Alexander Kent - A Tradition of Victory

Bolitho looked at Stirling who was staring at him and shivering uncontrollably.

“We won, Mr Stirling.”

The boy nodded, his eyes too misty to record this great moment for his mother.

A young lieutenant, whose face was vaguely familiar, pushed through the cheering seamen and marines.

He saw Bolitho and touched his hat.

“Thank God you are safe, sir!”

Bolitho studied him gravely. “Thank you, but is that what you came to say?”

The lieutenant stared around at the dead and wounded, the scars and bloody patterns of battle.

“I have to tell you, sir, that the enemy have struck to us. All but one, which is running for the Loire with Nicator in full pursuit.”

Bolitho looked away. A complete victory. More than even Beauchamp could have expected.

He swung towards the lieutenant. He must think me mad.

“What ship?”

“Phalarope, sir. I am Fearn, acting-first lieutenant.”

Bolitho stared at him. “Acting-first lieutenant?” He saw the man recoil but could only think of his nephew. “Is Lieutenant Pascoe…?” He could not say the word.

The lieutenant breathed out noisily, glad he was not in the wrong after all.

“Oh no, sir! Lieutenant Adam Pascoe is in temporary command!” He looked down at the deck as if the realization he had survived was only just reaching him. “I fear Captain Emes fell as we broke through the French line.”

Bolitho gripped his hand. “Return to your ship and give my thanks to the people.”

He followed the lieutenant along the gangway until he saw a boat hooked alongside.

Phalarope was lying hove to close by, her sails punctured, but every carronade still run out and ready to fire.

He remembered what he had said to Herrick after the Saintes, when he had spoken of others’ ships.

Bolitho had replied then, “Not like this one. Not like the Phalarope.”

There would be no need to tell Adam that. For like Emes before him, he would have discovered it for himself.

He saw Allday rolling up the captured French flag which had outlived its admiral.

Bolitho took it and handed it to the lieutenant.

“My compliments to your commanding officer, Mr Fearn. Give him this.” He looked at his old sword and added quietly, “We can all honour this day.”

RICHARD BOLITHO studied his reflection in a wall mirror with the same scrutiny he would offer a junior officer who had applied for promotion.

He said over his shoulder, “It was good of you to stay with me, Thomas.” He turned and looked fondly at Herrick who was sitting on the edge of a chair, a half-empty goblet clutched in one hand. “Although in your present state of nerves I fear we will be of little use to one another!”

It was still difficult to believe he was home in Falmouth. After all that had happened, the squadron’s slow return to Plymouth, the work involved in caring for the battle-scarred ships, the goodbyes, and the memories of those who would never set foot in England again.

How quiet the house was, so still he could hear the birds beyond the windows which were closed against the first October chill, so very quiet, like a ship before a fight or after a storm.

Herrick shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked down at his new uniform.

“Acting-commodore, they said!” He sounded incredulous. “But I’d lose even that when peace was signed!”

Bolitho smiled at Herrick’s discomfort. Whatever the Admiralty’s official attitude was to be about the French invasion fleet’s destruction, their lordships had shown honest sense where Herrick was concerned.

Bolitho said quietly, “It has the right ring to it. Thomas Herrick, Rear-Admiral of the Red. I’m truly proud of you, and for you.”

Herrick stuck out his jaw, “And what about you? Nothing for what you achieved?” He held up his hand. “You can’t shut me up any more! We’re equal now, you said so yourself, so I’ll say my piece and there’s an end to it!”

“Yes, Thomas.”

Herrick nodded, satisfied. “Right then. It’s all over the West Country, everyone knows that peace is everything but signed, that fighting has ceased, and all because the French are the ones eager for an armistice! And why, do I ask?”

“Tell me, Thomas.”

Bolitho looked at himself in the mirror again. He felt worried and unsettled now that the moment had arrived. Within the hour he would be married to Belinda. What he had wanted more than anything, what he had clung to even in the worst moments in France and at sea.

But suppose she had inwardly changed her mind. She would still marry him, he had no doubt about that, but it would be on his terms and not hers. Herrick’s anger at the Admiralty’s attitude on his future seemed unimportant.

Herrick said, “It is because of what you did, make no mistake on that! Without those damned invasion vessels the French can only make a noise. They could no more invade England than, than…” He groped for some suitable insult. He ended by saying, “I think it’s petty and unfair. I’m promoted, when God’s teeth I’d rather remain a captain, while you stay where you are!”

Bolitho looked at him gravely. “Was it hard for you at Plymouth?”

Herrick nodded. “Aye. Saying farewell to Benbow. It was hard. I wanted to explain so much to the new captain, tell him what the ship could do…” He shrugged heavily. “But there it is. We paid our formal respects, and I came here to Falmouth.”

“Like that other time, eh, Thomas?”

“Aye.”

Herrick stood up and placed the goblet firmly on the table.

He said, “But today is a special day. Let’s make the most of it. I’m glad we’re walking down to the church.” He looked steadily into Bolitho’s eyes. “She’s lucky. So are you.” He grinned. “Sir.”

Allday opened the door, their hats in his hands. He looked very smart in his new gilt-buttoned jacket and nankeen breeches, a far cry from the man with a cutlass on the French flagship’s quarterdeck.

“There’s a visitor, gentlemen.”

Herrick groaned. “Send him or her packing, Allday. What a time to arrive!”

A tall shadow moved through the door and gave a stiff bow.

“With respect, sir, no admiral attends his wedding without his flag-lieutenant.”

Bolitho strode across the room and grasped both his hands.

“Oliver! Of all miracles!”

Browne gave his gentle smile. “A long story, sir. We escaped by boat and were picked up by a Yankee trader. Unfortunately, he was unwilling to put us ashore until we reached Morocco!” He studied Bolitho for several seconds. “Everywhere I’ve been I have heard nothing but praise for your victory. I did warn you that authority might take a different view if you succeeded with Admiral Beauchamp’s plan.” He glanced at Herrick’s new epaulettes and added, “But some rightful reward has been made, sir.”

Herrick said, “You’ve come at the right time, young fellow!”

Browne stepped back and then patted Bolitho’s coat and neckcloth into shape.

“There, sir, fit for the day.”

Bolitho walked through the open doors and looked at the empty grounds. The wedding was to be a quiet, personal thing, but it seemed as if every servant, Ferguson his steward, the gardeners and even the stable-boy had gone on ahead of him.

He said softly, “Your safe arrival has done more good than I can say, Oliver. It is like having a weight lifted from my heart.” He turned and looked at his three friends and knew he meant it. “Now we shall walk down together.”

As they arrived in the square and moved towards the old church of King Charles the Martyr, Bolitho was surprised to see a great crowd of townspeople waiting to see him.

As the three sea-officers, followed cheerfully by Allday, approached the church, many of the people began to cheer and wave their hats, and one man, obviously an old sailor, cupped his hands and yelled, “Good luck to ye! A cheer for Equality Dick!”