But that had been fifteen days ago. The delays had been unavoidable, but nevertheless had put a marked strain on Coutts and his officers. Several times Trojan had been forced to lie to while Spite made off under full sail to investigate a strange vessel and then beat the weary miles round again and make her report. The wind too had backed and veered as Bunce had predicted, but had on the whole favoured their slow advance.
Now, with another sunset closing over the ship, Bolitho could sense a growing impatience, even anger in Coutts’ quick movements with head and hands.
Once more Spite had been sent ahead to discover if the tiny island was in fact the one described in Paget’s documents. If it was, Cunningham was to put a boat ashore and if possible discover the strength of the enemy there. If there was nothing at all, he was to report back instantly. Either way, he should have returned by now. With darkness closing in with its usual swiftness, it was very unlikely they would make contact until tomorrow. Another day. More anxiety.
He stiffened and touched his hat as Pears strode past, his feet thudding loudly on the planking. The slam of the chart room door was further evidence of his mood.
Bolitho waited, knowing Coutts was going to speak with him.
‘A long day, Bolitho.’
‘Aye, sir.’ Bolitho faced him, trying to discover the man’s feelings. ‘But the glass is steady. We should be able to maintain our tack during the night.’
Coutts had not heard. He rested his hands on the quarterdeck rail and stared down intently at the larboard battery of eighteen-pounders. He was without his hat, and his hair was blowing across his forehead to make him appear even younger.
He asked quietly, ‘Are you like the others? Do you think me a fool to press on with this mission, a task which has no more substance than a scrap of paper?’
‘I am only a lieutenant, sir. I was not aware of any doubt.’
Coutts laughed bitterly. ‘Doubt? God, man, there’s a mountain of it!’
Bolitho waited, feeling the admiral’s urgency, his frustration.
Coutts said, ‘When you reach flag rank you believe the world is yours. You are only partly right. I was a frigate captain, and good at my work.’
‘I know, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ Coutts seemed surprised. ‘Most people look at an admiral and seem to think he has never been anything else, not an ordinary man at all.’ He pointed vaguely through Trojan’s black web of shrouds and stays. ‘But I believe the information is true. Otherwise I would not have risked my ships and my reputation. I do not care what some soft-spoken official from London thinks of me. I want to get this war over, with more cards on our side than across the enemy’s table.’ He was speaking quickly, his hands moving eloquently to describe his feelings, his fears. ‘Each extra day brings more enemies against us. Ships to seek out and bring to battle. We have no squadrons to spare, but the enemy’s agility is such that we must match his every move. No merchantman is safe without escort. We have even been forced to send armed vessels to the Davis Strait to protect our whaling ships! It is no time for the timid, or the one who waits for the enemy to act first.’
His terse, emphatic manner of speaking, of sharing his thoughts, was something new to Bolitho. It was like seeing the world, his world, opening up to reach far beyond the ship’s hull, and further still to every sea where Britain’s authority was being challenged.
‘I was wondering, sir.’ Bolitho hesitated and then added, ‘Why you did not request ships to be sent from Antigua? We have sailed four times the distance it would have taken the vessels which patrol from there.’
Coutts watched him, his face in shadow, saying nothing, as if he were seeking some criticism in Bolitho’s question.
Then he said, ‘I could have sent Spite to the admiral at Antigua. It would have been faster certainly.’ He turned away. ‘But would they have acted? I think not. The affairs in New York and the threat of Washington’s armies seem a long way off in the Caribbean. Only the commander-in-chief could have made a request, and with Sir George Helpman at his elbow, I doubt he would have done more than enter it in his report for the Admiralty.’
Bolitho understood. It was one thing to hear of a victorious sea fight, but nothing to match the sight of a beaten enemy being brought into port, her flag beneath the British ensign.
Coutts had evidence, but that was insufficient. Too many men had died so far to warrant another haphazard scheme. And with Probyn’s prize being re-taken by the enemy, even the destruction of Fort Exeter might appear unimportant in far-off London.
But a sharp, determined attack on a supply base, right under the noses of the French who were flaunting their neutrality like a false flag, might sway the balance. Especially if successfully completed before anyone could say no.
Coutts seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Remember this, Bolitho. When you attain high rank, never ask what you shall do. The superior minds of Admiralty tend to say no, rather than encourage risk, which might disturb their rarified existence. Even if you put your career and your life in jeopardy, do as you believe is right, and in the manner best for your country. Acting merely to placate your superiors is living a lie.’
Pears loomed through the dimming light and said harshly, ‘We will shorten sail in one hour, Mr Bolitho. But I’ll not lie to. There’s too much current for comfort hereabouts.’ He looked at the admiral and added curtly, ‘We shall need to be on station for Spite’s return.’
Coutts took Pears’ arm and guided him away, but not far enough for Bolitho to miss the anger in his voice as he snapped, ‘By God, you drive me too hard, Captain! I’ll brook no insolence from you, or anyone else, d’you hear?’
Pears rumbled something, but they were out of earshot.
Bolitho saw Couzens, his face glowing in the compass light as he wrote his entry on the master’s mate’s slate. He seemed to symbolize something. Youth, innocence or ignorance, whichever way you looked at it. They were all being carried forward to what might easily turn into a disaster. Coutts’ determination to win might soon give way to grasping straws. Pears’ mistrust of his superior could do for all of them just as easily.
Bolitho was torn between them. He admired Coutts more than he could say. Yet he could understand Pears’ more cautious approach. The old and the new. One man at the peak of his career, whereas the admiral saw himself in a far greater role in the not too distant future.
He heard Cairns on the upper gundeck speaking with Tolcher, the boatswain.
Discussing tomorrow’s routine which could never be allowed to falter. Not in war or peace, and no matter what kind of man walked the poop in lordly silence. The ship came first. Tomorrow, and all the other tomorrows. Painting to be done, a man to be flogged, another to be promoted, rigging and spars to be overhauled. It never ceased.
He remembered suddenly what Probyn had said about taking full advantage of any chance which offered itself. It was as if he had heard him speak aloud.
Well, Cairns would be off the ship soon. Even Pears could not refuse the next time. Bolitho sighed, finding no comfort in the fact that in a matter of weeks or days he might be doing Cairns’ work until Pears could find himself a more experienced replacement.
Cairns would make a good commander. Fair, firm and intelligent. A few more like him and there would be victories enough to satisfy everyone, he thought bitterly.
Midshipman Couzens crossed the deck and asked, ‘Will we see any more action, sir?’
Bolitho considered it.
‘You know as much as I.’
Couzens stepped back to hide his expression. He had seen Bolitho discussing important matters with the admiral. Naturally he would not allow himself to share such privileged information with a mere midshipman. But that Bolitho knew that he knew was almost as good as sharing it, he thought.
To everyone’s relief, and no little surprise, the Spite’s topsails were reported by the masthead look-out within minutes of the first dawn light. A tiny, pale pyramid of sails, drawing nearer and nearer wit
h such maddening slowness that Bolitho could sense the mood around him like a threat.
The decks were holystoned, and the hands had their breakfast washed down with beer. Then they mustered for the many tasks throughout the ship, and more than one petty officer had to use threats and brute force to stop his men from peering outboard to see how much nearer the sloop had come.
When she had beaten as close as she could manage, she went about and lay hove to under Trojan’s lee, and a boat was dropped smartly in the water to carry Cunningham in person to make his report.
Bolitho stood with the side party to receive the youthful commander, and did not envy him at all. He had seen Coutts pacing the poop and staring at the Spite, and had also felt Pears’ harsh reprimands more than once during the morning about matters which at any other time he would have thought too trivial for comment.
But Cunningham showed no anxiety as he climbed through the entry port and doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and saluting marines. His eyes passed over Bolitho without even a blink of recognition and then he strode aft to meet the captain.
Later, Bolitho was summoned to the great cabin, where he found Cairns already waiting with the flag lieutenant.
He was not really surprised at being called aft. It was customary for the first lieutenant and his immediate subordinate to be invited, if only to listen, when some important manoeuvre was to be undertaken.
They could hear Pears’ voice from the dining cabin, loud and angry, and Cunningham’s clipped, almost matter of fact tone as he explained something.
Cairns looked at Lieutenant Ackerman. ‘They seem to be in a sour mood today.’
Ackerman kept his face blank. ‘The admiral will have his way.’
A screen door was thrust open and the three other men entered the cabin abruptly, like late arrivals in a theatre.
Bolitho looked at Coutts. Gone was the uncertainty.
He said lightly, ‘Well, gentlemen, Major Paget’s piece of intelligence has proved its worth.’ He nodded to Cunningham. ‘Tell them.’
Cunningham explained how he had discovered the little island, and under cover of darkness had put a landing party ashore. It had taken longer than expected, but after sighting wood-smoke he had guessed there were people there and every care had to be taken to avoid detection.
Bolitho guessed he had been rehearsing that part on his way over in the boat. To forestall any criticism which, once made, might damage his chances of reward.
He said, ‘There is a good anchorage, not large, but well concealed from seaward. There are several huts, and plenty of evidence that ships put in to load and unload cargo, even to refit if need be.’
Pears asked, ‘Who did you send?’
Bolitho waited, seeing Coutts’ brief smile as the sloop’s commander replied just as sharply, ‘I went myself, sir. I was not mistaken about what I saw.’
Coutts asked, ‘What else?’
Cunningham was still glaring at Pears. ‘A sizeable schooner is anchored there. Privateer. No doubt of it.’
They exchanged glances, and Coutts said, ‘She’ll be waiting for another vessel. I’ll lay odds that there are enough weapons to supply two regiments!’
Pears persisted, ‘But suppose there’s nothing but the schooner.’ He looked round the cabin with something like dismay. ‘Like taking a cudgel to crack a small egg!’
‘The first part of the information is correct, Captain Pears.’ Coutts was watching him. Compelling, insisting. ‘Why do you still doubt the rest? This island is obviously chosen for its access. From the Leeward or Windward Islands, from as far south as the Spanish Main, it would present an excellent place for exchange, even for rearming a merchant vessel and changing her to a privateer.’ He did not conceal his impatience. ‘This time we’ll cut them off at the roots. For good.’
He started to move around the cabin, as if unable to hold his excitement in check.
‘Think of it. All we have to do is trap them in their anchorage and seize whatever vessel tries to enter. The French will think again about allowing their people to be laid so low. A setback like that would also give their Spanish friends something to ponder on before they run like jackals to sample the spoils.’
Bolitho tried to see it like an outsider. To avoid considering Coutts as his superior, someone he had shared a few weeks of his life with.
Was this discovery really that important? Or was Coutts merely blowing it up like a bladder to make it appear so?
A few huts and a schooner did not sound very promising, and it was obvious from Pears’ resentful expression that he thought much the same.
When he looked again the mood had changed once more. Foley, the cabin servant, was here, and glasses of wine were already being handed round as if to celebrate Cunningham’s news.
Coutts raised his glass. ‘I’ll give you a sentiment.’ He was smiling broadly. ‘To a victory, gentlemen. And let us make it as painless as we can!’
He had turned to look through the stern windows and did not see Pears place his glass on the tray, untouched.
Bolitho tasted the wine, but like the mood it was suddenly bitter.
13
No More Pretence
‘CAPTAIN’S A’COMIN’, SIR!’ The boatswain’s mate’s whisper seemed unnaturally loud in the dawn stillness.
Bolitho turned, seeking out Pears’ heavy figure as he moved to the compass, murmured something to Sambell, the master’s mate, and then walked forward to the quarterdeck rail.
Bolitho knew better than to say anything at this point. It was early in the morning, and as Trojan ploughed a steady southerly course under her topsails and jib, it was as if they were in the middle of a tropical downpour. The rain had burst over the slow-moving ship with the fierceness of a storm, advancing out of the darkness to thunder across canvas and decks and pass just as quickly across the opposite beam. But now, an hour later, the water still trickled and thudded from sails and rigging, from the tops and down through the scuppers in miniature cascades. When the sun rose there would be so much steam it would be like a fire-ship, Bolitho thought.
But Pears knew all this, and required no telling. He had watched too many dawns on so many seas to need some lieutenant to remind him.
It was still quite dark on the upper gundeck, but Bolitho knew that every cannon was manned and cleared for action within minutes of the galley fires being doused. It was an uncanny, sinister feeling. This great ship, moving like a shadow into deeper darkness, the sails shaking occasionally to a tired wind, the wheel creaking as the helmsmen sought to hold her on course.
Somewhere, up ahead, lay Coutts’ objective. The tiny, remote island where he hoped, no, intended to find so much. Isla San Bernardo, little more than a dot on Erasmus Bunce’s chart, It was said to have been the last resting place of some exclusive order of friars who had landed there over a hundred years ago. Bunce had remarked scathingly that they had probably arrived there by accident, imagining it to be one of the mainlands. That seemed likely, Bolitho thought. The passage between Santo Domingo and Puerto Rico was some ninety miles wide, a veritable ocean for some tiny, inexperienced boat. The friars had long passed into history, massacred it was said by pirates, by marooned captives, by one of a dozen scourges which still ravaged the length and breadth of the rich Caribbean.
Spite was there now, in position and ready to seal the anchorage. Cunningham must be rubbing his hands, seeing the citation in the Gazette as if it were already written.
Bolitho heard Pears moving towards him. It was time. He said, ‘Wind holding steady, sir, nor’ by west.’ He waited, sensing the man’s responsibility, his doubt.
Pears muttered, ‘Very well, Mr Bolitho. We shall get light to see our way before long.’ He raised his eyes to the mastheads, to the great rectangles of pale canvas and the fading stars beyond.
Bolitho followed his glance, wondering how it must feel. To command, to carry the final reward, or blame. Cairns seemed exactly ready for it, whereas he felt unsure, too far removed to un
derstand what Pears must be feeling. Cairns would be leaving soon, he thought. Would that bring him closer to Pears? He doubted it.
Cairns came now out of the darkness without causing a stir, as he always did.
He touched his hat to Pears’ bulky shape and to Bolitho said, ‘I’ve just been round the lower gundeck. Not enough hands there, but I doubt we’ll be fighting a fleet today!’
Bolitho recalled Coutts’ excitement over a single schooner and smiled.
‘With Spite’s aid, I expect we’ll give a good account of ourselves!’
Pears turned with sudden anger. ‘Get aloft, Mr Bolitho! Use some of your wit on the masthead look-out and report what you see.’ He swung away. ‘Unless your sickness at heights still prevails!’
His sarcasm was clearly heard by the helmsmen and the quarterdeck gun crews. Bolitho felt both surprised and embarrassed by the outburst, and saw a marine turning away to hide a broad grin.
Cairns said quietly, ‘Which gives you some idea of his own anxiety, Dick.’
That simple comment helped to steady Bolitho as he climbed up the mainmast ratlines, purposefully disdaining the lubber’s hole at the maintop to climb out and cling with fingers and toes to the futtock shrouds, his body arched above the deck far below. His resentment at Pears’ words enabled him to reach the topgallant mast without even a stab of nausea, and when at last, breathless and sweating, he clambered on to the crosstrees beside the look-out, he realized he had climbed that far with more haste than his usual caution.
The seaman said, ‘It be lightenin’ now, zur. Be a fine old day, I’m thinkin’.’
Bolitho looked at him, drawing deep breaths to recover himself. He recognized the man, an elderly topman named Buller. Elderly by naval standards, but he was probably no more than thirty. Worn out by the endless demands of wind and sea, of fighting maddened canvas in the teeth of a gale, fisting and kicking until every nail was almost torn from his hands, and his muscles strained and ruptured beyond treatment, he would soon be relegated to safer work on the forecastle or with the afterguard.
In Gallant Company Page 21