her sealed gun-ports and freshly painted tumblehome.
'Get the t'gan's'ls on her, Mr Scott! Your division are like old women today!'
The sails hardened and shivered at their yards, and with barely a ripple below her dolphin-striker Achates glided towards the harbour mouth.
Bolitho watched the narrow strip of water. It looked no wider than a farm gate. A glance at Keen's tense features told him that he was remembering that wild charge through it in total darkness.
'Steady as you go!' That was Knocker. Even he seemed different as he called, 'Mr Tyrrell, you may be able to offer some local knowledge. If so, I'd be obliged.'
Here was the fortress. The sloping track where the marine drummer had died, where Rivers had made his greatest mistake.
The flag above the old battery dipped in salute and Bolitho saw a line of redcoats on the jetty, bayonets fixed, colours lowered, as Achates' topgallant sails made little patches of shadow on the fortress wall.
Allday murmured, 'They'll not forget Old Katie in a hurry.'
He turned his head to listen as the small cluster of fifers and drummers broke into The Sailor and His Lass.
Once Bolitho saw him thrust one hand to his wound, and then he removed it from his fine blue jacket and laid it on the rail beside his.
As if, like the island, he was leaving the pain astern.
The Secret
Bolitho walked up the slippery planking and gripped the nettings at the weather-side of the quarterdeck.
The ship was plunging and shuddering as rank after rank of waves surged against her quarter in an unbroken attack.
Bolitho watched as the bows dropped yet again and the sea thundered over the forecastle and cascaded along the upper gun-deck like a flood, breaking over the guns before surging away through the scuppers until the next onslaught.
In spite of the savage movement and damp discomfort Bolitho felt a sense of exhilaration, the nearest thing he could remember since his last command as post-captain.
How different was the Atlantic 's grey face to the waters around San Felipe. Lines of angry, rearing waves, their crests like broken yellow teeth.
Achates was making the best of this unexpected storm under jib and close-reefed topsails and was as steady as could be expected. Nevertheless, during the time he had been on deck Bolitho had seen the boatswain and his men floundering amongst the surging water to secure lashings on boats and guns, or to fight their way aloft to repair broken cordage.
Keen was here too, his tarpaulin coat flying in the wind as he bent over the compass and had a shouted conversation with the master.
How perverse the weather had been since the day they had set sail from San Felipe. The breeze had dropped almost as soon as the island had vanished below the horizon. They had been becalmed for days before they had been able to spread more sails again. It had taken more time then to recover what they had lost on the lazy currents and tides.
Now, deep into the Atlantic, they were seeing its other face. The ship was standing up well in spite of her repairs, many of which had been makeshift because of the lack of a dockyard. It was just as well, he thought grimly. The nearest land was Bermuda some two hundred miles to the northwest.
Here was another. He held his breath as the sea boiled over the weather-gangway and swept some seamen aside like twigs on a flooded stream. He looked up at the tightly braced yards, the reefed canvas like grey metal in the dim light.
Stooping shadows waited for the right moment before dashing from one handhold to the next. A few noticed him at the weather-side and probably thought him crazy for leaving his fine quarters.
Keen staggered towards him, his face shining with spray.
'Mr Knocker says it cannot last more than another day, sir.' He ducked as a solid sheet of water deluged over the quarterdeck and ran down the ladders on either side.
'How is Sir Humphrey taking to all this?'
Keen watched two of his men as they dragged some fresh cordage towards the mainmast in readiness to haul it aloft to the topsail yard. He relaxed slightly as they scampered into the ratlines before the next incoming sea could sweep them away or smash them senseless into one of the guns.
He shouted, 'Well enough, sir! He spends much of his time writing.'
Bolitho tucked his chin into his cloak as the spray and spindrift dashed down from the poop. Preparing his defence. Making a last will and testament. Probably just to keep his mind away from the miles as they dragged beneath Achates' scarred keel.
The officer of the watch moved hand over hand along the quarterdeck rail and yelled, 'Time to call the first dog-watch, sir!'
Keen grinned into the storm. 'God, it looks more like midnight!'
Bolitho left him and groped his way aft beneath the poop, where by contrast it seemed almost quiet, the sounds of sea and wind muffled and held at bay by the ship's massive oak timbers.
But in the cabin it was just as lively, with water spurting through the sealed gun-ports and the gallery on the weather-quarter. Every lantern swung in a wild dance, and the cabin furniture did all it could to tear itself from Ozzard's storm-lashings.
Ozzard appeared from his pantry and clung to the screen for support. His face was pale green, and Bolitho did not have the heart to ask him for something hot to drink.
'How is Allday?'
Ozzard gulped. 'Resting, sir. In his hammock. He had a large tot of – ' But even the memory of the neat rum was too much and he fled, retching, for the door.
Bolitho went into his sleeping-cabin and grasped the side of his swaying cot. Where Allday had almost died.
He waited for the deck to rise again and then hoisted himself, fully clothed, into the cot.
He hated being out of things, it was the part of his flag-rank which he found least acceptable. Strategy was one thing, but at times like these, as the ship fought her natural enemy without respite, he felt little better than a passenger.
Bolitho kicked off his shoes and grimaced at the shadows which loomed and died around him like macabre dancers.
But if the ship foundered, passenger or not, it would be better if the people saw their vice-admiral fully dressed.
During that night the storm blew itself out and the wind, although still strong, veered to the south and enabled Keen to set more sails and his men to carry on with their repairs. Between decks the trapped water and scattered possessions were cleared away, and when breakfast was piped the galley funnel was pumping out its usual plume of thick, greasy smoke.
Bolitho sat at his table, drinking scalding coffee and munching thin strips of pork fried pale in biscuit crumbs. It was one of his favourite meals at sea, and none could serve it better than Ozzard.
Despite the foul weather and unavoidable delays they should sight the Lizard, the southernmost tip of Cornwall, in fourteen days.
He was surprised that it should make him feel so nervous, unsure of himself. All he had longed and hoped for and yet he was as unsettled as a callow midshipman.
He got up and walked to the mirror above his desk. He was a year older. The lock of hair which hid the cruel scar above his right eye was still black, and yet he was sure there were some grey strands too. He tried to shrug it off. The youngest vice-admiral on the List, apart from Our Nel, that is. But he found no consolation. He was forty-six and Belinda ten years his junior. Suppose…
Bolitho turned almost gratefully as Keen entered the cabin, his hat beneath his arm.
'Have some coffee, Val, what – ' He saw the grim expression on Keen's face and asked, 'Trouble?'
Keen nodded. 'The masthead has reported drifting wreckage to the nor'-east. Victim of the storm, I expect, sir.'
'Yes.' He pulled on his faded sea-going coat. 'Not the packet which set sail before us?'
