A Tradition of Victory (21 page)

Bolitho shaded his eyes and looked towards an anchored man-of-war. She had already been identified by the signals midshipman.

She was the
Dorsetshire
, eighty, flagship of Vice-Admiral Sir John Studdart. He could see the admiral’s flag drooping almost life-lessly from the
Dorsetshire
’s foremast, and wondered what the officer of the watch would make of his own flag at
Benbow
’s mizzen instead of Herrick’s broad-pendant.

“Tops’l clew lines!
Wake up,
that man!”

Grubb called, “Ready, sir!”

“Helm a-lee!”

With tired dignity
Benbow
turned very slowly into the breeze, the way going off her as the remaining sails flapped in confusion before they were fisted to the yards by the waiting topmen.

“Let go!”

Spray flew above the forecastle as the big anchor splashed down into the clear water and more feet stampeded to the boat tier in readiness for lowering the barge alongside with a minimum delay.

Glasses would have been trained on the
Benbow
’s performance from the moment she had begun her final approach, her fifteen-gun salute to the vice-admiral’s flag booming and reverberating around the bay like a bombardment. Gun for gun the flagship had replied, the smoke drifting upwards on the warm air to min-gle with haze which encircled the Rock like cloud.

“Away, barge crew!” That was Allday, his face showing nothing of the strain he must have endured as a prisoner, his natural sense of responsibility for Bolitho making it that much worse for him.

Herrick joined Bolitho by the nettings and touched his hat.

“Will you go across to the flagship now, sir?”

“Aye, Thomas. No sense in delaying. Someone else might get to Sir John’s ear before me otherwise.” His eyes moved to the distant Indiaman. “I have much to do.”

Herrick saw the quick glance. It was not lost on him, any more than all the other times when he had seen Bolitho on deck, looking for the slim figure in the shady straw hat.

“Barge alongside, sir.” Wolfe watched him curiously, ever ready to learn something from the bond which linked Bolitho to Herrick.

The marines were at the entry port, the boatswain’s mates ready with their silver calls and moistening them on their lips.

Bolitho pressed his sword against his hip, sensing its unfamiliarity, the feeling of loss for his old family blade. He gritted his teeth and walked towards the port. He tried not to limp or to show his sadness for what had gone before. Little pictures flitted through his mind. The old sword on the French commandant’s table, the swarthy rear-admiral, Jean Remond, who had been unable to accept that Bolitho would not swear to make no escape attempt. Above and through it all he saw Neale. Brave, despairing, and in the last seconds of life, strangely content.

The marines presented arms, the calls shrilled, and Bolitho climbed swiftly down to where Allday, splendid in his blue coat and nankeen breeches, and hat in hand, stood to receive him.

Browne was already in the sternsheets, expressionless as he studied Bolitho’s face.

They all watch me, Bolitho thought. Did they expect to see more than a man?

“Bear off forrard! Give way, all!” Allday thrust the tiller bar over, his eyes slitted against the reflected glare.

Bolitho asked softly, “You feel glad to be back, Allday?”

The big coxswain nodded, but did not take his eyes from the nearby guard-boat.

“I’ve damned the fleet an’ all it stands for a few times, sir, an’

I’d be a Tom Pepper if I said different.” He glanced briefly at the guard-boat, her oars tossed, a lieutenant standing to remove his hat as the barge sped past him. “But it’s my world for now. Home.”

Browne said, “I can understand that too, sir.”

Bolitho settled down on the thwart, his hat tugged firmly across his forehead.

“We all but lost it, Oliver.”

“Toss your oars! Stand by, bowman!” Allday ignored the faces above the
Dorsetshire
’s gangway, the glint of sunlight on bayonets, the scarlets and blues, the difference of one ship from another.

Bolitho climbed up to the entry port and the clatter and shrill of salutes began all over again.

He saw the vice-admiral by the poop as he waited for his flag-captain to complete the formal welcome before he strolled across the quarterdeck to make his own.

Bolitho had known Studdart as a fellow captain during the American revolution. But he had not seen him for several years and was surprised he had aged so much. He had grown portly, and his round, untroubled face looked as if he enjoyed good living to the full.

He shook him warmly by the hand and exclaimed, “Damn me eyes, Bolitho, you are a sight indeed! Last thing I heard was that the Frogs had stuck your head on a pike!” He laughed loudly.

“Come aft and tell me all. I’d like to be on the same tack as the news bulletins.” He gestured vaguely towards the side. “No doubt the Dons in Algeciras saw your arrival just now. They’ll pass the word to Boney, of that I’m certain.”

In the great cabin it was comparatively cool, and after dismissing his servants and sending Browne on an errand, Vice-Admiral Sir John Studdart settled down in silence to listen to Bolitho’s story. He did not interrupt once, and as Bolitho outlined his ideas on the enemy’s chain of semaphore stations he found time to admire Studdart’s relaxed self-control. No wonder he had been promoted ahead of his time. He had taught himself not to worry, or at least not to show it.

Bolitho touched only lightly on Neale’s death, and it was then that the vice-admiral felt moved to speak.

“
Styx
’s loss was an accident of war. The death of her captain no less distressing.” He reached out to refill their wine goblets.

“However, I would not expect you to blame yourself for his death.

Your flag flies above
Benbow,
as mine does here. It is why we were given the honour to lead, and why Admiral Beauchamp selected
you
for the task in Biscay. You did all you could. No one can blame you now. The very fact you discovered the presence of an efficient French semaphore system, when none of our so-called agents has seen fit to inform us, is an additional bounty. Your value to England and the Navy is your life. By escaping with honour, you have fulfilled the faith which Admiral Beauchamp bestowed on you.” He leaned back and studied him cheerfully. “Am I right?”

Bolitho said, “I’ve still not achieved what I was sent to do.

The destruction of the enemy’s invasion craft before they are moved to the Channel took priority in my orders. As for our knowing about the semaphore stations along the Biscay coast, it can make no difference. The French can still direct their ships where they are most needed while ours are floundering off shore for all to see. And the newly built invasion craft are all the safer now that our captains are aware of their additional protection.”

Studdart smiled wryly. “You’ve not changed, I’ll say that.

Dashing about the countryside like a junior lieutenant, risking life and limb when you should be ordering others to take a few chances.” He shook his head, suddenly grave. “It won’t do. You have your written orders, and only their lordships can alter them.

Once they know you are safe. Maybe news will arrive in the next vessel from England, who knows? But you are in a position to postpone all further action. Beauchamp’s strategy is already out-of-date because of what you discovered when you were taken prisoner. Let it lie, Bolitho. You have a record which anyone, even Nelson, would envy. Don’t create enemies in high places. Peace A

or war, your future is assured. But stir up trouble in Admiralty or Parliament and you are done for.”

Bolitho rubbed his palm along the arm of his chair. He felt trapped, resentful, even though he knew Studdart’s advice was sound.

Who would care next year what had happened in Biscay?

Perhaps it was all rumour anyway and the French were as desperate for peace as anyone, and with no thought of forcing an invasion when their old enemy was off guard.

Studdart was watching him. “At least
think
about it, Bolitho.”

He waved one hand towards the stern windows. “You could remain here a while, and perhaps request new orders. You might be sent into the Mediterranean to join Saumarez on his campaign, anything would be preferable to the damned Bay of Biscay.”

“Yes, sir. I shall think about it.” He put down his goblet very carefully. “In the meantime, I have to complete some despatches for England.”

The vice-admiral tugged out his watch and examined it.

“God’s teeth, I am expected ashore by the general in one hour.”

He got to his feet and regarded Bolitho calmly. “Do more than think about it. You are a flag-officer, and must not involve yourself with the affairs of subordinates. You command, they obey, it is the old order of things, as well you know.”

Bolitho stood up and smiled. “Yes, sir.”

The vice-admiral waited until his visitor had reached the door and then said, “Give the lady my warmest regards. She might care to sup with me before she leaves the Rock, eh?”

As the door closed Studdart walked slowly to the stern windows and stared at the anchored ships of his squadron.

Bolitho would not take heed of his advice, and they both knew it.

The second time he might not be so lucky. Either way. Death or ignominy would be the outcome if he failed again.

Yet in spite of that realization Studdart was surprised to find he envied him.

The Honourable East India Company’s ship
Duchess of Cornwall
presented a scene of orderly confusion which left little room for the courtesies of greeting a King’s officer, even a rear-admiral.

Leaving Allday scowling up from the barge, and followed closely by Browne, Bolitho allowed himself to be led aft by a harassed lieutenant.

She was a fine ship, he thought grudgingly. No wonder sailors preferred the pay and comfort of an Indiaman to the harsh life in a man-of-war.

Tackles swayed and bobbed from lighters alongside, and as cargo was unloaded with skilled ease, more boxes and well-packed nets were lowered through the hatches for the next leg of the voyage.

The most unfamiliar setting to Bolitho was the chattering crowd of passengers who had either come aboard or were waiting to be ferried across to the garrison.

Wives of senior officers and officials, Bolitho supposed, part of that unseen army of which the people at home knew very little. Storemen and chandlers, sailmakers and farriers, ships’ agents and soldiers of fortune, they must surely outnumber the rest by two to one.

“The captain is here, sir.”

Bolitho scarcely heard him. She stood by the rail, one hand holding her hat to shield her face from the sun. Its ribbon was pale blue like her gown, and when she laughed at something the captain had said to her, Bolitho felt his heart almost stop beating.

An instinct made her turn towards him, her brown eyes very steady as she held his gaze with hers.

The Indiaman’s captain was thickset and competent. Another Herrick perhaps.

He said, “Welcome aboard, sir. I’ve just been telling Mrs Laidlaw that I’d willingly sacrifice every penny I make on this voyage just to keep her as my passenger.”

She joined with his laughter, but her eyes told Bolitho to ignore it. Other people’s words had no value here.

Bolitho took her hand and kissed it. The touch of her skin, the smell of its freshness, almost broke his reserve. Maybe he had not recovered and would make a fool of himself when all he wanted to do was …

She said softly, “I prayed for this moment, dearest. For this and all the others to come.” Her lip quivered but she tossed her head with something like defiance. “I never doubted you would come. Never.”

The ship’s captain backed away to join the other passengers, murmuring something which neither of them heard.

She looked at Browne and smiled. “I am glad you are safe, Lieutenant. And free again.”

Then she put her hand through Bolitho’s arm and turned him towards the side, shutting out everyone but themselves.

“Thomas Herrick sent word over to the ship, Richard.” She squeezed his arm tightly. “He told me something of what you endured, about your friend Neale. Don’t hide the hurt from me, dearest. There’s no need any more.”

Bolitho said, “I wanted him to live so much, but perhaps it was to reassure myself because of what I had brought him to. I—

I thought I understood, but I had learned nothing. Perhaps I care too much, but I cannot change now, nor can I toss lives away merely because my orders are unquestioned.” He turned and looked down at her face, fixing it in his mind like a perfect portrait. “But my love for you is real. Nothing can ever change that.

I did think—”

She reached up and closed his lips with her fingers. “No. I am here because I wanted to try and help. It must have been

decided we should meet here.” She tossed back her hair and laughed. “I am happy now. And I shall make you so!”

Bolitho touched her hair and remembered how it had hidden her face in the overturned carriage. That too had been “decided.”

Prearranged. So there was a fate, just as there was hope.

A master’s mate hovered beside them and touched his hat nervously. He did not look at Bolitho, who guessed the man had probably run from the Navy originally to find security in the East India Company.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, but the boat’s waitin’, with your maid already aboard with your boxes.”

“Thank you.” She squeezed Bolitho’s hand’s until her nails bit into his skin. She whispered, “I’m so sorry, my dearest, but I am close to tears. My joy is almost too much.” She smiled and pushed the hair from her eyes. “I must say farewell to the ship’s captain.

He has been most attentive. But I think he was somewhat in awe when he saw you in the
Benbow!
”

Bolitho smiled. “I never thought I’d want to be a grocery captain like him. But with you for a passenger, I’m not so sure.”

Browne watched fascinated as the lines softened around Bolitho’s mouth and eyes. A few minutes together and she had done that for him. One day he would meet a girl like Belinda Laidlaw, such as the one in his dreams, galloping to meet him on a splendid mount.