A Tradition of Victory

14. The Toast Is Victory!

BOLITHO stood with arms folded and watched his flag-lieutenant swallow a second glass of brandy.

Herrick grinned and said, “I think he needed that, sir.”

Browne placed the glass on the table and waited as Ozzard moved in like a dancer to refill it. Then he looked at his hands as if he was surprised they were not visibly shaking and said, “There were some moments when I thought I had misjudged my abilities, sir.”

“You did well.”

Bolitho recalled his feelings when he had received the signal from Phalarope. The fishing boat had sunk, but all except three of the prize crew were safe.

He walked to the chart and spread his hands around the vital triangle. Remond’s squadron had left harbour, knowing that sooner or later their presence would be discovered. The French were obviously expecting to move their fleet of invasion craft before the weather worsened and place them across the Channel from England. Added to the ever-present rumour of intended attack, their arrival would give plenty of weight to the enemy’s bargaining power.

Browne said wearily, “Mr Searle of Rapid did all the hard work, sir. But for him…”

“I shall see that his part is mentioned in my despatches.” Bolitho smiled. “But you were the real surprise.” He grinned wryly at Herrick. “To some more than others.”

Herrick shrugged. “Well, sir, now that we know the enemy is out of port, what shall we do? Attack or blockade?”

Bolitho paced across the cabin and back again. The ship felt calmer and steadier, and although it was now late evening he could see a bronze sunset reflecting against the salt-caked windows. Soon, soon, the words seemed to hammer at his brain.

“Captains’ conference tomorrow forenoon, Thomas. I can’t wait any longer.”

He frowned as voices murmured in the outer cabin, and then Yovell poked his head around the screen door. It was impossible to avoid interruptions in a flagship.

His clerk said apologetically, “Sorry to trouble you, sir. Officer o’ the watch sends his respects and reports the sighting of a courier brig. Indomitable has just hoisted the signal.”

Bolitho looked at the chart. The brig would not be able to communicate before daylight tomorrow. It was as if more decisions were being made for him.

“Thank you, Yovell.” He turned to Herrick. “The French squadron will stay in readiness at its anchorage, that’s my opinion. Once the invasion craft begin to move from Lorient and their other local harbours, Remond will be kept informed of our intentions by semaphore. There will be no need for him to deploy the main part of his force until he knows what I attempt.”

Herrick said bitterly, “The defender always has the edge over any attacker.”

Bolitho watched him thoughtfully. Herrick would follow him to the death if so ordered. But it was obvious he was against the plan of attack. The French admiral had all the advantage of swift communications right along the vital stretch of coast. Once the British squadron chose to attack, Remond would summon aid from Lorient, Brest and anywhere else nearby while he closed with Benbow and her consorts.

In his heart Bolitho was equally certain that the unexpected arrival of a courier brig meant fresh orders. To cancel the attack before it had begun. To save face rather than endure the humiliation of a defeat while secret negotiations were being conducted.

Without realizing it he said aloud, “They don’t have to fight wars! It might knock some sense into their heads if they did!”

Herrick had obviously been thinking about the brig’s arrival.

“A cancellation, a recall even, would save a lot of bother, sir.” He hurried on stubbornly, “I understand what is right and honourable, sir. I suspect their lordships only know what is expedient.”

Bolitho looked past him at the stern windows. The glow of sunset had vanished.

“We’ll have the conference as planned. Then,” he looked calmly at Herrick, “I intend to shift my flag to Odin.” He saw Herrick jerk upright in his chair, his expression one of total disbelief. “Easy, Thomas. Think before you protest. Odin is the smallest liner in the squadron, a little sixty-four. Remember, it was Nelson who shifted his command flag from the St George to the Elephant at Copenhagen because she was smaller and drew less water for inshore tactics. I intend to follow our Nel’s example for this attack.”

Herrick had struggled to his feet, while Browne sat limply in his chair, his eyes heavy with fatigue and too much brandy, as he watched them both.

Herrick exploded, “That’s got nothing to do with it! With respect, sir, I know you of old, and I can see right through this plan as if it were full of holes! You want my broad-pendant above Benbow when we clear for action, so that in any defeat I shall be absolved! Just as you signalled Phalarope to stand inshore this morning to allow for any trouble over the fishing boat.”

“Well, Thomas, it turned out to be necessary.”

Herrick would not yield. “But that was not the reason, sir! You did it to give Emes another chance!”

Bolitho eyed him impassively. “Odin is the more suitable ship, and there’s an end to it. Now sit down and finish your drink, man. Besides which, I need the squadron to be split in two. It is our only chance of dividing the enemy.” He waited, hating what he was doing to Herrick, knowing there was no other way.

Browne muttered thickly, “The prison.”

They both looked at him, and Bolitho asked, “What about it?”

Browne made to rise but sank down again. “You remember, sir. Our walk from the prison. The French had a semaphore station on that church.”

Herrick said angrily, “Do you wish to go and pray there?”

Browne did not seem to hear him. “We decided it was the last semaphore station on the southern side of the Loire.” He made to slap his hand on the table but missed. “Destroy it and the link in the chain is broken.”

Bolitho said quietly, “I know. It is what I intended we should try to do. But that was then, not now.” He watched him fondly. “Why not turn in, Oliver? You must be exhausted.”

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 flaglieutenant. 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 flaglieutenant. “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 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 flaglieutenant. 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 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, forthright and unimpressed by the presence of so many captains 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 prearranged 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 observation 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 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 accomplices 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 rearadmiral 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 Norseman’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 midshipmite’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?”

The boy regarded him warily and then said, “I think you should invite some of the ship’s officers to dinner, sir.”

Allday’s face split into a grin. “A proper flag-lieutenant already, sir, an’ that’s no error!”

Bolitho smiled. Perhaps by being with Browne, Stirling had also learned something.

“That is an excellent idea. Would you ask the first lieutenant to see me?”

The door closed and Allday said, “I’ll find you a good sword for later on.”

By later on, Allday meant the forthcoming battle with the French.

But now the rear-admiral would show his other face to Odin’s officers, the one which displayed confidence and a certainty of victory. For on the day after tomorrow they would be looking to him again and, right or wrong, they had to trust him.

Inch entered the cabin and peered round as if to assure himself that the quarters were suitable for his unexpected arrival.

He remarked, “Phalarope’s taken station to wind’rd as ordered, sir.” He tossed his hat to his own servant. “If you’ll pardon my saying so, sir, I would that your nephew was aboard Odin instead of that ship.”

“You never alter, Inch.” Bolitho lay back on the bench and listened to the sea surging around the rudder. “But in this case I think you are wrong.”

He did not see the perplexed look on Inch’s long face. When action was joined it was somehow right that his brother’s son should be in that same old frigate. Like a joining of hands, after all the bitterness which had driven them apart.

Allday left the cabin, wondering what sort of companion Inch’s coxswain would make. He saw Stirling hovering in the lobby and asked, “All too much, is it?”

The boy turned on him as if to hit back but then smiled. “It’s a big step, Mr Allday.”

Allday grinned and squatted on the breech of a nine-pounder. “Not Mister, just Allday, it suits well enough.”

The boy relaxed and studied him curiously. “But you speak with the admiral like one of his equals.”

Allday looked down at his fists. “Friend, more like. It’s what he needs.”

He stood up suddenly and leaned over the midshipman’s slight figure.

“If you go aft to him and act normal, he’ll treat you the same.” He spoke with such force that Stirling was impressed into silence. “Cause he’s just a man, see? Not God Almighty! Right now he needs all his friends, not his bloody lieutenants, so just you remember that, sir! ” He punched the midshipman gently on his uninjured arm. “But you tell him what I said, or give him any of your lip, an’ I’ll take you apart, sir! ”

Stirling grinned. “Got you, Allday! And thanks.”

Allday watched him re-enter the cabin and sighed. Seems a nice lad, he thought. Of course, when he was made lieutenant he might well change. He looked round the shadowy between-decks at the tethered gun at every sealed port, brooding and waiting, like all the others in the squadron. Stirling was fourteen. What the hell was he doing here when they were about to sail into battle? What the hell were any of them doing here?

Allday shivered. It got worse, not better. Stirling was full of high spirits, in spite of his injury, or perhaps because of it. But he did not know what it would be like when those guns were surrounded with yelling, smoke-blackened madmen, and the order was to fire, reload and keep firing, no matter what.

He thought of the battle-crazed marine who had almost driven his bayonet through him on the Ceres’ orlop deck.

Maybe peace was really coming, and this might be the last sea-fight for any of them.

Allday thought too of the Phalarope standing to windward of them. It made him feel uneasy, just to know she was there.

A sergeant of marines clumped out of the shadows and peered at him.

“Feel like a wet, matey?”

Allday grinned. “From a bullock?”

The sergeant took his arm and led him towards the companion ladder.

“Why not?”

They climbed down through the familiar shipboard smells and the headier aroma of Jamaican rum.

Maybe Odin wasn’t such a bad ship after all.

The marine sergeants and corporals shared a small, screened off portion of the lower gun-deck. They greeted Allday with cheerful grins, and soon had him comfortably seated with a pot of rum by his elbow.

The colour-sergeant said, “Now, matey, as the rear-admiral’s personal cox’n, so to speak, you’ll know wot we’re goin’ to do, right?”

Allday leant against the side and expanded. “Well, usually me an’ the admiral…”

By the evening of that day, Odin, with Phalarope keeping well to windward, were out of sight of the remainder of the squadron.

In the great cabin, resplendent with the table fully extended and the best glasses and silver laid before the chattering officers, Captain Francis Inch was bursting with pleasure and pride. Nothing could ever be quite so perfect again.

Bolitho sat at the head of the table and allowed the conversation and wit to flow around him, while glasses were refilled and toasts drunk with barely a break in between.

Bolitho glanced at the ship’s lieutenants. Mostly they were so young, and like Allday, although he had no way of knowing it, he was thinking of this same carefree place as it would soon become when the ship was called to quarters.

He studied the officers in turn and tried to remember each by name. Sons, and lovers, but not many husbands amongst them. Yet. A normal enough wardroom in any ship of the line.

They would fight, and they must win.

One young lieutenant was saying, “Yes, I’m really going to get married when we get home again.” He held up his hand to silence the derisive laughter. “No, this time I mean it!”

Then he turned and looked at Bolitho, emboldened by claret or touched perhaps by the thought of the battle yet to come, he asked, “May I ask, sir, are you married?”

Bolitho smiled. “Like you, Mr Travers, I am getting married when we anchor again in Plymouth Sound.”

“Thank you for that, sir.” The lieutenant studied him anxiously. “I thought, just for a moment-”

“I know what you were thinking.” He was suddenly glad he had remembered the lieutenant’s name. “The idea of marriage has given you something to stay alive for, am I right?”

Travers lowered his eyes. “I am not afraid, sir.”

“I know that too.” He looked away. How can I not become involved?

Bolitho said, “But it also gives you something to fight for, remember that and you’ll not fail.”

As the most junior guest present, Midshipman George Stirling, whose home was in Winchester, sat enthralled and watched everything.

In his mind he was composing another long letter to his mother.

My dearest Mother… This evening we are standing towards the French coast. I am dining with Rear-Admiral Bolitho.

He gave a secret smile. She might not believe it. He was not sure that he did either.

He tried again.

He is such a fine man, and I nearly cried when the people lined the ship to give their huzzas when he left for Odin.

He realized that Bolitho was watching him down the length of the table.

Bolitho asked, “Are you ready, Mr Stirling?”

The midshipman swallowed hard and lifted his goblet which suddenly seemed too heavy to hold.

Bolitho glanced at the others, their faces flushed and cheerful. Wars were not made by young men, he thought, but they had to fight them. It seemed right that Stirling should give the final toast. And it would be just that for some of these same young men.

Stirling tried not to lick his lips as every eye turned in his direction. Then he recalled what Allday had told him about Bolitho. He’s just a man.

“Gentlemen, the toast is Victory! Death to the French!”

The rest was lost in a roar of approval, as if the ship herself was eager to fight.