A Tradition of Victory (15 page)

He looked at the sky. It was already darker, and soon the signal stations would be rendered dumb and blind until daylight.

The horses and the iron-shod wheels clattered over a made-up road, and Bolitho saw larger buildings and warehouses, and a few windows already lit and cheerful.

There still had to be some faint hope. Twenty-five miles down the Loire from Nantes was the sea. He felt the chill of excitement on his skin in spite of his efforts to contain it. One step at a time.

No more hope without a constructive thought to sustain it. He opened the window slightly and imagined he could smell the river, and pictured it wending its way towards the open sea, where ships of the blockading squadron maintained their endless vigilance.

Allday watched him and recognized the mood.

He said quietly, “Remember what you asked afore, sir? About the falcon on a line?”

Bolitho nodded. “Don’t hope for too much. Not yet.”

Voices challenged and equipment jingled as the carriage and escort clattered beneath an archway and into a walled square.

As the coach responded to its brake, Browne said, “We have arrived, sir.”

Bayonets moved across the windows like pale rushes, and Bolitho saw an officer carrying a large satchel watching from a doorway. As promised, a doctor was waiting. Even that order must have been passed directly here by semaphore. Yet it was all of forty miles from the beach where they had struggled ashore.

The door was wrenched open and several orderlies lifted the moaning lieutenant and carried him towards the nearest building.

Then it was Neale’s turn. Still unconscious and unaware of what was happening, he too was carried bodily after his lieutenant.

Bolitho looked at the others. It was time.

The French lieutenant made a polite blow. “If you will please follow me?” It was courteously asked, but the armed soldiers left no room for argument.

They entered another, heavily-studded door on the other side of the square, and then into a bare, stone-flagged room with a solitary window, barred, and too high to reach. Apart from a wooden bench, a foul-smelling bucket and some straw, the room was empty.

Bolitho had expected some sort of formal investigation to begin at once, but instead the heavy door slammed shut, the sound echoing along the corridor like something from a tomb.

Browne looked round in dismay, and even Allday seemed at a loss.

Bolitho sat down on the bench and stared at the stone floor between his feet.
Prisoners of war.

The French naval lieutenant stood with arms folded as Bolitho, assisted by Allday, slipped into his coat and tugged his neckcloth into place.

They had been awakened early by the usual commotion of the military. The main building and smaller outlying ones had obviously been commandeered by the local garrison, but still bore the mark of grandeur and privilege. A great house and home farm A

before the revolution, Bolitho thought. He had seen a small part of it when he had been escorted to another room where Allday, watched the whole time by a keen-eyed guard, had been allowed to shave him.

Bolitho knew it was useless to ask Allday to leave him now.

They would make the best of it, as they had been forced to do before. But to all outward appearances Allday must be seen as his personal servant. If he was recognized as a professional seaman he would soon be sent to join the rest of
Styx
’s company, wherever they were.

The lieutenant nodded approvingly.
“Bon.”
He ignored Allday’s warning scowl and brushed some dust from Bolitho’s shoulder.

“Are you ready, m’sieu?”

Bolitho, followed by Browne and Allday, walked out into the corridor and began to climb a grand staircase to the next floor.

Much of the stairway had been damaged, and Bolitho saw several holes in the plaster where musket balls had cut down some of the previous occupants.

Some orderlies had given them food, minutes after the first trumpet call. The food had been coarse but plentiful, with some rough wine to wash it down. Bolitho had forced it down rather than worry his two companions.

The French lieutenant was saying, “You will now meet my superior officer, Contre-Amiral Jean Remond. He ’as travelled much of the night to be ’ere.” He gave a brief smile. “So please do not rouse ’is temper!”

Before Bolitho could make a sharp retort, he added almost apologetically, “For
my
sake, m’sieu!”

Leaving them with an escort he strode on ahead to a pair of high doors.

Browne whispered, “He must be the French admiral’s flag-lieutenant, sir.” For a few seconds it seemed to amuse him.

Bolitho looked towards a window and beyond. The country-side was lush and green in the morning sunlight. Between some houses he saw the glint of water, the masts of a moored vessel.

The river.

The lieutenant reappeared and beckoned to Bolitho. To Browne and Allday he said shortly, “Remain ’ere.” His casual attitude was gone. He was on duty again.

Bolitho entered the big room and heard the door close quietly behind him. After the abused lower floor and staircase this room was sumptuous. Thick carpets, and a towering painting of a battle which seemed to involve many hundreds of horses, gave the room a kind of arrogant elegance.

He walked towards an ornate table at the opposite end of the room. The distance seemed endless, and he was very aware of his dishevelled appearance when compared with the figure behind the desk.

Contre-Amiral Remond was dark-skinned, even swarthy, but incredibly neat. His hair, as black as Bolitho’s, was brushed forward across a broad forehead, beneath which his eyes glittered in the filtered sunlight like stones.

He stood up only briefly and waved Bolitho to a gilded chair.

That too, like the carefully measured distance from the door, was placed just so.

Bolitho sat down, again conscious of his own salt-stained clothes, the throbbing ache of his wounded thigh, all of which added to his feeling of defeat. The fact he guessed that was the intention of his captor did nothing to help.

In spite of his guard he felt his eyes drawn to his sword which lay across the table as if for a court martial.

The French admiral said curtly, “Is there anything you wish to tell me?”

Bolitho met his unwinking stare. “The officers and men of the frigate
Styx.
I am responsible for them. Their captain is too ill to plead for them.”

The French officer shrugged as if it was of no importance.

“My officers will deal with the matter. It is you who interest me.”

Bolitho fought for time. “You speak very good English.”

“Naturally. I was a prisoner of your people for some months before I was released.” He seemed to grow irritated at revealing something personal and snapped, “We of course knew of your new command, of the misguided attempt to interfere with French ships. In fact, we know a great deal about you and your family.

Of a noble tradition, would you say?” He hurried on without waiting. “Whereas I had to work my way up from nothing, without privilege.”

“So did I!” It came out sharper than he had intended.

Remond gave a slow smile. He had very small teeth, like a terrier’s. “No matter. For you the war is over. As your equal in rank it was my duty to meet you, nothing more.” He picked up the old sword and casually turned it over in his hands.

Bolitho had the strange feeling that Remond was less sure of himself. He was testing him, trying to find out something. He dropped his eyes, praying that the swarthy-faced admiral would not see his sudden determination. The new semaphore system.

Remond needed to know if he had discovered it.

Perhaps the French had a Beauchamp all of their own who had created a plan to destroy the would-be destroyers?

Remond remarked, “A fine old blade.” He replaced it carefully on the table, nearer to Bolitho. “You will be given suitable quarters, naturally, and allowed to keep your servant with you.

And if you give your word of honour not to try and escape, you will also be afforded certain liberty as decided by your guards.”

He looked at the sword. “And you will be permitted to keep your sword also. When peace is signed you will be sent home without a stain on your character.” He sat back and eyed Bolitho bleakly.

“So?”

Bolitho stood up slowly, his eyes on the man across the table.

“Peace is only a rumour, Contre-Amiral Remond. War is still a reality. I am a King’s officer and find no comfort in waiting for others to fight for me.”

His answer seemed to take Remond aback.

“That is absurd! You reject captivity with all the rights of your rank? You have hopes for escape, perhaps? That too is ridiculous!”

Bolitho shrugged. “I cannot give my word.”

“If you intend to persist with this attitude, all hope of rescue or escape are gone. Once I leave here, the military will be in charge of you!”

Bolitho said nothing. How could he stay in comparative comfort after losing a ship and so many lives? If he ever returned home it would be with honour, or not at all.

Remond nodded. “Very well. Then your companions shall stay with you. If the injured captain dies because of his captivity, you will be to blame.”

“Must the lieutenant stay too?” Strangely, Bolitho felt calmer with the threats, now that the promises had been pushed aside.

“Did I forget to mention him?” The French admiral picked a piece of thread from his breeches. “The surgeon had to remove his arm during the night, I believe. But he died nevertheless.”

Remond lowered his voice and continued, “Try to see reason.

Many of the garrisons are manned by fools, peasants in uniform.

They have no love for the British navy, the blockade, the attempt to starve them into submission. In Lorient now, you would be with your fellow officers and protected by the sailors of France.”

Bolitho lifted his chin and replied coldly, “My answer is unchanged.”

“Then you are a fool, Bolitho. Soon there will be peace. What use is a dead hero then, eh?”

He shook a little bell on his desk and Bolitho sensed the doors open behind him.

think we shall not meet again.” Then he strode from the room.

The lieutenant joined Bolitho by the table and looked at the sword. He gave a deep sigh and said sadly, “I am sorry, m’sieu.”

He beckoned to the escort and added, “It is arranged. You will be taken to another prison today. After that …”

He spread his hands. “But I wish you luck, m’sieu.”

Bolitho watched him hurry to the stairway. No doubt Remond had somebody superior to him waiting at Lorient. The chain of command.

The soldiers fell in step with him, and moments later he was back in the cell, and alone.

IT WAS a whole week before Bolitho was taken from his isolation and put into a shuttered carriage for the journey to his new prison.

It had taken every ounce of his self-control and determination to endure the seven days, and he had thanked his hard upbringing in a King’s ship more than once as time seemed to stretch to an eternity.

His guards must have been hand-picked for their coarseness and brutality, and their ill-fitting uniforms only added to their air of menace.

Bolitho was made to strip naked while several of the guards searched him and removed every personal possession from his clothing. Not content with that, they’d removed his rear-admiral’s epaulettes and gilt buttons, presumably to be shared round as sou-venirs. And all the while they had subjected him to every humiliation and insult. But Bolitho knew men as well as he understood ships, and had no illusions about his guards. They were

seeking an excuse to kill him, and showed their disappointment when he remained silent and apparently calm.

Only once had his will almost cracked. One of the soldiers had dragged the locket from about his neck and had peered curiously at it for several moments. Bolitho had tried to appear unconcerned, even though he wanted to hurl himself at the man’s throat and throttle him before the others cut him down.

The guard had prised open the locket with his bayonet, and had blinked with astonishment as a lock of hair had blown across the floor and then out of the open door.

But the locket was gold, and he had seemed satisfied. He would never know what it had meant to Bolitho, the lock of Cheney’s hair which she had given him before he had left her for the last time.

Without a watch, or anyone to speak with, it was hard to mark the passing of time, even the pattern of events beyond the walls.

As he was led from the cell into the courtyard and saw the waiting carriage, he was grateful. If the new prison was worse, or he was about to face a firing-party instead of captivity, he was glad of an end to waiting.

Inside the darkened coach he found the others waiting for him. It was unexpected and moving for each one. As the carriage began to move and the mounted escort took station behind it, they clasped hands, barely able to speak as they examined each other’s faces in the chinks of sunlight through the shutters.

Bolitho said, “Your being here is my fault. Had I given my word you would have been sent home, soon perhaps. Now,” he shrugged, “you are as much a prisoner as I am.”

Allday seemed openly pleased, or was he relieved to find him still alive?

“By God, I’m fair glad to be rid of those scum, sir!” He held up his two fists like clubs. “Another few days o’ these
mounseers
an’ I’d have swung for ’em!”

Neale, propped between Browne and Allday, reached out and touched Bolitho’s hands. His head was heavily bandaged, and in the fleeting stabs of sunshine his face looked as pale as death.

He whispered, “Together. Now we’ll show them.”

Allday said gently, “He’s doing his best, sir.” He looked at Bolitho and gave a quick shake of the head. “Not changed a mite since he was a young gentleman, eh, sir?”

Browne said, “I was interrogated by two of the French officers, sir. They asked a lot about you. I heard them discussing you later, and I suspect they are worried.”

Bolitho nodded. “You did not let them know you speak and understand French?”