A Tradition of Victory (31 page)

The colour-sergeant said, “Now, matey, as the rear-admiral’s personal cox’n, so to speak, you’ll know wot we’re goin’ to do, right?”

Allday leant against the side and expanded. “Well, usually me an’ the admiral …”

By the evening of that day,
Odin,
with
Phalarope
keeping well to windward, were out of sight of the remainder of the squadron.

In the great cabin, resplendent with the table fully extended and the best glasses and silver laid before the chattering officers, Captain Francis Inch was bursting with pleasure and pride.

Nothing could ever be quite so perfect again.

Bolitho sat at the head of the table and allowed the conver-sation and wit to flow around him, while glasses were refilled and toasts drunk with barely a break in between.

Bolitho glanced at the ship’s lieutenants. Mostly they were so young, and like Allday, although he had no way of knowing it, he was thinking of this same carefree place as it would soon become when the ship was called to quarters.

He studied the officers in turn and tried to remember each by name. Sons, and lovers, but not many husbands amongst them.

Yet. A normal enough wardroom in any ship of the line.

They would fight, and they must win.

One young lieutenant was saying, “Yes, I’m really going to get married when we get home again.” He held up his hand to silence the derisive laughter. “No, this time I mean it!”

Then he turned and looked at Bolitho, emboldened by claret or touched perhaps by the thought of the battle yet to come, he asked, “May I ask, sir, are you married?”

Bolitho smiled. “Like you, Mr Travers, I am getting married when we anchor again in Plymouth Sound.”

“Thank you for that, sir.” The lieutenant studied him anxiously. “I thought, just for a moment—”

“I know what you were thinking.” He was suddenly glad he had remembered the lieutenant’s name. “The idea of marriage has given you something to stay alive for, am I right?”

Travers lowered his eyes. “I am not afraid, sir.”

“I know that too.” He looked away.
How can I not become
involved?

Bolitho said, “But it also gives you something to fight for, remember that and you’ll not fail.”

As the most junior guest present, Midshipman George Stirling, whose home was in Winchester, sat enthralled and watched everything.

In his mind he was composing another long letter to his mother.

My dearest Mother … This evening we are standing towards the
French coast. I am dining with Rear-Admiral Bolitho.

He gave a secret smile. She might not believe it. He was not sure that he did either.

He tried again.

He is such a fine man, and I nearly cried when the people lined
the ship to give their huzzas when he left for
Odin.

He realized that Bolitho was watching him down the length of the table.

Bolitho asked, “Are you ready, Mr Stirling?”

The midshipman swallowed hard and lifted his goblet which suddenly seemed too heavy to hold.

Bolitho glanced at the others, their faces flushed and cheerful. Wars were not made by young men, he thought, but they had to fight them. It seemed right that Stirling should give the final toast. And it would be just that for some of these same young men.

Stirling tried not to lick his lips as every eye turned in his direction. Then he recalled what Allday had told him about Bolitho.
He’s just a man.

“Gentlemen, the toast is Victory! Death to the French!”

The rest was lost in a roar of approval, as if the ship herself was eager to fight.

“CAP’N’S comin’ up, sir.”

Pascoe lowered his telescope and nodded to the master’s mate.

“Thank you.”

He had been watching the
Odin
going through her sail and gun drills, the ports opening and closing as if controlled by a giant’s touch, sails filling and then reefing with equal precision.

He heard Emes’s step on the damp planking and turned towards him. He never knew what sort of mood might lie behind Emes’s impassive features, what he might really be thinking and planning in the privacy of his cabin.

Pascoe touched his hat. “Sou’-east by south, sir. Wind’s veered a trifle, north by east.”

Emes strode to the quarterdeck rail and gripped it hard as he stared first along his command, the comings and goings of the watch, and the boatswain’s party who were as usual splicing and repairing. An endless task. Then he shifted his gaze to
Odin
as she rode comfortably some four cables to starboard.

“Hmm. Visibility’s poor.” Emes’s lower lip jutted forward. It was the only sign he ever gave that he was worried about something. “It’ll be an early dusk, I shouldn’t wonder.” He tugged a watch from his breeches and flicked open the guard. “Your uncle appears to be giving Captain Inch some extra drill.” He smiled, but only briefly. “Flagship indeed.”

Emes walked aft to the compass and peered at it, then at the slate which hung nearby.

Pascoe watched the helmsmen and master’s mate of the watch, the way they tensed when Emes was near, as if they expected him to abuse them.

Pascoe could not understand it. They were actually afraid of the captain. And yet Emes had done little or nothing to warrant A

such fear. He was unbending over matters of discipline, but never awarded excessive punishment like some captains. He was often impatient with subordinates, but rarely used his rank to insult them in front of their men. What was it about him, Pascoe wondered? A cold, withdrawn man who had not backed down to his rear-admiral even under the cloud of a possible court martial.

Emes walked across the deck and stared at the sea and damp mist. It was more like drizzle, which made the shrouds and canvas drip and shine in the strange light.

“Has Mr Kincade inspected all the carronades today, Mr Pascoe?”

Kincade was
Phalarope
’s gunner, a sour, taciturn man who appeared to love his ugly charges more than mankind itself.

“Aye, sir. They’ll give a good account of themselves.”

“Really.” Emes eyed him bleakly. “Eager for it, are you?”

Pascoe flushed. “It’s better than waiting, sir.”

The midshipman-of-the-watch called hesitantly, “
Rapid
’s in sight to wind’rd, sir.”

Emes snapped, “I’m going to my quarters. Call me before you shorten sail, and keep good station on the Flag.” He strode to the companion-way without even a glance at
Rapid
’s murky silhouette.

Pascoe relaxed. Was that too part of an act, he wondered? To walk away without seemingly caring about
Rapid
as she headed towards the enemy shore. Like the way he deliberately refused to exercise the carronade crews, even though the flagship had been drilling for most of the day.

The sailing-master, a gaunt, mournful-faced man who had obviously been keeping out of Emes’s way, climbed on to the quarterdeck and glanced at the traverse board.

Pascoe said, “What of the weather, Mr Bellis?”

Bellis grimaced. “It’ll get worse, sir. Can feel it in me bones.”

He cocked his head. “Listen to that lot!”

Pascoe thrust his hands behind him and gripped them together. He had heard the pumps going. They went during each watch now. Perhaps they were right about the old ship. The Bay was certainly playing hell with her seams.

The master warmed to his theme. “Too long in port, sir, that’s what. Should’ve left her be. I’ll lay odds she’s as ripe as a pear round the keel, no matter what the dockyard said!”

Pascoe turned away. “Thank you for your confidence, Mr Bellis.”

The master grinned. “My pleasure, sir.”

Pascoe raised his telescope and stared at the little brig. Almost lost now in another flurry of grey, wet mist.

He had read the fighting instructions, and pictured Browne now as he prepared himself for what lay ahead. Pascoe shivered.

Tonight.

He wished more than anything he was going with him. Even the thought made him angry. He was getting disloyal like Bellis and some of the other old hands.

Phalarope
had been a fine ship. He clutched the hammock nettings as the deck tilted steeply to the wind. His uncle had once stood just here. A chill seemed to touch his spine, as if he were standing naked in the wet breeze.

He must have stood and watched the other frigate,
Andiron,
approaching, her British colours hiding her new identity of a privateer.

Commanded by my father.

Pascoe looked along the gun-deck and nodded slowly. Herrick, Allday and poor Neale had walked that deck, even Bolitho’s steward Ferguson, who had lost an arm up there on the forecastle.

I’ve come to you now.
Pascoe smiled self-consciously. But he felt better for it.

Lieutenant Browne had been hanging on to the jolly-boat’s gunwale for so long his hand felt numb and useless. Ever since they A

had thrust away from the brig’s protective side he had been beset by a procession of doubts and heart-stopping moments of sheer terror.

The heavily muffled oars had continued in their unbroken stroke, while a master’s mate had crouched beside the coxswain, a lighted compass hidden beneath a tarpaulin screen.

Lieutenant Searle said, “According to my calculations we should be close now. But as far as I can tell we might be in China!”

Browne peered from bow to bow, his eyes raw with salt spray. He felt the boat sidle and veer away on a sudden current, and heard the master’s mate mutter new instructions to the coxswain.

Had to be soon. Must be. He saw a wedge of black rock rise up to starboard and slide away again, betrayed only by the uneasy surf.

He peered at the sky. Black as a highwayman’s boot.

Searle stiffened at his side, and for one terrible moment Browne thought he had seen a French guard-boat.

Searle exclaimed, “Look! Larboard bow!” He clapped his arm excitedly. “Well done, Oliver!”

Browne tried to swallow but the roof of his mouth was like leather. He peered harder into the darkness until he thought his eyes would burst from their sockets.

It was there. A crescent of beach, a long frothing necklace of surf.

He tried to stay calm and unmoved. He could still be wrong.

The rock he had remembered so vividly might look quite different from this bearing.

“Easy, all! Boat yer oars!”

The boat surged forward and ground on to the beach with an indescribable clatter and roar. Browne almost fell as seamen leapt into the shallows to steady the hull, while Searle watched

their small party of six men until they were all clear and wading ashore.

Searle rasped, “See to the powder, man! Nicholl, scout ahead, lively!”

There were a few quick whispers. “Good luck, sir.” Another unknown voice called, “I’ll keep a wet for you, Harry!” Then the boat had gone, oars backing furiously as freed of her load she turned eagerly towards the open water.

Browne stood quite still and listened to the wind, the gurgle of water among rocks and across the tight sand.

Searle strode back to him, his hanger already drawn.

“Ready, Oliver?” His teeth shone white in the darkness. “You know the way.”

Then Browne saw the rock standing above him. Like a squatting camel. As he remembered it from when he had stood there with Bolitho.

Searle had selected his men himself. Apart from two competent gunner’s mates, there were four of the toughest, most villainous looking hands Browne had ever laid eyes on. Searle had described them as fugitives from more than one gibbet. Browne could well believe it.

They paused by a waving clump of salt-encrusted grass and Browne said quietly, “The path begins here.”

He was surprised he was so calm now that the moment had arrived. He had been half afraid that his resolve might vanish once he had left the ship and the familiar faces and routine.

I am all right.

Searle whispered, “Moubray, get up there and stay with Nicholl, Garner take rear-guard.”

The remaining seaman and the two gunner’s mates lurched up the path, their bodies loaded with powder and weapons like so many pit ponies.

The path was steeper than Browne remembered, and at the A

top they all laid down in the wet grass to regain their breath and find their bearings.

Browne said softly, “See that pale thing? That’s the prison wall. If there are no new prisoners there, the guard will be pretty slack. Our target is to the right. Hundred paces and then round a low hill.”

The gunner’s mate named Jones hissed, “Wot’s that, then?”

They all lay prone and Browne said, “Horses. A night picket of the dragoons I told you about. They’ll keep to the road.”

Mercifully, the slow, drumming hoofbeats were soon lost to the other night noises.

Searle rose to his feet. “Advance.” He pointed with his hanger.

“Don’t stumble, and the first man to loose off a weapon gets my blade on his neck!”

Browne found he was able to smile. Searle was only twenty, but he had the sturdy assurance of an old campaigner.

It took longer than expected, and Browne had the feeling they had wandered too far to the right.

He felt a great sense of relief when Nicholl, the seaman who was scouting ahead, called in a fierce whisper, “There ’tis, sir!

Dead ahead!”

They all dropped flat while Browne and Searle examined the faint outline of the church.

“The door’s on the far side, facing the road.”

Browne made himself think about the next minutes. They might be all there were left for him. What had he expected? It was necessary, but for him and the others it was almost certain death. He smiled to himself. At least his father might see some good in him after this.

He looked from side to side. “Ready?”

They all nodded, and some bared their teeth like hounds on a leash.

Then, keeping close against the wall of the church, they edged

their way around it towards the opposite side. It was if everyone else had died or been stricken by some terrible plague. Only the grass shivered in the sea-breeze, and the squeak of their shoes made the only other sound.