Emes licked his lips. “Yes, sir.” He turned to leave and still hesitated.
“Well, Captain Emes, spit it out. Very soon we shall all be too busy for recriminations.”
“Just one thing, sir. You said just now, I ought to have behaved in exactly the same way. ”
Bolitho frowned. “Did I?”
“Yes, sir. It was good of you to say so, but now that I understand how your people feel for you, even though I have never been fortunate to serve you and learn about it for myself, I know that the word ought is the true key.”
Bolitho said, “Well, you serve me now, Captain Emes, so let that be an end to it.”
Browne entered the cabin silently as Emes departed, his eyes brimming with curiosity.
Bolitho said heavily, “He should be the admiral, Oliver, not me.
He shook himself and tried to disperse the truth. Emes had been correct. Perhaps the word ought had been used intentionally.
For in his heart he knew he would have gone to Styx’s aid, no matter what. But Emes was in the right, that was equally certain.
Browne coughed politely. “I can see that you are going to have some explaining to do, sir.”
He held open the door and Bolitho saw Pascoe half running across the other cabin in his eagerness to reach him.
They stood for several long moments, and then Pascoe exclaimed, “I cannot tell you what the news did for me, Uncle. I thought … when there was no word … we all thought …”
Bolitho put his arm around the youthful lieutenant’s shoulder and together they walked to the stern windows. The ship was all behind them. Here was only the sea, empty now that Phalarope had fallen down wind and had laid bare the horizon.
The lieutenant’s uniform had done little to change the youth
who had joined his old Hyperion as a young midshipman. His black hair, cut in the new short length, was as unruly as ever, and his body felt as if it needed six months of Cornish cooking to put more flesh on it.
He said, “Adam, you must know I had some concern about your joining Phalarope, even though the opportunity of being first lieutenant at twenty-one is enough to tempt a saint, which you are certainly not! Captain Emes has not made any report on your progress, but I have no doubt—” He felt Pascoe tense as he turned to face him incredulously.
“But, Uncle! You’ve not allowed him to remain?”
Bolitho shook his finger. “You may be a nephew, and when I am in despair I sometimes admit that I am quite fond of you—”
It was not working this time. Pascoe stood with his hands clenched at his sides, his dark eyes flashing as he said, “He left you to die! I couldn’t believe it! I pleaded with him! I very nearly flew at him!” He shook his head violently. “He’s not fit to have Phalarope, or any other ship!”
“How did Phalarope’s people behave when Captain Emes ordered them to change tack away from the enemy?”
Pascoe blinked, disconcerted by the question. “They obeyed, naturally. In any case, they do not know you as I do, Uncle.”
Bolitho gripped the youth’s shoulders and shook him gently but firmly.
“I love you for that, Adam, but it must surely prove my point?
The same one I just made to your captain.”
“But, but …”
Bolitho released him and smiled ruefully. “Now I am not speaking as uncle to nephew, but as rear-admiral commanding this squadron to one of his officers, a damned cheeky one at that.
Emes acted in the best way he knew. Even after considering what people would say and read into his interpretation at the time. We cannot always know the man who leads, just as I am no longer A
privileged to recognize the face of every sailor and marine who obeys.”
“I think I can see that.”
Bolitho nodded. “Good. I have enough problems without you starting a war of your own.”
Pascoe smiled. “Everything will be all right now, Uncle, you see.”
Bolitho said, “I am being serious. Emes commands, and you owe it to him to give everything you know for the ship’s benefit.
If you were to fall in battle, there must be no gulf between captain and company. The bridge made by any first lieutenant between poop and fo’c’s’le has to survive. And if Emes were to die, the people have got to look to you as their leader, and not remember the petty bickering which went before. I am right, Adam.”
“I suppose so, Uncle. All the same—”
“God, you’re getting like Herrick. Now be off with you. To your ship, and heaven help you if I see any slackness; for I shall know where to lay the blame!”
This time Pascoe grinned and could not control it.
“Very well, Uncle.”
They walked out to the quarterdeck where Herrick waited in unsmiling silence beside Captain Emes.
Herrick said, “Wind’s freshening, sir. May I suggest that I have Phalarope’s gig piped to the chains?” He glanced meaning-fully at Emes. “Her captain will want to get back on board, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Pascoe darted a quick glance between them and then stepped smartly up to his captain.
“Thank you for allowing me to accompany you, sir.”
Emes eyed him warily. “A pleasure, Mr Pascoe.”
For a moment longer Bolitho held on to the relationship he shared with his nephew.
“I met Belinda Laidlaw at Gibraltar. She is now on passage
to England.” He could feel his cheeks flush under the youth’s stare.
Pascoe smiled. “I see, Unc—sir. I did not know. It must have been a very happy reunion.”
He glanced from Bolitho to Herrick and smiled. “I’m sure it was, in every way.”
They touched their hats, and then Emes followed Pascoe down into the tossing gig alongside.
Herrick whispered fiercely, “Impudent young bugger!”
Bolitho faced him gravely. “About what, Thomas? Did I miss something?”
“Well, er, I mean to say, sir—” Herrick lapsed into confused silence.
Wolfe’s great shadow loomed over them.
“Permission to get the ship under way, sir?”
Bolitho nodded curtly. “Granted. I fear the commodore is choking on words.”
Bolitho walked up to the weather side as the hands ran to the braces and halliards once again.
There was some cloud about, and the sea was lively with sharp-backed wavelets. They might be in for a blow.
He watched the Phalarope’s gig manœuvring alongside her parent ship, and recalled Pascoe’s words. It must have been a very happy reunion. Had he really guessed, or had he merely touched upon his uncle’s sense of guilt?
But one thing was certain. Pascoe was pleased for them both, and that would help the weeks to pass better than he would ever know.
The first excitement of rejoining his small force of ships became more difficult for Bolitho to sustain as days dragged into weeks with nothing achieved. The blockade had not changed merely because he wanted it to. The boredom and drudgery of beating up and down the enemy coast in all weathers had produced its A
inevitable aftermath of slackness and subsequent punishment at the gangway.
It was not difficult to imagine the French admiral watching their sails from a safe vantage point on the shore, while he took his time to prepare his growing fleet of invasion craft for the next and possibly last move into the English Channel.
Ganymede had gone close inshore to spy out the whereabouts of anchored shipping, and had been forced to run from two enemy frigates which had pounced on her in the middle of a rain squall.
The close-knit system of semaphore stations was working as well as ever.
But Ganymede’s captain had discovered an increase in local fishing craft before he had been chased into open water.
At the end of the third week the lookouts sighted Indomitable and Odin running down to join their flagship. Bolitho felt a sense of relief. He had been expecting a firm recall from the Admiralty, or a request for him to return home and to leav
e Herrick in overall command. It would mean the end of Beauchamp’s plans, and also that Styx’s sacrifice had been in vain.
As the three ships of the line manœuvred ponderously under Benbow’s lee, the unemployed hands lined the gangways and stared at their consorts, as sailors always did and always would. Familiar faces, news from home, anything which might make the dreary routine of blockade bearable until they were eventually relieved.
Bolitho was on deck with Herrick to watch the exchange of signals, to feel the sense of pride at the sight of these familiar ships. Bolitho had not seen Odin since her savage battering at Copenhagen, but without effort he could visualize Francis Inch, her horse-faced captain, the way he would bob with genuine pleasure when they next met. But that would have to wait a while longer. There was news to be exchanged, despatches to read and answer. And anyway, Bolitho thought with sudden disappointment, he had nothing to call his captains together for.
Bolitho took his usual stroll on the quarterdeck and was left alone to his thoughts. Up and down, up and down, his feet avoid-ing gun tackles and flaked cordage without effort.
The ships shortened sail, and a boat was sent across to Benbow with an impressive bag of letters and Admiralty instructions.
By the time he had completed his walk and had returned to his quarters, Bolitho felt vaguely depressed. Perhaps it was the absence of news and the hint of a chill in these September days.
Biscay could be a terrible station in really bad weather. It would take more than gun and sail drills to keep the ships’ companies alert and ready to fight.
It had to be soon. Otherwise the French would be prevented from moving the bulk of their new invasion craft by worsening weather, just as their enemies would be driven away from the dangerous coastline for the same reason. Soon.
Browne was opening envelopes and piling official documents to one side while he placed personal letters on Bolitho’s table.
The flag-lieutenant said, “No new orders, sir.”
He sounded so cheerful that Bolitho had to bite back a rebuke.
It was not Browne’s fault. Perhaps it had never been intended that their presence here was to be anything but a gesture.
His eyes fell on the letter which lay uppermost on the table.
“Thank you, Oliver.”
He sat down and read it slowly, afraid he might miss something, or worse that she had written of some regret for what had happened at Gibraltar.
Her words were like a warm breeze. In minutes he felt strangely relaxed, and even the pain in his wounded thigh left him in peace.
She was waiting.
Bolitho stood up quickly. “Make a signal to Phalarope, Oliver, repeated to Rapid. ” He walked across the cabin, the letter clutched in his hand.
Browne was still staring up at him from the table, fascinated by the swift change.
Bolitho snapped, “Wake up, Oliver! You wanted orders, well, here they are. Tell Rapid, investigate possibility of capturing a fishing boat and report when ready.”
He tapped his mouth with Belinda’s letter and then held it to his nose. Her perfume. She must have done it deliberately.
Browne wrote frantically on his book and asked, “May I ask why, sir?”
Bolitho smiled at him. “If they won’t come out to us, we’ll have to go inshore amongst them!”
Browne got to his feet. “I’ll signal Phalarope, sir.”
There would be more than a little risk in seizing one of the local boats sighted by Ganymede. But it would involve only a handful of men. Determined and well-led, they might be the means to provide the picklock to Contre-Amiral Remond’s back door!
Browne returned a few moments later, his blue coat bright with droplets of spray.
He said, “Wind’s still getting up, sir.”
“Good.”
Bolitho rubbed his hands. He could picture his signal being passed from ship to ship with no less efficiency and speed than the enemy’s semaphore. Rapid ’s young commander, Jeremy Lapish, had only just been promoted from lieutenant. He was said to be keen and competent, two sound qualities for a man who was after recognition and further advancement. Bolitho could also imagine his nephew when he heard of the signal when it was passed on from his own ship. He would see himself in charge of the raid, with all its risks and the wild cut and thrust of close action.
Browne sat down and continued to study the despatches tied in their pink Admiralty tape.
“Looking back, sir.” He watched Bolitho gravely. “When we were prisoners, in some ways it was Captain Neale who held us
together. I believe we were too worried for his safety to care for our own predicament. I often think about him.”
Bolitho nodded. “He’ll be thinking of us, I shouldn’t wonder, when next we beat to quarters.” He smiled. “I hope we do something he’d be proud of.”
The wind rose and veered, the sea changed its face from blue to grey, and as dusk closed down the sight of land the squadron took station for the night.
Deep down on Benbow’s orlop deck, as the ship swayed and groaned around them, Allday and Tuck, the captain’s coxswain, sat in companionable silence and shared a bottle of rum. The smell of the rum and the swinging lantern was making both of them drowsy, but the two coxswains were content.
Tuck asked suddenly, “D’you reckon your admiral’s goin’ to fight, John?”
Allday held his glass against the guttering candle and examined the level of its contents.
“Course he will, Frank.”
Tuck grimaced. “If I ’ad a woman like the one ’e’s got ’is grapnels on, I’d stay well clear o’ the Frenchie’s iron.” He grinned admiringly. “An’ you lives at ’is ’ouse when you’re ashore, right?”
Allday’s head lolled. He could see the stone walls and the hedgerows as if he were there. The two inns he liked best in Falmouth, the girl at the George who had done him a favour or two. Then there was Mrs Laidlaw’s new maid Polly, she was a neat parcel and no mistake.
He said, “That’s right, Frank. One of the family, that’s me.”
But Tuck was fast asleep.
Allday leant his back against a massive frame and wondered why he was changing. He always tried to keep his life afloat separate from the one which Bolitho had given him at Falmouth.
He thought of the coming battle. Tuck must be mad if he believed Bolitho would give way to the Frogs. Not now, not A
after all they had seen and done together.
Fight they would, and Allday was troubled that it affected him so deeply.
Aloud he said to the ship, “I’m getting bloody old, that’s what.”
Tuck groaned and muttered, “Wassat?”
“Shut up, you stupid bugger.” Allday lurched to his feet.
“Come on then, I’ll help sling your hammock for you.”
Some eight miles from Allday’s flickering lantern another scene was being enacted in the Rapid ’s small cabin as Lapish, her commander, explained what was required.
The brig was pitching violently in a steep offshore swell, but neither Lapish nor his equally youthful first lieutenant even noticed it.
Lapish was saying, “You’ve seen the signal from the Flag, Peter, and you know what to look for. I’ll drop the boat as close as I can and stand off until you return, with or without a fisherman.” He grinned at the lieutenant. “Does it frighten you?”
“It’s one way to promotion, sir.”
They both bent over the chart to complete their calculations.
The lieutenant had never spoken to his rear-admiral, and had only seen him a few times at a distance. But what did it matter?
Tomorrow there might be a new admiral in command. The lieutenant laid his hanger on a bench beside his favourite pistols. Or I might be dead.
In the long chain of command the next few hours were all that mattered.
“Ready, Peter?”
“Aye, sir.”
They listened to the dash of spray over the deck. A foul night for boatwork, bu
t a perfect one for what they had in mind.
And anyway, they had their orders from the Flag.
13. No fighting S ailor
LIEUTENANT Wolfe ducked his head beneath the deckhead beams and clumped noisily into the cabin. He waited while Bolitho and Herrick completed some calculations on a chart and then said,
“Signal from Rapid, repeated by Phalarope. French boat captured.
No alarm given. ”
Bolitho glanced at Herrick. “That was good work. The brig is aptly named.” To Wolfe he said, “Signal Rapid to send her prize to the flagship. The fewer prying eyes to see her the better. And tell Commander Lapish, well done.”
Herrick rubbed his chin doubtfully. “No alarm roused, eh?
Lapish must have taken full advantage of the foul weather yesterday, lucky young devil.”
“I expect so.” Bolitho kept his voice non-committal as he stooped over the chart once more.
There was no point in telling Herrick how he had lain awake worrying about his orders to Rapid. Even one man lost to no purpose was too many. He had felt this way ever since Styx had gone and Neale had died with so many of his company. He looked at Herrick’s homely face. No, there was no point in disturbing him also.
Instead he ran his finger along the great triangle on the chart.
It stretched south-east from Belle Ile to the Ile d’Yeu, then seaward to a point some forty miles to the west. Then north once more to Belle Ile. His three frigates patrolled along the invisible thread nearest to the coast, while the ships of the line were made to endure the uncertainties of unsheltered waters where they could be directed to attack if the French attempted to break out.
Amongst and between Bolitho’s ships the little Rapid acted as messenger and spy. Lapish must have enjoyed his successful cutting-out raid, no matter how brief it had been. Action soon A
drove away the cobwebs, and his men would have the laugh on the companies of their heaviest consorts.
He said, “The French must be getting ready to move. We have to know what is happening closer inshore.” He looked up as Browne entered the cabin. “The captured fishing boat will be joining us directly. I want you to board her and make a full investigation.”
A Tradition of Victory Page 20