Alexander Kent - A Tradition of Victory

Neale said, “With respect, sir, you made her that.”

Bolitho descended the ladder again and then strode aft towards the marine sentry by the cabin door.

He saw a figure squatting on one of the Styx ’s twelve-pounders. It was gloomy between decks and still too early for wasting lanterns where they were not needed. Had it been pitch dark Bolitho would have known Allday’s sturdy figure. Like an oak. Always nearby when he was needed. Ready to use his cheek when his courage was to no avail.

He made to stand but Bolitho said quietly, “Rest easy. You’ve heard then?”

“Aye, sir.” Allday nodded heavily. “It’s not right. Not fair.”

“Don’t be an old woman, Allday. You’ve been at sea long enough to know better. Ships come and go. One you served in last year might lie alongside you tomorrow. Another you may have seen in a dozen different ports, or fighting in a hundred fights, yet never set foot aboard, may well be your next appointment.”

Allday persisted stubbornly. “S’not that, sir. She were different. They’ve no right to put her in the Bay, she’s too old, an’ I doubt if she ever got over the Saintes. God knows, I never did.”

Bolitho watched him, suddenly uneasy. “There’s nothing I can do. She will be under my command, like the others.”

Allday stood up and turned beside the cannon, his head bowed between the beams.

“But she’s not like the others!”

Bolitho bit back the sharp retort as quickly as it had formed. Why take it out on Allday? Like the midshipman on the quarterdeck who had unwittingly broken the news, he was not to blame.

Bolitho said quietly, “No, Allday, she’s not. I won’t deny it. But it rests between us. You know how sailors love to create mystery when there is none. We’ll need all our wits about us in the next month or so without lower deck gossip. We cannot afford to look back.”

Allday sighed. The sound seemed to rise right up from his shoes.

“I expect you’re right, sir.” He tried to shake himself free of it. “Anyway, I must get you ready for the wardroom. It’ll be something for ’em to remember.” But his usual humour evaded him.

Bolitho walked to the cabin door. “Well, let’s be about it then, shall we?”

Allday followed him, deep in thought. Nineteen years ago it was. When Bolitho had not been much older than his nephew, Mr Pascoe. There had been plenty of danger and cut-and-thrust since then, and all the while they had stayed together. A pressed seaman and a youthful captain who had somehow turned a ship blackened by every sort of tyranny into one to win the hearts and pride of her company. Now she was coming back down the years, like a phantom ship. To help or to haunt, he wondered?

He saw Bolitho standing by the stern windows watching the light dying across the frothing water beneath the frigate’s counter.

He cares all right. Most likely more than I do.

Under shortened canvas the frigate turned on to her new course and pointed her bowsprit towards the Bay, and a rendezvous.

CAPTAIN John Neale of the frigate Styx broke off his morning discussion with his first lieutenant and waited for Bolitho to leave the companion-way. This was their seventh day out of Plymouth, and Neale was still surprised at his admiral’s unflagging energy.

Bolitho had certainly taken a good keen look at the enemy shoreline, and the ships at his disposal. That had been the first shock, when they had made contact with the inshore patrol, the frigate Sparrowhawk, a day after sighting Belle Ile. Apart from a speedy brig, aptly named Rapid, there had been one other frigate in the sector, the Unrivalled. Neale grimaced. Had been. Her captain had been beating close inshore when he had made the fatal mistake of not leaving himself enough sea-room to claw into open waters. Two enemy ships had run down on him from windward, and only Unrivalled captain’s skill had enabled him to escape capture or destruction. As far as Bolitho’s small force was concerned, it might just as well have been either, for, pitted with shot holes and under jury-rig, the Unrivalled had crawled for home and the security of a dockyard.

Neale glanced at the masthead pendant. The wind had shifted to the north again. It was lively and gusty. He hoped that the battered survivor reached port intact.

Bolitho nodded as Neale touched his hat. No matter what time he chose to come on deck, even before daylight, Neale always seemed to be there ahead of him. If there was anything wrong with his ship, he wanted to see it for himself first and not be told by his admiral. He had learned well.

Bolitho had been thinking about his thinly-stretched force while Allday had been pouring coffee for him. Until reinforcements arrived, he now had but two frigates on the station, with the brig for keeping contact with the bigger squadrons to north and south. It looked very manageable on a wall chart in Whitehall. Out here, with dawn touching the endless ranks of wave crests in a dirty yellow glow, it was a desert.

But shortly they would see the pyramid of sails far abeam where Sparrowhawk cruised within sight of Belle Ile and any local shipping which might be hugging the coast en route for Nantes or northward to Lorient.

How they must hate us, he thought. The dogged, stormdashed ships which were always there at the break of every day. Waiting to dash in and seize a prize under the enemy’s nose, or scurry to rouse the main fleet if the French admirals dared to present a challenge.

What he had seen of his small force he liked. He had boarded both the brig and the other frigate, getting drenched on each occasion as he had been forced to leap unceremoniously while his boat had poised on a passing crest.

He had seen the grins, and had known that his small bravado had been appreciated.

They had to know him, like one of their own. Not as an aloof flag-officer on the poop of some great three-decker, but as the man who would be amongst them when danger came.

He remarked, “Wind’s shifted.”

Neale watched his foretopmen dashing aloft yet again to reset the topgallant.

“Aye, sir. The master states it’ll back still further before nightfall.”

Bolitho smiled. The sailing-master would know. His breed always seemed to understand the wind before it knew its own mind.

Seven days out of Plymouth. It was like a dirge in his thoughts. And with little to show for it. Even if his whole squadron arrived, what should he do or say?

Only one chink had shown itself. Each of the captains, Duncan, a bluff, red-faced youngster of the Sparrowhawk, and, still younger, Lapish of the Rapid, had mentioned the ease with which the enemy seemed able to foretell their movements. In the past year raids had been mounted on nearby ports by heavier ships of the line, and on each occasion the French had been prepared, with their own vessels and shore batteries ready to make a full attack pointless.

And yet the squadrons to north and south stopped and searched every so-called neutral and warned them away from any area where they might discover the true strength of the British patrols. Or the lack of it, more likely, he thought wryly.

He began to pace the side of the quarterdeck, his hands behind him, as he toyed with this tiny fragment of intelligence. The French might have been using small boats at night. No, they would be too slow, and incapable of escaping if they were sighted. Fast horsemen along the coast, ready to ride as Browne had done, to carry their news to the local commanders. Possible. But still unlikely. The poor roads and long distances between harbours would make for serious delays.

In spite of his guard, Bolitho felt his mind slip back to Falmouth. Belinda would be there again. Visiting the empty house, where Ferguson, his one-armed steward, would try his best to explain and to console her. What would she think? How could she know the ways of the Navy?