The Only Victor (30 page)

Another voice and misty face now, the surgeon.
Have I been lying here that long?

More probing fingers at the back of his skull; sounds of relief as he said, “No real damage, Sir Richard. Near thing though. A block like that could crack your head like a nut!”

Men were cheering; some seemed to be sobbing. Bolitho allowed Jenour and Allday to get him to his feet amidst the fallen debris from the last parting shot.

The pain was coming now, and Bolitho felt sick. He touched his hair and felt where he had taken a glancing blow. He rubbed his eyes and saw the dead Munro watching him with an intense stare.

Williams was yelling, “She's an English frigate, lads! The day is won!”

Allday asked in a whisper, “Is something wrong, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho covered his left eye and waited for the fog of battle to leave his brain. Adam had come looking for him, and had saved them all.

He turned to Allday as his question seemed to penetrate. “There was a flash.”

“
Flash,
Sir Richard? I'm not sure I understands.”

“In my eye.” He removed his hand and made himself look towards the distant French ships as they withdrew from their near-victory. “I can't see them properly.” He turned and stared at him. “My eye! That blow . . . it must have done something.”

Allday watched him wretchedly. Bolitho wanted him to tell him it would go away, that it would pass.

He said, “I'll get a wet for you, sir. For me too, I reckon.” He reached out and almost gripped Bolitho's arm as he would a mess-mate, an equal, but he did not. Instead he said heavily, “You stay put till I gets back, Sir Richard. There's help a'comin'. Captain Adam'll see us right, an' that's no error.” He looked at Jenour. “Keep by his side. For all our sakes, see?” Then he groped his way past the dead and dying, the upended guns and bloodstained planking.

It was their world and there
was
no escape. All the rest was a dream.

He heard a man cry out in private torment.

Always the pain.

14
H
ONOUR BOUND

“W
ELL NOW
, that wasn't too demanding, was it?” Sir Piers Blachford turned up his sleeves and rinsed his long, bony fingers in a basin of warm water which a servant had brought to the spacious, elegant room. He gave a dry smile. “Not for a seasoned warrior like you, eh?”

Bolitho leaned back in the tall chair and tried to relax his whole body, muscle by muscle. Outside the window the sky was already tinged with the gloom of evening, although it was only three in the afternoon. Rain pattered occasionally against the glass, and he could hear the splash of horses and carriage wheels in the street below.

He moved to touch his eye. It felt raw and inflamed after all the poking Blachford had given it. He had used some liquid too, which stung without mercy, so that he wanted to rub his eye until it bled.

Blachford glared at him severely. “Don't touch it! Not yet anyway.” He wiped his hands on a towel and nodded to the servant. “Some coffee, I think.”

Bolitho declined. Catherine was downstairs somewhere in this high, silent house, waiting, worrying, hoping for news.

“I have to go. But first, can you tell me . . .”

Blachford regarded him curiously, but not without affection. “Still impatient? Remember what I told you aboard your
Hyperion?
How there might have been hope for the eye?”

Bolitho met his gaze. Remember? How could he forget? And this tall, stick-like man with spiky grey hair and the most pointed nose he had ever seen had been there with him, in the thick of it, until he had been forced to give the order to abandon ship.

Sir Piers Blachford was a senior and most respected member of the College of Surgeons. Despite the privations of a man-ofwar, he and some of his colleagues had volunteered to spread themselves throughout the squadrons of the fleet to try and discover measures to ease the suffering of those wounded in combat or cruelly injured in the demanding life of the common seaman. Resented at first as an intruder by some of
Hyperion
's people, he had won the hearts of nearly all of them before he had left.

A man of boundless energy, he, although being some twenty years Bolitho's senior, had explored the ship from forecastle to hold, and spoken with most of her company, and had, in the ship's final battle, saved the lives of many.

Then, as now, he reminded Bolitho of a heron in the reeds near the house at Falmouth. Waiting patiently to strike.

Bolitho said abruptly, “I could not be spared then.”

He thought suddenly of the homecoming just two days ago after leaving the battered
Truculent
in the hands of the dockyard. Sir Charles Inskip had left for London with barely another word. Shocked by the grim events, or still smarting from Bolitho's bitter words before the battle, he neither knew nor cared.

For long, long minutes he had held Catherine while she had allowed him to find his composure again in his own time. She had knelt at his feet, the firelight shining in her eyes while he had eventually described the short, savage engagement, of
Anemone
's arrival when all time had run out. Of Poland's despair and death, of those who had fallen because of the folly and treachery of others.

Only once had she touched on Captain Varian and the
Zest.
She had tightened her grip on his hands as he had answered quietly, “I want him dead.”

Eventually she had dragged out of him an admission about the falling block which had struck him a glancing blow on the head.

Even now, in this quiet, remote room above Albemarle Street, he could feel her compassion, her anxiety. While he had been at the Admiralty to complete his report to Admiral the Lord Godschale she had come here to see Blachford, to plead for his help in spite of his constantly full programme of interviews and operations.

Blachford had been joined in his probing examinations by a short, intense doctor by the name of Rudolf Braks. The latter had barely said a word but had assisted in the examination with an almost fanatical dedication. He had a thick guttural voice when he did eventually speak with Blachford, and Bolitho thought he might be German, or more likely a renegade Dutchman.

One thing was evident; they both knew a great deal about Nelson's eye injury, and Bolitho imagined that, too, was included in the lengthy volumes of their report to the College of Surgeons.

Blachford sat down and thrust out his long, thin legs.

“I will discuss it further with my eminent colleague. It is more in his field than mine. But I shall need to make further tests. You will be in London for a while?”

Bolitho thought suddenly of Falmouth, with winter closing in from the grey waters below the headland. It was like a desperate need. He had expected to be killed, and had accepted it. Perhaps that was why he had managed to hold
Truculent
's people together when they had nothing left to give.

“I was hoping to go home, Sir Piers.”

Blachford gave a brief smile. “A few more days, then. I understand that you have a new flagship to commission?” He did not elaborate on how he knew or why he was interested. But then he never did.

Bolitho thought of Admiral Godschale's sympathy; his anger at what had happened.
One cannot do everything oneself.

The admiral had probably already selected a flag-officer to replace him if the French plan to take
Truculent
had succeeded, or Bolitho had fallen in battle.

Bolitho replied, “A few more. Thank you for your help, and especially your courtesy to Lady Catherine.”

Blachford stood up, the heron again. “Had I been made of stone, and some insist that I am, I would have done what I could. I have never met another like her. I had thought that some of the tales of envy might be overplayed, but now I know differently!” He held out his bony hand. “I will send word.”

Bolitho left the room and hurried down the gilded circular staircase. A grand house and yet somehow spartan, like the man.

She stood up as a servant opened the doors for him, her dark eyes filled with questions. He pulled her against him and kissed her hair.

“He said nothing bad, dear Kate.”

She leaned back in his arms and searched his face. “I nearly lost you. Now I know it. It is all there in your eyes.”

Bolitho stared past her at a window. “We are together. The rain has stopped. Shall we send Young Matthew away and walk back? It is not far, and I need to walk with you. It is not the lanes and cliffs of Cornwall, but with you it is always a kind of miracle.”

Later, as they lingered together on the wet pavements while the carriages and carts clattered past, she told him of a report she had seen in the
Gazette.
“There was nothing written about you or Sir Charles Inskip.” It sounded like an accusation.

He held his cloak across her as a troop of soldiers trotted past, their hooves throwing up muddy water from the many puddles.

He smiled at her. “My tiger again?” He shook his head. “No, it was a pretence that neither of us was aboard at the time. No longer a secret from our enemies, but it will throw some doubts amongst them. They will not be able to use it against the Danes, to bring more threats against them.”

She said softly, “It tells of Poland fighting his ship against all odds until your nephew's arrival.” She halted and faced him, her chin lifted. “It was you, wasn't it, Richard?
You
beat them off, not the captain.”

Bolitho shrugged. “Poland was a brave man. He had it in his eyes. I think he knew he was going to die . . . he probably blamed me for it.”

They reached the house just as the rain began again. Bolitho remarked, “Two carriages. I'd hoped we might be alone tonight.”

The door was opened even as their feet touched the first step. Bolitho was surprised to see the red-faced housekeeper Mrs Robbins peering down at them. She had been away at Browne's big estate in Sussex, but had been here when Bolitho had rescued Catherine from the Waites prison. A formidable Londoner born and bred, who had had some definite ideas about keeping them both apart during their stay in his lordship's house.

Catherine threw the hood back from her head. “It is good to see you again, Mrs Robbins!”

But the housekeeper peered at Bolitho and exclaimed, “I didn't know where you was, sir. Your man Allday was out, yer lieutenant gone 'ome to South'ampton to all accounts—”

It was the first time Bolitho had seen her distressed or so anxious. He took her arm. “Tell me. What has happened?”

She raised her apron and held it to her face. “It's 'is lordship. He's been callin' for you, sir.” She looked up the stairs as if to see him. “The doctor's with 'im, so please be quick.”

Catherine made to move to the staircase but Bolitho saw the housekeeper shake her head with quiet desperation.

Bolitho said, “No, Kate. It were better you stay and look after Mrs Robbins. Send for a hot drink.” He held her gaze with his own. “I'll be down directly.”

He found an elderly servant sitting outside the double doors of Browne's rooms. He looked too shocked to move, and for some reason Bolitho thought of Allday.

It was dark in the big room except around the bed. There were three men sitting by it; one, apparently the doctor, was holding Browne's hand, perhaps feeling his pulse.

One of the others exclaimed, “He's here, Oliver!” And to Bolitho, “Oh, thank God, Sir Richard!”

They made way for him and he sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked at the man who had once been his flag lieutenant until he had succeeded to his father's role and title.

He was still dressed in his shirt, and his skin was wet with sweat. His eyes as they settled on Bolitho seemed to widen with effort, and he gasped, “I—I heard you were safe! A while I—I thought—”

“Easy, Oliver, it will be all right.” He shot a glance at the doctor. “What is it?”

Without a word the doctor raised a dressing from Browne's chest. The shirt had been cut open and there was blood everywhere.

Bolitho asked quietly, “Who did it?” He had seen enough wounds left by pistol or musket to recognise this one.

Browne said in a fierce whisper,
“No time—no time left.”
His eyes fluttered.
“Closer, please closer!”

Bolitho lowered his face to his. The young flag lieutenant who had walked the deck with him, as Jenour had done, with all hell around them. A fine, decent young man who was dying even as he watched him fighting a hopeless battle.

Browne said, “Somervell. A duel.” Each word was a separate agony but he persisted, “Your lady—your lady is a widow now.” He clenched his jaw so that his teeth brought blood to his lips. “But he's done for me all the same!”

Bolitho looked desperately at the doctor. “Can't you
do
something?”

He shook his head. “It is a marvel he has lived this long, Sir Richard.”

Browne gripped Bolitho's cuff and whispered, “That damned rogue killed my brother—like this. I have settled the score. Please explain to—” His head lolled on the pillow and he was still.

Bolitho reached out and closed his eyes. He said, “I shall tell Catherine. Rest now, Oliver.” He looked away, his eyes smarting worse than before.
Browne with an “e.”
He walked to the doors and said, “Tell me when—” But nobody answered him.

In the room where he had told Catherine about the battle, she was waiting for him. She held out a goblet of brandy and said, “I know. Allday heard it in the kitchen. My husband is dead.” She put her hand up to the goblet to press it to his lips. “I feel nothing, but for you . . . and your dead friend.”

Bolitho felt the brandy sting his throat, remembering, putting each picture in place.

Then, while she refilled the goblet, he heard himself say, “Oliver used the phrase,
We Happy Few.
The few are much fewer, and now poor Oliver has paid the price.”

In the kitchen Allday sat with a half-demolished mutton pie and paused to refill his pipe. He said,“'Nother stoup of ale would not go amiss, Ma Robbins.” He shook his head and was surprised how much it ached. “Second thought, I'll take some more o' that rum yonder.”

The housekeeper watched him sadly, grieving over what had happened, but apprehensive about her own future. Young Oliver, as he had been known in the kitchen, was the last in direct line for the title. There was talk of some distant cousin, but who could tell what might become of her?

She said, “I'm surprised 'ow you can carry on at a time like this, John!”

Allday focused his red-rimmed eyes with difficulty.

“Then I'll
tell
you, Ma Robbins. It's 'cause I survived!” He gestured vaguely to the room above them. “
We've
survived! I'll shed a tear with the next bugger, beggin' yer pardon, Ma, but it's
us
I cares about, see?”