A Tradition of Victory

by Alexander Kent

  Browne said warily, “Your clerk is here, sir, with some more papers which seem to require your signature.” He faltered. “Shall I tell him to go away, sir?”

  Bolitho sighed. “No, ask Yovell to come in. I think I need to lose myself.”

  Overhead in the bright sunlight the lash rose and fell on the first man to be seized up for punishment. Most of the assembled company watched with empty eyes, and only the victim’s close friends looked away, ashamed for him and perhaps themselves.

  The grating was unrigged and the hands piped to the mid-day meal, with a pint of Black Strap to wash it down.

  The two men who had been flogged were taken below to the sickbay to have their backs attended to and their confidence restored by a liberal dose of rum from the surgeon’s special cask.

  Alone at last in the cabin, Bolitho sat at his table, a sheet of paper before him. She would probably never read the letter, it might not even be sent. But it would help to keep her with him as the breadth of ocean tried to force them apart.

  He touched his cheek where she had kissed him, and then without hesitation began to write.

  My dearest Belinda, It is only a few hours since I left you …

  On deck, as dusk closed in once more and painted the horizon with dull copper, Herrick discussed the reefing arrangements and emergency signals for the night watches. The land had already vanished in shadows, here any strange sail might be an enemy.

  And Benbow was a King’s ship, with no time to spare for the frailties of the men who served her.

  12. The F lag commands

  LIEUTENANT the Honourable Oliver Browne, with his hat clamped tightly beneath one arm, stepped into the stern cabin and waited for Bolitho to look up from his charts and scribbled notes.

  “Yes?”

  Browne kept his urbane features expressionless. “Sail in sight to the nor’-east, sir.” He had learned from experience that Bolitho had already heard the cry from the masthead, just as he would know that Browne knew it.

  “Thank you.”

  Bolitho rubbed his eyes. It had taken over a week to reach the rendezvous area. Two days of good sailing, with a favourable wind across the quarter when neither reefing nor changing tack was required. Then other days, with frustrating hours of retrim-ming yards and canvas, tired men scrambling aloft to shorten sail in a sudden squall, only to be piped up the ratlines immediately to loose them again.

  Westward into the Atlantic and then up along the coast of Portugal. They had sighted a few vessels, but the distance and the slowness of the two seventy-fours made any kind of investigation impossible.

  Bolitho had kept much to himself during the passage. Going over Beauchamp’s original plans but coming up all-standing whenever he had set them against an actual attack.

  He threw his brass dividers on to the charts and stood up.

  “What ship, I wonder?”

  And what would he find in his little squadron? Ganymede should have contacted each ship, and every man would know their rear-admiral’s flag would soon be joining them.

  Browne said, “They say she’s a frigate, sir.”

  Their eyes met. Then it would be Phalarope, unless it was a A

  Frenchman who had slipped through the blockade undetected.

  Browne added, “May I ask what you intend, sir?”

  “I shall see Emes.”

  He seemed to hear Herrick inside his mind. Let me deal with him, sir. I’ll settle his future for him! Loyal, but biased. How would Adam see it, he wondered? He had twice nearly lost his young life trying to defend his uncle’s name. No. Emes did not strike him as a man who would ruin Adam’s career to save his own. But before a court-martial anything could happen.

  He heard Herrick’s shoes in the lobby, and as Ozzard hurried to open the screen door Bolitho said, “Leave us, Oliver.”

  Herrick bustled into the cabin and barely noticed the flag-lieutenant as he passed.

  Bolitho said, “Sit down, Thomas, and be calm. ”

  Herrick peered around the cabin, his eyes still half-blinded from the glare on the quarterdeck.

  “Calm, sir? It is a lot to ask!” He grimaced. “She’s Phalarope right enough.” He raised his eyebrows. “I can see that you are not surprised, sir?”

  “No. Captain Emes has been in command here during our absence. He is a post-captain of experience. But for his previous trouble, his actions at the Ile d’Yeu might have roused little criticism, even from you.”

  Herrick shifted in his chair, unconvinced. “I doubt that.”

  Bolitho moved to the stern windows and looked at some gulls which were swooping and screaming below the counter. The cook had probably hurled some scraps outboard.

  “I need every competent officer, Thomas. If one is at fault, the blame must lie with his captain. If it is a captain who shows weakness, then the responsibility must lie with his admiral.” He smiled wryly. “In this particular case, me.” He hurried on. “No, hear me out, Thomas. Many of the squadron’s officers are raw replacements, and the worst wrath they have faced so far

  is that of a sailing-master or first lieutenant, am I right?”

  “Well, I suppose so, sir.”

  Bolitho smiled fondly. “That’s hardly an agreement, but it is a start. If, as I intend, we are to attack and destroy those French vessels, I shall draw heavily upon my captains. It is obvious that we are getting no more support, and Sir John Studdart knew nothing of any extra craft from his own command.” He did not conceal the bitterness. “Not even one solitary gun brig!”

  Beyond the cabin they heard Wolfe’s voice through his speaking trumpet, the responding clatter of blocks and halliards as men ran to obey him.

  Herrick stood up. “We are about to change tack, sir.”

  “Go to them, Thomas. When you are ready, you may heave to and request that Captain Emes comes aboard. He’ll be expecting it.”

  “I still think …” Herrick grinned ruefully and said instead,

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Browne re-entered the cabin. “They’re signalling Phalarope now, sir.” He sounded puzzled. “Captain repair on board flagship. I thought you might ask for your nephew to come across too, sir?”

  “I am longing to see him.” Bolitho looked up at the deckhead beams as bare feet slapped across the dried planking. “I am not proud of the fact I am using him.”

  “Using him, sir?”

  “Emes commands Phalarope, and he can decide if he shall bring his first lieutenant as a courtesy to me. If he does not choose to do so, he will have the stage to himself, unchallenged, as he is the first captain to meet us on this station. But if he decides to bring him, he must risk whatever my nephew may say.”

  Browne’s face cleared. “That is very shrewd, sir.”

  “I am learning, Oliver. Very slowly, but I am learning.”

  The cabin tilted heavily to one side and Bolitho heard the creak of yards as Benbow swung slowly into the wind. He saw A

  Nicator standing at a distance under shortened sail as she watched over her consorts.

  Browne said, “I’ll go on deck, sir.”

  “Yes. Let me know what is happening.”

  Browne picked up his hat and asked hesitantly, “If Captain Emes fails to satisfy you, sir …”

  “I shall send him packing by the next available vessel. I need good officers, and I have said as much to Captain Herrick. But I’d rather send Phalarope amongst the enemy with a midshipman in command than risk more lives to satisfy my vanity!”

  Browne nodded and hurried away, another lesson learned.

  Herrick saw him emerge into the sunlight and asked irrita-bly, “What have you been doing, Mr Browne?”

  “Our admiral, sir. The way he sees things. Like an artist painting a picture.”

  “Humph.” Herrick turned to watch the frigate heading into the wind, her sails aback as she prepared to lower a boat. He said grimly, “Just so long as somebody doesn’t break the frame before the picture is finished!” He saw the surpris
e on Browne’s face and added, “Oh yes, Mr Browne with an ‘e,’ a few of us do have minds of our own, you know!”

  Browne hid a smile and walked to the lee side as Major Clinton, his sun-reddened face almost matching his tunic, marched to Herrick and barked, “Guard of honour, sir?”

  “Yes. Man the side, Major. He is a captain.” He moved away and added under his breath, “At the moment.”

  The midshipman-of-the-watch called, “Boat’s put off, sir!”

  Browne hurried to the poop. He found Bolitho standing by the windows as if he had not moved.

  “Phalarope’s gig is heading for us, sir.” He saw the way Bolitho’s hands gripped one another behind his back. Tense. Like a spring.

  Browne said quietly, “Captain Emes has your nephew with him, sir.” He expected some instant response, a show of relief.

  Instead Bolitho said, “I used to believe that all flag-officers were like gods. They created situations and formed decisions while we lesser beings merely obeyed. Now I know differently. Perhaps Vice-Admiral Studdart was right after all.”

  “Sir?”

  “Nothing. Tell Ozzard to bring my coat. If my emotions are at war with each other, I am certain Emes will have fared far worse. So let’s be about it, eh?”

  He heard the twitter of calls, the muffled stamp of booted feet by the entry port.

  As Ozzard held his coat up to his shoulders, Bolitho thought suddenly of his first command. Small, crowded, intimate.

  He had believed then, as he did now, that to be given a ship was the most coveted gift which could be bestowed on any living creature.

  Now others commanded, while he was forced to lead and decide their destinies. But no matter what, he would never forget what that first command had meant to him.

  Browne announced, “Captain Emes of the Phalarope, sir.”

  Bolitho stood behind the table and said, “You may withdraw.”

  Had he met Captain Emes ashore or in any other surroundings he doubted if he would have recognized him. He still held himself very erect as he stood opposite the table, hat beneath his arm, his sword gripped firmly, too firmly, in the other hand. In spite of his employment on the Belle Ile station and the favourable weather which had given most of the ships’ companies a healthy tan, Emes looked deathly pale, and in the reflected sunlight from the stern windows his skin had the pallor of wax. He was twenty-nine, but looked ten years older.

  Bolitho said, “You may sit, Captain Emes. This is an informal meeting for, as I must tell you, it seems likely you will be required to face at best a court of enquiry, at worst …” He A

  shrugged. “In the latter case, I would be called more as a witness than as a member of the court or as your flag-officer.”

  Emes sat down carefully on the edge of the chair. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  “I doubt that. But before further action is taken I need to know your own explanation for your conduct on the morning of the 21st July when Styx became a total loss.”

  Emes began slowly and deliberately, as if he had rehearsed for this very moment. “I was in the favourable position of being able to see the French to seaward, and the other force which you were intending to engage. With the wind in the enemy’s favour, I con-cluded there was no chance of our destroying the invasion craft with time available to beat clear. I held my ship in position to wind’rd as ordered, in case …”

  Bolitho watched him impassively. It would be easy to dismiss him as a coward. It was equally possible to feel pity for him.

  He said, “When Styx struck the wreck, what then?”

  Emes stared round the cabin like a trapped animal. “Styx had no chance. I saw her take the full force of the collision, her masts fall, her helm abandoned. She was a hulk from that moment. I—

  I wanted to drop my boats and attempt a rescue. It is never easy to stand off and watch men die.”

  “But you did just that.” Bolitho was surprised at his own voice. Flat, devoid of hope or sympathy.

  Emes’s eyes settled on him only briefly before continuing their tortured search around the cabin.

  He said tightly, “I was the senior captain present, sir. With just Rapid to support me, and she only a brig of fourteen guns, I saw no reasonable chance of a rescue. Phalarope would have been caught by the enemy ships which were moving down wind under all sail.

  A ship of the line and two frigates. What possible chance would an old vessel like mine have stood, but for making a useless and

  bloody gesture? Rapid would have been destroyed also.”

  Bolitho watched the emotions on Emes’s pale features as he relived the battle of conscience versus logic.

  “And as senior officer I had responsibilities to Captain Duncan in Sparrowhawk. He was in ignorance of what was happening.

  Alone and unsupported, he would have been the next to go. The whole force would have been destroyed, and the enemy’s back door left unguarded from that moment.” He looked down at his hat and pressed it on to his knees as if to find the strength to go on. “I decided to discontinue the action, and ordered Rapid to follow my directions. I have continued with the patrols and the blockading of harbours as instructed. With Ganymede’s arrival I was able to fill the gap left by Captain Neale’s ship.” He looked up, his eyes wretched. “I was shocked to learn of his death.” His head dropped again. “That is all I have to say, sir.”

  Bolitho leaned back in his chair and watched him thoughtfully. Emes had not pleaded or attempted to excuse his actions.

  “And now, Captain Emes, do you regret your decisions?”

  Emes gave a shrug which seemed to shake his whole body.

  “In all truth, sir, I do not know. I knew that by abandoning Styx and her survivors I was also leaving my flag-officer to his fate. In view of my record, I think perhaps I should have cast common sense to the wind and gone down fighting. Officers I have since met make no bones on their sentiments. I could feel the hostil-ity when I stepped aboard Benbow, and there are some who will be eager to damn me in your eyes. A court martial?” He lifted his head again with something like defiance. “It was inevitable, I suppose.”

  “But you think their lordships would be wrong to proceed with it nevertheless?”

  Emes struggled with his conscience as if it was alien to him.

  “It would be easy to throw myself on your mercy, sir. After all, you could have been killed by a stray ball within minutes of A

  starting the action, and then I would have been the senior captain anyway. I would then have ordered Neale to discontinue the engagement. Had he disobeyed me, sir, he and not I would be facing a court-martial.”

  Bolitho stood up and moved to the stern windows. He saw Phalarope lying hove to some two cables away, her gingerbread glittering cheerfully in the sunlight. What did she think of her latest captain? He saw Emes’s reflection in the thick glass, the way he sat rigidly yet without life. A man counting the odds yet unwilling to give in.

  Bolitho said, “I knew John Neale very well. He was once a young midshipman under my command. As was Captain Keen of Nicator, while Captain Inch, who will shortly be joining us in Odin, was once my lieutenant. And there are many more I have known for years, have watched grow to the Navy’s demands or die because of them.”

  He heard Emes murmur huskily, “You are fortunate, sir. I envy you those friends and their methods.”

  Bolitho turned and regarded him searchingly. “And there is my own nephew, of course. Midshipman, and now first lieutenant under your charge.”

  Emes nodded. “I have no doubts at all of his scorn for me, sir.”

  Bolitho sat down and glanced at the litter of charts and notes which would still be there after he had dismissed Emes. It would be simple to remove him without even waiting for a suitable replacement. A senior lieutenant, someone like Wolfe, could easily assume command until told otherwise. Why take unnecessary chances when so much was at stake?

  And yet … The two words stuck in his skin like thorns.

  “They
are all a comfort to me, Emes, whereas to you they are an additional hurdle. Because of me, they may despise you. Even my good friend, Commodore Herrick, a man of great integrity

  and no little courage, was quick to speak his anger. He, after all, risked his position, maybe even this ship, on a whim, on a simple belief he might be able to find me. So you see, your decision, though logical, might be seen differently by others who were not even present on that damnable morning.”

  Emes waited and then said dully, “Then there is no hope, sir.”

  How quiet the ship seemed to be, Bolitho thought. As if she were holding her breath, like all the men who worked within her deep hull. He had known many such moments. Like the bad days of the mutinies at Spithead and the Nore. The boom of a signal gun, the breaking of a court-martial jack which had finished many a good officer just as surely as a halter at the main-yard or a merciless flogging round the fleet had ended the lives of their men.

  “There is always hope, Captain Emes.” Bolitho stood up and saw Emes lurch to his feet as if to receive a sentence. He continued, “For my part, I think you acted correctly, and I was there.”

  “Sir?” Emes swayed and held his head on one side as if he had suddenly lost his hearing.

  “I know now that the French ships were there by arrangement. But none of us did at the time. Had I been in your position I ought to have behaved in exactly the same way. I shall write as much to their lordships.”

  Emes regarded him for several seconds. “Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say. I wanted to do the honourable thing, but everything I believed stood in my way. I am more than merely grateful. You will never know how much it means. I can bear what others say and think of me, they are unimportant. But you,” he shrugged, at a loss, “I hope I would act with such humanity if our roles were reversed.”

  “Very well. Send me a full report of what your patrols have discovered during my, er, absence, and when you sight Rapid, ask her to make contact with me immediately.”