He looked up at the topgallant sails, free and bulging now to the steady northwesterly, 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 how. 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 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.
"Man the braces! Stir yourselves!"
Bolitho took a telescope from the rack and glanced briefly at Varlo.
"If he runs, we can head him off."
Varlo watched him as he trained the glass to windward, sidestepping as some seamen hustled 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.
"Deck there! She's makin' more sail!"
"Then 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 noticed that one of them had been flogged. But he was sharing the moment with his mates. Men he knew and trusted. Perhaps the only ones.
Varlo swung away, angry with himself. There was no comparison.
"Mr Varlo?" Adam Bolitho did not move nearer nor did he appear to lower his glass. "I suggest you go below and seek out a clean shirt."
Varlo saw Galbraith turn, suddenly stiff-backed. Surprised? Shocked? Then Bolitho did look at him, frowning. "It may be nothing, but we have to know what this vessel is about. Whatever we do, we shall be unpopular, both with those who are making money out of slavery and those who are losing it because of us." He smiled. "You are the King's man today, Mr Varlo. Dress accordingly." He levelled the glass again. "My cabin servant will give you one of mine if you are in need. Believe me, I have not forgotten the failings of the wardroom messmen!"
Varlo swallowed hard. He did not know what to say. Even Galbraith seemed taken aback.
Varlo tried again. "I'm to board her, sir?"
Bolitho's jaw tightened, then he said, almost lightly, "Take the jollyboat. I suggest you have Mr Rist with you. He is an old dog when it comes to a search!"
He handed, almost tossed, the telescope to Midshipman Hawkins and said, "I saw her." He glanced around the quarterdeck, embracing them. "Albatroz, as I thought it might be!"
Varlo had one foot on the companion ladder when the voice stopped him.
"Take care. Be on your guard when you board her."
Varlo ducked his head below the coaming and did not hear Galbraith say, "I could go over to her, sir."
Nor did he hear the quiet but incisive answer.
"Perhaps you are too experienced, eh, Leigh? Nly responsibility, remember?"
He saw Jago at the weather ladder, one foot on the top step, his head turning as if searching for danger.
Adam said, "A different war, my friends, but just as deadly to those who must fight it."
Afterwards Galbraith thought he had been speaking to himself. And the ship.
5. The Haunted And The Damned
ADAM BOLITHO could not recall how many times he had climbed into the weather shrouds to obtain a better view of the brigantine, or how long it had been since the other vessel had been sighted. He had played with the idea of going aloft where Sullivan, the eagle-eyed lookout, was watching the performance of both vessels in comparative comfort.
But there was no time. It had to be soon. The wind had freshened still more, and he could feel the ease with which Unrivalled's hull was ploughing over and through the new array of shallow rollers.