A Tradition of Victory (35 page)

Poor Inch. He looked up as the masthead lookout yelled,

“Deck there!”

“Sail on the lee bow!”

A dozen telescopes rose together, and something like a sigh transmitted itself along the upper deck.

Allday stood at Bolitho’s shoulder and whispered, “He’s too bloody late, sir!” But there was no pleasure in his voice.

Bolitho moved his glass very carefully across the glittering wave crests. Three ships of the line, bunched together by the distance, their pendants and ensigns making bright patches of colour against the sky. Another vessel, probably a frigate, was just showing herself around the headland.

He heard the marines shuffling their boots and standing up to the hammock nettings again as they realized their work had not even begun.

Allday had understood from the beginning. Inch too in all probability, but he had been so engrossed in his ship’s behaviour that he had put it from his mind.

He saw Midshipman Stirling shading his eyes to peer ahead towards the pale array of sails. He turned and saw Bolitho watching him, his eyes no longer confident but those of a confused boy.

“Come here, Mr Stirling.” Bolitho pointed to the distant ships. “Remond’s flying squadron. We’ll have given him a rude awakening this morning.”

Stirling asked, “Will we stand and fight, sir?”

Bolitho looked down at him and smiled gravely. “You are a King’s officer, Mr Stirling, no less than Captain Inch or myself.

What would you have me do?”

Stirling tried to see how he would describe this to his mother.

But nothing formed in his mind, and he was suddenly afraid.

“Fight, sir!”

“Attend the signals party, Mr Stirling.” To Allday he added softly, “If he can say that when he is terrified, there is hope for us all.”

Allday eyed him curiously, “If you say so, sir.”

“Deck there! Two more sail of the line roundin’ the point!”

Bolitho clasped his hands behind him.
Five to one.
He looked at Inch’s despair.

There was no point in fighting and dying for nothing. A brutal human sacrifice. They had done what many had thought impossible. Neale, Browne and all the others would not have died in vain.

But to order Inch to strike his colours would be almost as hard as dying.

“Deck there!”

Bolitho stared up at the lookout in the mizzen crosstrees. He must have been so dazed by the sight of the oncoming squadron he had failed to watch his own sector.

“Glass!”

Bolitho almost snatched it from the midshipman’s hand, and ignoring the startled glances ran to the shrouds and climbed swiftly until he was well clear of the deck.

“Three sail of the line on the lee quarter!”

Bolitho watched the newcomers and felt a lump rise in his throat. Somehow or other, adverse winds or not, Herrick had managed it. He wiped his eye with his sleeve and steadied the glass for another look.

Benbow
in the lead. He would know her fat hull and thrusting figurehead anywhere. He saw Herrick’s broad-pendant writhing uncomfortably as ship by ship the remainder of the squadron tacked for what must be the hundredth time as they struggled to beat upwind and join their admiral.

He lowered himself to the quarterdeck and saw the others watching him like strangers.

Then Inch asked quietly, “Orders, sir?”

Bolitho glanced at Stirling and his colourful litter of flags.

“General signal, if you please, Mr Stirling.
Form line of battle.
”

Allday looked up as the flags broke stiffly to the wind. “I’ll lay odds mounseer never expected
that!
”

Bolitho smiled. They were still outnumbered, but he had known worse odds. So had Herrick.

He looked at Stirling. “You see, I took your advice!”

Allday shook his head. How did he do it? In an hour, maybe less, they would be fighting for their very breath.

Bolitho glanced up at the masthead pendant and formed a picture of the battle in his mind. If the wind held they might fight ship to ship. That would offer Remond the advantage. Better to allow his captains to act individually after they had broken the enemy’s line.

He looked along the deck, at the bare-backed gun crews and the boatswain’s party who were preparing to hoist out the boats and drop them astern. A tier of boats only added to the splinter wounds, and these were not low-hulled invasion craft they were preparing to fight.

He saw some of the new hands murmuring to one another, their first taste of victory soured by the arrival of the powerful French squadron.

“Captain Inch! Have your marine fifers play us into battle. It will help to ease their minds.”

Inch followed his glance, and then bobbed and said,

“Sometimes I forget, sir, the war has gone on for so long I think everyone must have fought in a real sea battle!”

And so the little sixty-four with the rear-admiral’s flag at her mizzen sailed to meet the enemy in the bright sunlight, while her marine fifers and drummers marched and counter-marched on a space no bigger than a carpet.

Many of the seamen who had been staring at the enemy ships turned inboard to watch and to tap their feet to the lively jig,
The
Post Captain.

Astern of
Odin
and her attendant frigate, the bay was filled with drifting smoke and the scattered flotsam of a dream.

BOLITHO was in
Odin
’s chartroom when Inch reported that the masthead had sighted the brig
Rapid
closing slowly from the south-west.

Bolitho threw the dividers on the chart and walked out into the sunlight. Commander Lapish obviously hoped to add his small ship to the squadron, odds or no odds.

He said, “Signal
Rapid
as soon as you can. Tell her to find
Ganymede
and
harass the enemy’s rear.
” It might prevent the only French frigate at present in sight from outmanœuvring the heavier ships, at least until Duncan’s
Sparrowhawk
joined them from the northern sector.

Inch watched the flags darting aloft and asked, “Shall we wait for the commodore to join us, sir?”

Bolitho shook his head. The French squadron had formed into an untidy but formidable line, the second ship wearing the flag of a rear-admiral. Remond. It had to be.

“I think not. Given more time I would not hesitate. But time will also aid the enemy to stand into the bay and take the wind-gage while the rest of our squadron is floundering into the face of it.”

He raised his glass again and studied the leading ship. A two-decker, with her guns already run out, although she was still three miles distant. A powerful ship, probably of eighty guns. On the face of it she should be more than a match for the smaller
Odin.

But this was where the months and years of relentless blockade and patrols in all weathers added their weight to the odds.

The French, on the other hand, spent more time bottled up in harbour than exercising at sea. It was most likely why Remond had placed another ship than his own to point the attack, to watch and prepare his squadron in good time.

He said suddenly, “See how the French flagship stands a little to windward of the leader.”

Inch nodded, his face totally blank. “Sir?”

“If we attack without waiting for our other ships to join us, I think the French admiral intends to separate, then engage us on either beam.”

Inch licked his lips. “While the last three in his line stand off and wait.”

Stirling called, “
Rapid
’s acknowledged, sir.”

Allday climbed on to the poop ladder and peered astern. How far away
Benbow
now seemed. Quite rightly Herrick was clawing his way into the bay so that he could eventually come about and hold the wind in his favour. But it took time, a lot of it.

There was a dull bang, and a ball skipped across the sea a good mile away. The leading French captain was exercising his bow-chasers, probably to break the tension of waiting as much as possible.

It would not help him to have his admiral treading on his coat-tails, Allday thought, and watching every move he made.

He turned and looked along
Odin
’s crowded deck. There would not be many left standing if she got trapped between two of the Frenchmen without support. Was that what Bolitho meant to do? To damage the enemy so much that the remainder would be left to fight Herrick on equal terms?

He spoke aloud. “Gawd Almighty!”

The marine colour-sergeant who was standing on the right of the nearest line of marksmen grinned at him.

“Nervous, matey?”

Allday grimaced. “Hell, not likely. I’m just looking for a place to take a nap!”

He stiffened as he heard Inch say to the master, “Mr M’Ewan, the rear-admiral intends to luff when we are within half a cable.

We shall then wear and attack the second ship in the French line.”

Allday saw the sailing-master’s head nodding jerkily as if it was only held to his shoulders by a cord.

The colour-sergeant hissed, “Wot’s that then?”

Allday folded his arms and allowed his mind to settle.
Odin
would luff, and by the time she had turned into the wind would be all but under the other ship’s bowsprit. Then she would wear and turn round to thrust between the leading vessels. If she was allowed. It was hazardous, and could render
Odin
a bloody shambles in a few minutes. But anything was better than being raked from either beam at the same time.

He replied calmly, “It
means,
my scarlet friend, that you an’

your lot are going to be very busy!”

Bolitho watched the oncoming formation, looking for a sign, some quick hoist of flags which might betray Remond’s suspi-cion. He would be expecting something surely? One small sixty-four against five ships of the line.

He recalled Remond’s swarthy features, his dark, intelligent eyes.

He said, “Captain Inch, tell your lower battery to load with double-shot. The eighteen-pounders of the upper battery will load with langridge, if you please.” He held Inch’s gaze. “I want that leading ship dismasted when we luff.”

Bolitho looked up at the masthead pendant. Wind still holding as strong as ever. He almost looked astern but stopped himself in time. The officers and men nearby would see it as uncertainty, their admiral looking for support. It was best to forget about Herrick. He was doing all he could.

Graham, the first lieutenant, touched his hat to Inch.

“Permission to fall out the drummers and fifers, sir?”

Bolitho looked quickly at the minute figures in scarlet. He had been so wrapped in his thoughts he had barely heard a note.

Gratefully, the panting fifers hurried below to a chorus of ironic cheers.

Bolitho touched the unfamiliar hilt of his sword. They could still cheer.

Another bang from the leader, and the ball ploughed up a furrow of spray some three cables abeam. The French captain must be on edge. He’s probably watching me now. Bolitho walked away from the mizzen bitts so that the sunshine would play on his bright epaulettes. At least he would know his enemy, he thought grimly.

He turned to watch a cluster of screaming gulls below the quarterdeck rail. They were unimpressed and quite used to a daily fight for survival.

Inch said, “The French admiral’s reset his t’gan’s’ls, sir.”

Bolitho watched the weather bow of the enemy flagship show itself around the leader’s quarter. He had guessed Remond’s intention. Now it all depended on the men around him.

“Captain Inch, this needs to be carefully done.” He touched his arm and smiled. “Though I need not tell you how to handle her, eh?”

Inch beamed with obvious pleasure. “Thank you
kindly,
sir!”

He turned away, the captain again. “Mr Graham! Pipe the hands to the braces!” His arm shot out and pointed at a lieutenant on the gun-deck. “Mr Synge! Have both batteries been reloaded as ordered?”

The lieutenant squinted up at the quarterdeck rail and replied nervously, “Aye, sir! I—I forgot to report it.”

Inch glared at the luckless lieutenant. “I am glad to hear it, Mr Synge, for an instant I imagined you thought I was a mind-reader!”

Several of the gun crews chuckled and lapsed into silence as the flushed-faced lieutenant turned towards them.

Bolitho watched the French ships and found he could do it without emotion. He was committed. Right or wrong, there was no chance to break off the action, even if he wanted to.

“Ready ho!”

The men at the braces and halliards crouched and flexed their muscles as if they were about to enter a contest.

M’Ewan watched the shake of the topsails, the angle of the masthead pendant. Nearby his helmsmen gripped the spokes and waited like crude statuary.

“Helm a-lee!”

“Let go and haul!”

The ship seemed to stagger at the rough handling, then after what felt like an eternity she began to swing readily into the wind.

Graham’s voice was everywhere at once. “Haul over the boom!

Let go the t’gallant bowlines!”

At each port the gun captains watched the empty sea and ignored the commotion of thrashing canvas, the squeal of running rigging and the slap of bare feet on the planking.

Bolitho concentrated on the leading Frenchman, feeling a cold satisfaction as she continued on the same tack, although her officers must have wondered what Inch was doing. They might have expected his nerve to break, for him to tack to leeward with the wind from aft. Then the leading enemy ships would have raked
Odin
’s stern before grappling and smashing down her resistance at point-blank range.

But now
Odin
was answering, and heading into the wind with her sails billowing in disorder as her yards were hauled round. To any landsmen she would appear to be all aback and unable to proceed, but as she continued to flounder into the wind she slowly and surely presented her starboard side to the oncoming ship’s bows.

Graham yelled through his trumpet,
“As you bear!”

Inch’s sword hissed down, and deck by deck
Odin
’s guns crashed out, the upper battery with its screaming langridge matched by the lower one’s double-charged guns.