A Tradition of Victory

by Alexander Kent

  Browne shook his head violently. “S’not what I meant, sir.

  Admiral Remond will depend on information. He’ll know full well we’d never attempt a night attack. Any ship of the line would be aground before she’s moved more than a mile in those waters.”

  Bolitho said, “If you’re suggesting what I think you are, then put it right out of your mind.”

  Browne got to his feet and dragged the chart across the table.

  “But think of it, sir! A break in the chain. No signals for twenty miles or more! It would give you the time you must have!” The strength left his legs and he slumped down again.

  Herrick exclaimed, “I must be getting old or something.”

  “There is a small beach, Thomas.” Bolitho spoke quietly as he relived the moment. The little commandant and his watchful guards. The wind dying as they had felt their way down the path to the shore. The only suitable place for Ceres ’ captain to send his boat to collect them. “From it to the semaphore station is hardly any distance, once you are there. It would be folly.”

  Browne said, “I could find the place. I’m not likely to forget it.”

  “But even if you could …” Herrick scanned the chart and then looked at Bolitho.

  “Am I becoming too involved again, Thomas, is that it?”

  Bolitho watched him despairingly. “Neale could have found the place, so too could I. But Oliver is my flag-lieutenant, and I’ve allowed him to risk his life enough already without this madcap scheme!”

  Herrick replied harshly, “John Neale’s dead, sir, and for once you can’t go yourself. The cutting-out of the fishing boat was your idea, and it proved to be well worthwhile, although I suspect you were more worried than you showed for the safety of your flag-lieutenant. I know I was.” He waited, judging the moment like an experienced gun-captain gauging the exact fall of shot. “A marine and two good seamen died this morning because of that encounter. I knew them, sir, but did you?”

  Bolitho shook his head. “No. Are you saying I did not care because of it?”

  Herrick watched him gravely. “I am telling you you must not care, sir. The three men died, but they helped to give us a small advance knowledge which we may use against the enemy. At the conference tomorrow they would all answer the same. A few lives to save the many is any captain’s rule.” His mouth softened and he added, “Ask for volunteers and you would get more lieutenants than you could shake a stick at. But none of them would know that beach or the path to the semaphore. It is a terrible risk, but only Mr Browne knows where to go.” He looked sadly at the flag-lieutenant. “If it gives us another advantage and a chance to reduce casualties, then it is a risk we must offer.”

  Browne nodded vaguely. “That’s what I said, sir.”

  “I know, Oliver.” Bolitho ran his fingers along the glittering sword on its rack. “But have you weighed up the danger against the chances of success?”

  “He’s asleep, sir.” Herrick looked at him for several seconds.

  “Anyway, it’s the only decision. It’s all we have.”

  Bolitho looked at the sleeping lieutenant, his legs out-thrust A

  like a man resting by the roadside. Herrick was right of course.

  He said, “You do not spare your words, Thomas, when you know something should or must be done.”

  Herrick picked up his hat and smiled grimly. “I had a very good teacher, sir.” He glanced at Browne. “Lady Luck may be fair to him again.”

  As the door closed behind him Bolitho said quietly, “He’ll need more than luck this time, old friend.”

  As one captain after another arrived on board Benbow at the arranged time, the stern cabin took on an air of cheerful informality. The captains, senior and junior alike, were among their own kind, and no longer required the screen of authority to conceal their private anxieties or hopes.

  At the entry port the marine guard and side party received each one, and each would pause with hat removed while the calls trilled and muskets slapped to the present to pay respect to the gold epaulettes and the men who wore them.

  In the cabin, Allday and Tuck, assisted by Ozzard, arranged chairs, poured wine and made their temporary guests as comfortable as possible. To Allday some of the arrivals were old friends. Francis Inch of the Odin, with his long horse-face and genial bobbing enthusiasm. Valentine Keen of the Nicator, fair and elegant, who had served Bolitho previously as both midshipman and junior lieutenant. He had a special greeting for Allday, and the others watched as he grasped the burly coxswain’s fist and shook it warmly. Some understood this rare relationship, others remained mystified. Keen could never forget how he had been hurled to the deck in battle, a great splinter driven into his groin like some terrible missile. The ship’s surgeon had been too drunk to help him, and it had been Allday who had held him down and had personally cut out the wood splinter and saved his life.

  Duncan of the Sparrowhawk, even redder in the face as he

  shouted into Captain Veriker’s deaf ear, and the latest appointment to the squadron, George Lockhart of the frigate Ganymede.

  Some arrived in their own boats, others from the furthest extremes of the patrol areas were collected and brought to the flagship by the ubiquitous Rapid which now lay hove to nearby, ready to return the various lords and masters to their rightful commands.

  But whether they flaunted the two epaulettes of captain in a lofty seventy-four, or the single adornment of a junior commander like Lapish, to their companies each was a king in his own right, and when out of contact with higher authority could act with almost absolute power, right or wrong.

  Herrick stood like a rock amongst them, knowing everything about some, enough about the others.

  Only Captain Daniel Emes of the Phalarope stood apart from the rest, his face stiff and devoid of expression as he gripped a full goblet in one hand while his other tapped out a slow tattoo on his sword-hilt.

  It had taken most of the morning watch and half of the forenoon to gather them together, and during that time the courier brig had sent over her despatches and then made off in search of the next squadron to the south.

  Only Herrick amongst those present knew what the weighted bag had contained, and he was keeping it to himself. He knew what Bolitho intended. There was no point in discussing it further.

  The door opened and Bolitho entered, followed by his flag-lieutenant. Browne had always been regarded as a necessary shadow by most of the others, but his recent escapades as an escaped prisoner of war, the partner in a daring probe amongst the enemy’s shipping, had raised him to a far different light.

  Bolitho shook hands with each of his captains. Inch so obviously glad to be with him again, and Keen who had shared so A

  much in the past, not least the death of the girl Bolitho had once loved.

  He saw Emes standing on his own and walked over to him.

  “That was a well executed operation, Captain Emes. You saved my flag-lieutenant, but now it seems I am to lose him again.”

  There was a ripple of laughter which helped to soften their dislike for Emes.

  Only Herrick remained grim-faced.

  They seated themselves again and Bolitho outlined as briefly as he could the French movements, the arrival of Remond’s flying squadron, as it was now known, and the need of an early attack to forestall any attempt to convoy the invasion craft into more heavily protected waters.

  There was need for additional warnings about this treacherous coast and the dangers from unpredictable winds. The conditions, like the war, were impartial, as the loss of Styx and the French Ceres had recently driven home.

  Each captain present was experienced and under no illusions about an attack in daylight, and in many ways there was an air of expectancy rather than doubt, as if, like Bolitho, they wanted to get it over and done with.

  Like players in a village drama, others came and went to the captains’ conference. Old Ben Grubb, the sailing-master, forth-right and unimpressed by the presence of so many capta
ins and his own rear-admiral, rumbled through the state of tides and currents, the hazards of wrecks, which would be carefully noted and copied by the industrious Yovell.

  Wolfe, the first lieutenant, who in peaceful times had once served in these same waters for a while in the merchant service, had some local knowledge to add.

  Bolitho said, “When we mount our attack there will be no second chance.” He looked around their faces, seeing each one

  weighing up his own separate part of the whole. “The chain of semaphore stations is as great an enemy as any French squadron, and to break it, for even a short while, demands the highest in courage and resolve. Fortunately for us, we have such a man who will lead a raid on the station which adjoins the prison we shared so recently.”

  Bolitho could sense the instant change in the cabin as all eyes moved to Browne.

  He continued, “The raid will be carried out tomorrow night under cover of darkness and making full use of the tide and the fact there will be no moon.” He glanced at Lapish’s intent face.

  “Mr Browne has requested that your first lieutenant, Mr Searle, again be appointed to work with him. I suggest a maximum of six hand-picked men, with at least two who are experts in fuses and placing explosives.”

  Lapish nodded. “I have such hands, sir. One was a miner and well used to placing charges.”

  “Good. I will leave that to you, Commander Lapish. You will stand inshore tomorrow night, land the raiding party and then withdraw. Rapid will rejoin the squadron and report by pre-arranged night signal.” He had gone over and over it again in his mind so that it was almost like repeating someone else’s words.

  “Commodore Herrick will take station off Belle Ile, with Nicator and Indomitable in company, and Sparrowhawk for close observa-tion inshore.” He looked directly at Inch. “I shall shift my flag directly to your ship, and with Phalarope’s carronades for good measure, we shall make the first attack on the invasion craft at their moorings.”

  Inch bobbed and beamed, as if he had just been offered a knighthood. “A great day, sir!”

  “Perhaps.” Bolitho looked around the cabin. “Ganymede will be my scouting vessel, and Rapid will link our two forces together.”

  He let the murmur of voices die and then said, “The squadron A

  will attack at dawn the day after tomorrow. That is all, gentlemen, except to say that God be with you.”

  The captains rose to their feet and gathered round Browne to slap him on the back and congratulate him for his bravery, even though each one of them probably knew he was saying goodbye to a man already as good as dead. If Browne was thinking the same, he certainly did not show it. He seemed to have matured over the past weeks, so that in some ways he appeared senior to the captains around him.

  Herrick whispered fiercely, “You did not tell them about the new orders, sir!”

  “Recall? Discontinue the plan of attack?” Bolitho watched Browne sadly. “They would still support me, and by knowing of their lordships’ change of heart they would be considered accom-plices at any court of enquiry later on. Yovell will have written it all down for anyone who cares to read it.”

  Herrick persisted, “That piece in the orders, sir, about using your discretion …”

  Bolitho nodded. “I know. Whatever happens I must accept the responsibility.” He smiled suddenly. “Nothing changes, does it?”

  One by one the captains departed, each eager to return to his own command and prepare his people for battle.

  Bolitho waited until Browne arrived at the entry port, ready to be taken across to the waiting brig.

  Browne said, “I am worried about your not having a suitable aide, sir. Perhaps Commodore Herrick could select a replacement?”

  Bolitho shook his head. “The midshipman who was injured, I’ll take him. He is good with signals, you said, and his French is passable, you said that too.” It was impossible to keep it casual and matter of fact.

  “Stirling.” Browne smiled. “Young but eager. Hardly suitable for your aide, sir.”

  Bolitho looked at the Benbow’s barge being swayed outboard in readiness to carry him to Inch’s ship.

  “He will be only temporary, I trust, Oliver?” Their eyes met and then Bolitho grasped his hand. “I am not happy about this.

  Take good care. I’ve got used to your ways now.”

  Browne returned the handclasp but did not smile. “Don’t worry, sir, you’ll get the time you need.” He stood back and touched his hat, the contact broken.

  Herrick watched the brig’s jolly-boat pulling away and said,

  “Brave fellow.” Then he turned on his heel and strode away to attend to his ship.

  Allday came aft and waited for Bolitho to see him.

  “Ozzard’s sent your gear across to Odin, sir. He’s gone with it. Wouldn’t stay in Benbow a second time, he said. Beggin’ your pardon, sir, nor would I.”

  Bolitho smiled. “It seems we are always making this journey, Allday.”

  He glanced at the midshipmen at the flag halliards preparing to strike his flag and hoist Herrick’s broad-pendant as he departed.

  At least it would protect Herrick from any criticism if the worst happened.

  He turned and shaded his eyes to watch for Rapid ’s boat but it had already merged alongside and was lost from view.

  Lieutenant the Honourable Oliver Browne had not even hesitated. It would make those in safe occupations ashore think again if they could have seen his sacrifice.

  Herrick joined him and said, “Your acting flag-lieutenant is here, sir.”

  They all looked down at Midshipman Stirling, who with bag in one hand and signals book under his arm was staring at Bolitho.

  Bolitho saw that the midshipman had one hand resting in a sling, and said, “Take his things, Allday.”

  Allday almost winked, but not quite. “Aye, aye, sir. This way, young sir, I’ll see you get no lip from them Odins.”

  “Well, Thomas.”

  Herrick rubbed his chin. “Aye, sir, it’s time.”

  “Remember, Thomas, a victory now will put heart into the ordinary people at home. They’ve had much to bear over the years. It’s not only sailors who suffer in a war, you know.”

  Herrick forced a grin. “Don’t fret, sir, I’ll be there with the squadron. No matter what.” He was making a great effort.

  “Besides, I’ve got to be at the wedding, haven’t I?”

  They shook hands.

  “I’d not forgive you otherwise, Thomas.”

  Herrick straightened his back. “Carry on, Major Clinton.”

  Clinton’s sword glittered in the pale sunlight. “Marines!

  Present arms! ”

  The drums rolled and the fifers broke into Heart of Oak, and with a last glance at his friend Bolitho climbed down to the waiting barge.

  “Bear off forrard! Out oars!” Allday’s shadow rose over the rear-admiral and diminutive midshipman like a cloak. “Give way, all! ”

  The green-painted barge turned swiftly away from Benbow’s side, and as it pushed out of her protective lee, Bolitho was startled by a sudden burst of wild cheering. He turned and looked back as Benbow’s seamen lined the gangway and swarmed into the shrouds to cheer him on his way.

  Allday murmured softly, “Good ship, sir.”

  Bolitho nodded, unable to find words for the unexpected demonstration.

  Benbow, which had been his flagship in some of the worst fighting he had known, was wishing him well.

  He was glad of the cold spray which danced over the gunwale and touched his face as if to steady and reassure him. He

  saw Midshipman Stirling staring enthralled at the Odin where the ceremony would begin all over again.

  Allday stared at the small two-decker with the fierce Norse-man’s figurehead and winged helmet waiting to receive them.

  “Proper pot o’ paint she looks!” he muttered disdainfully.

  “What do you think of all this, er, Mr Stirling?”

  The boy looked
gravely at his rear-admiral and took a few seconds to answer. He had just been writing a letter in his mind to his mother, describing this very moment.

  “It is the happiest day of my life, sir.”

  He said it so seriously that Bolitho momentarily forgot his anxieties.

  “Then we must try and keep it so, eh?”

  The barge hooked on to Odin’s main-chains, and Bolitho saw Inch peering down at him, not wishing to miss a minute of it as his ship hoisted the flag.

  In his excitement Stirling made for the side of the barge, but was forestalled by Allday’s great fist on his shoulder.

  “Belay that, sir! This is the admiral’s barge, not some mid-shipmite’s bumboat!”

  Bolitho nodded to them and then climbed swiftly up Odin’s tumblehome.

  “Welcome aboard, sir!” Inch had to shout above the din of fifes and barked commands.

  Bolitho glanced aloft as his flag broke from the mizzen truck.

  There it was, and there it would remain until it was finished. One way or the other.

  “You may get the ship under way, Captain Inch.”

  Inch was staring uncertainly at Midshipman Stirling.

  Bolitho added calmly, “Oh, Mr Stirling, signal, if you please.

  From Flag to Rapid. Make, We Happy Few. ”

  Stirling scribbled furiously on his book and then ran to muster the signalling party.

  Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the little brig turn stern on to the rest of the squadron. Stirling would not understand the signal, neither probably would Rapid ’s signals midshipman.

  But Browne would know. Bolitho turned towards the poop.

  And that mattered.

  “Rapid ’s acknowledged, sir.”

  Bolitho entered his new quarters and saw Allday carefully placing the bright presentation sword on a rack.

  Allday said defensively, “Makes it more like home, sir.”

  Bolitho sat down and watched Ozzard bustling around the cabin as if he had served in Odin for years.

  Stirling entered and stood awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other.

  “Well, Mr Stirling, what do you suggest I do now?”