A Tradition of Victory (6 page)

The same and yet different. He was frowning as he moved the glass again, seeing the insect-like figures on the ratlines and gangways, the blues and whites of the officers aft by the wheel.

Outdated,
that was it. The weak sunlight touched the frigate’s poop, and Bolitho recalled the fineness of her gingerbread, carved by experts in the trade. That had been another war.

Newer frigates like
Styx
had fewer embellishments, less dignity,

honed down to the demands of chase and battle.

Neale lowered his telescope and said huskily, “Hell’s teeth, sir, it’s like yesterday. Like watching myself.”

Bolitho looked past him at Allday by the hammock nettings.

He was opening and closing his large fists, staring at the fast-running frigate until his eyes watered. So that he looked as if he was weeping.

He made himself raise the telescope once again. She was smart for her age, and was reacting to the sight of a rear-admiral’s flag just as Bolitho had once done when he had taken
Phalarope
to Antigua.

Neale called, “Heave to, Mr Pickthorn! Have the gig swayed out.”

Browne asked, “Will you require me, sir?”

“If you want to come, please do.” Bolitho saw the uncertainty, the need to understand. He added, “If you can trust your stomach during the crossing.”

Allday walked to the entry port and waited for the gig to be pulled round to the main-chains. Neale’s own coxswain nodded to Allday and allowed him to take his place at the tiller without comment.

Bolitho noticed all and none of these things. So it was right through
Styx
already, probably every vessel under his flag.

He touched his hat to the officers and marines at the entry port, and to Neale said quietly, “I will renew the acquaintance-ship for all of us.”

Who did he mean? Allday and Neale, Herrick back in Plymouth, or Ferguson, his steward, who had lost his arm at the Saintes. Or perhaps he was speaking for the others who would never come home.

Then he was settled in the sternsheets, the oars already thrashing at the tossing water to take the gig clear of the side.

Allday called, “Give way, all!”

Bolitho glanced up at him. But Allday kept his eyes fixed on the ship. Perhaps they had both known this would happen, but now that it had, could no longer share it.

Bolitho unclipped the boat cloak he wore, and threw it clear of the bright gold epaulettes, each with its new silver star.

It was just another ship in a desperately depleted squadron, and he was their admiral.

He glanced again at Allday’s rigid shoulders and knew it was a lie.

After the creak of oars and the sting of spray it seemed suddenly subdued on the
Phalarope
’s deck. Bolitho replaced his hat and nodded briefly to the ship’s marine officer who had arranged his men in two scarlet ranks to receive him.

“Captain Emes?” Bolitho held out his hand as the slightly built figure stepped forward. He had a swift impression of alert wariness, a youthful face, but with a mouth hardened by the rigours of command.

Emes said, “I am honoured to receive you aboard, sir.” Again there was a sharpness to his voice, a man on guard, one who had been practising for this very moment. “Although I fear you must know
Phalarope
better than I do.” A shutter seemed to drop behind his level gaze, as if he had already said too much. He half turned, but although he was about to present his officers, his eyes were elsewhere, seeking flaws to the pattern, anything which might make a poor showing.

Bolitho could well understand any captain being eager to make a good impression on his new flag-officer, the man who could fulfil or shatter his hopes for any kind of future. But he had gleaned enough about Emes to doubt if that was the full story.

A post-captain at twenty-nine was a record to be proud of, and should have given him a confidence to go with it.

Emes said crisply, “My senior you will also know better

than I, sir.” Emes stood aside as if to watch for reactions.

Bolitho exclaimed, “Adam! Of all things!”

Lieutenant Adam Pascoe, looking even younger than his twenty-one years, was both relieved and pleased.

“I—I am sorry, Unc—” he flushed, “sir, I had no way of letting you know. The appointment came without warning and I had to leave for Ireland by the first packet.”

They examined each other, more like brothers than uncle and nephew.

Pascoe added uncertainly, “When I heard what my appointment was to be, I am afraid I thought of little else.”

Bolitho moved on and shook hands with the second and third lieutenants, the sailing-master, ship’s surgeon, and the captain of marines. Beyond them, the midshipmen and other warrant officers were backed by crowds of curious seamen, who were too surprised at this unexpected visit on their first commission to be aware of the more personal emotions by the entry port.

Bolitho looked slowly along the gun-deck, at the neatly flaked lines and taut rigging. He could even remember the way she had felt that first time when he had stepped aboard.

He cleared his throat. “Dismiss the hands, Captain Emes, and take station to windward of
Styx.
” He did not see the astonishment in Emes’s eyes. “Allday, send back the gig.” He hesitated.

“You remain with me.”

The mass of seamen and marines broke into orderly confusion as the call to get under way was piped around the deck.

Within fifteen minutes Emes had reset the courses and topgallants, and although some of the hands were slow and even clumsy as they ran to obey his commands, it was obvious they had been training hard since leaving harbour.

Browne said, “Fine ship, sir.” He looked around at the bustling figures, the stamp of bare feet as the seamen hauled hard on the braces.

Bolitho walked along the weather gangway, oblivious to the darting glances from the seamen and Emes’s shadow behind him.

He stopped suddenly and pointed below the opposite gangway. No wonder she had seemed changed. Instead of her original nal lines of twelve-pounders, each gunport was filled by a blunt-muzzled carronade. The carronade, or “smasher” as it was respect-fully termed by the sailors, was carried in almost every man-of-war.

Normally mounted on either bow, it could throw an enormous ball which burst on impact and discharged a murderous hail of grape through an enemy’s unprotected stern with horrifying effect.

But as a ship’s armament, never. It had been tried experimentally some years back in another frigate, the
Rainbow,
but had proved unsuccessful and not a little dangerous in close combat.

Emes said quickly, “They were already mounted before I took charge of the refit, sir. I understand that they were taken into consideration when
Phalarope
was selected for this sector.” He waved his hand to the quarterdeck. “I still have eight 9-pounders as well, sir.” He sounded defensive.

Bolitho looked at him. “Admiral Sir George Beauchamp had been doing more planning than I realized.” When Emes did not even blink, he imagined he as yet knew nothing of his orders.

A midshipman called, “
Styx
is signalling, sir!”

Emes grunted, “I shall come aft.” He sounded relieved. “If you will excuse me, sir?”

Bolitho nodded and walked slowly along the gangway, his ears searching for lost voices, his eyes catching brief pictures of almost forgotten faces on the strangers around him.

A clean, smart ship, with a captain who would stand no nonsense. It seemed incredible that Pascoe should be the senior lieutenant. His nephew’s dream had come true. Bolitho tried to find comfort there. He would have been the same, or was there still the other memory, the stain which had left a lasting mark in this ship?

Allday murmured, “All these smashers, sir. She’ll shake her innards on to the sea-bed if she’s called to give battle.”

Bolitho paused on the forecastle, his palm resting on a worn handrail.

“You were
here
at the Saintes, Allday.”

Allday glanced around the pitching deck. “Aye, sir. Me an’ a few others.” His voice strengthened and he seemed to rise from his depression. “God, the Frenchies were at us that day, an’ that’s no error! I saw the first lieutenant fall, an’ the second. Mr Herrick,
young
Mr Herrick he was in them days, took their place, and more than once I thought my time had come.” He watched Bolitho’s grave features. “I saw your coxswain fall too, old Stockdale.” He shook his head affectionately. “Protecting your back from the Frog marksmen, he was.”

Bolitho nodded. The memory was still painful. The fact he had not even seen Stockdale die in his defence had made it worse.

Allday grinned. But it made him look sad. “I determined right then, that if you was alive at the end o’ the day, I’d be your coxswain in his place. Mind you, sir, I’ve regretted more’n once since then, but still …”

Pascoe clattered up a ladder from the gun-deck. “Captain Emes has released me to act as your guide, sir.” He smiled awkwardly. “I suspect she is little altered.”

Bolitho glanced aft and saw Emes outlined against the bright sky. Watching him, wondering if they were exchanging secrets he could not share. It was wrong and unfair, Bolitho thought. But he had to know.

“Did you see Mrs Laidlaw, Adam?”

“No, sir. I had gone before she returned.” He shrugged. “I left her a letter, of course, Uncle.”

“Thank you.”

He was glad now that he had told Pascoe about his father. If he had not …

As if reading his thoughts, Pascoe said, “When my father fought against us during the American Revolution he attacked this ship. I’ve thought about it such a lot, and have tried to see how it was for you
and
him.” He watched Bolitho anxiously and then blurted out, “Anyway, Uncle, I wanted to join her. Even as the most junior lieutenant I’d have come.”

Bolitho gripped his arm. “I’m glad.” He looked at the tilting deck. “For both of you.”

A midshipman ran forward and touched his hat. “Captain’s respects, sir, and there is a signal for you.”

But on the quarterdeck once more Emes seemed unruffled by the news.

“
Styx
has sighted a brig to the south’rd, sir.” He looked up with sudden irritation as his own masthead called that he had sighted a strange sail. “Must be blind, that one!”

Bolitho turned to hide his face. He knew that Neale often trusted a lookout or a midshipman aloft with a powerful telescope when the visibility made it worthwhile.

Emes contained his anger. “Would you care to come below, sir? Some claret perhaps?”

Bolitho looked at him calmly. Emes was afraid of him. Ill at ease.

“Thank you. Signal
Styx
to investigate, if you please, while you and I share a glass.”

The cabin, like the rest of the ship, was neat and clean, but with nothing lying about to show something of its owner’s character.

Emes busied himself with some goblets while Bolitho stared aft through the salt-smeared windows and allowed his mind to grapple with old memories.

“Young Mr Pascoe is performing well, sir.”

Bolitho eyed him across the claret. “If he were not, I would expect no favour, Captain.”

The directness of his reply threw Emes into confusion.

“I see, sir, yes, I understand. But I know what people say, what they think.”

“And what am
I
thinking?”

Emes paced across the cabin and back again. “The fleet is so short of experienced officers, sir, and I, as a post-captain, have been given command of this old ship.” He watched Bolitho for a sign that he might have gone too far, but when he remained silent added forcefully, “She
was
a fine vessel, and under your command one of great distinction.” He looked around, deflated and trapped. “Now she is old, her frames and timbers weakened by years of harbour duty. But I am glad to command her for all that.” He looked Bolitho straight in the eyes. “Grateful would be a better word.”

Bolitho put down the goblet very carefully. “
Now
I remember.”

He had been so full of his own worries, so affected by the return of his old command, he had barely thought of her captain.

Now it came like a fist in the darkness. Captain Daniel Emes of the frigate
Abdiel,
who had faced a court martial about a year ago.

He
should
have remembered. Emes had broken off an engagement with a larger enemy force not many leagues from this very position, but by so doing had allowed another British ship to be captured. It had been rumoured that only Emes’s early promotion to post-rank, and his previously excellent record, had saved him from oblivion and disgrace.

There was a tap at the door and Browne peered in at them, his face suitably blank.

“My pardon, sir, but
Styx
has signalled that she is in contact.

The brig is from the southern squadron with despatches.” He glanced swiftly at Emes’s strained features. “It would seem that the brig is eager to speak with us.”

“I shall return to
Styx
directly.” As Browne hurried away Bolitho added slowly, “
Phalarope
was a newer ship when I took

command, but a far less happy one than she is today. You may think she is too old for the kind of work we have to do. You may also believe she is not good enough for an officer of your skill and experience.” He picked up his hat and walked to the door. “I cannot speak for the former, but I shall certainly form my own judgement on the latter. As far as I am concerned, you are one of my captains.” He looked at him levelly. “The past is buried.”

Every inch of the surrounding cabin seemed to throw the last words back in his face. But he had to trust Emes, had to make him return that trust.

Emes said thickly, “Thank you for that, sir.”

“Before we join the others, Captain Emes. If you were faced tomorrow with the same sort of situation as the one which led to a court martial, how would you act?”

Emes shrugged. “I have asked myself a thousand times, sir.

In truth, I am not sure.”

Bolitho touched his arm, sensing his rigidity and wariness outwardly protected by the bright epaulettes.