Success to the Brave (26 page)

My darling Richard . . .

“See that these letters are put aboard the packet with the others, Yovell.”

Bolitho listened to the squeak of tackles through the cabin skylight, the stamp of feet on deck as another net of fresh food supplies was hoisted above the gangway.

After all the waiting it was difficult to accept that the moment had arrived. Not that time had been allowed to drag on their hands, he considered.

A smart frigate and two bomb-vessels were now anchored below the battery, and a big armed transport had brought more soldiers as promised to reinforce the garrison. He smiled at Lemoine's reaction when a full colonel had taken charge.

“I was just getting a taste for power, sir,” the lieutenant had said.

He heard Allday coming through the dining space and looked up to greet him. Allday had made great strides where his health was concerned and the colour had returned to his face. But he still could not straighten his shoulders, and his smart blue coat with the gilt buttons seemed loose on his big frame.

It must be close on six months since he had been struck down, three since the brig had arrived here with the Admiralty's final instructions on the island's future.

Bolitho said, “It will be spring in England when we reach there. A year since we left.”

He watched Allday's expression but he merely shrugged and replied, “Probably all have blown over by that time, sir.”

“Maybe.”

He was still brooding. More afraid of the land than the hazards at sea. Allday had once told him that an old sailor was like a ship. Once tied up and unwanted, and with nothing useful to do, both were doomed.

And Allday had been a lot younger when he had said it.

Calls shrilled along the upper deck and voices barked commands as some marines marched to the entry port.

Bolitho stood up and waited for Ozzard to bring his dress-coat. The new governor had arrived in San Felipe aboard the frigate. A small, birdlike man, he seemed dull by comparison with Rivers.

His warrant made it clear that Rivers was to take passage in
Achates.
A cruel twist of fate for both of us, Bolitho thought.

As Keen had remarked, “Why this ship, damn his eyes? A plague on the man!”

Ozzard patted the gold-laced coat into place and eyed the epaulettes with professional interest. He reached for the fine presentation sword on its rack but dropped his hands as Bolitho gave a quick shake of the head.

He waited for Allday to take the sword and clip it to his belt. As he had always done.

Bolitho had written to Belinda about Allday's courage and the price he had paid for it. She, better than anyone, would know what to do. In a fast packet his letters would reach home long before
Achates.

“Thank you. I shall go and meet our, er, guest.”

He glanced quickly round the cabin but Ozzard had already gone.

“Ready, Allday?”

Allday made to straighten his back but Bolitho said, “Not yet. It takes time.” He watched his despair. “As it did when I nearly died, remember? When you cared for me every hour of the day?”

He saw something of the old sparkle in Allday's eyes.

“I'll not forget that, sir.”

Bolitho nodded, moved by Allday's pleasure at the memory.

“Flag at the fore, remember that too? I'll see you an admiral's coxswain yet, you scoundrel!”

They went on deck together and Bolitho saw Rivers waiting by the entry port flanked by an escort of soldiers. He wore manacles on his wrists, and Lieutenant Lemoine, who was in charge, said hastily, “My colonel's orders, sir.”

Bolitho nodded impassively. “Sir Humphrey is under my protection, Mr Lemoine. There will be no irons here.”

He saw Rivers' look of extraordinary gratitude and shock. Then he watched as his eyes moved up the foremast truck where the flag lifted in a fresh breeze. As a vice-admiral himself he was probably hanging on to this moment as his other world fell in ruins.

“Thank you for that, Bolitho.”

Bolitho saw Keen frowning in the background and said, “It is all and also the least I can do.”

Rivers looked across at the waterfront. People had flocked there to watch him leave. No cheers, no rebukes either. San Felipe was that sort of place, Bolitho thought. With a stormy past and a future just as uncertain.

Why should I care? Even feel sorry for the man, he wondered? A traitor, a respectable pirate who had caused too many deaths because of his own selfish greed. Rivers had two sons in London, so it was likely he would be well defended at his trial. He might even talk his way out of it. After all, if war came, the island's security owed much to him, whatever the true reasons had been.

In his heart Bolitho knew that the real blame lay with powerful men in London. Who had allowed Rivers to extend his role here for his own advantage.

Keen watched Rivers being escorted below and said, “I'd have put him in the cells.”

Bolitho smiled. “When you've been a prisoner, Val, and I hope that never happens to you, you'll understand.”

Keen grinned, unabashed. “But
until
then, sir, I don't have to like him!”

Ferrier, the senior midshipman, touched his hat to Keen.

“Mr Tyrrell's come aboard, sir.”

Bolitho turned. He had imagined that Tyrrell had stayed ashore for most of the time since
Vivid
's loss because he did not want to talk about it. Or, independent to the end, he had been seeking a berth in some other vessel.

He had heard
Achates
was sailing very soon. The whole island seemed to know. There would likely be a few more babies on the plantations, black and white, after
Achates
had crossed the ocean. It was good to hear the seamen calling out to the people in the boats in the harbour and along the waterfront. The yards of the ships were festooned with coloured streamers, and every inch of space had been filled with fresh fruit and gifts from the islanders who had once hated and feared them.

He saw Tyrrell's shaggy head appear above the ladder to the quarterdeck and walked to meet him.

“Thought I'd make a quick farewell, Dick. To you an' the youngster. Next time he an' I meet he'll be a post-cap'n.”

Like Allday, he was finding it hard, and at any second he would blunder away on the wooden pin which he hated so much.

Bolitho tried to gauge the moment, knowing that any careful speech would be taken as charity, even condescension.

“Will you go back home now, Jethro?”

“Got no home. All gone, dammit, I told you!” He relented immediately. “Sorry about that. Bein' with you again has unsettled me quite a bit.”

“Me too.”

“Really?” Tyrrell stared at him, wary of a lie.

“I was thinking . . .” Bolitho saw Knocker from the corner of his eye hurry to the first lieutenant, who in turn looked at the captain. Bolitho knew why. He had felt the shift of wind on his cheek even as he had been speaking with Rivers. It was not much, but with the winds here so perverse it must not be wasted. But just as when Ferrier had come to tell him about the brig's arrival, so now he would not break the spell by looking up at the mast-head pendant. He continued, “There's England, you know.”

Tyrrell threw back his head and laughed. “Hell, man, what are you sayin'? What would I do over there?”

Bolitho looked past him at the shore. “Your father came from Bristol. I recall you telling me. It's not all that far from Cornwall, from us.”

Tyrrell watched the sudden activity as the relaxation on deck changed to purpose and movement. He knew all the signs. A ship leaving was nothing new. But homeward bound . . .

He said desperately, “I'm a
cripple,
Dick, what th' hell use am I?”

“There are plenty of ships in the West Country.” He dropped his voice. “Like
Vivid.
”

He saw Keen moving nearer. It could not wait.

Bolitho said, “Anyway, I want you to come.”

Tyrrell gazed around as if he could not trust his own judgement.

“I'd work my passage, I'd insist on that!”

Bolitho smiled gravely. “It's settled then.”

They shook hands and Tyrrell said, “By God, I'll do it!” Bolitho turned to his flag-captain.

“You may get the ship under way when it suits.”

Keen yelled, “Hoist all boats inboard! Both watches of the hands, Mr Quantock!”

He looked at Bolitho and the one-legged man by the quarterdeck rail and shook his head.

Men were dashing aloft and out along the yards, and with her capstan manned
Achates
shed her ties with the land and moved slowly out to her anchor.

Adam said excitedly, “Hear them, Jethro? They're cheering us!”

Along the waterfront the handkerchiefs waved and voices echoed across the water as the great capstan continued to clink round.

Tyrrell nodded. “Aye, lad, this time they are.”

Captain Dewar marched across the deck and touched his hat with a flourish.

Keen caught the mood too. “Very well, Major, you may play us out if that was what you were about to suggest?”

Bolitho found that he was gripping the worn rail with unusual force. He had seen it all before countless times, but somehow this was quite different.

“Anchor's hove short, sir!”

“Loose the heads'ls!”

Bolitho turned and saw Allday beside him.
His right arm.

“Man the braces there!” Quantock strode about, his head jutting forward, immersed for the moment in the complexities of his trade.

“Anchor's aweigh, sir!”

It was not a blustery departure, with the ship heeling over under a pyramid of canvas. With all the dignity of her years
Achates
swung slowly across the wind, the sunlight glancing off her figurehead, the armour-bearer, and along her sealed gunports and freshly painted tumblehome.

“Get the t'gan's'ls on her, Mr Scott! Your division are like old women today!”

The sails hardened and shivered at their yards, and with barely a ripple below her dolphin-striker
Achates
glided towards the harbour mouth.

Bolitho watched the narrow strip of water. It looked no wider than a farm gate. A glance at Keen's tense features told him that he was remembering that wild charge through it in total darkness.

“Steady as you go!” That was Knocker. Even he seemed different as he called, “Mr Tyrrell, you may be able to offer some local knowledge. If so, I'd be obliged.”

Here was the fortress. The sloping track where the marine drummer had died, where Rivers had made his greatest mistake.

The flag above the old battery dipped in salute and Bolitho saw a line of redcoats on the jetty, bayonets fixed, colours lowered, as
Achates
' topgallant sails made little patches of shadow on the fortress wall.

Allday murmured, “They'll not forget
Old Katie
in a hurry.”

He turned his head to listen as the small cluster of fifers and drummers broke into
The Sailor and His Lass.

Once Bolitho saw him thrust one hand to his wound, and then he removed it from his fine blue jacket and laid it on the rail beside his.

As if, like the island, he was leaving the pain astern.

16 THE
S
ECRET

B
OLITHO
walked up the slippery planking and gripped the netting at the weather-side of the quarterdeck.

The ship was plunging and shuddering as rank after rank of waves surged against her quarter in an unbroken attack.

Bolitho watched as the bows dropped yet again and the sea thundered over the forecastle and cascaded along the upper gun-deck like a flood, breaking over the guns before surging away through the scuppers until the next onslaught.

In spite of the savage movement and damp discomfort Bolitho felt a sense of exhilaration, the nearest thing he could remember since his last command as post-captain.

How different was the Atlantic's grey face to the waters around San Felipe. Lines of angry, rearing waves, their crests like broken yellow teeth.

Achates
was making the best of this unexpected storm under jib and close-reefed topsails and was as steady as could be expected. Nevertheless, during the time he had been on deck Bolitho had seen the boatswain and his men floundering amongst the surging water to secure lashings on boats and guns, or to fight their way aloft to repair broken cordage.

Keen was here too, his tarpaulin coat flying in the wind as he bent over the compass and had a shouted conversation with the master.

How perverse the weather had been since the day they had set sail from San Felipe. The breeze had dropped almost as soon as the island had vanished below the horizon. They had been becalmed for days before they had been able to spread more sails again. It had taken more time then to recover what they had lost on the lazy currents and tides.

Now, deep into the Atlantic, they were seeing its other face. The ship was standing up well in spite of her repairs, many of which had been makeshift because of the lack of a dockyard. It was just as well, he thought grimly. The nearest land was Bermuda some two hundred miles to the north-west.

Here was another. He held his breath as the sea boiled over the weather-gangway and swept some seamen aside like twigs on a flooded stream. He looked up at the tightly braced yards, the reefed canvas like grey metal in the dim light.

Stooping shadows waited for the right moment before dashing from one handhold to the next. A few noticed him at the weather-side and probably thought him crazy for leaving his fine quarters.

Keen staggered towards him, his face shining with spray.

“Mr Knocker says it cannot last more than another day, sir.” He ducked as a solid sheet of water deluged over the quarterdeck and ran down the ladders on either side.

“How is Sir Humphrey taking to all this?”

Keen watched two of his men as they dragged some fresh cordage towards the mainmast in readiness to haul it aloft to the topsail yard. He relaxed slightly as they scampered into the ratlines before the next incoming sea could sweep them away or smash them senseless into one of the guns.

He shouted, “Well enough, sir! He spends much of his time writing.”

Bolitho tucked his chin into his cloak as the spray and spin-drift dashed down from the poop. Preparing his defence. Making a last will and testament. Probably just to keep his mind away from the miles as they dragged beneath
Achates
' scarred keel.

The officer-of-the-watch moved hand over hand along the quarterdeck rail and yelled, “Time to call the first dog-watch, sir!”

Keen grinned into the storm. “God, it looks more like midnight!”

Bolitho left him and groped his way aft beneath the poop, where by contrast it seemed almost quiet, the sounds of sea and wind muffled and held at bay by the ship's massive oak timbers.

But in the cabin it was just as lively, with water spurting through the sealed gunports and the gallery on the weather-quarter. Every lantern swung in a wild dance, and the cabin furniture did all it could to tear itself from Ozzard's storm-lashings.

Ozzard appeared from his pantry and clung to the screen for support. His face was pale green, and Bolitho did not have the heart to ask him for something hot to drink.

“How is Allday?”

Ozzard gulped. “Resting, sir. In his hammock. He had a large tot of—” But even the memory of the neat rum was too much and he fled, retching, for the door.

Bolitho went into his sleeping-cabin and grasped the side of his swaying cot. Where Allday had almost died.

He waited for the deck to rise again and then hoisted himself, fully clothed, into the cot.

He hated being out of things, it was the part of his flag-rank which he found least acceptable. Strategy was one thing, but at times like these, as the ship fought her natural enemy without respite, he felt little better than a passenger.

Bolitho kicked off his shoes and grimaced at the shadows which loomed and died around him like macabre dancers.

But if the ship foundered, passenger or not, it would be better if the people saw their vice-admiral fully dressed.

During that night the storm blew itself out and the wind, although still strong, veered to the south and enabled Keen to set more sails and his men to carry on with their repairs. Between decks the trapped water and scattered possessions were cleared away, and when breakfast was piped the galley funnel was pumping out its usual plume of thick, greasy smoke.

Bolitho sat at his table, drinking scalding coffee and munching thin strips of pork fried pale in biscuit crumbs. It was one of his favourite meals at sea, and none could serve it better than Ozzard.

Despite the foul weather and unavoidable delays they should sight the Lizard, the southernmost tip of Cornwall, in fourteen days.

He was surprised that it should make him feel so nervous, unsure of himself. All he had longed and hoped for and yet he was as unsettled as a callow midshipman.

He got up and walked to the mirror above his desk. He was a year older. The lock of hair which hid the cruel scar above his right eye was still black, and yet he was sure there were some small grey strands too. He tried to shrug it off. The youngest vice-admiral on the List, apart from Our Nel, that is. But he found no consolation. He was forty-six and Belinda ten years his junior. Suppose . . .

Bolitho turned almost gratefully as Keen entered the cabin, his hat beneath his arm.

“Have some coffee, Val, what—” He saw the grim expression on Keen's face and asked, “Trouble?”

Keen nodded. “The masthead has reported drifting wreckage to the nor'-east. Victim of the storm, I expect, sir.”

“Yes.” He pulled on his faded sea-going coat. “Not the packet which set sail before us?”

“No, sir. It would mean too much drift.” He watched Bolitho curiously. “If we change tack to examine the remains we will lose valuable time, sir.”

Bolitho bit his lip. He had once seen a drifting boat with only one man alive in it. All the rest were corpses. He thought of little Evans, how he must have felt in his drifting boat, his ship gone, his companions wounded and dying around him. What must it be like? The last one alive, like the man he had seen all those years ago?

He said, “There's always a chance, Val. Alter course and send a boat away when you consider it near enough.”

An hour later, as
Achates
shortened sail and tacked uncomfortably close to the wind, the quarter-boat pulled swiftly towards the great spread of bobbing flotsam and broken timbers.

It had seemed an eternity before they got near enough to examine the storm's success. In such Atlantic weather it seemed likely that several ships had shared this one's fate.

Bolitho had stood on the poop with a telescope and had watched the remains spreading out across
Achates
' bows, tragic and pathetic.

She had not been very large, he thought. She had probably been struck by one gigantic wave across her unprotected poop, driven over before she could recover.

Keen lowered his glass. “There's a boat, sir!”

Bolitho moved his own glass and stared at the swamped, listing thing which had once been a longboat.

Keen exclaimed, “They're alive! Two of them anyway!”

Lieutenant Scott, who was in charge of the quarter-boat, was already urging his oarsmen to greater efforts as he sighted the survivors.

Bolitho heard Tyrrell's wooden stump on the wet planking and asked, “What do you make of it, Jethro?”

Tyrrell did not even hesitate. “She's a Frenchie. Or was.”

Keen steadied his glass and said excitedly, “You're right! They're no merchant sailors either!”

Bolitho saw Tuson and his mates waiting by the entry port, a tackle being rigged to haul the survivors aboard.

Bolitho asked, “Who speaks the best French in
Achates?
”

Keen did not falter. “Mr Mansel, the purser. Used to be in the wine trade before the war.”

Bolitho smiled. He had heard slightly differently, and that Mansel had in fact been a smuggler.

“Well, tell him to be ready. We may be able to discover what happened.”

There were ten survivors in all. Knocked, dazed and half-blinded by the mountainous seas, they had lost hope of rescue so far from land. Their vessel had been the brig
La Prudente,
outward-bound from Lorient to Martinique. Their commander had been swept overboard, and their senior lieutenant had managed to clear away one boat before he too had died from a blow on the head from some falling wreckage. The dead lieutenant was still in the boat, his face very white beneath the water which filled it almost to the gunwales.

The coxswain of the quarter-boat yelled, “Shall I cast 'er off, sir?”

But Lieutenant Scott snatched a boat-hook and dragged the dead lieutenant towards him.

The survivors must have been too shocked and weak to push their officer over the side, Bolitho thought. He watched them being carried and helped to a companion-way. They still did not seem to know what was happening.

Keen said, “Mr Scott has found something, sir.”

He could not hide his eagerness to get under way again, to fight back to their original track.

The dead officer rose above the gangway, water running from his mouth and his uniform as he swung above the gun-deck like a felon on the gallows.

Scott hurried aft and touched his hat. “He had this tied to his waist, sir. I saw it when the boat tilted over.”

Bolitho looked at Keen. It was like robbing the dead. The French lieutenant lay on the deck, his arms and legs stretched out, one eye part open as if the light was too strong for him. Black Joe Langtry, the master-at-arms, covered the corpse with a piece of canvas, but not before he had removed a pistol from the man's belt. It had probably been his only means of maintaining some order on that terrible night when his ship had been overwhelmed.

Keen said, “All the same, sir. Lorient to Martinique.”

Bolitho nodded. “My thoughts entirely.”

It took a few moments to open the thick canvas envelope and break the imposing scarlet seals.

Bolitho watched the purser's lips move as he scanned the carefully worded despatch which was addressed to the admiral in command of the West Indies Fleet at Fort de France.

No wonder the dead lieutenant had tried to save the package.

The purser looked up from the table, uncomfortable under their combined gaze.

He said, “As near as I can tell, sir, it says that upon receipt of these orders hostilities against England and her possessions will be resumed immediately.”

Keen stared at Bolitho. “That's near enough for me!”

Bolitho walked to the stern windows and watched the quarter-boat being warped round in readiness for hoisting. It gave him time to think, to weigh chance and coincidence against a small act of humanity.

He said, “For once a storm was a friend to us, Val.”

Keen watched as Bolitho tipped a handful of pistol balls from the envelope, to carry it to the sea-bed rather than let it fall into the wrong hands. But the lieutenant had been killed before he could act, and his men had been too ignorant or too frightened to care.

Keen said, “So it's no longer just a threat. It's war.”

Bolitho smiled gravely. “At least we know something which others do not. That is always an advantage.”

With her yards retrimmed and her helm hard over
Achates
turned her jib-boom away from the drifting pattern of flotsam and the waterlogged boat which would sink in the next storm.

That evening at dusk the dead lieutenant was buried with full honours.

Bolitho watched with Adam and Allday close by as Keen said a few prayers before the corpse was dropped alongside.

The next Frenchman they met would not be so peaceful, Bolitho thought.

“Well, Sir Humphrey, I believe you wish to speak with me.” Bolitho kept his tone level but was shocked to see the change in Rivers' appearance and demeanour. He looked ten years older, and his shoulders were bowed as if he was carrying a great burden.