Success to the Brave

by Alexander Kent

  They were both studying the chart when a midshipman announced the arrival of Electra at the anchorage.

  Keen buttoned his coat.

  “I’ll receive Commander Napier, sir.” He glanced at the table. “I’m still not sure that I am convinced, sir.”

  Bolitho smiled. “You will be.”

  He allowed Ozzard to assist him into his sea-going coat out of respect for Electra’s captain.

  His body ran with sweat, and through the stern windows he saw the gentle rise and fall of the clear water and imagined himself swimming naked there. His thoughts turned instantly to Belinda. It only took a split second. Like dropping your guard through fatigue or over-confidence. The enemy’s blade darting forward like a steel tongue. He had tried to occupy every moment of his time with his work and the puzzle which he must solve. But every so often he saw only Belinda and the distance which divided them like an eternal barrier.

  He vaguely heard footsteps and lowered voices. He had to recover himself for their sakes as well as his own.

  Soon now, probably very soon, they would have to fight. This was no haphazard scheme or piratical aspiration. The unknown ship had already proved that to be in the right was no protection. Too many had died already to support such an argument.

  He faced the door. In any war the cannon was impartial. Its roar swept away saint and sinner with the same indifference.

  Commander Napier, with a shining new epaulette fixed to his left shoulder for the occasion, entered and clicked his shoes together.

  Bolitho took the heavy envelope from his hand and passed it to Yovell.

  “You made a speedy passage, Commander Napier.”

  Bolitho tried to contain his impatience as Napier was put in a chair and a glass of wine brought for him.

  Napier said, “English Harbour is almost empty of ships but for a third-rate which is refitting and two frigates. The admiral has taken the squadron to the Leeward Islands, sir. Commodore Chater is in temporary command.” He swallowed under Bolitho’s grey stare. “He sends you his respects and best wishes, sir.”

  Bolitho heard Yovell breaking the seals on the canvas envelope and wanted to run and tear out the despatches from Antigua. But without the admiral there he was helpless. He knew a little of Commodore Chater. He was not one to risk the displeasure of his superior with some brave gesture.

  Napier added huskily, “I am commanded to place myself and Electra at your wishes, sir.” He screwed up his eyes as he tried to recall exactly what Chater had told him. “When he learned of Sparrowhawk’s loss he wished to send some marines to enlarge your force.”

  Bolitho nodded. “But the marines have also sailed with the squadron, am I right?”

  Napier replied miserably, “Aye, sir.” Then he brightened and added, “But I was ordered to embark a platoon of the Sixtieth Foot in their stead, sir.”

  Keen, who had followed him aft, said quietly, “That’s something.”

  Bolitho turned towards the windows while he tried to fit the pieces together.

  Napier said brightly, “But I expect you knew about the soldiers, sir. The commodore sent word with the courier brig which sailed two days ahead of me.”

  Bolitho swung round. “What did you say?”

  Napier paled. “The courier, sir. Despatches for the admiral at Antigua, others for you, sir.” He looked to Keen for comfort. “From England, sir.”

  Keen exclaimed, “You were right, sir. They must have caught and sunk the courier brig too.”

  Bolitho grasped his hands behind his back and squeezed them until the pain controlled his dismay.

  From England. With despatches. And letters. News of Belinda. And now . . .

  He looked at Keen. “So you are convinced?” He did not hear his answer.

  To Napier he said, “Have you a capable first lieutenant?”

  Napier was completely lost. For hours he had rehearsed what he would say to Bolitho. He had had time to put on his best uniform. Now it had all shattered. Like opening a door to greet a friend and finding oneself confronted by a madman.

  He managed to nod. “Aye, sir. He is a good officer.”

  “Just as well.” Bolitho looked at Keen. “First opportunity tomorrow we will weigh and put to sea. In the meantime I shall endeavour to glean what I can from the gallant commodore’s despatches. But before that . . .” He crossed to the table and poured Napier another glass of hock. “We shall all drink a toast. You too, Allday.”

  Allday took a glass from Ozzard and watched the transformation in looks and tone.

  Bolitho felt his mouth lift to a grin.

  “A toast.” He raised his glass. “To Mr Napier, the new acting-governor of San Felipe!”

  “Sou’-west by south, sir! Steady she goes!”

  Bolitho half listened to the helmsman’s report but concentrated on the sprawling purple blur on the larboard horizon. It was afternoon and the sun still beat down on the slow-moving ship with relentless ferocity. But after the oppressive hostility in San Felipe it was like a tonic.

  Bolitho could feel it in the ship around and beneath him, the cheerful banter of the seamen on deck. Mountsteven, who was officer-of-the-watch, barely raised his voice as he supervised the final resetting of the forecourse.

  Bolitho steadied his telescope and watched the vague suggestion of land, Haiti, which lay some fifteen miles to larboard. Despite the distance it had an air of menace. Whenever possible sailors avoided its shores with their tales of witchcraft and horrifying rites.

  Achates had been delayed a further day in San Felipe for want of wind, but now with the prevailing north-easterly filling her topsails and courses she was standing down the Windward Passage as if she was enjoying it. Here the Passage between Cuba and Haiti was barely seventy miles wide, its narrowest part. In time of war it would be hard to force a convoy through, with San Felipe in enemy hands. The more he considered it, the less Bolitho could understand the reason for his orders.

  He handed the glass to one of the midshipmen and began to pace slowly up and down the quarterdeck. He hoped he had not been too hard on Commander Napier. The latter appeared to be relishing his new, if brief, appointment as temporary governor. With his fourteen-gun brig anchored below the powerful battery, and a smart platoon of the Sixtieth Foot, or the Royal Americans as they were still known, in the fortress, he was able to present a show of strength.

  He saw some marines having their muskets and equipment inspected by Lieutenant Hawtayne. He was glad they were back on board where they belonged. It seemed very likely they would soon be needed again.

  He hid a smile as the marine lieutenant said in his piping voice, “Smarten yourself up, Jones! You’ve had your rest ashore!”

  Bolitho knew that the picture of the dead drummer-boy would last a long time in his memory.

  He heard Adam’s light step nearby and saw him waiting to speak.

  “How is my flag-lieutenant today?”

  Adam smiled. It was the moment.

  “Miss Robina is a fine girl, Uncle. I’ve never met anyone like her . . .”

  Bolitho let it pour out without interruption. So that was the trouble. But for his own worries he would have realized that the ride to Newburyport would be a beginning rather than an ending.

  “Have you asked her father for her hand in marriage?”

  Adam blushed. “It’s far too soon, Uncle, that is, I hinted perhaps sometime in the future, that is, not too distant future . . .” His voice trailed away and he stared at the dark water abeam. Then he said, “I know she won’t have me, of course. Her uncle knows. He was glad to get rid of me aboard one of his vessels.”

  Bolitho looked at him. Vivid was owned by Chase. It was strange that Tyrrell had not mentioned it.

  “Let us walk awhile, Adam.”

  They paced back and forth for several minutes while the ship moved and worked around them.

  Bolitho said, “You have a future in the Navy, Adam. A good one, if I have any say in the matter. You come of fine sea-goi
ng stock, but so have many others. Whatever gain you make, and whatever achievements you have won, you will have done so without the use of privilege, remember that. Yours will be a better Navy, or should be when young officers like you have positions of authority. We’re an island race. We shall always need ships and those brave enough to fight them.”

  Adam glanced at him. “It is what I want. Have wanted since I joined your Hyperion as midshipman.”

  Bolitho looked down at the gun-deck and saw the seaman who had lost an eye being greeted by some of his messmates as he swayed uncertainly past an eighteen-pounder. He was still unused to it. But with his black eye-patch to conceal the oakum which filled the empty socket he looked every inch a hero, and they were treating him as such.

  Adam tried to find the words. “Men like that one, Uncle. They mean a lot to you. They’re not just ignorant hands, they matter, don’t they?”

  Bolitho faced him. “They most certainly do. We must never take them for granted, Adam. There are plenty of others who do!”

  Adam nodded. “When I sat in my father’s old chair . . .”

  Bolitho asked quietly, “At Newburyport? Where his ship was once sheltered?”

  Adam looked away. He had not meant it to slip out quite like that, or so soon.

  “They showed me, Uncle. It was the family name, you see. Not common in New England.”

  “I’m glad. You’ve seen more than I.”

  He heard Keen approaching and was suddenly thankful. It was not just Hugh’s memory, what he had done to their father when he had deserted to fight for the American rebels, not because of that or the shame which even Rivers had been quick to mention. Bolitho tried to face it. He was jealous. Hurt, even though it was ridiculous.

  Keen touched his hat. “Mr Tyrrell is in the chartroom with the master, sir. I think we should examine the next chart.” He glanced professionally at the clear sky. “Should be able to maintain a fair speed all night at this rate.” He seemed oblivious to the awkward silence.

  “Good, I’ll come directly.” He nodded to his nephew. “You too. It’s all experience for whatever you intend.”

  He hesitated outside the chartroom and said abruptly, “Take charge, Val. I’m going aft. You can explain it all later.”

  Adam asked anxiously, “Are you feeling unwell, sir?”

  Bolitho said, “Just tired.”

  He strode away and was soon lost in the shadows below the poop deck.

  He was unable to face all of them crammed together in the small space of the chartroom. Knocker, the master, Quantock, Captain Dewar of the Royal Marines, and their assistants as well.

  Bolitho had left another letter with Napier at San Felipe, and a copy to be sent by any other vessel which might happen to call at the harbour for supplies or water.

  Not knowing about Belinda was tearing at him like claws. He had not realized how brittle his reserves had become. Not until Adam had reminded him of Hugh. My father’s old chair. Before, Hugh had remained misty and obscure. Now he was here amongst them. Fighting for his place.

  Bolitho slumped down on the stern seat and stared at the glistening froth left by Achates’ rudder.

  Allday padded in from the dining space. “Can I fetch you a glass, sir?” He was careful to keep his voice level.

  “No, but thank you.” Bolitho twisted round to look at him. “You’re the only one who really knows me, do you understand that?”

  “Sometimes I do, an’ then again sometimes I don’t, sir. By an’ large I think I sees the man more’n others do.”

  Bolitho lay back and breathed in the damp air. “God, Allday, I am in hell.” But when he looked again Allday had vanished.

  He watched a fish jumping astern. Who could blame Allday? He was probably ashamed of seeing his secret despair.

  But Allday, as was his wont, had gone to his tiny, screened-off mess which he shared with his two friends, Jewell, the Achates’ sailmaker, and the boatswain’s mate Christy whom he had known in the Lysander at the Nile.

  Three great tots of rum later he presented himself at Keen’s cabin door.

  The captain’s clerk regarded him warily. “What do ’ee want, Allday?”

  The clerk winced as Allday breathed out the heavy fumes.

  “Request to see the cap’n.”

  It was unorthodox, and Keen was feeling weary after the discussion in the chartroom. But he knew Allday, and owed him his very life.

  “Come in and close the door.” He dismissed his clerk and asked, “What is it, man? You look like someone intent on a fight.”

  Allday took another long breath. “It’s the admiral, sir. He’s carryin’ more’n his share. It’s not fair . . .”

  Keen smiled. So that was all. He had imagined something terrible had occurred.

  Allday continued, “I just wanted to say my piece, sir, seein’ you’re a decent man an’ a real friend to ’im down aft. It’s some-thin’ the flag-lieutenant said to ’im. I feel it in me bones. Somethin’ which wounded ’im deeply.”

  Keen was tired but he was intelligent and quick-witted. He knew he should have seen it. The unusual strangeness between the vice-admiral and his nephew.

  He said, “Leave it with me, Allday. I understand.”

  Allday studied his face and then nodded. “Had to speak, sir. Otherwise, officer or not, I’ll put the flag-lieutenant across my knee and beat the hell out of ’im!”

  Keen stood up. “I didn’t hear that, Allday.” He smiled gravely. “Now be off with you.”

  For a long while Keen sat at his table and watched the sun dying on the gently heaving sea.

  He had a million things to do, for somehow he knew they would be called to fight very soon now. Like Allday, he thought, in me bones. The memory did not amuse him but he found that he was able to forget the conference, Quantock’s silent disapproval and the man Tyrrell’s brash promises to lead them to a place where they could hold an advantage against the other ship.

  And all because of Allday. He had known Bolitho’s coxswain on and off for eighteen turbulent years. Years of hardship and war, of momentary distractions and the incredible joy of staying alive when that seemed an impossibility.

  One word stood out where Allday was concerned. Loyalty.

  Keen reached wearily for the bell to summon his clerk.

  He doubted if many people could describe what loyalty was, but he had been privileged to see what it looked like.

  11 REVENGE

  “ALL HANDS , all hands! Hands aloft an’ loose topsails!”

  Bolitho stood at the quarterdeck rail and watched the dripping cutters being secured yet again on their tier. Achates had anchored for several hours while the boats had been lowered to examine an inlet where a ship might be concealed. As on all the other occasions, they had returned with nothing to report.

  Bolitho shaded his eyes from the intense glare to look at the land. Santo Domingo was just a few miles to the northwest, then the Mona Passage, back to the northern approaches where they had started.

  Two weeks wasted. Making use of winds which would barely move a leaf on an inland stream.

  He watched the big topsails flapping and filling as the ship heeled slightly on her new tack.

  Keen crossed the quarterdeck and waited for Bolitho to face him.

  “With respect, sir, I think we should return to San Felipe.”

  Bolitho replied, “I know these waters well, Val. You can hide a fleet if need be. You think I’m mistaken, don’t you?” He touched his crumpled shirt and smiled. “I don’t blame you. These past weeks have been hard on all of us.”

  Keen said, “I’m worried for you, sir. The longer we wait . . .” Bolitho nodded. “I know. My head on the block. I’ve always understood that.”

  The shrouds creaked as the wind increased a little to fill the sails. High above the decks the extra lookouts strained their eyes and silently cursed their officers for their discomfort.

  Bolitho heard the heavy tap of Tyrrell’s wooden stump and turned to gree
t him. Keen made his excuses and moved to another part of the quarterdeck. His mistrust and growing suspicion were obvious.

  Tyrrell glanced at Keen and said, “Don’t like me much, that one.” He sounded worried, less confident.

  Bolitho asked, “Are you still certain, Jethro?”

  “She could have gone elsewhere.” He pounded his fist on the rail. “But several friends told me she’d been usin’ one of the inlets as a restin’ place. She’s nothin’ to fear from the Dons. They know what she’s about, I’m certain of that too.”

  Bolitho looked at him thoughtfully. “We’re inside their waters now. I’ve no authority even to be here unless that damned ship is sheltering behind the Spanish flag.”

  Keen returned, his face expressionless. “We shall have to change tack again shortly, sir.” He purposely ignored Tyrrell. “After that it will be a hard beat up to the Mona Passage. The wind is poor enough, but it seems intent on holding us back.”

  Even as he spoke the fore-topsail flapped and banged against the shrouds and men scurried to the braces to retrim the yards yet again.

  Tyrrell said suddenly, “I know of a place. Give me a boat.” He was speaking quickly as if to stifle his own arguments against his suggestion. “You don’t believe me. I’m not even sure myself.”

  They looked up as a lookout yelled, “Deck there! Sail to the nor’-west!”

  Keen murmured, “Bloody hell! It’ll be a patrol boat out of Santo Domingo!”

  Tyrrell regarded him bleakly. “They’ll have been watchin’ your fine ship for days, Captain, I’ll wager a bounty on it!”

  Keen looked away and retorted, “You’d know about bounties right enough!”

  Bolitho said sharply, “Enough.”

  He looked up at the masthead. A fine, clear day, the lookout would see better than anyone.

  He cupped his hands and shouted, “What ship?”

  Bolitho was aware that several of the seamen nearby had stopped work to stare. An admiral, even a junior one, shouting? It must seem like heresy.

  The lookout shouted down, “Frigate, sir, by the cut of her!”