Success to the Brave (11 page)

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
W
AR

“T
HE 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!”

The young lieutenant shouted again, “There's a yawl approaching, sir!”

Keen looked at Bolitho, anxiety in his eyes.

Bolitho said shortly, “Anchor then.”

“Helm a'lee! Stand by, Mr Quantock!”

The yards swung noisily when they turned into the wind, the canvas banging and clattering as the way was taken off the ship.

“Let go!”

The anchor hit the sea violently and threw spray high over the beak-head, while Rooke, the boatswain, and a lieutenant of the forecastle peered over the side. At the same time the topmen worked above the deck to take in the sails and ease any strain on the cable as it continued to run out into deep water.

“All secure, sir!”

Keen nodded but murmured, “Bloody bastards!”

The yawl thrust slowly away from the land, tacking this way and that as it clawed towards the anchored two-decker.

The midshipman-of-the-watch said, “There's an officer of sorts on board, sir.”

Captain Dewar of the marines asked, “Man the side, sir?”

Keen glared at him. “After refusing my ship an entrance? I'll see him in hell first!”

The yawl's tanned sails were furled, and as she glided against the
Achates
' tumblehome Bolitho said, “I'll receive him in the cabin.” He strode aft, unable to watch Keen's anger and humiliation.

It seemed an age before the visitor was brought to the cabin, and Bolitho found himself wondering what Nelson might do under this set of circumstances.

He could not blame the islanders, nor could he condone this behaviour.

The door was opened by Yovell and Bolitho looked at his visitor as he strode to the centre of the cabin. He was certainly dressed in uniform, a blue tunic and white trousers, and wearing both sword and pistol on a highly polished belt. He was aged about thirty, Bolitho thought, and when he spoke he had a faint West Country accent. A Devonian, he decided, like his clerk.

“I bring word from the governor.”

Keen, who had followed him aft, snapped, “Say
sir
when you speak to the vice-admiral!”

Bolitho said, “And what is your name, may I ask?”

The man glanced angrily at Keen. “Captain Masters of the San Felipe Militia.” He swallowed hard. “Sir.”

“Well,
Captain
Masters, before either of us says something which cannot be retracted, let me explain
my
intentions.”

The man was recovering his confidence and interrupted, “The governor has instructed me to tell you that the boom will remain in place until all negotiations are completed. After that . . .”

Bolitho said quietly, “After that, as you put it, you are not concerned. But how am I expected to see the governor if my ship is prevented from entering?”

“I shall take you in the yawl.” He saw Keen take a pace forward and added quickly, “Sir.”

“I see. Now I will tell
you,
Captain Masters of the San Felipe Militia. I am going ashore in my barge and will pass the written decision of His Majesty's Government to the governor.”

Masters said, “He will not accept it!”

Bolitho looked at Keen. “Have my barge dropped alongside.”

He saw a protest forming on Keen's face. Just like Thomas Herrick.

Masters persisted, “I shall lead the way then.”

“No. You are under arrest. Any act of rebellion will be treated harshly, and you shall hang for it, do I make myself clear?”

Bolitho saw his calm words smash home like pistol shots. Masters was probably used to bullying slaves on the plantations and the sudden change of fortune left him speechless.

Keen snapped, “Remove those weapons.” He raised his voice, “Sergeant Saxton, take charge of this man!”

Masters gasped as the Royal Marine removed his sword and pistol, and exclaimed, “Your threats do not frighten me, Admiral!”

Bolitho stood up and walked to the stern windows. Many eyes would be watching the ship from the fortress, waiting to see what would happen. The governor might fire on his barge, even hold him as hostage until . . .

He stopped his racing thoughts and said coldly, “Then they should.”

When he turned round Masters had been led away, and he heard shouted commands as armed marines took charge of the yawl.

Keen asked anxiously, “Let me ram the boom, sir? Then we'll enter harbour as planned and rake the mutinous scum for good measure!”

Bolitho eyed him fondly. “It would take a full day, maybe much longer. Even if you succeeded it would cost many lives, and if the wind rose unexpectedly you would have to disengage and beat clear of the land, past that battery again.”

Keen seemed resigned. “Which officer will act as your aide, sir? I think I should come with you.”

Bolitho smiled, suddenly relieved that the waiting was over, no matter what the outcome might be.

“What, leave your command? With both of us at Rivers' mercy there's no saying what might happen!” He relented at Keen's crest-fallen expression. “A junior lieutenant and, er . . . the midshipman, Mr Evans. They will suffice.”

Ozzard took down the old sword from its rack but Bolitho said, “No. The other one.”

If anything went wrong today the sword would be here for Adam. He knew from their glances that they had both guessed the reason.

On deck the sun had risen above the volcano and the decks were already as hot as bricks in a kiln. Tinder-dry, with tarred rigging and sails which would flare like torches if the island's battery used heated shot. Even with ordinary balls a well-sited battery was more than a match for a slow-moving vessel within the confines of a harbour.

He saw Allday watching him grimly, the curious stares of the seamen and marines on the gangways.

He hesitated at the entry port and looked at Keen.

“If I am
wrong.
” He saw the captain's jaw tighten. “Or should I fall today, promise me you will write to Belinda. Try to explain.”

Keen nodded and blurted out, “If they lay one hand on you sir . . .”

“You will do as I ordered, Val. Nothing more or less.”

He touched his hat to the quarterdeck and climbed down into the waiting barge.

He found Trevenen, the sixth lieutenant, and Midshipman Evans already seated in the sternsheets and said, “A fine day for it, gentlemen.”

Trevenen was beaming at the unexpected honour of being the admiral's temporary aide, but by contrast Evans looked around him, his eyes dark and empty.

Allday murmured, “This is no good, sir.”

Bolitho settled down and glanced at the waiting bargemen.

“It won't help by talking about it.”

Allday sighed. He recognized all the signs by now.

“Bear off forrard! Give way, all!”

Bolitho glanced quickly astern and saw the ship drawing away, the faces at the entry port merging and losing individuality.

He looked at his companions. The ship's most junior lieutenant and a thirteen-year-old midshipman might hardly be what the governor would be expecting. But, as in leaving the family sword aboard, he was taking no chances. If things went badly wrong, Keen would need every experienced officer and sailor he could lay hands on.

As the barge dipped into the inshore swell Bolitho heard a clink of metal and realized that cutlasses and pistols were stacked beneath each thwart within easy reach.

He looked up at Allday's impassive features and for a moment their eyes met.

It did not need words, he thought. Allday had made plans all of his own.

The lieutenant said nervously, “There is the other island, sir.”

Bolitho shaded his eyes and studied the humpbacked islet. It was treeless but with plenty of vegetation around the stone-built mission and outhouses. There was a strip of white beach, and he saw some boats pulled up clear of the surf. Monks, priests or whatever they were, they had to fish and cultivate their land as well as pray, he thought.

He turned his attention to the boom. Lighters and old hulks had been moored in the middle of the entrance, the channel which
Achates
and any ship of her size would have to use. He looked up at the fortress. Bigger than he had expected, with a sheer drop on the seaward side, impossible to scale, and impervious to twenty-four-pounders.

He could see pale houses on the far side of the harbour. He smiled wryly. Georgetown, Rivers' little kingdom. There were several craft at anchor, mostly traders and fishing boats.

Allday said between his teeth, “Armed men on the boom, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. “Steer for the starboard side of the entrance.”

He turned briefly to look for the ship but she had been shut off by the spur of headland. Only
Achates
' mastheads and topgallant yards showed above the land as if they had been planted there.

Beside him Evans shifted on his thwart and his fingers locked suddenly around his dirk. Like taking a needle to a charging bull, Bolitho thought.

He said, “I brought you with me in case you should remember something.”

The boy looked at him and replied quietly, “I know, sir.” His gaze shifted beyond the makeshift boom to the centre of the harbour but he said nothing further.

Bolitho guessed that Evans was seeing his ship
Sparrowhawk
lying there under the guns of the fortress. A King's ship, his home, the start of a career, friends like the other midshipman who had been shot down. But something, anything, might jar his memory. They did not have much else to go on.

Allday tensed at the sharp bang of a musket, and Bolitho saw a ball skip across the water like a fish before dropping abeam.