Relentless Pursuit by Alexander Kent Page A

skin.
    He thought suddenly of his father. It was common enough over all the years of war for families to be separated, held together only by memory and the occasional letter. His father had been a post-captain, and one of considerable merit. Varlo accepted that he had learned more about him from others who had known or served with him; when he considered it, he realised that he had probably only seen his father half a dozen times in his life, if that. Grave, overwhelming in some ways, warmly human at other times. Each like a separate portrait. Different.
    His father had died in a ship-to-ship action in the West Indies nearly ten years ago. It was still hard to believe. He had not lived long enough to be proud of his only son when he had eventually been commissioned.
    He heard someone say, “Captain’s coming up, sir.”
    He felt it again. Like an unquenchable anger. Would they have warned me?
    He waited while Captain Bolitho checked the wind direction and studied the set of every sail.
    Old Cristie had come up with the captain, his expression giving nothing away. He was the same in the wardroom. Like an oracle: while some of the others chatted emptily about the possibilities of prize-money, or moving to a better station, he remained aloof. Unless he was with his charts, or like now, gauging the captain’s mood, like those of the wind and tide.
    Varlo had found nobody he could talk to, or meet at what he considered a like level. Not O’Beirne, the surgeon, the listener, who hoarded information and indiscreet revelations perhaps for some future yarn, or one of his endless Irish jokes. Nor Lieutenant Bellairs, who was keen and very conscious of his new rank. Still a midshipman at heart. Like Cristie, the other senior warrant officers who shared the wardroom and its privileges, because of their circumstances were kept apart. And there was Galbraith. Brave and obviously respected, but yearning for a command of his own. A rival, then.
    He heard the captain say suddenly, “Masthead lookout?”
    And Galbraith’s immediate reply. Expecting it. “Sullivan, sir.”
    Bolitho said, “I wonder . . .” He looked at Cristie. “Bring her up two points. If the wind holds . . .” Again he left it unsaid.
    â€œMan the braces! Stir yourselves!”
    Bolitho took a telescope from the rack and glanced briefly at Varlo.
    â€œIf he runs, we can head him off.”
    Varlo watched him as he trained the glass to windward, sidestepping as some seamen bustled past him, gasping with exertion as they hauled at the mizzen braces, the marines clumping along with them.
    Varlo had heard most of the stories surrounding the captain. About his famous uncle, killed aboard his flagship at the moment of Napoleon’s escape from Elba, and of his father, Captain Hugh Bolitho, a traitor to his country who had fought with the Revolutionary Navy of America.
    Not married, but it was said that he was popular with women. Gossip, but where was the man? As calm and unruffled as he now appeared, turning to smile as a young seaman cannoned into a corporal of marines and paused to apologise. The marine, who was built like a cliff and had probably felt nothing, answered with equal formality, “One ’and for the King, matey!”
    Spray spattered over the quarterdeck nine-pounders, to dry instantly in the unwavering sun.
    â€œDeck there! She’s makin’ more sail!”
    â€œThen so shall we. Set the forecourse, Mr Galbraith. More hands on the main brace.” He looked round briefly as the helmsman called, “East by south, sir! Full an’ bye!”
    Unrivalled was taking it well, her weather rail rising to the horizon and remaining there, the great shadow of the forecourse spreading and darkening the scurrying figures at sheets and braces.
    A good wind, across the larboard quarter. More spray, and Varlo saw some seamen twist their half-naked bodies, grinning as it soaked them like rain. He