Alexander Kent - Relentless Pursuit

It was the madness. The moment when risk and caution meant nothing. If anything, he felt light-headed, and knew only that he wanted to kill this man.

A shadow sliced across the smoky, sunshine and he saw the giant reel aside, eyes still blazing as he pitched down the ladder.

The hard man, Campbell, wielding a cutlass with both hands like a claymore, had almost severed his head from his body.

Campbell turned now, showing his mutilated back, the evidence of a dozen or more floggings, with something like a gladiator's triumph.

Adam raised the old sword to him.

"Thank you!"

Campbell, streaked with blood, his own or that of his victims, gave a mock bow.

"Your servant, Cap'n!"

And then, all at once, impossible though it was, it was over. Like a sudden deafness left when the last broadsides have exploded.

Adam grasped the quarterdeck rail and stared along his command. The dead lay where they had dropped, as if they had fallen asleep. Others reached out as grim-faced seamen and marines hurried around and over them: the wretched wounded. A captain's legacy, so that he should not forget.

Midshipman Deighton shouted, "From Flag, sir! Discontinue the action!"

Adam tried to sheathe his sword, but it was sticky with blood. The signal made no sense. Someone had removed the sword and was wiping it clean with a piece of rag.

He looked at Napier and wanted to smile, but his lips would not move. "You did well, David. Your mother…" He made another attempt. "I am proud of you!"

Small but stark pictures stood out. Like those first moments, the waiting. The aftermath was even worse.

Bellairs, sitting on a water barricoe, his face in his hands, the fine sword his parents had given him to mark his commission as lieutenant discarded at his feet, its blade also stained with blood. And now Yovell, coming from below for the first time, from the orlop where he had been helping the surgeon with the wounded and the dying. Staring around, a length of soiled bandage trailing from one pocket. A man wrestling with his beliefs.

And the boats returning alongside, Rist hurrying to the quarterdeck, peering at the planking, pock-marked with musket balls from the enemy's sharpshooters, and at the dark bloodstains where men had stood together and had died. Lastly he had looked at Cristie, the old sailing-master, and remarked almost casually, "You got through it, then?"

And Cristie, looking and feeling his age, who had never quit this deck throughout the attack, had smiled, perhaps because he knew what Rist had expected, and replied, "Got through what, Mr Rist?"

Adam walked to the hammock nettings, his hand feeling the torn canvas where musket balls had cut through the tightly-packed bedding. Some had been meant for him.

The bombardment was over. Through the pall of drifting smoke he could see the freshly set sails: Lord Exmouth's fleet on the move again. Withdrawing. The casualties would be terrible, but not a ship had been lost. On the shore there were fires raging, and the guns were silent. Many must have been buried with their crews when the old fortifications had crumbled under Exmouth's barrage.

He recalled his own relief when he had seen Galbraith being helped aboard, in pain, but quietly determined, like a man who had discovered something in himself which he had not suspected.

And the moment when Galbraith, his wounded shoulders covered by a seaman's jacket, had paused by Varlo, at the place where he had controlled every gun and every man of the full broadside.

Galbraith had said, "You did well."

Varlo had half-smiled, and retorted, "Go to hell!"

And now they were leaving this place. Many vessels had been destroyed or left abandoned. The enemy barque had not been one of them. They would meet again. He gripped the nettings until the pain in his side reawakened. And tomorrow Lord Exmouth would demand that all his previous terms be met. The Dey would have no choice.

He turned away from the smoke and the fires.

"Turn the hands to, Mr Bellairs! We will prepare to get under way.

He stared along the ship yet again. The first in, the last to leave. And they had done it.

He looked at the dead where some had been dragged from the places they had lain to clear the guns' recoil. One was a marine officer, his face covered with a bloodied cloth. Lieutenant Cochrane. Unrivalled was his first ship.

"Move yourselves!" He walked to the rail again. A captain must never show weakness. His authority was his armour. It was all he had.

Bellairs called, "Shall we put them over, sir?"

Adam stared down at him. So simply asked. Was that all it took?

He said, "No. We'll bury them when we clear the land." He saw Yovell watching him. "Perhaps you could read a suitable prayer, Mr Yovell?"

Afterwards, he thought it was like seeing Yovell's despair clear away. Another memory had been sparked. All he needed.

"For all of us, sir."

And tomorrow…

Galbraith straightened his back in spite of the bandage, and said quietly, "Here comes Halcyon."

Adam walked to the opposite side, feeling their eyes following him. The helmsman, Sergeant Bloxham, leaning on a musket on which the bayonet was still fixed. Midshipman Deighton, his telescope still trained on the distant ships, gnawing his lip to make a lie of his composure.

And Jago, watching the slow-moving frigate, feeling her pain. Sharing it. Foremast shot away, sails riddled with holes, the hull gouged by gunfire at close quarters.

Magpie was following astern; she had been in the thick of it, but looked unmarked by comparison.

The second ensign Halcyon had hoisted when the flagship had made the signal Prepare for battle had been lowered to half-mast, for the man who had been Tyacke's midshipman at the Nile, and had loved his ship above all else. Both ship and captain had fought their last fight.

Adam climbed into the shrouds as if something had snapped, releasing him from frozen immobility, and shouted, "A cheer, lads! Give them all you have!"

He waved, and imagined he saw a telescope being trained from Halcyon's splintered quarterdeck.

Then he climbed down and felt Jago's hand steady his arm. It must be the smoke. The fight had continued all afternoon. It would soon be dusk.

He stared around at the damage, his mind dulled by Unrivalled's wild cheering, which Halcyon's people would always remember, even when they were sent to other ships.

He said, "Pipe the hands to the braces, if you please." If only his eyes would stop smarting.

He looked at the anchorage again, already hidden in smoke and shadow.

Unrivalled was the last to leave. As ordered.

And tomorrow…

He heard Jago remark, "Our gig will need more than a couple of new planks when we gets home, sir."

"Yes." He did not trust himself to say more.

Home had a new meaning now.

Jago watched him, and was satisfied.

Like his ship, he thought. Second to None.