Alexander Kent - Relentless Pursuit

He felt inside his breeches pocket. The little note was there. All he had.

He thrust his leg out from the crosstrees and waited for the pain. There was none. That, too, was numb.

He said, "Remember, Sullivan?"

He grinned, the youthful eyes very bright in an old seaman's face.

"Aye, sir. For th' King!" Then, as if surprised at what he was doing, he reached out and shook hands.

Adam took his time, pausing occasionally to stare through the rigging at the panorama of ships and sails. And men, hundreds of them… into the inevitable.

I want you in the van.

He swung out and around the shrouds and dropped the last few feet to the deck. Cristie gave him a quick, crinkled smile.

Captain Luxmore, "the true soldier," as Galbraith had called him, looked as if he were about to mount a parade or a guard of honour. The new wheel was fully manned; Midshipman Deighton, assisted by young Martyns, a mere child, was with his small party of men by the flag locker. Bellairs, Rist, and Varlo, who was up forward again by the first division of eighteenpounders. Unsmiling, even subdued. He wondered what Galbraith had said to him.

High above the main deck the chain-slings had already been shackled to the yards, to prevent heavy spars falling on to men working at sails or guns. Nets would be spread as well, and most of the boats cast adrift before they closed still further with the land. Always a bad moment for the sailors in any ship, but necessary; flying splinters cut down more men than any solid shot.

Two small fifers were standing by the weather side, moistening their instruments with their tongues, their eyes on their captain.

But only their drums would be used this day.

Jago walked towards him, eyes very calm, but watchful, no doubt taking in the breeches smeared with tar after his descent, and the open shirt, the neckcloth tied loosely around his bare throat. He was hatless, and wearing the familiar, seagoing coat with its faded and tarnished lace. Jago nodded in silent approval, as if he was putting his seal on it. No foolish chances today. But still the Captain.

He held up his arms and Jago clipped the old sword into place.

Deighton's voice shattered the momentary stillness.

"From Flag, sir! Prepare for battle!"

"Acknowledge!"

Jago said, "We've heard that a few times, eh, sir?"

Adam grinned and impetuously seized his arm. It had been a close thing. Jago must have seen just how close.

He said, "And a few more yet, old friend!"

He swung away, without seeing Jago's relief. "Come on, you drummers! Beat to quarters, and clear for action!"

He felt the waiting figures hesitate, and then come alive as if something far stronger controlled them.

Adam looked up at the long masthead pendant, streaming out now, pointing the way.

Men stampeding to their stations, screens being torn down, the hull alive with noise and purpose. A ship of war.

It was now.

ADAM BOLITHO glanced at the compass and strode to the packed hammock nettings to train his telescope. In those few paces he saw the helmsmen watching the peak of the driver, flapping now as a warning, while Unrivalled held as close to the wind as was possible in the gentle pressure off the land.

So slow. So slow. He steadied the glass and watched the jagged spur of land reaching out towards the ships. It was as he remembered it: the rough landscape, where it was sometimes hard to distinguish between the country itself and the crumbling fortifications, and weathered towers built of sand-coloured stone, which looked older than time itself.

He swung the glass across the quarter. Halcyon was holding on station, a second ensign hoisted now, clean and very bright above the tanned sails and scarred hull. Their other companion, the 14-gun brig Magpie, was further astern, tiny against the great array of sails where the fleet was on its final approach.

Adam returned to the quarterdeck rail, and saw several of the seamen look up at him from the nearest eighteenpounders. So many times, and yet you were never certain. He ran his eyes along the length of the ship. The decks had been sanded to prevent men slipping in the height of battle, and to soak up the blood of the first to fall. That was always the hardest to accept. Not that men would die, but that they were faces and voices you knew, of which you had become a part. He saw the slow-matches, each in a bucket of sand beside every gun. It was still not unknown for the modern flintlock to fail because of a gun captain's haste, or over eagerness to beat the others to a first broadside.

The nets were spread overhead, and the boat tier was empty, so that the deck seemed more spacious than it should. The gig and jollyboat were towing astern; the rest were well away by now, drifting to a canvas sea anchor. Waiting for the victor to recover them, no matter which flag was still flying.

The land was curving away again, like the neck of a poacher's bag. He trained the glass ahead, moving to avoid shrouds and stays, or faces, intent as they leaped into the lens. He could see the main anchorage, exactly as it was described in the orders, and as his uncle's flag lieutenant, Avery, had reported after that first visit.

Adam lowered the glass and stared into the distance. There were ships at anchor, some no doubt waiting to attack and harry the slow-moving vessels of Lord Exmouth's fleet once his intentions were recognised. He had heard four bells chime, but precisely when, he could not remember. It was a wonder that the seaman had kept his head and was able to mark the hour.

Sullivan had been right. They had closed the land at noon. That was two hours ago.

He looked at the gun crew directly below him. Stripped and ready, their bodies shining with sweat, neckerchiefs tied around their ears, cutlasses freshly sharpened at the grindstone and within reach. Another glance aloft. The big yards were braced so tightly that they appeared almost fore-and-aft; she was as close-hauled as she would come. He heard the wheel creak sharply, and one of the helmsmen mutter something as if to silence it.

He saw Galbraith by the starboard ladder, speaking with Rist, master's mate, and Williams, the gunner's mate who had been with him on the chebeck raid. He dabbed his lips with his sleeve. A 1 fetime ago.

Bellairs called, "Flagship is altering course, sir!"

Adam moved the glass. It was impossible to imagine the strength and effort now responding to Exmouth's signal. Ponderous, slow, and some badly out of station, but the ships were moving as one, their shapes lengthening as they tacked like floating leviathans towards the shore.

It was still too far, but he could imagine the lines of guns running out, the muscle and sweat of hundreds of men like these around him, preparing to match their skills against the enemy. If Lord Exmouth had been expecting some lastminute submission he would be disappointed. The Dey was relying on his massive armament. Adam thought of that brief meeting. Trick for trick. Exmouth was still a frigate captain at heart.

There was a dull bang, the sound dragged out by echoes from the land, then they saw the ball splash down before ripping across the water like an enraged dolphin.

Cristie had his watch in one hand, but his voice was almost indifferent.

"Make a note in the log, Mr Bremner. At half past two o'clock, the enemy opened fire."

Adam turned away. Nothing seemed to unsettle the old sailing master. He had even remembered the name of the midshipman who had only recently joined the ship. Like a rock. The man who had been born in the next street to Collingwood.

Perhaps the watchers on the shore had expected the fleet to sail directly into the anchorage, loose off a few shots at long range, and then go about without risking the mauling of close action. If so, they were wrong. A flag dipped above the Queen Charlotte and the air was split apart by the crash of gunfire. Unlike any broadside, it went on without cease, guns firing and reloading with barely a pause, the bay and the land already covered by drifting smoke.