Alexander Kent - Relentless Pursuit

Fear was an enemy, but it could he held at hay. When others looked to you, there was never any choice. The faces sometimes came back to remind him. He had seen it in Bellairs just now, Galbraith also. Seeking something, other than trust.

It was a long time ago, another voice. I don't want to die. Please, God, not now.

But the voice was his own.

LUKE JAGO stood with his legs braced against the ship's easy motion, his hat tilted to shield his eyes from the unwavering glare. To some he might appear composed, even indifferent. Those who did not know him.

It was always the same, he thought, from the moment the order was piped through the ship. All hands! All hands, lay aft to witness punishment! It was a part of life in the navy: good or bad, you accepted it.

Often you never really knew how it had begun, or if it could have been prevented. Order, discipline, routine; he should be used to it by now.

Perhaps it was boredom. It was almost a month since Unrivalled had left Plymouth. They had caught up with the fleet at Gibraltar, anchored while many of the lame ducks were still making their final approach.

But after that the ship had spent almost all of her time at sea, keeping contact with other frigates, the admiral's scouts, only half aware of the planning and the scheming which must have been taking place.

He glanced over the heads of the assembled company at the horizon, like molten metal from a furnace, and, beyond it, what looked like a far-off, unmoving cloud. Africa.

He heard Hastie, the master-at-arms, call, "Prisoner seized up, sir!"

Jago moved forward, a few feet behind the captain's left shoulder, his body angled only slightly against the quarterdeck rail.

He looked briefly at the prisoner. Stripped to the waist and seized up to a rigged grating, head twisted round to stare up at the figures on the quarterdeck. A small group of midshipmen on one side, the officer of the watch, Bellairs, on the other, a mass of off-watch and unemployed sailors filling the usually busy deck, "the marketplace, " they termed it.

The watchkeepers were going about their normal affairs, on the gangways, splicing and attending to the running rigging, some working far above the deck, while topsails and jibs flapped or filled to a wind which was little more than a hot breeze.

Jago had heard the master cursing it. Maybe some fast sailing, when every man was required to work the ship, was what they needed.

The prisoner, for instance, an ordinary seaman named Bellamy, not one of the usual troublemakers or hard men. Probably just his bad luck.

He half-listened to the captain's voice reading the relevant section of the Articles of War. Jago knew it by heart. He felt his shoulders stiffen, remembering the moment, the sickening blow of the lash across his naked hack. He had been unfairly flogged; an officer had stood up for him and had proved his complete innocence. But he would carry the scars of the cat to his deathbed.

4// other crimes not capital, committed by any person or persons i n the fleet… "

Jago looked again. Two boatswain's mates were waiting by the grating; one, Creagh, carried the red baize hag, and he saw that the other was Lawson, who had until his promotion been coxswain of the jollyboat, and a good allround seaman. His first flogging, and a prisoner he had probably known as a messmate.

The captain said, "Two dozen, boatswain's mate. Do your duty."

No heat, no contempt. But Jago knew differently.

As the arm swung back, over and down, and the cat o' nine tails cracked across the bare skin he saw the captain's hand tighten around his scabbard. The master-at-arms called, "One!"

Jago saw the first droplets of blood, heard the victim gasp, the air punched out of him. He had once witnessed a flogging around the fleet, on a charge of mutiny. The boat, carrying the prisoner spread-eagled on a capstan bar, had called at every ship, and each captain was ordered to award his allotted share of the punishment.

Three hundred lashes. The man had died shortly afterwards.

"Two!"

The ship leaned into a slight swell and Jago swayed forward to look at the officers.

Had it been one of the old hands, a seasoned warrant officer like Partridge, it might have ended there and then, a quick punch, or rap with a rope starter, all that was needed.

He watched Lieutenant Varlo's expression. Impassive, and yet with each crack of the lash he saw him purse his lips. He was enjoying it.

"Eighteen!"

Jago saw O'Beirne the surgeon bending to study the prisoner's back. He made himself do the same. He must not forget.

The man's back was like something inhuman. Torn, flayed flesh, blackened as if burned by fire.

O'Beirne stood aside. The punishment continued.

Lawson was using the lash now, probably holding back, even though the prisoner was beyond pain. Jago could recall a captain who had suspected leniency in one boatswain's mate, and had threatened him before the entire ship's company. Lay it on harder, man! Or by God you'll change places with him!

He glanced at the captain's sunburned hand. The knuckles were almost white around the sword at his side.

"Twenty-four!"

"Cut him down." The captain turned aft and saw Jago's expression. He said, "Give me an enemy I can fight, not this!"

Jago stood aside. He doubted if the captain had even seen him, or knew he had spoken aloud.

Galbraith asked, "Dismiss the hands, sir?"

Adam looked at him. He had recalled Lawson's pleasure and pride when he had told him of his promotion. Now he would understand the other side of the bargain. The line he had crossed, which set him apart from the rest.

And Martyns, their youngest midshipman, who had come through the fighting like a brave, if inexperienced, lion. But just now, as the flogging had been carried out, that same resilient boy had been in tears.

lie realised that Galbraith was still waiting.

"Yes. And I would like you to have a word with Mr Varlo at your earliest convenience."

Galbraith turned his hack to exclude the others. "I hardly think that it should come from me, sir."

Adam removed his hat and touched his damp forehead. Why should it matter?

"Because you are experienced, and you understand the importance of standing together. If I see him myself it may well end in a court martial, his or mine, I am still undecided!" He saw O'Beirne waiting by the companionway. "Do it."

It was like a shutter falling. Perhaps it had never really lifted.

He seemed to hear her voice again. 1 want you to tell me about your life. Had it really happened? Your ship, the men you lead. What would she think if she could see him now?

O'Beirne bided his time, recognising his distress, which he guessed no one else would even imagine.

"Bellamy will he up and about soon, sir. I've seen far worse."

Adam looked at him. Almost time to change tack again. An unending rectangle of sea. An invisible fleet, and a handful of small vessels holding the strings. The eyes of the fleet, Nelson had called them.

He said, "What about the lad, Napier? Can you do something for him?"

O'Beirne assessed him gravely. For you, you mean.

"Yes, sir. While this weather holds. There's a risk, of course…"

"No risks, please."

He walked to the nettings as seamen and marines broke ranks and drifted away. Some hands were already scrubbing the grating and the deck, while down on the orlop the seaman called Bellamy would be drowning his agony and degradation in more rum than he could handle.

A fateful equation. Too much to drink, a loose tongue, and the wrong officer. Varlo would claim, rightly, that he was only doing his duty. An admission, not a defence.

He looked up, past the main-yard, where Cousens's body had broken its fall to this deck, and saw the lookout, a tiny shape against the empty sky.