Alexander Kent - Relentless Pursuit

Adam waited while Yovell unfastened the envelope, and looked up sharply at his visitor as Christie said, "Lord Exmouth sent word to the Dey. Surrender all the Christian slaves, and disband the fleet of renegades-pirates, I'd call them-or defeat is inevitable." He smiled for the first time, and Adam could see him as Tyacke's midshipman at the Nile. "Needless to say, it was ignored. The emissary was damned lucky to leave alive!"

Adam glanced at the messman, face very intent, ears taking full note of everything that was being said.

He thought of Napier. The sea was calm enough, for the moment. O'Beirne might take the opportunity to extract that one, dangerous splinter.

"Lord Exmouth is joined by a Dutch squadron, six good ships to all accounts. But between ourselves, I'd prefer to act without anyone else becoming involved."

Adam recalled Jago making much the same remark. "Let the meneers stay away an' smoke their own pipes." The war was over. The mistrust was not.

He stood up and walked to the stern windows, feeling the jerk and tremble of the big rudder. Ready to go. To obey.

He heard himself say, "The day after tomorrow, then." August twenty-seventh. Exactly a month since Bellairs had given him her note. Here.

Christie had his hat in his hand, and his glass stood empty. "I must leave. Lord Exmouth is all in haste. He insisted you were to be found without delay."

Adam followed him to the door. The last in the line. And the first to lead.

"You have a fine ship, Captain Bolitho." But there was no envy.

Adam said, "After this, perhaps you may return to England."

Christie faced him; the messman and the rigid marine sentry meant nothing. They could have been quite alone.

"England has nothing to offer me. They would take my ship from me. Without her…" He broke off, and said almost abruptly, "I could ask for no better ship or captain in the van." He shook Adam's hand, lingering over it. "If you meet Captain Tyacke again…" He could not continue.

But when the marine guard and side party stood in swaying ranks to show respect, one ship to another, they saw only the two captains.

Galbraith waited for the gig to bear off from the side and watched some of his own seamen's eyes, critical or impressed as their station dictated. It was something no landsman would ever understand, he thought.

He looked up at the men aloft, and standing loosely by braces and halliards. Waiting for the next order. Their captain would tell them, but everybody from the cook's slush-monkey to the elegant captain of Royal Marines would already know. And soon, sooner rather than later, these guns would be in action again. In earnest and without mercy.

He glanced towards Lieutenant Varlo, who was up by the foremast with Rist, the master's mate.

The wardroom had been empty, which was rare in any ship. Even the messmen had been elsewhere; he had made certain of that.

There had been just the two of them. Varlo had been confident, almost amused as he had told him what he thought of his behaviour in general, and in particular over the flogging.

Galbraith had lost his temper. Something he had sworn to avoid. Something he had wanted to do.

Varlo had said, offhandedly, "The captain could have told me himself, if he had thought it important. In all my experience, I've never heard such abuse. As first lieutenant you are entitled to dictate matters of duty if or when it is justified. This is not. I'll take no insolence from any lout, drunk or sober-I'll see the backbones of anyone who tries it!"

Galbraith had listened to his own voice. A different sound, another person.

"In all your experience. I was forgetting. Forgive me." He had seen the slight smile forming. Strangely, it had helped. "Flag lieutenant to a flag officer, albeit a junior one. But he thought highly of you, his aide, so much so that anybody might have expected further promotion." The smile had gone at that point. "Instead, you were appointed to Unrivalled, to fill a dead man's shoes, as it happens. I know some who would have killed for the post, but to a flag lieutenant surely something more promising should have been offered!"

Varlo had snapped hack, "I don't know what you mean!"

It had gone far enough. Now, he knew for certain. Soon they would fight.

He had said, "The admiral wanted to end it there. Your liaison.

Varlo had stared at him, stunned. I le had seen him just now, watching him from the foremast trunk. Shock, fury, and something far deeper.

How silent the wardroom had seemed. Even the sounds of rigging and timbers were stilled.

Then Varlo had said softly, "I lad we been ashore, anywhere but in this ship, I would have called you out, and you would have danced to a different tune!"

Galbraith had walked to the door. "Do your duty, and remember that you rely on our people, just as they, poor devils, have to depend on you." Ile had turned, half expecting a blow or another threat, and had said, "Next time, Mister Varlo, ensure that the admiral is safely married, eh?" The pretence was ended. "And call me out when and where you wish. You'll find one ready enough!" He could still hear the door slamming behind him, and remembered the shock and the shame of his own words. But no regrets.

"Get the ship under way, if you please." The captain was looking at him, his hat still grasped in one hand. "I will speak to the people tomorrow. It may be the last chance."

Galbraith understood, and turned to call a boatswain's mate. But something made him hesitate.

"You can rely on me, sir."

The other frigate was already spreading more canvas and going about, the gig hoisted and stowed.

Adam thought of her captain, Robert Christie, who had served under James Tyacke at the Nile. We are of the same mould, the same generation. A face you could trust when the signal for close action was flying.

He felt the chill again. The warning.

They would never meet again.

Joseph Sullivan, the ship's best lookout, settled himself comfortably on his perch in the crosstrees and glanced down at the deck far below. It was hard to believe that none of them down there could see what he could see. Not yet. They had been roused early, but nothing out of the normal run of things, almost unhurried, he thought. But purposeful, in earnest. A good breakfast, too; he could still taste the thick slices of pork, washed down with a pint or more of rough red wine. And, of course, some rum. A proper issue, with officers and warrant ranks looking the other way when the older hands pulled out their hoarded supplies. After all, you never knew if it was the last tot in this world.

He looked across the bow and studied the array of ships. They appeared still and unmoving in the morning sunlight, but they were coming right enough, a fleet the like of which they might never see again. Liners keeping perfect formation in the low breeze, all sails set and drawing well, considering. Not yet stripped for action. Frigates too, staying up to windward, ready to run down like terriers if the admiral so ordered. Dutchmen in their own squadron. He drew his knife and carved himself a wedge of chewing tobacco. He had been at sea almost all his life, or all that he could remember. He knew what was essential. Like the changing scarlet pattern of marines, mere puppets from up here, being arranged on the quarterdeck, some to be stationed at hatchways and what the old hands called bolt-holes, where a terrified man might run at the height of battle. A marine would prevent it. There was nowhere to run anyway, but only experience taught you that.

Sullivan was at a loss. The fine model of his old ship Spartiate, which had stood in the line at Trafalgar, was finished. It was hard to recall exactly when he had begun it. In his last ship they had pulled his leg about it. But he and the model were still here. The others were not.