A Tradition of Victory (7 page)

He smiled. “Had you said otherwise, I think I would have requested a replacement for your command by the next brig!”

Later, as the two frigates tacked closer together, and the far off brig spread more sail to beat up to them, Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck rail and looked along the length of the upper deck.

So much had happened and had nearly ended here. He heard Emes rapping out orders in his same crisp tones. A difficult man with a difficult choice if ever he had to make it again.

Allday said suddenly, “Well, sir, what d’you think?”

Bolitho smiled at him. “I’m glad she’s come back, Allday.

There are too few veterans here today.”

Bolitho waited for the glasses to be refilled and tried to contain his new excitement. The
Styx
’s stern cabin looked snug and pleased with itself in the glow of the deckhead lanterns, and although the

hull groaned and shuddered around them, Bolitho knew that the sea was calmer, that true to the sailing-master’s prediction the wind had backed to the north-west.

He looked around the small group, and although it was black beyond the stern windows he could picture the other two frigates following in line astern while their captains awaited his pleasure.

Only
Rapid
’s young commander was absent, prowling somewhere to the north-east in readiness to dash down and alert his consorts if the French attempted a breakout under cover of darkness.

How would the parents and families feel if they could see their offspring on this night, he wondered? The bluff, red-faced Duncan of
Sparrowhawk,
relating with some relish, and to Neale’s obvious amusement, a recent entanglement with a magistrate’s wife in Bristol. Emes of the
Phalarope,
alert and very self-contained, watching and listening. Browne leaning over the fat shoulders of Smith, Neale’s clerk, and murmuring about some item or other.

Aboard the three frigates of Bolitho’s small force the first lieutenants would in turn be wondering at the outcome of this meeting. What would it mean to each of them personally?

Promotion, death, even a command if their lord and master should fail.

The clerk straightened his shoulders and silently withdrew from the cabin.

Bolitho listened to the sluice of water around the rudder, the faint tap, tap, tap of halliards, and a restless step of a watchkeeper overhead. A ship. A living thing.

“Gentlemen. Your health.”

Bolitho sat down at the table and turned over a chart. The three ships were standing inshore towards the Loire Estuary, but that was nothing unusual. British ships, in company or alone, had done it a thousand times to keep the French fleet guessing and to sever their precious lines of supply and communication.

The brig which today had made contact with
Styx
was already

well on her way to the north and England. Despatches from the vice-admiral commanding the southern squadron, another piece of intelligence which might eventually be used by the brains of Admiralty.

But, as was customary in local strategy, the brig’s commander had been instructed to make contact with any senior officer he discovered on passage. A keen-eyed lookout had ensured that the officer concerned was Bolitho.

He said, “You all know by now the bones of our orders, our true reason for being here.”

He glanced around their intent faces. Young and serious, each aware of the supposedly secret peace proposals, and conscious that with peace could come the sudden end of any hope for advancement. Bolitho understood very well. Between the wars he had been one of the very fortunate few who had been given a ship when the majority of officers had been thrown on the beach like paupers.

“A week ago, two of our patrols to the south’rd fell in with a Spanish trader and tried to take her as a prize. It was near dark and the Spaniard made a run for it. But with a few balls slammed into his hull, and a shifting cargo for good measure, he began to capsize. A boarding party was just in time to seize some papers, and discover that the vessel’s holds were filled with building stone.

With encouragement the Spanish master admitted he was bringing his cargo into
this
sector.” He touched the chart with his fingers. “Fifteen leagues south of our present position, to the Ile d’Yeu.”

As he had expected, some of their earlier excitement had given way to disappointment. He decided not to play with them any longer.

“The Spanish master stated that he had visited the island several times, and on every occasion had landed a cargo of stone.”

He picked up the brass dividers and moved them over the chart.

“He also said that the anchorage was filled with small vessels, newly built and fitted out. He did not know of their purpose until shown some drawings of French invasion craft of the kind being gathered in the Channel ports.” He nodded, seeing their immediate interest. “The very same. So while we watch Belle Ile and Lorient, the French admiral is moving his flotillas of gun brigs and bombs whenever he is told it is safe to do so.”

Duncan opened his mouth and shut it again.

Bolitho asked, “Captain Duncan, you have a question?”

“The stone, sir, I don’t see the point of it. Och, even new craft don’t need that much ballast while they are fitting out, and I’m sure there must be plenty closer to the building yards.”

“Perhaps by moving their craft close inshore they prefer to use the stone as ballast until they are ready for final commissioning at Lorient or Brest. The stone would then be off-loaded and used for fortifications and local batteries. It would make good sense, and draw far less attention than the movement of larger vessels in our area. All this time we have been watching the wrong sector, but now we
know,
gentlemen, and I intend to act upon this information.”

Neale and Duncan grinned at each other, as if they were being included in a mission already fought and won.

Emes said flatly, “But without further reinforcements, sir, it will be a hard nut to crack. I know the Ile d’Yeu, and the narrow channel between it and the mainland. An easy anchorage to protect, a hazardous one to attack.” He withdrew behind his mask as the others stared at him as if he had uttered some terrible oath.

“Well said.” Bolitho spread his hands across the chart. “We will create a diversion. The French will not expect a raid within such confined waters if they see us elsewhere, where they
expect
to see us.”

He turned to Browne who had been trying to catch his eye for several minutes.

“Yes?”

“Well, sir, if we wait until reinforcements arrive, as Sir George Beauchamp
desired
in his original plan, we could stand a better chance of success surely? Or if the brig which brought the news eventually returns with new orders countermanding our present commitment, then we shall be obliged to do nothing.”

Duncan exploded, “Do
nothing,
man! What are you saying?”

Bolitho smiled. “I take your point, Browne.”

Like Herrick and Allday, he was trying to shield him. If he attacked and failed, his head would be on the block. If he held back, nobody could blame him, but Beauchamp’s trust would be dishonoured for ever.

He said quietly, “If there is to be peace, it must be decided on fair and equal terms and not under the threat of invasion. If later there is to be war, we must ensure now that our people are not outmanœuvred from the moment the treaty is torn in shreds.

I don’t see that I have any choice.”

Duncan and Neale nodded firmly in agreement, but Emes merely brushed a loose thread from his sleeve, his face expressionless.

In the silence, Bolitho was conscious of Smith’s pen scraping on paper, and of his own heart against his ribs.

He added, “I have seen too many ships lost, too many lives tossed away, to ignore something which may be important, even vital, to our future. I suggest you return to your duties, gentlemen, and I shall endeavour to do mine.”

As the three captains left the cabin, Bolitho said, “Thank you for trying to protect me, Oliver. But there was never any choice.

Even without this new information, I should have been forced to act. At least I know where. The
how
always takes a mite longer, eh?”

Browne smiled, touched at Bolitho’s confidence in him, the familiar use of his name.

When Bolitho spoke again his voice was preoccupied, even distant.

“And something troubles me …” He thought of Emes, withdrawn and resentful, of his nephew, Adam, so pleased with the realization of a dream, and of the girl in Falmouth.

“When I have discovered what it is, I shall feel more confident perhaps.”

If I have not already left it too late.

SEVEN DAYS after calling his captains together in conference, Bolitho was growing more and more restless for news. It was like being abandoned by the world beyond
Styx
’s hull, or being cast adrift because of some terrible plague.

He had deliberately sent the other two frigates to maintain close watch on Belle Ile and its approaches. This would ensure that the French would believe their enemy’s blockade remained unchanged. Also, if the Spanish shipmaster’s information proved false, it might allow time to call heavier vessels from the other squadrons if there was an attempt to break out.

So while
Styx
cruised slowly back and forth along a twenty-mile triangle to the south, Bolitho had ordered the little brig to maintain contact between them.

It was frustrating, almost maddening, to know nothing, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from going on deck whenever he heard a cry from the masthead or some unusual disturbance among the men on watch. The weather did nothing to help. The wind had fallen away to a leisurely breeze, with barely a whitecap to break the Bay’s shark-blue emptiness. The ship’s

company, although much aware of the responsibility of carrying their admiral about his affairs, grew slack and casual. Here and there seamen would loll at their monotonous tasks of splicing and whipping, polishing and stitching, and, hidden from the quarterdeck, others would lie sprawled in the tops, fast asleep.

Bolitho had noticed that neither Neale nor Browne had mentioned the lack of support from north or south. Beauchamp’s wishes must have been translated into deeds by now, even the gun brigs from Gibraltar should have arrived to give him the support he needed. The fact that Browne stayed silent suggested he and not his rear-admiral was closer to the truth. No support
would
arrive. The strategy so carefully planned by Beauchamp would be allowed to lie in some Admiralty strongbox until conveniently forgotten.

Allday entered the cabin and removed Bolitho’s sword from its rack to give it a daily polish. He hesitated, his thick shadow swaying easily to the ship’s gentle lift and plunge.

“That brig could have been delayed, sir. Wind was against her.

Takes time to beat up-channel. I remember when we was in—”

Bolitho shook his head. “Not now. I know you mean well, but she must have made port with days to spare. Those craft are well used to their work.”

Allday sighed. “No sense in blaming yourself, sir.” He paused as if expecting Bolitho to turn on him. “These past days you’ve been like a falcon on a line, not able to do what he wants.”

Bolitho sat down on the bench beneath the stern windows.

It was strange, but a fact, that it was easy to talk with his big coxswain, whereas he could never express even the hint of a doubt to Neale or any of his officers. That would imply weakness, uncertainty, what a man remembered when the iron began to fly, when he most needed to be inspired.

Allday was probably right. It was all too soon after the Baltic. Allday would realize that better than any of them. He had

carried him in his arms when his wound had burst open and he almost died.

He asked, “What does your falcon do, Allday?”

Allday drew the old sword and raised it level with his eye until the edge gleamed in the reflected sunlight like a silver thread.

“He bides his time, sir. If he’s meant to be free, somehow he’ll manage it.”

They both looked up, off guard, as the masthead’s voice echoed through the skylight. “Deck there! Sail on th’ larboard quarter!”

Feet pounded across the planking and another voice snapped,

“Alert the captain, Mr Manning! Mr Kilburne, aloft with you, smartly now!”

Bolitho and Allday exchanged glances.

It was the part Bolitho hated most. Having to wait. Not able to rush up and join the others and make his own judgement.

Neale was the captain.

Voices sighed back and forth across the quarterdeck, but more subdued now. They were conscious either of Neale’s arrival on deck or of the fact that the cabin skylight was propped fully open.

Allday murmured, “God damn them, they are taking an age!”

In spite of his own anxiety, Bolitho was forced to smile.

“Easy, Allday. I will assist you if things become too difficult!”

But when a breathless midshipman arrived and blurted out his captain’s respects, and that a sail was closing to larboard, he found his admiral apparently at ease and untroubled on the stern bench and his coxswain engrossed in polishing a sword.

On the quarterdeck the sun was very hot, and made the shadows of rigging and shrouds criss-cross the pale planking like black bars.

Bolitho joined Neale by the hammock nettings. Like the other officers, he had discarded his heavy coat and was wearing shirt and breeches, with nothing to distinguish him from his subordinates. Anyone in
Styx
’s company of some two hundred and forty

souls who did not recognize his admiral after two weeks of cramped isolation was beyond help, Bolitho thought.

Neale said, “Lookout thinks there are two vessels, sir.” He shifted under Bolitho’s gaze. “The heat haze is making it hard to determine.”

Bolitho nodded, unaware that in his eagerness he had been almost glaring at him.

“Deck, sir! She’s a brig!” A pause, and then the midshipman named Kilburne shouted, “And—and one other, sir!”