Alexander Kent - The Only Victor

Bolitho went on deck at noon, and felt the sun strike his face and shoulders like fire; his shoes stuck to the deck-seams as he strode to the hammock-nettings with a telescope from the rack.

Mountains, red and pink in the harsh, misty glare, and over all the sun, which was like burnished silver, strong enough to drain all colour from the sky around it.

He shifted the glass slightly, his legs braced as the lazy offshore swell lifted the keel and rolled noisily down either beam. Table Mountain, a paler wedge, but still shrouded in haze and mystery like some giant's altar.

There were the ships. His eyes moved professionally across the mixed collection. The elderly sixty-four Themis, which he knew was Commodore Warren's ship. Warren was ill. How ill? He had not enquired further of Varian. It would show his hand, or display uncertainty when he must soon need these unknown men to trust him without question.

Another frigate, some schooners and two large supply vessels. The cream of the attacking force would be as Varian had described, to the north-west where the ships could anchor well offshore, whereas here there was only one natural bank shallow enough to ride at their cables. Beyond the hundred-fathom line the sea's bed fell away to infinity, a black oblivion where nothing moved.

He saw sunlight flashing on glass and knew they were watching Truculent's slow approach, as surprised by his flag at the fore as Varian had been.

Captain Poland joined him by the side.

He said, "Do you think it will be a long campaign, Sir Richard?"

He spoke with elaborate care, and Bolitho guessed he was probably wondering what had passed between himself and Varian in the cabin. Bolitho lowered the telescope and faced him.

"I have had some dealings with the army in the past, Captain. They are more used to campaigns than I care for. A battle is one thing-you win or you strike. But all this drawn-out business of supplies and marching is not for me."

Poland gave a very rare smile. "Nor me, Sir Richard."

Bolitho turned to look for Jenour. "You may signal for water lighters when you are anchored, Captain. A word of praise to your people will not come amiss either. It was an admirable passage."

A shaft of sunlight like the blade of a lance swept down on them as the Afterguard hauled over the great driver-boom.

Bolitho gritted his teeth. Nothing. They had to be wrong. There was nothing. He could see the other ships plainly in spite of the unwavering glare.

Jenour watched him and felt his heart thumping against his ribs. Then he saw Allday coming aft, the old sword protruding from his polishing cloth.

Their exchange of glances was swift but complete. Was it too soon to hope? For all their sakes?

The two frigates rounded-up and anchored in the late afternoon considerably earlier than even the taciturn Mr Hull had predicted. As signals were made and exchanged, boats lowered and awnings spread, Bolitho watched from the quarterdeck, his mind exploring the task which lay ahead.

It was strange how the land never seemed to draw any closer, and because of the difficult anchorage it gave an impression of brooding defiance. The point to the north-west which had been selected for the first assault was a good choice, possibly the only one. Bolitho had examined the charts with great care, as well as the maps supplied to him by the Admiralty Up there at SaldanhaBay the coastal waters were shallow and protected enough to land soldiers and marines under the cover of men-of-war, which could offer fire. But once ashore the true difficulty would begin. SaldanhaBay was one hundred miles from Cape Town. Foot soldiers, some sick and weary from weeks and weeks at sea in their cramped quarters between decks, would be in no fit state to march and skirmish all the way to Cape Town. The Dutch were excellent fighters and would harry rather than confront them every mile. When they finally reached the Cape, the enemy would be ready and waiting. It seemed unlikely that any large force of Dutch soldiers would be sent to contest the landings. It would leave them in danger of being cut off by this supporting squadron.

Bolitho felt his impatience returning. A campaign then, lengthy and costly. A war of supply-lines, to be fought by soldiers, many of whom had been confined to garrison duties in the Indies. The Islands of Death, as the army called them, where more men died of fever than under the enemy's fire.

Jenour strode aft and touched his hat. "Your despatch to the general has gone, Sir Richard, taken by the courier schooner Miranda this moment."

Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the small and graceful schooner tacking away from the other vessels, her commander doubtless grateful to be free of other authority, albeit for only a few days.

Bolitho watched the redness of evening spreading along the glittering horizon, the masts and yards of the small squadron suddenly like bronze. Ashore telescopes would have observed Truculent's arrival as they had doubtless studied all the others.

He remarked, "You are in irons, Stephen, so why not spit out what you think?"

But for his self-control, Jenour would have blushed. Bolitho always knew. It was pointless to pretend.

"I-I thought-" He licked his dry lips. "I would have thought that the Commodore might have requested to come aboard." He fell silent under Bolitho's scrutiny.

Bolitho said, "In his place I would have done just that." He recalled Captain Varian's tactless remark. "Call away the gig, Stephen. My compliments to Captain Poland and explain that I am going across to Themis."

Fifteen minutes later, sweating steadily in his dress coat and hat, he sat in the gig's sternsheets with Jenour beside him, and a critical Allday crouching with the boat's coxswain.

As they pulled slowly abeam of the other ships, Bolitho saw officers-of-the-watch doffing their hats, motionless figures in shrouds and rigging staring in silence, their bare arms and shoulders like parts of the bronze around them.

Allday leaned forward, his mouth just inches from Bolitho's ear.

"Y'see, they knows, Sir Richard. Only here an hour an' the word has gone through the whole squadron! " He saw one of the oarsmen staring at him and scowled over Bolitho's epaulette. The man dropped his gaze and almost lost the stroke. He had probably been surprised at seeing a seaman, even an admiral's personal coxswain, chatting with his master, while the latter even turned his head to listen.

Bolitho nodded. "Lord Nelson will be sadly missed. We'll not see his like in our lifetime."

Allday leaned back again and rolled his tongue inside his cheek to restrain a grin. I'm not too sure o' that, he thought.

Bolitho watched the Themis's bowsprit and tapering jib-boom sweeping out to greet them. She was an old ship and had been employed on every sort of duty other than the line of battle. Originally a sixty-four, she had been stripped of some of her armament while she was carrying soldiers from one trouble spot to the next; she had even been to the penal colony in New South Wales. Transport, receiving ship, and now with the war demanding everything that would stay afloat, she was here, part of the invading force.

Jenour bit his lip and tried to relax. He had seen the assembled guard at the entry port, the glitter of red sunlight on drawn swords. An air of wariness.

Bolitho waited while the bowman hooked on to the main chains, then pulled himself up to the entry port, immediately deafened by the bark of commands, the chorus of squealing calls, which sailors termed "Spithead Nightingales." He no longer needed to look for Allday to know he was there, ready to reach out if he lost his footing, or if his eye… No. He would not think about it.

The din faded away and he raised his hat to the poop, where the White Ensign made a lively dance against the hot sky.