A Tradition of Victory (26 page)

There was some cloud about, and the sea was lively with sharp-backed wavelets. They might be in for a blow.

He watched the
Phalarope
’s gig manœuvring alongside her parent ship, and recalled Pascoe’s words.
It must have been a very
happy reunion.
Had he really guessed, or had he merely touched upon his uncle’s sense of guilt?

But one thing was certain. Pascoe was pleased for them both, and that would help the weeks to pass better than he would ever know.

The first excitement of rejoining his small force of ships became more difficult for Bolitho to sustain as days dragged into weeks with nothing achieved. The blockade had not changed merely because he wanted it to. The boredom and drudgery of beating up and down the enemy coast in all weathers had produced its A

inevitable aftermath of slackness and subsequent punishment at the gangway.

It was not difficult to imagine the French admiral watching their sails from a safe vantage point on the shore, while he took his time to prepare his growing fleet of invasion craft for the next and possibly last move into the English Channel.

Ganymede
had gone close inshore to spy out the whereabouts of anchored shipping, and had been forced to run from two enemy frigates which had pounced on her in the middle of a rain squall.

The close-knit system of semaphore stations was working as well as ever.

But
Ganymede
’s captain had discovered an increase in local fishing craft before he had been chased into open water.

At the end of the third week the lookouts sighted
Indomitable
and
Odin
running down to join their flagship. Bolitho felt a sense of relief. He had been expecting a firm recall from the Admiralty, or a request for him to return home and to leave Herrick in overall command. It would mean the end of Beauchamp’s plans, and also that
Styx
’s sacrifice had been in vain.

As the three ships of the line manœuvred ponderously under
Benbow
’s lee, the unemployed hands lined the gangways and stared at their consorts, as sailors always did and always would. Familiar faces, news from home, anything which might make the dreary routine of blockade bearable until they were eventually relieved.

Bolitho was on deck with Herrick to watch the exchange of signals, to feel the sense of pride at the sight of these familiar ships. Bolitho had not seen
Odin
since her savage battering at Copenhagen, but without effort he could visualize Francis Inch, her horse-faced captain, the way he would bob with genuine pleasure when they next met. But that would have to wait a while longer. There was news to be exchanged, despatches to read and answer. And anyway, Bolitho thought with sudden disappointment, he had nothing to call his captains together for.

Bolitho took his usual stroll on the quarterdeck and was left alone to his thoughts. Up and down, up and down, his feet avoid-ing gun tackles and flaked cordage without effort.

The ships shortened sail, and a boat was sent across to
Benbow
with an impressive bag of letters and Admiralty instructions.

By the time he had completed his walk and had returned to his quarters, Bolitho felt vaguely depressed. Perhaps it was the absence of news and the hint of a chill in these September days.

Biscay could be a terrible station in really bad weather. It would take more than gun and sail drills to keep the ships’ companies alert and ready to fight.

It had to be soon.
Otherwise the French would be prevented from moving the bulk of their new invasion craft by worsening weather, just as their enemies would be driven away from the dangerous coastline for the same reason.
Soon.

Browne was opening envelopes and piling official documents to one side while he placed personal letters on Bolitho’s table.

The flag-lieutenant said, “No new orders, sir.”

He sounded so cheerful that Bolitho had to bite back a rebuke.

It was not Browne’s fault. Perhaps it had never been intended that their presence here was to be anything but a gesture.

His eyes fell on the letter which lay uppermost on the table.

“Thank you, Oliver.”

He sat down and read it slowly, afraid he might miss something, or worse that she had written of some regret for what had happened at Gibraltar.

Her words were like a warm breeze. In minutes he felt strangely relaxed, and even the pain in his wounded thigh left him in peace.

She was waiting.

Bolitho stood up quickly. “Make a signal to
Phalarope,
Oliver, repeated to
Rapid.
” He walked across the cabin, the letter clutched in his hand.

Browne was still staring up at him from the table, fascinated by the swift change.

Bolitho snapped, “Wake up, Oliver! You wanted orders, well, here they are. Tell
Rapid, investigate possibility of capturing a fishing boat and report when ready
.”

He tapped his mouth with Belinda’s letter and then held it to his nose. Her perfume. She must have done it deliberately.

Browne wrote frantically on his book and asked, “May I ask why, sir?”

Bolitho smiled at him. “If they won’t come out to us, we’ll have to go inshore amongst them!”

Browne got to his feet. “I’ll signal
Phalarope,
sir.”

There would be more than a little risk in seizing one of the local boats sighted by
Ganymede.
But it would involve only a handful of men. Determined and well-led, they might be the means to provide the picklock to Contre-Amiral Remond’s back door!

Browne returned a few moments later, his blue coat bright with droplets of spray.

He said, “Wind’s still getting up, sir.”

“Good.”

Bolitho rubbed his hands. He could picture his signal being passed from ship to ship with no less efficiency and speed than the enemy’s semaphore.
Rapid
’s young commander, Jeremy Lapish, had only just been promoted from lieutenant. He was said to be keen and competent, two sound qualities for a man who was after recognition and further advancement. Bolitho could also imagine his nephew when he heard of the signal when it was passed on from his own ship. He would see himself in charge of the raid, with all its risks and the wild cut and thrust of close action.

Browne sat down and continued to study the despatches tied in their pink Admiralty tape.

“Looking back, sir.” He watched Bolitho gravely. “When we were prisoners, in some ways it was Captain Neale who held us

together. I believe we were too worried for
his
safety to care for our own predicament. I often think about him.”

Bolitho nodded. “He’ll be thinking of us, I shouldn’t wonder, when next we beat to quarters.” He smiled. “I hope we do something he’d be proud of.”

The wind rose and veered, the sea changed its face from blue to grey, and as dusk closed down the sight of land the squadron took station for the night.

Deep down on
Benbow
’s orlop deck, as the ship swayed and groaned around them, Allday and Tuck, the captain’s coxswain, sat in companionable silence and shared a bottle of rum. The smell of the rum and the swinging lantern was making both of them drowsy, but the two coxswains were content.

Tuck asked suddenly, “D’you reckon your admiral’s goin’ to fight, John?”

Allday held his glass against the guttering candle and examined the level of its contents.

“Course he will, Frank.”

Tuck grimaced. “If I ’ad a woman like the one ’e’s got ’is grapnels on, I’d stay well clear o’ the Frenchie’s iron.” He grinned admiringly. “An’
you
lives at ’is ’ouse when you’re ashore, right?”

Allday’s head lolled. He could see the stone walls and the hedgerows as if he were there. The two inns he liked best in Falmouth, the girl at the
George
who had done him a favour or two. Then there was Mrs Laidlaw’s new maid Polly, she was a neat parcel and no mistake.

He said, “That’s right, Frank. One of the family, that’s me.”

But Tuck was fast asleep.

Allday leant his back against a massive frame and wondered why he was changing. He always tried to keep his life afloat separate from the one which Bolitho had given him at Falmouth.

He thought of the coming battle. Tuck must be mad if he believed Bolitho would give way to the Frogs. Not now, not A

after all they had seen and done together.

Fight they would, and Allday was troubled that it affected him so deeply.

Aloud he said to the ship, “I’m getting bloody old, that’s what.”

Tuck groaned and muttered, “Wassat?”

“Shut up, you stupid bugger.” Allday lurched to his feet.

“Come on then, I’ll help sling your hammock for you.”

Some eight miles from Allday’s flickering lantern another scene was being enacted in the
Rapid
’s small cabin as Lapish, her commander, explained what was required.

The brig was pitching violently in a steep offshore swell, but neither Lapish nor his equally youthful first lieutenant even noticed it.

Lapish was saying, “You’ve seen the signal from the Flag, Peter, and you know what to look for. I’ll drop the boat as close as I can and stand off until you return, with or without a fisherman.” He grinned at the lieutenant. “Does it frighten you?”

“It’s one way to promotion, sir.”

They both bent over the chart to complete their calculations.

The lieutenant had never spoken to his rear-admiral, and had only seen him a few times at a distance. But what did it matter?

Tomorrow there might be a new admiral in command. The lieutenant laid his hanger on a bench beside his favourite pistols.
Or
I might be dead.

In the long chain of command the next few hours were all that mattered.

“Ready, Peter?”

“Aye, sir.”

They listened to the dash of spray over the deck. A foul night for boatwork, but a perfect one for what they had in mind.

And anyway, they had their orders from the Flag.

LIEUTENANT Wolfe ducked his head beneath the deckhead beams and clumped noisily into the cabin. He waited while Bolitho and Herrick completed some calculations on a chart and then said,

“Signal from
Rapid,
repeated by
Phalarope. French boat captured.

No alarm given.
”

Bolitho glanced at Herrick. “That was good work. The brig is aptly named.” To Wolfe he said, “Signal
Rapid
to send her prize to the flagship. The fewer prying eyes to see her the better. And tell Commander Lapish, well done.”

Herrick rubbed his chin doubtfully. “No alarm roused, eh?

Lapish must have taken full advantage of the foul weather yesterday, lucky young devil.”

“I expect so.” Bolitho kept his voice non-committal as he stooped over the chart once more.

There was no point in telling Herrick how he had lain awake worrying about his orders to
Rapid.
Even one man lost to no purpose was too many. He had felt this way ever since
Styx
had gone and Neale had died with so many of his company. He looked at Herrick’s homely face. No, there was no point in disturbing him also.

Instead he ran his finger along the great triangle on the chart.

It stretched south-east from Belle Ile to the Ile d’Yeu, then seaward to a point some forty miles to the west. Then north once more to Belle Ile. His three frigates patrolled along the invisible thread nearest to the coast, while the ships of the line were made to endure the uncertainties of unsheltered waters where they could be directed to attack if the French attempted to break out.

Amongst and between Bolitho’s ships the little
Rapid
acted as messenger and spy. Lapish must have enjoyed his successful cutting-out raid, no matter how brief it had been. Action soon A

drove away the cobwebs, and his men would have the laugh on the companies of their heaviest consorts.

He said, “The French must be getting ready to move. We have to know what is happening closer inshore.” He looked up as Browne entered the cabin. “The captured fishing boat will be joining us directly. I want you to board her and make a full investigation.”

Herrick said, “I can send Mr Wolfe.”

Bolitho smiled. “I need something different from seamanship, Thomas. I think Mr Browne may see what others might miss.”

“Humph.” Herrick stared at the chart. “I wonder. Still, I suppose it may be worth a try.”

Browne said calmly, “May I suggest something, sir?”

“Of course.”

Browne walked to the cable. He had completely recovered from seasickness, and even the squall which had battered at the squadron throughout the night had left him untouched.

“I’ve heard that the fishermen have been gathering for weeks.

It is customary so that they can work under the protection of the French guard-boats. If
Rapid
’s commander is certain that nobody saw his men seize one of the boats, a picked prize crew could surely work inshore again and see what is happening?”

Herrick sighed deeply. “Well, naturally, man! It was what we intended! And I thought you had something new to offer!”

Browne gave a gentle smile. “With respect, sir, I meant that the boat could be sailed right amongst the others, for a time anyway.”

Herrick shook his head. “Mad. Quite mad. They would be seen for what they were within an hour.”

Browne persisted. “If someone aboard spoke fluent French …”

Herrick looked despairingly at Bolitho. “And how many French scholars do we have aboard, sir?”

Browne coughed. “Me, sir, for one, and I have discovered that

Mr Midshipman Stirling and Mr Midshipman Gaisford are passable.”

Herrick stared at him. “Well, I’ll be double damned!”

Bolitho said slowly, “Is there any alternative?”

Browne shrugged. “None, sir.”

Bolitho studied the chart, although in his mind he could see every sounding, shoal and distance.

It might work. The unlikely so often did. If it failed, Browne and his men would be taken. If they were wearing disguise when they were captured it would mean certain death. He thought of the little graves by the prison wall, the scars of musket balls where the victims had been shot down.