The Only Victor

by Alexander Kent

  Keen returned and said, “Signal made, sir. The visibility is good, so Anemone should be here before dusk.”

  They were still discussing tactics and the correct wording of his orders to the squadron’s captains when the midshipman-of-the-watch entered to report that Anemone’s topgallants were in sight.

  Bolitho realised it was his nephew, and asked, “How are you settled, Mr Vincent?” Then he saw a dark bruise on his cheek, and several scars around his mouth.

  Vincent answered sulkily, “I am well enough, Sir Richard.”

  As he left the cabin Bolitho suggested mildly, “A little altercation, no doubt?”

  Keen shrugged. “It is difficult sometimes to watch over all young gentlemen at once, sir.”

  Bolitho observed his discomfort and said, “That young fellow is a bully, with a conceit as wide as this cabin. Because he is related to me, it makes no difference in matters of discipline. And I will share something else with you. He will never make lieutenant unless you believe in miracles!”

  Keen stared at him, astonished by such frankness, and that Bolitho could still surprise him.

  “It was a fight, sir. A sort of gunroom court of law. The other one was Mr Midshipman Segrave.”

  Bolitho nodded slowly. “I should have guessed. No one would understand better how to deal with a petty tyrant!”

  The mood left him and he touched Keen’s arm and grinned. “Just be thankful you do not have to be the one to tell my sister Felicity!”

  Lanterns were being lit when Anemone finally hove-to under Black Prince’s lee and rounded-up into the wind.

  Yovell was sealing the despatches for Captain Crowfoot when the calls trilled at the entry port, and Keen led Adam aft to the great cabin.

  Bolitho related the bones of what he had already explained to Keen.

  “If the French make any show of strength or attempt to interfere with the attack or our supply vessels, I must know without delay. I will send word to Zest and Mistral at first light, but our little schooner can do it.”

  Adam asked, “What do they say in London about the big liner Radiant sighted?”

  Keen said sharply, “They do not believe it.”

  Adam murmured, “I do, sir.”

  Bolitho watched him. Adam must return to his ship before darkness closed in and they took up their stations for the night. But something was wrong. He could hear it in Adam’s voice; he had always been very close to this other nephew. He allowed himself to think it. His brother’s son. There had been many times when Bolitho had wished he had been his own.

  He said, “Perhaps Lieutenant Evans did make a mistake.” He recalled how the Welshman had swallowed the tankards of rum. “But I trust him.”

  Adam stood up. “I had better go, Uncle.” He faced him, with troubled, restless eyes. “If we fight, Uncle—you will take good care? For all our sakes?”

  Bolitho embraced him. “Only if you do the same.” He saw Keen leave the cabin to order his men to recall Adam’s gig and said quietly, “You are worried about something, Adam. You may command a King’s ship, but to me you are still the midshipman, you know.”

  Adam forced a smile but it only made him look more wistful. “It is nothing, Uncle.”

  Bolitho persisted, “If there is anything, please tell me. I will try to help.”

  Adam turned aside. “I know that, Uncle. It has always been my sheet-anchor.”

  Bolitho accompanied him to the companion ladder while shadows between decks watched them pass in silence, thinking themselves invisible, or beneath their admiral’s notice. How wrong they were.

  Bolitho listened to the sea’s subdued murmur and was conscious that this might be the last time he saw Adam before the sea-fight which every one of his senses had now warned him was imminent. He felt a sudden chill. Perhaps the last time ever.

  He said, “Allday told me about his son.”

  Adam seemed to rouse himself from his mood. “I was sorry, but in truth, he has no place in the line of battle. I understand how Allday must feel, but I also know that his son will fall in battle if he remains. I see the signs.”

  Bolitho watched him in silence. It was like hearing somebody much older speaking from past experience. As if his dead father was still a part of him.

  “You are his captain, Adam—I suspect you know him much better than his father. A coxswain must be close to his commander. The nearest of all men maybe.” He saw Allday with the side-party, his bronzed face standing out in the slow sunset. The nearest of men.

  “Side-party, stand by!”

  That was Cazalet, another link in the chain of command.

  Keen, Cazalet, and the embattled midshipmen, drawing together as one company; in spite of the ship, or perhaps because of her.

  Adam held out his hand. “My warm wishes to Lady Catherine when next you write to her, Uncle.”

  “Of course. We often speak of you.” He wanted to press him further, to drag out of Adam what was weighing him down. But he knew Adam was too much like himself, and would tell him only when he was ready.

  Adam touched his hat and said formally, “Your permission to leave the ship, Sir Richard?”

  “Aye, Captain. God’s speed go with you.”

  The calls shrilled, and the side-boys waited at the foot of the ladder to steady the gig for a departing captain.

  “I wonder what ails him, Val?”

  Keen walked with him towards the poop, where he knew Bolitho would fret out his worries in a measured walk.

  He smiled. “A lady, I shouldn’t wonder, sir. None of us is a stranger to the havoc they can create!”

  Bolitho watched Anemone’s lower yards change shape in the gold light as her fore and main courses filled to the wind.

  He heard Keen add admiringly, “By God, if he can handle a fifth-rate like that, he should be more than a match for a saucy glance!”

  Again he saw Allday standing by a tethered twelve-pounder; alone, despite the bustling shadows around him.

  Bolitho nodded to Keen and climbed down to the quarter-deck.

  “Ah, there you are, Allday!” Once again he saw the watching eyes, figures still unknown to him. How would he convince them when the time came?

  In a quieter voice he said, “Come aft and share a glass with me. I want to ask you something.”

  Somehow he knew Allday was going to refuse; his pride and his hurt would leave him no choice.

  He added, “Come, old friend.” He sensed his uncertainty, even though Allday’s features were now lost in shadow. “You are not the only one who is lonely.”

  He turned away, and heard Allday say awkwardly, “I was just thinkin’, Sir Richard. You takes risks all your life at sea—you fight, an’ if Lady Luck favours you, you lasts a bit longer.” He gave a great sigh. “An’ then you dies. Is that all there is to a man?”

  Lady Luck . . . it reminded him of Herrick, the man he had once known.

  He turned and faced him. “Let us wait and see, eh, old friend?”

  Allday showed his teeth in the shadows and shook his head like some great dog.

  “I could manage a wet, Sir Richard, an’ that’s no error!”

  Lieutenant Cazalet, who was about to do his evening rounds of the ship, paused by Jenour and watched the vice-admiral and his coxswain disappear down the companion ladder. “A most unusual pair, Mr Jenour.”

  The flag lieutenant studied him thoughtfully. Cazalet was a competent officer, just what any captain needed, in a new ship more than ever. Beyond that, he decided, there was not much else.

  He replied, “I cannot ever imagine the one without the other, sir.”

  But Cazalet had gone and he was alone again, mentally composing his next letter home about what he had just seen.

  Captain Hector Gossage of the seventy-four gun Benbow moved restlessly about the ship’s broad quarterdeck, his eyes slitted against the hard sunlight. Eight bells had just chimed out from the forecastle and the forenoon watch had been mustered; and yet already the heat seemed inte
nse. Gossage could feel his shoes sticking to the tarred seams and silently cursed their snail’s progress.

  He stared across the starboard bow and saw the uneven line of twenty store and supply ships reaching away towards the dazzling horizon. A pitifully slow passage—their destination Copenhagen, to join Admiral Gambier’s fleet in support of the army.

  Gossage was not a very imaginative man but prided himself on Benbow, a ship which had been in almost continuous service for several years. Many of the seasoned hands and warrant officers had been in the ship since he had assumed command; it had been, if there was such a creature in the King’s navy, a happy ship.

  He glanced at the open skylight, and wondered what his rear-admiral’s mood would be when he eventually came on deck. Ever since he had received news of his wife’s death, Herrick had changed out of all recognition. Gossage was prudent enough not to mention certain things which his rear-admiral had overlooked, or more likely forgotten. As flag captain he might easily have the blame laid at his own door, and this he intended to avoid at all costs. He was nearly forty, and he had his sights set on a commodore’s broad-pendant before another year had passed—the obvious step to flag rank which he cherished more than anything. Rear-Admiral Herrick had always been a reasonable superior, ready to listen, or even to use an idea which Gossage had put forward. Some admirals would bite your head off for so doing, then present the idea as their own. But not Herrick.

  Gossage bit his lip and remembered the terrible nights at sea when Herrick had been incapable of speaking with any coherence. A man who had always taken his drink in moderation, and who had been quick to come down hard on any officer who saw wine and spirits as a prop for his own weakness.

  He took a glass from the rack and levelled it on the wavering column of ships. Deep-laden, they were barely making a few knots, and with the wind veering due north overnight it would be another day before they entered the Skagerrak. A rich convoy, he thought grimly. Two hundred troopers of the light brigade and their horses, foot guards and some Royal Marines with all the supplies, weapons and powder to sustain an army throughout a long siege. He turned away and felt his shoe squeak free of the melting tar. At this rate, the war would be over before they even reached Copenhagen.

  He moved the glass slightly before the sunlight blinded him and made him blink the tears from his eye. He had seen Egret, the other escort, an elderly sixty-gun two-decker which had been brought out of retirement after many years as a receiving vessel. Then the sea-mist blotted her out again.

  Relics, he thought with bitterness. Anything which would stay afloat long enough for Their Lordships’ purposes.

  At first light, the masthead lookout of one of the supply ships had sighted land far off on the starboard bow, a vague purple shadow which was soon hidden by the haze as the August sunshine changed the North Sea to an endless procession of undulating glass humps.

  Lieutenant Gilbert Bowater climbed through the companion hatch and touched his hat vaguely.

  “Rear-Admiral Herrick is coming up, sir.”

  Even the piggy flag lieutenant had entered into a conspiracy with the other officers to keep out of Herrick’s way, and avoid another blistering scene like the time recently when Herrick had berated a midshipman for laughing on watch.

  The forenoon watchkeepers straightened their backs and a master’s mate peered unnecessarily at the compass.

  Gossage touched his hat. “Wind’s still steady from the north, sir. The convoy’s closed-up since dawn.”

  Herrick walked to the compass box and turned over the limp, damp pages of the log. His mouth and throat were raw, and when he turned towards the sun he felt his head throb without mercy.

  Then he shaded his eyes and looked at the ships which they had escorted all the way from North Yarmouth. A meaningless task, a burden more than a duty.

  Gossage watched him warily, as a post-boy will study a dangerous hound.

  “I have put the boatswain’s party to blacking-down, sir. She’ll be smart enough when we enter harbour.”

  Herrick saw his flag lieutenant for the first time. “Nothing to do, Bowater?” Then he said, “Don’t let these ships straggle like a flock of sheep, Captain Gossage. Signal Egret to come about and take charge of them.” Once again, his anger overflowed like water across a dam. “You should not need to be told, man!”

  Gossage flushed and saw some of the men by the wheel glance at one another. He replied, “There is a thick sea-mist, sir. It is difficult to maintain contact with her.”

  Herrick leaned against the nettings and said heavily, “It will take a month to repeat a signal along this line of grocery captains!” He swung round, his eyes red in the glare. “Fire a gun, sir! That will wake Egret from her dreams!”

  Gossage flung over his shoulder, “Mr Piper! Call the gunner. Then have the larboard bow-chaser cleared away!”

  It all took time, and Herrick could feel the heat rising from the deck to match the raw thirst in his throat.

  “Ready, sir!”

  Herrick gave a sharp nod and winced as the pain jabbed through his skull. The gun recoiled on its tackles, the smoke barely moving in the humid air. Herrick listened to the echo of the shot going on and on as it ricochetted across each line of rollers. The supply ships continued on their haphazard course as if nothing had happened.

  Herrick snapped, “A good man aloft, if you please. As soon as Egret is in sight I wish to know of it!”

  Gossage said, “If we had retained our frigate—”

  Herrick looked at him wearily. “But we did not. I did not. Admiral Gambier so ordered it once we had reached this far. The North Sea squadron is also with him by now.” He waved one hand around him. “So there is only us, and this melancholy collection of patched-up hulks!”

  A dull bang echoed over the ship and Gossage said, “Egret, sir. She’ll soon harry them together!”

  Herrick swallowed and tugged at his neckcloth. “Signal to Egret immediately. Close on the Flag.”

  “But, sir—” Gossage glanced at the others as if for support. “She will lose more time, and so shall we.”

  Herrick rubbed his eyes with his hands. He had not slept for so long that he could scarcely remember what it was like. Always he awoke with the nightmare which instantly froze into reality and left him helpless. Dulcie was dead. She would never be there to greet him again.

  He said sharply, “Make the signal.” He walked to the poop ladder and peered over the side. “That shot came from yonder, not from Egret.” He was suddenly quite calm, as if he was somebody else. The air quivered again. “Hear it, Captain Gossage? What say you now?”

  Gossage gave a slow nod. “My apologies, sir.”

  Herrick eyed him impassively. “You hear what you want to hear. It is nothing new.”

  Lieutenant Bowater murmured nervously, “The merchantmen are drawing into line, sir.”

  Herrick smiled bleakly. “Aye, they smell the danger.”

  Gossage felt that he was going mad. “But how can it be, sir?”

  Herrick took Dulcie’s telescope and levelled it carefully across the quarter as Egret’s topsails appeared to float, unattached, above a bank of white mist. He said, “Perhaps Sir Richard was right after all. Maybe we were all too stupid, or too stricken to listen to him.” He sounded detached, indifferent even, as a midshipman yelled, “Egret’s acknowledged, sir!”

  Then he said, “The North Sea squadron is no longer on station.” He trained the splendid telescope on the nearest merchantman. “But the convoy is still our responsibility.” He lowered it and added irritably, “Signal Egret to make more sail, and take station ahead of the Flag.” He watched as Bowater and the signals midshipman called their numbers and sent the bright bunting soaring up the yards.

  One hour, then two dragged past in the melting heat. A faulty challenge? An exchange between privateer and smuggler? Each was a possibility.

  Herrick did not glance up as the masthead shouted, “Deck there! Land on the lee bow!”

>   Gossage remarked, “Another hour or so and we shall be in sight of the Skagerrak, sir.” He was beginning to relax, but slowly. Herrick’s unpredictable temper was having its effect.

  “Deck there! Sail on the starboard quarter!”

  Men ran across, and a dozen telescopes probed the blinding mirrors of water and the gentle mist.

  There was something like a gasp of relief as the lookout cried, “Brig, sir! She wears our colours!”

  Herrick contained his impatience while he watched the brig as she beat this way and that to close with the flagship.

  The signals midshipman called, “She’s the Larne, sir. Commander Tyacke.”

  Herrick screwed up his eyes to clear his aching brain. Larne? Tyacke? They triggered off a memory, but he could not quite grasp it.

  Gossage exclaimed, “God, she’s been mauled, sir!”

  Herrick raised his telescope and saw the brig rise up as if from the sea itself. There were holes in her fore topsail, and several raw scars in the timbers near her forecastle.

  “She’s not dropping a boat, sir.” Gossage sounded tense again. “She’s going to close with us to speak.”

  Herrick moved the glass still further and then felt the shock run through him. He could see the sunlight glinting on the commander’s single epaulette, the way he was clinging to the shrouds, a speaking-trumpet already pointing towards the Benbow.

  But his face . . . even the distance could not hide its horror. It was like being drenched with icy water as the memory flooded back. Tyacke had been with Bolitho at Cape Town. The fireship, the escaping French frigate—his head reeled with each revelation.

  “Benbow ahoy!” Herrick lowered the glass and thankfully allowed the man’s identity to fall back into the distance. “The French are out! I have met with two sail of the line and three others!”

  Herrick snapped his fingers and took a speaking-trumpet from the first lieutenant.

  “This is Rear-Admiral Herrick! What ships did you see?” Each shouted word made his brain crack.

  The man’s powerful voice echoed across the water and Herrick thought it sounded as if he were laughing. A most unseemly sound.