Alexander Kent - A Tradition of Victory

Then he was settled in the sternsheets, the oars already thrashing at the tossing water to take the gig clear of the side.

Allday called, “Give way, all!”

Bolitho glanced up at him. But Allday kept his eyes fixed on the ship. Perhaps they had both known this would happen, but now that it had, could no longer share it.

Bolitho unclipped the boat cloak he wore, and threw it clear of the bright gold epaulettes, each with its new silver star.

It was just another ship in a desperately depleted squadron, and he was their admiral.

He glanced again at Allday’s rigid shoulders and knew it was a lie.

After the creak of oars and the sting of spray it seemed suddenly subdued on the Phalarope’s deck. Bolitho replaced his hat and nodded briefly to the ship’s marine officer who had arranged his men in two scarlet ranks to receive him.

“Captain Emes?” Bolitho held out his hand as the slightly built figure stepped forward. He had a swift impression of alert wariness, a youthful face, but with a mouth hardened by the rigours of command.

Emes said, “I am honoured to receive you aboard, sir.” Again there was a sharpness to his voice, a man on guard, one who had been practising for this very moment. “Although I fear you must know Phalarope better than I do.” A shutter seemed to drop behind his level gaze, as if he had already said too much. He half turned, but although he was about to present his officers, his eyes were elsewhere, seeking flaws to the pattern, anything which might make a poor showing.

Bolitho could well understand any captain being eager to make a good impression on his new flag-officer, the man who could fulfil or shatter his hopes for any kind of future. But he had gleaned enough about Emes to doubt if that was the full story. A post-captain at twenty-nine was a record to be proud of, and should have given him a confidence to go with it.

Emes said crisply, “My senior you will also know better than I, sir.” Emes stood aside as if to watch for reactions.

Bolitho exclaimed, “Adam! Of all things!”

Lieutenant Adam Pascoe, looking even younger than his twenty-one years, was both relieved and pleased.

“I-I am sorry, Unc-” he flushed, “sir, I had no way of letting you know. The appointment came without warning and I had to leave for Ireland by the first packet.”

They examined each other, more like brothers than uncle and nephew.

Pascoe added uncertainly, “When I heard what my appointment was to be, I am afraid I thought of little else.”

Bolitho moved on and shook hands with the second and third lieutenants, the sailing-master, ship’s surgeon, and the captain of marines. Beyond them, the midshipmen and other warrant officers were backed by crowds of curious seamen, who were too surprised at this unexpected visit on their first commission to be aware of the more personal emotions by the entry port.

Bolitho looked slowly along the gun-deck, at the neatly flaked lines and taut rigging. He could even remember the way she had felt that first time when he had stepped aboard.

He cleared his throat. “Dismiss the hands, Captain Emes, and take station to windward of Styx.” He did not see the astonishment in Emes’s eyes. “Allday, send back the gig.” He hesitated. “You remain with me.”

The mass of seamen and marines broke into orderly confusion as the call to get under way was piped around the deck. Within fifteen minutes Emes had reset the courses and topgallants, and although some of the hands were slow and even clumsy as they ran to obey his commands, it was obvious they had been training hard since leaving harbour.

Browne said, “Fine ship, sir.” He looked around at the bustling figures, the stamp of bare feet as the seamen hauled hard on the braces.

Bolitho walked along the weather gangway, oblivious to the darting glances from the seamen and Emes’s shadow behind him.

He stopped suddenly and pointed below the opposite gangway. No wonder she had seemed changed. Instead of her original nal lines of twelve-pounders, each gunport was filled by a bluntmuzzled carronade. The carronade, or “smasher” as it was respectfully termed by the sailors, was carried in almost every man-of-war. Normally mounted on either bow, it could throw an enormous ball which burst on impact and discharged a murderous hail of grape through an enemy’s unprotected stern with horrifying effect. But as a ship’s armament, never. It had been tried experimentally some years back in another frigate, the Rainbow, but had proved unsuccessful and not a little dangerous in close combat.

Emes said quickly, “They were already mounted before I took charge of the refit, sir. I understand that they were taken into consideration when Phalarope was selected for this sector.” He waved his hand to the quarterdeck. “I still have eight 9-pounders as well, sir.” He sounded defensive.

Bolitho looked at him. “Admiral Sir George Beauchamp had been doing more planning than I realized.” When Emes did not even blink, he imagined he as yet knew nothing of his orders.

A midshipman called, “ Styx is signalling, sir!”

Emes grunted, “I shall come aft.” He sounded relieved. “If you will excuse me, sir?”

Bolitho nodded and walked slowly along the gangway, his ears searching for lost voices, his eyes catching brief pictures of almost forgotten faces on the strangers around him.

A clean, smart ship, with a captain who would stand no nonsense. It seemed incredible that Pascoe should be the senior lieutenant. His nephew’s dream had come true. Bolitho tried to find comfort there. He would have been the same, or was there still the other memory, the stain which had left a lasting mark in this ship?

Allday murmured, “All these smashers, sir. She’ll shake her innards on to the sea-bed if she’s called to give battle.”

Bolitho paused on the forecastle, his palm resting on a worn handrail.

“You were here at the Saintes, Allday.”

Allday glanced around the pitching deck. “Aye, sir. Me an’ a few others.” His voice strengthened and he seemed to rise from his depression. “God, the Frenchies were at us that day, an’ that’s no error! I saw the first lieutenant fall, an’ the second. Mr Herrick, young Mr Herrick he was in them days, took their place, and more than once I thought my time had come.” He watched Bolitho’s grave features. “I saw your coxswain fall too, old Stockdale.” He shook his head affectionately. “Protecting your back from the Frog marksmen, he was.”

Bolitho nodded. The memory was still painful. The fact he had not even seen Stockdale die in his defence had made it worse.

Allday grinned. But it made him look sad. “I determined right then, that if you was alive at the end o’ the day, I’d be your coxswain in his place. Mind you, sir, I’ve regretted more’n once since then, but still…”

Pascoe clattered up a ladder from the gun-deck. “Captain Emes has released me to act as your guide, sir.” He smiled awkwardly. “I suspect she is little altered.”

Bolitho glanced aft and saw Emes outlined against the bright sky. Watching him, wondering if they were exchanging secrets he could not share. It was wrong and unfair, Bolitho thought. But he had to know.

“Did you see Mrs Laidlaw, Adam?”

“No, sir. I had gone before she returned.” He shrugged. “I left her a letter, of course, Uncle.”

“Thank you.”

He was glad now that he had told Pascoe about his father. If he had not…

As if reading his thoughts, Pascoe said, “When my father fought against us during the American Revolution he attacked this ship. I’ve thought about it such a lot, and have tried to see how it was for you and him.” He watched Bolitho anxiously and then blurted out, “Anyway, Uncle, I wanted to join her. Even as the most junior lieutenant I’d have come.”