A Tradition of Victory (8 page)

The sailing-master whispered to one of his mates, “Gawd

’elp us!”

Neale cupped his hands. “What the
hell
are you talking about, sir?”

The second lieutenant who was on watch said helpfully, “I could get aloft, sir.”

“Remain here!” Neale turned to his first lieutenant. “Mr Pickthorn, I must ask you to go as I am seemingly supported by blind men and cripples!”

Pickthorn concealed a grin and was swarming up the ratlines before Neale had recovered his composure.

The air shook to the far-off bang of a gun, and Bolitho had to move to the lee side to hide his own impatience.

“Deck! ’Tis
Rapid,
sir! In pursuit of a small vessel, possibly a yawl!”

Neale squinted at the masthead pendant and the listless rise and fall of his sails and exclaimed, “Damn them! We’ll stand no chance!”

Bolitho said sharply, “What is the course to steer for Ile d’Yeu?”

Neale dragged his mind away from the thought of losing prize-money, no matter how small.

The sailing-master called, “Due east, sir, as makes no difference.”

Bolitho strode across the deck, barely conscious of the curious stares, the sun which had already changed his shirt into a wet rag.

“Bring her about, Captain Neale, and beat to wind’rd! When you are within signalling distance, I wish you to order
Rapid
to stand away!”

Pickthorn arrived on deck with a thump. He said hoarsely,

“The yawl is making a run for it, sir! But
Rapid
’s overhauling her fast!” He sensed the tension. “Sir?”

“Signal
Rapid
to disengage! Then call the hands and prepare to come about.” Neale glanced quickly at Bolitho. “We are taking over the chase.”

Pickthorn stared. “I see. Aye, at once, sir!”

Calls shrilled, and within minutes the men were straining at the braces, bringing the frigate heeling round until her canvas was almost aback. Sails banged and flapped in wild confusion, and had the wind been any stronger, she would have been in danger of losing a few spars.

The other midshipman on watch closed his telescope and said, “
Rapid
has acknowledged, sir.”

There was no need to add what everyone was thinking. It was unheard of for any ship, let alone the one wearing the flag of a rear-admiral, to snatch a prize from a consort. With
Styx
standing almost into the wind, it was even likely the elusive yawl would slip clean away from both of them. That would raise a few jeers in some French harbour tonight.

The master yelled, “Nor’-nor’-west, sir! Full an’ bye!”

Bolitho did not have to be told. The frigate was pitching unsteadily, the air filled with the din of canvas and blocks, of angry voices trying to hold the ship on course.

Bolitho shut the others from his mind as he levelled a telescope and concentrated everything on the distant patch of sails.

She was big for a yawl, and had every piece of canvas set in her

favour as she ran free with the wind. Courier, smuggler, it was of no account. She needed to get to safety, and the nearest land was the Ile d’Yeu.

Neale said bitterly, “If I change tack to starboard and gain more wind I might still head her off. We have six hours before dusk.” He sounded disappointed and confused.

“Remain as you are, Captain Neale. I shall require you to luff directly.
Put her in stays.
”

“But, but …” Neale was at a loss for words. To snatch then lose a prize, deliberately at that, was more than he could accept.

Bolitho eyed him calmly. “I want that yawl to
believe
we have been taken aback.”

Neale nodded jerkily. “Aye, sir. Mr Pickthorn! We are standing into the wind! Stand by tacks and sheets!” He added huskily,

“I believe it myself, sir!”

As the helm was put up still further,
Styx
lifted like a stag caught by a musket ball in mid-air. Under Pickthorn’s guidance, and the curses and blows of the frantic petty officers and topmen, the ship plunged down into a deep trough, the sails flapping against the masts and forcing the hull over like a waterlogged cutter.

A seaman fell from the ratlines, the sea directly below his kicking feet before two of his companions hauled him gasping to safety. But not a spar cracked apart, nor did any sail split into ribbons, as the stricken frigate wallowed helplessly out of control.

Bolitho raised his glass again and watched for the yawl’s tan-coloured sails. Well to starboard now, her hull partly hidden in the blue water.

“A moment more, Captain Neale.”

Bolitho handed the telescope to Allday. If Allday thought he had gone mad he certainly did not show it.

Then Bolitho said, “Get her under way again and continue the chase. Do not set your t’gallants. I want a chase, but if you catch that yawl I’ll make you
eat
your prize-money!”

It was like seeing a cloud part across a clear sky as Neale stared at him with amazement and admiration.

“Follow the Frenchie all the way to the island, sir?”

Bolitho watched the disorganized bunches of seamen being rounded up and set to the braces and halliards, once more.

“All the way.”

As Neale hurried to pass his orders to his lieutenants, Bolitho turned and looked at Allday. “Well?”

Allday wiped his mouth with the back of his fist. “I reckon the falcon is free, sir, an’ that’s no error!”

“Deck there! Land ahead! Fine on th’ lee bow!”

Bolitho tried to conceal his rising excitement as officers and master’s mates jostled each other at the quarterdeck rail to train their telescopes.

Neale commented worriedly, “The wind is dropping, sir.

Bolitho glanced up at the topsails, the almost painful way they lifted to the wind and emptied just as swiftly.

The chase had been going on for two hours, with the yawl running in direct line ahead of the frigate’s jib-boom. To lose her now, with the land in sight, would be sheer stupidity.

“Set your t’gallants, stuns’ls too if you think fit.”

Bolitho turned away as Neale beckoned to his first lieutenant and walked aft to the wheel.

He nodded to the sailing-master and asked, “What is the channel like beyond the Ile d’Yeu, Mr Bundy?”

The master was a small, shabby man with a face like cracked leather. Old Ben Grubb, the sailing-master of the
Benbow,
would make four of him, Bolitho thought.

But there was nothing shabby about his mind or reply.

“A bad ’un, sir. ’Bout ten mile from the island to the mainland, but a bad bottom, no more’n three fathom at the most at low water.” He stared ahead of the flapping sails as if he could

already see the island. “A place to anchor a flotilla of small craft, I reckon.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “The ’ole island is no longer than five mile accordin’ to my chart.”

“Thank you, Mr Bundy.”

Bolitho turned away to rejoin Neale and did not see the relief and pleasure on Bundy’s lean features. Bolitho had not merely asked his opinion, but had made certain that his mates and helmsmen had heard him do so.

“I can just make it out, sir.” Neale waited for Bolitho to pick up a telescope. “But the haze makes everything shapeless.”

Bolitho held his breath and waited for the deck to rise again.

There it was, a patch of darker blue against the sea. The island where the Spanish ship had off-loaded her cargo of building stone.

The yawl was heading for the northern tip of the island, but once around the sheltered side would probably stand even closer inshore and follow the coast further south to Nantes.

Her master would have the wind at his disposal should the pursuing frigate try to head him off at the last minute or be joined by another patrol from the south. Bolitho smiled wryly. It was unlikely there was another British man-of-war within two hundred miles south of this quarterdeck.

He lowered the glass and watched the seamen strung out along the upper yards as the topsails were set and sheeted home, their bellies filling listlessly to the warm breeze. Four hours of good daylight left. It would have to be enough. To stand off until daylight would be like blowing a warning trumpet to the nearest French garrison.

Many telescopes were probably laid on the speedy yawl and the menacing pyramid of sails in pursuit. A horseman would be despatched to the local commander. An artillery battery would be alerted to warn off the foolish English captain who was risking everything in order to catch such a small prize.

Neale asked casually, “What do you intend, sir?”

Perhaps he took Bolitho’s silence for uncertainty. “We could alter course and make better use of the wind. Then head for the southern end of the island, maybe catch the Frogs as they break free of the channel?”

“Yes. But if the yawl decided not to head further south?”

Neale shrugged. “We shall lose her.”

Bolitho raised the glass again and steadied it on the distant island.

“We have done that already, Captain Neale.”

Neale stared at him. “Then you intend to work as close to the island as you can and estimate the defences?” He was completely lost.

Bolitho smiled at him. “I intend we should do better than that. We shall enter the channel itself. With the wind under our coat-tails, I think even the French will be surprised!”

Neale swallowed hard. “Aye, sir. But Mr Bundy says—”

Bolitho nodded. “I know. Three fathoms at low water. It will have to be done well.” He grinned and touched his arm, glad that he was able to mask his own anxiety from the young captain. “I have every faith in you.”

He turned towards the companion-way. “Allday, fetch me something cool from the wine store.” He nodded to the watching lieutenants. “I have to think.”

Allday followed him down the ladder and aft to the cabin, while overhead the decks shook to the immediate activity of hurrying seamen.

He grinned admiringly. “By God, sir, that stirred them well enough!”

Bolitho walked to the stern windows and leaned out to stare at the rippling wake from the rudder. He heard the muffled shout of commands, the squeal of trucks as somewhere up forward the bow-chasers were prepared for the first shots of the engagement.

How he had wanted to remain on deck and take part. But he had to accept that Neale was an extension of himself. Without being told what to do he had already accepted Bolitho’s strategy, and would execute it without question. In a matter of hours he might be lying dead or screaming on his surgeon’s table. His beloved
Styx
could become a drifting dismasted hulk, or pushed hard aground because the chart was mistaken. And all because of his admiral’s order.

Bolitho said, “Fetch Mr Browne and ask him to join me for a glass.”

Bolitho relaxed very slowly as the door closed behind Allday.

Browne was different from anyone he knew. At least he might keep his mind away from the very real possibility of failure.

When Bolitho returned to the quarterdeck the little island had grown considerably, so that it sprawled across the starboard bow like a blunt-headed monster.

Neale said, “We are overhauling her, sir.” He waited to watch Bolitho’s reactions. “But the yawl is almost abreast of the headland.”

Bolitho studied the sloping island, the lively white crests around some reefs and a smaller islet like the monster’s pup. The yawl was keeping very near to the tip of the island, so that she appeared to be trying to climb bodily on to dry land.

Neale called sharply, “Bring her up a point, Mr Bundy!”

“Aye, sir. East by north.”

Bolitho moved the glass very carefully, seeing the flapping jibsail and two seamen standing on the forecastle, like giants as they were captured in the lens.

A few low buildings at the foot of the island, probably more on the landward side. He stiffened as he saw some grey walls near to the top of the headland. A battery perhaps? Even as he watched

he saw a tiny pin-prick of colour caught in the sunlight like a butterfly. The mast was still invisible, but the butterfly was a tricolour.

He said, “Clear for action, Captain Neale. And please tell your gunner to try a few shots on that yawl.”

As the marine drummers beat their sticks so rapidly that their hands were blurred, and the boatswain’s mates yelled, “Hands to quarters! Clear for action!” Bolitho could sense the wild excitement being unleashed about him like a tide-race.

The starboard bow-chaser crashed out violently and threw itself inboard on its tackles, and even as its crew darted around it to sponge out and reload, Bolitho saw the ball drop in direct line with the yawl’s sails, flinging up a column of water like a spouting whale.

The other gun belched smoke and flames, and a second waterspout brought a chorus of cheers from the topmen and those who were able to see it.

Neale said, “No chance of a hit unless we can close the range.”

The first lieutenant hurried aft and touched his hat. “Cleared for action, sir.”

Neale deliberately tugged his watch from his breeches and studied it, his round face impassive as he said, “Twelve minutes, Mr Pickthorn. Won’t do. I want it done in ten or less.”

Bolitho had to turn away. It could have been himself speaking when he had commanded
Phalarope
and Neale had been the junior midshipman.

The bow-chasers continued to fire after the yawl, and although the balls were dropping short by a cable, the Frenchman obviously did not know how lucky he was, for he began to tack violently from side to side as if to avoid the next fall of shot.

Neale smiled. “Interesting, sir. If he continues like that we may take him yet.”

Smoke drifted harmlessly from the grey wall on the headland,

and after what seemed like an eternity some eight or nine spouts of water shot from the sea well away from the frigate’s side.

Bolitho listened to the dying echo of the concealed battery.

Just a token, a warning.

“Bring her up now, Captain Neale.”

Neale nodded, his mind grappling with the dozen or so problems which were most immediate to him.

“We will alter course four points to larboard, Mr Pickthorn, and steer nor’-east by north.”