The Only Victor (38 page)

Huxley was stocky and level-eyed, giving an immediate impression of unwavering self-confidence. A hard man, Bolitho thought.

Huxley insisted, “We must have more frigates, Sir Richard. Without them we are blind and ignorant of affairs. A squadron, nay, a fleet could pass us in the night, to seaward or yonder along the Dutch coast, and we might never know.”

Bolitho saw one of them glance round as if he expected to see the Dutch coastline, even though it was more than thirty miles abeam.

He said, “I share that sentiment, Captain Huxley. I have but two under my command. That of my nephew, and the
Zest,
whose captain I am yet to meet.”

He thought of Keen's remark: “Captain Fordyce has the reputation of a martinet, sir. He is an admiral's son, as you will know, but his methods are hardly mine.” It was rare for Keen to speak out on the subject of a fellow captain. Their Lordships probably thought that
Zest
needed a firmer hand after Varian's example.

There were more questions on repairs and supplies, on patrol areas and shortages. Some of the questions were directed at Bolitho's proposed signals and fighting instructions, because of their brevity rather than their context.

Bolitho looked at them thoughtfully.
They do not know me. Yet.

He replied, “Too much time is lost, wasted by unnecessary exchanges in the midst of a sea-fight. And time, as you know from experience, is a luxury we may not always have.” He let each word sink in before he added, “I had correspondence with Lord Nelson, but like most of you, I never had the good fortune to meet him.” He let his gaze rest on Adam. “My nephew is the exception. He met him more than once—a privilege we can never share. Gone for ever he may be, but his example is still ours to be seized and used.” He had all their attention, and he saw Adam touch his cheek surreptitiously with the back of his hand.

“Nelson once said that in his opinion no captain could do very wrong if he laid his ship alongside that of an enemy.” He saw Crowfoot of the
Glorious
nod vigorously, and knew that by the door Jenour was staring at him as if afraid he might miss something.

Bolitho ended simply, “In answer to some of your questions— I don't think Our Nel's words can ever be improved on.”

It was another two hours before they all departed, feeling better for the plentiful supply of wine, and each man preparing his own version of the meeting for his wardroom and company.

As Ozzard remarked ruefully, “They certainly made a hole in the cheese Lady Catherine sent aboard!”

Bolitho found some time to speak with the youngest captain in his squadron,
Mistral
's Commander Philip Merrye, whom Allday later described contemptuously, “'Nother one of those twelve-year-old cap'ns!”

Then under a gentler north-westerly than they had known, the five sail of the line took station on their flagship and brought in another reef for the coming night. Each captain and lieutenant was very aware of the man whose flag floated from
Black Prince
's foremast, and the need not to lose contact with him in the gathering darkness.

Keen had been going to ask Bolitho to sup with him, but when the brig's commander had produced a letter for him he had decided otherwise.

It was to be a private moment, shared by nobody but the ship around him, and with Catherine. This was a man none of his captains would recognise, as he bent over his table and carefully opened her letter. He knew he would read it many times; and he found he was touching the locket beneath his shirt as he straightened the letter under a deckhead lantern.

Darling Richard, dearest of men, so short a while since we were parted and yet already a lifetime . . .

Bolitho stared around the cabin and spoke her name aloud. “Soon, my love, soon . . .” And in the sea's murmur, he thought he heard her laugh.

17 “YOU HOLD
T
HEIR HEARTS . . .”

I
F THE
officers and men of Bolitho's North Sea squadron had expected a quick relief from the dragging boredom of blockade duty, they were soon to be disappointed. Weeks overlapped into months. Spring drove away the icy winds and constant damp of winter, and still they endured the endless and seemingly pointless patrols. Northward from the Frisian Islands, with the Dutch coast sometimes in view, often as far as the Skagerrak where Poland had fought his last battle.

Better than most Bolitho knew he was driving them hard, more so than they had probably ever endured before. Sail and gun drills, in line ahead or abreast to a minimum of signals. Then he had divided his squadron into two divisions with the clergyman-like Crowfoot's
Glorious
as senior ship of the other line. Bolitho had now been reinforced by the two remaining seventy-fours,
Valkyrie
and
Tenacious,
and a small but welcome addition of the schooner
Radiant,
the latter commanded by an elderly lieutenant who had once been with the revenue service.

Small
Radiant
might be, but she was fast enough to dart close inshore and make off again before an enemy patrol vessel could be roused enough to weigh anchor and come out to discourage her impudence.

Allday was shaving Bolitho one morning and for the first time since they had come aboard, the stern windows were open, and there was real warmth in the air. Bolitho stared up at the deckhead while the razor rasped expertly under his chin.

The blade stilled as he said, “I suppose they hate my insides for all the drills I am forcing on them?”

Allday waited, then continued with his razor. “Better this way, Sir Richard. It's fair enough in small craft, but in big ships like this 'un it's wrong to draw officers and sailors too close together.”

Bolitho looked at him curiously.
More wisdom.
“How so?”

“'Tween decks they
needs
someone to hate. Keeps them on edge, like a cutlass to a grindstone!”

Bolitho smiled and let his mind drift again. Cornwall would be fresh again after the drab weather. Bright yellow gorse, sheets of bluebells along the little paths to the headland. What would Catherine be doing? He had received several letters in the courier brig; once he had three altogether, as often happened with the King's ships constantly at sea. Catherine always made her letters interesting. She had dispensed with Somervell's property in London, and after paying off what sounded like a mountain of debts she had purchased a small house near the Thames. It was as if she had felt his sudden anxiety all the miles across the North Sea and had explained, “When you must be in London, we will have our own haven—we shall be beholden to nobody.” She spoke too of Falmouth, of ideas which she and Ferguson had put in motion to clear more land, to make a profit, and not merely sustain its existence. She never mentioned Belinda, nor did she speak of the enormous amount of money Belinda required to live in the only style she had come to accept.

There was a knock at the outer door and Keen entered and said apologetically, “I thought you should know, Sir Richard. Our schooner is in sight to the east'rd and is desiring to close on us.”

Allday dabbed Bolitho's face and watched the light in his eyes. There was no sign of injury. No change, he thought. So perhaps after all . . .

Bolitho said, “News, d'you think, Val?”

Keen said impassively, “She comes from the right direction.”

In Catherine's last letter she had mentioned her meeting with Zenoria. “Tell Val to take heart. The love is as strong as before. It needs a sign.” Keen had taken the news without comment. Resigned, hopeful or desperate; whatever his emotions were, he hid them well.

When Allday had left them alone Bolitho exclaimed, “In God's name, Val, how much longer must we beat up and down this barren coast waiting for some word? Every morning the horizon is empty but for our own companions, each sunset brings more curses from the people because of all this futility!”

There were more delays, while the schooner tacked this way and that before she could lie under
Black Prince
's lee and drop her boat in the water.

Lieutenant Evan Evans had served with the Revenue cutters before joining the King's navy, but he looked more like a pirate than a law-abiding sailor. A great block of a man with rough grey hair which looked as if he cut it himself with shears, a brick-red face so battered and so ruined by hard drinking that he was a formidable presence even in Bolitho's great cabin.

Ozzard brought some wine but Evans shook his shaggy head. “None o' that, beggin' yer pardon, Sir Richard—it plays hell with my gut!”

But when Ozzard produced some rum Evans drained the tankard in one swallow. “More like it, see?”

Bolitho said, “Tell me what you found.”

Together they walked to the table where Bolitho's own chart was spread with his personal log open beside it.

Evans put a finger as thick and as hard as a marlin spike on the chart and said, “Three days back, Sir Richard. Makin' for the Bay o' Heligoland, she was, leastways 'twas a fair guess at her direction.”

Bolitho contained his impatience. Evans was reliving it. It would destroy the picture in his mind if he was goaded. It was strange to hear the local landmarks described in his rich Welsh accent.

Keen prompted gently, “She?”

Evans glared at him and continued, “Big as a cathedral, she was. Ship o' th' line.” He shrugged heavily. “Then two frigates came from nowhere, out o' th' sun to all intents. One was a forty-four.” He frowned, so that his bright eyes seemed to vanish into thick folds of skin.

Bolitho straightened his back and clasped his fingers together behind him. “Did you see her name, Mr Evans?”

“Well, we were proper busy when she let fly with a bowchaser, but my little schooner can show a clean pair o' heels as anyone will tell you . . .”

Bolitho remarked, “She was
L'Intrépide,
was she not?”

The others stared at him and Keen asked, “But how could you know, sir?”

“A premonition.” He turned from the table to conceal his face from them. It was here; he could feel it. Not just yet, but soon, quite soon.

“The larger vessel—how big, d'you think?”

Evans nodded to Ozzard and took another tankard of rum. Then he wiped his lips with the back of his rough hand and frowned. It seemed habitual.

“Well, I'm no real judge, but she were a liner right enough.” He glanced professionally around the cabin. “Bigger'n this 'un, see?”

“What?”
Bolitho turned back at Keen's sudden surprise and doubt. “Must be a mistake, sir. I have read every word of those reports from the Admiralty. No ship larger than a seventy-four survived Trafalgar. They were either taken or destroyed in the gale that followed the battle.” He looked almost accusingly towards the wild-haired lieutenant. “No agent has reported the building of any vessel such as the one you describe.”

The lieutenant grinned. The burden was no longer his, and the rum was very good.

“Well, that's what I saw, Sir Richard, an' I've been at sea for twenty-five year. I were nine when I ran out o' Cardiff. Never regretted it.” He shot Keen a pitying glance. “Long enough to know which is the sharp end o' a pike!”

Keen laughed, the strain leaving his face as he retorted, “You are an impudent fellow, but I think I asked for it!”

Bolitho watched him, the news momentarily at arm's length. Only Keen would be man enough to make such an admission to a subordinate. It would never have occurred to Bolitho that he might have learned it from his own example.

Bolitho said, “I want you to carry a despatch to Portsmouth. It could be urgent.”

Keen said, “The Nore would be a shorter passage, sir.”

Bolitho shook his head, thinking aloud. They have the telegraph at Portsmouth. It will be faster.” He eyed Evans meaningly as he swallowed some more rum. “I take it you have a reliable
mate?
”

It was not lost on the shaggy Welshman. “I won't let you down, Sir Richard. My little schooner will be there by Monday.”

“There will be a letter also.” He met Evans' searching stare. “I would appreciate if you send it by post-horse yourself. I shall pay you directly.”

The man grinned. “God love you, no, Sir Richard. I know them buggers at Portsmouth Point an' they
owe
me a favour or two!”

Keen seemed to come out of his thoughts. “I have a letter as well which could perhaps go with it, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho nodded, understanding. If the worst happened he might never know Zenoria's love. It did not bear even thinking about.

“You are doing the right thing, Val,” he said quietly. “My lady will ensure she receives it.”

By noon the schooner was under way again, watched with envy by those who knew her destination, and wished that their next landfall would be England.

While Bolitho and Keen thought about their respective letters, carried in the schooner's safe with the despatches, other smaller dramas were being enacted deep in the hull, as is the way with all large men-of-war.

Two seamen who had been working under the direction of Holland, the purser's clerk, to hoist a fresh cask of salt pork from the store, were squatting in almost total darkness, a bottle of cognac wedged between them. One of the men was Fittock, who had been flogged for insubordination. The other was a Devonian named Duthy, a ropemaker and, like his friend, an experienced seaman.

They were speaking in quiet murmurs, knowing they should not still be here. But like most of the skilled hands they disliked being cooped up with untrained ignorant landsmen who were
always bleating about discipline,
as Duthy put it.

He said, “I'll be glad to swallow the anchor when me time's up, Jim, but I'll miss some of it, all the same. I've learned a trade out of the navy, an' provided I can stay in one piece . . .”

Fittock swallowed hard and felt the heat of the spirit run through him. No wonder the wardroom drank it.

He nodded. “
Provided,
yes, mate, there's always that.”

“Yew think we'm goin' to fight, Jim?”

Fittock rubbed his back against a cask. The scars of the lash were still sore, even now.

He showed his teeth. “You knows the old proverb, mate? If death rakes the decks, may it be like prize money.”

His friend shook his head. “Don't understand, Jim.”

Fittock laughed. “So that the officers get the biggest share!”

“Now here's a fine thing!”

They both lurched to their feet as someone slid the shutter from a lantern, and they saw Midshipman Vincent staring at them, his mouth lifted in a faint smile. Behind him, his cross-belt white in the gloom, was the ship's corporal.

Vincent said coldly, “Just as well I came to complete the rounds.” The officer-of-the-watch had sent him after seeing the purser's clerk appear on deck alone, but he made it sound as if it was his own idea. “Scum like you, Fittock, never learn, do you?”

Duthy protested, “We weren't doin' nothin', sir. We was standin' easy, so to speak!”

“Don't lie to me, you pig!” Vincent thrust out his hand. “Give me that bottle! I'll see your backbones for this!”

Anger, resentment, the scars on his back, and of course the cognac were part and parcel of what happened next.

Fittock retorted angrily, “Think you can't do no wrong 'cause yer uncle's the vice-admiral, is that it? Why, you little shite, I've served with 'im afore, an' you're not fit to be in the same ship as 'im!”

Vincent stared at him glassily. It was all going wrong.

“Corporal, seize that man! Take him aft!” He almost screamed.
“That's an order, man!”

The ship's corporal licked his lips and made as if to unsling his musket. “Come on, Jim Fittock, you knows the rules. Let's not 'ave any trouble, eh?”

Feet scraped on the gratings between the casks and some white breeches moved into the lantern's glow.

Midshipman Roger Segrave said calmly, “There'll
be
no trouble, Corporal.”

Vincent hissed, “What the hell are you saying? They were drinking unlawfully, and when I discovered them—”

“They were ‘insubordinate,' I suppose?” Segrave was astonished by his own easy tones. Like a total stranger's.

He said, “Cut along, you two.” He turned to the corporal, who was staring at him, his sweating face full of gratitude. “And you. I'll not be needing you.”

Vincent shouted wildly, “What about the cognac?” But of course, like magic, it had vanished.