Alexander Kent - A Tradition of Victory

He saw some of the new hands murmuring to one another, their first taste of victory soured by the arrival of the powerful French squadron.

“Captain Inch! Have your marine fifers play us into battle. It will help to ease their minds.”

Inch followed his glance, and then bobbed and said, “Sometimes I forget, sir, the war has gone on for so long I think everyone must have fought in a real sea battle!”

And so the little sixty-four with the rear-admiral’s flag at her mizzen sailed to meet the enemy in the bright sunlight, while her marine fifers and drummers marched and counter-marched on a space no bigger than a carpet.

Many of the seamen who had been staring at the enemy ships turned inboard to watch and to tap their feet to the lively jig, The Post Captain.

Astern of Odin and her attendant frigate, the bay was filled with drifting smoke and the scattered flotsam of a dream.

BOLITHO was in Odin’s chartroom when Inch reported that the masthead had sighted the brig Rapid closing slowly from the south-west.

Bolitho threw the dividers on the chart and walked out into the sunlight. Commander Lapish obviously hoped to add his small ship to the squadron, odds or no odds.

He said, “Signal Rapid as soon as you can. Tell her to find Ganymede and harass the enemy’s rear.” It might prevent the only French frigate at present in sight from outman?uvring the heavier ships, at least until Duncan’s Sparrowhawk joined them from the northern sector.

Inch watched the flags darting aloft and asked, “Shall we wait for the commodore to join us, sir?”

Bolitho shook his head. The French squadron had formed into an untidy but formidable line, the second ship wearing the flag of a rear-admiral. Remond. It had to be.

“I think not. Given more time I would not hesitate. But time will also aid the enemy to stand into the bay and take the windgage while the rest of our squadron is floundering into the face of it.”

He raised his glass again and studied the leading ship. A twodecker, with her guns already run out, although she was still three miles distant. A powerful ship, probably of eighty guns. On the face of it she should be more than a match for the smaller Odin.

But this was where the months and years of relentless blockade and patrols in all weathers added their weight to the odds. The French, on the other hand, spent more time bottled up in harbour than exercising at sea. It was most likely why Remond had placed another ship than his own to point the attack, to watch and prepare his squadron in good time.

He said suddenly, “See how the French flagship stands a little to windward of the leader.”

Inch nodded, his face totally blank. “Sir?”

“If we attack without waiting for our other ships to join us, I think the French admiral intends to separate, then engage us on either beam.”

Inch licked his lips. “While the last three in his line stand off and wait.”

Stirling called, “Rapid ’s acknowledged, sir.”

Allday climbed on to the poop ladder and peered astern. How far away Benbow now seemed. Quite rightly Herrick was clawing his way into the bay so that he could eventually come about and hold the wind in his favour. But it took time, a lot of it.

There was a dull bang, and a ball skipped across the sea a good mile away. The leading French captain was exercising his bow-chasers, probably to break the tension of waiting as much as possible.

It would not help him to have his admiral treading on his coat-tails, Allday thought, and watching every move he made.

He turned and looked along Odin’s crowded deck. There would not be many left standing if she got trapped between two of the Frenchmen without support. Was that what Bolitho meant to do? To damage the enemy so much that the remainder would be left to fight Herrick on equal terms?

He spoke aloud. “Gawd Almighty!”

The marine colour-sergeant who was standing on the right of the nearest line of marksmen grinned at him.

“Nervous, matey?”

Allday grimaced. “Hell, not likely. I’m just looking for a place to take a nap!”

He stiffened as he heard Inch say to the master, “Mr M’Ewan, the rear-admiral intends to luff when we are within half a cable. We shall then wear and attack the second ship in the French line.”

Allday saw the sailing-master’s head nodding jerkily as if it was only held to his shoulders by a cord.

The colour-sergeant hissed, “Wot’s that then?”

Allday folded his arms and allowed his mind to settle. Odin would luff, and by the time she had turned into the wind would be all but under the other ship’s bowsprit. Then she would wear and turn round to thrust between the leading vessels. If she was allowed. It was hazardous, and could render Odin a bloody shambles in a few minutes. But anything was better than being raked from either beam at the same time.

He replied calmly, “It means, my scarlet friend, that you an’ your lot are going to be very busy!”

Bolitho watched the oncoming formation, looking for a sign, some quick hoist of flags which might betray Remond’s suspicion. He would be expecting something surely? One small sixty-four against five ships of the line.

He recalled Remond’s swarthy features, his dark, intelligent eyes.

He said, “Captain Inch, tell your lower battery to load with double-shot. The eighteen-pounders of the upper battery will load with langridge, if you please.” He held Inch’s gaze. “I want that leading ship dismasted when we luff.”

Bolitho looked up at the masthead pendant. Wind still holding as strong as ever. He almost looked astern but stopped himself in time. The officers and men nearby would see it as uncertainty, their admiral looking for support. It was best to forget about Herrick. He was doing all he could.

Graham, the first lieutenant, touched his hat to Inch. “Permission to fall out the drummers and fifers, sir?”

Bolitho looked quickly at the minute figures in scarlet. He had been so wrapped in his thoughts he had barely heard a note.

Gratefully, the panting fifers hurried below to a chorus of ironic cheers.

Bolitho touched the unfamiliar hilt of his sword. They could still cheer.

Another bang from the leader, and the ball ploughed up a furrow of spray some three cables abeam. The French captain must be on edge. He’s probably watching me now. Bolitho walked away from the mizzen bitts so that the sunshine would play on his bright epaulettes. At least he would know his enemy, he thought grimly.

He turned to watch a cluster of screaming gulls below the quarterdeck rail. They were unimpressed and quite used to a daily fight for survival.

Inch said, “The French admiral’s reset his t’gan’s’ls, sir.”

Bolitho watched the weather bow of the enemy flagship show itself around the leader’s quarter. He had guessed Remond’s intention. Now it all depended on the men around him.

“Captain Inch, this needs to be carefully done.” He touched his arm and smiled. “Though I need not tell you how to handle her, eh?”

Inch beamed with obvious pleasure. “Thank you kindly, sir!” He turned away, the captain again. “Mr Graham! Pipe the hands to the braces!” His arm shot out and pointed at a lieutenant on the gun-deck. “Mr Synge! Have both batteries been reloaded as ordered?”

The lieutenant squinted up at the quarterdeck rail and replied nervously, “Aye, sir! I-I forgot to report it.”

Inch glared at the luckless lieutenant. “I am glad to hear it, Mr Synge, for an instant I imagined you thought I was a mindreader!”

Several of the gun crews chuckled and lapsed into silence as the flushed-faced lieutenant turned towards them.

Bolitho watched the French ships and found he could do it without emotion. He was committed. Right or wrong, there was no chance to break off the action, even if he wanted to.