A Tradition of Victory

by Alexander Kent

“Deck there! Three sail in sight to the nor’-west.”

  Bolitho felt as if the whole ship had been stricken. No one moved, and some hands on the forecastle who had cheered the last order, believing it to be the signal of their victory, now peered aft like old men.

  Perhaps the lookouts, good though they were, had been dis-tracted by the oncoming mass of small vessels, and then the menace of larger ships hull-up on the horizon, but whatever the reason, they did not see the real danger until it was already upon them.

  It fell to one of Neale’s leadsmen as he took up his station in the chains as Styx had headed towards the same shallow channel to scream, “Wreck! Dead ahead!”

  Bolitho gripped the rail and watched as the men near him broke from their trance and stampeded to obey the cry to shorten sail still further, while others strained at the braces to haul round the yards and change tack.

  It was possibly one of the very craft they had sunk the previous day, drifting waterlogged with wind and tide until it found its destroyer. Or it might have been an older wreck, some stubborn survivor from the chain of reefs and sandbars which guarded the Loire’s approaches like sentinels.

  The shock when it came was not sudden. It seemed unending as the frigate drove on and over the hulk, her frames shaking, until with the crashing roar of an avalanche the main and fore masts thundered down across the forecastle and into the sea.

  Great coils of trailing shrouds and splintered spars followed, while men shrieked and cursed as they were smashed underneath or

  dragged bodily over the side by the tendrils of runaway rigging.

  Only the mizzen remained standing, Bolitho’s flag still flapping above the destruction and death as if to mark the place for all time. Then as the wreck tore free from Styx’s keel and giant air bubbles exploded obscenely on either beam, it too swayed and then plunged headlong to the gun-deck.

  Neale yelled, “Mr Pickthorn!” Then he faltered, aware of the blood on his hand which had run down from his scalp, and of his loyal first lieutenant who had been cut in half by one of the broken shrouds as it had ripped over him with the whole weight of the topmast stretching it like a wire.

  He saw Bolitho as Allday aided him to his feet and gasped,

  “She’s done for!”

  Then he swayed and would have fallen but for Bundy and one of the midshipmen.

  Bolitho said harshly, “Clear the lower decks. Get as many wounded from the wreckage as you can.” He heard the growl of water surging through the hull, the squeal of trucks as a gun broke free and careered across the deck. “Mr Kilburne, muster all available hands and launch what boats have survived. Mr Browne, stay with the captain.”

  Men were lurching out of the piles of fallen debris, confused, frightened, and some half mad as they ran blindly to the gangways.

  A few marines tried to restore order, and Bolitho saw the third lieutenant, probably the only surviving one, pushed aside, his arm broken and useless, as he attempted to restrain them.

  The deck gave another shudder, and Bolitho saw water seeping through some gunports as the hull tilted still further, dragged down by the great burden of wreckage alongside.

  Allday shouted, “The quarter-boat is being warped round, sir.” He looked dangerously calm, and his cutlass was in his fist.

  Bundy seized his chronometer and sextant, but found time to A

  report, “I’ve got some ’ands lashing a raft together, sir.”

  Bolitho barely heard him. He was staring over the broad stretch of water with its freedom somehow symbolized by the white-capped waves which stretched towards the horizon and the oncoming pyramid of sails.

  Then he saw Phalarope, stern on as she braced her yards hard round, her shadow leaning over the creaming water while she went about, her gilded bird pointing away from him, away from the enemy.

  Allday said brokenly, “God damn him! God damn his cowardly soul!”

  A boat appeared at the tilting gangway, and another was being pulled down the side, the boatswain and a burly gunner’s mate hauling wounded and drowning men from the water and dropping them on the bottom boards like sodden bales.

  Neale opened his eyes and asked huskily, “Are they safe?” He seemed to see Bolitho through the blood on his face. “The people?”

  Bolitho nodded. “As many as possible, so rest easy.”

  He looked at the widening array of makeshift rafts, floating spars and casks to which the survivors clung and waited for a miracle. Many more floundered in the sea itself, but few sailors could swim, and soon many of them gave up the fight and drifted on the tide with the rest of the flotsam.

  Bolitho waited for a few more dazed and bleeding men to be dragged into the quarter-boat, then he climbed in and stood beside Allday, with Neale slumped unconscious between them.

  Midshipman Kilburne, who had changed from youth to manhood in the last few moments, called, “Stand quietly, lads!

  Easy, all!”

  Like the other boat, this one was so crammed with men it had barely ten inches of freeboard. Each had run out just two oars to keep them stem on to the waves, which such a short while

  before had been their allies, and now seemed determined to capsize and kill them.

  “She’s going!”

  Several men cried out, shocked and horrified, as Styx rolled over and began to slide into the water. Some of the older hands watched her in silence, moved and too stunned to share their sense of loss. Like all ships, she meant much more to the seasoned hands. A home, old faces, familiar ways. Those too were gone for ever.

  Browne whispered, “I’ll not forget this. Not ever.”

  Styx dived, but the sea was so shallow that she struck the bottom and reappeared as if still fighting for life. Water streamed from her gunports and scuppers, and a few corpses, caught in the broken shrouds, swayed about as if waving to their old shipmates.

  Then with a final lurch she dived and stayed hidden.

  Allday said dully, “Boats shoving from the shore, sir.”

  He sensed Bolitho’s complete despair and added firmly,

  “We’ve bin prisoners afore, sir. We’ll get through this time, an’

  that’s no error.”

  Bolitho was looking for the Phalarope. But, like Neale’s ship, she had disappeared. It was over.

  6 Ready for S ea

  THOMAS HERRICK, acting-commodore, sat with his elbows on the polished table in Benbow’s great cabin and ran his eyes once more over his painstakingly worded report.

  He should have been proud of what he had achieved, when even the most optimistic shipwrights and carpenters had proph-esied that his ship would be another month at least undergoing A

  repairs. Tomorrow was the first day of August, far ahead of anything he had dared to hope.

  Those words he had waited impatiently to write in his report to their lordships— Being in all respects ready for sea, etc, etc —were right there, waiting for his signature, and yet he could summon little jubilation or enthusiasm.

  It was not the news, but the lack of it. He suspected it had all started when the shot-torn frigate Unrivalled, one of Bolitho’s new squadron in the Bay, had anchored in Plymouth, her pumps clanking to keep her afloat until help arrived. Even then it should not have upset Herrick more than any other such wartime event.

  He had seen too many ships go, too many dead and wounded being landed as were the Unrivalled’s casualties, to display his inner and private emotions.

  But ever since Bolitho had shifted his flag to Styx, and had sailed away on what Herrick had considered to be a very doubtful mission, he had been troubled.

  Phalarope’s name in the signal book, and the bald announcement that she was being appointed to Bolitho’s command, had done little to ease his apprehension. Dulcie, who was ever near and staying at the Golden Lion Inn in Plymouth, had done everything to comfort him. Herrick’s mouth softened at the thought.

  It made him feel almost guilty to be so lucky. But Dulcie did not understand the ways of the sea or the
Navy. If he had any say in it, nor would she, Herrick had firmly decided.

  He heard footsteps in the adjoining cabin. Ozzard, Bolitho’s servant, like a lost soul since his master had gone without him.

  There were several like him in Benbow’s fat hull. Yovell, Bolitho’s clerk, who had written this report in his round hand. Round, like the man and his Devonshire accent.

  The deck moved very slightly, and Herrick stood up to walk to the open stern windows. There were fewer ships being repaired

  now, and less din of hammers and creaking tackles aboard the masting-craft.

  He could see Keen’s seventy-four, Nicator, swinging to her cable, her awnings and windsails spread to make life between decks as easy as possible in this sultry heat. And Indomitable, their other two-decker, whose new captain, Henry Veriker, had already made something of a reputation for himself in the small squadron.

  He was almost deaf, an injury inflicted at the Nile, common enough after hours of continuous firing. But his deafness came and went, so that you were never sure what he had heard or mis-interpreted. It must be difficult for his lieutenants, Herrick thought. It had been bad enough on the one night they had dined together.

  He leaned over the sill and saw the new frigate, the one he had seen shortly after her launching when he had rejoined his own ship. Lower in the water, a black muzzle at each open port, and all three masts and standing rigging set up. Not long now, my beauty. Who was her lucky captain to be, he wondered?

  Seeing the new frigate reminded him yet again of Adam Pascoe. Young devil to take the appointment without a thought of what it could mean. Phalarope. Bolitho had made that ship, given her life. But Herrick still remembered her as she had been when he had stepped aboard as her junior lieutenant. Bitter and desperate, with a captain who had looked upon any sort of humanity as a sin.

  He heard the sentry’s muffled voice and turned to see the first lieutenant striding beneath the deckhead beams, bent right over to save his ginger head from a collision.

  “Yes, Mr Wolfe?”

  Wolfe’s deepset eyes flitted briefly to the written report and back to his captain. He had worked harder than most, but had still found time to knock some sense into his youthful and barely trained lieutenants.

  “Message from the officer of the guard, sir. You can expect the port admiral in half an hour.” He bared his uneven teeth. “I’ve already passed the word, sir. Full side party an’ guard of honour.”

  Herrick considered the news. The port admiral, a rare visitor.

  But what he had seen he had liked. A portly, comfortable man, now better used to the ways of dockyards and chandlers than to a fleet at sea.

  He replied, “Very well. I don’t think there’s anything to fear.

  We’ve even beaten Captain Keen’s Nicator to a state of readiness, eh?”

  “Orders, d’you think, sir?”

  Herrick felt uneasy at the prospect. He had not even had time to select himself a flag-captain for, no matter how temporarily his broad-pendant might fly above Benbow, select one he must. Maybe it was too final, he thought. Severing the last link with his rear-admiral and true friend when he still knew nothing of what was happening.

  More feet clattered, and after the marine’s announcement from the outer lobby, the fifth lieutenant stepped smartly inside, his cocked hat jammed beneath one arm.

  Wolfe scowled at him and the youth flinched. Actually, the first lieutenant was quite pleased with the young officer, but it was far too early to show it. Wait until we get to sea, he usually said.

  “A—a letter, sir. From the Falmouth coach.”

  Herrick almost snatched it from him. “Good. Carry on, Mr Nash.”

  As the lieutenant fled, and Wolfe settled himself in another chair, Herrick slit open the envelope. He knew the handwriting, and although he had been hoping for a letter, he had been dread-ing what she might say.

  Wolfe watched him curiously. He knew most of it, and had guessed the rest. But he had come to accept the captain’s strange

  attachment for Richard Bolitho, even if he did not fully understand it. To Wolfe, a friend at sea was like a ship. You gave to each other, but once parted it was best to forget and never go back.

  Herrick put down the letter carefully, imagining her chestnut hair falling over her forehead as she had written it.

  He said abruptly, “Mrs Belinda Laidlaw is coming to Plymouth. My wife will take good care of her during her visit.”

  Wolfe was vaguely disappointed. “Is that all, sir?”

  Herrick stared at him. It was true. She had sent her warmest greetings to him and to Dulcie, but there it had ended. But it was a step in the right direction. Once here, amidst Bolitho’s world, she would feel free to speak, to ask his advice if she ever needed it.

  Voices echoed alongside and Wolfe snatched up his hat and exploded, “The admiral! We forgot all about him! ”

  Breathing heavily, and grasping their swords to their sides to avoid being tripped, the stocky captain and his lanky first lieutenant ran for the quarterdeck.

  Admiral Sir Cornelius Hoskyn, Knight of the Bath, hauled himself up to and through the entry port, and in spite of his portliness was not even breathless as he doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and waited patiently for the marine fifers to complete a rendering of Heart of Oak for his benefit.

  He had a warm, fruity voice and a complexion as pink as a petticoat, Herrick thought. A man who always had time to listen to any visiting captain and do his best for him.

  The admiral glanced up at the flapping broad-pendant and remarked, “I was glad to hear about that. ” He nodded to the assembled lieutenants and added, “Your ship does you credit.

  Ready to sail soon, what?”

  Herrick was about to say that his readiness report only needed his signature but the admiral had already moved on towards the shade of the poop.

  Behind him trooped his flag-lieutenant, secretary, and two servants with what appeared to be a case of wine.

  In the great cabin the admiral arranged himself carefully in a chair, while his staff busied themselves, with Herrick’s servant’s guidance, laying out goblets and wine cooler.

  “This the report?” The admiral dragged a minute pair of spectacles from his heavy dress coat and peered at it. “Sign it now, if you please.” In the same breath he added, “Good, I hope that glass is cool, man!” as he took some wine from one of his minions.

  Herrick sat down as the lieutenant and secretary retreated from the cabin, the latter clutching Herrick’s sealed report like a talisman.

  “Now.” Sir Cornelius Hoskyn regarded Herrick searchingly over the top of his spectacles. “You will receive your orders, possibly tonight. When I leave I shall expect you to call your other captains to conference, prepare them for sailing without further dalliance. Short-handed or not, leaking, I don’t care, it is their problem. Some say peace will soon be upon us, pray God it is so, but until I am convinced otherwise, the state of war still exists.”

  He had not even raised his voice, and yet his words seemed to echo around the sunlit cabin like pistol shots.

  “But with all respect, Sir Cornelius,” Herrick was out of his depth but persisted “my ships are still under the command of Rear-Admiral Bolitho, and you will of course be aware that—”

  The admiral eyed him gravely and then deliberately refilled their goblets.

  “I have the greatest respect for you, Herrick, for that reason I came to do a task I hate more than any other.” His tone softened. “Please, drink some more wine. It is from my own cellar.”

  Herrick swallowed the wine without noticing it. It could have been pump water.

  “Sir?”

  “I have just received news by special courier. I must tell you

  that ten days ago, whilst apparently attempting to destroy enemy shipping south of the Loire Estuary, His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Styx was wrecked and became a total loss. It happened quickly and in a rising wind.” He paused, watching Herrick’s face.
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  “And due to the arrival of several enemy vessels, including a ship of the line, the attack was discontinued.”

  Herrick asked quietly, “Our other vessels withdrew, sir?”

  “There was only one of any consequence, and her captain, as senior officer present, made the decision. I am terribly sorry to have to tell you. I have heard what your particular friendship meant.”

  Herrick rose as if he had been struck. “Meant? You mean …”

  “There could not have been many survivors, but of course we can always hope.”

  Herrick clenched his fists and strode blindly to the stern windows.

  “He often said it would be like that.” He asked harshly, “Who was the other captain, sir?” In his heart he already knew.

  “Emes of the Phalarope. ”

  Herrick could not face him. Poor Adam must have seen it happen, while that bloody coward Emes took to his heels.

  Another thought made him exclaim, “My God, sir, she’s coming here from Falmouth!” The words tumbled out of him. “The girl he was to marry! What shall I tell her?”

  The admiral rose to his feet. “I think it best that you go about your duties and try to lose yourself in them. It has been common enough in this everlasting war. But you never get used to it, nor will I try to console you, when I know there is no consolation. If I hear more I shall let you know as soon as possible.”

  Herrick followed him to the broad quarterdeck, only partly aware of what was happening.

  When his mind eventually cleared, the admiral’s barge had A

  left the side, and Wolfe faced him to ask permission to dismiss the guard and side party.

  “Will you tell me, sir?” His hard, flat voice was somehow steadying.

  “Richard Bolitho, the Styx, all gone.”

  Wolfe swung round, shielding him from the others.

  “Right then, you laggards! Move your lazy carcasses or I’ll have the bosun use his rattan on your rumps!”

  Herrick returned to the cabin and slumped down in a chair.

  The ship, his broad-pendant, even his new-found happiness meant nothing.

  Wolfe reappeared at the screen door. “Orders, sir?”