young Adam.'
Allday did not understand what he was talking about. The man called Tyrrell had been an old friend of Bolitho's, so everyone said. But to Allday he had seemed like a threat, and for that reason he was glad to be rid of him.
Bolitho said, 'I feel different, knowing that I have a daughter.'
Allday relaxed. The mood was past.
'One thing's for certain, sir. She'll be a welcome change. Two Bolithos on the high seas are enough for anyone, an' that's no error.'
For a brief moment he thought he had gone too far, but Bolitho looked at him and smiled.
'Well, then, let's broach a bottle and drink the young lady's health, eh?'
On the poop Adam heard Allday's laugh through a skylight and gripped the netting with sudden excitement. Across the darkening water he could see the Vivid's riding light, the faint glitter of a lantern from her tiny cabin.
Soon, far sooner than he had dared to hope, he would see and hold Robina in his arms. He could feel her kiss as if it had just been placed on his mouth, smell her perfume as if it was here on deck.
He was glad that Bolitho had seen fit to trust his old friend. It would be interesting to listen to his stories again once they had set sail from San Felipe.
The first lieutenant was doing his evening rounds of the upper deck and saw Adam's silhouette against the sky.
Quantock clenched his fists. It was unfair. He should have been given charge of the Vivid, no matter how brief it was to be. Damn them all to hell. If Achates returned to England in her present state she would likely be paid off like most of the fleet. Quantock knew he would be thrown on the beach to join the ranks of unwanted lieutenants without any chance of employment.
He swore at the evening sky. Damn peace! In war there was risk, but at the same time there was always a chance of promotion and honour.
The Bolithos and those like them had always had it. He peered around the deserted deck. My turn will come.
Achates swung quietly to her cable and, like the men who lay on the orlop within the surgeon's call, nursed her own wounds of battle.
In her crowded mess between the great guns below deck the seamen and marines sat by their glimmering lights and yarned with each other, or consumed their carefully hoarded rum. Some with tarred hands surprisingly gentle carved small and intricate models or scrimshaw work. One seaman who had the gift of being able to write sat beneath a lantern while one of his messmates stumbled through a letter for his wife in England. In the Royal Marines' quarters, or the barracks as they were known, the men worked on their kit, or thought of that last battle, and the next which, although nobody mentioned it, they knew was inevitable.
Down on the orlop where the air was thick as fog, James Tuson, the surgeon, wiped his hands and watched as one of the badly wounded had his face covered and was carried away by the loblolly boys. He had died just a minute or so ago. With both feet amputated it was better so, Tuson thought.
He looked along his small, pain-wracked command. Why? What was it all for?
These sailors did not fight for flag or King as so many landsmen fondly believed. The surgeon had been at sea for twenty years and knew this better than most. They fought for each other, the ship, and sometimes for their leader. He thought of Bolitho standing on deck, his stricken expression as these same men had cheered him for taking them into hell. Oh yes, they would fight for him.
As he ducked beneath the massive deck beams he felt a hand touch his leg.
Tuson stooped down. 'What is it, Cummings?'
A surgeon's mate raised a lantern so that he could see the wounded man better. He had been hit in the chest by an iron splinter. It was a marvel he had survived.
The man called Cummings whispered, 'Thankee for takin' care of me, sir.' Then he fainted.
Tuson had seen too many men crippled and killed to feel much emotion, but this sailor's simple gesture broke through his guard like a fist.
When he was working he was too busy to care for the crash and rumble of guns on the decks above. The procession of wounded men always seemed as if it would never end. He rarely even looked up at his sweating assistants with their wild eyes and bloodied aprons. No wonder they call us butchers. A leg off here, an arm there, the naked bodies held on the table while he worked with blade and saw, his ears deaf to their screams.
But afterwards, at moments like these, he felt differently. Ashamed for the little he could do for them. Ashamed too for their gratitude.
The surgeon's mate lowered the lantern and waited patiently.
Tuson continued along the deck and tried to shut from his mind the tempting picture of a brandy bottle. If he gave in now, he would be finished. It was what had driven him to sea in the first place.
Somewhere in the gloom a man cried out sharply.
Tuson snapped, 'Who was that?'
'Larsen, sir, the big Swede.'
Tuson nodded. He had taken off the man's arm. It sounded as if it had grown worse, maybe even gangrene. In which
case…
He said briskly. 'Have him brought to the table.'
Tuson was calm again. In charge. He watched the figure being carried to the sick-bay. A Swede. But in a King's ship nationality did not count.
'Now then, Larsen…'
Bolitho was with Keen on deck when the brigantine Vivid slipped her mooring and tacked slowly towards the harbour entrance.
He raised a telescope and scanned the little vessel from bow to stern and saw Adam standing beside Tyrrell's powerful figure near the tiller, his uniform making a smart contrast with the men around him.
Whatever he found in Boston might hurt him, but would not break his heart. Bolitho knew he must not interfere, must face the risk of turning Adam against him when he would have offered anything to prevent it.
Keen was reading his thoughts. 'He may not even see the lass, sir.'
Bolitho lowered the glass and allowed the brigantine to become a small model again.
'He will. I know exactly how he feels. Exactly.'
The headland slid out to shield Vivid from view. Only her topsail and driver showed above the land, and then as she changed tack again they too were gone.
Keen respected Bolitho in everything, but he could not understand why he had bothered to pay good money to give Tyrrell the Vivid. He should have felt lucky to be spared the hangman's halter. Then he looked at Bolitho's profile and saw the sadness there. Whatever there had once been between him and Tyrrell would not be shared with anyone, he thought.
Bolitho turned his back to the sea.
'Now we must prepare the defences of this island, Val.' He pounded his fist into his other hand. 'If only I had some more ships I'd stand out to sea and meet them gun to gun.'
Keen said nothing. Bolitho was certain of an attack. The Peace of Amiens meant nothing out here, especially to the Spaniards. He looked at the glistening horizon and wondered. But for Tyrrell's change of heart they might be out there now, and San Felipe under another flag. Rivers had played a dangerous game by setting one against the other, but it seemed to Keen that only Achates would pay for the consequences.
Bolitho clapped him on the arm. 'Why so grim, Val? Never turn your face away from what is inevitable.'
He seemed in such high spirits Keen was shaken from his apprehension immediately.
He said, 'Where would you like to begin, sir?'
It was infectious. Keen had watched it happen before so many times. When he himself had been nearly killed in battle, that too had been described as a time of peace.
'We will obtain some horses and ride around the island. Check each vantage point against Mr Knocker's chart and any local map we can discover.' Bolitho pointed at the haze around the old volcano. 'The island is like a great juicy bone, Val. And now the hounds of war are taking up their positions around us.'
He had seen the anxiety on Keen's face, and if he was dismayed at the prospect of fighting an undeclared war
