Allday added quietly, “Not much of an admiral’s coxswain I’ll be an’ I wanted . . .”
Bolitho looked at him and said, “You’ve earned your time ashore in comfort more than anyone I know. There’s a place for you at Falmouth, but you know it.”
“I know, an’ I’m grateful. It’s not just that.” He looked at the sword. “You won’t need me any more. Not like this.”
Bolitho took the sword from him and laid it on the table.
“Like what? A bit knocked about, is that all? You’ll be your old mutinous self in no time, you see.” He rested his hand on his shoulder. “I’ll never sail without you. Not unless you wish it. You have my word.”
Allday stood up and tried not to grimace as the pain probed through him.
“That’s settled then, sir.”
He moved from the cabin, his feet dragging on the painted canvas.
His determination, his pride were as unbeatable as ever, Bolitho thought sadly. And he was alive.
Later that day, as the sun dipped towards a placid sea, Bolitho stepped into Achates’ wardroom. After his own and Keen’s cabins it seemed small and overcrowded, he thought.
Quantock said stiffly, “All officers and senior warrant officers present as ordered, sir.”
Bolitho nodded. Quantock was a cold fish, even the action had not changed him. Nor would it now, he decided.
He heard his nephew close the door behind him and said, “Please be seated, gentlemen, and thank you for inviting me here.”
It had always amused him. Any senior officer, even Keen, was a guest in his ship’s wardroom. But had anyone ever denied one an entrance, he wondered?
He glanced around at their expectant faces. Sunburned, and competent. Even the midshipmen who were crammed right aft by the tiller-head looked more like men than boys now. The lieutenants and the two Royal Marines, Knocker, the priest-like sailing-master, and Tuson, the surgeon, he had grown to know and understand them in the time they had carried his flag at the fore.
Bolitho said, “You will know that the courier brig brought despatches from England. Their lordships have given full consideration to the reports on San Felipe, and to the large part your efforts played in an otherwise difficult mission.”
He saw Mountsteven nudge his friend the sixth lieutenant.
“Furthermore, I have been advised that French interference in the Mediterranean, and their pressures on His Majesty’s Government to evacuate Malta in accordance with the same treaty which obliged us to hand this island to them, makes further negotiations impossible. As a direct result, gentlemen, all French and Dutch colonies which we had agreed to restore will now be retained. That, of course, will apply to San Felipe.”
It seemed impossible. In the neatly phrased despatches it was still hard to compare the complex negotiations which had swayed back and forth across Europe while Achates had been fighting for her very survival.
Bonaparte, now named Consul for life, had annexed Piedmont and Elba and showed every intention of retaking Malta once the British flag came down in the name of independence.
Bolitho saw the excitement transmit itself around the ward-room. So much for the Peace of Amiens. The signatures were barely dry on it.
“I am ordered to remain here until sufficient forces are despatched from Antigua and Jamaica to reinforce the garrison.”
He saw Keen drop his eyes. He knew what was coming next.
“The recent governor will be replaced as soon as possible. Sir Humphrey Rivers will be returning to England to stand trial for treason.”
He could find no satisfaction in that. After the luxury and wealth of his little kingdom he would be taken home in a King’s ship, the first of any size which could be made available. And after that, with this totally unexpected shift of events, he would very likely hang.
He looked from face to face and added, “You have performed very well, and I should wish you to carry my thanks to the people also.”
Keen watched as Bolitho smiled for the first time since he had begun to speak. Whatever anyone else might think, Keen could see plainly enough where the strain and responsibility had made their mark.
Bolitho said quietly, “And after that, we are going home.”
Then they were all on their feet shouting and laughing like boys.
Keen opened the door and Bolitho slipped away. He had two letters from Belinda, and now there was time he would re-read them from the beginning.
Keen and Adam followed him up the companion and then Keen asked, “Will it be war, sir?”
Bolitho thought of the young and jubilant faces he had just left behind, of Quantock’s sour disapproval.
“There is little doubt in my mind, Val.”
Keen stared around in the gloom, as if already preparing his ship for another battle.
“God, we’ve hardly recovered from the last one, sir!”
Bolitho heard Allday’s unfamiliar dragging footsteps and turned towards his cabin with its motionless scarlet sentry.
“Some never will, my friend. It’s too late.”
Keen sighed and said, “Join me, Mr Bolitho, and share a glass. Doubtless you’ll be getting a command of your own if war does come about.” He gave a smile. “Then you’ll discover what hardship really means!”
Aft in his cabin Bolitho made himself comfortable in a chair and opened the first letter.
Going home. They would have been surprised had they known just how much it meant to their vice-admiral.
Then he listened to her voice again as it lifted from the page.
My darling Richard . . .
“See that these letters are put aboard the packet with the others, Yovell.”
Bolitho listened to the squeak of tackles through the cabin skylight, the stamp of feet on deck as another net of fresh food supplies was hoisted above the gangway.
After all the waiting it was difficult to accept that the moment had arrived. Not that time had been allowed to drag on their hands, he considered.
A smart frigate and two bomb-vessels were now anchored below the battery, and a big armed transport had brought more soldiers as promised to reinforce the garrison. He smiled at Lemoine’s reaction when a full colonel had taken charge.
“I was just getting a taste for power, sir,” the lieutenant had said.
He heard Allday coming through the dining space and looked up to greet him. Allday had made great strides where his health was concerned and the colour had returned to his face. But he still could not straighten his shoulders, and his smart blue coat with the gilt buttons seemed loose on his big frame.
It must be close on six months since he had been struck down, three since the brig had arrived here with the Admiralty’s final instructions on the island’s future.
Bolitho said, “It will be spring in England when we reach there. A year since we left.”
He watched Allday’s expression but he merely shrugged and replied, “Probably all have blown over by that time, sir.”
“Maybe.”
He was still brooding. More afraid of the land than the hazards at sea. Allday had once told him that an old sailor was like a ship. Once tied up and unwanted, and with nothing useful to do, both were doomed.
And Allday had been a lot younger when he had said it.
Calls shrilled along the upper deck and voices barked commands as some marines marched to the entry port.
Bolitho stood up and waited for Ozzard to bring his dress-coat. The new governor had arrived in San Felipe aboard the frigate. A small, birdlike man, he seemed dull by comparison with Rivers.
His warrant made it clear that Rivers was to take passage in Achates. A cruel twist of fate for both of us, Bolitho thought.
As Keen had remarked, “Why this ship, damn his eyes? A plague on the man!”
Ozzard patted the gold-laced coat into place and eyed the epaulettes with professional interest. He reached for the fine presentation sword on its rack but dropped his hands as Bolitho gave a quick shake of the hea
d.
He waited for Allday to take the sword and clip it to his belt. As he had always done.
Bolitho had written to Belinda about Allday’s courage and the price he had paid for it. She, better than anyone, would know what to do. In a fast packet his letters would reach home long before Achates.
“Thank you. I shall go and meet our, er, guest.”
He glanced quickly round the cabin but Ozzard had already gone.
“Ready, Allday?”
Allday made to straighten his back but Bolitho said, “Not yet. It takes time.” He watched his despair. “As it did when I nearly died, remember? When you cared for me every hour of the day?”
He saw something of the old sparkle in Allday’s eyes.
“I’ll not forget that, sir.”
Bolitho nodded, moved by Allday’s pleasure at the memory.
“Flag at the fore, remember that too? I’ll see you an admiral’s coxswain yet, you scoundrel!”
They went on deck together and Bolitho saw Rivers waiting by the entry port flanked by an escort of soldiers. He wore manacles on his wrists, and Lieutenant Lemoine, who was in charge, said hastily, “My colonel’s orders, sir.”
Bolitho nodded impassively. “Sir Humphrey is under my protection, Mr Lemoine. There will be no irons here.”
He saw Rivers’ look of extraordinary gratitude and shock. Then he watched as his eyes moved up the foremast truck where the flag lifted in a fresh breeze. As a vice-admiral himself he was probably hanging on to this moment as his other world fell in ruins.
“Thank you for that, Bolitho.”
Bolitho saw Keen frowning in the background and said, “It is all and also the least I can do.”
Rivers looked across at the waterfront. People had flocked there to watch him leave. No cheers, no rebukes either. San Felipe was that sort of place, Bolitho thought. With a stormy past and a future just as uncertain.
Why should I care? Even feel sorry for the man, he wondered? A traitor, a respectable pirate who had caused too many deaths because of his own selfish greed. Rivers had two sons in London, so it was likely he would be well defended at his trial. He might even talk his way out of it. After all, if war came, the island’s security owed much to him, whatever the true reasons had been.
In his heart Bolitho knew that the real blame lay with powerful men in London. Who had allowed Rivers to extend his role here for his own advantage.
Keen watched Rivers being escorted below and said, “I’d have put him in the cells.”
Bolitho smiled. “When you’ve been a prisoner, Val, and I hope that never happens to you, you’ll understand.”
Keen grinned, unabashed. “But until then, sir, I don’t have to like him!”
Ferrier, the senior midshipman, touched his hat to Keen.
“Mr Tyrrell’s come aboard, sir.”
Bolitho turned. He had imagined that Tyrrell had stayed ashore for most of the time since Vivid’s loss because he did not want to talk about it. Or, independent to the end, he had been seeking a berth in some other vessel.
He had heard Achates was sailing very soon. The whole island seemed to know. There would likely be a few more babies on the plantations, black and white, after Achates had crossed the ocean. It was good to hear the seamen calling out to the people in the boats in the harbour and along the waterfront. The yards of the ships were festooned with coloured streamers, and every inch of space had been filled with fresh fruit and gifts from the islanders who had once hated and feared them.
He saw Tyrrell’s shaggy head appear above the ladder to the quarterdeck and walked to meet him.
“Thought I’d make a quick farewell, Dick. To you an’ the youngster. Next time he an’ I meet he’ll be a post-cap’n.”
Like Allday, he was finding it hard, and at any second he would blunder away on the wooden pin which he hated so much.
Bolitho tried to gauge the moment, knowing that any careful speech would be taken as charity, even condescension.
“Will you go back home now, Jethro?”
“Got no home. All gone, dammit, I told you!” He relented immediately. “Sorry about that. Bein’ with you again has unsettled me quite a bit.”
“Me too.”
“Really?” Tyrrell stared at him, wary of a lie.
“I was thinking . . .” Bolitho saw Knocker from the corner of his eye hurry to the first lieutenant, who in turn looked at the captain. Bolitho knew why. He had felt the shift of wind on his cheek even as he had been speaking with Rivers. It was not much, but with the winds here so perverse it must not be wasted. But just as when Ferrier had come to tell him about the brig’s arrival, so now he would not break the spell by looking up at the mast-head pendant. He continued, “There’s England, you know.”
Tyrrell threw back his head and laughed. “Hell, man, what are you sayin’? What would I do over there?”
Bolitho looked past him at the shore. “Your father came from Bristol. I recall you telling me. It’s not all that far from Cornwall, from us.”
Tyrrell watched the sudden activity as the relaxation on deck changed to purpose and movement. He knew all the signs. A ship leaving was nothing new. But homeward bound . . .
He said desperately, “I’m a cripple, Dick, what th’ hell use am I?”
“There are plenty of ships in the West Country.” He dropped his voice. “Like Vivid.”
He saw Keen moving nearer. It could not wait.
Bolitho said, “Anyway, I want you to come.”
Tyrrell gazed around as if he could not trust his own judgement.
“I’d work my passage, I’d insist on that!”
Bolitho smiled gravely. “It’s settled then.”
They shook hands and Tyrrell said, “By God, I’ll do it!” Bolitho turned to his flag-captain.
“You may get the ship under way when it suits.”
Keen yelled, “Hoist all boats inboard! Both watches of the hands, Mr Quantock!”
He looked at Bolitho and the one-legged man by the quarterdeck rail and shook his head.
Men were dashing aloft and out along the yards, and with her capstan manned Achates shed her ties with the land and moved slowly out to her anchor.
Adam said excitedly, “Hear them, Jethro? They’re cheering us!”
Along the waterfront the handkerchiefs waved and voices echoed across the water as the great capstan continued to clink round.
Tyrrell nodded. “Aye, lad, this time they are.”
Captain Dewar marched across the deck and touched his hat with a flourish.
Keen caught the mood too. “Very well, Major, you may play us out if that was what you were about to suggest?”
Bolitho found that he was gripping the worn rail with unusual force. He had seen it all before countless times, but somehow this was quite different.
“Anchor’s hove short, sir!”
“Loose the heads’ls!”
Bolitho turned and saw Allday beside him. His right arm.
“Man the braces there!” Quantock strode about, his head jutting forward, immersed for the moment in the complexities of his trade.
“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”
It was not a blustery departure, with the ship heeling over under a pyramid of canvas. With all the dignity of her years Achates swung slowly across the wind, the sunlight glancing off her figurehead, the armour-bearer, and along her sealed gunports and freshly painted tumblehome.
“Get the t’gan’s’ls on her, Mr Scott! Your division are like old women today!”
The sails hardened and shivered at their yards, and with barely a ripple below her dolphin-striker Achates glided towards the harbour mouth.
Bolitho watched the narrow strip of water. It looked no wider than a farm gate. A glance at Keen’s tense features told him that he was remembering that wild charge through it in total darkness.
“Steady as you go!” That was Knocker. Even he seemed different as he called, “Mr Tyrrell, you may be able to offer some local knowledge. If
so, I’d be obliged.”
Here was the fortress. The sloping track where the marine drummer had died, where Rivers had made his greatest mistake.
The flag above the old battery dipped in salute and Bolitho saw a line of redcoats on the jetty, bayonets fixed, colours lowered, as Achates’ topgallant sails made little patches of shadow on the fortress wall.
Allday murmured, “They’ll not forget Old Katie in a hurry.”
He turned his head to listen as the small cluster of fifers and drummers broke into The Sailor and His Lass.
Once Bolitho saw him thrust one hand to his wound, and then he removed it from his fine blue jacket and laid it on the rail beside his.
As if, like the island, he was leaving the pain astern.
16 THE SECRET
BOLITHO walked up the slippery planking and gripped the netting at the weather-side of the quarterdeck.
The ship was plunging and shuddering as rank after rank of waves surged against her quarter in an unbroken attack.
Bolitho watched as the bows dropped yet again and the sea thundered over the forecastle and cascaded along the upper gun-deck like a flood, breaking over the guns before surging away through the scuppers until the next onslaught.
In spite of the savage movement and damp discomfort Bolitho felt a sense of exhilaration, the nearest thing he could remember since his last command as post-captain.
How different was the Atlantic’s grey face to the waters around San Felipe. Lines of angry, rearing waves, their crests like broken yellow teeth.
Achates was making the best of this unexpected storm under jib and close-reefed topsails and was as steady as could be expected. Nevertheless, during the time he had been on deck Bolitho had seen the boatswain and his men floundering amongst the surging water to secure lashings on boats and guns, or to fight their way aloft to repair broken cordage.
Keen was here too, his tarpaulin coat flying in the wind as he bent over the compass and had a shouted conversation with the master.
How perverse the weather had been since the day they had set sail from San Felipe. The breeze had dropped almost as soon as the island had vanished below the horizon. They had been becalmed for days before they had been able to spread more sails again. It had taken more time then to recover what they had lost on the lazy currents and tides.
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