could usefully do in the chart room. In some ways, an escape from the past which must still haunt him.
He frowned. And Rist himself. He had probably worked more closely with him than anyone. Except the captain…
But Rist was still a stranger despite their mutual respect.
He leaned back on his heels and peered up at the masthead, the pendant barely visible against the banks of stars and patches of cloud.
But he could feel it. The ship beneath his feet. The shrouds and running rigging, the blocks clicking and rattling quietly in the offshore breeze. And breeze was all it amounted to.
Tomorrow might change everything. He thought of Varlo. A man he would never know, and he realised it was mostly his own fault. He was the first lieutenant. Messdeck or wardroom, hero or villain, he was supposed to be able to assess each man's value, as well as his weakness.
Varlo had been a flag officer's aide. He should have had his life and career at his feet. Something had gone badly wrong. It was said that another officer had died because of it. A fight, a duel, an accident? Perhaps even the captain did not know.
Varlo's admiral had obviously thought enough of him to arrange his appointment to Unrivalled, at a time when such chances were almost impossible to come by. Or perhaps, and he knew he was being unfair again, perhaps the admiral had done it to rid himself of any possible embarrassment?
He recalled the captain's return on board after his visit to the headquarters building, just over there across the black water. RearAdmiral Herrick… Galbraith had scarcely heard of him. Except that he had known Sir Richard Bolitho, and had once faced a court martial for misconduct and neglect of duty.
It was little enough to go on. Perhaps Captain Bolitho had summed it up when he had told him about the new orders.
'I'll not be sorry to see the back of Freetown, Leigh. Let's get to sea again!'
In his way, he had spoken for the whole ship.
8. Direct Action
CAPTAIN Adam Bolitho shaded his eyes to peer up at the flapping driver and the masthead pendant. He could feel the deck shudder as the rudder responded slowly to the thrust of wind, the helm creaking while the bare- backed seamen put their weight on the spokes.
'Hold her steady!' That was Cristie, his eyes flitting from compass to flapping topsails. 'Nor'-east by north!'
Adam let his arms drop to his sides, his mind blurred by the heat, the slow response from the tall pyramid of canvas, and always, always aware of the monotonous coastline. The Gulf of Guinea again, and it had taken them nearly two weeks to work into position, a cross on the chart south of the Niger delta and some two hundred miles north of the notorious St Thomas Island, where slaves could be loaded and shipped with impunity once they had been brought from the mainland.
A handful of vessels, stretched across the approaches and the escape routes like the noose of a trap. On a chart it was easier to see Turnbull's strategy. Tyacke's Kestrel was in position to the east, Unrivalled on the western side, while in between, and trying to maintain contact with one another, were the brigs and schooners which made up the flotilla.
'Take the slack off the lee forebrace, Mr Fielding! Your people are like old women today!'
Galbraith's voice, unusually sharp. Adam walked to the nettings and stared at the empty sea. It was even affecting his first lieutenant. The endless strain of wearing ship, altering course a degree or so throughout every watch, just to gain a cupful of wind. The seamen were responding well enough, but boredom, the barely edible food, salt pork or beef from the cask, and the need to conserve water were taking their toll. The usual water casks, where a man could snatch a mug or wipe his mouth to give an illusion of refreshment, were gone, and marine sentries were posted below decks to ensure that the daily ration was strictly observed.
Adam turned slightly to allow the warm breeze to fan his body through the open shirt. He wondered how the commodore was managing aboard the topsail schooner Paradox, 'the flagship,' he had heard some of the older hands scornfully call it. No matter what shortages they had aboard Paradox, he imagined Turnbull always clean and smartly turned out.
He thought about Paradox's captain also. Galbraith had discovered from someone or somewhere that his name was Hastilow, a lieutenant, and like many of his contemporaries on this station senior for his rank. He and Finlay, his secondin-command, had been together for two years. On this station that must be an eternity. Like brothers, Galbraith had heard. So like the navy, Adam thought; there was always someone who knew, or who had been told a piece of the whole story. Hastilow was also dedicated, as if the antislavery campaign had become something personal. It was not difficult to imagine how he would be feeling now.
He saw Lieutenant Varlo walking along the starboard battery of eighteenpounders, gun by gun, with Williams, a gunner's mate, at his side. He thought he saw Williams glance up at Galbraith as they passed. Williams was good, and with Rist had been on the island raid when the chebecks had been destroyed. They were closer than some of the others because of that. Unconsciously, he clenched a fist. When I risked this ship.
The helmsmen were being relieved, the last topmen sliding down backstays to the deck, their work aloft done. Until the next pipe.
Adam looked at the unending panorama of glittering water again. No wonder men driven to desperation had been persuaded by the ever-lurking devil to slake their thirst from the sea. He had seen two men die, mad and unrecognisable, after doing just that.
And there was always the other temptation. At night, when the ship offered a hint of cooler air, and the sounds were muffled by the cabin timbers, there was no law to prevent a captain from drinking too much in a different way, but one no less dangerous in the end.
And night brought other forms of torment. Lying naked in his cot, his limbs bathed in sweat, and unable to sleep, listening and interpreting every sound, no matter how small and unimportant. As if the ship were driving herself, indifferent to all the souls she carried.
And in sleep there were dreams, one in particular. The girl, beckoning and arousing him, sometimes speaking his name, reaching out. Mocking him. Only the faces remained blurred, uncertain. Zenoria or Catherine, neither of whom had ever been his to love, or even the desirable Lady Bazeley, Rozanne, who had taken and responded with a fierceness of passion which had surprised, perhaps shocked them both.
He thought of the little tablet in the church at Penzance. Or perhaps my own mother? At such times he had been thankful that Napier had taken to locking the cabinet where the cognac was stowed.
He paced slowly aft, his feet avoiding flaked lines and ringbolts without conscious effort. He pictured his aunt, dear Nancy, reading the letter he had put ashore in Freetown. Trying to imagine what we are doing here, sharing it as she had done with others in her family. While we shall be tacking up and down, week in, week out. Going slightly mad, and wondering why we do it.
Or we might all be dead by the time she reads it.
'Deck there! Sail on the starboard bow!'
Men about to creep into the shadow of gangway or bulwark, or those who had just been relieved from trimming the great yards and now making for the messdeck's brief refuge, paused and stared up at the masthead.
Friend, enemy, prize or victim, it did not matter. They were no longer alone on this blistering ocean.
Adam returned to the quarterdeck rail.
'Must be looking for us, Leigh. She'd have run by now otherwise.' He was thinking aloud, only partly aware of the listening, watching faces, tanned or burned raw by the sun. 'We shall alter course two points to starboard. It will make it easier for our friend to converge on us. He'll be finding less wind than we have under our coat-tails at present.'
He grinned, and felt his lips crack as if the effort had drawn blood. But it was infectious.
Some wag called, 'Moight be 'nother prize, Cap'n! Fair shares this toime!'
Others laughed and punched their friends' arms, something which only seconds ago would have been answered with a genuine blow.
