A Tradition of Victory (24 page)

The signals midshipman called, “
Nicator
’s cable is hove short, sir!”

“Very well, Mr Stirling. Acknowledge.”

Browne took a sudden interest in a seaman who was busily flaking down a line beside him.

He heard Herrick ask politely, “Was everything satisfactory, sir?”

Bolitho eyed him impassively. “It was, Captain Herrick.”

Then like conspirators they both smiled broadly at each other and Herrick said, “I wish you both every happiness, sir. My God, when—”

“Ready, sir!”

Wolfe’s harsh voice made Herrick hurry to the rail.

“Loose heads’ls!” He gestured above his head. “Loose tops’ls!”

“
Anchor’s aweigh,
sir!”

With her canvas rippling and banging in disorder
Benbow
paid off to the wind, her fat hull brushing the water as she dipped to the pressure.

“Braces there!
Heave, lads!
”

Round and still further round, with the foreshore and the misty hills pivoting beyond the hurrying seamen and flapping topsails, until the master took control with his helm and compass.

Nicator
was already setting more sail as she tilted to the freshening breeze, her scarlet ensign and masthead pendant streaming almost abeam as she took station her flagship.

“The Dons saw us arrive. Now they’ll know we are at sea again.” Bolitho looked at the land but saw only that quiet room, her pale arms open to receive him.

He walked up to the weather side and listened to the shouted orders, the squeak of tackles and blocks as miles of running rigging took the strain.

Up forward, the anchor had been secured to the cathead, and he heard Drodge, the gunner, bellowing instructions to his mates as they checked the lashings on every weapon.

A boatswain’s mate was supervising the rigging of a grating at the gangway in readiness for awarding punishment. One of the sailmaker’s crew sorted through some scraps of canvas with the same lack of emotion. Routine and discipline. It held the ship together no less securely than copper and tar.

He saw Allday carrying his new cutlass towards an open hatch. To sharpen it himself exactly as he wanted it. Who now owned Allday’s old cutlass, Bolitho wondered? The one he had driven into the French beach with such disgust when they had been taken prisoner.

Allday seemed to feel his gaze and turned to peer up at the quarterdeck. He touched his forehead and gave a small smile which only Bolitho or Herrick would recognize.

Some midshipmen were lined up for instruction at one of the upper battery’s eighteen-pounders, and a youthful lieutenant was pointing out the various positions where its crew could change round if a man fell wounded in battle, so that the speed of loading and firing would not be lost.

He spoke with crisp authority, very aware of Bolitho’s tall figure just above him. Bolitho smiled. The lieutenant was about a year older than some of his pupils.

From the galley he saw a puff of smoke as the cook made the most of whatever fresh food he had been able to snatch during their brief stay at Gibraltar, and as he watched the market-place activity of the crowded upper deck he recalled the vice-admiral’s advice to stay aloof and not to involve himself in the affairs of subordinates.

A boatswain’s mate hurried along the deck, his call twitter-ing above the sounds of canvas and spray.

“All hands! Hands lay aft to witness punishment!”

Herrick stood by the rail, his chin sunk in his neckcloth, the Articles of War tucked beneath one arm, as seamen and marines surged aft in a human tide.

Bolitho turned towards the poop.
I am involved. It is how I
am made.

Into the shadows and past the stiff sentry beneath the spiralling lantern.

Browne followed him into the great cabin and shut the door.

“Can I do anything, sir?”

Bolitho handed his coat to Ozzard and loosened his shirt and neckcloth.

“Yes, Oliver. Close the skylight.”

It might be necessary, but he still hated the sound of the cat across a man’s naked back. He sat on the stern bench and stared out at
Nicator
’s tall shape following obediently on a new tack.

Browne said warily, “Your clerk is here, sir, with some more papers which seem to require your signature.” He faltered. “Shall I tell him to go away, sir?”

Bolitho sighed. “No, ask Yovell to come in. I think I
need
to lose myself.”

Overhead in the bright sunlight the lash rose and fell on the first man to be seized up for punishment. Most of the assembled company watched with empty eyes, and only the victim’s close friends looked away, ashamed for him and perhaps themselves.

The grating was unrigged and the hands piped to the mid-day meal, with a pint of Black Strap to wash it down.

The two men who had been flogged were taken below to the sickbay to have their backs attended to and their confidence restored by a liberal dose of rum from the surgeon’s special cask.

Alone at last in the cabin, Bolitho sat at his table, a sheet of paper before him. She would probably never read the letter, it might not even be sent. But it would help to keep her with him as the breadth of ocean tried to force them apart.

He touched his cheek where she had kissed him, and then without hesitation began to write.

My dearest Belinda, It is only a few hours since I left you …

On deck, as dusk closed in once more and painted the horizon with dull copper, Herrick discussed the reefing arrangements and emergency signals for the night watches. The land had already vanished in shadows, here any strange sail might be an enemy.

And
Benbow
was a King’s ship, with no time to spare for the frailties of the men who served her.

LIEUTENANT the Honourable Oliver Browne, with his hat clamped tightly beneath one arm, stepped into the stern cabin and waited for Bolitho to look up from his charts and scribbled notes.

“Yes?”

Browne kept his urbane features expressionless. “Sail in sight to the nor’-east, sir.” He had learned from experience that Bolitho had already heard the cry from the masthead, just as he would know that Browne knew it.

“Thank you.”

Bolitho rubbed his eyes. It had taken over a week to reach the rendezvous area. Two days of good sailing, with a favourable wind across the quarter when neither reefing nor changing tack was required. Then other days, with frustrating hours of retrim-ming yards and canvas, tired men scrambling aloft to shorten sail in a sudden squall, only to be piped up the ratlines immediately to loose them again.

Westward into the Atlantic and then up along the coast of Portugal. They had sighted a few vessels, but the distance and the slowness of the two seventy-fours made any kind of investigation impossible.

Bolitho had kept much to himself during the passage. Going over Beauchamp’s original plans but coming up all-standing whenever he had set them against an actual attack.

He threw his brass dividers on to the charts and stood up.

“What ship, I wonder?”

And what would he find in his little squadron?
Ganymede
should have contacted each ship, and every man would know their rear-admiral’s flag would soon be joining them.

Browne said, “They
say
she’s a frigate, sir.”

Their eyes met. Then it would be
Phalarope,
unless it was a A

Frenchman who had slipped through the blockade undetected.

Browne added, “May I ask what you intend, sir?”

“I shall see Emes.”

He seemed to hear Herrick inside his mind.
Let me deal with
him, sir. I’ll settle his future for him!
Loyal, but biased. How would Adam see it, he wondered? He had twice nearly lost his young life trying to defend his uncle’s name.
No.
Emes did not strike him as a man who would ruin Adam’s career to save his own. But before a court-martial anything could happen.

He heard Herrick’s shoes in the lobby, and as Ozzard hurried to open the screen door Bolitho said, “Leave us, Oliver.”

Herrick bustled into the cabin and barely noticed the flag-lieutenant as he passed.

Bolitho said, “Sit down, Thomas, and
be calm.
”

Herrick peered around the cabin, his eyes still half-blinded from the glare on the quarterdeck.

“Calm, sir? It is a lot to ask!” He grimaced. “She’s
Phalarope
right enough.” He raised his eyebrows. “I can see that you are not surprised, sir?”

“No. Captain Emes has been in command here during our absence. He is a post-captain of experience. But for his previous trouble, his actions at the Ile d’Yeu might have roused little criticism, even from you.”

Herrick shifted in his chair, unconvinced. “I doubt that.”

Bolitho moved to the stern windows and looked at some gulls which were swooping and screaming below the counter. The cook had probably hurled some scraps outboard.

“I
need
every competent officer, Thomas. If one is at fault, the blame must lie with his captain. If it is a captain who shows weakness, then the responsibility must lie with his admiral.” He smiled wryly. “In this particular case, me.” He hurried on. “No, hear me out, Thomas. Many of the squadron’s officers are raw replacements, and the worst wrath they have faced so far

is that of a sailing-master or first lieutenant, am I right?”

“Well, I suppose so, sir.”

Bolitho smiled fondly. “That’s hardly an agreement, but it is a start. If, as I intend, we are to attack and destroy those French vessels, I shall draw heavily upon my captains. It is obvious that we are getting no more support, and Sir John Studdart knew nothing of any extra craft from his own command.” He did not conceal the bitterness. “Not even one solitary gun brig!”

Beyond the cabin they heard Wolfe’s voice through his speaking trumpet, the responding clatter of blocks and halliards as men ran to obey him.

Herrick stood up. “We are about to change tack, sir.”

“Go to them, Thomas. When you are ready, you may heave to and request that Captain Emes comes aboard. He’ll be expecting it.”

“I still think …” Herrick grinned ruefully and said instead,

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Browne re-entered the cabin. “They’re signalling
Phalarope
now, sir.” He sounded puzzled. “
Captain repair on board flagship.
I thought you might ask for your nephew to come across too, sir?”

“I am longing to see him.” Bolitho looked up at the deckhead beams as bare feet slapped across the dried planking. “I am not proud of the fact I am using him.”

“Using him, sir?”

“Emes commands
Phalarope,
and he can decide if he shall bring his first lieutenant as a courtesy to me. If he does not choose to do so, he will have the stage to himself, unchallenged, as he is the first captain to meet us on this station. But if he decides to bring him, he must risk whatever my nephew may say.”

Browne’s face cleared. “That is very shrewd, sir.”

“I am learning, Oliver. Very slowly, but I am learning.”

The cabin tilted heavily to one side and Bolitho heard the creak of yards as
Benbow
swung slowly into the wind. He saw A

Nicator
standing at a distance under shortened sail as she watched over her consorts.

Browne said, “I’ll go on deck, sir.”

“Yes. Let me know what is happening.”

Browne picked up his hat and asked hesitantly, “If Captain Emes fails to satisfy you, sir …”

“I shall send him packing by the next available vessel. I need good officers, and I have said as much to Captain Herrick. But I’d rather send
Phalarope
amongst the enemy with a midshipman in command than risk more lives to satisfy my vanity!”

Browne nodded and hurried away, another lesson learned.

Herrick saw him emerge into the sunlight and asked irrita-bly, “What have you been doing, Mr Browne?”

“Our admiral, sir. The way he sees things. Like an artist painting a picture.”

“Humph.” Herrick turned to watch the frigate heading into the wind, her sails aback as she prepared to lower a boat. He said grimly, “Just so long as somebody doesn’t break the frame before the picture is finished!” He saw the surprise on Browne’s face and added, “Oh yes, Mr Browne with an ‘e,’ a few of us do have minds of our own, you know!”

Browne hid a smile and walked to the lee side as Major Clinton, his sun-reddened face almost matching his tunic, marched to Herrick and barked, “Guard of honour, sir?”

“Yes. Man the side, Major. He is a captain.” He moved away and added under his breath, “At the moment.”

The midshipman-of-the-watch called, “Boat’s put off, sir!”

Browne hurried to the poop. He found Bolitho standing by the windows as if he had not moved.

“
Phalarope
’s gig is heading for us, sir.” He saw the way Bolitho’s hands gripped one another behind his back. Tense. Like a spring.

Browne said quietly, “Captain Emes has your nephew with him, sir.” He expected some instant response, a show of relief.

Instead Bolitho said, “I used to believe that all flag-officers were like gods. They created situations and formed decisions while we lesser beings merely obeyed. Now I know differently. Perhaps Vice-Admiral Studdart was right after all.”

“Sir?”

“Nothing. Tell Ozzard to bring my coat. If my emotions are at war with each other, I am certain Emes will have fared far worse. So let’s be about it, eh?”

He heard the twitter of calls, the muffled stamp of booted feet by the entry port.

As Ozzard held his coat up to his shoulders, Bolitho thought suddenly of his first command. Small, crowded, intimate.

He had believed then, as he did now, that to be given a ship was the most coveted gift which could be bestowed on any living creature.

Now others commanded, while he was forced to lead and decide their destinies. But no matter what, he would never forget what that first command had meant to him.

Browne announced, “Captain Emes of the
Phalarope,
sir.”

Bolitho stood behind the table and said, “You may withdraw.”

Had he met Captain Emes ashore or in any other surroundings he doubted if he would have recognized him. He still held himself very erect as he stood opposite the table, hat beneath his arm, his sword gripped firmly, too firmly, in the other hand. In spite of his employment on the Belle Ile station and the favourable weather which had given most of the ships’ companies a healthy tan, Emes looked deathly pale, and in the reflected sunlight from the stern windows his skin had the pallor of wax. He was twenty-nine, but looked ten years older.