The Only Victor (27 page)

Allday was standing close by and saw one of the seamen nudge his companion with a grin. “See, Bill? Our Dick's not bothered, so why should we be, eh?”

Allday sighed.
Our Dick.
Now they were his men too.

Then he thought about the rum and licked his lips in anticipation. A good “wet” was always welcome. Especially when it might be your last.

Catherine paused at the foot of the steps and glanced along the street with its tall elegant houses and leafless trees. It was late afternoon and already dark enough for the carriages to show their lamps. She had been shopping in some of the adjoining streets with Yovell as her companion, and sometimes adviser, especially on matters concerning the man he served so loyally.

She waved to the coachman, still called Young Matthew even though his grandfather Old Matthew, who had been the Bolitho coachman for many years, was long dead. It was good to have the light, elegant carriage here, she thought. A part of home. It seemed strange that she could think of Falmouth and the old grey house as
home.

“You can go to the mews, Young Matthew, I'll not need you again today.” He grinned down at her and touched his hat with his whip. “Very well, m'lady.” One of Lord Browne's servants had come down the steps and she curtsied, her apron ribbons whipping out in the cold wind, before going to help Yovell with their many parcels.

“Oh, m'lady!” The girl called after her but Catherine was already in the hall. She stood stock-still with surprise, even shock, as she saw a uniformed figure standing inside the booklined library, his hands held out to the fire.

She waited a few seconds, her hand to her breast, until her breathing became steady again. It was foolish, but just for a moment she had believed—But the tall captain had fair hair and blue eyes: a friend for so many reasons. Captain Valentine Keen took her hand and kissed it. “I beg your pardon, m'lady, for coming unannounced. I was at the Admiralty, too near to miss the chance of seeing you.”

She slipped her hand through his arm and together they walked towards the fire.

“You are always welcome, Val.” She studied him thoughtfully. He too had known Richard a long time and had served him as midshipman and lieutenant, until he had eventually become his flag captain. She said quietly, “Please call me Catherine. We are friends, remember?” She seated herself opposite and waited for him to follow suit. “What ails you, Val? We have been worried. About you and Zenoria. Is there something I can do?”

He did not reply directly. “I heard about Sir Richard at the Admiralty.” He glanced around as if expecting to see him. “He is not returned yet?”

She shook her head. “It is far longer than we supposed. Four weeks today.”

Keen watched her as she turned to stare into the fire. A beautiful, sensuous woman. One whom men would fight over, one who could excite the one she loved to do almost anything. But she was deeply troubled, and was not trying to hide it.

He said, “I was told by one of Lord Godschale's aides that he had been on a mission of some importance. But the weather is foul, especially in our waters. I daresay they are riding it out.” He felt her gaze settle on him and he said, “Zenoria was staying with my sisters. Perhaps they smothered her with too much kindness . . . maybe she felt she no longer cared about me—”

Catherine said, “The marriage—is it not agreed upon?”

“She left to return to the West Country. There is an uncle, apparently, in whom she used to confide when she was a child, before he went to the Indies. Now he is back in Cornwall—I know not where. She is with him.”

Catherine watched his despair. She knew it, remembered it.

“But you
love
her?” She saw him nod. It made him look like a young boy. “And I do know she loves you, for many, many reasons. You saved her life, you cared for her when others would have turned their backs. Believe me, Val, I know about such matters at first hand!”

“That is partly why I came. I received a letter from Sir Richard. Did you know . . . Catherine?”

She smiled despite her anxiety. “That is better. Yes, I knew. About his new flagship, the
Black Prince.
He wants you as his captain, but I will lay odds that he spoke only of your hoped-for marriage?”

“You know him well.” He smiled ruefully. “It is why I went to see Lord Godschale. He was becoming impatient.”

She touched her throat and remembered what Bolitho had said about it.

“That is not so unusual, I believe.”

Keen faced her resolutely. “I have made it clear. I
will
serve as his flag captain.” He was surprised at her reaction, as if some sort of threat had been removed. “Are you pleased?”

“Of course I am. Who better to stand by my man's side in times of peril? He loves you in the same way he cares for young Adam. I was afraid he would have some stupid captain like—” She dropped her eyes. “That is another matter.” When she looked up again her dark eyes were flashing. “And have no fear about your Zenoria. I will find her, although I suspect she will find me first once I am returned to Falmouth. We understand one another. She
shall
be your bride, Val, but you must be gentle with her. I know from what Richard tells me that you are a decent man, and have only loved one other in your life.” She watched the memories clouding his eyes. “This will be different, more wonderful than you can conceive. But as
she
will learn to accept your calling as a sailor, so must you be patient with her.” She let each word sink in. “Remember what happened to her. A young girl. Taken and used, with no hope, and nothing to live for.”

He nodded, seeing her naked back as the whip had laid it open from shoulder to hip. The way she had withdrawn when he had spoken of marriage and how it would be for them.

“I never thought. Or perhaps I did not want to think about it. How she would feel, or if she was tormented that she might never be able to accept—” He could not continue.

She stood up and walked to his chair, and laid her hand on his shoulder, touching his epaulette. Each time she saw a seaofficer she thought of him. What he might be doing; whether or not he was in any danger.

“There, Val. You feel better now? And so do I.” She made light of it. “After all, I cannot rely on Mr Allday for everything!”

The door opened and she felt a chill draught from the hallway, although she had heard no bell or knock at the street entrance.

“Who is it, Maisie?”

The girl stared at her, then at Keen.

“Beg pardon, m'lady, but 'tis a gentleman for the captain.”

Keen stood up. “I mentioned I would be here a while. I hope that was acceptable?”

Catherine watched him, her gaze very level. “What is it? Something has happened.”

He said only, “Please wait here, Catherine.”

The servant girl gaped at her. “Would you like some tea, m'lady?”

She realised only vaguely what she had asked. “No, but thank you.”

The door closed, reluctantly or so it seemed, as if the servant had wanted to share what was happening.

Keen came back, his handsome features grave as he shut the door behind him. He strode across the carpet and took her hands in his. They were like ice. “It was a messenger from the Admiralty.” He gripped her hands more tightly as she pulled away. “No, hear me. He will want you to know.” He saw a pulse beating in her throat, saw the way she lifted her chin. Dread, defiance; it was all there.

“There has been a sea-fight. Richard's ship was involved but they know little more as yet. He must have been returning to England from his mission. A schooner brought the news to Portsmouth, and the telegraph sent word from there to the Admiralty.”

She stared round the room like a trapped animal.

“Is he hurt? What must I do? I must be there if—”

He guided her to a chair, knowing it was not strength or courage she was lacking, but a direction to point herself.

“You must wait here, Catherine.” He saw the anxiety change to resistance and refusal, and persisted, “He will
expect
you to be here.” He dropped on one knee beside her chair. “You have helped me so much. Let me at least try to do the same for you. I will remain at your service until we learn what is happening.”

“When?”
One word, which sounded as if it was torn from her.

“It must be soon. Tomorrow, the next day. I felt something was wrong, and yet—” He looked past her into the fire. “I was too beset with my own troubles.”

Catherine looked at the gold lace on his sleeve. Was this how it was? How it would be? After all their hopes. Their love. So many women must have known it.

She thought suddenly of Nelson, of Bolitho's bitterness at those who had hated him the most but who had mourned his death the loudest. Nobody spoke of Emma Hamilton any more. It was as if she had never been, even though she had given him the things he had lacked and had needed more than anything. Love and admiration. It was rare to have one without the other.

She said quietly but firmly, “I will never give him up.”

Keen was not certain how it was meant, but he was deeply moved.

She stood up and walked towards the door where she turned, the lights reflecting from her dark hair.

“Please stay, Val.” She seemed to hesitate. “But I am going to our room for a while. So that we may be together.”

13
N
O ESCAPE

B
OLITHO
gripped the quarterdeck rail and watched the sky brighten to a harsh intensity. Beneath his fingers the rail was so caked with salt that it felt like rough stone. But the motion was easier as
Truculent,
now with her topgallants filled hard to the wind, plunged over a wild succession of curling wavecrests.

He stared at the sun as it tried to break through the morning haze. It was like a bright silver platter, he thought, while the aimless bunches of cloud reminded him of fog above the Helford River at home in Cornwall. The air was still tinged with the smell of grease from the galley, and he had seen the seamen at work about the upper deck showing less strain than before he had suggested to Poland that a good hot meal was a priority.

He tried to picture the ship as she headed south-west, the wind following her from dead astern so that she seemed to bound over the water. Somewhere, about forty miles across the starboard quarter, were the bleak shores and fjords of Norway, beyond which lay only the Arctic. Part of the Danish coast was still abeam, and according to the sailing master's rough calculations some thirty miles distant. Far enough to be out of sight but still within the range of
Zest
's patrol area. He thought of Poland's dislike for
Zest
's captain. If he had had more time in London he might have discovered some reason for it. But he doubted it. It was like some secret held closely by each captain as if for protection, or threat.

He shaded his eyes to stare astern but their pursuer was not in sight from the deck. A lance of silver sunlight touched his eye, and he winced before pressing his hand over it while he took another look.

Inskip had appeared at his side. “Your eye bothering you?”

Bolitho snatched his hand away.
“No.”
He added in a calmer voice, “You are feeling more the thing now that we are in open water again?” He must try not to be taken by surprise by such an innocent comment. Inskip had no way of knowing. And besides, there was every hope that his eye would recover completely. Grasping at straws? Perhaps, but it barely troubled him.

Inskip smiled. “I suspect your man Allday can take more credit than the damned sea.”

Bolitho noticed for the first time that there was an unusually strong smell of rum, and that Inskip's normally pallid features were glowing.

Inskip cleared his throat noisily. “Damme if he didn't produce a potion he had concocted himself. Hot gruel, rum and brandy seem to be the main ingredients!”

Bolitho glanced at Poland who was deep in conversation with his first lieutenant. They both looked to the mastheads, and after a further discussion a warrant officer was sent aloft to join the lookout, a heavy telescope bouncing from one hip.

Inskip asked worriedly, “What does it mean?” He gestured vaguely towards the taffrail. “That Frenchman can't do us any harm, surely?”

Bolitho saw Poland gazing at him across the deck. It was almost like defiance.

“I'd tell the captain to come about and go for that corvette, if I didn't think it would waste valuable time.” He rubbed his chin while he pictured his chart again. “He's hanging on to the scent. A scavenger—like a wild dog on a battlefield, waiting to pick off the bones.” He heard Poland call, “Prepare to set the maincourse, Mr Williams! I'll not lose this soldier's wind!”

The deck shuddered and the taut rigging seemed to whine as the ship plunged forward under a growing pyramid of canvas.

Bolitho saw Jenour by the compass, and wondered if he had guessed why Poland was piling on more sail.

Inskip said vaguely, “Funny thing about eyes, though.” He did not see Bolitho glance at him warily. “When I was honoured by the King, for instance—” His words were becoming slurred; Allday's cure must be working well—“His Majesty wore a green eye shield all the while, and they say he cannot recognise a single soul without a strong glass.”

Bolitho recalled the general's dry comment about guiding the King's hand. Truer than he had realised perhaps.

Inskip said abruptly, “You think we're running into a trap, don't you?” The combined power of rum and brandy had put an aggressive edge to his tone. “How could that possibly be—and where would be the point?”

Bolitho replied quietly, “We were delayed a full week. Where would be the point of
that?
”

Inskip brooded on it. “It was all a secret, and anyway, what could the enemy hope to achieve in a week?”

Bolitho said, “When the schooner
Pickle
arrived at Falmouth on November fourth last year, her commanding officer, a Lieutenant Lapenotière, was the first man to bring the news of Trafalgar and Nelson's death to England.” He let each word sink in; it was important that Inskip should understand. “Lapenotière posted all the way from Falmouth to London to carry the word to the Admiralty.”

“And?”
Inskip was sweating despite the bitter air.

“He reached London on the morning of the sixth. All that way,
in just two days.
Imagine what French intelligence could make of a full week!”

He looked at the sky, a thinning here and there in the clouds revealing slivers of glacier blue.

The senior helmsman called, “Steady she be, zur! Sou'-west!”

Bolitho added, “South-west, Sir Charles, but over four hundred miles to make good, unless—” He saw Poland moving towards him. “What is it?”

Poland turned as if to keep his comments from Inskip's ears. “May I suggest we alter course and run further to the south'rd, Sir Richard?” He looked towards the misty horizon, the drifting spray like steam over the beakhead. “It would add to the distance, but—”

Bolitho faced him impassively. “We should also lose any chance of a rendezvous on
Zest
's station. But you already knew that?”

It was rare for Poland to offer such a definite suggestion, one which might later lay him open to criticism or worse.

Bolitho persisted, “Do you have any cause to doubt Captain Varian's intentions?” He watched the emotions, the anxieties troubling Poland's features. “It is your
duty
to tell me. The responsibility of command which you have earned, and which you obviously cherish, makes that duty unavoidable!”

Poland looked trapped. Alone with his command he was second only to God. Faced by a vice-admiral whose name was known throughout most of the country, he was suddenly stripped of power, endangered by his one, unexpected outburst.

He answered wretchedly, “I served with Varian some years ago. I was his first lieutenant, and I must admit that out there in the Indies I saw small chance of promotion, let alone a ship to command. We were ordered to Jamaica at the urgent request of the Governor . . . there was a slave uprising with some danger to the residents and the Plantations.”

Bolitho could see it. That would have been during the uneasy Peace of Amiens when many had thought the war had ended, that France and her allies, like England, had exhausted themselves in constant battle at sea and on land. As first lieutenant, Poland would have grasped at the chance of action like a drowning man clutching a piece of cork.

“I recall it. There were a lot of killings and some savage reprisals, to all accounts.”

Poland did not seem to have heard him. “We had word from a trader that a plantation was under siege by a mob of slaves. It was too far inland to quell it with gunfire, so Captain Varian ordered me to take an armed party to rout the slaves.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, oblivious to Jenour and the watchful eyes of Lieutenant Williams by the quarterdeck rail. “
Mob?
By God, when we reached the place it was more like a blood-crazed army!” He shuddered. “The owners and their people had been hacked to death like ribbons, their wives—well, they must have welcomed death when it came!”

“And Varian weighed anchor, am I right?”

Poland gaped at him. “
Aye,
Sir Richard. He thought we would share the same fate as those poor butchered creatures. Varian could not stand the prospect of failure, or being associated with one. He sailed away and reported to the admiral that he had lost contact with us and had been unable to help.” He added with sudden anger, “But for the arrival of some local militia, he would have been right too!”

“Deck there! Corvette's makin' more sail!”

Bolitho saw the emptiness in Poland's stare and thought he may not even have heard.

Poland continued in the same flat voice. “Varian's never been in a big action. Hunting smugglers and chasing privateers were more to his taste.” He seemed to draw himself up as he faced Bolitho with some of his old stiffness. “I should have denounced him. I am not proud of what I did. He recommended me for command.” He looked along his ship. “I got
Truculent,
so I said naught.”

Bolitho tugged his hat more firmly over his forehead to give himself time to think. If half of it was true then Varian was a menace to everyone who depended on him. He thought of
Zest
's being off-station at Good Hope; the terrible end of the little schooner
Miranda
while her executioner sped to safety.

A coward then?

“Deck there!” Bolitho saw Jenour shading his eyes to peer up at the foremast crosstrees. “Sail on the weather bow!”

Poland stared from the masthead to Bolitho. “I am sorry, Sir Richard. I spoke too soon!” He was probably seeing his only command already slipping away from his grasp.

Inskip swallowed hard. “You're
both
wrong, dammit!” He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “I'll wager
Zest
makes that damned Frenchie show a clean pair of heels!”

“Deck there!” The foremast lookout's voice was suddenly loud as wind spilled from the topsails.
“She's a French frigate, sir!”

Bolitho saw faces turn to look towards him, not at their captain this time. So
Zest
was not waiting for them. Instead, the trap was about to be sprung. Bolitho looked at Inskip's flushed face and kept his voice calm. “No, Sir Charles,
I fear we were both right.
” He swung on Poland. “Clear for action, if you please!”

“Deck there!” Someone by the wheel gave a groan as the lookout yelled, “
Second
sail astern of t'other, sir!”

“The corvette has run up her colours, sir!”

Poland licked his lips. Two ships closing on a converging tack, another still hounding them from astern. To starboard was the full power of the wind, on the opposite beam and still out of sight was the Danish coast. In those fleeting seconds he could see it all. Jaws closing around his ship. Be run ashore in a hopeless stern-chase, or stand and be destroyed by overwhelming odds. He looked at his first lieutenant, his eyes dull. “Beat to quarters, Mr Williams, and clear for action at your convenience.”

The marine fifers ran to the stations, adjusting their drums until they received a curt nod from the Royal Marines sergeant.

Bolitho saw Allday striding across the deck, his cutlass wedged carelessly through his belt. Jenour too, fingering his beautiful sword, his face suddenly determined as the drums commenced their urgent rattle to arms.

Inskip gasped, “Maybe
Zest
will be here yet?” Nobody spoke, and his voice was almost drowned by the rush of bare feet, the stamp of marines across the poop and the thud and clatter of screens being torn down to clear the ship of obstructions. “Why such a show of force?” He was almost pleading.

Bolitho watched
Truculent
's big ensigns mounting to gaff and masthead. A challenge accepted.

He said, “They
knew,
Sir Charles. One of His Majesty's most important emissaries and a senior officer for good measure! Exactly the excuse the French have been looking for. If we are taken, Napoleon will have all he needs to discredit the Danes for their secret discussions with us, and so weaken Sweden's and Russia's resolution to stand against him! Good God, man, even a child should see that!”

Inskip did not rise to Bolitho's angry contempt. He stared around at the gun crews, the bustle with tackles and handspikes as each weapon was prepared to fight.

Then he peered overhead at the nets which were being rigged across the decks from gangway to gangway to protect these same crews from falling spars and debris. Even the boats were being swayed out and made ready to lower and cast adrift for the victors to recover.

Boats represented survival to most sailors, and Bolitho saw some of them turn from their work to watch, and the grim response from the scarlet squads of marines who fingered their Brown Bess muskets and fixed bayonets. If so ordered, they would shoot down anyone who created a panic or provoked any sort of disorder.

It was always a bad moment, Bolitho thought. Survival perhaps; but the peril of razor-sharp splinters hurled from tiered boats once battle was joined was far more dangerous.