The frigate Sparrowhawk would be on her way here shortly. Captain Duncan was less of a diplomat than he was. He would make his report to San Felipe’s governor before continuing his way to Boston for orders, but would leave little doubt as to what the eventual outcome would be.
It seemed inhuman and senseless to hand the island back to the French, no matter what Sheaffe had said. It was not a question of strategy or diplomacy, it was a matter of people. The island had defended itself more than once against enemy assaults, and had sent its own vessels to seek out prizes and harass ships and islands alike in the King’s name.
In London and Paris it would seem different. Now, as Allday’s razor moved steadily around his throat, it took on the complexity of a Chinese puzzle.
The evening air was mercifully cooler after the oven-heat in an anchored ship, and as Bolitho climbed down into the barge he felt strangely excited. Like someone stepping into the unknown.
Allday growled, “Give way, all.” Then with measured strokes the green-hulled boat pulled away from the main-chains and turned in a shallow arc towards the shore.
The first lieutenant had been left in charge of the ship, a bitter pill in such a pleasant looking town, Bolitho thought. He glanced at Keen who was joining him at the reception and wondered if he was feeling less strained. He had been kept busier than anyone since the anchor had been dropped, for quite apart from the ship’s affairs there had been a steady stream of visitors, each of whom had been received as befitted his station. The captains of the American frigates and some of their subordinates, the officer of the guard, and an extremely pleasant young man who was the son of their host this evening.
The barge pulled strongly beneath the tapering jib-boom and Bolitho could not resist the temptation to look for some sign of the damage sustained in their short encounter. He saw nothing, a compliment to the carpenter and his crew.
He glanced at the handsome figurehead. It was pure white, with one arm outstretched, the other holding a short sword. Achates, faithful friend and armour-bearer of Aeneas.
Beneath the paint the carved wood was smooth and well-worn. It had seen more horizons than any of the ship’s company and had weathered every kind of storm.
The barge swept past a lordly Indiaman which was busily loading cargo, despite the lateness of the hour. An officer hurried to her taffrail and doffed his hat as the vice-admiral’s boat swept past the stern.
It was ironic that it had been a Company dispute over tea which had fanned the fires of revolution, Bolitho thought. Now, whereas men-of-war were restricted to the necessary areas of their respective flags, the powerful traders came and went as they pleased.
Allday rapped out another order and the bowman rose from his thwart, boat-hook ready to snap down on to a mooring chain.
There were plenty of townspeople thronging the jetty, and many of them had seemingly been here all day to watch the anchored Achates. The watermen of Boston must be making a fortune from their curious passengers.
Keen, Captain Dewar of the Royal Marines, two lieutenants and Adam Bolitho were to be the guests of an influential Boston merchant named Jonathan Chase, while some of the ship’s other officers had been invited elsewhere. Keen had warned them to guard their tongues and to listen for any mention of their encounter with the strange ship which would show that the news had preceded their arrival.
Bolitho glanced at some of the young women on the jetty. A few of the trusted seamen and marines would also be allowed ashore, and from the look of these smiling girls the British sailors would be hard put to hold their tongues.
But everything must appear normal and relaxed, with all the old animosities put aside if not actually forgotten.
The bargemen tossed their oars, and Allday removed his hat and watched to make sure Bolitho did not slip on the stone stairs.
Bolitho smiled at him. “Good crew, Allday.”
Even Allday had admitted that the new barge was a credit to the ship. In their checkered shirts and tarred hats, each man with a pigtail exactly the same length, they could not have been better chosen.
Their host’s son, Timothy, was waiting beside two elegant carriages.
As Bolitho approached and some of the onlookers pressed forward for a glimpse of the newcomers, Timothy Chase extended his hand.
“You are welcome here, Admiral. My mother says it is a sign for the future.”
Captain Dewar climbed swiftly from the barge and the sight of his bright tunic brought a cry from the crowd.
“Watch out, boys, the redcoats are comin’ back!”
But there was no hostility and more than a few guffaws from the onlookers.
The journey to the Chase residence passed all too quickly for Bolitho, with his host’s son pointing out landmarks and fine houses as the carriage rattled along the road from the harbour.
He was obviously very proud of the town where he had been born and brought up. At a guess he was about the same age as Adam, although less reserved as he described each important house and its occupants.
“Boston houses, taken collectively, make a better appearance than those of any other town in New England, sir.”
Most of them were built of wood, Bolitho noticed, but some had facades which had been cut and shaped to represent stone.
Bolitho smiled to himself. His host had done well. But he knew from his secret instructions that Chase had made his original wealth from privateering against the British during the revolution.
Boston had been a privateering lair, as had many smaller harbours as far north as Portland.
The two carriages left the road and rolled up a long driveway towards a beautifully proportioned house of three storeys. Like many of the others it was white with tall green shutters by each window, some of which were already brightly lit and welcoming.
Bolitho said quietly, “Well, Adam, what d’you think?”
Keeping his features equally composed, his nephew answered, “I could very easily get used to luxury, sir.”
It was not hard to picture their host as he had once been on the deck of a privateer. He had a loud, thick voice which must have found its edge when shouting orders in a storm or above the crash of cannon fire. Jonathan Chase was square and heavily built, with iron-grey hair and skin like tooled leather.
“Well, Admiral, this is indeed a pleasure.” He grasped Bolitho’s hand and eyed him curiously. “An honour too, to have such a gallant sailor in my home.”
Bolitho warmed to him. “It was good of you to offer your house for this meeting.”
Chase grinned. “When Thomas Jefferson suggests a thing you don’t argue too much, my friend! He may have been president for only a year, but he’s learned already that power is heady medicine!” It seemed to amuse him.
Negro footmen whisked away the hats of the guests and Bolitho followed Chase into a great hall filled with people. Chase nodded towards a tray which was loaded with glasses.
“I hope the wine is to your taste, Admiral. It’s French.”
Bolitho smiled gravely. “Is it, indeed.”
Faces swam round him, and as Chase introduced his friends and associates Bolitho became very aware of the man’s presence and authority.
Keen had been immediately partnered by two very attractive ladies, and Captain Dewar was being led out on to a terrace by another who was clinging to his arm as if she intended to share him with nobody.
Chase lowered his glass and studied Adam for several seconds.
“Your aide, Admiral, what is he, son, or little brother?”
“Nephew.”
Chase beamed. “You and I will creep away presently and split a bottle of excellent brandy.” He tapped the side of his nose. “We can have a talk before our government man arrives.”
He gestured suddenly. “Nephew, eh. Should have guessed.” He raised his voice. “Over here, Robina. Someone I’d like you to meet.”
The girl named Robina was a beautiful creature. Slim, graceful, and with a sparkle in her eyes which would
turn any man’s head.
Chase boomed, “My niece, Admiral.”
She slipped her arm through Adam’s and said, “I’ll show you the gardens, Lieutenant.” She tossed her head at her uncle. “They’ll want to yarn about old times!”
Bolitho smiled. Adam was obviously entranced and allowed himself to be led away without a word.
Chase chuckled. “Look good together, eh?”
Then he glanced around at his chattering guests.
“I think we can go to my study now. They’ve forgotten we exist.”
The great study was panelled and like a part of America’s young history. Chase had collected many relics of the sea and ships, symbols perhaps of his own stormy beginnings.
Whales’ teeth and a harpoon were just a small part. “To remind me of the old days here.” Paintings of battles, with a British ship on fire in the process of surrendering.
Chase said cheerfully, “You didn’t win all the fights at sea, y’know, Admiral.” He became suddenly serious. “Samuel Fane, the President’s emissary, is a hard bargainer. I like him well enough, for a government man that is, but he hates the British.” He grinned hugely. “Thought you should know, though from all I’ve read and heard about you, you’re more than able to take care of yourself.”
Bolitho smiled. “I appreciate your frankness.”
Chase slopped some brandy into two enormous glasses.
“Think nothing of it. I fought against King George and I was good at the trade. But peace, like war, makes strange bedfellows. You accept that or capsize in the world we live in.”
In the gardens at the rear of the big house the trees and shrubs were already deep in purple shadow. Adam walked arm in arm with the girl, barely daring to speak in case he said something clumsy and spoiled the moment forever. She was without doubt the most beautiful being he had ever laid eyes on.
She stopped and, seizing his hands in hers, swung him round to face her.
“Now, come along, Lieutenant, I have done too much talking. They say I chatter so. I want to know all about you. Your name is Adam and you are the admiral’s aide. Tell me more.”
Surprisingly, Adam found it easy to speak with her. As they strolled through the shadows he told her of his life as a sea officer, of his home in Cornwall, and all the while he was very conscious of her hand through his arm.
She said suddenly, “You are the admiral’s nephew, Adam?”
Even the way she spoke his name was like pure music.
“Yes.”
She said, “I do not live in Boston. My family is in Newburyport, some thirty miles north from here. It’s strange, I hadn’t thought of it before. My father sometimes speaks of a man who used to live in our town. His name was Bolitho too.”
Adam tried to think clearly. “In Newburyport?”
“Yes.” She squeezed his arm. “You sound as if you have remembered something.”
He looked at her and wanted to hold her.
“I think it must have been my father.”
She was about to laugh when she realized the seriousness of his tone, the importance of this discovery.
“My uncle says that your ship will be in Boston for weeks. You shall come to Newburyport and meet my family.” She reached up and touched his cheek with her gloved fingers. “Do not be sad, Adam. If you have a secret, I can share it with you. But tell me only when you want to.”
“I want to.” He found that he meant it with all his heart.
From the study window Bolitho saw them cross the terrace and was moved.
It was time Adam found some enjoyment, even for a fleeting moment. He had known nothing but war and the hard life in King’s ships since he had walked all the way from Penzance to find his place in the Bolitho family. Bolitho could picture him exactly. A thin, frightened boy, and yet with the defiant restlessness of a young colt. He thought he heard the girl named Robina laugh. Yes, he was glad for Adam’s sake.
A footman opened the double doors of the library and a tall figure in a bottle-green coat and white stockings strode into the study.
Chase said quickly, “This here is Mr Samuel Fane from the capital.”
Fane had a narrower face with all the animation contained in a pair of deepset eyes which crowded against a strong, beak-like nose.
“Vice-Admiral Bolitho.” He nodded a greeting. “Well, let’s get down to business.”
Bolitho let his arm fall to his side. Maybe Fane did not like shaking hands with an old enemy. But it was a snub, intended or not.
Curiously, it made him feel calmer in some strange way. Like fighting a duel. When you accept there is no easy way out after all.
Fane said in the same flat voice, “San Felipe. Now, could you please explain to me, Admiral, how it is that your government thinks it has the right to take or give away people and territory as if they were of no consequence? By what right?”
Chase said uneasily, “Calm down, Sam. You know it is not like that.”
“Do I?” The deepset eyes had not moved from Bolitho.
Bolitho said, “It was agreed at the peace conference.” He smiled gently. “As I am sure you are aware. May I assume that the French government has already spoken to yours about it?”
Chase interrupted angrily. “Course they did. Tell him, Sam, and get down off your high horse. The war’s over, remember?”
Fane regarded him coldly. “I am constantly reminded of it when I see how some have grown rich on the blood of others.”
Bolitho saw the sparks in Chase’s eyes and said, “I thought the French were still your friends?”
Fane shrugged. “Once, and in the future mebbee. But on San Felipe, across the southern approaches, that’s different.”
Bolitho said, “The people of San Felipe are British subjects.”
Chase grinned. “So were most of us. Once.”
Fane did not hear him. “Some while ago I received a despatch from the governor of San Felipe. He was worried, naturally, at the British government’s intransigence. He has no desire to accept the choice given him, that is to leave a prospering island to the French or to remain there under a foreign flag.”
“I can understand that.”
“Can you, Admiral? That encourages me a little. However, the United States government is not prepared to stand by and allow human beings to be used for barter like cattle in an African slave village.”
Bolitho found that he was on his feet, his voice angry as he retorted, “Then there is no point in my wasting your time, Mr Fane, or mine!”
Chase said quickly, “Easy, you two! Blazes, Sam, the admiral is my guest. I’ll not have you brawling like a pair of hell-cats!”
Fane relented slightly. “It will have to be a compromise.”
Bolitho sat down again. “In what fashion?”
“Our government would be prepared to accept San Felipe’s request to come under the United States’ protection.”
“That’s impossible.”
“If the French agree, Admiral, would you?”
Bolitho glanced at Chase but he was staring at the whales’ teeth.
He knew too. They all did. It was not a compromise at all. It was blackmail.
He tried to keep his voice calm. “The governor had no authority to make such a request, from you or anyone else. We are caught in the tragedy of history. There is nothing we can do about it.”
Fane regarded him bleakly. “We shall see.”
He added, “Your flagship has the extended courtesy of my government. This matter cannot be settled in minutes. We must think on it further.”
Bolitho nodded. Fane had been testing him, goading him, for reasons he could still only guess at.
He could not resist saying, “Your government has also extended a welcome to another of my ships, Mr Fane. The Sparrowhawk. She will be joining me shortly.”
Fane grunted. “Yes. I know.” He thrust his hands beneath his coattails and added, “I must leave now.” He gave a curt nod. “Admiral.”
Chase le
ft the room with him and Bolitho walked to the window again. But where the young lieutenant and the fair-haired girl had been walking was all in darkness.
Bolitho turned to face the doors as he heard Chase’s heavy footsteps returning.
In many ways it was harder than fighting a battle, he thought. And far less rewarding.
5 “THERE MAY BE THUNDER . . .”
THE WEEKS which followed the reception at Chase’s fine house taxed Bolitho to the limit. Jonathan Chase and several other wealthy Bostonians took it upon themselves to make them welcome, and nightly entertainment of one kind or another had become a regular feature for Achates’ wardroom.
And yet Bolitho was plagued by the idea that the lack of news and assistance by the President’s representative, Samuel Fane, were linked in some way.
Perhaps he should have ignored the outline of his orders and proceeded first to San Felipe without entrusting the opening move to Captain Duncan in the Sparrowhawk. But had he done so his action might have been construed as arrogance or worse.
And where was Sparrowhawk? What had Duncan found so important that he had delayed joining him here at Boston?
On this particular day Bolitho had been unable to touch his midday meal at all. The meat and bread were fresh, brought off shore by one of Chase’s own boats, yet he could not face it.
Around and above him the ship was resting in the sweltering heat, and there was the usual heady smell of rum as each mess issued its ration for the day.
Maybe Sheaffe had known it would all be a waste of time which might end in disagreement with the Americans.
He tugged the shirt away from his skin. It felt like a wet rag. He made himself remain in his chair, knowing he would only begin to pace about the cabin like a caged lion if he did not.
Belinda. He twisted round in the chair and stared through the stern windows until his eyes watered. It would be over by now. They would have a child, unless . . .
Suppose something had gone wrong? It was her first time. Anything might happen.
He saw the distant houses move into view as Achates swung indifferently to her cable. It would be better to get to sea again. To do something.
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