Success to the Brave (17 page)

Bolitho opened his mouth to speak and then stared with astonishment. The patched blue coat with old navy buttons sewn on the cuffs, the wooden stump which protruded from one of his trouser legs, none of these things could destroy the man's identity.

Bolitho hurried to greet him and held out both hands.

“Jethro Tyrrell. Twenty years, man. And here you are!”

He watched as Tyrrell put his head on one side and regarded him with mock amusement.

“A vice-admiral, they tell me.” He nodded slowly, his untidy grey hair falling over his collar. “Never knew the Admiralty had that kind'a sense!”

He released his grip and limped around the great cabin, his hand touching things, his eyes everywhere.

Bolitho watched him, the memories flashing through his thoughts like fiery pictures.

The little sloop-of-war
Sparrow,
his first command, and with Jethro Tyrrell, a Colonist officer, as his lieutenant.

It was painful to see his dragging stump, his worn clothing.

Tyrrell paused by Bolitho's coat which was tossed carelessly on a chair.

He touched one gold epaulette with his forefinger and said softly, “As you say. Twenty years. You've done well, Dick. Real proud o' you.”

Even the soft Virginian drawl brought back a hundred more memories.

Tyrrell sat down carefully and adjusted his coat. “I'd best be off. Just wanted to see you. Don't want to—”

Bolitho exclaimed, “I was your commanding officer once, remember? You'll
stay here
and tell me everything. I tried to discover your whereabouts after the war.”

Tyrrell watched Ozzard bustling round him with goblets and bottles.

He said, “When I was sent young Adam there as a passenger I knew I had to see you.” His eyes shone in the reflected sunlight.

“They were great days, eh?” He glanced at the spell-bound lieutenant. “Real young terror he was. Younger than me too. Fought a duel for a girl who wanted him dead, and almost took on the Frogs single-handed.” He was smiling broadly but his eyes were incredibly sad.

Bolitho asked gently, “What are you doing these days?”

“This an' that. I command the
Vivid,
but she's not mine, worse luck. Do a lot o' trading between the islands. The Dons and the King's ships are always after me as they think I'm a smuggler too. That's a joke. Look at me!”

The door opened and Keen entered warily.

Bolitho said, “This is Jethro Tyrrell.” He looked at the grey-haired man in the chair. “My first lieutenant in the
Sparrow.
” He smiled at Keen's surprise. “Another war, Val, but a fine little ship.”

Tyrrell shifted in his chair, uncomfortable under their stares.

“Anyways, I hear you're having a spot of trouble here. Goin' to hand back San Felipe to the Frogs, right?”

Bolitho nodded gravely. “News travels a long way.”

Tyrrell grimaced. “Not fast enough, it seems. It's the bloody Dons you want to worry about. They intend to take this island.” He regarded their faces with quiet satisfaction. “They will too if you're not damn careful. They've got eyes everywhere. They even tried to stop my
Vivid
to search her and see if I was carrying despatches or letters.” He glanced at Adam. “My God, if they'd found him aboard they'd have murdered the lot of us, I shouldn't wonder.”

Bolitho leaned towards him. “Is that really true? About the Spaniards?”

Tyrrell looked at him grimly. “I need money to buy the
Vivid.
She's not much, but it would be a new start for me.” He turned his face away. “Just as you want the ship which put down your frigate.”

He sounded hurt. Ashamed. But there was no doubting his sincerity.

Bolitho said, “I'll help you, Jethro. I would have done anyway if I'd only known.”

“I had some pride, Dick.
Then
I did. Now I'm desperate. Lost my family, all gone. All I've got left is the sea, and I
need
a ship.”

Bolitho walked past him and then stopped with his hand on the big man's shoulder.

“You shall have it. Trust me.”

Tyrrell gave a great sigh. “Then I'll take you to that bloody Spaniard.”

Bolitho looked at Keen. He seemed too stunned to speak.

Twenty years. It could be yesterday.

10 THE FACE OF
L
OYALTY

“F
OR
G
OD
'
S
sake close the skylight, Allday!”

Bolitho leaned over his chart again, his hands around neat calculations and soundings, San Felipe and the neighbouring shores of Cuba and Haiti.

With the stern windows shut and now the cabin skylight, the place was like a kiln. It was to no avail anyway, and Bolitho heard Black Joe Langtry's voice quite easily as the master-at-arms counted out the strokes of the cat-o'-nine-tails.

It was strange Bolitho had never accepted or grown used to it. A captain's last resort at maintaining discipline.

A roll of drums, a pause and then that awful crack of the lash across a man's naked back.

He stared hard at the chart until his eyes watered.

“Ten!”
Langtry's harsh voice intruded again.

Keen would be up there with his officers, watching it. Hating it. But any King's ship sailing alone and without resort to other support was always in danger of exploding into chaos.

Three trusted seamen had deserted while working ashore for the purser, but had been hunted down and brought back by some of the local militia. They had apparently met some half-caste girls at one of the plantations. The rest needed little imagination.

Crack.
“Eleven!”

Now they were paying the price for their momentary pleasures. Keen had awarded the minimum punishment of twenty-four lashes apiece. But it was enough to turn a man's back into a tangle of raw flesh.

Bolitho thought of Tyrrell again. He was aboard his brigantine
Vivid
attending to storm damage and putting right the other scars left by the Spaniard's swivels.

It was unnerving that Tyrrell should appear like this. Memories of those far-off days together, of the little
Sparrow
and what she had meant to both of them.

Am I to be ever plagued by memory?

Just as the frigate
Phalarope,
which had been Bolitho's second command, had sailed in his squadron last year like a spectre from the past, now came
Sparrow
's reminder to haunt him.

Was it really so? Was I happier then with less responsibility? Prepared to risk life, even lose it, rather than chance reputation as he was doing now.

The drums ceased and he realized the floggings had ended.

He knew Tyrrell,
really
knew him. Had been with him when he had been smashed to the deck and had lost his leg.

Now he was a shabby reflection of that other man. Outwardly he was no danger to anyone. He was just the sort of ship's master who would hear rumours about the movements and activities of men-of-war. Their nationality and colours mattered little to the master of a small trader. All were potentially dangerous. Seeking prime seamen, even though press-gangs were no longer in use. Who would know or care until it was too late for the luckless sailor anyway?

Tyrrell had been unshakeable about the powerful two-decker. She wore no colours and carried no name, but Spanish frigates from Santo Domingo, even those from La Guaira hundreds of miles to the south'rd, knew her and kept their distance.

This mysterious ship, which had not hesitated to fire on
Achates
when Keen had outwitted her in the darkness and had butchered
Sparrowhawk
's people without mercy, was in the Caribbean and its approaches for a purpose. A task in which she would risk anything if required.

He heard Allday open the skylight and knew that he, like Ozzard and everyone who came near, was being especially careful.

Bolitho looked at his big coxswain and shrugged helplessly.

“I do not know what is happening to me.”

Allday nodded his head and smiled. “Waitin', that's what's wrong, sir.”

“I suppose so.”

Bolitho looked down at the chart again. It was a week since
Vivid
had sailed into the harbour and Tyrrell had re-entered his life. Without another ship Bolitho dared not leave San Felipe. An attack might be launched by Rivers' supporters, there were plenty of them in evidence. Bolitho could not blame them. They would have to quit their homes and their plantations when the French came. Perhaps Keen had been right. If they hanged Rivers it might end there.

But Rivers had powerful friends in America and the City of London. In Bolitho's eyes he was no better than a pirate. But a proper trial in London would be required by their lordships to prove it.

If Tyrrell was right and the unknown two-decker was preparing to mount an attack on San Felipe, it was folly to leave the harbour unguarded.
Achates
had proved what could be done when it seemed worth the risk.

The door opened and Adam walked into the cabin.

A full week since they had been reunited and yet they had said very little. Adam was keeping something from him. Or maybe he had been too busy and preoccupied to share the young lieutenant's confidences.

He said, “Signal from the battery, sir. The brig
Electra
is standing into the bay. She should anchor within the hour.”

“Thank you, Adam.”

Bolitho's eyes moved back to the chart. He could picture the brig's commander clearly when he had described his discovery of the
Sparrowhawk
's few survivors in an American trader. Napier, that was his name. He must have sailed under every inch of canvas to make such a fast passage to Antigua and then westwards to San Felipe. Dare he hope that
Electra
would be able to wait in the harbour as a show of authority? She was only a small brig, but she flew the same flag as
Achates.

Bolitho suspected that many of the islanders would be happier if a King's ship was always here, rather than leave the door open for the French or, as Tyrrell had said, the Spaniards.

Bolitho walked to the windows and shaded his eyes with his forearm.

“Signal
Electra
's captain to repair on board immediately he anchors.”

Adam smiled gravely. “I have requested the battery to relay that signal already, Uncle.”

Bolitho turned and spread his hands. “You'll make a fine commander one of these days, my lad.”

Keen entered the cabin and dropped into a chair at Bolitho's bidding.

“I wonder what news she brings us, sir?”

He took a glass of hock gratefully and held it to his lips. Ozzard had been keeping a special store of it in the bilges ever since the ship had left the Beaulieu River in Hampshire.

“Any news will be welcome. I sometimes feel like a man who has gone deaf.”

Keen said, “Maybe their lordships will recall us.”

Bolitho said, “Adam, make a signal to
Vivid,
better still, go across and speak with Mr. Tyrrell. I'd like him aboard with me when we sail.”

Keen waited for the door to close and then put his glass down very carefully.

“May I say something, sir?”

“You disagree with my proposed strategy, is that it?”

Keen smiled briefly. “You are taking a terrible chance. Two chances to be exact.” When Bolitho remained silent he continued, “This man Tyrrell. How much do you know about him?”

“He was my first lieutenant . . .” Keen nodded. “You mean that's not enough after twenty years?”

Keen shrugged. “Hard to say, sir. He said himself he's desperate. He's lost his wife and family, even his reputation, because he fought for the King rather than Washington.”

“Go on.” Bolitho could sense Allday holding his breath.

“Suppose you meet with the Spaniard and bring her to action, what would we do if she hoists her true colours? Would you spark off a war?”

“Tell me about the second risk.”

Keen was perfectly right to point it out to him. But it made Bolitho feel more isolated than ever.

“The second one is that the Spanish ship,
if
she is still in these waters, might be waiting for you to leave harbour so that she can snatch
Achates
' place. You would have to fight your way back in. Not against a few stupid planters and the local militia, but a real ship, and the men to back up her authority. In my opinion, the risk outweighs the profit.” He dropped his eyes. “I—I am sorry, sir. But it had to be said.”

Bolitho smiled sadly. “I understand what it cost you. In truth, I do not know if a risk can ever be measured. I don't wish our people to die for no purpose. Nor do I want my own body divided between the wings and limbs tubs around the surgeon's table. I have everything to live for. Now. But . . .”

Keen grinned and took a refilled glass from Ozzard.

“Aye, sir,
but.
What a powerful argument that small word can raise against reason!”

Bolitho tapped the chart with his brass dividers.

“I believe that ship to be here, just as Jethro Tyrrell described. She has a sizeable company, so will require a good haven to shelter in while her captain seeks information about us. Beset as we are by enemies, that part will not be too difficult for him.”

Keen stood up and joined him by the table.

“
If
Tyrrell is right, it would make things very difficult in a war.” He ran his fingers along the islands. Puerto Rico, Santo Domingo, Haiti, even Cuba. “The Spaniards would command all the approaches to the Caribbean and to Jamaica.” He nodded slowly, understanding spreading on his handsome features. “And San Felipe stands astride the Windward Passage like a drawbridge. No wonder the French want the island for themselves. They need an ally, but they are not required to trust him!”

They were both studying the chart when a midshipman announced the arrival of
Electra
at the anchorage.

Keen buttoned his coat.

“I'll receive Commander Napier, sir.” He glanced at the table. “I'm still not sure that I am convinced, sir.”

Bolitho smiled. “You will be.”

He allowed Ozzard to assist him into his sea-going coat out of respect for
Electra
's captain.

His body ran with sweat, and through the stern windows he saw the gentle rise and fall of the clear water and imagined himself swimming naked there. His thoughts turned instantly to Belinda. It only took a split second. Like dropping your guard through fatigue or over-confidence. The enemy's blade darting forward like a steel tongue. He had tried to occupy every moment of his time with his work and the puzzle which he must solve. But every so often he saw only Belinda and the distance which divided them like an eternal barrier.

He vaguely heard footsteps and lowered voices. He had to recover himself for their sakes as well as his own.

Soon now, probably very soon, they would have to fight. This was no haphazard scheme or piratical aspiration. The unknown ship had already proved that to be in the right was no protection. Too many had died already to support such an argument.

He faced the door. In any war the cannon was impartial. Its roar swept away saint and sinner with the same indifference.

Commander Napier, with a shining new epaulette fixed to his left shoulder for the occasion, entered and clicked his shoes together.

Bolitho took the heavy envelope from his hand and passed it to Yovell.

“You made a speedy passage, Commander Napier.”

Bolitho tried to contain his impatience as Napier was put in a chair and a glass of wine brought for him.

Napier said, “English Harbour is almost empty of ships but for a third-rate which is refitting and two frigates. The admiral has taken the squadron to the Leeward Islands, sir. Commodore Chater is in temporary command.” He swallowed under Bolitho's grey stare. “He sends you his respects and best wishes, sir.”

Bolitho heard Yovell breaking the seals on the canvas envelope and wanted to run and tear out the despatches from Antigua. But without the admiral there he was helpless. He knew a little of Commodore Chater. He was not one to risk the displeasure of his superior with some brave gesture.

Napier added huskily, “I am commanded to place myself and
Electra
at your wishes, sir.” He screwed up his eyes as he tried to recall exactly what Chater had told him. “When he learned of
Sparrowhawk
's loss he wished to send some marines to enlarge your force.”

Bolitho nodded. “But the marines have also sailed with the squadron, am I right?”

Napier replied miserably, “Aye, sir.” Then he brightened and added, “But I was ordered to embark a platoon of the Sixtieth Foot in their stead, sir.”

Keen, who had followed him aft, said quietly, “That's something.”