The sailors were at first hurt then resentful. Some had died, few really understood why, but they deserved better, they thought.
It was noon and the smell of boiling tar mingled with the headier aroma of rum as the daily ration was served to each mess throughout the ship. Fewer hammers broke the stillness now, and there was little to show of the damage made by the fortress's cannon, although one seaman had lost an eye because of a flying splinter.
There was a tap at the outer screen door and Keen entered, his hat beneath his arm. He looked less strained, Bolitho thought. He guessed that Keen had been dealing with his own procession of demands and reports. The surgeon and the first lieutenant, the purser and the master, they all paid their respects to the captain, if only to shift their own loads on to his shoulders.
'You sent for me, sir?'
'Sit down, Val.' Bolitho loosened his shirt for the hundredth time. 'How is the work progressing?'
'I turn the hands to work if only to keep their minds busy, sir. Achates is ready for anything. Bandbox neat, she is.'
Bolitho nodded. He had already noticed the new pride Keen had shown for his ship. Maybe her previous captain's example had haunted him and dominated the other officers from the grave.
Bolitho had heard of Keen's clash with Quantock before the headlong charge into harbour. It was hard to believe any of it had happened. But the Union Flag flew above the fortress, and to all outward appearances the island was as before.
Soon he would have to send a despatch to the French admiral whose ships lay waiting at Boston. If they were indeed still there.
Then the peace would shatter here and the pain begin all over again.
Keen watched Bolitho's grave features and said, 'The admiral at Antigua will send aid if you request it, sir.' He saw the line of Bolitho's jaw harden and added, 'But doubtless you have already considered that.'
'I was given this task, Val. Perhaps it is pride which stands in my way. Some might say conceit.' He waved down Keen's protest. 'We all have some. But I need eyes and ears, not another flag-officer to breathe down my neck. But for Sparrowhawk's loss…
They looked at each other. It still seemed as if Duncan was alive.
Keen said, 'Once we weigh and go in search of that damned ship the island could erupt. These people could starve out the garrison, but not the other way round. I think we should order a summary court martial and run Sir Humphrey up to the main-yard on a halter.' He spoke with unusual bitterness. 'Alive he is still a menace.'
They stood up as a single musket shot echoed across the water.
'Guard-boat. Must have sighted something.'
Keen snatched up his hat. 'I'll find out, sir.'
Bolitho took a telescope from its rack and waited for Achates to swing gently to her anchor. He watched the fortress swim into view, the upper ramparts half hidden in heat-haze so that the Union Flag seemed to be pinned to the sky itself. There was the headland and the tiny island and its Spanish mission beyond. Then he saw a solitary tanned topsail rounding the point before settling down on a final approach towards the anchorage.
The guard-boat, one of Achates' cutters, rocked on the swell, her oars protruding along either side like bleached bones.
A small brigantine. Probably some local trader. Her master would get a surprise when he saw Achates' bulk in the harbour.
Keen came back, his face moist with sweat.
'I've ordered the guard-boat to lead the brigantine to a buoy.' He waited for Bolitho to turn. 'She's been fired on to all acounts, sir. I'm sending the surgeon over immediately.'
'Fired on?'
Keen shrugged. 'That's all I know.'
'I see. Well, signal any local craft to stand away. I have an uneasy feeling about this.'
He raised his glass and steadied it on the brigantine as her flapping jib was taken in and she rounded smartly on to a mooring buoy.
He moved the glass carefully along the vessel's side. Black pock-marks marred her paintwork. Grape or cannister. Anything heavier would have sunk such a frail craft. The glass settled on two figures aft by the tiller. A big man in a blue coat with untidy grey hair. The other…
Bolitho exclaimed, 'God damn it, Val, it's young Adam! If he's taken any unnecessary risks, I'll…'
They faced each other and laughed.
'I'm a fine example for him, eh?'
It seemed an eternity for a boat to make the passage between Achates and the newcomer.
Bolitho replaced the glass on its rack. It would not do for Adam to think he was worried and over-protective. All the same…
Keen said, 'I'll go on deck and er, welcome them, sir.' He hid a smile as he shut the door behind him.
Adam entered the cabin, his features anxious and apprehensive.
'I'm sorry, sir -
Bolitho strode to him and gripped his shoulders. 'You're here. That's all that matters.'
Adam looked round the cabin as if afraid of what he might see.
'The guard-boat, Uncle. They told me about the battle. How you had to fight your way into this place.' He lowered his eyes so that a lock of black hair fell across his forehead. 'I heard about Sparrowhawk too. I'm so sorry.'
Bolitho led him to a chair and said quietly, 'Never mind about that. Tell me about your troubles.'
It was an amazing story which the young lieutenant blurted out. Just a few days ago, after riding out a fierce storm near the Great Bahama Bank, they had been confronted by a frigate. She had been Spanish and had ordered them to heave to and to await a boarding party. The brigantine's master had apparently been suspicious and when the frigate's boat had been almost alongside he had clapped on all sail and had headed away, a favourable wind taking him into some shallows too dangerous for the frigate to follow. But not before the Spanish boarding party had opened fire with swivels and a bow gun which had peppered the side and killed the brigantine's mate.
Bolitho listened without interruption. You were never safe. Not really safe. While he had been fretting over San Felipe's future, Adam had faced an unexplained attack and possible death.
He said, The vessel's master must be an audacious fellow. Courageous too. I should like to meet him.'
Adam looked at him, his eyes shining. He wanted, no needed to tell Bolitho about Robina, but after what he had seen and heard on his passage from Boston he would not spoil the moment for a fortune.
'He came over with me! He's here!'
Bolitho eyed him questioningly. 'Well, let's have him in.'
The sentry opened the screen door and stood aside to allow the visitor to enter. Only the marine's eyes moved beneath his glazed leather hat as he said, 'Master of the Vivid, sir!' The 'sir' was accompanied by a sharp tap on the deck with his musket.
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.'
