Alexander Kent - Relentless Pursuit

He peered down again. More figures about now. On edge, wanting to get on with it. Get it over. He saw steam rising from the sea alongside, and loosened a last piece of pork from his teeth. The galley fire had been doused. Almost time now.

He twisted round and looked at the shore, no longer a shadow, an unending barrier of sand and stone. He could see the headland, a sudden stab of light, the sun reflecting from a window or telescope. He measured it with his eye. Three miles. It would be noon before they were close enough. He thought of the captain, yesterday, when they had cleared lower deck to hear him speak from the quarterdeck.

It was strange at such times, he thought. Unrivalled carried some 250 souls of every age and rank, and in a crowded hull you would expect to know every man-jack of them. And yet, packed together on deck or clinging to shrouds and ratlines to listen, you still found yourself beside someone you had never met before.

Every man-of-war, no matter how crowded, was divided by rank, status, and station. Soon the pattern would change again. Gun crews and powder monkeys, sail-handling parties, and men to repair damage. He watched the land, as if it had altered in some way. Others to drag away the wounded, or to pitch the dead overboard.

The captain had told them about the Christian slaves, and the murder and persecution of helpless people taken at sea or on land in the Dey's name.

He had heard Isaac Dias, the foul-mouthed gun captain, mutter, "They can only spare a few poxy schooners to put screws on the slave trade down south, eh, lads? But it's a whole bloody fleet for the Christians!" It brought a few grins; it did not do to fall out with Unrivalled's best gun captain. Sullivan smiled to himself. He was useless for anything else.

He wondered what the captain thought about it. Really thought. His ship, his men, and his neck if things went badly wrong. He had asked his coxswain about him, but Jago was as tight as a clam. "He'll do me," was his only reply. Funny, for a man who had always loathed officers.

Sullivan looked at the fleet again. It was not possible, but they were closer now. He could see the Cross of St George at the masthead of the big three-decker at the head of the line, Queen Charlotte. The admiral's ship; a hundred guns or more, they said. The enemy had prepared and well-sited artillery. In all his years at sea he had heard the arguments about ships set against shoremounted guns. He grinned. Who would be an admiral today?

He looked down between his bare feet at the great main-yard angled below him, overlapping either beam. Young Midshipman Cousens had fallen across it when he had been thrown from up here. If I had been with him… He shut it from his mind. He was not here. Another face had moved on.

He saw that the marines were climbing into the fighting-tops, marksmen, and a few to handle the deadly swivel guns, which could kill or maim more of your own mates than the enemy if badly laid and trained. Daisy-cutters. Invented by somebody who never had to use one, he thought.

He realised that one of the marines was gesturing at him with his musket. Sullivan waved. Somebody was coming… Did he never sleep? Sullivan had seen the skylight shining throughout the night, and had heard of him visiting the magazine, where Old Stranace the gunner ruled the roost, and even the sickbay, where his servant shared the space with the man who had been flogged. His lip curled. Because of Mister bloody Varlo. Like Sandell, he would not be missed.

He looked suddenly at his big, rough hands; scarred and pitted with tar, but they could still fashion a perfect ship's likeness.

Would I be missed?

He watched the captain climb the last few feet, hatless, his brown face shining with sweat. He was still able to smile.

"A fine day for it, Sullivan!"

Surprisingly, he thought of an earlier captain he had served. In a boat's crew, he had accidentally brushed against the officer as they had come alongside the ship. The captain had damned his eyes for it, and had threatened to have him charged with assault. But at least you knew where you were with a bloodyminded tyrant.

Sullivan was close enough to reach out and touch him. A man like himself, without the authority and the Articles of War. He sighed. It was no use. Jago was probably right.

He saw the captain touch his side and take some deep breaths, his eyes first on the shore, then up to the masthead pendant, as if to take the measure of the wind.

Adam was aware of the lookout's scrutiny. One of Unrivalled's best seamen, but more than that, like one of a ship's strongest timbers. The men you lead.

He studied the array of ships, and wondered how the brooding land mass would appear to the admiral. Like sailing into a giant trap. He checked the wind again. Almost easterly, as Cristie had assured him it would he this day. "Off this patch of the coast it's more likely easterly than westerly. Very definite, it is." He'd said it without a trace of a smile. Perhaps it was something he had had drummed into him many years ago, in this same sea.

He thought suddenly of the studio at the old house with the ruined chapel. Deserted now. Empty. She would know all about these waters, when the Pharaohs had ruled, and before that. Another world.

He looked at Sullivan.

"Noon?"

Sullivan nodded. "As near as hell's kitchen, sir."

They both laughed, and some of the marines in the maintop leaned out to try and hear.

He looked down at the ship again. Undisturbed, unhurried, as he had intended. It would be hard enough for them to stand to their guns and take the first onslaught without all the usual clamour and call to arms. But soon now. Very soon.

He pictured Midshipman Deighton, with his telescope trained on the flagship. Just one signal, and Unrivalled with Halcyon close astern would lead the attack.

Galbraith had said, when they had discussed the possibilities, "Simple enough, if you don't think too much about it!"

Surprisingly relaxed, even cheerful. He would need all of that today. If only he had been able to sleep, but it had evaded him. Except once, when he had fallen into an exhausted doze, neither one thing nor the other.

Then he had seen her, watched her fighting, her screams silent but no less terrible. The shapeless, beast-like forms holding her down, exploring her nakedness, tormenting and entering her.

He had awakened, fighting off the blanket, his body running with sweat, calling her name.

He had almost expected Napier to burst in from the pantry, but as his mind quietened he had remembered that he was still in the sickbay.

He had dragged on his shirt and gone through the ship, speaking with watchkeepers or men who were merely squatting on deck, like himself unable to sleep, without knowing what he had said or heard in reply.

But the dream had remained, stark and terrible. As it must have been.

He had found Napier asleep, the confined space heavy with rum.

O'Beirne had been there with one of his assistants, checking his instruments, which had glittered and shivered on the table as if they were alive.

He had said, "He took it well, sir. It was a deep incision-I found the thing after a struggle." He had almost smiled. "Brave lad. His only worry seems to be that he wants to be with you when the action begins."

Adam had put his hand on the boy's bare shoulder, and had seen the frown ease away from his unconscious face. As if he had known.

"You shall have your pony ride, my lad. Be sure of that."

He had left, the others staring after him.

He came out of his thoughts and realised that the foretop had also been occupied by a squad of marines. He looked at the land. A thousand guns, or more. Again he tested his feelings, but there was no fear, no uncertainty. It was more like a dull acceptance.