Now, deep into the Atlantic, they were seeing its other face. The ship was standing up well in spite of her repairs, many of which had been makeshift because of the lack of a dockyard. It was just as well, he thought grimly. The nearest land was Bermuda some two hundred miles to the north-west.
Here was another. He held his breath as the sea boiled over the weather-gangway and swept some seamen aside like twigs on a flooded stream. He looked up at the tightly braced yards, the reefed canvas like grey metal in the dim light.
Stooping shadows waited for the right moment before dashing from one handhold to the next. A few noticed him at the weather-side and probably thought him crazy for leaving his fine quarters.
Keen staggered towards him, his face shining with spray.
“Mr Knocker says it cannot last more than another day, sir.” He ducked as a solid sheet of water deluged over the quarterdeck and ran down the ladders on either side.
“How is Sir Humphrey taking to all this?”
Keen watched two of his men as they dragged some fresh cordage towards the mainmast in readiness to haul it aloft to the topsail yard. He relaxed slightly as they scampered into the ratlines before the next incoming sea could sweep them away or smash them senseless into one of the guns.
He shouted, “Well enough, sir! He spends much of his time writing.”
Bolitho tucked his chin into his cloak as the spray and spin-drift dashed down from the poop. Preparing his defence. Making a last will and testament. Probably just to keep his mind away from the miles as they dragged beneath Achates’ scarred keel.
The officer-of-the-watch moved hand over hand along the quarterdeck rail and yelled, “Time to call the first dog-watch, sir!”
Keen grinned into the storm. “God, it looks more like midnight!”
Bolitho left him and groped his way aft beneath the poop, where by contrast it seemed almost quiet, the sounds of sea and wind muffled and held at bay by the ship’s massive oak timbers.
But in the cabin it was just as lively, with water spurting through the sealed gunports and the gallery on the weather-quarter. Every lantern swung in a wild dance, and the cabin furniture did all it could to tear itself from Ozzard’s storm-lashings.
Ozzard appeared from his pantry and clung to the screen for support. His face was pale green, and Bolitho did not have the heart to ask him for something hot to drink.
“How is Allday?”
Ozzard gulped. “Resting, sir. In his hammock. He had a large tot of—” But even the memory of the neat rum was too much and he fled, retching, for the door.
Bolitho went into his sleeping-cabin and grasped the side of his swaying cot. Where Allday had almost died.
He waited for the deck to rise again and then hoisted himself, fully clothed, into the cot.
He hated being out of things, it was the part of his flag-rank which he found least acceptable. Strategy was one thing, but at times like these, as the ship fought her natural enemy without respite, he felt little better than a passenger.
Bolitho kicked off his shoes and grimaced at the shadows which loomed and died around him like macabre dancers.
But if the ship foundered, passenger or not, it would be better if the people saw their vice-admiral fully dressed.
During that night the storm blew itself out and the wind, although still strong, veered to the south and enabled Keen to set more sails and his men to carry on with their repairs. Between decks the trapped water and scattered possessions were cleared away, and when breakfast was piped the galley funnel was pumping out its usual plume of thick, greasy smoke.
Bolitho sat at his table, drinking scalding coffee and munching thin strips of pork fried pale in biscuit crumbs. It was one of his favourite meals at sea, and none could serve it better than Ozzard.
Despite the foul weather and unavoidable delays they should sight the Lizard, the southernmost tip of Cornwall, in fourteen days.
He was surprised that it should make him feel so nervous, unsure of himself. All he had longed and hoped for and yet he was as unsettled as a callow midshipman.
He got up and walked to the mirror above his desk. He was a year older. The lock of hair which hid the cruel scar above his right eye was still black, and yet he was sure there were some small grey strands too. He tried to shrug it off. The youngest vice-admiral on the List, apart from Our Nel, that is. But he found no consolation. He was forty-six and Belinda ten years his junior. Suppose . . .
Bolitho turned almost gratefully as Keen entered the cabin, his hat beneath his arm.
“Have some coffee, Val, what—” He saw the grim expression on Keen’s face and asked, “Trouble?”
Keen nodded. “The masthead has reported drifting wreckage to the nor’-east. Victim of the storm, I expect, sir.”
“Yes.” He pulled on his faded sea-going coat. “Not the packet which set sail before us?”
“No, sir. It would mean too much drift.” He watched Bolitho curiously. “If we change tack to examine the remains we will lose valuable time, sir.”
Bolitho bit his lip. He had once seen a drifting boat with only one man alive in it. All the rest were corpses. He thought of little Evans, how he must have felt in his drifting boat, his ship gone, his companions wounded and dying around him. What must it be like? The last one alive, like the man he had seen all those years ago?
He said, “There’s always a chance, Val. Alter course and send a boat away when you consider it near enough.”
An hour later, as Achates shortened sail and tacked uncomfortably close to the wind, the quarter-boat pulled swiftly towards the great spread of bobbing flotsam and broken timbers.
It had seemed an eternity before they got near enough to examine the storm’s success. In such Atlantic weather it seemed likely that several ships had shared this one’s fate.
Bolitho had stood on the poop with a telescope and had watched the remains spreading out across Achates’ bows, tragic and pathetic.
She had not been very large, he thought. She had probably been struck by one gigantic wave across her unprotected poop, driven over before she could recover.
Keen lowered his glass. “There’s a boat, sir!”
Bolitho moved his own glass and stared at the swamped, listing thing which had once been a longboat.
Keen exclaimed, “They’re alive! Two of them anyway!”
Lieutenant Scott, who was in charge of the quarter-boat, was already urging his oarsmen to greater efforts as he sighted the survivors.
Bolitho heard Tyrrell’s wooden stump on the wet planking and asked, “What do you make of it, Jethro?”
Tyrrell did not even hesitate. “She’s a Frenchie. Or was.”
Keen steadied his glass and said excitedly, “You’re right! They’re no merchant sailors either!”
Bolitho saw Tuson and his mates waiting by the entry port, a tackle being rigged to haul the survivors aboard.
Bolitho asked, “Who speaks the best French in Achates?”
Keen did not falter. “Mr Mansel, the purser. Used to be in the wine trade before the war.”
Bolitho smiled. He had heard slightly differently, and that Mansel had in fact been a smuggler.
“Well, tell him to be ready. We may be able to discover what happened.”
There were ten survivors in all. Knocked, dazed and half-blinded by the mountainous seas, they had lost hope of rescue so far from land. Their vessel had been the brig La Prudente, outward-bound from Lorient to Martinique. Their commander had been swept overboard, and their senior lieutenant had managed to clear away one boat before he too had died from a blow on the head from some falling wreckage. The dead lieutenant was still in the boat, his face very white beneath the water which filled it almost to the gunwales.
The coxswain of the quarter-boat yelled, “Shall I cast ’er off, sir?”
But Lieutenant Scott snatched a boat-hook and dragged the dead lieutenant towards him.
The survivors must have been too shocked and weak to push their o
fficer over the side, Bolitho thought. He watched them being carried and helped to a companion-way. They still did not seem to know what was happening.
Keen said, “Mr Scott has found something, sir.”
He could not hide his eagerness to get under way again, to fight back to their original track.
The dead officer rose above the gangway, water running from his mouth and his uniform as he swung above the gun-deck like a felon on the gallows.
Scott hurried aft and touched his hat. “He had this tied to his waist, sir. I saw it when the boat tilted over.”
Bolitho looked at Keen. It was like robbing the dead. The French lieutenant lay on the deck, his arms and legs stretched out, one eye part open as if the light was too strong for him. Black Joe Langtry, the master-at-arms, covered the corpse with a piece of canvas, but not before he had removed a pistol from the man’s belt. It had probably been his only means of maintaining some order on that terrible night when his ship had been overwhelmed.
Keen said, “All the same, sir. Lorient to Martinique.”
Bolitho nodded. “My thoughts entirely.”
It took a few moments to open the thick canvas envelope and break the imposing scarlet seals.
Bolitho watched the purser’s lips move as he scanned the carefully worded despatch which was addressed to the admiral in command of the West Indies Fleet at Fort de France.
No wonder the dead lieutenant had tried to save the package.
The purser looked up from the table, uncomfortable under their combined gaze.
He said, “As near as I can tell, sir, it says that upon receipt of these orders hostilities against England and her possessions will be resumed immediately.”
Keen stared at Bolitho. “That’s near enough for me!”
Bolitho walked to the stern windows and watched the quarter-boat being warped round in readiness for hoisting. It gave him time to think, to weigh chance and coincidence against a small act of humanity.
He said, “For once a storm was a friend to us, Val.”
Keen watched as Bolitho tipped a handful of pistol balls from the envelope, to carry it to the sea-bed rather than let it fall into the wrong hands. But the lieutenant had been killed before he could act, and his men had been too ignorant or too frightened to care.
Keen said, “So it’s no longer just a threat. It’s war.”
Bolitho smiled gravely. “At least we know something which others do not. That is always an advantage.”
With her yards retrimmed and her helm hard over Achates turned her jib-boom away from the drifting pattern of flotsam and the waterlogged boat which would sink in the next storm.
That evening at dusk the dead lieutenant was buried with full honours.
Bolitho watched with Adam and Allday close by as Keen said a few prayers before the corpse was dropped alongside.
The next Frenchman they met would not be so peaceful, Bolitho thought.
“Well, Sir Humphrey, I believe you wish to speak with me.” Bolitho kept his tone level but was shocked to see the change in Rivers’ appearance and demeanour. He looked ten years older, and his shoulders were bowed as if he was carrying a great burden.
Rivers seemed surprised when Bolitho indicated a chair for him and sank into it, his eyes wandering around the cabin without recognition.
He said, “I have written down all I know of the plot to seize my—” He faltered. “To seize San Felipe. Rear-Admiral Burgas, who commanded the squadron at La Guaira, was to govern it until Spanish ownership was recognized.”
“Did you know about the Spanish mission, that it might be used to shelter an invading force?”
“No. I trusted the captain-general. He promised me more trade along the Spanish Main. I could see nothing but improvement.”
Bolitho took the papers from him and scanned them thoughtfully.
He said, “These might help with your defence in London, although . . .”
Rivers shrugged. “Although. Yes, I understand.”
He looked at Bolitho and asked, “If you are in England during my trial, would you be prepared to speak for my defence?”
Bolitho stared at him. “That is an extraordinary thing to request. After your action against my ship and my men . . .”
Rivers persisted, “You are a fighting officer. I want no defence for what I did, but understanding of what I had been trying to do. To keep the island under the British flag. As it is now, thanks to you.”
When Bolitho remained silent he continued, “After all, had the Dons made their move before you came, my actions might have succeeded, and I would have been seen in a very different light.”
Bolitho eyed him sadly. “But they did not. You must know from past experience, Sir Humphrey, that if a captain fires upon or seizes an enemy ship, or what he believes to be a foe, only to discover when he reaches port that their two countries are at peace, what then? That captain could have had no way of knowing the facts, and yet . . .”
Rivers nodded. “He would be blamed nevertheless.” He stood up. “I should like to return to my quarters now.”
Bolitho rose too. “I have to tell you that we shall be in sight of land within the week. After that your affairs will be taken out of my hands.”
“I understand. Thank you.”
Rivers walked to the door and Bolitho saw two Royal Marines waiting for him.
Adam, who had been present throughout the brief interview, said, “I feel no sorrow for him, Uncle.”
Bolitho touched his scar beneath the rebellious lock of hair.
“It’s too easy to judge.”
Adam grinned. “If you had been appointed governor, Uncle, would you have behaved as he did?” He saw Bolitho’s confusion and nodded. “There you are then.”
Bolitho sat down. “Young devil. Allday was quite right about you.”
Adam watched him, his features suddenly serious.
“I was glad to join you as your flag-lieutenant, Uncle. Being with you for such a long period has taught me a lot. About you, about myself.” He looked wistfully around the cabin. “I shall miss the freedom more than I can say.”
Bolitho was moved. “The same applies to me. I was warned against bringing you. Too close, Oliver Browne said. Perhaps he was right in some ways, but when we reach Falmouth things will—”
They both looked up at the skylight as a lookout’s voice pealed down, “Deck there! Sail to the sou’-east!”
Bolitho stared at the square of blue above the skylight. He felt his heart quicken, an unexpected dryness in his throat. Like the hunter caught off guard when he needed his vigilance the most.
He crossed to his chart on the table and examined it, following the neat calculations, the unerring line which led all the way to the Cornish coast. It was unlikely that a merchantman would be outward-bound from either England or France if war had just been declared. It would take time for the rules to be accepted or broken.
“I’m going on deck.”
He strode to the door and out into the sunlight. The sea was lively with white-caps, and the wind still steady from the south so that Achates had her yards tightly braced to hold her on a starboard tack.
Men stood about in small groups or stared up at the seaman in the mizzen crosstrees.
Keen cupped his hands. “Mizzen topmast-head there!”
“Sir?” The man peered down at his captain far below.
“What does she look like?”
“Man-o’-war, sir!”
Keen beckoned impatiently. “Get aloft with a glass, Mr Mountsteven, that fellow is a madman!”
He saw Bolitho and touched his hat. “I beg your pardon, sir.”
Bolitho looked at the empty sea, suddenly apprehensive. Did going home mean so much? Was it that different now?
Keen said, “From the sou’-east, it seems, sir. Too far out for the Bay.”
Mountsteven had reached his precarious perch beside the lookout.
He yelled, “She looks, sir, like a whacking frigate!” A pause.
“A Frenchie, I’d suggest!”
Bolitho made himself walk calmly to the quarterdeck rail as the conjecture buzzed around him like a swarm of hornets.
A French frigate standing well out to sea, probably steering north for the Channel or the tip of the Bay, Brest perhaps?
He thought of the dead lieutenant, the envelope, the little brig on passage from Lorient to Martinique.
“Deck there! There’s another sail astern of her, sir!”
Knocker, who had silently appeared by the wheel, muttered, “Pork and molasses! More bloody trouble, I’ll be bound!”
Keen said, “She’s on a converging tack, sir. She’ll have the wind-gage, by God.”
Bolitho did not turn but stared along the full length of the deck. So near and yet so far. Another two days, maybe less, and they would have met with ships of the Channel Fleet as they endured the weary task of blockade duty.
He said, “The Frenchman is taking a chance, Val.” He turned and saw understanding on Keen’s face. “Maybe they do not know the news, as we would not but for loss of La Prudente.”
Midshipman Ferrier, who had swarmed into the weather-shrouds at the first sighting report, yelled, “I can see the first one, sir! A big frigate! I can’t make out the other but—”
Mountsteven’s voice cut him dead. “Second one is a ship of the line, sir! A seventy-four!”
One of the helmsmen sucked his teeth. “The bastards!”
Bolitho took a telescope and climbed up beside the midshipman.
“Where away, Mr Ferrier?”
Then he saw the leading Frenchman, her topgallant sails like gold in the sunlight. Even as he watched her outline changed slightly. He remarked half to himself, “She’s setting her royals.”
Bolitho climbed down to the deck and looked at his nephew.
“As you will know, a frigate’s job is to sniff out danger and identify strangers.”
Adam nodded. “Then they cannot know about the war.”
Bolitho tried to clear his mind. The pattern was all wrong. The French ships were closing rapidly with the southerly wind well in their favour.
Success to the Brave Page 23
