Success to the Brave

6 No Easy Way

Captain Valentine Keen sat with legs crossed on one of Bolitho's chairs and watched his superior as he read through a despatch for the Admiralty. It would be put aboard the brig Electra and eventually be transferred to a fleet-courier so that it would be completely out-of-date by the time Admiral Sheaffe was able to examine it.

Keen glanced through the open stern windows and silently cursed the oppressive heat. It seemed to pin the whole ship down so that even the smallest movement was uncomfortable.

Bolitho signed the last page where Yovell had indicated and looked questioningly at his flag-captain. 'Well, Val, are we ready for sea?'

Keen nodded and instantly felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine.

"The water-lighters have cast off, sir. There's just your - ' Bolitho stood up as if pricked by a thorn and strode to the windows.

'My nephew. He should be back on board by now.'

He was thinking aloud. The ship was waiting to weigh anchor. Boats were hoisted, and all hands accounted for. He stared hard at the little brig which had brought the news of Sparrowhawk 's loss. Napier, her young commander, would be glad to rid himself of his responsibility to an admiral other than his own. His tiny command would soon be free of Bolitho and hurrying to Antigua to pass the news of the mysterious assassin, the ship which bore no name and showed no colours. Bolitho would have given a lot to hold on to the Electra, but the need to spread the word of the unknown attacker was paramount. Other ships might be lost in the same fashion.

Keen watched the emotions as they chased each other across Bolitho's features. They had seen and done so much together in every kind of action. Now, supposedly in peacetime, they were faced with something which was both baffling and terrible.

Feet thudded overhead, and calls trilled as the watch on deck was ordered to some new task under the first lieutenant's eye.

Bolitho did not see Keen's sympathetic scrutiny. His mind kept swinging from tack to tack, as if he was imprisoned by his own thoughts. Wait in Boston or set sail for San Felipe? It was his decision alone, just as his decision had cost Duncan his life. Keen had spoken with the one surviving midshipman, Evans, but had got little out of him. Bolitho had asked Allday to speak with the boy in his own way and the result had been startling. Allday had that casual, effortless way of talking to people, especially youngsters like Evans, and as he had described what Evans had told him Bolitho had been able to relive that brief, savage encounter which had ended with Sparrowhawk's total destruction.

It was a wonder a boy like Evans had not collapsed completely, Bolitho thought. It was not like going to war with the fear of death a constant companion. It was Evans' very first commission, his only voyage in a man-of-war. He did not even come from a naval family but was the son of a tailor in Cardiff.

To see his best friend, a fellow midshipman, smashed down like a slaughtered animal, to be the last one to speak with the mortally wounded Duncan while the ship exploded around him was more than most could have withstood. Perhaps later, months later, the shock would show itself.

Allday had explained how Evans had sensed an explosion even as his boat had pulled away from the sinking frigate.

The gallery fire had not been doused. Flames had probably spread to the magazine or powder-room, so that for many of the ship's company the end had been quick and the horror of the sharks held back for the others.

Another of the survivors, an experienced gunner's mate, had told Allday that the cannon fire had sounded flatter and louder than he would have expected. She was carrying far heavier weapons, he thought, even though the numbers had been reduced.

Bolitho glanced at the eighteen-pounder near his desk. Probably thirty-two-pounders. But why?

The door opened cautiously and the clerk, Yovell, peered in at them.

Bolitho said, 'Despatches are ready to go.'

What did they matter anyway? He knew it, and so did Keen. Words, words, words. The facts were plain as they were brutal. He had lost a fine ship with most of her people. And there was Duncan and his pretty widow. He had been a good friend. A brave officer.

Yovell remained hovering in the screen doorway.

"There is a mail-packet coming to anchor, sir.' He hesitated. 'From England.'

Bolitho stared at him and was shocked to see the anxiety on Yovell's round features.

My God. he's afraid of me. The shock hit him like a fist. He's terrified because there may be no word from Belinda.

The realization did more to steady his apprehension and doubts than anything. He recalled how only yesterday, as he had waited for Adam to return on board, Yovell had said something to put him at ease. Bolitho had exploded and had cursed him roundly for his interfering. Yet Bolitho had always hated martinets who used their rank and authority to terrorize their subordinates. And it was all too easy. A captain was like a god, so an admiral could do no wrong at all in his own eyes.

He said, 'Thank you, Yovell. Take the quarter-boat and pass my despatches to the Electra. Also any letters from our people.' He watched the man's uncertainty and added, 'Then go over to the mail-packet, will you? There may be something, eh?'

As the clerk made to leave he said quietly, 'I treated you badly. There was no cause for that. Loyalty deserves a whole lot better.'

Keen watched the clerk's wariness change to gratitude, and as the door closed he said, 'That was good of you, sir.'

Bolitho made himself sit down and tugged his shirt free from his moist skin.

'I have been hard on you too, Val. I apologize.'

Keen gauged the moment and said, 'As your flag-captain, I have the freedom to suggest and warn if the occasion arises.'

'You do.' Bolitho smiled grimly. 'Thomas Herrick was quick to use that freedom, so speak your mind.'

Keen shrugged. 'You are beset from every side, sir. The French will not discuss San Felipe with you, nor do they need to as our two governments have signed an agreement on its future. The Americans do not wish to have the French on their doorstep as it could make their own strategy difficult in any future conflict. The governor of the island will fight you all the way, and I suspect that Admiral Sheaffe knew that from the beginning. So why should we worry? If the governor refuses to submit we can arrest him and put him in irons.' His tone hardened. 'Too many men have died to make his position count. Better we take command of the island than to leave its future with him. He probably craves independence from the Crown and will play one faction against the other if we allow it.'

Bolitho smiled. 'I have thought of that. But Sparrowhawk's loss and the unwarranted attack on this ship do not fit the pattern. That ship was Spanish-built, if I'm any judge, and yet His Most Catholic Majesty has voiced no protest about San Felipe. So we either have an attempted coup in the offing or piracy on the grand scale. Hell's teeth, Val, after all these years of war there would be plenty with the experience and the desperation to play for such high odds."

Keen placed his fingertips together. 'And I know you are deeply concerned for your wife, sir.' He watched, waiting to see Bolitho's grey eyes give a flash of danger. 'The waiting has been hard on you, especially after your experiences as a prisoner of war.'

A boat pulled below the counter and Bolitho strode to the windows to examine her passengers. But they were only a few sight-seers, a local trader or two still trying to bargain with the sailors on the upper deck.

Adam was not here.

Keen read his thoughts and said, 'He is young, sir. Maybe it was a wrong choice to appoint him flag-lieutenant.'

Bolitho swung on him hotly. 'Did Browne say as much?'

Keen shook his head. 'I formed my own opinion. Your nephew is a fine young man, and I have nothing but affection for him. You have watched over him from the beginning, treated him like a son.'

Bolitho faced him again. He had no fight left. 'Was that wrong too?'

Keen smiled sadly. 'Certainly not, sir.'

Bolitho walked past his chair and rested his hand momentarily on the young captain's shoulder.

'But you are so right. I did not accept it because I did not wish to.' He waved down Keen's protest. 'I never saw Adam's mother, nobody did. The one good thing she ever did was to send him across the country to Falmouth, to me. But you were correct about me. I love him like a son, but he is not my son. His father was Hugh, my brother. Maybe there is too much of Hugh in him —

Keen stood up quickly. 'Let it stop there, sir. You are tiring yourself to no good purpose. We all look to you. I believe we are in for trouble. I do not think we would have been sent otherwise.'

Bolitho poured two glasses of claret and handed one to Keen.

'You are a good flag-captain, Val. It took courage to say that. And it is true. Personal feelings do not come into it.

Later maybe, but now the slightest anxiety may transmit itself through this ship.' He held the glass to the sunlight. 'And Old Katie will have enough to contend with. She can manage without an admiral who is so wrapped up in his own troubles he can think of nothing else.'

There was a nervous tap at the door and Yovell entered, his eyes fixed on Bolitho.

Keen looked away, unable to watch as Bolitho took the single letter from his clerk's hand.

He wanted to leave but, like the clerk, was unwilling to snap the spell.

Bolitho read the short letter and then folded it with great care.

'Get the ship under way, if you please. The wind will suffice to clear the harbour.' He met Keen's even stare.

'The letter is from my sister in Falmouth. My wife . . . His lips hesitated on her name as if they were afraid. 'Belinda is not well. The letter was written some time ago for the packet made another landfall before Boston. But she knew that the packet was sailing. And she wanted to let me know she was thinking of me.' He turned away, his eyes suddenly stinging. 'Even though she was too ill to write.'

Keen looked at Yovell's stricken face and gave a quick jerk of the head.

When the clerk had gone he said gently, 'It was what I would expect her to do, sir. And that is how you must see it.'

Bolitho looked at him and then nodded. 'Thank you, Val. Please leave me now. I shall come up directly.'

Keen walked through the adjoining cabin space and past the motionless marine sentry at the outer screen door.

Herrick would have known what to do. He felt helpless and yet deeply moved that Bolitho had shared his despair with him.

He saw Allday beside an eighteen-pounder and gestured to him.

Allday listened to him and then gave a great sigh. It seemed to come from the soles of his shoes, Keen thought.

Then Allday said, 'I'll go aft, sir. He needs a friend just now.' His face tried to grin. 'He'll no doubt take me to task for my impertinence, but what the hell? He'll crack like a faulty musket barrel if we allows it, an' that's no error.'

Keen strode out into the noon sunlight, adjusting his hat as his lieutenants and the master turned to face him.

'Stand by to get under way, Mr Quantock. I want to see your best today with half the port watching us.'

As the officers hurried to their stations and the boatswain's mates sent their shrill calls below decks, Keen ran lightly up a poop ladder and looked briefly at the anchored shipping, at the angle of the masthead pendant.

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 hellbent 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 Sparrouhawk'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 cross-trees 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.