Relentless Pursuit Read Free Page B

aboard. Small, real things. They also reminded him that he had not eaten since yesterday.
    He said abruptly, “Men. We must get more hands. We can train them.” Almost bitterly it came out. “We shall have all the time we need!”
    â€œI’ve done what I can with the watch bills, sir. A mixture of old and new hands in each part of ship.”
    Adam said, “I am told that we may attract some experienced hands in Penzance.” He looked at the stern windows again, trying to accept it. “One of the big packet companies has been forced to give way to competition. With so many trained seamen tossed on the beach they can pick and choose, it would seem!” He made another attempt. “I have obtained some posters. Usher can deal with it.”
    He stared at the small empty table by the screen door, where Usher his clerk had always sat, quiet and attentive, making notes and copying letters and orders, a handkerchief always balled in one fist, trying valiantly to stifle the coughs. A nervous man who had once been a purser’s assistant, he had seemed totally out of place in the crowded confines of a fighting ship.
    His lungs had been diseased, all too common in a man-of-war. As the surgeon had put it, Usher had been dying a day at a time.
    â€œForgive me.” It was as if he had spoken to the little clerk, who had finally died on their passage back from Gibraltar, within a day’s sighting of the Cornish coast.
    They had buried him at sea. There were no details of home or relatives. He stared at the curved beams and the reflection of the black and white checkered deck covering. This ship had been Usher’s home, too.
    He thought suddenly, painfully, of the big grey house in Falmouth, people crowding around, kindness, warmth, and curiosity.
    He touched the sword at his hip and then unclipped it. The constant reminder, if he had needed one, like all the old portraits in the house, the watching faces, some with ships in the background, some not. But always the sword.
    How empty the house had seemed. Bryan Ferguson had been overjoyed to see him, and had tried not to disturb him with the signing of papers relating to the estate and the farms, the people who had always known there was a Bolitho to care for them, or his lady when he was at sea. Now there were only memories.
    He had intended to make the journey to Fallowfield to visit the little inn, The Old Hyperion, but Ferguson had persuaded him against it. The roads were deeply rutted, unsafe; he had seen ice for himself in the place where roses would bloom again in the new year. Catherine’s roses.
    Or had Ferguson been afraid of the effect on Allday if they had met so unexpectedly? Or on me?
    Galbraith saw the play of emotions on his captain’s face. Like a young colt, someone had once described him. Hair so dark that it was almost black, a mouth which could be determined, even hard. Equally, it could show a rare sensitivity. As it had now, at the mention of Usher’s name. That was the true difference. He cared for these people he led and commanded; in some ships Galbraith had known, it was not always the same thing. Abrupt, impatient, stubborn, Adam Bolitho had revealed each mood throughout the months they had served together. But Galbraith felt privileged to have sometimes seen the other side to this youthful copy of the famous Richard Bolitho, and to have shared it.
    Adam said, “I shall leave you to take charge of recruiting parties. Remember, we are looking for men, not begging for them.” He smiled quickly. “That was unnecessary, Leigh. I am bad company today.”
    Galbraith was about to reply when he sensed something like an unspoken warning. Adam Bolitho had originally come from Penzance, or very close to it. Was that the reason for his dismissal of the task?
    He said, “I can deal with it, sir. Our marines will put on a good display.”
    Adam scarcely heard him. “I saw the Flag Officer,