Alexander Kent - The Only Victor

"I think not, sir."

Later, as the last dogwatchmen were finishing their evening meal, Bolitho and Keen, accompanied by the ship's junior lieutenant and, of course, Allday, went slowly along each deck and down every companion ladder into the very bowels of the ship.

Many of the startled seamen at their mess tables started to rise at the unheralded tour, but each time Bolitho waved them down.

He paused to speak to some of them and was surprised at the way they crowded around him. To see what he was like? To assess their own chances of survival; who could tell?

Pressed men and volunteers, hands from other ships, dialects which told their own stories. Men from Devon and Hampshire, Kent and Yorkshire, "foreigners" too, as Fudge would describe any one from north of the border.

And of course a man from Falmouth, who said awkwardly before his grinning messmates, "O' course 'ee won't know me, Sir Richard-name o' Tregorran."

"But I knew your father. The blacksmith near the church." For a brief instant he laid his hand on the man's shoulder while his mind sped on wings back to Falmouth. The man Tregorran stared at the two lines of gold lace on Bolitho's sleeve as if he had been mesmerised.

"He was a good man." The mood left him. "Let's hope we'll all be back home soon after this, lads! "

The overcrowded messdeck was stuffy now with the gunports sealed to contain the familiar smells of tar, bilge and sweat; a place where no tall man could stand upright, where their lives began and too often ended.

He climbed up the last of the companion ladders and some of the men stood to cheer, their voices following him, deck by deck, like other men he had known and commanded over the years; waiting perhaps for him to join them in that other world.

Allday saw his face and knew exactly what he was thinking. Roughknots, thieves and villains, alongside the innocent and the damned. England 's last hope. Only hope-that was what he was thinking right now.

A midshipman's grubby breeches caught the lamplight on the ladder and there was a quick, whispered conversation, before the lieutenant who had accompanied the unorthodox tour said, "Mr Jenour's respects, sir! " He was looking at Keen but was very aware of his viceadmiral. "The signal-bag has been passed to Nicator."

He licked his lips as Bolitho remarked, "All or nothing." Then he said, "You are Lieutenant Whyham, are you not?" He saw the youthful officer nod uncertainly "I thought as much, but did not wish to lose the use of memory! " He smiled, as if this were a casual meeting ashore. "One of my midshipmen in Argonaute four years ago correct?"

The lieutenant was still staring after him as Bolitho and Keen climbed into the cooler air of the upper deck. After the sealed messes it tasted like wine.

Keen said, uncertainly, "Will you sup with me tonight, sir? Before they pull the ship apart and clear for action?"

Bolitho looked at him calmly, still moved by the warmth of those simple men who had nothing but his word to hold onto.

"I would relish that, Val."

Keen removed his hat and pushed his fingers through his fair hair. Bolitho half-smiled. The midshipman again, or perhaps the lieutenant in the GreatSouthSea.

"What you said in your instructions to Nicator's captain. It makes one realise, but not accept, how narrow that margin is. Now when I think I have everything I ever wanted…" He did not go on. He did not need to. It was as if Allday had just repeated what he had said before. "An' then you dies…"

Keen could have been speaking for both of them.

At the very first hint of life in the sky Black Prince seemed to come slowly into her own. Like men from forgotten sea-fights and long-lost wrecks, her seamen and marines emerged from the darkness of gundeck, orlop or hold, quitting that last pretence of privacy and peace which is the need of all men before a battle.

Bolitho stood on the quarterdeck's weather side and listened to the awakening thud of bare feet and the clink of weapons around and below him. Keen had done his work well: not a pipe given, no beat of drum to inflame the heart and mind of some poor soul who might imagine it was his last memory on earth.

It was as if the great ship herself was coming alive, her company of eight hundred sailors and sea-soldiers merely incidental.

Bolitho watched the sky, his eye at ease in the darkness. First light was not far off, but for the present it was only anticipation, a sense of uneasiness like the sea's deceptive smile before a raging gale.

He tried to imagine the ship as the enemy would gauge her. A fine big three-decker with her rightful Danish ensign flying directly beneath the English one, to announce her true state to the world. But it needed more than that. Bolitho had used many ruses in his time, especially when employed as a frigate captain, and had been caught out by almost as many triggered against himself. In a war which had lasted so long and killed so many men on all sides and of all beliefs, even the normal could not be accepted at face-value.

If the day went against them, the price would be doubly high. Keen had already passed his orders to the boatswain-no chain-slings could be rigged to yards and spars to prevent them from falling to the deck, to cripple the ship or crush the men at the guns. It would put an edge to their spirits when the time came. There had been no protest from the boatswain about keeping all the boats stacked in their tiers. Bolitho had expected none. For despite the real danger from flying splinters, some like sawtoothed daggers if tiered boats were caught in an attack, most sailors preferred to see them there. The last lifeline.

Keen came up to him. Like all the officers who would be on the upper deck he had discarded his telltale captain's coat. Too many clues. Too many easy targets.

Keen stared at the sky. "It's going to be another clear day."

Bolitho nodded. "I had hoped for rain-cloud at least with this nor'-easterly." He looked towards the empty blanket beyond the bows. "We shall have the sun at our backs. They must sight us first. I think we should shorten sail, Val."

Keen was peering around for a midshipman. "Mr Rooke! Tell the first lieutenant to pipe the hands aloft, to take in t'gan's'ls and royals! "

Bolitho smiled in spite of his dry tension. Two minds working together. If they were sighted first, any enemy would be suspicious of a prize-ship being driven under full sail when there was nothing to fear.

Keen looked at the vague shapes of men rushing aloft up the shrouds, to take in and fist the heavy canvas to the yards.

He said, "Major Bourchier knows what to do. He will have marines on the forecastle, aft here, and up in the maintop, just as he would if he were controlling a prize with her original company still aboard."

There was nothing more they could do.

Cazalet called, "Sailmaker, sir! "

Fudge and one of his mates came through the shadows and held out the makeshift Danish flag between them.

Bolitho said, "True to your word. A fine job." He beckoned to Jenour. "Help Fudge to run up our new flag-his should be the honour! "

It would have been something to see it, he thought. But even in the raw darkness, with the spray occasionally pattering over the decks like rain, it was a moment to remember. Men crowding inboard from the guns to peer at the strange flapping ensign as it mounted up to the gaff beneath the ship's true colours.

Someone called out, "Yew musta used all yer best gear fer that 'un, Fudge! "

The old sailmaker was still staring at the faint, curling shape against the black sky. Over his shoulder he said dourly, "Got enough to sew you up in after this day's over, mate."

Keen smiled. "I've put one of our master's mates in the masthead, sir. Taverner-used to be with Duncan. Eyes like a hawk, mind like a knife. I'll see him made sailing-master even if it does mean losing him! "