Success to the Brave

by Alexander Kent

  Soon those flames would have died too.

  A voice yelled a command and a loose volley of shots cracked up the slope towards the fortress.

  Scott, Achates’ third lieutenant and Keen’s next most experienced officer, yelled, “Reload! Steady, lads!” He must have seen some movement at the fortress gates.

  Bolitho tried not to think of Keen’s helplessness as his ship tore free from the ground and began to claw her way round and into solid darkness. Short-handed because of the landing party, and with at least three of his officers out of the ship, it must be a living nightmare.

  He saw Christy’s eyes glow like twin matches and turned as a column of fire gushed from the end of the moorings.

  Allday, in spite of all his doubts and arguments, had done it. The fire was burning brightly where the bargemen had lashed it to one of the buoys, and another would be ready when it died.

  Then a cannon roared out like a thunder-clap. Where the ball went nobody saw. It had probably ripped over the very buoy which Rivers had indicated when he had made his casual threat.

  Masters was crawling on the ground and when he saw Bolitho flopped down beside him. Now that he had done it he was unable to stop shaking with fear.

  Bolitho looked at him and asked, “What is the date, Mr Masters?”

  Masters gulped and managed to reply, “J–July the ninth, I believe, sir!”

  He would have jumped to his feet if Christy had not dragged him down for his own safety.

  Masters’ voice cracked as he asked, “I heard something! What’s happening?”

  Bolitho had heard it too. The faint rattle of drums and the frail sound of fifes.

  He could see it as if he were there with them. His marines, marching along a rough road in this howling wind, the little drummer boys keeping an even distance behind their officers as if they were on parade. A road none of them had even seen, and some would never see it when daylight came.

  Bolitho managed to say, “The date is important. One we shall remember.”

  He twisted his head to see another of Allday’s blazing flares, but this time his eyes seemed blurred.

  He drove the knuckle-bow of his hanger into the ground near his face and whispered, “We shall win. We shall win!” It sounded like a prayer.

  Keen ran up the poop ladder and clung to a rail as the wind drove along the full length of his ship, the sound rising and strengthening like some obscene chorus.

  His mind reeled as he tried to calculate the time and distance he had left to bring Achates about once the anchor broke free. He could dimly hear the creak of the capstan, the hoarse shouts of petty officers as they waited for the moment.

  Keen returned to the quarterdeck, his face stinging as if the flesh were raw. He saw the dark outline of the wheel and a handful of helmsmen, the master with a midshipman standing nearby. Seamen of the after-guard at the braces, their half-naked bodies shining in the gloom like wet marble.

  Soon . . . soon. Now or never. Keen had read it often enough in the Gazette or some Admiralty report. One of His Majesty’s ships driven ashore and lost. A court martial later pronounced . . . He stopped his racing thoughts and shouted above the din, “Ready, Mr Quantock?”

  The tall figure of the first lieutenant, angled like a cripple’s against the sloping deck, staggered towards him.

  “It’s no use, sir!”

  Keen faced him angrily. “Keep your voice down, man!”

  Quantock leaned forward as if to see him better.

  “The master agrees with me. It’s madness. We’ll never manage it.” He was encouraged by Keen’s silence. “There’s no shame in standing away, sir. There may still be time.”

  “Anchor’s hove short, sir!” The cry came like a dirge.

  “Time? What has that to do with it, damn your eyes!”

  Keen strode to the nettings and saw some seamen watching him anxiously.

  Quantock persisted, “Captain Glazebrook would never—”

  Keen retorted, “He is dead. We are not. Do you suggest that we abandon our admiral and all his party because we are at some risk? Is that what you are advising, Mr Quantock?” The release of his bitterness and anger seemed to help him. “I’ll see you, the master and all else in hell before I turn and run!”

  He walked to the quarterdeck rail and peered aloft at the wildly thrashing canvas. They might lose a sail or a spar, perhaps the whole lot. But Bolitho was out there beyond the swaying poop. Pictures flashed through his thoughts. The Great South Sea. The girl he had loved, who had died of the fever which had almost done for Bolitho. In spite of his own despair Bolitho had tried to comfort him. Leave him now after what they had endured together? Never in ten thousand bloody years.

  “Pass the word to the topmen, Mr Fraser. It will be close. Clear lower deck and put every available man on braces and halliards.” He grappled for the name of the lieutenant nearby. “Mr Foord, prepare to drop the larboard anchor if the worst should happen.” It might hold her long enough to get some of the hands ashore.

  He heard himself say calmly, “Well, Mr Quantock?”

  Quantock was glaring through the drifting spray.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  He snatched up his speaking-trumpet and strode to the side.

  Keen gripped the smooth rail. How many captains had stood here? In storm or becalmed, entering harbour after a long and successful passage, or concealing fear as the deck had quivered and rocked to the roar of cannon fire.

  Was he to be the last captain? He listened to the clank of pawls around the capstan, the crack of a starter across someone’s back as a boatswain’s mate drove the men on the bars to greater efforts. Their weight and muscle to shift Achates’ bulk against wind and sea.

  He glanced once more at the crossed yards, the great rippling shapes of loosened sails where the topmen clung and waited to free them to the wind.

  There was no sign of a light. The burning boom had vanished. Perhaps Allday had been prevented from reaching his objective. He would have given his life if so. One more picture rose in his mind. Of himself gasping and sobbing in agony. A mere midshipman with a great wooden splinter thrust into his groin like a spear. Of Allday, suddenly gentle, carrying him below and cutting the splinter away rather than trust his life to the ship’s drunken surgeon.

  “Anchor’s awei . . .” The rest was lost as the ship toppled to one side with waves rearing above the gangways and nettings like breakers on a reef.

  “Loose tops’ls!”

  The helmsmen slithered and fell but clung stubbornly to the big double wheel as the ship swung madly with the wind, the freed topsails crashing out from their yards, the sound of the gusts through canvas and shrouds drowning the cries of officers and seamen alike.

  Keen forced his eyes to remain open as the sea dashed over the nettings and drenched him from head to toe. The water felt warm, jubilant in its efforts to throw the ship out of control.

  He saw the Sparrowhawk’s midshipman, little Evans, clinging to a stay, his feet kicking at air as the deck plunged and yawed beneath him.

  A dark object fell from the mizzen, hit the gangway with a sickening crack and vanished into the waves alongside. The man must have been torn from his precarious perch by the straining canvas. He had not even time to cry out.

  Voices ebbed and died through the terrible chorus like souls already lost.

  “More hands to the weather forebrace there!”

  “Mr Rooke, send two men aloft . . .”

  “Take this man to the surgeon!”

  “Lively there! The gig’s breaking adrift!”

  Suddenly the master shouted hoarsely, “Answering, sir!”

  Keen turned and peered towards him. He could feel the wind flaying his mouth so that his lips were forced apart in a wild grin. But she was answering. With her main-yard braced hard round, the sails forcing her over so that the sea boiled through the sealed gunports in fierce jets, Achates was beginning to turn her full length into the teeth of the storm.

>   Broken rigging streamed downwind like dead creeper, and Keen had already heard the rip of tearing canvas from overhead and knew that men were there to fight the damage with their bare hands.

  “Nor’-east by north!” The man sounded breathless. “Nor’ by east!”

  Keen gripped the rail until his fists ached. She was trying. Doing the impossible as with every second the wind drove her towards the blacker shadows of the land.

  The yards creaked again and Keen watched the seamen straining wildly at the braces, some with their pale bodies almost touching the deck as they hauled with all their strength. Quantock’s harsh voice was everywhere, harrying, threatening, demanding.

  The deck seemed to lean forward and down in a great single thrust, and the sea roared through the beak-head and over the forecastle in a solid flood. Men tumbled and were washed aside like puppets, and it was a marvel that none of the guns was torn from its lashings. Keen had seen that too. A great gun thundering about the deck like an insane beast, crushing men who tried to snare it, smashing anything which stood in its path.

  He watched with chilled fascination as the bows rose very slowly, the sea cascading away with a subdued roar. The ship was pointing towards the land. At the solid, unmoving barrier.

  To confirm his disbelief he heard Knocker yell, “Nor’-west it is, sir!”

  There was still no signal. Nor would there be, he thought.

  He should have felt despair for what he had done. Quantock had been right. There would have been no blame. Officially. He had been ordered to force the entrance rather than face the carefully sited battery in broad daylight. Achates was the only King’s ship, Bolitho the only flag-officer here to act and decide. Nobody could have laid the blame on Keen’s shoulder.

  Now he might lose the ship and every man-jack aboard, and the island’s defiance would remain as if they had never come to this damned place.

  Yet in spite of the realization he was glad. He had tried. Bolitho would know it. And other ships would come to avenge them, British or French, it would make no difference in the end.

  The lieutenant named Foord yelled wildly, “The signal! Hell’s teeth, the signal!” He was almost weeping with disbelief.

  Keen said sharply, “Control yourself, man! Mr Knocker! Bring her up a point to starboard!”

  He tried to relax his limbs one at a time as he watched the hissing glow against the swift-moving clouds. Men ran to the braces again, and he heard the fore-topgallant sail boom out from its yard and knew that the topsail had been the one torn apart by the wind.

  There it was. No mistake. Allday had done it.

  “Nor’-west by north, sir! Steady as she goes!”

  They seemed to be tearing through the water at a tremendous pace, like a runaway coach, its horses gone mad.

  But Keen had heard something different in the gaunt sailing-master’s voice. Not merely surprise or relief. Respect perhaps?

  “Leadsmen in the chains!”

  Keen pushed himself from the rail and walked to the opposite side to watch a leaping hurdle of breakers. The reefs looked close enough to touch with a pike.

  He heard the cry of a leadsman but had no idea what the depth would be.

  He saw the land suddenly close alongside, more spray, and felt the deck shiver as the keel ploughed into dangerous shallows.

  Knocker was passing more helm orders, his voice suddenly loud as the ship ran past the headland where the boom had once been.

  There were vague explosions. Musket fire and the occasional boom of artillery. But it was unreal. Nothing to do with the plunging two-decker and her men.

  Keen heard shouts from forward and then caught his breath as the ship gave a violent lurch. Then down the side he saw the dark outline of a small vessel, battered from her moorings by Achates, and capsizing slowly as they continued up the harbour.

  The flare was still burning fiercely and Keen could see the flames reflecting on a paler shape nearby, Allday’s barge. He snatched a telescope from a midshipman and trained it across the larboard bow.

  In the reflected glow he could see the bargemen standing and waving their tarred hats as they saw the ship heading towards them. Achates must make quite a sight, Keen thought. Sails shining in the flare, while her hull remained locked in darkness.

  “Prepare to shorten sail, Mr Quantock!”

  Keen found that his whole being was shaking uncontrollably, like a man on the verge of death.

  Then he saw the lights of the town for the fast time, glittering through the spray like tiny jewels. They were almost there. It was incredible. Impossible, some would say.

  Somewhere another cannon banged out, but Keen had no idea where the ball fell.

  “Stand by to wear ship, Mr Quantock.”

  There was still plenty of real danger. If the ship failed to respond this time they could drive on to the beach or become entangled with anchored shipping like a porpoise in a net.

  Perhaps they had created their own trap? Keen found he could consider it without emotion. It would not matter now. If they could not leave, neither would anyone else. He pictured Bolitho’s grave features and hoped he had seen Achates drive into the harbour like a phantom ship.

  If it could only be settled in a battle of wills, he knew who would emerge the victor.

  “Man the lee braces!” Quantock loomed towards him. “I’ve ordered both anchors to be ready, sir, and put a lieutenant in charge of the compressor. In this gale the cable might part if . . .” He left the rest unsaid.

  Keen regarded him calmly. “Carry on, if you please.”

  There was no change in Quantock and Keen felt strangely glad. It seemed wrong that he should change in any way because of a single reckless act. When you considered it, Keen thought, there was no other description for it.

  “Tops’l clew-lines!”

  Keen watched the flurry of activity above the deck. Those men had done well, he thought. To preserve their lives, their ship and their pride as only sailors could.

  “Helm a’lee!”

  Once again the deck tilted over, Allday’s barge swinging away from the jib-boom as if it had taken flight. But the wind and sea had lost their punch. Momentarily. They would bide their time. There was always another battle.

  “Let go!”

  Keen heard a splash and felt the planking quiver slightly as the second anchor banged against the hull as it swung from its cat-head in readiness to drop if the other failed.

  Blocks squealed, and slowly but surely the unseen topmen kicked and fisted the rebellious canvas to each yard and secured it.

  The motion eased immediately, and Keen said as calmly as he could, “Lower the remaining boats. I want a warp run out from aft. Tell Mr Rooke to report to me.” He turned away from Quantock’s bitter silence. “I also want a muster of all hands immediately. Casualties and serious injuries too, if you please.”

  A tiny figure appeared at his elbow. It was Ozzard, Bolitho’s molelike servant.

  “Here, sir.”

  He held out a silver tankard, one of Bolitho’s own.

  Keen held it to his lips and almost choked on rum.

  But it did what Ozzard intended and he handed him the tankard.

  “That was thoughtful. Thank you.”

  They both watched as the gig and then the jolly-boat were hoisted from the tier and swayed out above the gangway. More men were bustling aft while boatswain’s mates bawled instructions for laying out a massive warp. Against the pale planking the huge rope looked like an endless serpent.

  Ozzard asked timidly, “Will he be safe, sir?”

  Keen saw a lieutenant and Harry Rooke, the boatswain, hurrying towards him for orders, but there was something in Ozzard’s voice which held him.

  Safe? It was a word rarely considered in the King’s service.

  Faith had more meaning. Faith to enter a strange harbour despite the hazards and possible consequences. Faith of men like Allday who would risk anything because of Bolitho’s word and reputation.


  He smiled before turning towards his waiting subordinates.

  “He will be expecting a lot from us tomorrow, Ozzard, that I do know.”

  Ozzard bobbed and nodded. It was good enough for him.

  9 A CLOSE THING

  BOLITHO felt a hand touch his arm and tried not to groan as the stiffness plucked at his wound. Had he really been asleep? The realization shocked him into immediate alertness.

  “What is it, man?”

  Lieutenant Mountsteven watched him curiously, as if he did not really believe he was sharing a small rough gully with his vice-admiral.

  “Dawn soon, sir. I’ve roused all hands.”

  Bolitho sat up and rubbed his eyes. They felt raw and tired, and he noticed for the first time that the wind had almost died.

  Looking back, it still seemed unreal, an impossible hallucination. He peered over the edge of the ground and saw the vague glint of water, as if he expected to see Achates forcing the entrance, her sails bulging like metal breastplates, burnished gold by the spluttering flares. Achates was only a small sixty-four, but in the eerie glare she had seemingly filled the harbour and had brought wild cheers and not a few tears from Bolitho’s seamen.

  Around him he heard men gathering up their weapons and recalled the Royal Marine corporal who had been sent by Captain Dewar to report that all his men were ashore and in position.

  That too seemed like part of a dream, the corporal apparently unmoved and immaculate in his scarlet uniform.

  He grinned, despite his anxieties. By comparison he felt like a vagrant in his stained shirt and his hair full of grit and blown sand.

  The fortress was still lost in darkness, but the old volcano had a fine rim of grey light around its summit.

  Mountsteven handed him a flask and said, “I’ve put a good lookout to watch for the ship, sir. The marines will prevent any attempt to move a cannon from the town to fire on her.”

  Bolitho held the flask to his lips and felt his eyes water as the raw brandy burned his tongue. So much depended on Rivers. Given time he could move his heavy battery to another wall where with ordinary shot he could pound Achates to fragments. With heated shot he could achieve it in minutes.