Success to the Brave (25 page)

He said, “I was sorry to hear about Jethro Tyrrell's loss.”

“He took it well, sir.” Keen hesitated. “He was asking if he might visit you.”

The adjoining door opened and Adam stepped noiselessly into the cabin.

Bolitho asked, “How is he?”

Adam wanted to comfort him but said, “He remains unconscious, and Mr Tuson says his breathing is poor.” He looked away. “I spoke to him but . . .”

Bolitho got to his feet, his limbs heavy. There were lights in Georgetown, and he wondered if the people were still standing quietly on the waterfront as they had since the action. Sharing the pain or the guilt he did not know, or care.

Adam was saying, “Allday and I were once taken prisoner together, sir.” He was speaking to Keen but his gaze was on Bolitho. “Afterwards he said to me it was the only time he had ever been flogged. He seemed to think it was a bit of a joke.”

Keen nodded. “He would.”

Bolitho clenched his fists. They wanted to help but they were ripping him apart.

He said abruptly, “I'll go to him. You both get some rest. Take care of that burn, Adam. In this climate . . .” He did not go on.

Keen led the way from the cabin and said softly, “Hear the silence? And they say that ships are only wood and copper!”

Adam nodded, glad of the darkness below the poop. Bolitho had told him to take care of his burned shoulder. He was incredible.

Bolitho opened the small door and stepped into the sleeping-cabin. The ship was so still at her moorings that the cot barely moved.

Tuson was holding a small bottle up to a shuttered lantern but turned as Bolitho entered.

“No change, sir.” It sounded like a rebuke.

Bolitho looked into the cot where he had fretted over the months since hoisting his flag above
Achates.

Allday was heavily bandaged and had his head on one side as if to breathe better. Bolitho touched his forehead and tried not to show his anguish. The skin felt like ice. As if he was already gone.

Tuson said quietly, “Narrowly missed the lung, sir. Thank God it was a clean blade.”

He watched Bolitho's shadow rear across the massive timbers and added, “Would you like me to stay, sir?”

“No.” He knew Tuson had plenty of people awaiting his care. “But thank you.”

Tuson sighed. “I'll come when you need me.”

Bolitho followed him into the cabin. “Tell me.”

Tuson slipped into his plain blue coat. “I don't know him as well as you, sir. He seems strong enough, but it is a bad wound. Most would have died there and then. I am deeply sorry.”

When Bolitho looked again Tuson had gone. Down to the bowels of the ship, to his sick-bay and solitude.

Ozzard hovered nearby. “Anythin', sir?”

Bolitho looked at him. So small and frail. He too was feeling it badly.

“What was Allday's favourite drink?”

Ozzard's watery eyes lit up. “Well, rum, sir. Always liked a wet.” He fumbled with his hands. “I—I mean,
likes
a wet, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. Even that was typical. In moments of crisis and danger, disappointment or celebration, he had often offered Allday a glass or two of cabin brandy. And all this time he had preferred rum.

He said gently, “Then fetch some, please. Tell the purser I want the very best.”

He was sitting beside the cot, the cabin door half open to catch some air, when Ozzard returned with a copper jug. In the cabin's heat the rum made his head swim.

Bolitho tried to concentrate on what he must do tomorrow, on the ship's affairs, on Tyrrell's future. But he kept seeing Belinda's lovely face when they had made their last farewell. How she had told Allday to look after him and Adam.

He heard the muffled trill of a call, the distant patter of bare feet as the duty watch was turned to for some task or other.

The voyages they had done together. And just last year when they had both been prisoners of war in France when Allday had carried the dying John Neale in his arms, it had been his strength and confidence which had held them and had given them courage.

He remembered his own early days as a midshipman and lieutenant when he had fondly believed that the admiral in his quarters was beyond pain and protected from personal doubts.

Bolitho heard the squeak of a fiddle from the forecastle and pictured the off-watch hands enjoying the cool evening air.

He saw himself in the mirror above the little desk and looked away. What price your vice-admiral now?

He took a clean handkerchief and dabbed it in a glass of rum, then with great care he wiped a little of it on Allday's mouth.

“Here, old friend . . .” He bit his lip as the rum trickled unheeded down Allday's chin. There was a bright scarlet stain in the centre of the bandages. Bolitho restrained the urge to yell for the sentry to summon the surgeon again. Allday was fighting his own battle. It would be cruel to make him suffer further.

Bolitho stared at Allday's homely face. It looked older, and the realization made him get to his feet, too stunned to accept what was happening, yet unwilling to share it with others.

He clenched his fists and peered around the small cabin like a trapped animal. There was nothing he could do. Barely seeing what he was doing he held the glass to his lips and swallowed the rum, the fire on his tongue and throat making him gasp and retch.

Then he waited until his breathing had returned almost to normal. He saw Ozzard's small shadow through the open door and said in a voice he barely recognized, “My compliments to the surgeon . . .”

Ozzard seemed to shrink even smaller as Bolitho's words reached him.

“Quick as I can, sir!”

Bolitho swung round as one of Allday's hands groped over the side of the cot.

“Yes, I'm
here!
”

He held it between his own hands and stared fixedly at Allday's face. It was set in a frown, as if he was attempting to remember something. His hand had no more strength than a child's.

Bolitho whispered, “Easy now. Don't let go.” He tightened his grip but there was no response.

Then Allday opened his eyes and stared at him for what seemed like minutes without any sign of recognition. When he spoke his voice was so small Bolitho had to bend over him until they touched.

Allday murmured, “But you don't like rum, sir, you never have!”

Bolitho nodded. “I know.” He wanted to talk, to help him, but the words would not come out.

Doors banged open and feet pounded on companion ladders, then Tuson, with Keen and Adam behind him, burst into the cabin.

The surgeon pressed his hand on to Allday's chest, oblivious to the blood on his cuff. Then he said, “Breathing's a whole lot better.” He sniffed. “Rum, was it?”

Allday was unable to focus properly but he needed to speak, to reassure Bolitho in some way.

“Could do with a wet, sir.”

Tuson stood aside and watched gravely as the vice-admiral put one hand under the coxswain's head and held a glass to his lips. He knew that if he lived until he was a thousand he would never forget this moment.

He said, “Leave him now.”

He watched as Bolitho dashed some water from a bowl on to his face, the way he was trying to prepare himself to confront the others in the cabin.

Tuson said quietly, “Never mind about them, sir.” Afterwards he was surprised he had dared to address his admiral in such a fashion. “It'll do no harm for them to see you have feeling too. Just a man like the rest of us.”

Bolitho took another glance at Allday. He looked at the rest.

He said, “Thank you. You will never know . . .” He left the sleeping-cabin to face the others.

Tuson looked at the rum on the desk and grimaced. Allday should be dead. All his experience pointed to just that. He began to snip at the bloodied bandages.

Then even Tuson's severe features broke into a smile.
Could do with a wet indeed.

In the great cabin they sat or stood in total silence as Ozzard brought some wine.

Then Keen raised his glass. “This happy few, sir.”

Bolitho looked away. There was no better sentiment.

15
L
AST FAREWELL

T
HE WEEKS
and then months which followed the attack on the harbour seemed to Bolitho like a slow record of Allday's fight against death. Any progress was often marked by an immediate set-back, and Bolitho guessed that he was fretting about his inability to move, his “uselessness,” as he put it.

A few vessels visited the island, and slowly but surely things returned to normal. There were no more attacks, and traders reported that they had not sighted any Spanish men-of-war or suffered further interference.

In October that year two hurricanes struck San Felipe with a ferocity which made a military attack puny by comparison. Great tidal waves had threatened
Achates
and destroyed smaller vessels, and torn the roofs off many of the houses. Plantations were laid to waste, and several people had been killed or badly injured, their livelihoods destroyed.

But it was the turning point between the islanders and the
Achates
' company. Without the disciplined efforts of the seamen and marines it seemed unlikely that anything of value would have been saved. The ship, once a symbol of law and oppression, had taken on a new guise, that of protector, so that for the officers and men alike the daily routine was less demanding.

Three months to the day after being cut down by a Spanish sword Allday walked across the
Achates
' quarterdeck for the first time. Ozzard went with him, but Allday, true to his fashion, would not lean on him for support.

Bolitho made a point of being on the poop and watched while Allday moved into the sunlight, his feet unsure and dragging, as if he had never walked a ship's deck before. Bolitho noticed too that several of Allday's friends were much in evidence, as they had been throughout his struggle to survive. But they understood and were careful to keep their distance, outwardly engrossed in their various trades.

Bolitho heard Adam's light step beside him and said, “I never thought I would see this day, Adam.” He shook his head. “Never.”

Adam smiled. “He's doing well.”

Bolitho saw Allday reach the quarterdeck rail and grasp it with both hands as he took several breaths and looked down at the gun-deck.

Scott, the third lieutenant, who was in charge of the watch, took elaborate care not to see him, even walked to the compass and peered at it as though the ship was at sea and not alongside.

Bolitho turned and looked at his nephew. All these weeks and they had barely discussed Boston and what had happened there, although Tyrrell had told him the bones of the matter.

He said quietly, “What we have done here is important, Adam. I put my views to the Admiralty, my beliefs as to what should happen here after we have gone.” He shrugged. “I have to believe they will act upon them. Too many have suffered and died to throw it all away. I used to hear my father say we in England are so often like that. We do not take proper care of what we have won with blood and sweat.” He gestured towards the anchorage. “Just a pair of frigates here and the Dons would never have attempted to seize the place. Likewise the French would have looked elsewhere to make a bargain.”

“Suppose their lordships still insist on handing over the island, Uncle?”

“The Spanish attack should have shown them the importance of San Felipe. If not, then I have failed here.” He touched his arm impetuously. “But it was wrong to use you the way I did. I knew that Chase would trust you, would tell you what I needed to know. But as a result you lost a chance to win his niece. I cannot forgive myself for that.”

Adam moved his shoulder and felt the burn beneath his shirt. He gave a rueful smile. “We were nearly too late anyway, Uncle.”

They both looked at the charred fragments in the shallows. Sea-birds were perched in rows on the blackened ribs of the fire-ship, and weeds grew where Tyrrell had driven his brigantine to her destruction to save them all.

Adam hesitated. “At least I saw my father's house.”

Bolitho glanced at him and was glad that the jealousy had gone.

Adam sounded far away. “I told her I would return some day.”

“Perhaps we shall go together. When that happens you can take
me
to see Hugh's old house.”

They looked at each other, sensing the bond between them. It was as if Hugh was very much here with them. Like this island, Bolitho thought, without threat or hostility.

He tensed as Allday swayed after releasing his grip on the rail.

Then Allday looked up to the poop and grinned. He had known they were there all the while, Bolitho thought.

He said, “Without Allday . . .” He did not need to go on.

The midshipman-of-the-watch clattered up the poop ladder and touched his hat.

Bolitho looked at him. “Well, Mr Ferrier, are you going to tell me about the sail?”

The midshipman flushed, his carefully worded speech scattered.

“I, er, the captain sends his respects, sir, and a courier brig has been sighted to the east'rd.”

Bolitho nodded. “Thank you. It is a while since I ‘enjoyed' the midshipman's berth, Mr Ferrier, but I have not yet forgotten how to read a signal.”

Adam exclaimed, “You knew? And yet you carried on talking to me as if the brig and her news are of no importance!”

Bolitho watched the midshipman pausing to speak with two of his friends. The story would be enlarged somewhat by tonight, he thought.

Ferrier was the senior midshipman, and the brig's arrival would affect him too. Homeward bound and a lieutenant's examination, the young could always find room for optimism.

He said simply, “It was important that we should talk. As to the rest, I shall have to fall back on Thomas Herrick's Lady Luck.”

Bolitho moved to the rail and looked along the upper decks. Men were on the gangways or working high overhead on the yards. But their eyes were towards the harbour entrance, and Bolitho could guess what many of them were thinking. They had been glad to leave England and the humiliation of being thrown on the beach like so much unwanted top-hamper. Now, after what they had seen and done together, they would be eager to return to their homes.

Bolitho thought of Falmouth, what they would say when they met again, whenever that might be? Of his very own daughter. What name had she chosen for her?

He said, “I'm going below. My compliments to the officerof-the-watch and please tell him to keep the people working. I don't want any long faces if the news is bad.”

Adam stood back and touched his hat. It was difficult to know which tack his uncle would take next.

Bolitho hurried into his cabin and saw to his astonishment that Allday was hard at work putting a shine on the old sword.

“You should be resting, man! Will you never do as you are told, dammit?”

But for once his mock anger failed to have the right effect.

Allday ran the cloth once more along the blade and then looked at him squarely.

“The surgeon says I'll not be the same again, sir.”

Bolitho walked to the open stern windows. So that was it. He should have guessed. He had seen that Allday was unable to straighten his back properly. As if the deepness and pain of his chest wound prevented it.

Allday added quietly, “Not much of an admiral's coxswain I'll be an' I wanted . . .”

Bolitho looked at him and said, “You've earned your time ashore in comfort more than anyone I know. There's a place for you at Falmouth, but you know it.”

“I know, an' I'm grateful. It's not just that.” He looked at the sword. “You won't need me any more. Not like this.”

Bolitho took the sword from him and laid it on the table.

“Like what? A bit knocked about, is that all? You'll be your old mutinous self in no time, you see.” He rested his hand on his shoulder. “I'll never sail without you. Not unless you wish it. You have my word.”

Allday stood up and tried not to grimace as the pain probed through him.

“That's settled then, sir.”

He moved from the cabin, his feet dragging on the painted canvas.

His determination, his pride were as unbeatable as ever, Bolitho thought sadly. And he was
alive.

Later that day, as the sun dipped towards a placid sea, Bolitho stepped into
Achates
' wardroom. After his own and Keen's cabins it seemed small and overcrowded, he thought.

Quantock said stiffly, “All officers and senior warrant officers present as ordered, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. Quantock was a cold fish, even the action had not changed him. Nor would it now, he decided.

He heard his nephew close the door behind him and said, “Please be seated, gentlemen, and thank you for inviting me here.”

It had always amused him. Any senior officer, even Keen, was a guest in his ship's wardroom. But had anyone ever denied one an entrance, he wondered?

He glanced around at their expectant faces. Sunburned, and competent. Even the midshipmen who were crammed right aft by the tiller-head looked more like men than boys now. The lieutenants and the two Royal Marines, Knocker, the priest-like sailing-master, and Tuson, the surgeon, he had grown to know and understand them in the time they had carried his flag at the fore.

Bolitho said, “You will know that the courier brig brought despatches from England. Their lordships have given full consideration to the reports on San Felipe, and to the large part your efforts played in an otherwise difficult mission.”

He saw Mountsteven nudge his friend the sixth lieutenant.

“Furthermore, I have been advised that French interference in the Mediterranean, and their pressures on His Majesty's Government to evacuate Malta in accordance with the same treaty which obliged us to hand this island to them, makes further negotiations impossible. As a direct result, gentlemen, all French and Dutch colonies which we had agreed to restore will now be retained. That, of course, will apply to San Felipe.”

It seemed impossible. In the neatly phrased despatches it was still hard to compare the complex negotiations which had swayed back and forth across Europe while
Achates
had been fighting for her very survival.

Bonaparte, now named Consul for life, had annexed Piedmont and Elba and showed every intention of retaking Malta once the British flag came down in the name of independence.

Bolitho saw the excitement transmit itself around the ward-room. So much for the Peace of Amiens. The signatures were barely dry on it.

“I am ordered to remain here until sufficient forces are despatched from Antigua and Jamaica to reinforce the garrison.”

He saw Keen drop his eyes. He knew what was coming next.

“The recent governor will be replaced as soon as possible. Sir Humphrey Rivers will be returning to England to stand trial for treason.”

He could find no satisfaction in that. After the luxury and wealth of his little kingdom he would be taken home in a King's ship, the first of any size which could be made available. And after that, with this totally unexpected shift of events, he would very likely hang.

He looked from face to face and added, “You have performed very well, and I should wish you to carry my thanks to the people also.”

Keen watched as Bolitho smiled for the first time since he had begun to speak. Whatever anyone else might think, Keen could see plainly enough where the strain and responsibility had made their mark.

Bolitho said quietly, “And after
that,
we are going home.”

Then they were all on their feet shouting and laughing like boys.

Keen opened the door and Bolitho slipped away. He had two letters from Belinda, and now there was time he would re-read them from the beginning.

Keen and Adam followed him up the companion and then Keen asked, “Will it be war, sir?”

Bolitho thought of the young and jubilant faces he had just left behind, of Quantock's sour disapproval.

“There is little doubt in my mind, Val.”

Keen stared around in the gloom, as if already preparing his ship for another battle.

“God, we've hardly recovered from the last one, sir!”

Bolitho heard Allday's unfamiliar dragging footsteps and turned towards his cabin with its motionless scarlet sentry.

“Some never will, my friend. It's too late.”

Keen sighed and said, “Join me, Mr Bolitho, and share a glass. Doubtless you'll be getting a command of your own if war does come about.” He gave a smile. “Then you'll discover what hardship really means!”

Aft in his cabin Bolitho made himself comfortable in a chair and opened the first letter.

Going home. They would have been surprised had they known just how much it meant to their vice-admiral.

Then he listened to her voice again as it lifted from the page.