'Fire!'
Keen saw the broadside smash into the Indiaman's forecastle and felt sick with despair as great gouts of flame burst through the holes made by the iron shot.
The master said in a whisper, 'We'll not stand her off, sir.'
Keen did not look at him. Knocker was a careful man and had probably unshipped his chronometer so that it would not go down with the ship.
Keen looked at the grim-faced gun crews with their rammers and sponges, the menacing way that the smoke was curling between the ratlines and shrouds as if the rigging was already ablaze.
He could do nothing to save her. This fine ship which had seen and done so much. Old Katie, they called her. And now . . .
Quantock raised his speaking-trumpet. 'Fire!'
Tuson, the surgeon, hovered by the ladder, and Keen said, 'You wish to get your wounded on deck?'
That, if anything, might snap the last strand of order. There were not any of Dewar's marines aboard to prevent the stampede once it began. He saw the grateful look in Tuson's eyes and was glad of what he had done.
Goddard, the quartermaster, yelled, 'Look yonder, lads!'
The Indiaman had bumped against another moored craft and that too was well alight, sparks shooting from her hold and adding to the horror.
But it was not that which Goddard had seen.
Keen stared until his eyes throbbed with pain as the little brigantine Vivid nosed through the smoke and falling fragments, her yards braced as she overreached the other vessel.
Quantock said hoarsely, 'Christ Almighty, she must have followed her through the entrance! It'll be her turn to burn in a moment!'
Keen tore the telescope from a midshipman's fingers and trained it on the advancing wall of flames. In the lens it looked even worse, terrifying, and Keen could feel his mouth and throat going dry as he watched.
He saw Tyrrell's big frame by the tiller as he steered his Vivid closer and closer to the other vessel's starboard bow. Through the haze of smoke and whirling smuts he looked as if he would never budge. Even now the sails were swinging and snapping in the wind, although how Tyrrell's men could find the strength to work at halliards and braces against that heat was a miracle.
Keen heard shouts from the gun-deck as the first of the wounded were brought from the orlop but did not turn away from the awesome sight in the harbour. He imagined he could feel the heat and knew he could not delay the order to abandon much longer.
'Secure the guns, Mr Quantock.'
He expected a chorus of insults at the absurdity of his order, but instead he heard the squeak of trucks and handspikes as the eighteen-pounders were secured at their ports.
There was a mingled groan as the Vivid's masthead pendant vanished in a puff of smoke. Any second now and all the care in the world would not prevent her taking fire.
Keen saw the two vessels lurch together, the impetus of Vivid's full set of sails swinging the fire-ship slightly to larboard.
Lieutenant Trevenen murmured thickly, 'Vivid's afire, sir."
Keen watched the flames jumping like terrible demons from rigging to rigging, multiplying and spreading until the fore-course was reduced to ashes.
But Vivid was holding her way against the other, heavier hull, pushing her round. There were men too at the point where both vessels were locked together, and moments later Keen saw a splash as one of the Indiaman's anchors was released from the cat-head. Given time the anchor cable would burn through too, but as the flukes dragged along the harbour bed the fire-ship's shape began to lengthen as she took the strain of the cable.
Her smouldering mizzen and yards cracked and fell in charred fragments alongside and Knocker gasped, 'She's aground, by God!'
Keen nodded, unable to speak. Tyrrell probably knew the harbours hereabouts better than most, and had gauged his action to the second, so that the blazing Indiaman was already pushing herself firmly into the shallows.
Keen heard himself say, 'Send every boat you can, Mr Quantock.'
Vivid was blazing fiercely. It was almost impossible to see which vessel was which. There was still danger, the ship might refloat herself, or a fragment might drift down on Achates.
Keen turned and looked at his command. But whatever happened they had stood firm. Like Bolitho had told them. Together.
They were staring up from the gun-deck and watching him. Because of the smoke, and the carefully rationed water aboard ship, they looked more like a mob of filthy buccaneers than jack-tars.
They were cheering now, waving their fists and capering as if they had won a great battle. He saw Quantock looking at him, his eyes bitter. The sailors had at last discarded their dead captain and had adopted Keen.
Keen grinned at them and felt like weeping. Then he made up his mind.
'Call away the gig. I'll fetch Tyrrell myself.'
They found Tyrrell and most of his small crew clinging to a spar and half an upturned boat.
And there too was Adam Bolitho, half-naked and with a livid burn on one shoulder.
Tyrrell allowed himself to be hauled into the stern-sheets where he slumped and looked across at the remains of his brigantine.
She was already burned to the water-line. Unrecognizable.
Keen said, 'I'm sorry for what happened and the way I treated you. It was a close thing. You lost your ship but you saved mine.'
Tyrrell barely heard him. He put his arm around Adam's shoulders and said roughly, 'Seems to me, you an' me both lost somethin', eh?'
As the gig approached Achates' side the seamen ran along the gangway and swarmed into the shrouds to cheer as Tyrrell looked up at them.
Keen said, 'They're grateful to you.'
'Quite right too.'
Tyrrell looked at his wooden leg; even that had been charred by the blaze. What was the point of going over it again? If Achates had not been here when the attack had started, none of this would have happened. He looked at his beloved Vivid as she broke in halves and slipped into the shallows in a rising cloud of steam. And Vivid would still be his.
He felt the young lieutenant's hand on his arm as he said quietly, 'We'll both get another chance one day, Jethro.'
Tyrrell bared his teeth. 'Sure as hell hope so. Can't spend the rest of my days lookin' after you!'
Keen stood by Bolitho's table and watched him with concern. He had noticed that Bolitho had been studying the day's log of events but that his eyes rarely moved.
Keen said, 'Mr Mansel, the purser, reports that fresh fruit and vegetables have been coming on board from the town, sir. It is still arriving. They don't seem to be able to do enough for us now.'
Bolitho smoothed out the papers on his table. Now. That word said so much. He heard Ozzard tiptoeing behind him to close the stern windows as dusk filled the harbour with shadows once more. But there were still a few sparks and glowing embers to mark where the fire-ship lay in the shallows. It was only this morning when he had passed the time with Lieutenant Lemoine at the fortress.
Keen knew Bolitho needed to be alone but was unwilling to leave him. He recalled his own shock when the barge had hooked on to the chains and he had seen Allday carried aboard as if already dead.
All his other feelings had been scattered like the ashes of the fire-ship.
Pride in his men, of what they had done in spite of the terrible danger. A deep, inner satisfaction that he had not broken under the strain. Neither seemed to count any more. Allday had become part of his life too. In fact, when he thought about it, most of the people he knew and cared for had been helped and influenced by Bolitho's coxswain.
At times like this Allday would have been the one to enter the cabin and gently hustle away unwanted visitors, like his dog had once done when he had been a shepherd in Cornwall.
Now he lay in Bolitho's own sleeping quarters, a sword-thrust in his chest which had even shocked the taciturn surgeon.
Keen tried again. 'We took several prisoners, sir. The crew of the fire-ship, some soldiers from the mission too. You were right.
They are all Spaniards from La Guaira. After this the Dons will never dare to attack San Felipe. The whole world will know what they did. I would give little hope for their heads when their King is told of their bungling.'
Bolitho leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He could still smell smoke. Could see Allday's attempt to smile just for his benefit.
He said, 'Tomorrow I will draft a report for Sir Hayward Sheaffe.' London would be grey and wet in September, he thought vaguely. 'After that it will be up to Parliament."
His words seemed to mock him. What did any of it matter?
'But for the moment it can wait.'
He looked up sharply but it was only one of the duty watch pacing the poop overhead.
Tuson was a good surgeon in spite of his early record. He had already proved that several times over. But if only . . . He cut his thoughts short.
He said, 'I was sorry to hear about Jethro Tyrrell's loss.'
'He took it well, sir.' Keen hesitated. 'He was asking if he might visit you.'
The adjoining door opened and Adam stepped noiselessly into the cabin.
Bolitho asked, 'How is he?'
Adam wanted to comfort him but said, 'He remains unconscious, and Mr Tuson says his breathing is poor.' He looked away. 'I spoke to him but ..."
Bolitho got to his feet, his limbs heavy. There were lights in Georgetown, and he wondered if the people were still standing quietly on the waterfront as they had since the action. Sharing the pain or the guilt he did not know, or care.
Adam was saying, 'Allday and I were once taken prisoner together, sir.' He was speaking to Keen but his gaze was on Bolitho. 'Afterwards he said to me it was the only time he had ever been flogged. He seemed to think it was a bit of a joke.'
Keen nodded. 'He would.'
Bolitho clenched his fists. They wanted to help but they were ripping him apart.
He said abruptly, 'I'll go to him. You both get some rest. Take care of that burn, Adam. In this climate ..." He did not go on.
Keen led the way from the cabin and said softly, 'Hear the silence? And they say that ships are only wood and copper!'
Adam nodded, glad of the darkness below the poop. Bolitho had told him to take care of his burned shoulder. He was incredible.
Bolitho opened the small door and stepped into the sleeping-cabin. The ship was so still at her moorings that the cot barely moved.
Tuson was holding a small bottle up to a shuttered lantern but turned as Bolitho entered.
'No change, sir.' It sounded like a rebuke.
Bolitho looked into the cot where he had fretted over the months since hoisting his flag above Achates.
Allday was heavily bandaged and had his head on one side as if to breathe better. Bolitho touched his forehead and tried not to show his anguish. The skin felt like ice. As if he was already gone.
Tuson said quietly, 'Narrowly missed the lung, sir. Thank God it was a clean blade.'
He watched Bolitho's shadow rear across the massive timbers and added, 'Would you like me to stay, sir?'
'No.' He knew Tuson had plenty of people awaiting his care. 'But thank you.'
Tuson sighed. 'I'll come when you need me.'
Bolitho followed him into the cabin. 'Tell me.'
Tuson slipped into his plain blue coat. 'I don't know him as well as you, sir. He seems strong enough, but it is a bad wound. Most would have died there and then. I am deeply sorry.'
When Bolitho looked again Tuson had gone. Down to the bowels of the ship, to his sick-bay and solitude.
Ozzard hovered nearby. 'Anythin', sir?'
Bolitho looked at him. So small and frail. He too was feeling it badly.
'What was Allday's favourite drink?'
Ozzard's watery eyes lit up. 'Well, rum, sir. Always liked a wet.' He fumbled with his hands. 'I — I mean, likes a wet, sir.'
Bolitho nodded. Even that was typical. In moments of crisis and danger, disappointment or celebration, he had often offered Allday a glass or two of cabin brandy. And all this time he had preferred rum.
He said gently, 'Then fetch some, please. Tell the purser I want the very best.'
He was sitting beside the cot, the cabin door half open to catch some air, when Ozzard returned with a copper jug. In the cabin's heat the rum made his head swim.
Bolitho tried to concentrate on what he must do tomorrow, on the ship's affairs, on Tyrrell's future. But he kept seeing Belinda's lovely face when they had made their last farewell. How she had told Allday to look after him and Adam.
He heard the muffled trill of a call, the distant patter of bare feet as the duty watch was turned to for some task or other.
The voyages they had done together. And just last year when they had both been prisoners of war in France when Allday had carried the dying John Neale in his arms, it had been his strength and confidence which had held them and had given them courage.
He remembered his own early days as a midshipman and lieutenant when he had fondly believed that the admiral in his quarters was beyond pain and protected from personal doubts.
Bolitho heard the squeak of a fiddle from the forecastle and pictured the off-watch hands enjoying the cool evening air.
He saw himself in the mirror above the little desk and looked away. What price your vice-admiral now?
He took a clean handkerchief and dabbed it in a glass of rum, then with great care he wiped a little of it on Allday's mouth.
'Here, old friend . . . ' He bit his lip as the rum trickled unheeded down Allday's chin. There was a bright scarlet stain in the centre of the bandages. Bolitho restrained the urge to yell for the sentry to summon the surgeon again. Allday was fighting his own battle. It would be cruel to make him suffer further.
Bolitho stared at Allday's homely face. It looked older, and the realization made him get to his feet, too stunned to accept what was happening, yet unwilling to share it with others.
He clenched his fists and peered around the small cabin like a trapped animal. There was nothing he could do. Barely seeing what he was doing he held the glass to his lips and swallowed the rum, the fire on his tongue and throat making him gasp and retch.
Then he waited until his breathing had returned almost to normal. He saw Ozzard's small shadow through the open door and said in a voice he barely recognized, 'My compliments to the surgeon . . . '
Ozzard seemed to shrink even smaller as Bolitho's words reached him.
Quick as I can, sir!"
Bolitho swung round as one of Allday's hands groped over the side of the cot. 'Yes, I'm here’
He held it between his own hands and stared fixedly at Allday's face. It was set in a frown, as if he was attempting to remember something. His hand had no more strength than a child's.
Bolitho whispered, 'Easy now. Don't let go.' He tightened his grip but there was no response.
Then Allday opened his eyes and stared at him for what seemed like minutes without any sign of recognition. When he spoke his voice was so small Bolitho had to bend over him until they touched.
Allday murmured, 'But you don't like rum, sir, you never have!'
Bolitho nodded. 'I know.' He wanted to talk, to help him, but the words would not come out.
Doors banged open and feet pounded on companion-ladders, then Tuson, with Keen and Adam behind him, burst into the cabin.
The surgeon pressed his hand on to Allday's chest, oblivious to the blood on his cuff. Then he said, 'Breathing's a whole lot better.' He sniffed. 'Rum, was it?'
Allday was unable to focus properly but he needed to speak, to reassure Bolitho in some way.
'Could do with a wet, sir.'
Tuson stood aside and watched gravely as the vice-admiral put one hand under the coxswain's head and held a glass to his lips. He knew that if he lived until he was a thousand he would never forget this moment.
He said, 'Leave him now.'
He watched as Bolitho dashed some water from a bowl on to his face, the way he was trying to prepare himself to c
onfront the others in the cabin.
Tuson said quietly, 'Never mind about them, sir." Afterwards he was surprised he had dared to address his admiral in such a fashion. "It'll do no harm for them to see you have feelings too. Just a man like the rest of us.'
Bolitho took another glance at Allday. He looked at rest.
He said, 'Thank you. You will never know . . . ' He left the sleeping-cabin to face the others.
Tuson looked at the rum on the desk and grimaced. Allday should be dead. All his experience pointed to just that. He began to snip at the bloodied bandages.
Then even Tuson's severe features broke into a smile. Could do with a wet indeed.
In the great cabin they sat or stood in total silence as Ozzard brought some wine.
Then Keen raised his glass. 'This happy few, sir.'
Bolitho looked away. There was no better sentiment.
15
Last Farewell
The weeks and then months which followed the attack on the harbour seemed to Bolitho like a slow record of Allday's fight against death. Any progress was often marked by an immediate set-back, and Bolitho guessed that he was fretting about his inability to move, his 'uselessness', as he put it.
A few vessels visited the island, and slowly but surely things returned to normal. There were no more attacks, and traders reported that they had not sighted any Spanish men-of-war or suffered further interference.
In October that year two hurricanes struck San Felipe with a ferocity which made a military attack puny by comparison. Great tidal waves had threatened Achates and destroyed smaller vessels, and torn the roofs off many of the houses. Plantations were laid to waste, and several people had been killed or badly injured, their livelihoods destroyed.
But it was the turning point between the islanders and the Achates' company. Without the disciplined efforts of the seamen and marines it seemed unlikely that anything of value would have been saved. The ship, once a symbol of law and oppression, had taken on a new guise, that of protector, so that for the officers and men alike the daily routine was less demanding.
Three months to the day after being cut down by a Spanish sword Allday walked across the Achates' quarterdeck for the first time. Ozzard went with him, but Allday, true to his fashion, would not lean on him for support.
Success to the Brave - Bolitho 15 Page 20
