Alexander Kent - A Tradition of Victory

Bolitho gripped his arm. “I’m glad.” He looked at the tilting deck. “For both of you.”

A midshipman ran forward and touched his hat. “Captain’s respects, sir, and there is a signal for you.”

But on the quarterdeck once more Emes seemed unruffled by the news.

“ Styx has sighted a brig to the south’rd, sir.” He looked up with sudden irritation as his own masthead called that he had sighted a strange sail. “Must be blind, that one!”

Bolitho turned to hide his face. He knew that Neale often trusted a lookout or a midshipman aloft with a powerful telescope when the visibility made it worthwhile.

Emes contained his anger. “Would you care to come below, sir? Some claret perhaps?”

Bolitho looked at him calmly. Emes was afraid of him. Ill at ease.

“Thank you. Signal Styx to investigate, if you please, while you and I share a glass.”

The cabin, like the rest of the ship, was neat and clean, but with nothing lying about to show something of its owner’s character.

Emes busied himself with some goblets while Bolitho stared aft through the salt-smeared windows and allowed his mind to grapple with old memories.

“Young Mr Pascoe is performing well, sir.”

Bolitho eyed him across the claret. “If he were not, I would expect no favour, Captain.”

The directness of his reply threw Emes into confusion.

“I see, sir, yes, I understand. But I know what people say, what they think.”

“And what am I thinking?”

Emes paced across the cabin and back again. “The fleet is so short of experienced officers, sir, and I, as a post-captain, have been given command of this old ship.” He watched Bolitho for a sign that he might have gone too far, but when he remained silent added forcefully, “She was a fine vessel, and under your command one of great distinction.” He looked around, deflated and trapped. “Now she is old, her frames and timbers weakened by years of harbour duty. But I am glad to command her for all that.” He looked Bolitho straight in the eyes. “Grateful would be a better word.”

Bolitho put down the goblet very carefully. “Now I remember.”

He had been so full of his own worries, so affected by the return of his old command, he had barely thought of her captain. Now it came like a fist in the darkness. Captain Daniel Emes of the frigate Abdiel, who had faced a court martial about a year ago. He should have remembered. Emes had broken off an engagement with a larger enemy force not many leagues from this very position, but by so doing had allowed another British ship to be captured. It had been rumoured that only Emes’s early promotion to post-rank, and his previously excellent record, had saved him from oblivion and disgrace.

There was a tap at the door and Browne peered in at them, his face suitably blank.

“My pardon, sir, but Styx has signalled that she is in contact. The brig is from the southern squadron with despatches.” He glanced swiftly at Emes’s strained features. “It would seem that the brig is eager to speak with us.”

“I shall return to Styx directly.” As Browne hurried away Bolitho added slowly, “Phalarope was a newer ship when I took command, but a far less happy one than she is today. You may think she is too old for the kind of work we have to do. You may also believe she is not good enough for an officer of your skill and experience.” He picked up his hat and walked to the door. “I cannot speak for the former, but I shall certainly form my own judgement on the latter. As far as I am concerned, you are one of my captains.” He looked at him levelly. “The past is buried.”

Every inch of the surrounding cabin seemed to throw the last words back in his face. But he had to trust Emes, had to make him return that trust.

Emes said thickly, “Thank you for that, sir.”

“Before we join the others, Captain Emes. If you were faced tomorrow with the same sort of situation as the one which led to a court martial, how would you act?”

Emes shrugged. “I have asked myself a thousand times, sir. In truth, I am not sure.”

Bolitho touched his arm, sensing his rigidity and wariness outwardly protected by the bright epaulettes.

He smiled. “Had you said otherwise, I think I would have requested a replacement for your command by the next brig!”

Later, as the two frigates tacked closer together, and the far off brig spread more sail to beat up to them, Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck rail and looked along the length of the upper deck.

So much had happened and had nearly ended here. He heard Emes rapping out orders in his same crisp tones. A difficult man with a difficult choice if ever he had to make it again.

Allday said suddenly, “Well, sir, what d’you think?”

Bolitho smiled at him. “I’m glad she’s come back, Allday. There are too few veterans here today.”

Bolitho waited for the glasses to be refilled and tried to contain his new excitement. The Styx ’s stern cabin looked snug and pleased with itself in the glow of the deckhead lanterns, and although the hull groaned and shuddered around them, Bolitho knew that the sea was calmer, that true to the sailing-master’s prediction the wind had backed to the north-west.

He looked around the small group, and although it was black beyond the stern windows he could picture the other two frigates following in line astern while their captains awaited his pleasure. Only Rapid ’s young commander was absent, prowling somewhere to the north-east in readiness to dash down and alert his consorts if the French attempted a breakout under cover of darkness.

How would the parents and families feel if they could see their offspring on this night, he wondered? The bluff, red-faced Duncan of Sparrowhawk, relating with some relish, and to Neale’s obvious amusement, a recent entanglement with a magistrate’s wife in Bristol. Emes of the Phalarope, alert and very self-contained, watching and listening. Browne leaning over the fat shoulders of Smith, Neale’s clerk, and murmuring about some item or other.

Aboard the three frigates of Bolitho’s small force the first lieutenants would in turn be wondering at the outcome of this meeting. What would it mean to each of them personally? Promotion, death, even a command if their lord and master should fail.

The clerk straightened his shoulders and silently withdrew from the cabin.

Bolitho listened to the sluice of water around the rudder, the faint tap, tap, tap of halliards, and a restless step of a watchkeeper overhead. A ship. A living thing.

“Gentlemen. Your health.”

Bolitho sat down at the table and turned over a chart. The three ships were standing inshore towards the Loire Estuary, but that was nothing unusual. British ships, in company or alone, had done it a thousand times to keep the French fleet guessing and to sever their precious lines of supply and communication.

The brig which today had made contact with Styx was already well on her way to the north and England. Despatches from the vice-admiral commanding the southern squadron, another piece of intelligence which might eventually be used by the brains of Admiralty.

But, as was customary in local strategy, the brig’s commander had been instructed to make contact with any senior officer he discovered on passage. A keen-eyed lookout had ensured that the officer concerned was Bolitho.

He said, “You all know by now the bones of our orders, our true reason for being here.”

He glanced around their intent faces. Young and serious, each aware of the supposedly secret peace proposals, and conscious that with peace could come the sudden end of any hope for advancement. Bolitho understood very well. Between the wars he had been one of the very fortunate few who had been given a ship when the majority of officers had been thrown on the beach like paupers.