Success to the Brave

12 The Letter

Napier, Electro's youthful commander, stood exactly in the centre of Bolitho's day cabin while he completed his report.

Contrary to his orders, Napier had brought his brig to escort the battered two-decker for the last two miles of her passage into San Felipe.

Even as he had been piped aboard from his gig, Napier had seemed unable to prevent his eyes from probing around him. The sewn-up corpses awaiting burial, the tired, dirty sailors who barely glanced up from their countless tasks of splicing, stitching and hauling fresh rigging to the topmen on the yards.

Bolitho thought of those last moments. He still did not know the enemy ship's name. But soon he would, just as he would learn who had commanded her. The Spanish frigate had been careful to stand between the victor and defeated, to prevent, it seemed, any attempt to pick up survivors.

Napier said, 'Two Spanish men-of-war did stand inshore for a while. They were going to land a party at the island mission.'

He sounded surprised that Bolitho had not already questioned him about it. In fact, Bolitho was so fatigued he had barely skimmed over the commander's neatly written report.

Bolitho made himself stand and walk towards the open stern windows as Achates continued towards the island. He could still smell the heat and sweat of battle. The scent of death.

'What did you do?'

Napier relived his proudest moment as acting-governor.

'I warned them off, sir. Fired a shot from the battery to liven things along.'

Liven things along. Bolitho wanted to laugh, but knew if he did he might not be able to stop.

When and where would it end? Tyrrell had betrayed him, or had been about to. Now, not only the French were intent on San Felipe but the Spaniards also.

Keen entered the cabin and said, 'We are about to enter harbour, sir. The wind is steady from the sou'-east.'

He looked strained and extremely tired. He was feeling the ship's pain as if it were his own.

The pumps had barely stopped since the battle. Achates had taken two bad hits in her bilge. And a 'long nine', as a thirty-two-pounder was nicknamed, could do terrible damage. Achates was, after all, twenty-two years old. That represented a lot of miles under her keel.

'I'll come up.' Bolitho added bitterly, 'There may be some watching from the shore who will be disappointed to see us still afloat.'

He thought of the two Spanish men-of-war and their apparent intention to land men on what they still claimed as Spanish territory. But for Tyrrell's change of heart, the two ships would have been joined by the ship which now lay below a Caribbean reef.

Napier suddenly went pale. 'I — I do beg your pardon, sir. I had almost forgotten. There was a packet-ship from England.'

Bolitho stared at him and said sharply, 'Continue.' Napier fumbled inside his coat and then produced a letter. 'For you, sir.'

He seemed to shrink under Bolitho's gaze.

Keen snapped, 'Come on deck, Commander Napier, I wish to discuss certain matters about docking my ship . . . ' But he paused at the door and glanced back at Bolitho. He was holding the letter with both hands, afraid to open it, afraid to move.

He turned and almost bumped into the flag-lieutenant. 'Not yet, Adam. There's a letter.'

In the gloom between decks Allday leaned on a blistered eighteen-pounder and peered through the gun-port to watch a green finger of land slide abeam. There were people there to watch the stained and battered ship sail past, but nobody waved or cheered.

To Allday it was just another landfall. He had been in so many harbours they had become merged and mixed in memory. He sighed. That letter was all that mattered for now. He could remember as if it was yesterday when together they had clambered into the overturned coach and found a beautiful woman more dead than alive. The resemblance to Bolitho's previous wife had been too much to believe.

He cocked his head as a gun boomed out from the old fortress. Better than any mock tears, he thought. A proper welcome, though there were too many jacks who would not hear the guns now or ever again.

He straightened his back as the door opened in the cabin screen and the scarlet-coated sentry snapped to attention.

Bolitho ducked beneath the deckhead beams and then saw Allday waiting for him.

He looked at Allday's anxious features and felt his own strength begin to ebb away. The careful composure he had tried to build up as he had read carefully through her letter, the moments of despair when his gaze had become misty, each was taking a toll now on his reserves.

He paused and listened to the guns, the jarring response from Achates' upper deck as she returned the salute.

Then he reached out and grasped Allday's hard hand.

Allday asked thickly, 'Is all well, sir?'

Bolitho squeezed his hand. It was somehow right that he should be here. The first to know.

'We have a fine daughter, Allday.'

How long they stood like this it was hard to tell. Achates changed tack around the point, and on the poop the marine fifers and drummers struck up a lively march, Come cheer up my lads 'tis to glory we steer ... To Bolitho it could have been anything.

Allday nodded slowly, savouring the moment as he would retell it when he eventually put his feet ashore for the last time.

'And Ma'am, sir?'

'Very well.' Bolitho walked towards the sunlight. 'She asked to be remembered to you.' He quickened his pace on to the quarterdeck. Now he could face anything. Do anything. He looked at Allday's great beaming grin. 'She hopes we are not too bored by being employed in peacetime!'

Allday glanced up at the splintered cross-jack yard, the stains and marks of battle which were everywhere.

Then, despite the solemnity of the moment, a King's ship entering harbour, the salutes and the flag which dipped to Old Katie above the battery walls, he threw back his head and laughed.

Keen looked at him and then at Bolitho. The reward for the victor was plain to see.

Captain Valentine Keen watched his superior with unconcealed surprise and admiration. Since Achates' return to San Felipe the work of repairs, the replacement of timbers and spars, had continued without a break. The facilities in Georgetown were poor, and they had been confronted by non-cooperation and hostility at every turn.

English Harbour at Antigua was the only suitable place for a proper refit, but Keen was resigned to seeing his ship put to rights in what amounted to primitive conditions. If Achates quit the island he had little doubt that an invasion of some kind would soon follow.

He knew that Bolitho had not spared himself. He had been ashore many times, had visited the ex-governor, Rivers, had even allowed him to return to his own home under open arrest, although Keen had voiced his disagreement on that score.

It was late August and the heat unbearable. But any day, at any hour, the fortress lookouts might report the approach of Spanish ships, French too for that matter, and Achates had to be ready for sea and prepared if need be to fight.

Electra had sailed that forenoon for Antigua. Despatches for the admiral, if he had returned, and others to be sent with all haste to the Admiralty in London. All this and a lot more had kept Bolitho working in his cabin until the middle watches, and yet he never seemed to tire or show his irritation at the delays and lack of help from the islanders.

The letter from his wife in Falmouth had done more for Bolitho than a hundred victories, or so it seemed.

Bolitho looked up from the litter of papers on his table. It had been something of a relief to send Napier to Antigua with his ideas and intentions which Sheaffe would eventually read at the Admiralty. He had committed himself. Right or wrong, he had made a decision. It was what he had veered away from previously. Now he was glad, even eager, to act with a freedom he had once found hard to express.

'Rivers has agreed not to interfere. Others can decide later what will become of him.' He saw the deep lines around Keen's mouth and was moved to add, 'It has been a difficult time for you, Val. I understand that.'

Keen shrugged. 'Mr Quantock, the master, Mr Grace, the carpenter, all are in rare agreement, sir. If this ship is called on to fight without proper attention in a dockyard she may suffer severe consequences.'

Bolitho nodded. 'I know that. You are also short-handed because of our losses and with no chance of replacements.'

Keen said, 'If we do not get support from other ships, sir, we will be hard put to defend ourselves, let alone this island.'

'I have sent a full report, Val.'

Bolitho leaned over the stern sill and took some deep breaths. The air was scalding hot and without movement. Better to be at sea, becalmed even. Anything rather than stay here and wait. He thought of Belinda's letter which he had read at the end of each demanding day. A daughter. He could not visualize what she would be like. Belinda had written of her love, of her hopes, but he could read between the lines too. The birth had not been easy for her. It was just as well that she still believed his mission to be one of diplomacy and not one of danger.

Keen asked abruptly, 'What about Mr Tyrrell, sir?'

Bolitho bit his lip. He had sent Tyrrell over to his brigantine as soon as Achates had moored. They had spoken very little. Guilt or defiance, it was hard to tell. Yet.

He said, 'I shall see him directly, Val. I need his Vivid. She is all I can find at present.' He smiled at Keen's surprise. 'I intend to purchase her anyway, so she might as well sail under our flag for the present.'

'If you think that's wise, sir.'

'Wise? I am not certain of anything. But what I do know is that it will take several months to complete repairs on my flagship. In the meantime we may be attacked by the Dons. I cannot in all sensibility agree to hand over the island to the French until we have settled this matter once and for all. If there was any last minute conflict the French would be quick to blame us, accuse us of provoking a war so that they could not take over what is rightfully theirs.'

He watched Keen's face. He was unconvinced.

'I have this feeling, Val. That I was sent here to perform an impossible task. But if I am to be a scapegoat then I want to rest on my own decisions, not on those made by people who have never heard a shot or seen a man die.'

Keen nodded. 'Well, sir, I shall back you to the limit and beyond, but that you already know.'

Bolitho sat on the stern scat and plucked at his shirt to gain an illusion of coolness.

'When you attain flag-rank, Val, I hope you will remember all this. It is far better to sail in the line of battle with every enemy muzzle trained on the flagship than to sort through the dung of diplomacy. In a moment I shall speak with Jethro Tyrrell. He is a man who lost everything, but who once gave so much for the flag he honoured. He was a true patriot, but was branded a traitor by his own people. He has lived with bitter memories, as a wolf will live off scraps. But he still cares, and at that moment when he was about to betray us he stood firm and led us to the enemy. In his eyes it was madness. What is honour to him? It has done precious little to repay his sacrifices. He thought instead of saving us from harm, so that when we returned here the island would be under Spanish colours and it would be too late for me to do anything but report failure.'

Keen shook his head. 'Will you trust him again?'

'I hope to.'

Bolitho looked at the glittering water, the small vessels pinned down on their reflections by the glare.

'Rivers is a rogue. He became rich by offering favours to the scum of the Caribbean. Slavers, soldiers of fortune, pirates, all have paid him his dues. He has property in the South Americas, but needed his power as governor to take full advantage of the profits. I found some evidence in the fortress, but that is but the tip of an iceberg. I loathe him for his greed, but I need him if only to give some credibility to our being here.'

Keen listened to the renewed thud of hammers and the squeak of tackles as more cordage was hoisted aloft. He had had his own doubts from the beginning about sending a small two-decker to perform the work of a squadron. What was the matter with England? Instead of showing pride for past victories she seemed to cringe for fear of upsetting old enemies.

Keen would have hanged Rivers and anyone else who had shared in the deaths of his sailors and marines. The consequences could wait.

Bolitho had risen to his feet and was shading his eyes to watch the distant fortress. When he spoke he sounded untroubled, although his words held the impact of iron shot.

'You see, Val, I believe the United States are more concerned with improving their relations with the South Americas, the Spaniards and Portuguese. So Rivers' appeal for their protection rather than French reoccupation must have received a warm reception. I also believe that Samuel Fane, and certainly Jonathan Chase, have no illusions about the French, should there be another war in Europe.'

Keen stared at him, his tiredness forgotten. 'You mean that the United States' government connived with the Dons!'

'Not directly. But when you put your hand in a fox's hole you must expect to be bitten. The Spanish government could not afford to become openly involved so they employed a powerful privateer for the purpose. With Sparrowhaivk destroyed and local shipping too frightened to move, there was only Achates to prevent the seizure of San Felipe. Chase must have known about Tyrrell's past connections with me, just as he was well aware of his desperate need of a ship. The rest we can guess, but nobody had allowed for Tyrrell's old loyalty.'

Keen looked astounded. 'If you say so, sir. It is precious flimsy evidence to support your reputation at any future enquiry.'

'I agree. So we shall have to manufacture some.' Bolitho looked at him calmly. 'I'll see Tyrrell now. Please ask my flag-lieutenant to join me.'

Later, as Tyrrell limped into the cabin and lanterns were being lit for an early dusk, Bolitho faced his old lieutenant with a sense of sadness as well as determination.

Tyrrell took a proffered chair and laced his powerful fingers together.

'Well, Jethro.'

Tyrrell smiled. 'Well, Dick.'

Bolitho sat on the edge of the table and regarded him gravely.

'As these are British waters for the present I am using my authority to commandeer your vessel and place her under our colours.'

He saw a momentary start but nothing more. Tyrrell was too tough to be budged by one shock.

'Also, I am placing her under the temporary command of my nephew, who in his capacity of flag-lieutenant will carry a despatch with him to Boston.'

Tyrrell stirred and showed a first hint of uneasiness.

He exclaimed harshly, 'An' me? You intend to string me on the main-yard, eh?'

Bolitho pushed a letter across the table. 'Here is my authority to purchase the Vivid once you have returned to San Felipe. You see I kept my word. She'll be yours.'

He was barely able to watch Tyrrell's anguish, but continued, 'I have spoken with Sir Humphrey Rivers. To spare his own shame, and possibly his life, he will give me all the information I need about that Spaniard. If he changes his mind he has a choice of charges. Treason or murder. He will hang for either.'

Tyrrell stared at him then rubbed his chin. 'Chase will never agree to part with the Vivid.'

'I think he will.'

Bolitho looked away. It was all Tyrrell could think of. A ship of his own. A last chance.

Tyrrell stood up and looked around like a man already lost. 'I'll be on my way then.'

'Yes.' Bolitho sat and leafed through some papers. 'I doubt we shall meet again.'

Tyrrell turned almost blindly and started for the door. But Bolitho got to his feet, unable to play it out to the end.

Jethro, He walked round the table and held out his hand. 'You saved my life once.'

Tyrrell looked at him searchingly. 'An' you mine, more'n that."

'I just want to wish you good luck, and I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for.'

Tyrrell returned the grasp and said gruffly, 'There's none like you, Dick, nor never will be.' There was emotion in his voice now. 'I lived all those years again when I met your nephew. I knew then I couldn't go through with it, though God knows this island is not worth the dyin' for. But I know you, Dick, and I know your values. You'll not change.'

He gave a wide grin and for a brief moment he was the same man. The one in the little sloop-of-war in these very waters.

Then he limped away, and Bolitho heard the midshipman of the watch calling for a boat alongside.

Bolitho leaned against the bulkhead and looked at his hands. They felt as if they were trembling.

Allday emerged from the adjoining cabin as if he had been lurking there to protect him from attack.

'That was hard, Allday.' He tried to hear the dragging thump of Tyrrell's stump leg. 'I fear it may be harder on young Adam.'

Allday did not understand what he was talking about. The man called Tyrrell had been an old friend of Bolitho's, so everyone said. But to Allday he had seemed like a threat, and for that reason he was glad to be rid of him.

Bolitho said, 'I feel different, knowing that I have a daughter.'

Allday relaxed. The mood was past.

'One thing's for certain, sir. She'll be a welcome change. Two Bolithos on the high seas are enough for anyone, an' that's no error.'

For a brief moment he thought he had gone too far, but Bolitho looked at him and smiled.

'Well, then, let's broach a bottle and drink the young lady's health, eh?'

On the poop Adam heard Allday's laugh through a skylight and gripped the netting with sudden excitement. Across the darkening water he could see the Vivid's riding light, the faint glitter of a lantern from her tiny cabin.

Soon, far sooner than he had dared to hope, he would see and hold Robina in his arms. He could feel her kiss as if it had just been placed on his mouth, smell her perfume as if it was here on deck.

He was glad that Bolitho had seen fit to trust his old friend. It would be interesting to listen to his stories again once they had set sail from San Felipe.

The first lieutenant was doing his evening rounds of the upper deck and saw Adam's silhouette against the sky.

Quantock clenched his fists. It was unfair. He should have been given charge of the Vivid, no matter how brief it was to be. Damn them all to hell. If Achates returned to England in her present state she would likely be paid off like most of the fleet. Quantock knew he would be thrown on the beach to join the ranks of unwanted lieutenants without any chance of employment.

He swore at the evening sky. Damn peace! In war there was risk, but at the same time there was always a chance of promotion and honour.

The Bolithos and those like them had always had it. He peered around the deserted deck. My turn will come.

Achates swung quietly to her cable and, like the men who lay on the orlop within the surgeon's call, nursed her own wounds of battle.

In her crowded mess between the great guns below deck the seamen and marines sat by their glimmering lights and yarned with each other, or consumed their carefully hoarded rum. Some with tarred hands surprisingly gentle carved small and intricate models or scrimshaw work. One seaman who had the gift of being able to write sat beneath a lantern while one of his messmates stumbled through a letter for his wife in England. In the Royal Marines' quarters, or the barracks as they were known, the men worked on their kit, or thought of that last battle, and the next which, although nobody mentioned it, they knew was inevitable.

Down on the orlop where the air was thick as fog, James Tuson, the surgeon, wiped his hands and watched as one of the badly wounded had his face covered and was carried away by the loblolly boys. He had died just a minute or so ago. With both feet amputated it was better so, Tuson thought.

He looked along his small, pain-wracked command. Why? What was it all for?

These sailors did not fight for flag or King as so many landsmen fondly believed. The surgeon had been at sea for twenty years and knew this better than most. They fought for each other, the ship, and sometimes for their leader. He thought of Bolitho standing on deck, his stricken expression as these same men had cheered him for taking them into hell. Oh yes, they would fight for him.

As he ducked beneath the massive deck beams he felt a hand touch his leg.

Tuson stooped down. 'What is it, Cummings?'

A surgeon's mate raised a lantern so that he could see the wounded man better. He had been hit in the chest by an iron splinter. It was a marvel he had survived.

The man called Cummings whispered, 'Thankee for takin' care of me, sir.' Then he fainted.

Tuson had seen too many men crippled and killed to feel much emotion, but this sailor's simple gesture broke through his guard like a fist.

When he was working he was too busy to care for the crash and rumble of guns on the decks above. The procession of wounded men always seemed as if it would never end. He rarely even looked up at his sweating assistants with their wild eyes and bloodied aprons. No wonder they call us butchers. A leg off here, an arm there, the naked bodies held on the table while he worked with blade and saw, his ears deaf to their screams.

But afterwards , at moments like these, he felt differently. Ashamed for the little he could do for them. Ashamed too for their gratitude.

The surgeon's mate lowered the lantern and waited patiently.

Tuson continued along the deck and tried to shut from his mind the tempting picture of a brandy bottle. If he gave in now, he would be finished. It was what had driven him to sea in the first place.

Somewhere in the gloom a man cried out sharply.

Tuson snapped, 'Who was that?'

'Larsen, sir, the big Swede.'

Tuson nodded. He had taken off the man's arm. It sounded as if it had grown worse, maybe even gangrene. In which

case . . .

He said briskly. 'Have him brought to the table.'

Tuson was calm again. In charge. He watched the figure being carried to the sick-bay. A Swede. But in a King's ship nationality did not count.

'Now then, Larsen ..."

Bolitho was with Keen on deck when the brigantine Vivid slipped her mooring and tacked slowly towards the harbour entrance.

He raised a telescope and scanned the little vessel from bow to stern and saw Adam standing beside Tyrrell's powerful figure near the tiller, his uniform making a smart contrast with the men around him.

Whatever he found in Boston might hurt him, but would not break his heart. Bolitho knew he must not interfere, must face the risk of turning Adam against him when he would have offered anything to prevent it.

Keen was reading his thoughts. 'He may not even see the lass, sir.'

Bolitho lowered the glass and allowed the brigantine to become a small model again.

'He will. I know exactly how he feels. Exactly.'

The headland slid out to shield Vivid from view. Only her topsail and driver showed above the land, and then as she changed tack again they too were gone.

Keen respected Bolitho in everything, but he could not understand why he had bothered to pay good money to give Tyrrell the Vivid. He should have felt lucky to be spared the hangman's halter. Then he looked at Bolitho's profile and saw the sadness there. Whatever there had once been between him and Tyrrell would not be shared with anyone, he thought.

Bolitho turned his back to the sea.

'Now we must prepare the defences of this island, Val.' He pounded his fist into his other hand. 'If only I had some more ships I'd stand out to sea and meet them gun to gun.'

Keen said nothing. Bolitho was certain of an attack. The Peace of Amiens meant nothing out here, especially to the Spaniards. He looked at the glistening horizon and wondered. But for Tyrrell's change of heart they might be out there now, and San Felipe under another flag. Rivers had played a dangerous game by setting one against the other, but it seemed to Keen that only Achates would pay for the consequences.

Bolitho clapped him on the arm. 'Why so grim, Val? Never turn your face away from what is inevitable.'

He seemed in such high spirits Keen was shaken from his apprehension immediately.

He said, 'Where would you like to begin, sir?'

It was infectious. Keen had watched it happen before so many times. When he himself had been nearly killed in battle, that too had been described as a time of peace.

'We will obtain some horses and ride around the island. Check each vantage point against Mr Knocker's chart and any local map we can discover.' Bolitho pointed at the haze around the old volcano. 'The island is like a great juicy bone, Val. And now the hounds of war are taking up their positions around us.'

He had seen the anxiety on Keen's face, and if he was dismayed at the prospect of fighting an undeclared war over San Felipe, so too would be most of his ship's company.

Bolitho did not really need to ride round the island, he could picture its strength and its weakness as he had gauged it on the charts. But he needed Keen and the others to know he was determined to stand firm. To hold the island until he was certain in his mind of the right course to take.

The wound in his thigh throbbed and itched in the humid air and he wanted to rub it.

Why was he troubled by the prospect of a siege or an open attack? Was it because of Belinda, or was it the chance of action which drove him on?

He thought suddenly of Sir Hayward Sheaffe's quiet room at the Admiralty. It seemed like another world now, with the fortress and the spent volcano shimmering across the placid water. But Sheaffe's words were quite clear, as if he had just uttered them. 'Their lordships require a man of tact as well as action for this task.'

Bolitho thought of Midshipman Evans' expression when the nameless two-decker had burst into flames. Of the shocked surprise on the dead marine drummer's face. He thought too of Duncan and others he had not even known.

The man of tact would have to step down for a while.