It was as if the ship had the ocean to herself. Keen took the opportunity to get to know his command and for his men to recognize his standards. Sail and gun drill, musket practice for the marines, experienced lieutenants and warrant officers replaced by new and often barely trained counterparts. Keen may have gained their respect, but was roundly cursed at the start of each testing exercise.
Bolitho knew from hard experience there was nothing more likely to breed discontent in a ship’s close confines than too much leisure.
He was having a breakfast of thinly sliced fat pork when Keen asked to see him.
Bolitho gestured to a chair. “Coffee, Val?”
Keen sat down and said, “I believe we are being stalked by another vessel, sir.”
Bolitho put down his knife. Keen had never been one to exaggerate or imagine things.
“How so?”
“Two days ago my best lookout sighted a sail. Well up to wind’rd. I thought little of it at the time. She might have been a merchantman on the same tack as Achates.”
He sensed Bolitho’s curiosity and added simply, “I did not wish to alarm anyone. But yesterday you will recall I was hove to while we exercised the starboard twelve-pounders on some drift-wood. That sail was still there, and the moment I came about the stranger followed suit and stood clear.” He waited for Bolitho’s reaction and said grimly, “She’s there now.”
The door opened and Adam entered the cabin with a chart beneath his arm.
Bolitho smiled at him. They had said little of his gesture towards his nephew since the day the ship had weighed anchor in the Beaulieu River. Yet there was a new closeness between them. Something which went beyond words.
He remembered Belinda’s encouragement and insistence that he acted as he had. She had known from the beginning how Bolitho felt about his nephew, what they had been through.
He could almost hear her saying, “When our child is born I do not want Adam to feel shut out, excluded. Do it for me, as well as for Adam.”
“Have you seen the ship, Adam?”
“Aye, sir. I went aloft at first light today. I believe she’s a frigate. I took the signals telescope with me. There was a lot of haze, but I judge her rig to be that of a big fifth-rater. She’s too agile for an Indiaman or some westbound trader.”
Keen said glumly, “And if that vessel holds to wind’rd I’ll never be able to beat up to him.”
Bolitho shook his head. “It would lose valuable time too.”
But the news was unsettling all the same. If she was a ship-of-war she represented a menace no matter what his orders dictated. But whose and for what purpose?
His mission was supposed to be secret, but Bolitho knew ships as well as he understood the men who served them. Keen had been surprised at Adam’s official change of name, but it had gone through the ship in seconds. A piece of really important information could spread through a shipyard, a town, even across the English Channel in no time at all.
“Keep me informed. If the wind changes in our favour we shall investigate. If not . . .” He shrugged. “We’ll have to wait for him to show his intentions.”
Later, as Bolitho took his regular stroll up and down the weather-side of the quarterdeck, he found himself wondering about his mission and how the people of San Felipe would accept their new position. He thought too of the ship which was obviously stalking Achates with the persistence of a hunter after deer.
French most likely. Ready to support their own viewpoint if required, even at the point of a gun.
Up and down, his feet avoiding ring-bolts and tackles without conscious effort.
Some of the faces among the watchkeepers and the afterguard had become as familiar as those in previous ships. Bolitho hated the invisible wall which cut him off from closer contact. Even Keen as captain was free to talk with his men if the mood took him. More than once Bolitho stared up at his flag and tried to accept the enforced loneliness it had brought him.
He paused by the compass and glanced at it even though it had barely altered for days. He could feel the helmsmen avoiding his eye, and Knocker, the sailing-master, becoming suddenly absorbed in the midshipman-of-the-watch’s report.
Hallowes, the fourth lieutenant, had the watch, and even he was bent over the quarterdeck rail with exaggerated attention as he watched the eighteen-pounders at drill.
A boatswain’s mate strode along the lee gangway and something about him made Bolitho look at him more closely.
The man hesitated, swallowed hard, and then came towards him.
Bolitho asked, “Do I know you?” Then the man’s name seemed to paint itself in his mind, “Christy, isn’t it?”
The man nodded and beamed hugely, “Aye, ’tis that, sir. Maintopman in the old Lysander, I was. With you at the Nile, sir.”
“I remember. You were nearly lost that day when they shot the t’gallant mast away.” He nodded as the memory closed round them shutting out all else.
The boatswain’s mate said, “Were a sore hard fight, sir. The worst I seen, ever.”
Bolitho smiled and continued with his walk.
The man named Christy hurried away shaking his head. He remembered him. Out of all these men.
Quantock, the first lieutenant, who was doing his morning rounds with Rooke, the boatswain, and Grace, the carpenter, paused and beckoned to him.
“Knew your name, did he?”
Christy knuckled his forehead, “Aye, sir. He did that.”
Quantock snapped, “Well, don’t stand there like a moonstruck farm boy, there’s work to be done!”
Christy made his way aft. Why was the first lieutenant in a temper? He thought of that awful day at the Nile, the thunder of the broadsides, and of Bolitho walking amidst the smoke and carnage with that old sword gripped in his hand. And his face as they had cheered him when the enemy had finally struck their colours.
Quantock checked his list, the unending task of every good first lieutenant. The ship had had a refit but the work was always piling up. Sails to be renewed and patched, boats repaired, pumps and tackles overhauled.
He was angry with himself for his sudden hostility towards the boatswain’s mate. Christy was a good seaman, and a volunteer as well.
Quantock stole a glance to the weather-side where the vice-admiral was walking up and down. What was so special about him anyway?
The boatswain, a great crag of a man with a lined and battered face, waited patiently for his superior to continue with the morning rounds. He had been irritated by the lieutenant’s unwar-ranted attack on one of his assistants.
Rooke, Big Harry as he was respectfully known, guessed the reason for Quantock’s temper. He was a good first lieutenant, if you happened to be the captain, that was. But he was hard with the people, unrelenting in matters of discipline.
Captain Glazebrook, who had died after a long bout of fever, had been too ill to see what was happening. Quantock probably thought he should be promoted, even be given command of Old Katie. Rooke did not like the first lieutenant, and the thought of him being in command of this ship was like blasphemy.
Quantock said sharply, “Standards, we must maintain them. I’ll not allow anything to interfere with the efficient running of this ship!”
Rooke saw the new captain crossing the deck from the companion. He might have warned another lieutenant but Quantock’s outburst was still annoying him.
“And further—”
“Mr Quantock.” Keen waited for the lieutenant to join him where he could not be heard by the men on watch. “I admire your high standards. I would, however, prefer that you voiced your views to me in future, not the ship’s company en masse.”
Bolitho had seen most of it and guessed the rest.
Did his flag at the masthead really make that much difference? Even Keen seemed on edge, regretting perhaps this appointment which was leading nowhere.
No, it was not that. It was uncertainty. An emptiness which the coming of peace had brought. They were used to action, exp
ected it even.
“Deck there! Sail on th’ weather-bow!”
Keen looked up and then turned questioningly to Bolitho. Their companion was still there, lurking just below the horizon like an assassin.
Perhaps they would get all the action they wanted even though the ink was barely dry on the peace agreement.
Bolitho continued his pacing with renewed energy, as if he wanted to tire himself out.
He was imagining things, he decided angrily. He was the one who craved excitement, if only to take his mind off the relentless passing of time.
Achates would still be making for Boston when Belinda gave birth. It was like being trapped. Helpless.
Bolitho saw Adam at the forward end of the gun-deck talking with Hawtayne, the young marine lieutenant.
I am as bad as Admiral Sheaffe.
I am envious. Not of success but of youth.
He was so lucky to have Belinda. He was after all ten years older than she. And now that she needed him he was marooned out here like a castaway on a rock.
Why you? He could still hear her voice when she had spoken out in the darkness. Why him indeed?
He stopped and allowed his body to sway with the ship as she rode contemptuously across a long Atlantic trough.
Perhaps it was a kind of madness which had never left him. Being taken prisoner by the French, the escape, the lives it had cost in that final battle with Remond’s Flying Squadron had been too much and too soon after being badly wounded.
The pain stabbed through his wound again as if to taunt him. He tried to remember her soft touch in the night, when she had soothed the pain of the scar with her love.
But the picture would not form.
He called, “Captain Keen, we shall douse all lights and change tack tonight. As soon as it is dark alter course to the nor’-west. By dawn I want to see that strange sail where we can run down on it.”
Keen opened his mouth as if to protest but instead touched his hat. Then he said, “I’ll get every stitch on her, sir.”
Bolitho strode into the poop’s shadow and made his way aft to his quarters.
He had acted hastily, even childishly, some would say.
Achates was a solitary ship, and yet his responsibility was as great as if he commanded a squadron or even a fleet.
Those around him had not asked to be here. Keen, Quantock, the embittered first lieutenant, even the boatswain’s mate named Christy who had been so grateful that he had remembered him, they all deserved better from the man who commanded them.
But there was a difference. To Keen the ship and her company came before all else, and the mission was secondary.
To Bolitho Achates had to remain a symbol and, if necessary, a weapon to enforce his wishes.
It was probably the first time he had considered what his new responsibility entailed, and the realization steadied him.
Allday padded into the cabin and replaced the old sword on its rack. Cleaning it made little difference but it gave him an excuse to come and go as he pleased.
He glanced at Bolitho as he sat on the bench seat by the stern windows, his black hair ruffling in the wind across the quarter.
Bolitho looked calm enough. The sudden squall had passed.
“I was wondering, sir . . .”
Bolitho turned, only half aware he was no longer alone.
“What about?”
“Well, I mean, sir, if you was the governor of this island we’re about to toss away to the mounseers, what would you do?”
Bolitho got to his feet and strode to the wine cabinet where he poured two glasses of brandy.
He handed one to the astonished Allday and replied, “Thank you. You have put your finger on it.” The brandy burned his lips, “Do, Allday? I’d stand and fight. And so probably will he.”
Allday breathed out slowly. He did not quite understand what he had done, but it was good to see the frown gone from Bolitho’s features.
Bolitho eyed him warmly. “You should have been in Parliament, Allday.”
Allday put down his empty glass. He had never seen him in quite this mood before,
“I’m too honest, sir.”
Bolitho laughed and turned to watch the patterns and colours twisting in the ship’s wake.
There would be no easy solution for San Felipe.
Maybe that was why Sheaffe needed his “man of action.”
And it had taken Allday to discover it.
“Hands at quarters, sir, ship cleared for action.”
Keen’s voice came out of the gloom and Bolitho could barely distinguish him from the other dark figures at the quarterdeck rail.
The Achates’ previous captain and Keen’s regular drills had made their mark, he thought. All hands had been roused early and had a hot meal before the galley fire had been doused and the ship prepared for battle.
There was little impression of danger or anxiety, however. It was peacetime, so why should they worry?
Bolitho said, “That was quietly done.”
He shivered as the cold, damp wind whipped over the deck. In an hour or so the sunlight would raise steam from the planks and melt the tarred seams like toffee.
“Steady on west by north, sir.”
Bolitho nodded. There was Knocker’s voice, the sailing-master. At the helm and compass he was king. He was a man who rarely smiled. Thin and gaunt with a priest’s face, Bolitho thought. But his chartwork and his grip over the ship’s daily progress was as good as any master he had ever known.
Some of the gun crews around the quarterdeck were whispering and nudging each other. Anything which broke the regular routine was welcome. What did it matter if their admiral was mad enough to clear for action because of some stupid stranger?
Another voice said, “Dawn coming up, sir.”
The lieutenant who had spoken sounded awed by the occasion.
Bolitho turned to look astern and saw the horizon begin to betray the division between sea and sky. How many hundreds of dawns must he have watched, he wondered? And how many had he thought might be his last?
Someone remarked, “The bugger might have slipped us during the night.”
The sergeant of marines tapped his hand-pike on the damp planking and muttered, “Easy, lads. Stow the chat!”
The crossbelts of the marines who lined the poop nettings were already brighter, and when Bolitho looked up to the main-mast truck he saw it was touched with pale gold, like the tip of a lance.
The lookouts in the crosstrees or crouched in the swaying tops would see the other ship first. If she was still there.
All night long Keen had worked his ship upwind, a slow, wearying task with the yards so often close-hauled that they seemed to reach above the deck in a single barrier of spars and canvas.
All they had said of Achates was true. She handled well, and responded to sail and rudder like a thoroughbred.
Bolitho listened to the sluice of water below the lee side, the occasional creak of gun tackles as they took the strain.
The light seemed to spill down from the horizon like a separate layer, as if it was in pursuit of the ship which lay over to the wind just out of reach.
“There she is! Fine on the lee bow!”
Everyone was talking at once, and Bolitho saw Keen’s teeth, very white in a grin, as he nodded to the sailing-master.
They had done even better than expected. Had taken, and could now hold the wind-gage if it came to a chase.
Bolitho stared at the distant shadow as the other vessel took on shape and substance against the dark water.
Keen closed his telescope with a snap. “Bigger than a fifth-rate, Mr Pas—, er Bolitho.”
Several of those nearby chuckled, and Bolitho was glad Adam was here with him.
He heard his nephew say, “I agree, sir. A cut down two-decker seems more likely.”
Keen crossed to Bolitho’s side. “What orders, sir?”
“Wait a while longer. He has not sighted us yet. But when he does, tell him to ide
ntify himself.”
It seemed incredible that Achates had got so near and yet remained unseen. The other ship lay less than a cable now across the larboard bow, and they could see the white tail of her wash beneath the counter. Even the din of Achates’ canvas and drumming stays and shrouds seemed loud enough to wake the dead, but Bolitho knew from experience it was an illusion.
Suddenly above the noise of sea and wind Bolitho heard a shrill whistle. He could picture it exactly. A sleepy lookout, who had most likely been ordered to seek out Achates as soon as it was daylight, the watch on deck thinking of little but being relieved and getting something warm to eat and drink. It was all normal enough.
Quantock said sharply, “She’s setting her t’gan’s’ls!”
Keen said, “They’re making a run for it, sir. So they are up to something.”
Bolitho felt a chill run through his body as if it was the first time. Elation, excitement or madness, who could say?
“As soon as it is light enough, make your signal. Until then hold him on the larboard bow.”
Keen nodded. The excitement was infectious. With him it had always been the same even as a midshipman a million years ago in another ocean.
“Hands aloft, Mr Quantock, if you please. We must make more sail.”
Calls trilled and the seamen swarmed up the ratlines on either side, their bodies and limbs glowing suddenly as they climbed higher and the pale sunlight discovered them.
“Bring her up a point. Hands to the braces there!”
Spray burst over the beak-head and bowsprit and spattered across the forecastle like tropical rain.
The other ship had also set more canvas and appeared to be drawing away.
Bolitho felt the deck quiver as Achates lifted and smashed down into a shallow trough. He could sense the rising power of the extra sails, and watched the huge main course spread and thunder out to the wind as the seamen freed it from its yard.
Bolitho climbed on to a gun-truck and steadied his glass on the leading ship. The light was strengthening rapidly and already he could see the gilded gingerbread around the other vessel’s poop and quarter gallery, the pale sunlight reflecting in her stern windows as if she had taken fire.
Success to the Brave Page 4
