A Tradition of Victory (27 page)

Browne was watching his uncertainty. He said, “I should like to try, sir. It would help in some way. For Captain Neale.”

From that other world beyond the cabin the marine sentry shouted, “Midshipman o’ th’ watch, sah!”

Midshipman Haines tiptoed nervously towards his betters and said in a whisper, “The first lieutenant’s respects, sir, and the French prize is in sight to the north-east’rd.”

Herrick glared at him. “Is that all, Mr Haines?”

“N—no, sir. Mr Wolfe said to tell you that there are three French soldiers on board.”

Unwittingly the boy had left the most vital part until the end.

Bolitho said, “Thank you, Mr Haines. My compliments to the first lieutenant, and ask him to keep me informed as she draws closer.”

It was all suddenly startlingly clear. He recalled the French soldiers aboard those other fishing boats on that terrible morning when
Styx
had foundered. Perhaps the local garrison always kept a few available for such duties. It was not unknown for fishermen and smugglers from either side to meet offshore and exchange news and contraband. Contre-Amiral Remond would not wish his squadron to be betrayed by some careless scrap of gossip.

Three enemy soldiers. In his mind’s eye he could already see Browne in one of the uniforms, and when he looked at the lieutenant he could tell he was thinking exactly that.

“Very well. Search the boat and report to me. After that …”

His gaze fell on the chart. “I shall decide.”

Herrick asked, “You know the risks?”

Browne nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“And you still want to go?”

“Yes, sir.”

Herrick spread his hands. “As I thought, quite mad.”

Bolitho glanced from one to the other. Both so different, yet each so important to him.

He stood up. “I shall take a walk on deck, Thomas. I need to think.”

Herrick understood. “I shall see that you are not disturbed, sir.”

Later, as Bolitho paced back and forth on the quarterdeck, he tried to put himself in Remond’s place. He had met him for just that short while, and yet it made such a difference. Now the enemy had a face, a personality. Maybe it was better if the foe remained anonymous, he thought.

It was nearly dusk by the time the little fishing boat had manœuvred under
Benbow
’s lee and Browne had gone across to examine her.

While the ratlines and gangways were crammed with curious seamen, Bolitho stood aloof and watched the newcomer with no less interest. A dirty, hard-worked vessel with patched sails and a littered deck, she was not much bigger than
Benbow
’s barge. Her appearance was less than heroic and would turn the average naval boatswain grey with disgust.

Browne in his blue and white uniform made a stark contrast against the vessel’s squalor.

The jolly-boat returned with a young lieutenant whom Bolitho

guessed to be the leader of the cutting-out party. As he climbed up
Benbow
’s tumblehome and touched his hat to the side party, Bolitho saw he was a mere youth, nineteen at the most.

Wolfe was about to take him aft to the captain’s quarters when Bolitho called impetuously, “Come here!”

Young and in awe of the flagship’s surroundings he might be, but the lieutenant had that certain panache as he hurried aft to the quarterdeck. The mark of a victor.

He touched his hat. “Lieutenant Peter Searle, sir, of the brig
Rapid.
”

“You took the prize, I believe, Mr Searle?”

The lieutenant turned and glanced across at the grubby fishing boat. He seemed to see her for the first time for what she really was.

He replied, “She was anchored apart from the others, sir. I put two men outboard, good swimmers, and sent them to cut the cable so that she could drift down on my own boat. There was half a gale blowing by that time and my boat was leaking badly.”

He smiled as he remembered what it had been like, the lines of strain falling from his face. “I knew we had to take her right then or swim in search of
Rapid!
”

“Was there a fight?”

“There were four soldiers aboard, sir, I’d been told nothing about them. They killed poor Miller and stunned Thompson before we could get to grips. It was quickly done.”

Bolitho said, “I’m proud of you.” It was strange how the unfortunate man named Miller had suddenly become so real even though he had never met him.

“And nobody raised the alarm?”

“No, sir. I’m certain of it.” As an afterthought Searle said, “I dropped the corpses over the side in the darkness, there were only three, including Miller. But I had them hurried down with some A

ballast around them. They’ll not be afloat anywhere to tell the tale.”

“Thank you, Mr Searle.”

The lieutenant added hesitantly, “I am told you intend to use the boat against the enemy, sir? If so, I’d like to volunteer my services.”

“Who told you that?”

The lieutenant flushed under Bolitho’s gaze. “I—I forget, sir.”

Bolitho smiled. “No matter, I think I can guess. I shall be glad to appoint you in charge of the prize. You are obviously a man of resourcefulness. With that and my flag-lieutenant’s uncanny habit of being right, you should be a great asset.”

They both turned as Herrick appeared on deck, and Bolitho said, “We will begin tonight. Tell Major Clinton I require four of his top marksmen to accompany the prize crew, and they’ll need a good master’s mate as well. And see he is the best Mr Grubb can offer, not the one least likely to be missed.”

Herrick looked as if he was going to protest but changed his mind.

Bolitho turned to the lieutenant again. “I shall give you your orders, but you must know that if you are captured there is little hope for you.”

“I understand, sir.” He smiled cheerfully. “All my party are volunteers.”

Bolitho looked at the fishing boat. Now he understood. He had been worried about risking lives, but this young lieutenant was actually grateful to him. For the chance, the rare, precious opportunity which every young officer prayed might come his way.
To think that I was exactly like him.

He said, “Bring the prisoners over, and put some of our people aboard to aid Mr Browne.” He glanced at the gathering dusk, the last daylight which still clung to
Nicator
’s upper yards. “My

God, Thomas, I am sick and tired of waiting for the enemy to shift himself. It is time we stirred them a little!”

He saw Allday on the larboard gangway. He too was staring over at the fishing boat, his thick body stiff and tense. At least Allday would be spared from this piece of reckless endeavour, Bolitho thought.

He waited on deck until the handful of prisoners were ferried across, the first being three French soldiers. They were followed by one of Clinton’s marines who carried a bloodied uniform across his arm, his features screwed up with distaste. The uniform’s previous owner would have no further use of it.

Eventually, when it was almost dark and the ships were reefing down for the night, Browne returned on board.

“That boat stinks like a sewer, sir! As do those who man her!”

“Did you discover anything?”

Browne nodded. “She hails from Brest and is no local craft.

We are in luck. I managed to convince her master that he would be freed later on if he told us the truth. Equally he would swing from the main-yard if he did not. He assured me that there is a large French squadron, which he believes to be under local control, for the sole purpose of guarding the invasion fleet. It certainly sounded as if Contre-Amiral Remond is in immediate command.”

He saw the flicker of hurt in Bolitho’s eyes. “I knew we should meet him again, sir.”

“Yes. Are you still intent on this mission, Oliver? We are alone now, so speak as you will. You know me better than to blame you if you change your mind.”

“I
want
to go, sir. Now more than ever, for some reason. Perhaps because of Remond, of
Styx,
and for being able to help you, properly, instead of handing you despatches and writing signals.”

Bolitho touched his arm. “Thank you for that, Oliver. Now go and prepare yourself.”

Herrick walked across to rejoin him as Browne hurried away.

“He’s no fighting sailor, sir.”

Bolitho looked at his friend, both surprised and moved that Herrick could show such concern which until now he had done everything to hide.

“Perhaps, Thomas. But he has real courage, which he needs to use.”

Herrick frowned as Wolfe strode across the deck with a new list of names gripped in his hand.

“More questions to be answered, dammit!”

Bolitho smiled and walked aft to the poop. Almost too casually he said, “I have a signal to be sent to
Phalarope.
I will write it now so that it can be hoisted at first light.”

Wolfe waited, imperturbable as ever. “Trouble, sir?”

“I’m not sure.” Herrick could not conceal his uncertainty.

“Give me the broadside and the din of war any time, Mr Wolfe!

This cat and mouse game is not my plaything!”

Wolfe grinned. “Now about this list of promotions, sir …”

With her patched sails hard-bellied to the wind the fishing boat punched through the steep waves, her lee gunwale awash.

Lieutenant Searle who, like most of his prize crew, was dressed in fisherman’s smock and heavy boots, called sharply, “Hold her close to the wind!”

Beside him near the tiller Browne tried to stay on his feet as the boat plunged and reeled beneath him. In his soldier’s coat and white crossbelt it was all he could do to retain his dignity and keep his mind on the approaching danger.

It was almost dawn, but another cloudy one, and the sea appeared much wilder and more dangerous than from
Benbow
’s lofty quarterdeck.

They had worked through the night to make the boat as comfortable as possible, and had jettisoned much of the spare fishing gear. But the stench remained, and Browne found some comfort

that he was at least on deck and not crammed in the hold with the rest of the party.

The master’s mate, who had taken the tiller himself, said,

“Enemy coast ahead, sir.”

Browne swallowed hard. “Thank you, Mr Hoblin.”

He must take his word, for as Grubb, the master, had assured him before they had set sail, “Mr Hoblin’s got a nose for it, sir!”

Searle bared his teeth as cold spray dashed over the gunwale and soaked his head and shoulders.

He gasped, “I doubt if the French will have a guard-boat running this early. They’re not eager to get a wetting!”

Midshipman Stirling, piratical in his smock and a large red woollen hat, asked, “How close shall we go, sir?”

Browne glanced down at him. There was no fear in the boy’s voice. If anything, he sounded impatient for something to happen.

“As near as we dare.”

Searle said, “The wind’s steady enough. Nor’-east. If we can just slip amongst the others we should be safe enough. When they see you they’ll be in no mood for talk.” He grinned.

“Fishermen the world over have no love for uniforms. Customs officers, the navy, even the honest trooper is an enemy to them.”

A seaman who lay prone in the bows called hoarsely, “Two boats, fine to starboard!”

Hoblin said, “Fishermen. Under way too.”

The seamen rushed to the halliards but slowed as Browne called, “Easy! This is a fisherman, not a King’s ship, so
take your
time!
”

They grinned and nudged each other as if it was all a huge joke.

Searle said, “Bring her about. But hold to wind’rd of those two.” He twisted round as the sails shook noisily and then filled again. “Belle Ile must be to the north of us now.”

The master’s mate nodded and squinted at his boat’s compass. “No more’n two mile, I’d say, sir.” Nobody questioned his judgement and he was vaguely pleased. He was after all the old-est man in the boat by some ten years.

“Damn, here comes the rain.”

Browne nodded miserably and tried to draw his coarse uniform about his throat. The smell of stale sweat left by its owner was almost worse than the fish.

Great heavy drops of rain, sporadic at first and then hissing across the water like metal bars to hammer the boat and occupants without mercy.

Browne groaned. “I’ll
never
complain about fish again! The men who catch it earn every penny!”

Slowly and reluctantly the feeble daylight pushed through the clouds and heavy rain. More boats took shape and personality, and as one sighted another they fanned out into casual forma-tions in readiness to begin their work.

Searle ordered, “Steer due east. Steady as you go.” To Browne he added, “That will give us the wind-gage. It will also take us nearer to the mainland.” He was staring at Browne through the rain. “Not far from where
Ganymede
found you.”

“Yes.”

Browne blinked the rain from his eyes. He still could not bring himself to talk about it, except to Bolitho. It was something terrible, and yet very special, between them.

He squinted up at the mainmast with its frayed rigging which looked as old as time itself.

“Feel like a climb, Mr Stirling?”

The midshipman tightened his belt. “Aye, sir. What am I to do?”

Searle leaned over and tapped Browne’s shoulder. “Good idea.

Get aloft, my lad, and pretend to be doing some running repairs.

Take a palm and needle with you, though I doubt if any of the Frenchies carries a telescope.”

Stirling swarmed up the quivering rigging like a monkey and was soon outwardly engrossed in his work.

Corporal Coote, one of the four marines who was enduring the stench and violent motion of the hold, raised his head above the coaming and surveyed the two lieutenants hopefully.

Browne asked, “Well, Corporal?”

“We just found some wine in an old box down ’ere, sir.” His face was a picture of innocence. “When we’m on these jobs our own officers usually let us take a wet when there’s some lying handy.”

Browne nodded. “I suppose that would be all right.”

The master’s mate’s voice exploded between them like a charge of canister. “How does it feel to be a damn liar, Coote? I see rightly enough how it looks!”