Relentless Pursuit

8. Direct Action

CAPTAIN Adam Bolitho shaded his eyes to peer up at the flapping driver and the masthead pendant. He could feel the deck shudder as the rudder responded slowly to the thrust of wind, the helm creaking while the bare-backed seamen put their weight on the spokes.

"Hold her steady!" That was Cristie, his eyes flitting from compass to flapping topsails. "Nor'-east by north!"

Adam let his arms drop to his sides, his mind blurred by the heat, the slow response from the tall pyramid of canvas, and always, always aware of the monotonous coastline. The Gulf of Guinea again, and it had taken them nearly two weeks to work into position, a cross on the chart south of the Niger delta and some two hundred miles north of the notorious St Thomas Island, where slaves could be loaded and shipped with impunity once they had been brought from the mainland.

A handful of vessels, stretched across the approaches and the escape routes like the noose of a trap. On a chart it was easier to see Turnbull's strategy. Tyacke's Kestrel was in position to the east, Unrivalled on the western side, while in between, and trying to maintain contact with one another, were the brigs and schooners which made up the flotilla.

"Take the slack off the lee forebrace, Mr Fielding! Your people are like old women today!"

Galbraith's voice, unusually sharp. Adam walked to the nettings and stared at the empty sea. It was even affecting his first lieutenant. The endless strain of wearing ship, altering course a degree or so throughout every watch, just to gain a cupful of wind. The seamen were responding well enough, but boredom, the barely edible food, salt pork or beef from the cask, and the need to conserve water were taking their toll. The usual water casks, where a man could snatch a mug or wipe his mouth to give an illusion of refreshment, were gone, and marine sentries were posted below decks to ensure that the daily ration was strictly observed.

Adam turned slightly to allow the warm breeze to fan his body through the open shirt. He wondered how the commodore was managing aboard the topsail schooner Paradox, "the flagship," he had heard some of the older hands scornfully call it. No matter what shortages they had aboard Paradox, he imagined Turnbull always clean and smartly turned out.

He thought about Paradox's captain also. Galbraith had discovered from someone or somewhere that his name was Hastilow, a lieutenant, and like many of his contemporaries on this station senior for his rank. He and Finlay, his secondin-command, had been together for two years. On this station that must be an eternity. Like brothers, Galbraith had heard. So like the navy, Adam thought; there was always someone who knew, or who had been told a piece of the whole story. Hastilow was also dedicated, as if the antislavery campaign had become something personal. It was not difficult to imagine how he would be feeling now.

He saw Lieutenant Varlo walking along the starboard battery of eighteenpounders, gun by gun, with Williams, a gunner's mate, at his side. He thought he saw Williams glance up at Galbraith as they passed. Williams was good, and with Rist had been on the island raid when the chebecks had been destroyed. They were closer than some of the others because of that. Unconsciously, he clenched a fist. When I risked this ship.

The helmsmen were being relieved, the last topmen sliding down backstays to the deck, their work aloft done. Until the next pipe.

Adam looked at the unending panorama of glittering water again. No wonder men driven to desperation had been persuaded by the ever-lurking devil to slake their thirst from the sea. He had seen two men die, mad and unrecognisable, after doing just that.

And there was always the other temptation. At night, when the ship offered a hint of cooler air, and the sounds were muffled by the cabin timbers, there was no law to prevent a captain from drinking too much in a different way, but one no less dangerous in the end.

And night brought other forms of torment. Lying naked in his cot, his limbs bathed in sweat, and unable to sleep, listening and interpreting every sound, no matter how small and unimportant. As if the ship were driving herself, indifferent to all the souls she carried.

And in sleep there were dreams, one in particular. The girl, beckoning and arousing him, sometimes speaking his name, reaching out. Mocking him. Only the faces remained blurred, uncertain. Zenoria or Catherine, neither of whom had ever been his to love, or even the desirable Lady Bazeley, Rozanne, who had taken and responded with a fierceness of passion which had surprised, perhaps shocked them both.

He thought of the little tablet in the church at Penzance. Or perhaps my own mother? At such times he had been thankful that Napier had taken to locking the cabinet where the cognac was stowed.

He paced slowly aft, his feet avoiding flaked lines and ringbolts without conscious effort. He pictured his aunt, dear Nancy, reading the letter he had put ashore in Freetown. Trying to imagine what we are doing here, sharing it as she had done with others in her family. While we shall be tacking up and down, week in, week out. Going slightly mad, and wondering why we do it.

Or we might all be dead by the time she reads it.

"Deck there! Sail on the starboard bow!"

Men about to creep into the shadow of gangway or bulwark, or those who had just been relieved from trimming the great yards and now making for the messdeck's brief refuge, paused and stared up at the masthead.

Friend, enemy, prize or victim, it did not matter. They were no longer alone on this blistering ocean.

Adam returned to the quarterdeck rail.

"Must be looking for us, Leigh. She'd have run by now otherwise." He was thinking aloud, only partly aware of the listening, watching faces, tanned or burned raw by the sun. "We shall alter course two points to starboard. It will make it easier for our friend to converge on us. He'll be finding less wind than we have under our coat-tails at present."

He grinned, and felt his lips crack as if the effort had drawn blood. But it was infectious.

Some wag called, "Moight be 'nother prize, Cap'n! Fair shares this toime!"

Others laughed and punched their friends' arms, something which only seconds ago would have been answered with a genuine blow.

"Pipe the hands to the braces! We will steer nor'-east by east."

Lines and halliards came alive, snaking through blocks as more men ran to their stations, their fatigue momentarily gone.

"Put up your helm! Now steady, lads! Handsomely does it!"

"Be ready to make our number!" That was Midshipman Cousens, very conscious of his position in charge of the signals party.

And just as quickly, "Belay that, Mr Cousens! Everyone will know this ship!" Lieutenant Bellairs, who such a short time ago had been a midshipman, doing Cousens's work.

Adam saw the swift exchange, and felt it for himself. Pride. It never left you. Like Galbraith and young Napier, or the scarred and mutilated seaman who had come to see him at Penzance. Pride for Anemone, the ship which had done that to him, but had left him no less a man.

"Nor'-east by east, sir! Steady as she goes!"

Adam saw Cristie making some notes in his personal log. The lines meeting on a chart somewhere. It would probably amount to nothing. A few words on a page, soon forgotten.

A captain's responsibility was total. He saw Cristie pause to look at him. The date, perhaps: had he remembered?

Adam resumed his pacing. All he could do was wait, then decide.

On this day, his beloved uncle had died.

lie nodded to a seaman who was expertly coiling a halliard, although he did not notice his surprise.

He could still reach out. The hand was still there.

Luke Jago watched the jollyboat being warped alongside, then turned to stare at the topsail schooner which lay hove-to downwind of the frigate. The signal Captain repair on board had been hauled down in time with Unrivalled's acknowledgment, and Jago was still fuming about it. The commodore's broadpendant shone like silk from Paradox's masthead, and as Cristie remarked, "They could shout a message from there, damn them!"

Jago heard Galbraith calling to a boatswain's mate, and knew the captain was coming up. Bloody Turnbull. Who the hell does he think he is? lie had been surprised that the captain had shown neither surprise nor resentment at the signal. Jago looked at him now and was partly satisfied; he was wearing his old seagoing coat and had tied a neckcloth loosely into place. Jago smiled to himself. The commodore could think what he liked.

He said, "I could have the gig swayed out, sir."

Adam smiled. "Take too long. Ceremonial can go too far!" He touched his hat to the side party and looked directly at Galbraith. "Maybe the waiting is over?"

The jollyboat seemed to plunge into a deep trough as they cast off from the chains and the oars dipped for the first pull.

Adam twisted round to look at his ship. How large she appeared from the boat, the yards and flapping canvas blotting out the land completely. She never seemed so big when you shared her hull with some 250 seamen and marines.

He shifted on the thwart to study the other vessel. Smart, lowlying, rakish. A fine command for a young officer with one foot on the ladder. For one more senior, like Hastilow, it might appear very different.

"Bows." Then Jago said under his breath, "I'll be ready, sir."

Their eyes met.

"Never doubted it."

Hastilow was waiting to receive him as he clambered up and across the bulwark.

"Welcome aboard, Captain Bolitho."

Hastilow's eyes said the opposite. Tall and lean, even thin, with his lank brown hair tied back in the style still followed by some older sailors. But the eyes were very different, dark, almost black in the glaring sunshine, deepset and wary, as if on guard for something.

He added, "The commodore is below." The slightest hesitation. "Sir."

Each commanding one of His Majesty's ships, and yet miles apart. The lieutenant and the post-captain. Schooner and fifth rate. Usually it did not matter when men met like this. Here, it obviously did.

Adam followed the other officer aft, but glanced at the sailors working on deck, or waiting to trim the sails for getting under way again. All were so burned by the sun and wind that they could have been Africans. A large company for so small a vessel; for prize crews. And he could sense hostility, as if he was from another world which they had all rejected. They were probably remembering the men who had been butchered.

He could almost hear Finlay's words. Where were you?

Below deck it was very dark, and Adam was reminded of the meeting with Herrick. The thick shutters, the narrow strips of sunlight, the remaining hand drumming on the table beside the tray of ginger beer.

The cabin was small, the deckhead low enough to make him stoop. There was one skylight, so that Commodore Turnbull appeared to be on display in the shaft of dusty sunlight. He was, Adam saw, as immaculately dressed as if he were in a ship of the line.

"A fortunate rendezvous, Bolitho." He gestured to a bench seat; he even did that elegantly. "You came with all haste." The eyes moved only slightly, but seemed to take in Adam's threadbare coat and soiled shirt. "Captain Tyacke is in position by now." Without seeming to move he dragged a chart from another seat and laid it flat on the table. "Here, and here. As planned. Unrivalled will remain on station at the south-west approaches." He tapped the chart to emphasise each point. "The slavers are there, in the delta as reported. Three vessels, maybe more. It's a maze of channels and sandbars, safe for them, dangerous for a ship of any size." He smiled gently. "But then, you're aware of that?" He hurried on. "I intend to catch them before they can reach open water. They might try to withdraw upriver, of course. In which case it will take longer." 1 le looked around the dark cabin as if seeing it for the first time. "Hastilow's fellows know their work well. They can outsail most slavers, and can use carronades to settle the majority of arguments."

Adam bent across the chart, and studied the location where Unrivalled would mount guard, almost precisely as Cristie had described. A perilous place on a lee shore. Worse if you ran on to one of the sandbars.

Turnbull said, "You will anchor."

Adam studied the chart again, wondering why Hastilow had not been asked to join them, in his own command.

Turnbull might have taken his silence for doubt.

He said, "Slavers know these inlets and beaches far better than we do. But once at sea, it is a different story. My latest information is that these vessels are to transport slaves to St Thomas, as I anticipated. There they will be transferred to a larger ship. But we will take them before that. None will escape, no matter which way they run."

Adam leaned back, and felt the schooner moving around him. Eager to go.

He said, "They may sail at night." Why had he stated the obvious? Giving himself time. Turnbull's plan made sense. If the worst happened and they only seized one of the slavers, it would show others that the navy could and would take action on the doorstep, as Jago had put it.

Turnbull reached down and opened a cupboard. "I hope they do, but I doubt it. Hastilow thinks it will be at first light." He lifted a bottle and two goblets from somewhere and looked questioningly across the table.

"Not Madeira, I promise you!"

Adam watched him pour two large measures. Cognac. So what was wrong? Confident, pleasant enough. He saw the beautiful cuffs, the glittering lace on the coat. The new navy emerging? He was younger even than Hastilow.

"Provided nothing changes before we can act, I intend to make an attack as close to dawn as possible." He sipped his cognac. "At least we'll not have to depend on this damnable wind!"

For a second or two Adam thought he had misheard.

"Landing parties, sir?"

Turnbull poured himself another drink. "You surprise me in some ways, Bolitho. A fellow with your recordI'd have thought you would he fully aware of such tactics." Ile shook his head. "Direct action, that's my belief?" Ile pushed the chart aside. "Hastilow understands. I IC's cut out for the work, and he wants revenge."

"A boat action, sir?" It was like hearing someone else's voice.

Turnbull regarded him curiously. "You were hoping for something different, a sea-fight or a chase. A true frigate captain to the end!" Iie gave the soft chuckle again. "I shall need Unrivalled right enough, but the first blow will be dealt in amongst them. The brig Seven Sisters will be there, and Kittiwake in reserve." He looked up, his eyes very steady. "I shall lead the attack in Paradox. "

Adam heard voices somewhere on deck, and pictured Jago in the jollyboat, and the others in Unrivalled waiting and wondering at the outcome. Ile thought of the shoreline, closer now, somehow threatening, or was that only his imagination? Because of a boat action which even in the most favourable circumstances could end in disaster.

lie looked at the commodore again. It was already decided. You could almost feel it in the man.

Turnbull took out a large envelope. "For you, Bolitho." He smiled broadly. "In case anything unpleasant should happen to me." He was serious again. "I'll not come on deck just now. I've some last details to arrange. I am sure that our new Crown Agent will want to be fully informed."

It was a dismissal.

Hastilow was waiting to see him over the side; he could barely conceal his impatience. But he could not prevent his deepset eyes from settling on the bulky envelope under Adam's arm.

Then he said bluntly, "The commodore's told you then, sir?"

"Most of it."

Hastilow said, "We'll teach them a lesson they'll never forget!"

He seemed to contain his anger with a physical effort and stood aside to allow Adam to climb on to the bulwark.

Adam saw some of the schooner's company watching him leave. Defiant, contemptuous, glad he was going back to his own ship.

Perhaps Turnbull was right. It was their kind of action. But all he could think about was the one glaring flaw. Revenge. He thought of the renegade captain who had died of his wound in Unrivalled's great cabin. Perhaps he had been right after all. He had called it vanity.

After the shuttered lanterns in the chartroom, the quarterdeck seemed pitch black. But not for long. Adam walked to the rail and stared along the full length of the ship, his eyes eventually picking out shapes and small groups of seamen at their stations, bodies pale against the guns and the familiar rigging. For another long day they had remained clear of the land, using the light airs to tack this way and that, but never losing their mean course for a final rendezvous.

Apart from the occasional slap of canvas, or the creak of the wheel, you could believe the ship to be motionless. There were no lights anywhere on deck, so that the tiny glow of the compass lamp seemed like a beacon.

It was always the same, he told himself. You could feel the solid landmass creeping out on either bow, like some giant trap. But he held the image of the chart firmly in his mind. Most of the anonymous figures relied on trust. They would do what they were told when the time came. That hardly ever changed. But Cristie would know, and would be measuring his own doubts against his captain's skill, or lack of it.

Adam moved aft again and saw the white crossbelts of the marines, stark against the dark water alongside and beyond. Armed and ready, with others, the best marksmen, stationed in the fighting-tops somewhere overhead.

He turned quickly as a large fish broke surface and then splashed down into a trail of phosphorescence, like submerged fireflies.

His lips felt parched. He could smell rum; it was all they had found time for after the galley fire had been doused. He tried to think clearly. Two hours ago?

He heard Cristie murmuring to one of his mates, then he called, "Ready to begin sounding, sir."

"Carry on." He imagined the leadsman up forward in the chains, swinging the great lead, beyond and behind his perch, then up and over, the lead and line snaking well ahead of the ship's slow progress.

He walked to the rail again and rested his palms on it. Cool and wet. In another couple of hours it would be like a furnace bar.

He tensed as the splash came from ahead, like another leaping fish.

The leadsman's voice was clear and unhurried. "No bottom, sir!"

He sounded almost bored. Even Galbraith had seemed surprised by the precautions. Doubtless he thought his captain was overdoing it, had lost confidence in himself.

Adam gazed up at the topsails, which, with the jib, were the only canvas spread for this final approach. Some overnight fisherman might otherwise see the frigate. lie gritted his teeth. And do what? Turnbull was no fool, and would take no unnecessary risks. The horizon already seemed paler; in an hour Paradox and the others would begin their plan of attack.

He thought of Hastilow, experienced and eager to avenge his men and his friend. How much might he be influenced by a senior officer like Turnbull, whose last command at sea had been a ship of the line?

"By th' mark thirteen!"

Adam imagined the leadsman, up there in the gloom, hauling in his line and feeling for the telltale marks, bunting, pieces of leather or simple knots. Strong, tarred fingers, an expert in his work.

Thirteen fathoms. Cristie would be making calculations. Unrivalled drew three. A safe margin, but with so many sandbars and unmarked spits you could never be confident.

He heard something fall heavily on deck, and an instant mouthful of curses from whoever was in charge.

The anchor party was in position, poised and ready to let go. As soon as they were anchored Galbraith would supervise the running out of a stern rope, right round the ship and then fastened to the mooring cable. An anchored man-of-war, even one as powerful and well-drilled as Unrivalled, was almost helpless to defend herself against oared vessels which could work around a ship's stern and fire directly into it. The chebecks had reinforced that lesson, and it was not one he would forget, no matter what Galbraith thought about it.

He saw the chart in his mind again. So many channels which led from the main river and into the first open water.

"By th' mark ten!"

Galbraith had joined him. "Soon now, sir." It sounded like a question.

Adam did not reply directly. If they anchored too far out, there might be a dozen passages of escape for any slaver which slipped past Turnbull.

"Not yet." He walked to the compass box and peered up at the maintopsail. He could see the entire span of it now. The sun would appear over those hills which Cristie had noted so carefully. After that…

"An' deep eight!" Not so bored now.

It was not difficult to imagine the seabed rising relentlessly to greet Unrivalled's keel.

He peered at the little dogvane, and knew the helmsmen were watching him intently.

Cristie said meaningly, "Wind's freshened a bit, sir."

Adam considered it. Cristie never wasted time with idle comment. And he could feel the strengthening offshore breeze, hear it in the sails. It would be hard work for Turnbull's boats, pulling directly into it. The slavers, if any were still there, would use it to advantage. Perhaps Turnbull had already decided to wait and allow their quarry to make the first move. At the same time, he knew he would not.

He recalled something he had heard his uncle say, as if he had spoken the words aloud. The only thing a captain can take Jr granted is the unexpected!

fie was surprised that he could sound so calm.

"Bring her about, Mr Galbraith. We will anchor."

Orders were passed with no more than necessary noise, and men who had tripped and fumbled with every move only months, weeks ago, scampered to sheets and braces as if they had been doing it all their lives.

"Lee braces, there! Hands wear ship!"

Adam reached for the locket beneath his shirt and was surprised that it was missing. He had left it in his strongbox, where it would remain until this episode was just another entry in Cristie's log.

But it felt strange, different. The ship cleared as if for action, but none of the main armament loaded. Over cautious? Or losing it, as the old Jacks termed it.

He listened to the rebellious canvas as the seamen kicked and fisted it into submission.

He saw the two Royal Marine officers by the boat tier, every feature so much clearer now.

The leadsman coming aft along the starboard gangway, his line neatly coiled over one shoulder.

Midshipman Deighton standing beside Galbraith… thinking what?

"Let go!"

He saw the spray burst up beneath the larboard cathead, heard Varlo calling out somebody's name.

Then he saw the land, swinging slowly past the bows, the beautiful figurehead's naked shoulders suddenly etched against the hills which were still in deep, purple shadow.

"All fast, sir!"

Adam saw Napier speaking with the other youth, Ede, gesturing as if to explain something which was happening by the capstan. One with a mother who no longer wrote to inquire after her son's well-being, the other, so deft and gentle with his hands, who had tried to murder his employer.

So he was being over cautious this time. It was his decision.

He smiled briefly. And they were ready.

Daniel Yovell stood below one of the quarterdeck ladders, his hat pulled down to shade his eyes from the first fierce glare of sunlight. He disliked the heat, but made no allowance for it in his dress. His father had been much the same, as far as he could remember. What keeps out the cold, keeps out the heat had been a rule with him. He knew it was a source of amusement to Unrivalled's ship's company, but he was used to that too.

He took a deep breath as he watched the golden glow spreading across the choppy water, giving life to the shoreline with its hills and the darker green of forest further inland. It was a time of day he tried never to miss. He had no responsibilities, no duties; he could merely observe and enjoy it. He had grown used to avoiding the normal rush and urgency of a man of war, without being a part of it.

Like now, he thought. One of the boats had been pulling a long rope from aft and had hauled it beyond the bows to lash it to the anchor cable. He had heard that it was to swing the ship if need be, to train the guns when there was no other way.

He heard partridge the boatswain bawling at some men on the capstan bars.

"'Ard work, did you say, Robbins? If the wind gets any, livelier it'll he a bloody sight 'arder!"

Without turning or looking up, Yovell could hear Captain Bolitho speaking with one of his officers. Calm, unruffled. But in the great cabin Yovell had seen the other side of him. Not the captain, but the man, who cared, and was often hurt because of it.

Like the time he had returned on board after his visit to the headquarters at Freetown, after he'd met RearAdmiral Herrick. Yovell knew a good deal about Herrick, and had served with him when he was Sir Richard Bolitho's secretary. Stubborn, pigheaded, with a fine edge between right and wrong. He had known of Herrick's refusal to accept Lady Somervell… Catherine… to see her true strength and value as more than merely Bolitho's lover.

He felt privileged to have shared it. He had seen Catherine's courage in the open boat after the loss of Golden Plover. Unable to conceal her discomfort, her borrowed sailor's garb barely hiding her body from a boat full of men, she had still managed to inspire and encourage them all. Most of them had given up any hope of survival. Yovell had taken comfort from his Bible, but even he had had moments of doubt.

He had heard Adam Bolitho refer to the navy as a family. Richard Bolitho had done so as well. It was no mere coincidence that the other frigate anchored at Freetown when they had arrived had been under James Tyacke's command. Tyacke in his brig Larne had found that open boat and saved them from certain death.

And now there was Thomas Herrick. To Yovell it seemed only yesterday since he had accompanied Catherine to Herrick's house in Kent, where they had found his wife in the grip of typhus. Sir Richard's wife Belinda had been there but had left immediately when she had realized the nature of the illness.

He had heard that Herrick had asked for forgiveness for his behaviour after that. Yovell was ashamed that he found it hard to believe.

Galbraith strode aft and paused to say, "Nothing to see, I'm afraid." He glanced at the partly-manned capstan. "But there's still time, I suppose."

He half-turned. "You going up, Sullivan?"

The seaman nodded. "Cap'n asked me, sir." He sounded troubled. "I hate this place. I was here before, once. Long time ago." His clear eyes were distant, reminiscent. "We was ashore on a waterin' party, and them devils took one of our lads. The cap'n sent th' marines ashore, but they was too late. They'd cut off his eyelids so that he couldn't close them against the sun, then they pegged him out on an anthill an' watched him die. It must have taken a long time, sir."

They watched him leap into the shrouds, like a young boy, before he began to climb up towards the maintop.

Yovell removed his spectacles and mopped his face with a large handkerchief.

"I often marvel that such men return to sea again and again, even after what they have seen!"

Galbraith grinned. "He's no different from the rest of us!" fle touched Yovell's plump arm. "Or you, for that matter!"

"Deck there! Sail to the nor'-cast!"

Galbraith almost ran up the ladder and saw Bolitho already opening a telescope. Sullivan might resent the other lookout calling a sighting before him.

Galbraith nodded to Midshipman Cousens as he offered his own glass. Ile heard Bolitho say, "She's Paradox. Makes a fine sight!"

Galbraith adjusted the telescope with care. It was strange at first: with Unrivalled lying at anchor the other vessel appeared to be much further out. It was an illusion; Paradox was standing towards the larger of the two inlets, tacking well enough, although the offshore wind had her almost aback at one point. She had all her boats in the water, towing or alongside. Galbraith hit his lip. That would do nothing to help steerage-way. The dawn haze was clearing slowly. Ile moved the glass again and saw another fan of sails, the hull still hidden in mist or smoke, as if she had fired a silent broadside. That would be Seven Sisters. He looked at Paradox again. Clearer and sharper now. The broadpendant seemed far too large for so sleek a vessel, he thought. She had shortened sail, and he could see one of the boats, then another, being hauled alongside, the occasional glint of weapons as men clambered down into them.

Adam Bolitho said, "Too soon! The oarsmen will he exhausted before they can work into position!"

Galbraith handed the big signals telescope to Cousens. "Watch the commodore." Ile looked forward. All work had ceased, and most of the hands were either standing on the guns or clinging to the shrouds, spectators, as if they had no part in it.

"Deck there!" This time it was Sullivan. "Sail in sight, sir!"

Adam raised his glass again even as he heard Cristie exclaim, "There's another of 'em, fine across the inlet!"

Paradox was on the move again, her sails changing shape as she shifted to the opposite tack.

Cousens called huskily,"From Commodore, sir! Enemy in sight."

Adam flinched as a gun banged out over the cruising wavelets. Small and dull, without menace.

Paradox would close with the other vessels and fire a few shots into them. There would be no point in their trying to resist, especially with Seven Sisters already making more sail.

Adam walked quickly to the rail, barely seeing the marines standing by or against the packed hammock nettings. He felt helpless, anchored and unable to offer support.

He turned abruptly and asked, "How long shall we hold this lie to the cable?"

Cristie answered instantly, "'Bout an hour, sir. Then we shall begin to swing."

Adam stared at the green mass of land. Between Unrivalled and the first sandbars there was a channel. It was badly charted, but doubtless well enough known to the slavers and those who hunted for them. Hastilow must know this coastline better than most. Creeks and beaches, inlets and places where even the biggest craft could lie undisturbed.

Paradox fired again. Aiming for the sails. If the vessel was packed with slaves it would be sheer murder to fire into the hull.

"Deck there! Third sail leavin' the inlet, sir!"

Adam heard Galbraith say, "They've left it too late! They can never come about in time!"

Adam turned as Cristie said, "I may be speaking out of turn, sir, but…"

Afterwards, Adam recalled the sailing master's surprise when he had gripped his arm as if to shake him.

"Tell me, man! What's wrong?"

"Paradox is on the wrong bearing." Then, more firmly, "No, I'm damn sure of it."

Adam said, "Mr Galbraith, heat to quarters, if you please, and have the starboard battery loaded." He held up one hand, like a rider quieting his mount. "But not run out!" He swung round and saw Jago watching him. As if he was waiting for it. "You were offering to sway out the gig, remember? Then do it now, larboard side."

He sensed his servant, Napier, by his side and reached out to grasp his shoulder. All the while he was watching the converging pattern of sails, like the fins of sharks closing for the kill.

"Fetch my coat and sword, David."

"Sir?" Napier stared at him, not understanding.

He squeezed the shoulder. A boy his mother should be proud to have.

"They might think twice before firing on one of the King's captains!"

Galbraith must have heard him; the urgent rattle of drums beating to quarters had ceased, the spectators had formed into tried and tested patterns. The ship seemed suddenly still, the occasional bark of gunfire remote and unreal. I ie exclaimed, "You will not do it, sir!" He was shaking with emotion.

There was a great chorus of shouts and groans, and Adam heard someone cry, "She's struck! Paradox has driven aground!"

He looked past Galbraith and saw it for himself. Paradox was slewing round, her fore-topmast falling as he watched, soundless in distance but no less terrible.

"You know, Leigh, I don't think there's any choice." Then, half to himself, "There never was."

When he looked again, Paradox was mastless. A wreck.

Seven Sisters would not be in time, and the other vessels in Turnbull's flotilla would he hard put to cut off the remaining slavers.

There was only Unrivalled, and she was anchored and impo tent, unable to move even into the other channel without sharing the same fate as Paradox.

"All guns loaded, sir!"

He held out his arms for Napier to assist him with his coat. Then he took the old sword, and thought again of the renegade's words. Bravado, courage, or vanity?

Cousens called, "They're firing on Paradox's boats, sir!" He sounded sickened, outraged.

The flat, dull bangs of carronades, packed with canister and at point-blank range. Turnbull's proud gesture was in bloody rags.

He said, "Man your capstans, Leigh. Let us see what we can do today," and looked directly at him. "Together."