Alexander Kent - A Tradition of Victory

Allday was probably right. It was all too soon after the Baltic. Allday would realize that better than any of them. He had carried him in his arms when his wound had burst open and he almost died.

He asked, “What does your falcon do, Allday?”

Allday drew the old sword and raised it level with his eye until the edge gleamed in the reflected sunlight like a silver thread.

“He bides his time, sir. If he’s meant to be free, somehow he’ll manage it.”

They both looked up, off guard, as the masthead’s voice echoed through the skylight. “Deck there! Sail on th’ larboard quarter!”

Feet pounded across the planking and another voice snapped, “Alert the captain, Mr Manning! Mr Kilburne, aloft with you, smartly now!”

Bolitho and Allday exchanged glances.

It was the part Bolitho hated most. Having to wait. Not able to rush up and join the others and make his own judgement. Neale was the captain.

Voices sighed back and forth across the quarterdeck, but more subdued now. They were conscious either of Neale’s arrival on deck or of the fact that the cabin skylight was propped fully open.

Allday murmured, “God damn them, they are taking an age!”

In spite of his own anxiety, Bolitho was forced to smile.

“Easy, Allday. I will assist you if things become too difficult!”

But when a breathless midshipman arrived and blurted out his captain’s respects, and that a sail was closing to larboard, he found his admiral apparently at ease and untroubled on the stern bench and his coxswain engrossed in polishing a sword.

On the quarterdeck the sun was very hot, and made the shadows of rigging and shrouds criss-cross the pale planking like black bars.

Bolitho joined Neale by the hammock nettings. Like the other officers, he had discarded his heavy coat and was wearing shirt and breeches, with nothing to distinguish him from his subordinates. Anyone in Styx ’s company of some two hundred and forty souls who did not recognize his admiral after two weeks of cramped isolation was beyond help, Bolitho thought.

Neale said, “Lookout thinks there are two vessels, sir.” He shifted under Bolitho’s gaze. “The heat haze is making it hard to determine.”

Bolitho nodded, unaware that in his eagerness he had been almost glaring at him.

“Deck, sir! She’s a brig!” A pause, and then the midshipman named Kilburne shouted, “And-and one other, sir!”

The sailing-master whispered to one of his mates, “Gawd ’elp us!”

Neale cupped his hands. “What the hell are you talking about, sir?”

The second lieutenant who was on watch said helpfully, “I could get aloft, sir.”

“Remain here!” Neale turned to his first lieutenant. “Mr Pickthorn, I must ask you to go as I am seemingly supported by blind men and cripples!”

Pickthorn concealed a grin and was swarming up the ratlines before Neale had recovered his composure.

The air shook to the far-off bang of a gun, and Bolitho had to move to the lee side to hide his own impatience.

“Deck! ’Tis Rapid, sir! In pursuit of a small vessel, possibly a yawl!”

Neale squinted at the masthead pendant and the listless rise and fall of his sails and exclaimed, “Damn them! We’ll stand no chance!”

Bolitho said sharply, “What is the course to steer for Ile d’Yeu?”

Neale dragged his mind away from the thought of losing prize-money, no matter how small.

The sailing-master called, “Due east, sir, as makes no difference.”

Bolitho strode across the deck, barely conscious of the curious stares, the sun which had already changed his shirt into a wet rag.

“Bring her about, Captain Neale, and beat to wind’rd! When you are within signalling distance, I wish you to order Rapid to stand away!”

Pickthorn arrived on deck with a thump. He said hoarsely, “The yawl is making a run for it, sir! But Rapid ’s overhauling her fast!” He sensed the tension. “Sir?”

“Signal Rapid to disengage! Then call the hands and prepare to come about.” Neale glanced quickly at Bolitho. “We are taking over the chase.”

Pickthorn stared. “I see. Aye, at once, sir!”

Calls shrilled, and within minutes the men were straining at the braces, bringing the frigate heeling round until her canvas was almost aback. Sails banged and flapped in wild confusion, and had the wind been any stronger, she would have been in danger of losing a few spars.

The other midshipman on watch closed his telescope and said, “Rapid has acknowledged, sir.”

There was no need to add what everyone was thinking. It was unheard of for any ship, let alone the one wearing the flag of a rear-admiral, to snatch a prize from a consort. With Styx standing almost into the wind, it was even likely the elusive yawl would slip clean away from both of them. That would raise a few jeers in some French harbour tonight.

The master yelled, “Nor’-nor’-west, sir! Full an’ bye!”

Bolitho did not have to be told. The frigate was pitching unsteadily, the air filled with the din of canvas and blocks, of angry voices trying to hold the ship on course.

Bolitho shut the others from his mind as he levelled a telescope and concentrated everything on the distant patch of sails. She was big for a yawl, and had every piece of canvas set in her favour as she ran free with the wind. Courier, smuggler, it was of no account. She needed to get to safety, and the nearest land was the Ile d’Yeu.

Neale said bitterly, “If I change tack to starboard and gain more wind I might still head her off. We have six hours before dusk.” He sounded disappointed and confused.

“Remain as you are, Captain Neale. I shall require you to luff directly. Put her in stays.”

“But, but…” Neale was at a loss for words. To snatch then lose a prize, deliberately at that, was more than he could accept.

Bolitho eyed him calmly. “I want that yawl to believe we have been taken aback.”

Neale nodded jerkily. “Aye, sir. Mr Pickthorn! We are standing into the wind! Stand by tacks and sheets!” He added huskily, “I believe it myself, sir!”

As the helm was put up still further, Styx lifted like a stag caught by a musket ball in mid-air. Under Pickthorn’s guidance, and the curses and blows of the frantic petty officers and topmen, the ship plunged down into a deep trough, the sails flapping against the masts and forcing the hull over like a waterlogged cutter.

A seaman fell from the ratlines, the sea directly below his kicking feet before two of his companions hauled him gasping to safety. But not a spar cracked apart, nor did any sail split into ribbons, as the stricken frigate wallowed helplessly out of control.

Bolitho raised his glass again and watched for the yawl’s tancoloured sails. Well to starboard now, her hull partly hidden in the blue water.

“A moment more, Captain Neale.”

Bolitho handed the telescope to Allday. If Allday thought he had gone mad he certainly did not show it.

Then Bolitho said, “Get her under way again and continue the chase. Do not set your t’gallants. I want a chase, but if you catch that yawl I’ll make you eat your prize-money!”

It was like seeing a cloud part across a clear sky as Neale stared at him with amazement and admiration.

“Follow the Frenchie all the way to the island, sir?”

Bolitho watched the disorganized bunches of seamen being rounded up and set to the braces and halliards, once more.

“All the way.”

As Neale hurried to pass his orders to his lieutenants, Bolitho turned and looked at Allday. “Well?”

Allday wiped his mouth with the back of his fist. “I reckon the falcon is free, sir, an’ that’s no error!”

“Deck there! Land ahead! Fine on th’ lee bow!”