Alexander Kent - Relentless Pursuit

Varlo was waiting for him, slim figure angled to the deck as if nothing could shift him.

Galbraith listened to his report, although the chart had been engraved on his mind even in the discomfort of his swaying cot, the boom of the sea alongside.

Nine hundred miles since they had tacked clear of Mounts Bay. It felt ten times that.

Beating clear of Brest and then down into Biscay, the weather following them with barely a let-up. It was surprising that they had got this far without losing a man or sustaining any serious damage. There were injuries a-plenty, especially amongst the landmen, who had never set foot in a ship of any kind before. Brave lunatics, the surgeon O'Beirne had called them. Men thrown from their feet by water surging over the gangways, or flung against stanchions, or worse, one of the guns. Others caught by the unexpected rush of a line snaking through a block to catch the unwary in a noose like a trap. A man could lose fingers in a block, or have the skin scored from his bones by the deadly cordage.

Varlo said, "South by east, sir!" Clipped and formal, perhaps to remind Galbraith that his watch was waiting to be relieved. "Wind's steady as before."

Galbraith winced as spray dashed against his face. On the chart it was clear, certain. Unrivalled was eighty or ninety miles to the northwest of Lisbon, across the fortieth parallel. But even Cristie seemed doubtful, and had muttered, "I'll feel better when we can see something!" It was quite an admission for him.

Galbraith said, "It's easing." Water was still splashing down from the shrouds, but not cutting across the deck like the last time. He groaned. Was that only three hours ago? He waited for the moment and seized the quarterdeck rail. His eyes could make out details now; the deck and rigging was stark against the seething water as it surged abeam.

He pointed suddenly. "Those men. What are they doing?"

Varlo replied offhandedly, "Bailing the boats. Idle bastards, they'll know in future not to drag their feet on my watch!"

Rist, the master's mate of the morning watch, called, "The watch is aft, sir!" A good man. Astute too, and wise enough to have marked the friction between his officers.

Galbraith said, "Most of them are raw, untrained! You can't expect them to learn it all in five days, man!"

"I see no sense in being soft with them, sir!"

"I'll be the judge of that, Mr Varlo! Now carry on, and dismiss those hands." They faced one another like enemies, all else forgotten. "Or bring them aft and charge them. Make it official!"

Varlo turned and walked to the companionway without another word.

Galbraith peered at the swaying compass card, giving himself time. Angry, because he knew he had overreacted, or because Varlo had seemed unmoved by it.

Rist said, "We can get some 'ands aloft at first light, sir. There'll be a bit o' fancy splicing to be done after this little lot."

Doing his best. Bridging the gap.

Galbraith nodded. "Aye, we'll do that. And thank you." He walked to the opposite side, alone again.

Rist sighed. A warrant officer was always in the middle, had to be.

Galbraith was a good first lieutenant, brave too. But Varlo… he was just plain dangerous.

But still, a couple more days and they should sight Madeira, or Mr Cristie would be wanting to know why not.

That would take the edge off things, for a while anyway. Some of that heavy red wine, and bold stares from the women.

Someone called to him urgently and he turned away.

The sailor's dream.

Adam Bolitho put his signature to yet another letter and stared at the pile beside it on the desk, all in Yovell's effortless, round hand.

He was sitting opposite, gold spectacles perched once more on his forehead.

"I thought you were over hasty in offering your services in Penzance. I thought you might well live to regret it." He smiled, the strain already gone. "Now I am only thankful!" His mind returned to Falmouth, the big grey house. "Bryan Ferguson will be cursing me for taking you."

Yovell regarded him thoughtfully. "It was time, sir. I knew that within a few days of my return. I did manage to complete a few details with the lawyers," and glanced away. "It is their world, not mine, I fear."

Adam leaned hack in the chair and felt the sun across his cheek from the stern windows. The glass was thick and the warmth an illusion, but it was enough, after days of wind and angry sea.

He heard muffled shouts from the deck, and the sound of fresh cordage being hauled over the planking, ready to be spliced and then hoisted to the upper yards to repair some of the storm damage.

And tomorrow they would sight Madeira. A first landfall for many of Unrivalled's people. It might make up for the hardship, the knocks and the bruises along the way. At least they had not lost a single man. A real risk on any first passage.

He thought of the letters which would he landed in Funchal to await the next courier to England. Yovell had advised him on some of them. Was there nothing he could not do or understand? Their world, not mine. The estate had to be run, the farms overseen and encouraged. In his mind he had often seen that room overlooking the sea, with its portraits of Cheney and Catherine. A place full of memories and hopes, but an empty house for all that.

Yovell watched him, seeing the changing emotions, recognising some of them as he had known, and perhaps feared he would.

It had not been easy, and on more than one occasion he had found himself questioning his own common sense for putting himself in this position. As Adam had warned him, Unrivalled was no liner, and in the long nights as the ship had reeled and plunged in that invisible sea, he had been close to despair.

He had been surprised how easily he had been accepted in the ship. Perhaps because he was a stranger.

He saw Adam glance at the skylight and tense again, his ear catching some false note in the constant chorus of wind and rigging. Others saw him as the captain, the final authority as far as sailors were concerned, the one man who could promote, reward, flog or destroy any of them, if he chose. It was only at moments like this that one glimpsed the real man. The uncertainties and doubts, that rare wistfulness in his dark eyes when his mind had slipped away from the role he was expected to play at all times.

Yovell was a patient man, and had always been prepared to wait before forming his true opinions.

He turned his head as the door opened and the young servant, Napier, padded into the cabin.

Of Napier Adam had said, almost casually, "He has no father, and I've never been able to discover his mother's thoughts about his future, if she has any. He can read and write, and he has courage, true courage." Yovell had seen that look just now when Adam had been thinking about Falmouth. He had added, "See what you can do for him, will you?"

Just like that. Few would ever see that side of their lord and master.

Napier said, "I've got out your best coat, sir."

Adam looked at him, his mind clearing. "I had all but forgot. I am to sup in the wardroom tonight. Mr Cristie assures me it will remain calm enough for that!"

He glanced at the two of them. "You may make use of these quarters while I am being entertained."

He walked to the stern bench and leaned both hands on it, watching the sea fling spray up from the rudder. A flock of gulls rose and dipped soundlessly, their shapes distorted by the saltstained glass, waiting for scraps from the galley. They probably nested in Madeira.

The youth placed two goblets on the desk beside a bottle, and then quietly departed to the adjoining cabin.

Yovell waited. Somehow he knew this was the real cause of the tension, the quick changes of mood, the eagerness to find some kind of solution in routine ship's affairs. Like all the letters and reports they had gone through together; he had felt it even then.