The Only Victor

by Alexander Kent

  They both turned, startled, as Bolitho interrupted sharply, “What did you say?”

  He stared at Keen’s bewilderment. “About Black Prince’s unknown strength?”

  “Well, I simply thought—”

  “And I did not.” Bolitho glanced up at the ensign curling above his head. “You have a good sailmaker?”

  The watch was changing, but they stood quite alone in the midst of its quiet disorder.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Then please ask him to lay aft.” He watched the soft light of a northern dusk. “This needs to be quick. I must pass word to Captain Huxley before we adopt night-stations!”

  Keen sent a midshipman off at the double. Bolitho would explain. Perhaps when he had decided for himself what he intended.

  Black Prince’s sailmaker’s name was Fudge. He was so like the many of his profession that he might have been cut from the same bolt of canvas. Bushy grey hair and sprouting eyebrows, and the familiar leather jerkin which was hung about with tools, thread, needles and, of course, a palm or two.

  “This is he, sir.”

  They all looked at him in silence. Keen, the officer-of-the-watch, midshipmen and master’s mates.

  Fudge blinked his watery eyes.

  “Aye, sir?”

  Bolitho asked, “Can you make me a Danish ensign, Fudge— full-scale, not some trifling boat-pendant?”

  The man nodded slowly, visualising his stocks, neatly stored in one of the holds.

  He answered, “Foreign, then, Sir Richard?”

  Lieutenant Sedgemore opened his mouth to add a sharp comment of his own, but Keen’s glance left it unspoken.

  Bolitho said, “Foreign. White cross on red ground, with two tails like a commodore’s broad-pendant.”

  Fudge said, “I was in Elephant with Nelson at Copenhagen, Sir Richard.” The bent back and stiffness of his trade seemed to fall away as he glanced around at the silent watchkeepers. “I knows what a Danish flag look like, sir!”

  Bolitho smiled. “So be it. When can you provide it for me?”

  Fudge showed his uneven teeth, surprised at being asked.

  “No more’n a couple o’ days, Sir Richard!”

  “This is very important, Fudge. Can I have it by dawn?”

  Fudge studied him feature by feature, as if to find an answer to something.

  “I’ll begin now, Sir Richard.” He looked around at the seamen and Royal Marines, as if they were of some inferior race. “Leave it to me!”

  As Fudge bustled away Keen asked quietly, “Some deception, sir?”

  “Aye, mebbee.” He rubbed his hands together as if they were cold. “A favour, Val.” He glanced at the shimmering reflection on the water, the first hint of sunset. He held his hand over his left eye and said, “I would like to walk through your ship with you, if I may?”

  It was like sighting a signal from a far-off frigate. An end to speculation. It was tomorrow.

  Keen said, “Of course, sir.”

  “But first, please signal Larne to close on us. I shall have a written instruction for your old ship, Val—there will be no time later on. Larne can then haul up to windward. If the French do come, they will surely recognise Tyacke’s brig and may decide to stand away. Whatever that French ship is, I want her.”

  “I see, sir.” He beckoned to Jenour. “A signal for you!”

  It was a short note, which Bolitho wrote in his own hand while Yovell waited in the pink glow, ready to apply the seal before putting it into an oilskin bag for Nicator’s captain.

  Then he said to Keen, “It is fair that you should know a part of what I wrote. Should I fall, you will assume command; and if Black Prince is overwhelmed, Captain Huxley is to take Nicator out of the fight and return to Admiral Gambier.” He watched Keen gravely. “Did I forget anything?”

  “I think not, sir.”

  Later, as the last dogwatchmen were finishing their evening meal, Bolitho and Keen, accompanied by the ship’s junior lieutenant and, of course, Allday, went slowly along each deck and down every companion ladder into the very bowels of the ship.

  Many of the startled seamen at their mess tables started to rise at the unheralded tour, but each time Bolitho waved them down.

  He paused to speak to some of them and was surprised at the way they crowded around him. To see what he was like? To assess their own chances of survival; who could tell?

  Pressed men and volunteers, hands from other ships, dialects which told their own stories. Men from Devon and Hampshire, Kent and Yorkshire, “foreigners” too, as Fudge would describe any one from north of the border.

  And of course a man from Falmouth, who said awkwardly before his grinning messmates, “O’ course ’ee won’t know me, Sir Richard—name o’ Tregorran.”

  “But I knew your father. The blacksmith near the church.” For a brief instant he laid his hand on the man’s shoulder while his mind sped on wings back to Falmouth. The man Tregorran stared at the two lines of gold lace on Bolitho’s sleeve as if he had been mesmerised.

  “He was a good man.” The mood left him. “Let’s hope we’ll all be back home soon after this, lads!”

  The overcrowded messdeck was stuffy now with the gunports sealed to contain the familiar smells of tar, bilge and sweat; a place where no tall man could stand upright, where their lives began and too often ended.

  He climbed up the last of the companion ladders and some of the men stood to cheer, their voices following him, deck by deck, like other men he had known and commanded over the years; waiting perhaps for him to join them in that other world.

  Allday saw his face and knew exactly what he was thinking. Roughknots, thieves and villains, alongside the innocent and the damned. England’s last hope. Only hope—that was what he was thinking right now.

  A midshipman’s grubby breeches caught the lamplight on the ladder and there was a quick, whispered conversation, before the lieutenant who had accompanied the unorthodox tour said, “Mr Jenour’s respects, sir!” He was looking at Keen but was very aware of his vice-admiral. “The signal-bag has been passed to Nicator.”

  He licked his lips as Bolitho remarked, “All or nothing.” Then he said, “You are Lieutenant Whyham, are you not?” He saw the youthful officer nod uncertainly. “I thought as much, but did not wish to lose the use of memory!” He smiled, as if this were a casual meeting ashore. “One of my midshipmen in Argonaute four years ago, correct?”

  The lieutenant was still staring after him as Bolitho and Keen climbed into the cooler air of the upper deck. After the sealed messes it tasted like wine.

  Keen said, uncertainly, “Will you sup with me tonight, sir? Before they pull the ship apart and clear for action?”

  Bolitho looked at him calmly, still moved by the warmth of those simple men who had nothing but his word to hold onto.

  “I would relish that, Val.”

  Keen removed his hat and pushed his fingers through his fair hair. Bolitho half-smiled. The midshipman again, or perhaps the lieutenant in the Great South Sea.

  “What you said in your instructions to Nicator’s captain. It makes one realise, but not accept, how narrow that margin is. Now when I think I have everything I ever wanted . . .” He did not go on. He did not need to. It was as if Allday had just repeated what he had said before. “An’ then you dies . . .”

  Keen could have been speaking for both of them.

  At the very first hint of life in the sky Black Prince seemed to come slowly into her own. Like men from forgotten sea-fights and long-lost wrecks, her seamen and marines emerged from the darkness of gundeck, orlop or hold, quitting that last pretence of privacy and peace which is the need of all men before a battle.

  Bolitho stood on the quarterdeck’s weather side and listened to the awakening thud of bare feet and the clink of weapons around and below him. Keen had done his work well: not a pipe given, no beat of drum to inflame the heart and mind of some poor soul who might imagine it was his last memory on earth.

  I
t was as if the great ship herself was coming alive, her company of eight hundred sailors and sea-soldiers merely incidental.

  Bolitho watched the sky, his eye at ease in the darkness. First light was not far off, but for the present it was only anticipation, a sense of uneasiness like the sea’s deceptive smile before a raging gale.

  He tried to imagine the ship as the enemy would gauge her. A fine big three-decker with her rightful Danish ensign flying directly beneath the English one, to announce her true state to the world. But it needed more than that. Bolitho had used many ruses in his time, especially when employed as a frigate captain, and had been caught out by almost as many triggered against himself. In a war which had lasted so long and killed so many men on all sides and of all beliefs, even the normal could not be accepted at face-value.

  If the day went against them, the price would be doubly high. Keen had already passed his orders to the boatswain—no chain-slings could be rigged to yards and spars to prevent them from falling to the deck, to cripple the ship or crush the men at the guns. It would put an edge to their spirits when the time came. There had been no protest from the boatswain about keeping all the boats stacked in their tiers. Bolitho had expected none. For despite the real danger from flying splinters, some like sawtoothed daggers if tiered boats were caught in an attack, most sailors preferred to see them there. The last lifeline.

  Keen came up to him. Like all the officers who would be on the upper deck he had discarded his tell-tale captain’s coat. Too many clues. Too many easy targets.

  Keen stared at the sky. “It’s going to be another clear day.”

  Bolitho nodded. “I had hoped for rain—cloud at least with this nor’-easterly.” He looked towards the empty blanket beyond the bows. “We shall have the sun at our backs. They must sight us first. I think we should shorten sail, Val.”

  Keen was peering around for a midshipman. “Mr Rooke! Tell the first lieutenant to pipe the hands aloft, to take in t’gan’s’ls and royals!”

  Bolitho smiled in spite of his dry tension. Two minds working together. If they were sighted first, any enemy would be suspicious of a prize-ship being driven under full sail when there was nothing to fear.

  Keen looked at the vague shapes of men rushing aloft up the shrouds, to take in and fist the heavy canvas to the yards.

  He said, “Major Bourchier knows what to do. He will have marines on the forecastle, aft here, and up in the maintop, just as he would if he were controlling a prize with her original company still aboard.”

  There was nothing more they could do.

  Cazalet called, “Sailmaker, sir!”

  Fudge and one of his mates came through the shadows and held out the makeshift Danish flag between them.

  Bolitho said, “True to your word. A fine job.” He beckoned to Jenour. “Help Fudge to run up our new flag— his should be the honour!”

  It would have been something to see it, he thought. But even in the raw darkness, with the spray occasionally pattering over the decks like rain, it was a moment to remember. Men crowding inboard from the guns to peer at the strange flapping ensign as it mounted up to the gaff beneath the ship’s true colours.

  Someone called out, “Yew musta used all yer best gear fer that ’un, Fudge!”

  The old sailmaker was still staring at the faint, curling shape against the black sky. Over his shoulder he said dourly, “Got enough to sew you up in after this day’s over, mate.”

  Keen smiled. “I’ve put one of our master’s mates in the mast-head, sir. Taverner—used to be with Duncan. Eyes like a hawk, mind like a knife. I’ll see him made sailing-master even if it does mean losing him!”

  Bolitho licked his dry lips. Coffee, wine, even the brackish water from the casks would help just now.

  He shut it from his mind. “We shall soon know.”

  Keen said, “Rear-Admiral Herrick could have taken another course, sir. He may have turned the convoy towards England where he could expect to meet with the patrolling squadron.”

  Bolitho imagined he could see Herrick’s round, honest features. Turn the convoy? Never. It would be like running away.

  Tojohns, the captain’s coxswain, was kneeling on the deck to secure Keen’s curved hanger, the lightweight fighting sword he always carried in battle. As he had when Hyperion had gone down under him.

  Bolitho touched the hilt of the old family sword at his hip and shivered. It was like ice. He felt Allday watching him, caught the heady scent of rum as he released a great sigh.

  Keen was busy again with his master and lieutenants and Bolitho asked, “Well, old friend, what say you about this?”

  For just a few seconds the darkness was gone, the night torn apart by one great, searing explosion which laid bare the whole ship, the men caught at their guns like statues, the rigging and shrouds sharpened by the glare like the bars of a furnace. Just as suddenly the light vanished, as if snuffed out by a giant’s hand. Then, it seemed an eternity later, came the volcanic roar of the explosion, and with it a hot wind which seemed to sear the canvas and throw every sail aback.

  Voices called out in every direction as the silence, like the darkness, hemmed them in once more.

  Allday said harshly, “One o’ the vessels carryin’ powder an’ shot, I’ve no doubt!”

  Bolitho tried to imagine if any one had known, be it only for a split second, that his life was ending in such a terrible way. No last cry, no handshake with an old friend to hold back the scream or the tears. Nothing.

  Keen was shouting, “Mr Cazalet, send midshipmen to each gundeck to tell the lieutenants what has happened!”

  Bolitho looked away. Keen had managed to remember even that, as his ship sailed blindly on . . . into what?

  Keen was heard to say, “God, they must have felt that like a reef on the lower gundeck!”

  A small figure emerged from somewhere, groping past the helmsmen and officers, the men at the braces, as if he did not belong here at all.

  Allday growled, “What th’ hell are you doin’ on deck?”

  Bolitho turned. “Ozzard! What is it? You know your place is below. You were never a Jack Tar like poor Allday here!” But the old joke fell flat as he realised that Ozzard was quivering like a leaf.

  “C–can’t, s–sir! In the dark . . . down there. Like last time . . .” He stood trembling, oblivious to the silent men around him. “Not again. I c–can’t do it!”

  Bolitho said, “Of course. I should have thought.” He glanced at Allday. “Find him a place close to hand.” He knew the words were not reaching the terrified little man. “Near to us, eh?” He watched their shadows merge with the greater darkness and felt it like an old wound. Hyperion again.

  Allday returned. “Snug as a bug, Sir Richard. He’ll be all right after what you just said.” If only you knew the half of it, he thought.

  There were whispers as the upper yards and masthead pendant suddenly appeared against the sky, as if caught in another explosion, or even separate from the ship.

  From the foremast crosstrees the master’s mate’s voice: “Deck there! Land on the larboard bow!”

  Keen exclaimed, “Excellent, Mr Julyan—that must be The Skaw! Be prepared to alter course to the west’rd within the hour!”

  Bolitho could share the excitement in many ways. They would soon be out and into the Skagerrak with sea-room which had no bottom, where it was said wrecks and drowned sailormen shared the black caverns with blind creatures too terrible to imagine.

  Be that as it may . . . when the jib-boom pointed west again, nothing stood between them and England.

  The light was spreading down on them to reveal each deck like a layer of a cake. Following astern, the seventy-four Nicator was completely laid bare in the weak sunlight, when minutes earlier she had been invisible.

  Taverner the master’s mate, who was sharing the lookout, yelled, “Deck there! Ships burnin’!” He seemed choked for words. “God, sir, I can’t count ’em!”

  Keen snatched a speaking-t
rumpet. “This is the Captain!” A pause, to give the slender link time to fasten, the months of training and years of discipline to reassert themselves. “What of the enemy?”

  Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and watched the upturned faces, the stark contrast with the almost cheerful air when Keen had explained what he had intended for this very moment.

  “Two sail of the line, sir! One other dismasted.” He broke off and Bolitho heard the master murmur, “That’s not like Bob. It must be bad then.”

  The speed with which daylight was ripping away their de-fences made every moment worse. The enemy must have stumbled on the convoy before dusk yesterday, while they had been crawling out of the Sound with no thought but rescue in their hearts.

  They must have taken or destroyed the whole convoy, leaving the clearing up to do until daylight. Until now.

  Keen said in a tired voice, “Too late after all, sir.”

  The sudden echo of cannon fire vibrated over the sea and sighed through the masts and flapping canvas like an approaching squall.

  Taverner called, “Dismasted ship has opened fire, sir! She’s not done in after all!” Discipline seemed to leave him and he yelled, “Hit ’em, lads! Hit th’ buggers! We’m comin’!”

  Keen and Bolitho stared at one another. The mastless, helpless ship was Benbow. There was no other possibility.

  Bolitho said, “Hands aloft, Val. Full sail. Just as we would if we were a prize and escort.” He saw the eagerness and despair in Keen’s eyes and said, “There is no other way. We must hold the surprise, and we must keep the wind-gage.” He felt his muscles harden as a responding broadside overlapped another and knew that the enemy would divide Benbow’s remaining firepower, then board and take her. The ship could not even be manœuvred to protect her stern from a full broadside. He clenched his fists together until they ached. Herrick would die rather than surrender. He had already lost too much.

  Black Prince leaned steadily under the mounting pressure in her sails, and began to turn towards the western horizon beyond the blurred finger of land, a sea where the darkness still lingered.