Then he glanced at the open skylight on the poop deck and thought of the man beneath it.
He cupped his hands. “Mr Mountsteven, your men are like cripples today.”
He saw the lieutenant touch his hat and bob anxiously.
Keen made himself breathe out very slowly.
That was better. He was the captain again.
The negro groom wiped his hands on a piece of rag and announced, “Wheel all fixed, sah.”
Adam helped the girl to her feet and together they walked reluctantly from the shade of some trees and down to the dusty road.
The carriage had shed a wheel as it had rounded a bend in the road and had dipped into a deep rut.
There had been momentary confusion, the carriage lurching over and a door opening to reveal the road rising to meet them. Then in the sudden silence Adam had realized his unexpected good fortune. What might have ended in injury and disaster had become a perfect conclusion to the visit.
As the carriage had bounced to a halt Adam had acted instantly and without conscious thought other than to save his companion from hurt. Then as the dust settled, and the coachman and groom had hurried fearfully to look inside, Adam had found the girl held tightly in his arms, her fair hair pressed against his mouth, her heart pounding to match his own.
It had taken longer than expected to repair the damage, but Adam had barely noticed. Together they had walked through the green woodland, had held hands while they had watched a stream and spoken of anything but their true feelings.
The whole visit to Newburyport had been an adventure, and Adam had been taken to visit a small, comfortable house by Robina and her father, and they had watched him, fascinated, while he had walked through every room with the owner, a friend of the family, and had touched the walls, the fireplaces, and one old chair which had always been in the house.
Robina had tried not to weep as he had sat in the big chair, his hands grasping the well-worn arms as if he would never let go.
Then he had said quietly, “My father once sat here, Robina. My father.”
He still could not believe it.
She slipped her hand through his arm and nestled her cheek against his coat.
“You must go, Adam. I have made you late enough as it is.”
Together they moved back to the coach and climbed inside.
As the horses came alive again in their harness, the girl said softly, “We shall be in Boston very soon.” She turned and looked directly into his eyes. “You may kiss me now if you wish, Adam.” She tried to make light of it by adding, “No one can see us here. It would not do for local folk to think that Robina Chase was a fizgig!”
Her mouth was very soft and she had a perfume like fresh flowers.
Then she gently pushed him away and dropped her eyes.
“Well, really, Lieutenant . . .” But the jest eluded her. She said breathlessly, “It’s love, isn’t it?”
Adam smiled, his mind in a daze. “It must be.”
The coach rolled across cobbles and on to a stretch of old ships’ timbers.
Several people paused to glance at the fair-haired girl and the young sea officer who helped her protectively from the coach.
Adam stared in astonishment and then looked at the girl on his arm.
“What shall I do now, Robina?”
It was like a douche of cold water. Achates had gone.
“So here you are.” Jonathan Chase nodded to his niece and then said grimly, “Sailed yesterday. Your admiral was hell-bent for San Felipe.”
He toyed with the idea of telling the young lieutenant about the Sparrowhawk’s end, but as he looked from him to his niece he decided against it.
Instead he said, “You’d better come home with me, young fella. Tomorrow I’ll see what I can do about arranging passage for you. You’d not want to miss your ship, eh?”
He saw their hands touch and knew they had not heard a word.
Chase led the way to his own carriage, his face frowning in thought. His niece was the apple of his eye, but you had to face the facts squarely as you did a problem at sea.
They made a striking pair, but the family would never allow it to go further. He could not imagine what he had been thinking of when he had first introduced them.
A young sea officer, an English one at that, with few prospects other than the Navy, was not the right match for Robina Chase. So the sooner he found his ship again the better.
Bolitho left the shadow of the poop and walked forward to the quarterdeck rail. He noticed the curious glances darted in his direction by the bare-backed seamen who were working on the endless tasks of a fighting ship. Even now they were not used to having a flag-officer in their midst, and could not accept that he did not dress in the style suited to his rank. Like the other officers, Bolitho wore only an open-necked shirt and breeches, and would willingly have stripped naked to gain relief from the heat had that not violated every rule in the book.
He looked up at the canvas, sail by sail. Filling tightly for the present, but at any moment they could fall limp and useless as they had for much of the time since leaving Boston.
Bolitho tried not to allow his mind to dwell on it. Why had his sister Nancy written? Was it really as Keen had suggested, or was she trying to prepare him for bad news? Belinda had been ill. It might be something from her earlier life in India when she had nursed her sick husband until he had died.
He paced across the pale planking, worn smooth by a million bare feet in Old Katie’s twenty-one years at sea.
He tried to shift his thoughts away from Falmouth but they lingered instead on his nephew.
Bolitho had wanted, needed to remain in Boston more than anything in his heart and soul. To wait for one more word from Belinda, and to have his nephew rejoin the ship. He should not have allowed him to go to Newburyport. Maybe Keen, like Browne, had been right about that too. He ought not to have chosen one so close as his aide.
Keen crossed the deck and said, “Wind’s holding steady, sir.”
He watched Bolitho’s reaction. For eight of the longest days he could remember Keen had worked his ship to the southward, spreading every stitch of canvas to coax another knot out of her. It had been a poor average all the same, and he guessed that Quantock was comparing him with the last captain. He did not care about his dour first lieutenant, but was more conscious of the fact that Bolitho had never levelled a single criticism or complaint. He knew better than most that in these waters the wind was never reliable, rarely an ally when you most needed it.
Bolitho looked at the flapping masthead pendant.
“Tomorrow then, Val.”
“Aye, sir. Mr Knocker assures me that we shall be off San Felipe by noon, if the wind holds.” He sounded relieved.
Bolitho looked abeam, at the regular swell and occasional feather of spray as a fish broke the surface. Like Keen, he had studied the charts and sketches of San Felipe until he could see them in his sleep. Fifty miles long but less than twenty miles wide at its broadest parts, it was dominated by an extinct volcano and a huge natural harbour on the southern side. The northern approaches were fiercely guarded by reefs, and there was a further barrier of coral adjoining the little islet on the opposite side. It was a formidable place, even without the old fortress which commanded the approaches to Rodney’s Harbour, as the anchorage was named. There was fresh water in plenty, while rich crops of sugar and coffee made a tempting prize. Bolitho found himself inwardly agreeing with the island’s governor, Sir Humphrey Rivers, that it was a madness to hand the place back to the French.
Keen was saying, “I shall use the prevailing wind to approach the harbour from the south-east, sir. I’d not care to run in under cover of darkness.”
He was making light of it, but Bolitho could guess at his concern for his ship. The waters around San Felipe were used to brigs and trading-schooners, but a ship of the line, even a small sixty-four, needed room to breathe.
Bolitho said, “I shall go ashore and meet the
governor as soon as possible. We know that Captain Duncan had an audience with him.”
He glanced forward as Midshipman Evans walked past some of the sailmaker’s crew who were speaking with Foord, the fifth lieutenant. The midshipman turned and stared at the little group and then hurried, almost ran, to the nearest hatchway.
Keen explained, “Another of Sparrowhawk’s wounded has died, sir.”
Bolitho nodded. One more dead. The sailmaker’s mates would sew him up in an old hammock and drop him overboard at sunset.
“Tell Midshipman Evans to report to my clerk for duties in the cabin. Keep his mind off things.”
He strode away and began to pace up and down until his shirt was plastered to his skin.
Keen shook his head. Take his mind off things. Bolitho had enough worries and responsibilities for ten men, yet he could still spare a thought for the stricken midshipman.
“Deck there!”
Keen looked up and shaded his eyes against the fierce glare.
The masthead lookout on his perch in the crosstrees yelled, “Land on th’ lee bow!”
Keen looked at the master and grinned. “Well done, Mr Knocker. We shall remain on the present tack until we can gauge the final approach.”
Knocker grunted. His priest’s face gave away neither pleasure nor resentment.
Keen glanced at Bolitho. He had heard the cry but gave no sign either.
“I’ll drop the corpse outboard during the last dog watch, sir.” Quantock was tall and ungainly but could move like a cat.
Keen faced him and tried not to feel dislike for his senior lieutenant.
“We shall bury him with due honour, Mr Quantock. Have the watch below piped aft at dusk.”
The lieutenant shrugged. “If you say so, sir. It’s just that he was not one of ours—”
Keen saw the little midshipman being led away by Yovell, the clerk, and said sharply, “He was somebody’s, Mr Quantock!”
And as shadows crept down from the horizon and enfolded the slow-moving ship, Achates paid her respects to the dead.
Bolitho donned his uniform and stood beside Keen as he read a few words from his prayer-book, a boatswain’s mate holding a lantern so that he could see the page, although Bolitho suspected he knew the words by heart. He noticed too that the man with the lantern was the one he had spoken to who had served in his Lysander at the Nile.
He looked at the darkening horizon but the island had already disappeared. All that day it had risen slowly above the dark blue line, taking shape, spreading out as if growing in size.
Keen said, “Carry on, Mr Rooke.”
Bolitho heard the slithering sound on a grating, then a splash alongside as the sailor made his journey to the sea-bed.
Bolitho felt himself shiver, and then a sudden stab in his wounded thigh, like a taunt, a reminder.
A Royal Marine was already folding up the burial flag, the hands were moving away to their messes. The officer-of-the-watch was eager to hand over to his successor and join his companions in the wardroom. The ship’s routine took over again, as it always did.
But Bolitho pictured the pathetic bundle sinking in Achates’ wake. He had heard the first lieutenant’s comment and Keen’s angry retort.
Not one of ours.
Next time, he thought bitterly, it would be.
The sky above Massachusetts Bay looked angrier than it had since Achates had first come to her anchor.
As Adam stood with a small group on the quay he noticed that several of the ships in harbour had men working on deck, as if they expected a storm.
Jonathan Chase rubbed his chin and squinted at the fast-moving clouds.
“Sorry to hurry you, Lieutenant, but it’s best you use the tide before the weather closes in. Won’t last much longer than a few hours.”
Adam turned to the girl whose hair looked like silver in the dying light.
He said, “It was good of you to find me a vessel, sir.” But his heart and eyes told another story.
She took his arm and they looked at the little brigantine which was already pitching heavily, her loosely brailed sails puffing and drumming in the hot wind. She was named Vivid, and Adam guessed it was just luck that Chase had been able to find a master willing to make the passage of some fourteen hundred miles to San Felipe.
The girl said in a fierce whisper, “Don’t go, Adam. There’s no need. You can stay with us until . . .” She looked at him, part pleading, part defiant. “My uncle will find you employment.” She squeezed his arm more tightly. “You’ll be like your father then.”
Chase said gruffly, “Here comes a boat. I’ve had your gear sent over, and a few luxuries to carry back to your ship. Give your uncle my best wishes.” He was speaking quickly as if to hasten the moment of departure.
Adam bent his head and kissed her. He felt moisture on her skin. Spray or tears, he did not know. He knew that he loved her more than any living thing. That he was just as surely going to lose her. He felt as if he was being torn apart. In hell.
The small boat scraped alongside and a voice called roughly, “Jump in, Lieutenant! No time to dawdle!”
Adam tugged his hat firmly on to his head and did as he was told. The boat was old and scarred, but the oarsmen smart enough.
He peered astern as the boat butted away from the piles and saw her watching him, her face and raised hand very pale against the land.
I shall be back.
He gritted his teeth as spray swept over the gunwale and the boat’s coxswain said curtly, “Here, get ready!”
The brigantine was pitching right above the boat, her two masts spiralling as she tore at her anchor cable.
Adam was almost glad of the sailor’s abruptness. He did not want courtesy. They were doing it for Chase’s money, not out of respect for a foreign officer.
He clambered up the side and would have fallen headlong but a big man loomed from the shadows and gripped his arm to steady him.
Adam noticed that the man walked with a bad limp, and as he made to thank him saw to his astonishment that he had only one leg. But there was no mistaking his authority as he shouted at his men to work on the capstan.
“Get below, if you please.”
He had a powerful voice with an easy colonial drawl, quite unlike the Bostonians. He was already limping away to supervise his small crew but hesitated and came back again.
“Would you mind takin’ off your hat?”
As Adam removed it, and his hair ruffled in the wind, the Vivid’s master nodded, well satisfied.
“Thought so. Soon as I laid eyes on you.” He rubbed his hand down his jerkin and thrust it at him. “My name’s Jethro Tyrrell. Welcome aboard my humble command.”
Adam stared at him. “You knew my father?”
The man called Tyrrell threw back his head and laughed.
“Hell no! But I knew Richard Bolitho.” He limped away and added over his shoulder, “Useter be his first lieutenant, would you believe?”
Adam groped his way aft to a tiny companion-way, completely mystified.
It did not really matter who commanded the Vivid’s destiny, he thought. He was taking him away from Robina. The first love of his life.
7 TO START A WAR
“THE ENTRANCE to Rodney’s Harbour is narrow, sir. A mile wide at the most.” Keen lowered his telescope and pursed his lips. “A well-sited battery could hold a fleet at bay.”
Bolitho walked to the opposite side of the quarterdeck so that his view of the island would not be obscured by shrouds and rigging.
They had made better progress during the night, and now with the morning sunlight outlining the massive pyramid of the extinct volcano he could gauge its size and the rugged shoreline of the island.
The helmsman called, “Nor’-west by west, sir.” And Knocker grunted an acknowledgement.
Keen glanced at the masthead pendant. It pointed towards the starboard bow with barely a shiver. The wind was still holding.
Bolitho could feel Keen’s
mind at work as his ship headed warily towards the pointing spur of headland.
The wind would take them directly into the shelter of the harbour. But they were on a lee shore, so every care was necessary. Keen had sent two good leadsmen forward to the chains at first light and their regular cry of “No bottom, sir!” warned of the dangers.
The sea-bed shelved very steeply, but once they drew level with the small islet off the southern tip of the headland there would be reefs ready to rip out the keel if the ship lost steerageway.
“Take in the forecourse, Mr Quantock.” Keen sounded calm but his eyes were everywhere as he watched the topsails hardening to the wind.
“Deck there!”
Bolitho grasped his hands behind his back as the lookout yelled down, “There’s a boom across the entrance, sir!”
Keen stared at him. “What the hell are they thinking of?”
Bolitho said sharply, “Send an officer aloft. Then prepare to anchor.”
“But . . .” Keen’s protest stopped with the one word. He knew that Bolitho understood well enough. To anchor on a lee shore in deep water was tempting disaster. If the wind got up Achates might drag her anchor and run helplessly on to the hidden coral.
Bolitho took a few paces while he considered it, determined not to watch a lieutenant’s frantic scramble to the masthead.
The governor could reasonably do what he liked to protect the island. Maybe he had already been attacked, and would withdraw the boom when Achates was identified. He dismissed the idea instantly. The ship had served in these waters for most of her life. She would be easily recognized before any other vessel.
The lieutenant who had climbed up to join the lookout called, “The boom is a line of moored craft, sir!”
He was one of the junior officers who had recently been promoted from midshipman and had a shrill, almost girlish voice, so that several of the seamen on the quarterdeck grinned and nudged each other until silenced by a roar from Quantock.
Keen shut his telescope with a snap. “Stand by to come about. Man the braces. Anchor party up forrard at the double!”
Success to the Brave Page 9