There was more than one way of fighting a war than spilling blood in the cannon’s mouth. But it did not feel right, and left him uneasy. Only pride sustained him. In his men, and those like Dalmaine who had put their sailors first. And the one called Laker, who had fought shoulder-to-shoulder with his friends, simply because it meant far more to him and to them than any flag or the cause.
He allowed his mind to touch on England, and wondered what Belinda was doing with her time in London.
But like a salt-blurred telescope her picture would not settle or form clearly, and he felt a pang of guilt.
He turned his thoughts to Viscount Somervell, although he knew it was a coward’s way of opening the door to Catherine. Would they leave the Indies now that the treasure, or a large part of it, was taken?
His head touched his forearm and he jerked up, aware of two things at once. That he had fallen asleep across the table, and that a masthead lookout had pealed down to the deck.
He heard Parris call something and found himself on his feet, his eyes on the cabin skylight as the lookout shouted again.
“Deck there! Two sail to the nor’-west!”
Bolitho walked through the unfamiliar doors and stared at the deserted ranks of cabins. With the remaining crew members battened below where they could neither try to retake the ship nor damage her hull without risking their own lives, it was like a phantom vessel. All Hyperion’s hands were employed constantly on deck; or high above it amongst the maze of rigging, like insects trapped in a giant web. He noticed a portrait of a Spanish nobleman beside a case of books, and guessed it was the captain’s father. Perhaps like the old grey house in Falmouth, he too had many pictures to retell the history of his family.
He found Parris with Jenour and Skilton, the master’s mate, grouped by the larboard side, each with a levelled telescope.
Parris saw him and touched his forehead. “Nothing yet, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho looked at the sky, then at the hard horizon line. Like the top of a dam, beyond which there was nothing.
It would not be dark for hours yet. Too long.
“Hyperion, maybe, Sir Richard?”
Their eyes met. Parris did not believe it either. Bolitho replied, “I think not. With the wind in our favour we should have made contact by noon.” He ceased thinking out loud. “Signal Thor. Imrie may not have sighted the ships as yet.” It gave him time to think. To move a few paces this way and that, his chin digging into his stained neckcloth.
The enemy then. He made himself accept it. The Ciudad de Sevilla was no man-of-war, nor did she have the artillery and skills of an Indiaman. The cannons with their ornate mountings and leering bronze faces were impressive, but useless against anything but pirates or some reckless privateer.
He glanced at some of the seamen nearby. The fight had been demanding enough. Friends killed or wounded, but survival and the usual dream of prize-money had left them in high spirits. Now it was changing again. It was a wonder they didn’t rush the poop and take all the bullion for themselves. There was precious little Bolitho and his two lieutenants could do to prevent it.
The lookout yelled down, “Two frigates, sir! Dons by the cut o’ them!”
Bolitho controlled his breathing as some of the others looked at him. Somehow he had known Haven would not make the rendezvous. It was an additional mockery to recall he himself had given him the honourable way out.
Parris said flatly, “Well, they say the sea is two miles deep under our keel. The Dons’ll not get their paws on the gold again, unless they can swim that far down!” Nobody laughed.
Bolitho looked at Parris. The decision is mine. Signal Thor to take them and their Spanish prisoners on board? But with only half their boats available it would take time. Scuttle the great ship and all her wealth, and run, hoping Thor could outsail the frigates, at least until nightfall?
A victory gone sour.
Jenour moved closer. “Laker just died, sir.”
Bolitho turned towards him, his eyes flashing. “And for what— is that what you’re asking? Must we all die now because of your vice-admiral’s arrogance?”
Jenour, surprisingly, stood his ground. “Then let’s fight, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho let his arms fall to his sides. “In God’s name, Stephen, you mean it—don’t you?” He smiled gravely, his anger spent. “But I’ll have no more dying.” He looked at the horizon. Is this how he would be remembered? He said, “Signal Thor to heave-to. Then muster the prisoners on deck.”
The lookout yelled, “Deck there! Two Spanish frigates an’ another sail astern o’ them!”
Parris muttered, “Christ Almighty.” He attempted to smile. “So, Mr Firebrand, will you still stand and fight the Dons?”
Jenour shrugged, then gripped his beautiful sword. It said more than any words.
Allday watched the officers and tried to fathom out what had gone wrong. It was not just failure which bothered Bolitho, that was as plain as a pikestaff. It was the old Hyperion. She had not come for him. Allday ground his teeth together. If ever he reached port again he would settle that bloody Haven once and for all, and swing for him to boot.
Bolitho must have felt it all the while in his blood. Why he had left the old sword behind. He must have known. Allday felt a chill run down his spine. I should have guessed. God alone knew it had happened to others.
They all stared up as the foremast lookout, forgotten until now, yelled down, “Sail to the nor’-east, sir!”
Bolitho gripped his fingers together behind him. The newcomer must have run down on them while every eye was on the other strange sails.
He said, “Get aloft, Stephen! Take a glass!”
Jenour paused just a few seconds as if to fix the importance and the urgency of the moment. Then he was gone, and was soon swarming hand over hand up the foremast shrouds to join the lookout on his precarious perch in the crosstrees.
It felt like an eternity. Other hands had climbed up to the tops or merely clung to the ratlines to stare at the eye-searing horizon. Bolitho felt a lump in his throat. It was not Hyperion. Her masts and yards would be clearly visible by now.
Jenour yelled down, his voice almost lost amongst the clatter of blocks and the slap of canvas.
“She’s English, sir! Making her number!”
Parris climbed on to one of the poop ladders and levelled his own glass on the pursuers.
“They’re fanning out, Sir Richard. They must have seen her too.” He added savagely, “Not that it matters now, damn them!”
Jenour called again, “She’s Phaedra, sloop-of-war!”
Bolitho felt Parris turning to watch him. Their missing sloop-of-war had caught up with them at last, only to be a spectator at the end.
Jenour shouted, faltered, then tried again, his voice barely audible. But this time it was not only because of the shipboard sounds.
“Phaedra has hoisted a signal, sir! Enemy in sight!”
Bolitho looked at the deck, at the blackened stain where a Spanish sailor had died.
The signal would be being read and repeated to all the other ships. He could picture his old Hyperion, her men running to quarters, clearing for action again to the beat of the drums.
Parris exclaimed with quiet disbelief, “The Dons are standing away, Sir Richard.” He wiped his face, and perhaps his eyes. “God damn it, old lady, don’t cut it so fine next time!”
But as the Spanish topsails melted into the sea-mist, and the smart sloop-of-war bore down on the treasure-ship and her sole escort, it soon became obvious that she was quite alone.
The ill-assorted trio rolled in the swell, hove-to as Phaedra’s youthful commander was pulled across in his gig. He almost bounded up the high tumblehome, and doffed his hat to Bolitho, barely able to stop himself from grinning.
“There are no others?” Bolitho stared at the young man. “What of the signal?”
The commander recovered his composure very slightly. “My name is Dunstan, Sir Richard.”
&
nbsp; Bolitho nodded. “And how did you recognise me? ”
The grin came back like a burst of sunlight.
“I had the honour to serve in Euryalus with you, Sir Richard.” He looked at the others with exclusive pride. “As a midshipman. I recalled how you had used that deception yourself to confuse the enemy.” His voice trailed away. “Although I was not sure it might work for me. ”
Bolitho gripped his hand and held it for several seconds.
“Now I know we shall win.” He turned away and only Allday saw the emotion in his eyes.
Allday glanced across at the eighteen-gun Phaedra.
Perhaps after this Bolitho would accept what he had done for others. But he doubted it.
8 A BITTER DEPARTURE
THE RIGHT Honourable the Viscount Somervell looked up from the pile of ledgers and eyed Bolitho curiously.
“So you accepted Captain Haven’s explanation, what?”
Bolitho stood beside a window, his shoulder resting against the cool wall. The air was heavy and humid although the wind which had stayed with them all the way to English Harbour remained quite firm. The small breakers near the harbour were no longer white, but in the sun’s glare sighed over the sand like molten bronze.
He could see the great ship clearly from here. After the tumultuous welcome when they had sailed into harbour, the serious work of unloading her rich cargo had begun immediately. Lighters and boats plied back and forth, and Bolitho had never seen so many redcoats as the army guarded the booty every yard of the way, until, as Somervell had explained, it would be transferred and divided amongst several smaller vessels as an extra precaution.
Bolitho half-turned and glanced at him. Somervell had already forgotten his question about Haven. It was only yesterday morning that they had dropped anchor, and for the first time since he had met Somervell, Bolitho had noticed that he still wore the same clothes as when he had come out to the Ciudad de Sevilla. It was as if he could not bear leaving these detailed ledgers even to sleep.
They had met Hyperion and two of the brigs only a day out of Antigua. Bolitho had decided to send for Haven rather than shift to his flagship, where there must have been speculation enough already.
Haven had been strangely confident as he had made his report. He had even presented it in writing to explain fully, if not excuse his action.
Hyperion and the little flotilla had closed with Puerto Cabello, and had even drawn the fire of a coastal battery when it had seemed they were about to force their way into harbour. Haven was certain that the captured frigate Consort was still there, and had sent the brig Vesta under the guns of a battery to investigate. The Spaniards had rigged a long boom from one of the fortresses and Vesta had run afoul of it. In minutes one of the batteries, using heated shot, had found Vesta’s range, and the helpless onlookers had seen her burst into flames before being engulfed in one devastating explosion.
Haven had said in his unemotional voice, “Other enemy ships were heading towards us. I used my discretion,” his eyes had watched Bolitho without a flicker, “as so ordered by you, Sir Richard, and withdrew. I considered that you would have succeeded or pulled back by that time, as I had offered the diversion required, with some risk to my command.”
After what they had done in taking the rich prize it was like a personal loss instead of a victory.
Haven could not be blamed. The presence of a boom might be expected or it might not. As he had said, he had used his discretion.
Tetrarch, another of the brigs, had risked sharing the same fate to sail amongst the smoke and falling shot to rescue some of her companion’s people. One of the survivors had been her captain, Commander Murray. He was in an adjoining building with Hyperion’s wounded from the boarding party, and the remainder of the brig’s company who had been plucked from the sea and the flames, a sailor’s two worst enemies.
He said, “For the moment, my lord.”
Somervell smiled as he turned over another leaf; he was gloating. “Hell’s teeth, even His Majesty will be satisfied with this!” He looked up, his eyes opaque. “I know you grieve for the brig; so may the navy. But set against all this it will be seen as a noble sacrifice.”
Bolitho shrugged. “By those who do not have to risk their precious skins. In truth I’d rather have cut out Consort, damn them!”
Somervell folded his arms reluctantly. “You have been lucky. But unless you contain your anger or direct it elsewhere, I fear that same luck will desert you.” He put his head on one side. Like a sleek, fastidious bird. “So make the most of it, eh?”
The door opened an inch and Bolitho saw Jenour peering in at him. Bolitho began, “Excuse me, my lord. I left word with—” He turned away. Somervell had not heard; he was back again in the world of gold and silver.
Jenour whispered, “I fear Commander Murray is going fast, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho fell into step beside him and they strode across the wide, flagged terrace to the archway which led to the temporary hospital. Bolitho had been grateful for that at least. Men who were suffering from their wounds should not share a place with garrison soldiers who died from yellow fever without ever hearing the sounds of war.
He glanced shortly at the sea before he entered the other building. Like the sky, it looked angry. A storm perhaps; he would have to consult with Hyperion’s sailing-master.
Murray lay very still, his eyes closed as if already dead. Even though he had been on the West Indies station for two years, his features were like chalk.
Hyperion’s surgeon, George Minchin, a man less callous than most of his trade, had remarked, “A miracle he survived this far, Sir Richard. His right arm was gone when they pulled him from the sea, and I had to take off a leg. There is a chance, but—”
That had been yesterday. Bolitho had seen enough faces of death to know it was almost over.
Minchin rose from a chair near the bed and walked purposefully to a window. Jenour studied the sea through another window, thinking perhaps that Murray must have been staring at it too, like a handhold to life itself.
Bolitho sat beside the bed. “I’m here—” He remembered the young commander’s name. “Rest easy if you can, James.”
Murray opened his eyes with an effort. “It was the boom, sir.” He closed his eyes again. “Nearly tore the bottom out of the poor old girl.” He tried to smile but it made him look worse. “They never took her though—never took her—”
Bolitho groped for his remaining hand and held it between his own.
“I’ll see that your people are taken care of.” His words sounded so empty he wanted to cry out, to weep. “Is there anyone?”
Murray tried again, but his eyes remained like feverish slits.
“I—I—” his mind was clouding over. “My mother—there’s nobody else now—” His voice trailed away again.
Bolitho made himself watch. Like candles being snuffed out. He heard Allday outside the door, Jenour swallowing hard as if he needed to vomit.
In a remarkably clear voice Murray said, “It’s dark now, sir. I’ll be able to sleep.” His hand bunched between Bolitho’s. “Thank you for—”
Bolitho stood up slowly. “Yes, you sleep.” He pulled the sheet over the dead man’s face and stared at the hard sunlight until he was blinded by it. It’s dark now. For ever.
He crossed to the door by the terrace and knew Jenour was going to say something, to try and help when there was none to offer.
“Leave me.” He did not turn. “Please.”
Then he walked to the terrace wall and pressed both hands upon it. The stone was hot, like the sun on his face.
He raised his head and stared again at the glare. He could remember as a small boy seeing the family crest, carved in stone above the great fireplace at Falmouth. He had been tracing it with one finger when his father had entered and had picked him up in his arms.
The words below the crest stood out in his mind. Pro Libertate Patria. For my country’s freedom.
What young men
like Murray, Dunstan, and Jenour all believed.
He clenched his fists until the pain steadied him.
They had not even begun to live yet.
He turned sharply as he heard footsteps to his left and seemingly below him. He had been staring so hard at the glare that he could see nothing but a vague shadow.
“Who is that? What do you want?” He twisted his head further, unaware of the edge to his voice or its helplessness.
She said, “I came to find you.” She stood quite still at the top of some rough stone steps which led down to a small pathway. “I heard what happened.” Another pause, which to Bolitho seemed endless, then she added quietly, “Are you all right?”
He looked at the flagstones and saw the image of his shoes sharpen as the pain and mist in his eye slowly withdrew.
“Yes. One of my officers. I barely knew him—” He could not continue.
She remained at her distance as if afraid of him or what she might cause.
She said, “I know. I am so sorry.”
Bolitho stared at the nearest door. “How could you marry that man? I’ve met some callous bastards in my time, but—” He struggled to recover his composure. She had done it again. Like being stripped naked, with neither defence nor explanation.
She did not answer directly. “Did he ask about the second treasure galleon?”
Bolitho felt the fight draining from him. He had almost expected Somervell to ask him just that. Both of them would have known where that might lead.
He said, “I apologise. It was unforgivable of me. I had no right to question your motives, or his for that matter.”
She watched him gravely, one hand holding a lace mantilla in place over her dark hair as the hot wind whipped across the parapet. Then she stepped up on to the terrace and faced him. “You look tired, Richard.”
He dared at last to look at her. She was wearing a sea-green gown, but his heart sank when he realised that her fine features and compelling eyes were still unclear. He must have been half-crazy with despair to stare at the sun. The surgeon in London had declared it to be his worst enemy.
He said, “I hoped I would see you. I have thought of you a great deal. More than I should; less than you deserve.”
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