A Tradition of Victory (12 page)

It made him feel almost guilty to be so lucky. But Dulcie did not understand the ways of the sea or the Navy. If he had any say in it, nor would she, Herrick had firmly decided.

He heard footsteps in the adjoining cabin. Ozzard, Bolitho’s servant, like a lost soul since his master had gone without him.

There were several like him in
Benbow
’s fat hull. Yovell, Bolitho’s clerk, who had written this report in his round hand. Round, like the man and his Devonshire accent.

The deck moved very slightly, and Herrick stood up to walk to the open stern windows. There were fewer ships being repaired

now, and less din of hammers and creaking tackles aboard the masting-craft.

He could see Keen’s seventy-four,
Nicator,
swinging to her cable, her awnings and windsails spread to make life between decks as easy as possible in this sultry heat. And
Indomitable,
their other two-decker, whose new captain, Henry Veriker, had already made something of a reputation for himself in the small squadron.

He was almost deaf, an injury inflicted at the Nile, common enough after hours of continuous firing. But his deafness came and went, so that you were never sure what he had heard or mis-interpreted. It must be difficult for his lieutenants, Herrick thought. It had been bad enough on the one night they had dined together.

He leaned over the sill and saw the new frigate, the one he had seen shortly after her launching when he had rejoined his own ship. Lower in the water, a black muzzle at each open port, and all three masts and standing rigging set up. Not long now, my beauty. Who was her lucky captain to be, he wondered?

Seeing the new frigate reminded him yet again of Adam Pascoe. Young devil to take the appointment without a thought of what it could mean.
Phalarope.
Bolitho had
made
that ship, given her life. But Herrick still remembered her as she had been when he had stepped aboard as her junior lieutenant. Bitter and desperate, with a captain who had looked upon any sort of humanity as a sin.

He heard the sentry’s muffled voice and turned to see the first lieutenant striding beneath the deckhead beams, bent right over to save his ginger head from a collision.

“Yes, Mr Wolfe?”

Wolfe’s deepset eyes flitted briefly to the written report and back to his captain. He had worked harder than most, but had still found time to knock some sense into his youthful and barely trained lieutenants.

“Message from the officer of the guard, sir. You can expect the port admiral in half an hour.” He bared his uneven teeth. “I’ve already passed the word, sir. Full side party an’ guard of honour.”

Herrick considered the news. The port admiral, a rare visitor.

But what he had seen he had liked. A portly, comfortable man, now better used to the ways of dockyards and chandlers than to a fleet at sea.

He replied, “Very well. I don’t think there’s anything to fear.

We’ve even beaten Captain Keen’s
Nicator
to a state of readiness, eh?”

“Orders, d’you think, sir?”

Herrick felt uneasy at the prospect. He had not even had time to select himself a flag-captain for, no matter how temporarily his broad-pendant might fly above
Benbow,
select one he must. Maybe it was too final, he thought. Severing the last link with his rear-admiral and true friend when he still knew nothing of what was happening.

More feet clattered, and after the marine’s announcement from the outer lobby, the fifth lieutenant stepped smartly inside, his cocked hat jammed beneath one arm.

Wolfe scowled at him and the youth flinched. Actually, the first lieutenant was quite pleased with the young officer, but it was far too early to show it. Wait until we get to sea, he usually said.

“A—a letter, sir. From the Falmouth coach.”

Herrick almost snatched it from him. “Good. Carry on, Mr Nash.”

As the lieutenant fled, and Wolfe settled himself in another chair, Herrick slit open the envelope. He knew the handwriting, and although he had been hoping for a letter, he had been dread-ing what she might say.

Wolfe watched him curiously. He knew most of it, and had guessed the rest. But he had come to accept the captain’s strange

attachment for Richard Bolitho, even if he did not fully understand it. To Wolfe, a friend at sea was like a ship. You gave to each other, but once parted it was best to forget and never go back.

Herrick put down the letter carefully, imagining her chestnut hair falling over her forehead as she had written it.

He said abruptly, “Mrs Belinda Laidlaw is coming to Plymouth. My wife will take good care of her during her visit.”

Wolfe was vaguely disappointed. “Is that all, sir?”

Herrick stared at him. It was true. She had sent her warmest greetings to him and to Dulcie, but there it had ended. But it was a step in the right direction. Once here, amidst Bolitho’s world, she would feel free to speak, to ask his advice if she ever needed it.

Voices echoed alongside and Wolfe snatched up his hat and exploded, “The admiral! We forgot all about
him!
”

Breathing heavily, and grasping their swords to their sides to avoid being tripped, the stocky captain and his lanky first lieutenant ran for the quarterdeck.

Admiral Sir Cornelius Hoskyn, Knight of the Bath, hauled himself up to and through the entry port, and in spite of his portliness was not even breathless as he doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and waited patiently for the marine fifers to complete a rendering of
Heart of Oak
for his benefit.

He had a warm, fruity voice and a complexion as pink as a petticoat, Herrick thought. A man who always had time to listen to any visiting captain and do his best for him.

The admiral glanced up at the flapping broad-pendant and remarked, “I was glad to hear about
that.
” He nodded to the assembled lieutenants and added, “Your ship does you credit.

Ready to sail soon, what?”

Herrick was about to say that his readiness report only needed his signature but the admiral had already moved on towards the shade of the poop.

Behind him trooped his flag-lieutenant, secretary, and two servants with what appeared to be a case of wine.

In the great cabin the admiral arranged himself carefully in a chair, while his staff busied themselves, with Herrick’s servant’s guidance, laying out goblets and wine cooler.

“This the report?” The admiral dragged a minute pair of spectacles from his heavy dress coat and peered at it. “Sign it now, if you please.” In the same breath he added, “Good, I hope that glass is cool, man!” as he took some wine from one of his minions.

Herrick sat down as the lieutenant and secretary retreated from the cabin, the latter clutching Herrick’s sealed report like a talisman.

“Now.” Sir Cornelius Hoskyn regarded Herrick searchingly over the top of his spectacles. “You will receive your orders, possibly tonight. When I leave I shall expect you to call your other captains to conference, prepare them for sailing without further dalliance. Short-handed or not, leaking, I don’t care, it is
their
problem. Some say peace will soon be upon us, pray God it is so, but until I am convinced otherwise, the state of war still exists.”

He had not even raised his voice, and yet his words seemed to echo around the sunlit cabin like pistol shots.

“But with all respect, Sir Cornelius,” Herrick was out of his depth but persisted “my ships are still under the command of Rear-Admiral Bolitho, and you will of course be aware that—”

The admiral eyed him gravely and then deliberately refilled their goblets.

“I have the greatest respect for you, Herrick, for that reason I came to do a task I hate more than any other.” His tone softened. “Please, drink some more wine. It is from my own cellar.”

Herrick swallowed the wine without noticing it. It could have been pump water.

“Sir?”

“I have just received news by special courier. I must tell you

that ten days ago, whilst apparently attempting to destroy enemy shipping south of the Loire Estuary, His Britannic Majesty’s frigate
Styx
was wrecked and became a total loss. It happened quickly and in a rising wind.” He paused, watching Herrick’s face.

“And due to the arrival of several enemy vessels, including a ship of the line, the attack was discontinued.”

Herrick asked quietly, “Our other vessels
withdrew,
sir?”

“There was only one of any consequence, and her captain, as senior officer present, made the decision. I am terribly sorry to have to tell you. I have heard what your particular friendship meant.”

Herrick rose as if he had been struck. “
Meant?
You mean …”

“There could not have been many survivors, but of course we can always hope.”

Herrick clenched his fists and strode blindly to the stern windows.

“He often said it would be like that.” He asked harshly, “Who was the other captain, sir?” In his heart he already knew.

“Emes of the
Phalarope.
”

Herrick could not face him. Poor Adam must have seen it happen, while that bloody coward Emes took to his heels.

Another thought made him exclaim, “My God, sir, she’s coming here from Falmouth!” The words tumbled out of him. “The girl he was to marry! What shall I tell her?”

The admiral rose to his feet. “I think it best that you go about your duties and try to lose yourself in them. It has been common enough in this everlasting war. But you never get used to it, nor will I try to console you, when I know there
is
no consolation. If I hear more I shall let you know as soon as possible.”

Herrick followed him to the broad quarterdeck, only partly aware of what was happening.

When his mind eventually cleared, the admiral’s barge had A

left the side, and Wolfe faced him to ask permission to dismiss the guard and side party.

“Will you tell me, sir?” His hard, flat voice was somehow steadying.

“Richard Bolitho, the
Styx,
all gone.”

Wolfe swung round, shielding him from the others.

“Right then, you laggards! Move your lazy carcasses or I’ll have the bosun use his rattan on your rumps!”

Herrick returned to the cabin and slumped down in a chair.

The ship, his broad-pendant, even his new-found happiness meant nothing.

Wolfe reappeared at the screen door. “Orders, sir?”

“Aye, there are always those, Mr Wolfe. Make a signal to
Nicator
and
Indomitable. Captains repair on board.
” He shook his head helplessly. “It can wait. Sit you down and have some of the admiral’s wine. He says it is very good.”

Wolfe replied, “Later I’ll be glad to. But I have certain duties to deal with. I’ll make that signal at eight bells, sir. Time enough then.”

Outside the cabin Wolfe almost fell over the tiny shape of Ozzard. God, the man had been weeping. Everyone must know already. Always the same in the Navy. No damn secrets.

Wolfe paused in the sunlight and took several deep breaths.

He had no special duties, but it was more than he could do to sit and watch Herrick’s anguish. The fact he could do nothing for a man he had come to respect so much troubled him deeply, and he could not recall ever feeling so useless.

In the cabin Herrick poured himself another goblet of wine, then another. It did not help, but it was something to do.

His hand paused in mid air as his glance settled on the sword rack and the presentation sword which Bolitho had left behind when he had gone over to
Styx.

It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. But not much to show for the man who had earned it a hundred times over.

Herrick climbed out of the
Benbow
’s green-painted barge and waited for his coxswain to join him on the jetty.

He was later, much later, than he had intended in getting ashore. There was a dusky red glow over the Sound and anchorage, and the ships looked at peace on the flat water.

Herrick had sent a message to his wife, telling her as much as he could. She was a sensible woman and rarely lost her self-control. But Herrick had meant to be with her when the Falmouth coach rolled in.

“Return to the ship, Tuck. I’ll get a wherry when I return.

Mr Wolfe knows where I am.”

The coxswain touched his hat. He knew all about it but was thinking more of Allday than Bolitho. As coxswains they had come to know each other well, and got along together.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“And if there is any rumour through the lower deck …”

Tuck nodded. “Aye, sir, I
know.
I’ll be across ’ere so fast the keel won’t touch the water.”

Herrick strode along the jetty, his shoes clicking on the round, worn cobbles which had felt the tread of a legion of seafaring men as far back as Drake, and further still.

Herrick paused, unnerved, as he saw the Golden Lion, its windows glowing red in the sunset, as if the whole building were ablaze. In the yard a coach stood empty, abandoned by its team of horses, a servant or two loading boxes on its roof for the next leg to Exeter.

It was bad enough as it was, but for the coach to be on time, even early on this particular evening, made it worse.

He saw a one-legged man, balanced on a crude crutch, playing a tin whistle to the amusement of some urchins and a few A

passers-by. His shabby red coat showed he had once been a marine, the darker patch on one sleeve where the chevrons had once been sewn told Herrick he had also been a sergeant.

Herrick fumbled for some coins in his pocket and thrust them at the crippled figure. He was ashamed and embarrassed, angry too that such a man could end like this. If peace did eventually come, there would be many more red coats begging in the streets.

But the man did not seem at all perturbed. He gave a broad grin and touched his forehead with mock smartness.

“Sar’nt Tolcher, sir. This is the life, eh, Cap’n?”

Herrick nodded sadly. “What ship, Sergeant?”

“Last one, sir? The old
Culloden,
Cap’n Troubridge, a real gennelman ’e was, for a sea-officer, that’s to say.”