Success to the Brave (27 page)

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.”

Bolitho rose too. “I have to tell you that we shall be in sight of land within the week. After that your affairs will be taken out of my hands.”

“I understand. Thank you.”

Rivers walked to the door and Bolitho saw two Royal Marines waiting for him.

Adam, who had been present throughout the brief interview, said, “I feel no sorrow for him, Uncle.”

Bolitho touched his scar beneath the rebellious lock of hair.

“It's too easy to judge.”

Adam grinned. “If you had been appointed governor, Uncle, would you have behaved as he did?” He saw Bolitho's confusion and nodded. “There you are then.”

Bolitho sat down. “Young devil. Allday was quite right about you.”

Adam watched him, his features suddenly serious.

“I was glad to join you as your flag-lieutenant, Uncle. Being with you for such a long period has taught me a lot. About you, about myself.” He looked wistfully around the cabin. “I shall miss the freedom more than I can say.”

Bolitho was moved. “The same applies to me. I was warned against bringing you. Too close, Oliver Browne said. Perhaps he was right in some ways, but when we reach Falmouth things will—”

They both looked up at the skylight as a lookout's voice pealed down, “Deck there! Sail to the sou'-east!”

Bolitho stared at the square of blue above the skylight. He felt his heart quicken, an unexpected dryness in his throat. Like the hunter caught off guard when he needed his vigilance the most.

He crossed to his chart on the table and examined it, following the neat calculations, the unerring line which led all the way to the Cornish coast. It was unlikely that a merchantman would be outward-bound from either England or France if war had just been declared. It would take time for the rules to be accepted or broken.

“I'm going on deck.”

He strode to the door and out into the sunlight. The sea was lively with white-caps, and the wind still steady from the south so that
Achates
had her yards tightly braced to hold her on a starboard tack.

Men stood about in small groups or stared up at the seaman in the mizzen crosstrees.

Keen cupped his hands. “Mizzen topmast-head there!”

“Sir?” The man peered down at his captain far below.

“What does she look like?”

“Man-o'-war, sir!”

Keen beckoned impatiently. “Get aloft with a glass, Mr Mountsteven, that fellow is a madman!”

He saw Bolitho and touched his hat. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

Bolitho looked at the empty sea, suddenly apprehensive. Did going home mean so much? Was it that different now?

Keen said, “From the sou'-east, it seems, sir. Too far out for the Bay.”

Mountsteven had reached his precarious perch beside the lookout.

He yelled, “She looks, sir, like a whacking frigate!” A pause. “A Frenchie, I'd suggest!”

Bolitho made himself walk calmly to the quarterdeck rail as the conjecture buzzed around him like a swarm of hornets.

A French frigate standing well out to sea, probably steering north for the Channel or the tip of the Bay, Brest perhaps?

He thought of the dead lieutenant, the envelope, the little brig on passage from Lorient to Martinique.

“Deck there! There's another sail astern of her, sir!”

Knocker, who had silently appeared by the wheel, muttered, “Pork and molasses! More bloody trouble, I'll be bound!”

Keen said, “She's on a converging tack, sir. She'll have the wind-gage, by God.”

Bolitho did not turn but stared along the full length of the deck. So near and yet so far. Another two days, maybe less, and they would have met with ships of the Channel Fleet as they endured the weary task of blockade duty.

He said, “The Frenchman is taking a chance, Val.” He turned and saw understanding on Keen's face. “Maybe they do not know the news, as
we
would not but for loss of
La Prudente.
”

Midshipman Ferrier, who had swarmed into the weather-shrouds at the first sighting report, yelled, “I can see the first one, sir! A big frigate! I can't make out the other but—”

Mountsteven's voice cut him dead. “Second one is a ship of the line, sir! A seventy-four!”

One of the helmsmen sucked his teeth. “The bastards!”

Bolitho took a telescope and climbed up beside the midshipman.

“Where away, Mr Ferrier?”

Then he saw the leading Frenchman, her topgallant sails like gold in the sunlight. Even as he watched her outline changed slightly. He remarked half to himself, “She's setting her royals.”

Bolitho climbed down to the deck and looked at his nephew.

“As
you
will know, a frigate's job is to sniff out danger and identify strangers.”

Adam nodded. “Then they cannot know about the war.”

Bolitho tried to clear his mind. The pattern was all wrong. The French ships were closing rapidly with the southerly wind well in their favour.

He snapped, “Ship's head, Mr Knocker?”

“East-nor'-east, sir! Full an' bye!”

Keen murmured, “If I let her fall off two points or so they'll suspect something, that we're trying to keep clear of them. On the other hand, sir, a change of tack would give us a few extra knots.”

A change of course away from the enemy, setting more sail, either of those would arouse the interest of any frigate captain, let alone one with a seventy-four in close company.

“Continue as we are, Val. They will be watching us too, remember.”

Keen glanced up at the masthead pendant. “But for the damned weather we'd have been at anchor by now.”

Six bells chimed out from the forecastle and Bolitho saw the purser emerge with his clerk in readiness to issue the rum to each mess. He thought of Allday, how the rum had touched him like a memory.

“I suggest you send the people to their messes, Val. The galley can serve a hot meal a little earlier today.”

Keen hurried away and spoke to Quantock by the rail, and seconds later the calls shrilled between decks and the sailors grinned at each other because of the unexpected break in routine.

Bolitho took the telescope again and sought out the other vessel. One of the newer French frigates, he decided. Forty-four guns. He could just discern her hull now as it lifted on a long roller before dropping again in a great welter of spray. She was flying.

Bolitho listened to the subdued chatter of the men on watch. The prospect of a sea-fight did not seem to be troubling them. They had already despatched a Spanish two-decker and had captured an island. A French frigate would be simple compared with that.

Keen joined him again. “They might stand away when they know our flag, sir.”

“Very well. Run up the colours.”

But when the scarlet ensign broke from the gaff nothing changed other than Mountsteven reporting that the frigate had hoisted her tricolour.

Tyrrell appeared on deck, his jaw working on a piece of salt beef.

He squinted up at the mizzen truck and asked, “D'you reckon you could get me up yonder, Cap'n?”

Keen stared at him, his mind grappling with other problems.

“Bosun's chair, d'you mean?”

Tyrrell glanced at Bolitho and grinned. “Just had a thought. You recall that seventy-four in Boston, the one which was supposed to be doin' the parley. Could be her. If so, she'll likely not know about the war yet.” He grinned more widely. “Now, that'd be a terrible shame, eh?”

They had forgotten about Mountsteven but his voice made them all remember as he called, “
Third
ship, sir! 'Nother frigate, I think!”

Keen said softly, “Jesus!” Then to the boatswain he said, “Assist Mr Tyrrell aloft, if you please.”

Many of the watch on deck turned to stare and to follow Tyrrell's jerking progress up the mizzen-mast, his wooden stump clicking against halliards and spars.

Keen dropped his voice. “Three to one, sir. The odds are formidable.”

Bolitho handed his glass to a boatswain's mate. “Do you suggest we run?”

Keen said, “I'll run from nothing, sir. But I cannot answer for the ship's state if we are called on to fight.”

Bolitho watched the frigate's outline alter again as she changed tack until she was pointing directly towards him.

He said quietly, “It's another war, Val, not some petty quarrel. With half the fleet still laid up, England has never been less prepared. If our people are expected to endure a long, bitter conflict they will need victories, not leaders who turn and run away because the odds are
formidable!
”

He turned and studied Keen's concern. “We've no choice, Val. The frigates will be round us like hounds after a stag. That would give the seventy-four time to close the range and finish the fight. If we are to be beaten, I'd prefer it to be facing the enemy, not being chased until the wind has gone out of us.”

Bolitho faced Tyrrell as he was lowered carefully to the deck.

“Damn near cut myself in half.” Tyrrell glanced at them questioningly, then added, “She's the same one right enough. Must have gone south when she quit Boston. Rear-admiral's flag at the mizzen.”

Bolitho said, “Then she's the
Argonaute,
a new third-rate. I know her admiral from times past. Contre-Amiral Jobert. One of the few of the old Royalist navy to escape the Terror. A good officer.”

He knew that the others nearby were listening to him despite their efforts to conceal the fact. Trying to discover what was about to happen. What would become of them.

He said lightly, “I shall go aft and have a bite to eat,
then
we can clear for action.”

Bolitho strode beneath the poop and knew his casual comment about food would spread through the messes like wildfire. He could almost hear it. Nothing to worry about, lads. The admiral's having his grub.

He barely saw the sentry who flung open the screen door for him and he did not stop until he reached the stern windows. When he leaned over the sill he could just discern the frigate's topsails. An hour or more yet to wait. Maybe nothing would happen. Why must they fight if only to die? Who would blame him for standing away from the odds which were bearing down on him?

He felt his chest and the urgent hammering of his heart. Was it fear? Is this what it is like? The one action too many. God alone knew it had happened often enough to far better men.

Bolitho wiped his face with his shirt cuff and turned blindly into the cabin again.

Fear of losing something so precious he could think of nothing else beyond it.

He had been hoping too hard and too much. A weakness when so many were depending on him.