The Only Victor (37 page)

Herrick lurched to his feet and almost fell. For an instant his eyes seemed to clear again and he blurted out, “Your injury? Is it improved now?” Somehow through the mist of distress and loss he must have recalled when Bolitho had almost fallen on this same vessel.

Then he said, “Lady Catherine's husband is dead, I hear?” It was a challenge, like an accusation. “Convenient—”

“Not so, Thomas. One day you might understand.” Bolitho turned and recovered his hat and cloak as the door opened a few inches, and Captain Gossage peered in at them.

“I was about to inform the rear-admiral that the wind is rising, Sir Richard.” His glance moved quickly to Herrick who was slumped down again in his chair, his eyes trying to focus, but without success.

Gossage said swiftly, with what he thought was discretion, “I will call the guard, Sir Richard, and have you seen over the side.”

Bolitho looked gravely at his friend and answered, “No, call my barge.” He hesitated by the screen door and lowered his voice, so that the marine sentry should not hear.

“Then attend your admiral. There sits a brave man, but badly wounded now—no less than by the enemy's fire.” He nodded curtly. “I bid you good-day, Captain Gossage.”

He found Jenour waiting for him on deck and saw a messenger running from Gossage to recall the barge to the chains.

Jenour had rarely seen him look so grim, so sad at the same time. But he was not so inexperienced in Bolitho's ways to ask what had occurred during his visit, or mention the glaring fact that Rear-Admiral Herrick was not on deck to show the proper respect at Bolitho's departure.

Instead he said brightly, “I heard the sailing-master confide that yonder lies the Dutch coast—but we are losing it fast in another squall.” He fell silent as Bolitho looked at him for the first time.

Bolitho touched his eye with his fingers, and felt it sting like a cruel reminder. Then he asked, “Is the barge alongside, Stephen?”

As Jenour left him he thought he heard him murmur, “Dear God, I would that it were Cornwall.”

The captain of marines yelled, “Guard of Honour, present
arms!
”

The rest was lost as Bolitho swung himself out and down to the pitching barge, as if the sea had reclaimed him.

Lieutenant Stephen Jenour tucked his hat beneath his arm and entered Bolitho's day cabin. Outside on the open deck the air was still very cold, but a lull in the blustery wind had smoothed out the North Sea's short, steep waves and remained with them. The presence of some watery sunlight gave an illusion of warmth in the crowded messes, and here in the great cabin.

Bolitho was leaning over a chart, his hands spread across it as if to encompass the squadron's limits. He looked tired, Jenour thought, but calmer than the moment he had left his friend aboard
Benbow.
He could only guess at what had come between them but knew it had affected Bolitho deeply.

Beyond the tall stern windows he could see two of the squadron's seventy-fours, the
Glorious
and the old
Sunderland.
The latter was so elderly that many aboard
Black Prince
had thought her either hulked or sunk in battle. There were few campaigns she had missed; she would be, Jenour thought, about the same age as
Hyperion.

With
Benbow
returned to England there were five ships of the line awaiting
Black Prince
's signals, and two others, the
Tenacious
and the
Valkyrie,
were undergoing repairs in England. Jenour had thought it strange that Rear-Admiral Herrick had detached two of his depleted strength without waiting to hear Bolitho's views on the subject. But he had kept his thoughts to himself. He had learned to recognise most, if not all of Bolitho's moods and sensitivities, and knew that he was occasionally only partly in his flagship, while the rest of the time he was in spirit with Catherine in England.

He realised that Bolitho had raised his eyes from the chart, and was watching him patiently. Jenour flushed, something he still did far too often—much to his own annoyance.

“The captains are assembled on board, Sir Richard. Only
Zest
's commander is absent and on his patrol area.”

Bolitho nodded. Two weeks since he had parted from Herrick, with too much time to think back over their exchange. Now, for the first time, because of the improved weather conditions, he had drawn the bulk of his squadron together in the hard glare which made the sea look like beaten silver. It was the first time, also, that his captains had managed to reach the flagship.

“What about our courier brig?”

Jenour flushed still further. How could Bolitho have known that the brig had been reported by
Glorious
's masthead lookout? He had been here in his quarters since a dawn stroll, not on his private sternwalk, but on the quarterdeck in full view of everyone.

Bolitho saw his confusion and smiled. “I heard the signal being repeated on deck, Stephen. A sternwalk has its uses—the sound carries quite well.” He added wryly, “Even the things that people say, when they are being somewhat indiscreet!”

He tried not to hope that the little brig, named
Mistral,
was bringing a letter from Catherine. It was too soon, and anyway she would be very busy. He laid out each careful excuse to hold his disappointment at bay.

He said, “Signal her commander to report on board when the time comes.”

He thought of the captains who were waiting to meet him. Not one of them a friend; but all were experienced. That would suffice. After Thomas Herrick . . . his mind thrust it away, feeling the same hurt and sense of betrayal. There had been a time when, as a captain himself, he had fretted about meeting a new ship's company. Now he knew from experience that usually they were far more worried than he.

All through the past hour or so, calls had shrilled at the entry port as the various captains had been piped aboard. Each one of them might be thinking more about the rumours of scandal than what lay ahead.

He said, “Please ask Captain Keen to bring them here.” He had not noticed the sudden edge to his voice. “He was quite surprised to see his old
Nicator
as one of the squadron . . . he commanded her six or seven years back. We were at Copenhagen together.” His grey eyes became distant. “I lost some good friends that day.”

Jenour waited, and saw the sudden despair depart from his face like a cloud across the sea.

Bolitho smiled. “He said to me once that
Nicator
was so rotten there were many times he believed only a thin sheet of copper stood between himself and eternity. Heaven knows what the old ship is like now!”

Jenour paused by the door, hating to break into these confidences. “Are we so short of ships, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho walked to the quarter galley and watched the uneasy water, the way some circling gulls appeared to change colour as they dipped and drifted through the sunlight.

“I fear so, Stephen. That is why those Danish ships are so important. It might all come to nothing, but I think not. I did not
imagine
Poland's death, nor did I invent the near destruction of
Truculent.
They
knew we were there.
” He remembered how Sir Charles Inskip had scoffed at him because of his suspicions about French intentions. But that had been before the desperate battle; he had not scoffed since.

He became impatient with his memories and said, “Tell Ozzard to fetch some wine for our guests.”

Jenour closed the door, and saw Ozzard and another servant already preparing goblets and standing them inside the fiddles in case a sudden squall came down on the ship.

Bolitho walked to the wine-cooler and touched the inlay with his fingers. Herrick would be at his home. Remembering how it had been; expecting to see his Dulcie and feel the warmth of her obvious adoration for him. Herrick was probably blaming him too for
Benbow
's being relieved; as if it had happened because Bolitho wanted the squadron for himself. How little he knew—but it was always easy to find a bitter reason if you wanted it enough.

The door opened and Keen ushered the others inside so that they could introduce themselves to Bolitho on arrival.

He had a mixed impression of experience, competence and curiosity. All were post-captains except the last one to arrive. Ozzard bustled amongst them with his tray, but their eyes were on the captain of the frigate
Anemone
as he reported to their vice-admiral. More like a younger brother than a nephew.

Bolitho clasped Adam's hand but could no longer restrain himself, and put his arm around his shoulder and hugged him.

The dark hair which matched his own; even the restless energy of a young colt when he had first joined
Hyperion
as a skinny midshipman of fourteen years. It was all still there. Bolitho held him at arm's length and studied him feature by feature. But Adam was a man now, a captain of his own frigate; what he had always dreamed about. He was twenty-six years old. Another twist of Fate? Bolitho had been the same age when he had been given command of his first frigate.

Adam said quietly, “It is
good
to see you, Uncle. We barely had an hour together after
Truculent
's return to port.”

His words seemed to linger in the air like the memory of a threat. But for
Anemone
's sudden appearance, the three French vessels would surely have overwhelmed Poland's ship by sheer weight of artillery.

Bolitho thought grimly,
And I would be dead.
He knew he would never allow himself to be taken prisoner again.

Keen had got the others seated and they were watching the reunion, each man fitting it into his own image of the Bolitho they knew, or had only heard about. There was no sort of resentment on their faces; Bolitho guessed that Adam was far too junior to present any kind of threat to their own status in the squadron.

Bolitho said, “We will talk far longer this time. I am proud to have you under my flag.”

All at once the midshipman with the cheeky grin was back again. Adam said, “From what I hear and read, it is barely safe to leave you on your own, Uncle!”

Bolitho composed himself and faced Keen and the other captains. There was so much he wanted to tell Adam,
needed
to tell him, so that there would never be any doubts, no secrets to plague them when they were alone.

Adam looked so
right
in his dress coat; but more like a youth playing the part of a hero than the man who held the destiny of a thirty-eight-gun frigate and some one hundred and eighty souls in his hands. He thought of Herrick's distress, his scathing comments about
the Bolitho charm.
Maybe he had been right? It was easy to picture Adam's face now in one of the portraits at the house in Falmouth.

“I wanted to meet you as soon as possible, for I have discovered in the past that circumstances often prevent us from taking our time over such matters.” There were several smiles. “I am sorry that we are short of two in our numbers—” He hesitated as he realised what he had said. It was as if Herrick was right here, watching, resenting the implication; blaming him for sending the two ships into port without waiting. He said, “This is not a time for loosening our grip on the reins. There are many who saw Trafalgar as a victory which would end all danger at a single stroke. I have seen and heard it for myself, in the fleet and on the streets of London. I can assure you, gentlemen, it is a foolish and misinformed captain who believes this is a time for relaxation.
We need every ship we can get,
and the men who care enough to fight them when the time comes, as come it must. The French will exploit their gains on land and have proved that few troops can withstand them. And who knows what leaders they will put to sea once they have the ships again to use against us? The French navy was weakened by the very force which brought Napoleon to power. During the blood-letting of the Terror, loyal officers were beheaded in the same blind savagery as the so-called aristocrats! But new faces will appear, and when they do we must be ready.” He felt suddenly drained, and saw Adam watching him with concern.

He asked, “Have you any questions?”

Captain John Crowfoot of the
Glorious,
a tall, stooping figure with the solemn looks of a village clergyman, asked, “Will the Danes offer their fleet to the enemy, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho smiled. He even sounded like one. “I think not. But under extreme pressure they might yield. No Dane wants the French army on his soil. Napoleon's armies have a habit of staying put after they have invaded, no matter on what pretext.”

Bolitho saw Keen lean forward to look at the next captain to speak. It was Captain George Huxley who commanded
Nicator,
Keen's old ship. He was probably wondering what kind of man could be expected to hold the rotting seventy-four together.