Somebody must have got slack, over-confident. The appearance of the second vessel had tipped the balance. He had heard some of the hands exclaim, "There was no need to kill our lads! They could've let 'em run for it!"
Rist knew differently. There would be every need to kill them.
It was when they had arrived in Freetown and the boarding party had been relieved by a military guard from the barracks that it had happened. The big, hard-faced master, Cousens, had called out, "You'll never hold on to us!" Then, as Varlo was climbing into the jollyboat, he had added sharply, "I knows you from somewhere, don't I?" And he had smiled, sneered. "Don't worry, matey, it'll come to me, then we'll see!"
It was unlikely. But it was not impossible. All those years, some he could scarcely remember, others he still tried to forget. It was just possible.
"You have the watch, I believe?"
Rist knew it was Varlo. You couldn't help knowing.
"Sir?"
"Time for Rounds. Send for a bosun's mate and ship's corporal."
Never a please, or offer of thanks. He could smell the drink on his breath too. Maybe he would fall down a ladder and break his poxy neck.
Alhatroz had sailed. They would probably never lay eyes on her again.
He turned as two more figures appeared by the companionway. One was the first lieutenant; the other was Hawkins, the ship's newest and youngest midshipman.
Varlo said, "I'm about to carry out Rounds, Mr Galbraith."
Rist relaxed, muscle by muscle, glad of the interruption. The evening ritual of Rounds, when the lieutenant on duty would inspect all aspects of cleanliness, security and safety. Messdeck to magazines, defaulters, if any, to be inspected also or given extra work.
Galbraith said, "Hands will be called two hours early. Both watches will be fed before the boats are hoisted. Weigh anchor at eight bells."
Rist could almost feel their exchange of glances. No love lost there.
Galbraith continued in a more informal fashion, "And, Mr Hawkins-first time doing Rounds, I hear?" The boy stammered something, and Galbraith said, "Just remember, when you are on the messdeck it is a part of ship, but it is also their home. So show respect, as I'm sure you would elsewhere!"
Rist kept his face straight. For Varlo's benefit, he thought. The boy was too young to know anything.
Galbraith watched the little group move away, and soon he could hear the shrill twitter of the call, and imagined men in their messes, at their scrubbed tables, loose gear stowed away, illegal bottles of hoarded rum well hidden from the officer's prying eye.
Men who would fight and if necessary kill when ordered. Die too, if the cards played a false hand. Tough and hardened men like Isaac Dias, the gun captain who could measure the fall of each shot with accuracy, although he could neither read nor write. And Sullivan, who had been at Trafalgar, and Campbell who seemed to cherish the scars on his hack like battle honours. And youngsters like Napier, the captain's servant, somehow untainted by the violence and crude language around him. He wondered if Adam Bolitho realized what he had done for the boy. It went far beyond hero worship. Or the youth he had seen talking to Rist, who now had work he understood and 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.