would be amused to know that the cabin servant always carried a broken watch, engraved with a little mermaid.

Quite useless, and yet it seemed to mean everything to the boy. The realisation angered him suddenly. He was being unfair, and as intolerant as his visitor.

In the same breath he knew how different it was. Not once had Turnbull shown the slightest pity for the murdered slaves and Paradox's boarding party. The loss of the prize and its potential bounty seemed to matter more to him.

Midshipman Deighton entered the cabin, his hat under his arm.

"Mr Galbraith's respects, sir, and the wind is freshening." Ile glanced up as feet thudded overhead. Perhaps remembering what he had seen from the lofty masthead. Was that only yesterday?

Turnbull said, "I shall require my boat, Bolitho. We don't want to lose the wind!" lie became serious again. "As soon as we clear the land and gain sea room we can pick up the south-east trades. That will knock a few days off the passage."

Adam said, "Carry on, Mr Deighton. I shall come up directly. Have the commodore's boat called alongside."

He wondered why Turnbull had not chosen to shift his broadpendant to Unrivalled for the return passage. It was all a cloak of mystery, some image of dash and daring which he seemed to consider appropriate for his present role.

The door closed and Turnbull asked casually, "Deighton? His father was killed, wasn't he? A commodore, too!" He chuckled again. "I shall have to watch myselfl"

At the door he said abruptly, "I would appreciate it if your clerk could complete two copies of your report before we sight Freetown. It will be useful to me, and I expect the new Crown Agent will be concerned to read it when he hears about the boarding party. An act of piracy, no less, which no turtleback at the Foreign Office will dare to ignore, not this time!"

Adam led the way to the companion ladder, glad he was leaving. Turnbull glanced back towards the deserted wardroom, and once more his eyes missed nothing. Perhaps he was recalling a face or some moment in his past.

He said, "The Crown Agent is or was a sea officer himselfthat's something in our favour, I hope."

He turned again, one perfectly polished shoe poised on the ladder.

"Name's Herrick. RearAdmiral Thomas Herrick-mean anything to you?"

Adam gripped the handrail to steady himself. Turnbull had not waited for or expected an answer. He already knew.

On deck again it was still with him, and those who waited by the entry ports or stood smartly aside as he passed wore the faces of others he had known. We Happy Few. Very few now. And Thomas Herrick had been one of the first.

So many questions, unanswered and unexplained. Like some of Cristie's calculations, the neat lines on a chart which somehow seemed to convene and join again and again.

The vessel which had perished, and screaming, trapped men and women left to drown or be savaged by sharks. Tyacke, who had been unable to speak of the memory which still ruled his life, and George Avery who had died because of it. And now Thomas Herrick. Down over the years. My uncle's best friend.

He raised his hat to the commodore, and the calls shrilled in salute as the marines presented arms.

On the face of it, Turnbull should be more than satisfied. An unblemished record, and the seniority to prepare him for the next step to flag rank. When so many others had been cast aside with the running down of the fleet, he had a bright future within his grasp.

He watched the boat pulling clear. The commodore did not once look astern at Unrivalled.

Adam replaced his hat, and recalled the two barely touched glasses of Madeira in his cabin.

Looking back, it was hard to discern the real man beyond the authority.

All he could recognise was envy.