A Tradition of Victory (18 page)

Nobody paid any attention to the three men in the shadows or the swaying cot beside them.

Bolitho tugged at the manacles again. So it was not over after all. It would be a cruel ending to go to the bottom in these manacles after being in battle with a King’s ship.

The deck steadied slightly, and one of the surgeon’s mates laughed. But the sound was without humour. Even he would know that the steadier motion meant that their captain had set more sail, that the ruse to conceal his ship had failed. He was going to fight, and soon these same men would be too busy to care for mere prisoners.

Neale opened his eyes and called in a surprisingly clear voice,

“Sentry! Fetch the master-at-arms!” But nobody turned to stare or wonder.

Bolitho leaned back and tried to adjust his mind. “Allday!”

“Sir?”

“Be ready.”

Allday looked at the lighted door of the sickbay, the absence of any sort of axe or weapon.

But he said hoarsely, “I’ll be ready, sir. Don’t you fret on it.”

The waiting got worse, and some of the surgeon’s assistants prowled inside the circle of swinging lanterns as if performing some strange ritual.

“Chargez toutes les pièces!”

It was the order to load, and as if he was responding to a pre-arranged signal, the surgeon left his sickbay and walked slowly towards the lights.

Bolitho licked his lips and wished he had something to drink.

Once again others had decided what the next hours would bring.

HERRICK clung to
Benbow
’s quarterdeck rail, his teeth bared as he peered into the stinging force of wind and spray. In spite of her bulk, the seventy-four was shipping water over the forecastle and weather gangway as if she was already on her way to the bottom.

Even Herrick, with all his years of hard won experience, had lost count of time and the orders he had shouted above the gale’s onslaught.

He heard Wolfe staggering across the slippery planking, cursing horribly until he joined his captain by the rail.

“Should be damn soon, sir!” His harsh voice seemed puny against the din of wind and waves.

Herrick wiped his streaming face with his hand. His skin felt numb and raw, and he sensed an unusual anger rising to match the weather. Ever since he had left Plymouth with his small but valuable convoy he had been plagued with misfortune. The other seventy-four,
Nicator,
had lost two men overboard within a day of sailing, and despite his liking and respect for her captain, Valentine Keen, Herrick had nursed a few hard thoughts as he had endeavoured to keep his ships together. Five merchantmen, with two seventy-fours and a solitary frigate to protect them.

Herrick knew that when light eventually cut across the horizon it was very likely there would be no more than two of the ships in sight. The gale had roared out of the eastern horizon like a hurricane, shutting out sea and sky in a crazed world of spray and spindrift, which had left the hands battered and dazed, until with reluctance Herrick had ordered the ships to lie to and ride it out as best they could.

He felt
Benbow
sway over again, her close-reefed mainsail cracking and booming in protest while she fought her own A

battle, served by men who whenever they were ordered aloft were convinced they would never return alive.

He wondered if Wolfe was critical of him for not appointing a flag-captain before weighing anchor. The captain in question had been delayed on the road by his carriage losing a wheel. A fast rider had carried the news on ahead to Plymouth, but Herrick had decided to sail without further delay. But why? Was it really because of the need to reach Gibraltar and rid himself of the convoy, or was it because he could not still accept his temporary appointment to commodore, or wished to delay its confirmation for some reason he still did not understand?

Herrick shouted, “According to the master we are some twenty-five miles off the French coast!” He ducked into the wind.

“God knows how old Ben Grubb can be so damn sure!”

Wolfe gasped as a solid sheet of spray burst through the nettings and drenched the already sodden watchkeepers and lookouts.

“Don’t worry, sir! We’ll round up the others when the wind eases!”

Herrick pulled himself along the rail.
If
it eases. He had been given just one frigate, the
Ganymede.
It was all the admiral could spare. Herrick swore quietly. Same old story. A small twenty-six-gun vessel at that, and she had made a fine beginning by losing her main-topgallant mast within minutes of the gale raking the convoy like a giant’s broadside.

Herrick had signalled her to stand closer inshore. With the gale rising at the time she might find more shelter and be able to rig a jury-mast and avoid further storm damage.

Soon afterwards Herrick had been unable to make any more signals, the wind and then an early darkness had made certain of that.

Wolfe struggled along the rail to join him again.

“The master insists that the wind will back by the forenoon,

sir!” He peered at Herrick’s sturdy outline, sensing his stubborn-ness. “
Ganymede
will have to beat clear if it backs further still!”

Herrick swung on him. “God damn it, Mr Wolfe, I
know
that!” He relented just as quickly. “The convoy’s scattered, but John Company’s
Duchess of Cornwall
is well able to fend for herself, she’s probably better manned than
Benbow,
and certainly as well armed.”

He thought of Belinda Laidlaw who was aboard the big Indiaman, as safe as anyone could be in a summer storm in the Bay with the enemy’s coast abeam.

Dulcie had made certain she had a good maid to take passage with her. She would be all right. But it troubled Herrick nonetheless. Women did not belong at sea, even as passengers.

He said, “If only I
knew …
” He broke off, despising himself for baring his uppermost worry. Richard Bolitho might still be alive and somewhere out there in the darkness in a filthy Frog prison. Or lying helpless and dying in some fisherman’s cottage.

In his heart Herrick knew that was one of his reasons for leaving Plymouth without waiting for his new flag-captain. To reach Gibraltar and return with a minimum of delay. There had been no news of
Styx
’s loss, not even a rumour about her people.

Maybe they were all dead after all.

Water thundered along the upper deck, cascading over each tethered eighteen-pounder as if breaking across a line of reefs.

Herrick pictured Bolitho, saw him clearly as if he and not Wolfe was his companion.

He said shortly, “I’m going aft, Mr Wolfe. Call me the instant you need me.”

Wolfe said, “Aye, sir.”

He watched Herrick lurch to the companion-way and then shook his head. If that was what friendship did to a man, you could keep it, he thought.

He saw the officer-of-the-watch reeling below the poop, A

floundering in receding spray like a drowning man, and yelled,

“Mr Nash, sir! I’ll trouble you to attend your duties! God damn your eyes, sir! You are like a whore at a wedding, all aback!”

The wretched lieutenant disappeared beneath the poop to join the helmsmen and master’s mates by the big double wheel, more afraid of Wolfe than all the perils of seasickness and discomfort.

In the great cabin the sounds of wind and sea were muffled by the ship’s massive timbers. Herrick sank into a chair, a puddle spreading across the chequered canvas from his watchcoat and boots.

He heard his servant come to life in the pantry, and was suddenly reminded of his thirst and hunger. He had taken nothing since noon yesterday. Had wanted nothing.

But it was little Ozzard who brought the food and drink to Herrick’s table. He placed the tray carefully by his elbow, crouching like a small animal as he waited for the deck to fall and then steady itself again.

Herrick eyed him sadly. What was the point of trying to reassure Ozzard when he felt his own sense of loss like a wound?

Ozzard said timidly, “I shall be close by if you want anything more, sir.”

Herrick sipped a goblet of brandy and waited for its heat to drive out the damp and the rawness of salt spray.

The marine sentry interrupted his thoughts. “Midshipman o’

th’ watch, sir!”

Herrick turned wearily as the youth entered the cabin.

“Well, Mr Stirling?”

The midshipman was fourteen years old, and after the first few weeks of being appointed to
Benbow,
his first ship, was enjoying every minute. Protected by youth, and by the ability to thrive even on the ship’s stale and unimaginative food, he was untouched by the sheer drama in which he was now involved.

“First lieutenant’s respects, sir, and the horizon is lightening.”

His eyes moved quickly around the spacious cabin, a palace after the midshipman’s berth on the orlop. Something to write to his parents about, to tell his fellow “young gentlemen” during the watch below.

Herrick felt his head droop with fatigue and snapped, “The wind?”

The youth swallowed hard under the captain’s blue stare.

“Steady from the east’rd, sir. The master thinks it may be dropping.”

“Does he?” Herrick yawned and stretched. “He’s usually right.”

He realized that the midshipman was staring at the glittering presentation sword on the bulkhead.

He thought suddenly of Neale when he had been one of
Phalarope
’s midshipmen, of Adam Pascoe, who craved for a command of his own but was doubtless mourning the loss of his beloved uncle. Of all the other dozens, hundreds of midshipmen he had seen down the years. Some were captains, others had quit the sea to seek their fortunes elsewhere. And there were many who had not even reached young Stirling’s tender years before death or injury had cut them down.

Herrick said quietly, “Take it down if you like, Mr Stirling.”

The midshipman, his blue coat smeared with salt and tar stains, crossed to the rack, watched by Herrick and the small, stooped Ozzard. He took down the sword and held it beneath a deckhead lantern, turning it slowly to catch the engraving, the arms and decorations.

He said in a hushed voice, “I never thought, sir, I—mean …”

He turned, his eyes very bright. “He must have been a fine officer, sir.”

Herrick jerked upright in the chair. “
Must
have been!” He saw the youth recoil and added hastily, “Yes, Mr Stirling, he was. But better than that, boy, he was a man. The best.”

The midshipman replaced the sword very carefully and said,

“I’m very sorry, sir. I meant no hurt.”

Herrick shook his head. “None taken, Mr Stirling. Because others hoped and believed, so too did I. I forgot that Lady Luck can only do so much, miracles are harder to come by.”

“I—I see, sir.”

Stirling backed to the door, his mind grappling with Herrick’s words, not wanting to forget a single second of what had occurred.

Herrick watched him leave.
You don’t see at all.
But one day, if you are one of the lucky ones, you
will
understand.

Minutes afterwards the goblet dropped from his fingers and broke in pieces on the deck.

Ozzard stared at the sleeping captain, his hands opening and shutting at his sides. He stooped to gather up the broken glass but then stood away again, his pinched features suddenly hostile.

The captain’s own servant could do it. Ozzard glanced at the pantry door and tried to shut Herrick’s words from his mind. He was wrong. They all were, damn them.

Ozzard went to the pantry and sat down in one corner while the ship shivered and groaned around him.

He was Rear-Admiral Bolitho’s servant, and would be here when he returned, and that was an end to it!

Herrick hurried across the quarterdeck, half blinded by spray as he looked for Wolfe’s tall shape by the nettings.

Wolfe shouted, “There, sir! Hear it?”

Herrick licked his lips and ignored the shadowy figures and staring faces. There it was again. No doubt about it.

He said hoarsely, “Gunfire.”

Wolfe nodded. “Light artillery, sir. Probably
Ganymede
and another craft of the same ilk.”

Herrick strode up the tilting deck, his eyes straining into the feeble grey light and the panorama of tossing wave crests.

“Well, Mr Grubb?”

The master pouted and then nodded his ruined face. “Right bearing, sir. Not likely to be any other King’s ship thereabouts.”

Herrick glared at the tossing sea like a trapped animal. “Any of our vessels in sight yet?”

Wolfe replied, “I’ve already warned the masthead lookouts, sir.

But nothing reported so far.”

Herrick heard it again, rolling downwind like staccato thunder. Two ships right enough. Fighting in the gale. Probably stumbled on one another by accident.

Wolfe asked, “Orders, sir?”

“Until we sight
Nicator
we shall continue to hove to, Mr Wolfe.” He looked away. “Unless …”

Wolfe grimaced. “That’s a powerful big word, sir.”

Herrick squinted, as if by doing so he would see the lay of the French coast as he had so many times on Grubb’s charts. It would take an eternity to beat inshore against this easterly wind, but
Ganymede
might already be in desperate need of support.

When full daylight broke, just the sight of
Benbow
’s canvas on the horizon would give them heart and throw uncertainty amongst her attackers.

Captain Keen would know what to do. As soon as he realized that the convoy was scattered he would set-to with his
Nicator
and chase them into formation again.

But suppose Keen could not collect all the ships and some arrived at Gibraltar unescorted? Herrick had no illusions as to what might happen. His time as commodore would be short-lived, and any sort of promotion would remain as one of Dulcie’s dreams.

And if peace was to be signed between the old enemies, for no matter how short a respite, Herrick knew that when the drums beat to quarters once again his services would be shunned. It had happened to far better men with the background and influence he had never known.