A Tradition of Victory

15. An Impudent Gesture

“CAP’N’S comin’ up, sir.”

Pascoe lowered his telescope and nodded to the master’s mate.

“Thank you.”

He had been watching the Odin going through her sail and gun drills, the ports opening and closing as if controlled by a giant’s touch, sails filling and then reefing with equal precision.

He heard Emes’s step on the damp planking and turned towards him. He never knew what sort of mood might lie behind Emes’s impassive features, what he might really be thinking and planning in the privacy of his cabin.

Pascoe touched his hat. “Sou’-east by south, sir. Wind’s veered a trifle, north by east.”

Emes strode to the quarterdeck rail and gripped it hard as he stared first along his command, the comings and goings of the watch, and the boatswain’s party who were as usual splicing and repairing. An endless task. Then he shifted his gaze to Odin as she rode comfortably some four cables to starboard.

“Hmm. Visibility’s poor.” Emes’s lower lip jutted forward. It was the only sign he ever gave that he was worried about something. “It’ll be an early dusk, I shouldn’t wonder.” He tugged a watch from his breeches and flicked open the guard. “Your uncle appears to be giving Captain Inch some extra drill.” He smiled, but only briefly. “Flagship indeed.”

Emes walked aft to the compass and peered at it, then at the slate which hung nearby.

Pascoe watched the helmsmen and master’s mate of the watch, the way they tensed when Emes was near, as if they expected him to abuse them.

Pascoe could not understand it. They were actually afraid of the captain. And yet Emes had done little or nothing to warrant such fear. He was unbending over matters of discipline, but never awarded excessive punishment like some captains. He was often impatient with subordinates, but rarely used his rank to insult them in front of their men. What was it about him, Pascoe wondered? A cold, withdrawn man who had not backed down to his rear-admiral even under the cloud of a possible court martial.

Emes walked across the deck and stared at the sea and damp mist. It was more like drizzle, which made the shrouds and canvas drip and shine in the strange light.

“Has Mr Kincade inspected all the carronades today, Mr Pascoe?”

Kincade was Phalarope’s gunner, a sour, taciturn man who appeared to love his ugly charges more than mankind itself.

“Aye, sir. They’ll give a good account of themselves.”

“Really.” Emes eyed him bleakly. “Eager for it, are you?”

Pascoe flushed. “It’s better than waiting, sir.”

The midshipman-of-the-watch called hesitantly, “Rapid ’s in sight to wind’rd, sir.”

Emes snapped, “I’m going to my quarters. Call me before you shorten sail, and keep good station on the Flag.” He strode to the companion-way without even a glance at Rapid ’s murky silhouette.

Pascoe relaxed. Was that too part of an act, he wondered? To walk away without seemingly caring about Rapid as she headed towards the enemy shore. Like the way he deliberately refused to exercise the carronade crews, even though the flagship had been drilling for most of the day.

The sailing-master, a gaunt, mournful-faced man who had obviously been keeping out of Emes’s way, climbed on to the quarterdeck and glanced at the traverse board.

Pascoe said, “What of the weather, Mr Bellis?”

Bellis grimaced. “It’ll get worse, sir. Can feel it in me bones.” He cocked his head. “Listen to that lot!”

Pascoe thrust his hands behind him and gripped them together. He had heard the pumps going. They went during each watch now. Perhaps they were right about the old ship. The Bay was certainly playing hell with her seams.

The master warmed to his theme. “Too long in port, sir, that’s what. Should’ve left her be. I’ll lay odds she’s as ripe as a pear round the keel, no matter what the dockyard said!”

Pascoe turned away. “Thank you for your confidence, Mr Bellis.”

The master grinned. “My pleasure, sir.”

Pascoe raised his telescope and stared at the little brig. Almost lost now in another flurry of grey, wet mist.

He had read the fighting instructions, and pictured Browne now as he prepared himself for what lay ahead. Pascoe shivered. Tonight.

He wished more than anything he was going with him. Even the thought made him angry. He was getting disloyal like Bellis and some of the other old hands.

Phalarope had been a fine ship. He clutched the hammock nettings as the deck tilted steeply to the wind. His uncle had once stood just here. A chill seemed to touch his spine, as if he were standing naked in the wet breeze.

He must have stood and watched the other frigate, Andiron, approaching, her British colours hiding her new identity of a privateer.

Commanded by my father.

Pascoe looked along the gun-deck and nodded slowly. Herrick, Allday and poor Neale had walked that deck, even Bolitho’s steward Ferguson, who had lost an arm up there on the forecastle.

I’ve come to you now. Pascoe smiled self-consciously. But he felt better for it.

Lieutenant Browne had been hanging on to the jolly-boat’s gunwale for so long his hand felt numb and useless. Ever since they had thrust away from the brig’s protective side he had been beset by a procession of doubts and heart-stopping moments of sheer terror.

The heavily muffled oars had continued in their unbroken stroke, while a master’s mate had crouched beside the coxswain, a lighted compass hidden beneath a tarpaulin screen.

Lieutenant Searle said, “According to my calculations we should be close now. But as far as I can tell we might be in China!”

Browne peered from bow to bow, his eyes raw with salt spray. He felt the boat sidle and veer away on a sudden current, and heard the master’s mate mutter new instructions to the coxswain.

Had to be soon. Must be. He saw a wedge of black rock rise up to starboard and slide away again, betrayed only by the uneasy surf.

He peered at the sky. Black as a highwayman’s boot.

Searle stiffened at his side, and for one terrible moment Browne thought he had seen a French guard-boat.

Searle exclaimed, “Look! Larboard bow!” He clapped his arm excitedly. “Well done, Oliver!”

Browne tried to swallow but the roof of his mouth was like leather. He peered harder into the darkness until he thought his eyes would burst from their sockets.

It was there. A crescent of beach, a long frothing necklace of surf.

He tried to stay calm and unmoved. He could still be wrong. The rock he had remembered so vividly might look quite different from this bearing.

“Easy, all! Boat yer oars!”

The boat surged forward and ground on to the beach with an indescribable clatter and roar. Browne almost fell as seamen leapt into the shallows to steady the hull, while Searle watched their small party of six men until they were all clear and wading ashore.

Searle rasped, “See to the powder, man! Nicholl, scout ahead, lively!”

There were a few quick whispers. “Good luck, sir.” Another unknown voice called, “I’ll keep a wet for you, Harry!” Then the boat had gone, oars backing furiously as freed of her load she turned eagerly towards the open water.

Browne stood quite still and listened to the wind, the gurgle of water among rocks and across the tight sand.

Searle strode back to him, his hanger already drawn.

“Ready, Oliver?” His teeth shone white in the darkness. “You know the way.”

Then Browne saw the rock standing above him. Like a squatting camel. As he remembered it from when he had stood there with Bolitho.

Searle had selected his men himself. Apart from two competent gunner’s mates, there were four of the toughest, most villainous looking hands Browne had ever laid eyes on. Searle had described them as fugitives from more than one gibbet. Browne could well believe it.

They paused by a waving clump of salt-encrusted grass and Browne said quietly, “The path begins here.”

He was surprised he was so calm now that the moment had arrived. He had been half afraid that his resolve might vanish once he had left the ship and the familiar faces and routine.

I am all right.

Searle whispered, “Moubray, get up there and stay with Nicholl, Garner take rear-guard.”

The remaining seaman and the two gunner’s mates lurched up the path, their bodies loaded with powder and weapons like so many pit ponies.

The path was steeper than Browne remembered, and at the top they all laid down in the wet grass to regain their breath and find their bearings.

Browne said softly, “See that pale thing? That’s the prison wall. If there are no new prisoners there, the guard will be pretty slack. Our target is to the right. Hundred paces and then round a low hill.”

The gunner’s mate named Jones hissed, “Wot’s that, then?”

They all lay prone and Browne said, “Horses. A night picket of the dragoons I told you about. They’ll keep to the road.”

Mercifully, the slow, drumming hoofbeats were soon lost to the other night noises.

Searle rose to his feet. “Advance.” He pointed with his hanger. “Don’t stumble, and the first man to loose off a weapon gets my blade on his neck!”

Browne found he was able to smile. Searle was only twenty, but he had the sturdy assurance of an old campaigner.

It took longer than expected, and Browne had the feeling they had wandered too far to the right.

He felt a great sense of relief when Nicholl, the seaman who was scouting ahead, called in a fierce whisper, “There ’tis, sir! Dead ahead!”

They all dropped flat while Browne and Searle examined the faint outline of the church.

“The door’s on the far side, facing the road.”

Browne made himself think about the next minutes. They might be all there were left for him. What had he expected? It was necessary, but for him and the others it was almost certain death. He smiled to himself. At least his father might see some good in him after this.

He looked from side to side. “Ready?”

They all nodded, and some bared their teeth like hounds on a leash.

Then, keeping close against the wall of the church, they edged their way around it towards the opposite side. It was if everyone else had died or been stricken by some terrible plague. Only the grass shivered in the sea-breeze, and the squeak of their shoes made the only other sound.

One man gasped aloud as a bird shot from cover almost between his feet and vanished croaking into the darkness.

Searle exclaimed hoarsely, “Bloody hell!”

“Still!” Browne pressed his back against the rough stones and waited for a challenge or a shot.

Then he moved deliberately away from the wall and peered up at the square Norman tower which he could just determine against the sky. There was a faint glow from a narrow, slitted window. He tried to control his racing thoughts and remember what he had learned about semaphore stations. In England they were usually manned by an officer, one other of warrant rank, and two or three seamen. With the prison so close, it was likely some of them lodged there during the night. If so…

Browne joined Searle and whispered, “Test the door.”

Jones, the gunner’s mate, grasped the heavy ring which formed the handle and turned it carefully. It squeaked but did not budge.

“Locked, sir.”

Searle beckoned to another of his men. “Moubray, ready with the grapnel!”

Browne held his breath as the grapnel flew through the air and bounced off the wall to fall back amongst them.

But the second time it held firm, and Browne saw the next man swarm up the line and disappear, as if the old church had swallowed him alive.

Searle said between his teeth, “Good man. Used to be a felon in Lime House ’til the press picked him up.”

The door handle squeaked again and this time it swung inwards to reveal the small seaman standing there with a grin splitting his face.

“Come inside! Bit warmer ’ere!”

“Hold your noise, damn you!” Searle peered into the shadows.

“S’all right, sir. No bother.” The seaman opened the shutter of a lantern and held it across some spiralling stone stairs. A body in uniform lay spreadeagled where he had fallen, his eyes like pebbles in the light.

Browne swallowed hard. The man’s throat had been cut and there was blood everywhere.

The seaman said calmly, “Only one ’ere, sir, ’e was. Easy as robbin’ a blind baby, sir.”

Searle sheathed his hanger. “You would know, Cooper.”

He walked to the stairs. “Harding and Jones, prepare your fuses.” He looked at Browne and smiled tightly. “Let us go and secure our prize, eh?”

Bolitho awoke with a start, his fingers gripping the arms of one of Inch’s comfortable bergeres in which he had been dozing on and off since nightfall.

He could tell immediately that the ship’s movements were more lively and forceful, and he heard the sluice of water beneath the counter as Odin heeled over to the wind.

Apart from a solitary shuttered lantern, the stern cabin was in darkness, so that through the heavily streaked window the waves looked angry and near.

The companion-way door opened and Bolitio saw Allday’s shadow against the screen.

“What’s happening?” So he had been unable to sleep too.

“Wind’s veered, sir.”

“More than before?”

“Aye. Nor’-east, or as makes no difference.” He sounded glum.

Bolitho grappled with the news. He had anticipated that the wind might shift. But as far round as the north-east was unthinkable. With only a few hours of darkness left to hide their stealthy approach, they would be slowed down to a mere crawl. It might mean an attack in broad daylight, with every enemy ship for miles around roused and ready to hit back.

“Fetch my clothes.” Bolitho stood up and felt the deck sway over as if to mock him and his plans.

Allday said, “I’ve already told Ozzard. I heard you tossing and turning, sir. That chair’s no place for a good sleep.”

Bolitho waited for Allday to open the lantern shutters very slightly. The whole ship was in darkness, the galley fire doused. It would put the final touch of disaster if the rear-admiral allowed lights to show from the cabin.

He smelt coffee and saw Ozzard’s small shape moving towards him.

Ozzard murmured, “Took the liberty of making this before they put out the fires, sir. Kept it wrapped in a blanket.”

Bolitho sipped the coffee gratefully, his mind still busy with alternatives. There could be no turning back, even if he wanted to. Browne would be there by now, or lying dead with his party of volunteers.

He knew he would not break off the attack whatever happened, even though his open-worded instructions to use his discretion left him room to man?uvre up to the last minute. Perhaps his move to Odin had just been an excuse after all. To protect Herrick, but also to prevent his arguments from changing his mind.

Bolitho slipped his arms into his coat and strode to the door. He could not wait a moment longer.

On deck the air was alive with the chorus of canvas and clattering blocks. Figures loomed and faded in the shadows, while around the double wheel, like survivors on a tiny reef, the master and his mates, helmsmen and midshipman-of-the-watch stood in a tight, shapeless group.

Inch’s lanky figure bustled to meet him.

“Good morning, sir.” Inch was no actor and could not conceal his surprise. “Is something wrong?”

Bolitho took his arm and together they moved to the rail. He said, “It’s the wind.”

Inch stared at him. “The master thinks it will veer still more, sir.

“I see.” Thinks. Old Ben Grubb would have known, as if God were on his side.

Streamers of spindrift twisted through the drumming shrouds, and almost lost abeam, but still on station, Bolitho saw Phalarope. A ghost ship indeed.

Bolitho bit his lip, then said shortly, “Chartroom.” Followed by Inch and the sailing-master, Bolitho strode into the shuttered space beneath the poop and stared hard at the chart. He could almost feel Inch waiting for a decision, just as he could sense the urgency. Like sand running through a glass. Nothing to slow or stop it.

He said, “We’ll not delay any longer. Call all hands and clear for action right away.” He waited for Inch to relay his order to a boatswain’s mate outside the chartroom door. “You estimate that we are some ten miles to the south-west of the headland?”

He saw the sailing-master nod soundlessly and got a brief impression of an anxious but competent face. He suddenly remembered. The man had been the senior master’s mate at Copenhagen when the old master had been cut down. New and, until now, untried.

Inch craned forward to watch Bolitho move the brass dividers over the chart.

“The French squadron is anchored off the point, just north of the Loire Estuary.” Bolitho was thinking aloud. “It would take hours for us to beat against the wind along the original course.

We must pass the French squadron before full daylight and head into the bay where the invasion fleet is anchored.” He looked at the master. “Well?”

Inch said encouragingly, “Come along, Mr M’Ewan.”

The master moistened his lips then said firmly, “We can claw inshore now, sir, then come about and steer nor’-west, closehauled, into the bay. Provided the wind don’t back on us, for if that happens we’ll be in irons an’ no mistake, sir.”

Inch opened his mouth as if to protest but closed it when he saw Bolitho nod his head.

“I agree. It will cut the approach by an hour, and with any luck we will slip past the French men-of-war with a mile to spare.” He looked at Inch. “You were going to add something?”

“The wind is not only hard for us, sir.” Inch shrugged helplessly. “The rest of the squadron will be delayed accordingly.”

“I know.”

He heard the muffled pounding of feet, the bang and squeak of screens being removed and obstacles being lowered hastily to the orlop. A ship-of-war. Open from bow to stern, deck above deck, gun above gun, where men lived, hoped, slept and trained. Now was the testing time for them all.

The first lieutenant yelled, “Cleared for action, sir!”

Inch examined his watch and bobbed. “Nine minutes, Mr Graham, that is a good time.”

Bolitho turned away to hide his sudden sadness. Neale had done the same.

He said, “If we delay, we could be destroyed piecemeal. Whether Commodore Herrick arrives in time to support us or not, we must be able to get amongst those invasion craft.” He looked Inch squarely in the eyes. “It is all that matters.”

Surprisingly, Inch beamed. “I know, sir. And Odin is the ship for the task.”

Bolitho smiled. Safe, trusting Inch would never question anything he said.

The chartroom door opened and Midshipman Stirling squeezed inside. Even in the poor lantern light he looked redeyed and weary.

He said, “I-I apologize for being late, sir.”

Bolitho glanced at Inch. “I have forgotten how to sleep that soundly!”

Inch made to leave. “I’ll make the night signal to Phalarope, sir. I hope she’s still there at daybreak!”

Bolitho leaned on the chart and stared at the neat figures and bearings. It was a risk. But then it had never been otherwise.

Even now it could all go against them before they had a chance to stand inshore. A solitary fisherman might be risking the weather and the wrath of French guard-boats to put out and earn his keep. He might just see the shielded flare which was now being shown to Phalarope.

He said, “Damnation on doubt. It kills more good sailors than any round shot!”

Stirling glanced round quickly. Inch and the master had gone. Bolitho was speaking to him.

He asked unsurely, “Could the French prevent our entering the bay, sir?”

Bolitho looked down at him, unaware he had voiced his anxiety aloud.

“They can try, Mr Stirling, they can try.” He clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Come and walk with me. I need to have the feel of this ship.”

Stirling glowed with pride. Even the fact that Bolitho had unwittingly gripped his injured arm did not tarnish the moment.

Allday, a new cutlass jutting from his belt, watched them pass, and found he could smile in spite of his troubled thoughts.

The boy and his hero. And why not? They would need all their heroes this day.

“Wind’s holding steady, sir!”

Bolitho joined Inch at the quarterdeck rail and peered along the ship’s pale outline. Beyond the forecastle, reeling now as the yards were hauled further round until they were almost fore and aft, he could see nothing. He had purposefully stayed on deck so that his eyes would be accustomed to any change in the light, be ready to detect the first join between sea and sky. And the land.

The deck plunged ponderously in the offshore currents, and Bolitho heard the marines on the poop packing the hammocks even more tightly in the nettings for their protection, and to rest their muskets while they sought out their targets.

Figures moved occasionally below the gangways where every gun stood loaded and ready. Others clambered aloft to make last adjustments to chain-slings and nets, to hoist one more sack of canister to the swivels in the tops, or to splice another fraying line.

Bolitho watched and heard it all. What he did not see he could picture in his mind. Like all those other times, the remorseless grip on the stomach like steel fingers, the last-moment fear that he had overlooked something.

The ship was answering well, he thought. Inch had proved to be an excellent captain, and it was hard to believe that Bolitho had once thought it unlikely he would even rise above lieutenant.

Bolitho tried to shut his mind to it. The young lieutenant named Travers, now somewhere on the lower gun-deck, waiting with all the other men for the ports to open on their red-painted hell and the guns to begin to roar. He was hoping to get married. And Inch, who was striding about the quarterdeck, his coat-tails flapping, his cocked hat at a jaunty angle, as he chatted to his first lieutenant and sailing-master. He had a wife named Hannah and two children who lived in Weymouth. What of them if Inch were to fall today? And why should he show such pride and pleasure at being ordered to a battle which could end in total defeat?

And Belinda. He moved restlessly to the nettings, unaware that Stirling was keeping near him like a shadow. He must not think of her now.

He heard a man say quietly, “There’s th’ old Phalarope, Jim. Rather any other bugger than that ’un for company!” He seemed to sense Bolitho’s nearness and fell silent.

Bolitho stared at the ghostlike outline as Phalarope lifted and plunged abeam. Like Odin, she had her sails close-hauled to make a pale pyramid while the hull still lay in darkness.

Two ships and some eight hundred officers, seamen and marines whom he alone would commit to battle.

He looked down at the midshipman. “How would you like to serve in a frigate?”

Stirling puckered his mouth and considered it. “More than anything, sir.”

“You should speak with my nephew, he-” Bolitho broke off as Stirling ’s eyes lit up momentarily like small coals.

Then, what seemed like an eternity later, came the dull boom of an explosion. Like the short-lived glow in the sky, that too was soon lost to the ceaseless murmur of sea and wind.

“What the hell was that?” Inch strode across the deck as if he expected to discover an answer.

Bolitho said quietly, “The charges have been blown, Captain Inch.”

“But, but…” Inch stared at him through the darkness. “They are surely too early?”

Bolitho turned away. Too early or too late, Browne must have had his reasons.

He felt Allday move up beside him and raised an arm to allow him to clip a sword to his belt.

“It’s the best I could do, sir. Bit heavier than you’re used to.” He gestured into the darkness. “Mr Browne?”

“Aye. He said he could do it. I wish to God there had been another way.”

Allday sighed. “He knows what he’s about, sir.” He nodded firmly. “Like the time you an’ he rode off to fight that duel, remember?”

“I remember.”

Midshipman Stirling said, “It looks brighter, sir.”

Bolitho smiled. “So it does.” He turned his back on the midshipman and said softly, “Allday, there is something I must say.” He saw the coxswain recoil as if he already knew. “If, and I say if, I should fall today-”

“Look here, sir.” Allday spread his hands to emphasize each word. “Anything I’ve said or done since we came to this place don’t matter now. We’ll be all right, sir, just like always, you see.

Bolitho said, “But if. You must promise me you’ll never return to the sea. You’ll be needed at Falmouth. To take care of things.” He tried to ease Allday’s despair. “I’d like to have your word on it.”

Allday nodded dumbly.

Bolitho drew the sword from its scabbard and cut through the air above Stirling ’s head.

Several seamen and marines standing nearby nudged each other, and one shouted, “We’ll teach they buggers, sir!”

Bolitho dropped his arm and said, “Now I’m ready, Allday.”

Captain Inch cupped his hands. “Lay her on the starboard tack, Mr Graham!”

“After-guard, man the mizzen braces!”

Bolitho stood amidst and yet apart from the busy activity as Odin laid herself over to the wind again.

Inch said brightly, “No sign of the French, sir!”

Bolitho glanced up at the braced yards and the hard-bellied canvas, already much paler against the sky.

“They’ll be out soon enough.” He saw his flag streaming from the mizzen truck, as yet without colour. “Have another flag ready to bend on, Mr Stirling.” He found he could actually smile at Inch. “When they come, I want Remond to know who he is fighting, so even if it is shot away we’ll hoist another directly!”

Allday watched Bolitho’s face, the way he seemed to rouse the men around him merely with a glance.

He was suddenly afraid for him, for what this impudent gesture might cost.

A pale gold thread touched the rim of the land and Inch exclaimed, “We’ve passed the French squadron, sir!”

Bolitho looked at Allday and smiled. He at least understood.

He said, “Very well, Captain Inch. When you are ready, run out your guns.”