To Glory We Steer (21 page)

His brother remained unmoved. “Traitors or patriots? It depends on a point of view! In any case, the
Andiron
will anchor off St Kitts tonight. Not in the main harbour, but in a quiet little bay which I think would be considered quite ideal for recapturing her!” He threw back his head and laughed. “Except that the
Phalarope
will be the one to step into the net, my brother!”

Bolitho stared at him without expression. “As far as you are concerned I am a prisoner. I do not wish to tarnish either the name of my family or my country by being called a
brother!
”

Just for an instant he saw the barb go home. Then his brother recovered himself and said flatly, “Then you will go below.” He picked up the sword again. “I will wear this in future. It is mine by right!”

He banged the table and a sentry appeared in the doorway. Then he added, “I am glad you are aboard my ship, Richard. This time, when the
Phalarope
comes creeping under my guns, I will have nothing to forestall me!”

“We will see.”

“We shall indeed.” Hugh Bolitho walked across to his chart. “If I have the temper of your crew rightly, Richard, I think they will soon be eager to follow
Andiron
's orders!”

Bolitho turned on his heel and walked back past the guard.

Behind him the
Andiron
's captain stayed watching the door, his hand still holding the tarnished sword like a talisman.

10 THE
R
ED BAIZE BAG

F
OR
R
ICHARD
B
OLITHO
each day of captivity seemed longer than the one before, and the daily routine aboard the
Andiron
dragged into a slow torture. He was allowed the comparative freedom of the frigate's poop, from where he could watch the regular comings and goings of shore boats, the casual routine of a ship at anchor. At night he was returned to the solitude of a small cabin, and only joined Farquhar and Belsey for meals. Even then it was difficult to talk freely, because one of the privateer's warrant officers always waited close at hand.

It was a week since the
Andiron
had dropped her anchor, but to Bolitho it felt like an eternity. As each day passed he seemed to withdraw more and more into himself, going over his predicament again and again until his mind felt as if it was bursting.

From his small piece of deck he could see Belsey sitting gloomily on a hatch cover beside Farquhar, both apparently engaged in staring at the empty sea. Like everyone else aboard they were waiting, he thought bitterly. Waiting and wondering when
Phalarope
would approach the island and fall into the trap. He noticed that Belsey had a fresh bandage on his arm, and thought back to that first and only petty triumph when he had been allowed to join the other two after his meeting with his brother.

It was obvious at the time that both Farquhar and Belsey had already been told who the
Andiron
's captain really was, just as it was equally plain to see their pitiful relief at his reappearance. Did they really believe that he would desert them and give his allegiance to the enemy? Even now he was surprised and faintly pleased to find that he was angry at the idea.

Belsey had been moving his bandaged arm painfully and had said, “The ship's surgeon is goin' to have a look at it, sir.”

It had been then, and only then that Bolitho had remembered Farquhar's dirk which still lay hidden and used as a splint beneath the crude bandages. Hardly daring to speak, and watched by the others, he had broken a piece of wood from the cabin chair, and with Farquhar's help had replaced the dirk with a piece of polished mahogany. Once Belsey had yelped aloud and Bolitho had snapped, “Keep quiet, you fool! We may have use for this later on!”

The dirk now lay hidden in his own bedding below decks, but after the agonising passing of days he could no longer view the possession of such a puny weapon with much hope.

He had seen little of his brother, and for that he was thankful. Once he had caught sight of him being rowed ashore in his gig. And on other occasions he had watched him staring at the tall mass of headland which towered above the anchored ship.

Bolitho had examined and thought over that one conversation in the stern cabin until he could see meanings where there were none. But he was sure of one thing. Hugh Bolitho was not bluffing. He had no need to.

The
Andiron
was anchored off the southern tip of the Island of Nevis, a smaller subsidiary of the main island, St Kitts. Bolitho knew from experience that this small, oval-shaped island was separated by The Narrows, a mere two miles or so from St Kitts itself and a full fifteen miles from the main town of Basseterre where Hood had successfully stood siege until forced to cut his cables and retire to Antigua.

Nevis had been a good choice, Bolitho conceded grimly. During his endless walks up and down the poop he had watched the rapid preparations, the careful cunning which had gone into laying a perfect trap for any ship attempting to seize the
Andiron
.

The sheltered piece of water was commanded by the jutting promontory of Dogwood Point, while inland and towering like a miniature volcano was the bare outline of Saddle Hill. From either position even a wall-eyed lookout could quickly spot any unusual or suspicious approach and send a report down to both ship and shoreline.

It was so simple that Bolitho had to admit he would have used the same method himself. Perhaps it was because it was his own flesh and blood which was working out the plan, and a mind like his own was laying the snare.

If Sir Robert Napier had been informed of
Andiron
's presence here, it was not unreasonable to expect him to take some sort of offensive action. A swift frigate attack would not match up to the smarting loss of St Kitts, but it would do much for the morale of the embattled British fleet. It did not have to be the
Phalarope,
of course.

Bolitho discounted the idea immediately. His brother had been right about that, too. Admiral Napier would have few ships at his disposal now that Hood was back in the saddle. In addition, he would see
Phalarope
's success as an act of justice to purge her name and avenge the memory of his own son.

He tried again to put himself into the position of an attacking captain. He would make a slow approach, just to make sure that the information about the
Andiron
was not suspect, and in order that the lookouts ashore should not see any sign of a masthead before sunset. Then under cover of darkness he would close the shore and drop a full boarding party of perhaps three or four boats. It would not be easy, but a ship foolish enough to anchor away from the defended base might be expected to fall after a swift struggle. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to blot out the picture of the attacking ship at the moment of truth and realisation.

There was a hidden battery of artillery already sighted and ranged across the whole area below the headland. And although to all outward appearances the
Andiron
was resting confidently below a friendly island, Bolitho had seen the preparations and the care his brother had gone to, to make sure of a victory.

Guns were loaded with grape and depressed behind their closed ports. Boarding nets were already slung, suitably slack to prevent a quick inrush of any who lived through the first holocaust of fire. The
Andiron
's men slept at their stations, each one armed to the teeth and eager to complete his captain's strategy.

Rockets were rigged on the quarterdeck, and as soon as the boarders were engaged the rockets would be fired. From further inshore the signal would be passed to a waiting French frigate and the battle would be all but over. The attacking ship would stand no chance if caught without the best part of her crew. And if she closed to give the boarding party support the shore artillery would pound her to fragments before she realised her mistake.

And if it was the
Phalarope
there was one further despairing thought. Vibart would be in command. It was hard to see his mind working fast enough to deal with such a situation.

Bolitho gritted his teeth and walked slowly to the side. The island looked at peace. The defenders had settled down now and were waiting like himself. Except that when the time came he would be battened below, helpless and wretched as he listened to the death of his own ship. Or worse, her capture, he thought for the hundredth time.

He felt a fresh pang of inner pain as he saw one of the
Andiron
's cutters unloading fruit alongside. There was no mistaking the bulky shape of Stockdale straddle-legged on the gunwale tossing up the nets of fruit as if they were weightless.

Strangely, that had been almost the hardest thing to bear. Stockdale of all people. Whether he had been eager or reluctant, Bolitho did not know, but he had gone over with the privateer's crew, and like sheep the other men from his raiding party had followed suit. He knew he could not blame them. If Stockdale, the captain's trusted coxswain, could change colours, why not they?

Stockdale looked up, squinting against the sun. Then he threw a mock salute, and some of the men laughed delightedly.

The American officer of the watch said dryly: “Sometimes I think there's no such thing as loyalty, Captain! Just a
price!
”

Bolitho shrugged. “Perhaps.”

The officer seemed glad of a chance to break Bolitho's brooding silence. “I can't get over your being our captain's kin. It makes it kind of unnerving. But then I guess it's that way with you?”

Bolitho glanced quickly at the officer's tanned features. It was a friendly face. And that of a man lonely and tired by war, he thought. He said evenly, “Have you been with him long?”

“A year or so.” The man frowned. “It seems longer now. He came aboard as first lieutenant, but soon got command when the skipper was killed in a fight with one of your ships off Cape Cod.” He grinned. “But I hope I'll be able to go home soon. I've a wife and two boys waiting for me. I should be tending my farm, not fighting King George!”

Bolitho recalled his brother's firm promise that he was returning to Cornwall to claim his rightful inheritance, and felt the same savage bitterness as when he had heard the words the first time.

He controlled his rising emotion and asked quietly, “Do you really think it will be that simple?”

The man stared at him. “What could happen now? I don't mean to add insult to injury, Captain, but I don't really think the British stand much of a chance to regain America.”

Bolitho smiled. “I was thinking more of the French. If as you say American independence will be ratified by all those concerned, do you imagine the French will be prepared to sail away and leave you alone? They have done most of the fighting, remember. Without their fleet and supplies do you think you would have succeeded thus far?”

The American scratched his head. “War makes strange allies, Captain.”

“I know. I have seen some of them.” Bolitho looked away. “I think the French will want to stay out here, as they tried to do in Canada.” He shook his head. “You could easily exchange one master for another!”

The officer yawned and said wearily, “Well, it's not for me to decide, thank the Lord!” He shaded his eyes and peered towards the dark shadow below Saddle Hill. A white and blue dot was moving rapidly down the rough track from the summit in a cloud of dust.

The officer looked meaningly at Bolitho and said briefly, “Horse and rider! That means one thing, Captain. The bait has been accepted. It will be tonight, or not at all!”

There was a shout from the forecastle as a blinding needle of light stabbed out from the bleak headland. Someone was using a heliograph, and from further inland Bolitho heard the eager beating of drums.

He asked, “How did they get a signal?”

The officer closed his mouth and then said not unkindly, “There is a chain of fishing boats out there, Captain. They pass the sighting reports from boat to boat. The nearest one is well in sight of the hill lookouts!” He looked embarrassed. “Why not try and forget it? There's nothing you can do now. Any more than
I
could do if the situation were reversed!”

Bolitho looked at him thoughtfully. “Thank you. I will try to remember that.” Then he resumed his pacing, and with a shrug the officer returned to the opposite side of the poop.

The short truce was over. They were no longer fellow sailors. The flashing heliograph had made them enemies once more.

“It'll be sunset in one hour!” Daniel Proby, the
Phalarope
's master, scribbled slowly on his slate and then ambled across to join Herrick by the weather rail. “But in all my experience I've not seen one like this!”

Herrick brought his mind back to the present and followed Proby's mournful gaze across the vast glittering waste of open sea.

For most of the afternoon and early evening the frigate had pushed her way steadily north-east, and now as she lay close-hauled on the port tack, every mast and spar, every inch of straining canvas shone with the hue of burnished copper. The sky, which for days had remained bright blue and empty, was streaked with long cruising clouds, streaming like trails of glowing smoke towards the far horizon. It was an angry sky, and the sea was reacting to the change in its own way. Instead of short, choppy whitecaps the surface had altered to advancing lines of hump-backed rollers, one behind the other in neatly matched ranks which made the ship heave and groan as her figurehead lifted to the sky and then plunged forward and down in drawn-out, sickening swoops.

Herrick said, “Maybe a storm is coming through from the Atlantic?”

The master shook his head, unconvinced. “You don't get much in the way of storms at this time of year.” He glanced aloft as the sails thundered as if to mock his words. “All the same, we will have to take in another reef if it don't improve a bit.”

In spite of his gloom Herrick was able to smile to himself. He could not see Vibart being happy about that. For two days, since he had received his new orders, he had been driving the ship like a madman. He thought back again to the moment a lookout had sighted the distant sail. For an instant they had all imagined it was a patrolling frigate or the
Cassius
herself. But it had been a fast-moving brig, her low hull smothered in spray as she had gone about and run down towards the
Phalarope.