Alexander Kent - A Tradition of Victory

She was thirty-four, ten years his junior. She would not wait, should not be made to suffer as she had done with her late husband.

Bolitho stopped and gripped the nettings tightly. Even now she might be with someone else. Younger perhaps, with his feet firmly set on the land.

Browne joined him by the nettings and offered weakly, “Good morning, sir.”

Browne had rarely been seen since leaving Plymouth, although his fight with the frigate’s lively movements and the smells which were constant reminders of his seasickness was spoken of with awe even by the older hands.

He looked a little stronger, Bolitho thought. It was ironic, for whereas he himself was beset with problems both personal and tactical, he had never felt in better health. The ship, the constant comings and goings of faces which were already familiar, were ready reminders of his own days as a frigate captain.

There was a kind of hardness to his body, and a swiftness of thought which could soon be lost in a ponderous ship of the line.

“I must make contact with Rapid today, Browne. I intend to stand her closer inshore, unless the master is wrong about the change of wind.”

Browne watched him thoughtfully. Having to think again was bringing the colour back to his face. So how did Bolitho manage it? he wondered. Boarding the other ships, discussing details of local trade and coastal craft with Neale, he never appeared to tire.

He was driving himself like this to hold his other thoughts at bay. At least he had learned that much about Bolitho.

“Deck there!”

Browne looked aloft and winced as he saw the tiny figure perched on the crosstrees high above the deck.

“Sail on th’ starboard quarter!”

Neale came hurrying across the deck, and as Bolitho gave him a curt nod, shouted, “All hands, Mr Pickthorn! We shall wear ship at once and beat to wind’rd!”

Before his first lieutenant had even time to snatch up his speaking trumpet, or the boatswain’s mates had run below with their calls trilling to rouse the hands, Neale was already calculating and scheming, even though he could not yet see the newcomer.

Bolitho watched the seamen and marines flooding up through the hatches and along both gangways, to be stemmed and mustered into their stations by petty officers and master’s mates.

Neale said, “The light is better, sir. In a moment or so-”

“Man the braces there! Stand by to wear ship!”

“Put up the helm!”

With yards and canvas banging in confusion and blocks shrieking like live things as the cordage raced through the sheaves, Styx leaned heavily towards the sea, spray climbing the gangways and pattering across the straining seamen at the braces in pellets.

“Full an’ bye, sir! Sou’-west by west!”

Neale moved a pace this way and that, watching as his command came under control again, her lee gunports almost awash.

“Aloft with you, Mr Kilburne, and take a glass.” To the quarterdeck at large he said, “If she’s a Frenchie, we’ll dish her up before she stands inshore.”

Browne murmured, “Such confidence.”

Bolitho sensed, rather than felt, Allday at his side, and held up his arms so that the burly coxswain could clip the sword to his belt.

Allday looked suddenly older, although he and Bolitho were of the same age. The lower deck was insensitive when it came to the smallest comfort.

Even as an admiral’s personal coxswain, life was not that easy. Allday would be the first to deny it, just as he would be angry and hurt if Bolitho suggested he took himself to Falmouth to enjoy the comfort and security which were his right.

Allday saw his gaze and gave his lazy grin. “I can still give some o’ these mothers’ boys a run for their money, sir!”

Bolitho nodded slowly. When it came, it would be on a day like this. Like all the others when Allday had fetched the old sword and they had shared some stupid joke together.

Perhaps it was because of Neale, or the fact he was made to be an onlooker.

He lifted his eyes to the mizzen truck where his flag stood out in the wind like painted metal.

Then he shook himself angrily. If Beauchamp had appointed another junior admiral for this work he would have been equally unsettled.

Allday moved away, satisfied with what he had seen.

Several telescopes rose like swivels, and Bolitho waited until Midshipman Kilburne’s voice floated thinly from the masthead.

“Deck, sir! She’s British!”

A small pause while he endeavoured to cling to his precarious perch and open his signal book with the other hand.

“She’s Phalarope, thirty-two, Captain Emes, sir!”

Allday muttered, “Holy God!”

Bolitho folded his arms and waited for the bows to rise again, the horizon appearing to tilt as if to rid itself of the two converging pyramids of sails.

Bolitho had known she would come today. Even as Styx ’s people had run to halliards and braces, he had known.

Neale watched him warily. “What orders, sir?”

Bolitho turned to see the bright signal flags break from Styx ’s yard. Numbers exchanged, two ships meeting on a pinpoint. To most of the hands it was a welcome diversion, as well as a sight of some additional fire power.

“Heave to when convenient, if you please. Make to-” his tongue faltered over her name, “to Phalarope that I shall be coming aboard.”

Neale nodded. “Aye, sir.”

Bolitho took a telescope from the midshipman of the watch and walked up the deck to the weather side.

He was conscious of each move and every heartbeat, like an actor about to make an entrance.

He held his breath and waited for the sea to smooth itself. There she was. With her yards already swinging, her topgallants and main-course being manhandled into submission, she was heeling on to a fresh tack. Bolitho moved the glass just a fraction more. Before that bowsprit plunged down again in a welter of flying spindrift he saw that familiar figurehead, the gilded bird riding on a dolphin.

The same and yet different. He was frowning as he moved the glass again, seeing the insect-like figures on the ratlines and gangways, the blues and whites of the officers aft by the wheel.

Outdated, that was it. The weak sunlight touched the frigate’s poop, and Bolitho recalled the fineness of her gingerbread, carved by experts in the trade. That had been another war. Newer frigates like Styx had fewer embellishments, less dignity, honed down to the demands of chase and battle.

Neale lowered his telescope and said huskily, “Hell’s teeth, sir, it’s like yesterday. Like watching myself.”

Bolitho looked past him at Allday by the hammock nettings. He was opening and closing his large fists, staring at the fastrunning frigate until his eyes watered. So that he looked as if he was weeping.

He made himself raise the telescope once again. She was smart for her age, and was reacting to the sight of a rear-admiral’s flag just as Bolitho had once done when he had taken Phalarope to Antigua.

Neale called, “Heave to, Mr Pickthorn! Have the gig swayed out.”

Browne asked, “Will you require me, sir?”

“If you want to come, please do.” Bolitho saw the uncertainty, the need to understand. He added, “If you can trust your stomach during the crossing.”

Allday walked to the entry port and waited for the gig to be pulled round to the main-chains. Neale’s own coxswain nodded to Allday and allowed him to take his place at the tiller without comment.

Bolitho noticed all and none of these things. So it was right through Styx already, probably every vessel under his flag.

He touched his hat to the officers and marines at the entry port, and to Neale said quietly, “I will renew the acquaintanceship for all of us.”

Who did he mean? Allday and Neale, Herrick back in Plymouth, or Ferguson, his steward, who had lost his arm at the Saintes. Or perhaps he was speaking for the others who would never come home.