'No, sir. It would mean too much drift.' He watched Bolitho curiously. 'If we change tack to examine the remains we will lose valuable time, sir.'
Bolitho bit his lip. He had once seen a drifting boat with only one man alive in it. All the rest were corpses. He thought of little Evans, how he must have felt in his drifting boat, his ship gone, his companions wounded and dying around him. What must it be like? The last one alive, like the man he had seen all those years ago?
He said, 'There's always a chance, Val. Alter course and send a boat away when you consider it near enough.'
An hour later, as Achates shortened sail and tacked uncomfortably close to the wind, the quarter-boat pulled swiftly towards the great spread of bobbing flotsam and broken timbers.
It had seemed an eternity before they had got near enough to examine the storm's success. In such Atlantic weather it seemed likely that several ships had shared this one's fate.
Bolitho had stood on the poop with a telescope and had watched the remains spreading out across Achates' bows, tragic and pathetic.
She had not been very large, he thought. She had probably been struck by one gigantic wave across her unprotected poop, driven over before she could recover.
Keen lowered his glass. 'There's a boat, sir!'
Bolitho moved his own glass and stared at the swamped, listing thing which had once been a long-boat.
Keen exclaimed, 'They're alive! Two of them anyway!'
Lieutenant Scott, who was in charge of the quarter-boat, was already urging his oarsmen to greater efforts as he sighted the survivors.
Bolitho heard Tyrrell's wooden stump on the wet planking and asked, 'What do you make of it, Jethro?'
Tyrrell did not even hesitate. 'She's a Frenchie. Or was.'
Keen steadied his glass and said excitedly, 'You're right! They're no merchant sailors either!'
Bolitho saw Tuson and his mates waiting by the entry port, a tackle being rigged to haul the survivors aboard.
Bolitho asked, 'Who speaks the best French in Achates?'
Keen did not falter. 'Mr Mansel, the purser. Used to be in the wine trade before the war.'
Bolitho smiled. He had heard slightly differently, and that Mansel had in fact been a smuggler.
'Well, tell him to be ready. We may be able to discover what happened.'
There were ten survivors in all. Knocked, dazed and half-blinded by the mountainous seas, they had lost hope of rescue so far from land. Their vessel had been the brig La Prudente, outward-bound from Lorient to Martinique. Their commander had been swept overboard, and their senior lieutenant had managed to clear away one boat before he too had died from a blow on the head from some falling wreckage. The dead lieutenant was still in the boat, his face very white beneath the water which filled it almost to the gunwales.
The coxswain of the quarter-boat yelled, 'Shall I cast 'er off, sir?'
But Lieutenant Scott snatched a boat-hook and dragged the dead lieutenant towards him.
The survivors must have been too shocked and weak to push their officer over the side, Bolitho thought. He watched them being carried and helped to a companion-way. They still did not seem to know what was happening.
Keen said, 'Mr Scott has found something, sir.'
He could not hide his eagerness to get under way again, to fight back to their original track.
The dead officer rose above the gangway, water running from his mouth and his uniform as he swung above the gun-deck like a felon on the gallows.
Scott hurried aft and touched his hat. 'He had this tied to his waist, sir. I saw it when the boat tilted over.'
Bolitho looked at Keen. It was like robbing the dead. The French lieutenant lay on the deck, his arms and legs stretched out, one eye part open as if the light was too strong for him.
Black Joe Langtry, the master-at-arms, covered the corpse with a piece of canvas, but not before he had removed a pistol from the man's belt. It had probably been his only means of maintaining some order on that terrible night when his ship had been overwhelmed.
Keen said, 'All the same, sir. Lorient to Martinique.'
Bolitho nodded. 'My thoughts entirely.'
It took a few moments to open the thick canvas envelope and break the imposing scarlet seals.
Bolitho watched the purser's lips move as he scanned the carefully worded despatch which was addressed to the admiral in command of the West Indies Fleet at Fort de France.
No wonder the dead lieutenant had tried to save the package.
The purser looked up from the table, uncomfortable under their combined gaze.
He said, 'As near as I can tell, sir, it says that upon receipt of these orders hostilities against England and her possessions will be resumed immediately.'
Keen stared at Bolitho. 'That's near enough for me!'
Bolitho walked to the stern windows and watched the quarter-boat being warped round in readiness for hoisting. It gave him time to think, to weigh chance and coincidence against a small act of humanity.
He said, 'For once a storm was a friend to us, Val.'
Keen watched as Bolitho tipped a handful of pistol balls from the envelope, to carry it to the sea-bed rather than let it fall into the wrong hands. But the lieutenant had been killed before he could act, and his men had been too ignorant or too frightened to care.
Keen said, 'So it's no longer just a threat. It's war.'
Bolitho smiled gravely. 'At least we know something which others do not. That is always an advantage.'
With her yards retrimmed and her helm hard over Achates turned her jib-boom away from the drifting pattern of flotsam and the waterlogged boat which would sink in the next storm.
That evening at dusk the dead lieutenant was buried with full honours.
Bolitho watched with Adam and Allday close by as Keen said a few prayers before the corpse was dropped alongside.
The next Frenchman they met would not be so peaceful, Bolitho thought.
'Well, Sir Humphrey, I believe you wish to speak with me.' Bolitho kept his tone level but was shocked to see the change in Rivers' appearance and demeanour. He looked ten years older, and his shoulders were bowed as if he was carrying a great burden.
Rivers seemed surprised when Bolitho indicated a chair for him and sank into it, his eyes wandering around the cabin without recognition.
He said, 'I have written down all I know of the plot to seize my – ' He faltered. 'To seize San Felipe. Rear- Admiral Burgas, who commanded the squadron at La Guaira, was to govern it until Spanish ownership was recognized.'
'Did you know about the Spanish mission, that it might be used to shelter an invading force?'
'No. I trusted the captain-general. He promised me more trade along the Spanish Main. I could see nothing but improvement.'
Bolitho took the papers from him and scanned them thoughtfully.
He said, 'These might help with your defence in London, although…'
Rivers shrugged. 'Although. Yes, I understand.'
He looked at Bolitho and asked, 'If you are in England during my trial, would you be prepared to speak for my defence?'
Bolitho stared at him. 'That is an extraordinary thing to request. After your action against my ship and my men…'
Rivers persisted, 'You are a fighting officer. I want no defence for what I did, but understanding of what I had been trying to do. To keep the island under the British flag. As it is now, thanks to you.'
When Bolitho remained silent he continued, 'After all, had the Dons made their move before you came, my actions might have succeeded, and I would have been seen in a very different light.'
Bolitho eyed him sadly. 'But they did not. You must know from past experience, Sir Humphrey, that if a captain fires upon or seizes an enemy ship, or what he believes to be a foe, only to discover when he reaches port that their two countries are at peace, what then? That captain could have had no way of knowing the facts, and yet…
Rivers nodded. 'He would be blamed nevertheless.' He stood up. 'I should like to return to my quarters
