Relentless Pursuit by Alexander Kent

windows, feeling the deck tilt more steeply. The wind. But when he thrust open one of the windows he felt the air on his face and chest, like the door of an open furnace.
    He stared at the blue water, the small ridge of crests breaking towards the ship. Little slivers of silver too, flying fish, so there would be sharks as well. Something else for the new men to get used to. Not many could swim if they fell overboard.
    It was like sailing into nowhere. His orders were vague, to be interpreted by the senior officer at Freetown, or by the Crown Agent, as the new appointment was grandly called. Probably a civilian, and conferred as a reward or an escape.
    He walked away from the glare and then paused abruptly by the desk again.
    â€œWhat was that?”
    Yovell peered up at him. “I heard nothing, sir.”
    Adam listened to the sounds of rigging and the occasional thud of the great rudder.
    He clenched his fists. Sailing into nowhere.
    Feet outside, then the marine sentry’s call. “First Lieutenant, sir! ”
    Galbraith entered, his forehead reddened where his hat had been jammed down to shade his eyes.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    Galbraith glanced at Yovell, as if to share it.
    â€œMasthead, sir. Sail on the larboard bow. Standing away.”
    Adam wanted to swallow, to moisten his mouth. He could do neither.
    He said, “Call the hands, Leigh. Get the t’gallants on her. My compliments to Mr Cristie. I’d like him in the chartroom without delay.” He looked at him calmly. “It could be any vessel.” It was infectious; even Yovell was nodding and beaming.
    Galbraith grinned. “I think not, sir!”
    Adam snatched up his notes and strode to the screen door, but stopped and looked aft again, where Yovell remained hunched at the desk in silhouette against the dazzling blue backdrop.
    He said simply, “When next you have the will to pray, my friend, I’d be grateful if you’d speak for me.”
    Then he was gone, and for the first time since he could remember, Daniel Yovell was guilty of pride.
    Lieutenant George Varlo jumped down from the mizzen shrouds, his shirt blackened with tar. Everyone on watch was busy about his duties, like badly rehearsed players, he thought angrily. Careful to avoid his eyes, and no doubt amused by his stained and dishevelled appearance.
    He looked up at the topgallant sails, free and bulging now to the steady north-westerly, such as it was, the seamen already sliding down backstays to the deck while the landmen and novices took a slower but safer route by the ratlines, urged on by threats and yells as one mast vied with the other.
    The masthead pendant was licking out towards the southern horizon, and Varlo could feel the ship coming to life again, dipping her lee bulwark towards the water.
    The masthead lookout had reported a sail, somewhere out there beyond the larboard bow. Miles away; even by climbing up into the weather shrouds Varlo had been unable to see it. A desert of glaring water. And even if the lookout was not mistaken . . .
    He turned and saw Galbraith climbing through the companion hatchway. Strong, dependable, and as popular as any first lieutenant could safely be, he thought. And yet they were rivals, and would remain strangers through this or any other commission.
    Galbraith strode to the compass and consulted it after checking the new display of canvas, Unrivalled ’s skyscrapers, as the old hands termed them. The first thing you ever saw of a friend or an enemy, cutting above the horizon’s edge.
    Varlo was twenty-six years old. He glanced at Midshipman Hawkins, the newest and youngest member of the gunroom, a baby, the one with the beautiful sextant which the master had admired. Impossible to believe he had ever been so shallow, so ignorant even of the basic terms of seamanship and naval discipline. He moved to the side again and felt his shoes sticking to the deck seams, his stained shirt clinging like another