the British man-of-war to the allotted place.
Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the shore. White houses, several churches, the glitter of sunlight on carriages and windows along the waterfront. Perhaps there were many there who were watching the slow-moving ship and remembering the bitter times of revolution and war, brother against brother, hate against hate.
'Ready, sir!'
Keen replied, 'Hands wear ship!'
Quantock responded like a pistol-spring. 'Lee braces there! Wear ship!'
Bolitho glanced at the main-topsail. It had barely enough air to move its belly. Another minute or so and they would have lost the wind altogether.
'Tops'l sheets!' Quantock was leaning over the quarterdeck rail, his speaking-trumpet weaving from side to side as he watched his men high above. 'Tops'l clew-lines!'
Keen said, 'Helm alee.'
Achates turned gently into the dying breeze, the white ripple beneath her stem almost gone as the way went off her.
'Let go!'
Keen crossed to the opposite side of the deck before the great anchor had hit the sea-bed.
'Awnings and winds'ls, Mr Quantock. Lively now. There are a thousand glasses on us today.'
Bolitho bit his lip. Keen was on edge. He more than anyone aboard was still brooding over the short encounter with the mystery ship.
Two men had died that day. One drowned, the other crushed under an avalanche of broken rigging and canvas. But it went deeper than that with Keen. A sailor's life was full of hazards. More men died of falls from rigging and yards, or were permanently injured in their fight against sea and wind, than under an enemy's broadside.
Keen felt it badly. In spite of his experience and undoubted skill in battle, he felt himself to be lacking in judgement. Or perhaps it was because he was Bolitho's flag-captain which made it seem so much worse.
Bolitho had been a flag-captain more than once himself and could guess what Keen must be enduring. Once he had been grateful when his admiral had left him alone to consider his mistakes and to put them to rights. He would certainly allow Keen the same opportunity.
Achates swung easily to her cable, while on deck and gangways the hands worked like demons to sway out the boats and spread awnings in an attempt to hold the glare at bay.
Bolitho saw Knocker, the master, dismiss the helmsmen and rub his long chin as he examined some calculations on the midshipman of the watch's slate by the compass.
He should feel pleased with himself, Bolitho thought. In spite of everything Achates had sailed from Hampshire to Massachusetts Bay in the record time of sixteen days. For a two-decker, repairing her wounds under way, that was no small achievement. He thought of voicing his congratulations to the unsmiling sailing-master but when he looked again he had vanished into the chart room.
Bolitho walked to the nettings and watched the boats which were already pulling slowly around the new arrival. Tanned faces, bright gowns, curious stares. Boston had seen every kind of vessel drop anchor, but not many King's ships since 'the troubles'.
He heard a step on deck and saw his nephew with a great wad of papers under one arm.
'I see you are taking your duties seriously, Adam.'
The black-haired lieutenant smiled. 'Aye, sir. I would never wish to rise higher than my present station if this
is the reward!'
Bolitho matched his mood. They had still barely mentioned the one gesture which had drawn them even closer together. But it was there. Like a bond, something unbreakable.
In the evenings, as the ship had continued on her passage to Boston, Adam had made a point of visiting him in his quarters when Bolitho had known that the conviviality of the wardroom would have been far more in keeping for any young officer. But as day followed day Bolitho had thought of Belinda, had wondered how she was faring as her time approached. Adam had sensed his anxiety and had wanted to share it or, better still, dispel it altogether.
Bolitho knew that had he been in Keen's position the work and demands of the ship would have kept him from his private worries, but alone for long periods of time, or with only Allday or his clerk to talk to, he had too much leisure to brood on his concern for Belinda.
Now, with the ship at anchor, her work done for the present, it was at last his turn to act, to repay the confidence Sheaffe had allowed him.
Lieutenant Mountsteven, who was the officer of the watch, touched his hat and said, 'Boat approaching, sir.'
Keen nodded and looked at Bolitho. 'Visitors, sir.'
Bolitho knew it was his polite way of asking him to leave.
'I'll be in my cabin if you require me.'
Bolitho turned aft and heard the marines hurrying to the entry port, the bark of commands as Achates prepared to receive a greeting from the land.
Ozzard was tidying up the great cabin, although it always appeared perfect to Bolitho. He glanced at the tethered shape of one of the eighteen-pounders and was glad he had ordered its replacement. It would act as a reminder. The task he had been given was not going to be easy. He tried to stifle the bitterness. If it was a routine task, a more important officer would have been sent in his place. But if anything went wrong, they would, as always, require a scapegoat in the halls of admiralty.
He heard the calls trilling at the entry port and pictured the visitors being received with customary formality.
He walked to the open stern windows and saw a boat idling beneath Achates' great shadow, the passengers pointing and peering at the ship's gilded stern and counter.
It was unnerving to realize his brother had once sailed from here, had walked the streets among people like these. He had known nothing of Adam's existence then. Now Adam was here in his place. He felt a twinge of uneasiness. Perhaps he had been wrong after all to bring him, career or not.
The door opened and Adam stood watching him, a heavily sealed envelope in his hand.
He said, 'We are invited to a reception this evening, Uncle.' He held out the envelope. 'I have just been told that the President of the United States has sent one of his own senior advisers to meet you.'
Bolitho smiled wryly. 'In that case the whole world will know what we are about, Adam. If they were expecting us it was hardly surprising we suffered that encounter just eight days out from England.'
Adam nodded. 'We seemed to have caused quite a stir.' His face broke into a grin. 'Perhaps they want to pay their taxes to King George after all!'
Bolitho shook his head. 'If you talk like that ashore, Adam, we are far more likely to start another war!'
Later, as he lay back in a chair and Allday shaved him with extra care, he tried to measure the extent of his responsibility.
The frigate Sparrowhawk would be on her way here shortly. Captain Duncan was less of a diplomat than he was. He would make his report to San Felipe's governor before continuing his way to Boston for orders, but would leave little doubt as to what the eventual outcome would be.
It seemed inhuman and senseless to hand the island back to the French, no matter what Sheaffe had said. It was not a question of strategy or diplomacy, it was a matter of people. The island had defended itself more than once against enemy assaults, and had sent its own vessels to seek out prizes and harass ships and islands alike in the King's name.
In London and Paris it would seem different. Now, as Allday's razor moved steadily around his throat, it took on the complexity of a Chinese puzzle.
The evening air was mercifully cooler after the oven-heat in an anchored ship, and as Bolitho climbed down into the barge he felt strangely excited. Like someone stepping into the unknown.
Allday growled, 'Give way, all.' Then with measured strokes the green-hulled boat pulled away from the main- chains and turned in a shallow arc towards the shore.
The first lieutenant had been left in charge of the ship, a bitter pill in such a pleasant looking town, Bolitho thought. He glanced at Keen who was joining him at the reception and wondered if he was feeling less strained. He had been kept busier than anyone since the anchor had been dropped, for quite apart from the ship's affairs there
