Alexander Kent - A Tradition of Victory

“A week ago, two of our patrols to the south’rd fell in with a Spanish trader and tried to take her as a prize. It was near dark and the Spaniard made a run for it. But with a few balls slammed into his hull, and a shifting cargo for good measure, he began to capsize. A boarding party was just in time to seize some papers, and discover that the vessel’s holds were filled with building stone. With encouragement the Spanish master admitted he was bringing his cargo into this sector.” He touched the chart with his fingers. “Fifteen leagues south of our present position, to the Ile d’Yeu.”

As he had expected, some of their earlier excitement had given way to disappointment. He decided not to play with them any longer.

“The Spanish master stated that he had visited the island several times, and on every occasion had landed a cargo of stone.” He picked up the brass dividers and moved them over the chart.

“He also said that the anchorage was filled with small vessels, newly built and fitted out. He did not know of their purpose until shown some drawings of French invasion craft of the kind being gathered in the Channel ports.” He nodded, seeing their immediate interest. “The very same. So while we watch Belle Ile and Lorient, the French admiral is moving his flotillas of gun brigs and bombs whenever he is told it is safe to do so.”

Duncan opened his mouth and shut it again.

Bolitho asked, “Captain Duncan, you have a question?”

“The stone, sir, I don’t see the point of it. Och, even new craft don’t need that much ballast while they are fitting out, and I’m sure there must be plenty closer to the building yards.”

“Perhaps by moving their craft close inshore they prefer to use the stone as ballast until they are ready for final commissioning at Lorient or Brest. The stone would then be off-loaded and used for fortifications and local batteries. It would make good sense, and draw far less attention than the movement of larger vessels in our area. All this time we have been watching the wrong sector, but now we know, gentlemen, and I intend to act upon this information.”

Neale and Duncan grinned at each other, as if they were being included in a mission already fought and won.

Emes said flatly, “But without further reinforcements, sir, it will be a hard nut to crack. I know the Ile d’Yeu, and the narrow channel between it and the mainland. An easy anchorage to protect, a hazardous one to attack.” He withdrew behind his mask as the others stared at him as if he had uttered some terrible oath.

“Well said.” Bolitho spread his hands across the chart. “We will create a diversion. The French will not expect a raid within such confined waters if they see us elsewhere, where they expect to see us.”

He turned to Browne who had been trying to catch his eye for several minutes.

“Yes?”

“Well, sir, if we wait until reinforcements arrive, as Sir George Beauchamp desired in his original plan, we could stand a better chance of success surely? Or if the brig which brought the news eventually returns with new orders countermanding our present commitment, then we shall be obliged to do nothing.”

Duncan exploded, “Do nothing, man! What are you saying?”

Bolitho smiled. “I take your point, Browne.”

Like Herrick and Allday, he was trying to shield him. If he attacked and failed, his head would be on the block. If he held back, nobody could blame him, but Beauchamp’s trust would be dishonoured for ever.

He said quietly, “If there is to be peace, it must be decided on fair and equal terms and not under the threat of invasion. If later there is to be war, we must ensure now that our people are not outman?uvred from the moment the treaty is torn in shreds. I don’t see that I have any choice.”

Duncan and Neale nodded firmly in agreement, but Emes merely brushed a loose thread from his sleeve, his face expressionless.

In the silence, Bolitho was conscious of Smith’s pen scraping on paper, and of his own heart against his ribs.

He added, “I have seen too many ships lost, too many lives tossed away, to ignore something which may be important, even vital, to our future. I suggest you return to your duties, gentlemen, and I shall endeavour to do mine.”

As the three captains left the cabin, Bolitho said, “Thank you for trying to protect me, Oliver. But there was never any choice. Even without this new information, I should have been forced to act. At least I know where. The how always takes a mite longer, eh?”

Browne smiled, touched at Bolitho’s confidence in him, the familiar use of his name.

When Bolitho spoke again his voice was preoccupied, even distant.

“And something troubles me…” He thought of Emes, withdrawn and resentful, of his nephew, Adam, so pleased with the realization of a dream, and of the girl in Falmouth.

“When I have discovered what it is, I shall feel more confident perhaps.”

If I have not already left it too late.

SEVEN DAYS after calling his captains together in conference, Bolitho was growing more and more restless for news. It was like being abandoned by the world beyond Styx ’s hull, or being cast adrift because of some terrible plague.

He had deliberately sent the other two frigates to maintain close watch on Belle Ile and its approaches. This would ensure that the French would believe their enemy’s blockade remained unchanged. Also, if the Spanish shipmaster’s information proved false, it might allow time to call heavier vessels from the other squadrons if there was an attempt to break out.

So while Styx cruised slowly back and forth along a twentymile triangle to the south, Bolitho had ordered the little brig to maintain contact between them.

It was frustrating, almost maddening, to know nothing, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from going on deck whenever he heard a cry from the masthead or some unusual disturbance among the men on watch. The weather did nothing to help. The wind had fallen away to a leisurely breeze, with barely a whitecap to break the Bay’s shark-blue emptiness. The ship’s company, although much aware of the responsibility of carrying their admiral about his affairs, grew slack and casual. Here and there seamen would loll at their monotonous tasks of splicing and whipping, polishing and stitching, and, hidden from the quarterdeck, others would lie sprawled in the tops, fast asleep.

Bolitho had noticed that neither Neale nor Browne had mentioned the lack of support from north or south. Beauchamp’s wishes must have been translated into deeds by now, even the gun brigs from Gibraltar should have arrived to give him the support he needed. The fact that Browne stayed silent suggested he and not his rear-admiral was closer to the truth. No support would arrive. The strategy so carefully planned by Beauchamp would be allowed to lie in some Admiralty strongbox until conveniently forgotten.

Allday entered the cabin and removed Bolitho’s sword from its rack to give it a daily polish. He hesitated, his thick shadow swaying easily to the ship’s gentle lift and plunge.

“That brig could have been delayed, sir. Wind was against her. Takes time to beat up-channel. I remember when we was in-”

Bolitho shook his head. “Not now. I know you mean well, but she must have made port with days to spare. Those craft are well used to their work.”

Allday sighed. “No sense in blaming yourself, sir.” He paused as if expecting Bolitho to turn on him. “These past days you’ve been like a falcon on a line, not able to do what he wants.”

Bolitho sat down on the bench beneath the stern windows. It was strange, but a fact, that it was easy to talk with his big coxswain, whereas he could never express even the hint of a doubt to Neale or any of his officers. That would imply weakness, uncertainty, what a man remembered when the iron began to fly, when he most needed to be inspired.