Also, being aboard his own flagship made more of a difference than he would have expected. Ashore in Chase’s fine house he was the stranger. Here in Achates, with familiar faces and sounds all around him, he felt assured and confident.
He said, “No steps can be taken until I receive the report from my frigate captain. A compromise may be worked out, but only under the present conditions. Sir Humphrey Rivers is the British Governor of San Felipe, but nothing more than that.”
Jonathan Chase, who had swallowed two glasses of claret in his anxiety that it should be a better meeting than the previous one, exclaimed, “No harm in that, eh, Sam?”
Fane’s deepset eyes settled on him only briefly.
“Our government will not tolerate a war, large or small, where it might endanger United States’ trade and progress. It makes more sense to me that the island should come under our protection, if that is the will of the people there.”
He gave a deep sigh. “But if the admiral wishes to show his authority first, then I suppose we must indulge him.”
Chase held out his glass for Ozzard to refill.
“God damn it, Sam, do you never relax?”
Fane smiled wryly. “Hardly at all.”
Feet moved on the deck overhead, and Bolitho heard a voice calling an order. It was his world. This sort of double-tongue was alien to him.
He stood up and walked to the stern windows. There was a slow, hot wind across Massachusetts Bay and the sky was slashed by thin, pink clouds. How inviting the sea looked.
Fane was saying, “It might take a few months to settle, but what of that? The French will not insist on immediate occupation of the island. It will give all of us time.”
Bolitho suddenly saw a naval brig turning into the wind, her anchor splashing down even as her sails were smartly furled at their yards. The ensign which licked out from her gaff was the same as the one at Achates’ taffrail.
He replied, “His Majesty’s Government has entrusted me with the task of handing over the island, sir. None of us wants an uprising, especially now that the West Indies are recovering from the war.”
A boat had been dropped from the brig and was already speeding across the water towards the flagship.
Bolitho felt a nerve jump in his throat. What was it? News from home already, could it be . . . ?”
He forced himself to face the others, his eyes almost blind in the cabin’s shady interior.
“I shall send a letter to your President. I appreciate very much what he is trying to do—” He broke off and turned sharply as Ozzard murmured, “It’s the captain, sir.”
Keen stood in the doorway, his hat jammed beneath his arm.
“Please forgive this interruption, sir.” He glanced at the others. “The commander of the brig Electra is come aboard. He has news for you, sir.” His eyes were pleading. “Very serious news.”
Bolitho nodded. “I’ll not be long, gentlemen.”
He followed Keen from the cabin and saw a young officer waiting by the chartroom.
Keen said tightly, “This is Commander Napier, sir.”
Bolitho looked at him impassively. “Tell me.”
Napier swallowed hard. Electra was his first command, and he had never spoken with a vice-admiral before.
“I was on passage to the south’rd when I sighted an American brig. She signalled for assistance, and when I boarded her I found her to be carrying British seamen.” He flinched under Bolitho’s gaze. “They were survivors.”
Bolitho saw Keen’s face, he looked pale in spite of the sun.
The commander added quietly, “From Sparrowhawk, sir.”
Bolitho clenched his hands together behind him to control his sense of shock. In his heart he had nursed a dread that something had happened to the little frigate. A storm, a reef, or one of a dozen disasters which can befall a ship sailing alone.
Napier continued, “She was attacked, sir. A two-decker to all accounts, although—”
Bolitho could see it as if he had been there himself. Just as their attacker had fired on Achates. Without warning, except that this time her victim had been hopelessly outgunned even if Duncan had been expecting trouble.
“How many?”
Again the young commander could barely speak above a murmur.
“Twenty-five, sir, and some of those are in a poor way.”
Bolitho felt his skin go cold. Twenty-five, out of a company which had numbered two hundred souls.
“Any officers?” He barely recognized his own voice.
“None, sir. Just a midshipman. First commission too.”
Bolitho eyed him bitterly. Duncan had perished with his ship. He could picture him without effort. Duncan had even been to his wedding at Falmouth. A good man, strong and reliable.
It was impossible. A nightmare.
The commander took his silence for displeasure and hurried on, “The midshipman said that the third lieutenant was in another boat but was badly wounded in the face and neck by splinters. During the night the boats drifted apart, and then the sharks came.” He looked at the deck.
“Bring the midshipman to me.” He saw his hesitation. “Is he wounded?”
“No, sir.”
Keen said shortly, “See to it.”
As the commander hurried away Bolitho said, “Send word to my flag-lieutenant. He must return at once. Fast horse, anything.”
Keen stared at him. “It was the same ship, wasn’t it, sir?”
“I’m certain of it.” He eyed him steadily. “Ask the surgeon to help with the wounded. The rest of Sparrowhawk’s people can be signed on to your books. I want them to be with us when we run that butcher to earth!”
Bolitho strode aft to the cabin. He knew he must look different in some way. Chase had a glass poised in the air. Ozzard was frozen in the act of refilling it. Fane’s eyes followed him to the stern windows before he asked, “Bad news, Admiral?”
Bolitho looked at him and tried to fight the sudden, all-consuming anger which coursed through him like fire.
“I am leaving harbour as soon as all my people are aboard.”
Chase shifted in his chair as if to see him better.
“Not waiting for your frigate after all?”
Bolitho shook his head.
“I’m heartily sick of waiting.”
He saw the brig’s boat going alongside again. It was cruel to send for the young midshipman after what he had endured. But he had to know everything the boy could tell him.
He said quietly, “Sparrowhawk’s been sunk.”
He heard Chase’s quick intake of breath.
Bolitho added, “So you see, gentlemen, there may be thunder before we can settle things to everyone’s satisfaction.”
6 NO EASY WAY
CAPTAIN Valentine Keen sat with legs crossed on one of Bolitho’s chairs and watched his superior as he read through a despatch for the Admiralty. It would be put aboard the brig Electra and eventually be transferred to a fleet-courier so that it would be completely out-of-date by the time Admiral Sheaffe was able to examine it.
Keen glanced through the open stern windows and silently cursed the oppressive heat. It seemed to pin the whole ship down so that even the smallest movement was uncomfortable.
Bolitho signed the last page where Yovell had indicated and looked questioningly at his flag-captain.
“Well, Val, are we ready for sea?”
Keen nodded and instantly felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine.
“The water-lighters have cast off, sir. There’s just your—”
Bolitho stood up as if pricked by a thorn and strode to the windows.
“My nephew. He should be back on board by now.”
He was thinking aloud. The ship was waiting to weigh anchor. Boats were hoisted, and all hands accounted for. He stared hard at the little brig which had brought the news of Sparrowhawk’s loss. Napier, her young commander, would be glad to rid himself of his responsibility to an admiral other than his own. His tiny com
mand would soon be free of Bolitho and hurrying to Antigua to pass the news of the mysterious assassin, the ship which bore no name and showed no colours. Bolitho would have given a lot to hold on to the Electra, but the need to spread the word of the unknown attacker was paramount. Other ships might be lost in the same fashion.
Keen watched the emotions as they chased each other across Bolitho’s features. They had seen and done so much together in every kind of action. Now, supposedly in peacetime, they were faced with something which was both baffling and terrible.
Feet thudded overhead, and calls trilled as the watch on deck was ordered to some new task under the first lieutenant’s eye.
Bolitho did not see Keen’s sympathetic scrutiny. His mind kept swinging from tack to tack, as if he was imprisoned by his own thoughts. Wait in Boston or set sail for San Felipe? It was his decision alone, just as his decision had cost Duncan his life. Keen had spoken with the one surviving midshipman, Evans, but had got little out of him. Bolitho had asked Allday to speak with the boy in his own way and the result had been startling. Allday had that casual, effortless way of talking to people, especially youngsters like Evans, and as he had described what Evans had told him Bolitho had been able to relive that brief, savage encounter which had ended with Sparrowhawk’s total destruction.
It was a wonder a boy like Evans had not collapsed completely, Bolitho thought. It was not like going to war with the fear of death a constant companion. It was Evans’ very first commission, his only voyage in a man-of-war. He did not even come from a naval family but was the son of a tailor in Cardiff.
To see his best friend, a fellow midshipman, smashed down like a slaughtered animal, to be the last one to speak with the mortally wounded Duncan while the ship exploded around him was more than most could have withstood. Perhaps later, months later, the shock would show itself.
Allday had explained how Evans had sensed an explosion even as his boat had pulled away from the sinking frigate. The gallery fire had not been doused. Flames had probably spread to the magazine or powder-room, so that for many of the ship’s company the end had been quick and the horror of the sharks held back for the others.
Another of the survivors, an experienced gunner’s mate, had told Allday that the cannon fire had sounded flatter and louder than he would have expected. She was carrying far heavier weapons, he thought, even though the numbers had been reduced.
Bolitho glanced at the eighteen-pounder near his desk. Probably thirty-two-pounders. But why?
The door opened cautiously and, the clerk, Yovell, peered in at them.
Bolitho said, “Despatches are ready to go.”
What did they matter anyway? He knew it, and so did Keen. Words, words, words. The facts were plain as they were brutal. He had lost a fine ship with most of her people. And there was Duncan and his pretty widow. He had been a good friend. A brave officer.
Yovell remained hovering in the screen doorway.
“There is a mail-packet coming to anchor, sir.” He hesitated. “From England.”
Bolitho stared at him and was shocked to see the anxiety on Yovell’s round features.
My God, he’s afraid of me. The shock hit him like a fist. He’s terrified because there may be no word from Belinda.
The realization did more to steady his apprehension and doubts than anything. He recalled how only yesterday, as he had waited for Adam to return on board, Yovell had said something to put him at ease. Bolitho had exploded and had cursed him roundly for his interfering. Yet Bolitho had always hated martinets who used their rank and authority to terrorize their subordinates. And it was all too easy. A captain was like a god, so an admiral could do no wrong at all in his own eyes.
He said, “Thank you, Yovell. Take the quarter-boat and pass my despatches to the Electra. Also any letters from our people.” He watched the man’s uncertainty and added, “Then go over to the mail-packet, will you? There may be something, eh?”
As the clerk made to leave he said quietly, “I treated you badly. There was no cause for that. Loyalty deserves a whole lot better.”
Keen watched the clerk’s wariness change to gratitude, and as the door closed he said, “That was good of you, sir.”
Bolitho made himself sit down and tugged his shirt free from his moist skin.
“I have been hard on you too, Val. I apologize.”
Keen gauged the moment and said, “As your flag-captain, I have the freedom to suggest and warn if the occasion arises.”
“You do.” Bolitho smiled grimly. “Thomas Herrick was quick to use that freedom, so speak your mind.”
Keen shrugged. “You are beset from every side, sir. The French will not discuss San Felipe with you, nor do they need to as our two governments have signed an agreement on its future. The Americans do not wish to have the French on their doorstep as it could make their own strategy difficult in any future conflict. The governor of the island will fight you all the way, and I suspect that Admiral Sheaffe knew that from the beginning. So why should we worry? If the governor refuses to submit we can arrest him and put him in irons.” His tone hardened. “Too many men have died to make his position count. Better we take command of the island than to leave its future with him. He probably craves independence from the Crown and will play one faction against the other if we allow it.”
Bolitho smiled. “I have thought of that. But Sparrowhawk’s loss and the unwarranted attack on this ship do not fit the pattern. That ship was Spanish-built, if I’m any judge, and yet His Most Catholic Majesty has voiced no protest about San Felipe. So we either have an attempted coup in the offing or piracy on the grand scale. Hell’s teeth, Val, after all these years of war there would be plenty with the experience and the desperation to play for such high odds.”
Keen placed his fingertips together. “And I know you are deeply concerned for your wife, sir.” He watched, waiting to see Bolitho’s grey eyes give a flash of danger. “The waiting has been hard on you, especially after your experiences as a prisoner of war.”
A boat pulled below the counter and Bolitho strode to the windows to examine her passengers. But they were only a few sight-seers, a local trader or two still trying to bargain with the sailors on the upper deck.
Adam was not here.
Keen read his thoughts and said, “He is young, sir. Maybe it was a wrong choice to appoint him flag-lieutenant.”
Bolitho swung on him hotly. “Did Browne say as much?”
Keen shook his head. “I formed my own opinion. Your nephew is a fine young man, and I have nothing but affection for him. You have watched over him from the beginning, treated him like a son.”
Bolitho faced him again. He had no fight left. “Was that wrong too?”
Keen smiled sadly. “Certainly not, sir.”
Bolitho walked past his chair and rested his hand momentarily on the young captain’s shoulder.
“But you are so right. I did not accept it because I did not wish to.” He waved down Keen’s protest. “I never saw Adam’s mother, nobody did. The one good thing she ever did was to send him across the country to Falmouth, to me. But you were correct about me. I love him like a son, but he is not my son. His father was Hugh, my brother. Maybe there is too much of Hugh in him—”
Keen stood up quickly. “Let it stop there, sir. You are tiring yourself to no good purpose. We all look to you. I believe we are in for trouble. I do not think we would have been sent otherwise.”
Bolitho poured two glasses of claret and handed one to Keen.
“You are a good flag-captain, Val. It took courage to say that. And it is true. Personal feelings do not come into it. Later maybe, but now the slightest anxiety may transmit itself through this ship.” He held the glass to the sunlight. “And Old Katie will have enough to contend with. She can manage without an admiral who is so wrapped up in his own troubles he can think of nothing else.”
There was a nervous tap at the door and Yovell entered, his eyes fixed on Bolitho.
Keen loo
ked away, unable to watch as Bolitho took the single letter from his clerk’s hand.
He wanted to leave but, like the clerk, was unwilling to snap the spell.
Bolitho read the short letter and then folded it with great care.
“Get the ship under way, if you please. The wind will suffice to clear the harbour.”
He met Keen’s even stare.
“The letter is from my sister in Falmouth. My wife . . .” His lips hesitated on her name as if they were afraid. “Belinda is not well. The letter was written some time ago for the packet made another landfall before Boston. But she knew that the packet was sailing. And she wanted to let me know she was thinking of me.” He turned away, his eyes suddenly stinging. “Even though she was too ill to write.”
Keen looked at Yovell’s stricken face and gave a quick jerk of the head.
When the clerk had gone he said gently, “It was what I would expect her to do, sir. And that is how you must see it.”
Bolitho looked at him and then nodded. “Thank you, Val. Please leave me now. I shall come up directly.”
Keen walked through the adjoining cabin space and past the motionless marine sentry at the outer screen door.
Herrick would have known what to do. He felt helpless and yet deeply moved that Bolitho had shared his despair with him. He saw Allday beside an eighteen-pounder and gestured to him.
Allday listened to him and then gave a great sigh. It seemed to come from the soles of his shoes, Keen thought.
Then Allday said, “I’ll go aft, sir. He needs a friend just now.” His face tried to grin. “He’ll no doubt take me to task for my impertinence, but what the hell? He’ll crack like a faulty musket barrel if we allows it, an’ that’s no error.”
Keen strode out into the noon sunlight, adjusting his hat as his lieutenants and the master turned to face him.
“Stand by to get under way, Mr Quantock. I want to see your best today with half the port watching us.”
As the officers hurried to their stations and the boatswain’s mates sent their shrill calls below decks, Keen ran lightly up a poop ladder and looked briefly at the anchored shipping, at the angle of the masthead pendant.
Success to the Brave Page 8
