Bolitho looked past him at the shore. 'Your father came from Bristol. I recall you telling me. It's not all that far from Cornwall, from us.'
Tyrrell watched the sudden activity as the relaxation on deck changed to purpose and movement. He knew all the signs. A ship leaving was nothing new. But homeward bound . . .
He said desperately 'I'm a cripple, Dick, what th' hell use am I?'
'There are plenty of ships in the West Country.' He dropped his voice. 'Like Vivid.'
He saw Keen moving nearer. It could not wait.
Bolitho said, 'Anyway, I want you to come.'
Tyrrell gazed around as if he could not trust his own judgement.
'I'd work my passage, I'd insist on that!'
Bolitho smiled gravely. 'It's settled then.'
They shook hands and Tyrrell said, 'By God, I'll do it!'
Bolitho turned to his flag-captain.
'You may get the ship under way when it suits.'
Keen yelled, 'Hoist all boats inboard! Both watches of the hands, Mr Quantock!'
He looked at Bolitho and the one-legged man by the quarterdeck rail and shook his head.
Men were dashing aloft and out along the yards, and with her capstan manned Achates shed her ties with the land and moved slowly out to her anchor.
Adam said excitedly, 'Hear them, Jethro? They're cheering us!'
Along the waterfront the handkerchiefs waved and voices echoed across the water as the great capstan continued to clink round.
Tyrrell nodded. 'Aye, lad, this time they are.'
Captain Dewar marched across the deck and touched his hat with a flourish.
Keen caught the mood too. 'Very well, Major, you may play us out if that was what you were about to suggest?'
Bolitho found that he was gripping the worn rail with unusual force. He had seen it all before countless times, but somehow this was quite different.
'Anchor's hove short, sir!'
'Loose the heads'ls!'
Bolitho turned and saw Allday beside him. His right arm.
'Man the braces there!' Quantock strode about, his head jutting forward, immersed for the moment in the complexities of his trade.
'Anchor's aweigh, sir!'
It was not a blustery departure, with the ship heeling over under a pyramid of canvas. With all the dignity of her years Achates swung slowly across the wind, the sunlight glancing off her figurehead, the armour-bearer, and along her sealed gun-ports and freshly painted tumblehome.
'Get the t'gan's'ls on her, Mr Scott! Your division are like old women today!'
The sails hardened and shivered at their yards, and with barely a ripple below her dolphin-striker Achates glided towards the harbour mouth.
Bolitho watched the narrow strip of water. It looked no wider than a farm gate. A glance at Keen's tense features told him that he was remembering that wild charge through it in total darkness.
'Steady as you go!' That was Knocker. Even he seemed different as he called, 'Mr Tyrrell, you may be able to offer some local knowledge. If so, I'd be obliged.'
Here was the fortress. The sloping track where the marine drummer had died, where Rivers had made his greatest mistake.
The flag above the old battery dipped in salute and Bolitho saw a line of redcoats on the jetty, bayonets fixed, colours lowered, as Achates' topgallant sails made little patches of shadow on the fortress wall.
Allday murmured, 'They'll not forget Old Katie in a hurry.'
He turned his head to listen as the small cluster of fifers and drummers broke into The Sailor and His Lass.
Once Bolitho saw him thrust one hand to his wound, and then he removed it from his fine blue jacket and laid it on the rail beside his.
As if, like the island, he was leaving the pain astern.
The Secret
Bolitho walked up the slippery planking and gripped the nettings at the weather-side of the quarterdeck.
The ship was plunging and shuddering as rank after rank of waves surged against her quarter in an unbroken attack.
Bolitho watched as the bows dropped yet again and the sea thundered over the forecastle and cascaded along the upper gun-deck like a flood, breaking over the guns before surging away through the scuppers until the next onslaught.
In spite of the savage movement and damp discomfort Bolitho felt a sense of exhilaration, the nearest thing he could remember since his last command as post-captain.
How different was the Atlantic's grey face to the waters around San Felipe. Lines of angry, rearing waves, their crests like broken yellow teeth.
Achates was making the best of this unexpected storm under jib and close-reefed topsails and was as steady as could be expected. Nevertheless, during the time he had been on deck Bolitho had seen the boatswain and his men floundering amongst the surging water to secure lashings on boats and guns, or to fight their way aloft to repair broken cordage.
Keen was here too, his tarpaulin coat flying in the wind as he bent over the compass and had a shouted conversation with the master.
How perverse the weather had been since the day they had set sail from San Felipe. The breeze had dropped almost as soon as the island had vanished below the horizon. They had been becalmed for days before they had been able to spread more sails again. It had taken more time then to recover what they had lost on the lazy currents and tides.
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 northwest.
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 spindrift 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 gun-ports 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 A
llday 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 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 had 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 long-boat.
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 officer 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.'
Success to the Brave - Bolitho 15 Page 22