A Tradition of Victory

6. Ready For Sea

THOMAS HERRICK, acting-commodore, sat with his elbows on the polished table in Benbow’s great cabin and ran his eyes once more over his painstakingly worded report.

He should have been proud of what he had achieved, when even the most optimistic shipwrights and carpenters had prophesied that his ship would be another month at least undergoing repairs. Tomorrow was the first day of August, far ahead of anything he had dared to hope.

Those words he had waited impatiently to write in his report to their lordships-Being in all respects ready for sea, etc, etc -were right there, waiting for his signature, and yet he could summon little jubilation or enthusiasm.

It was not the news, but the lack of it. He suspected it had all started when the shot-torn frigate Unrivalled, one of Bolitho’s new squadron in the Bay, had anchored in Plymouth, her pumps clanking to keep her afloat until help arrived. Even then it should not have upset Herrick more than any other such wartime event. He had seen too many ships go, too many dead and wounded being landed as were the Unrivalled’s casualties, to display his inner and private emotions.

But ever since Bolitho had shifted his flag to Styx, and had sailed away on what Herrick had considered to be a very doubtful mission, he had been troubled.

Phalarope’s name in the signal book, and the bald announcement that she was being appointed to Bolitho’s command, had done little to ease his apprehension. Dulcie, who was ever near and staying at the Golden Lion Inn in Plymouth, had done everything to comfort him. Herrick’s mouth softened at the thought. It made him feel almost guilty to be so lucky. But Dulcie did not understand the ways of the sea or the Navy. If he had any say in it, nor would she, Herrick had firmly decided.

He heard footsteps in the adjoining cabin. Ozzard, Bolitho’s servant, like a lost soul since his master had gone without him. There were several like him in Benbow’s fat hull. Yovell, Bolitho’s clerk, who had written this report in his round hand. Round, like the man and his Devonshire accent.

The deck moved very slightly, and Herrick stood up to walk to the open stern windows. There were fewer ships being repaired now, and less din of hammers and creaking tackles aboard the masting-craft.

He could see Keen’s seventy-four, Nicator, swinging to her cable, her awnings and windsails spread to make life between decks as easy as possible in this sultry heat. And Indomitable, their other two-decker, whose new captain, Henry Veriker, had already made something of a reputation for himself in the small squadron. He was almost deaf, an injury inflicted at the Nile, common enough after hours of continuous firing. But his deafness came and went, so that you were never sure what he had heard or misinterpreted. It must be difficult for his lieutenants, Herrick thought. It had been bad enough on the one night they had dined together.

He leaned over the sill and saw the new frigate, the one he had seen shortly after her launching when he had rejoined his own ship. Lower in the water, a black muzzle at each open port, and all three masts and standing rigging set up. Not long now, my beauty. Who was her lucky captain to be, he wondered?

Seeing the new frigate reminded him yet again of Adam Pascoe. Young devil to take the appointment without a thought of what it could mean. Phalarope. Bolitho had made that ship, given her life. But Herrick still remembered her as she had been when he had stepped aboard as her junior lieutenant. Bitter and desperate, with a captain who had looked upon any sort of humanity as a sin.

He heard the sentry’s muffled voice and turned to see the first lieutenant striding beneath the deckhead beams, bent right over to save his ginger head from a collision.

“Yes, Mr Wolfe?”

Wolfe’s deepset eyes flitted briefly to the written report and back to his captain. He had worked harder than most, but had still found time to knock some sense into his youthful and barely trained lieutenants.

“Message from the officer of the guard, sir. You can expect the port admiral in half an hour.” He bared his uneven teeth. “I’ve already passed the word, sir. Full side party an’ guard of honour.”

Herrick considered the news. The port admiral, a rare visitor. But what he had seen he had liked. A portly, comfortable man, now better used to the ways of dockyards and chandlers than to a fleet at sea.

He replied, “Very well. I don’t think there’s anything to fear. We’ve even beaten Captain Keen’s Nicator to a state of readiness, eh?”

“Orders, d’you think, sir?”

Herrick felt uneasy at the prospect. He had not even had time to select himself a flag-captain for, no matter how temporarily his broad-pendant might fly above Benbow, select one he must. Maybe it was too final, he thought. Severing the last link with his rearadmiral and true friend when he still knew nothing of what was happening.

More feet clattered, and after the marine’s announcement from the outer lobby, the fifth lieutenant stepped smartly inside, his cocked hat jammed beneath one arm.

Wolfe scowled at him and the youth flinched. Actually, the first lieutenant was quite pleased with the young officer, but it was far too early to show it. Wait until we get to sea, he usually said.

“A-a letter, sir. From the Falmouth coach.”

Herrick almost snatched it from him. “Good. Carry on, Mr Nash.”

As the lieutenant fled, and Wolfe settled himself in another chair, Herrick slit open the envelope. He knew the handwriting, and although he had been hoping for a letter, he had been dreading what she might say.

Wolfe watched him curiously. He knew most of it, and had guessed the rest. But he had come to accept the captain’s strange attachment for Richard Bolitho, even if he did not fully understand it. To Wolfe, a friend at sea was like a ship. You gave to each other, but once parted it was best to forget and never go back.

Herrick put down the letter carefully, imagining her chestnut hair falling over her forehead as she had written it.

He said abruptly, “Mrs Belinda Laidlaw is coming to Plymouth. My wife will take good care of her during her visit.”

Wolfe was vaguely disappointed. “Is that all, sir?”

Herrick stared at him. It was true. She had sent her warmest greetings to him and to Dulcie, but there it had ended. But it was a step in the right direction. Once here, amidst Bolitho’s world, she would feel free to speak, to ask his advice if she ever needed it.

Voices echoed alongside and Wolfe snatched up his hat and exploded, “The admiral! We forgot all about him!”

Breathing heavily, and grasping their swords to their sides to avoid being tripped, the stocky captain and his lanky first lieutenant ran for the quarterdeck.

Admiral Sir Cornelius Hoskyn, Knight of the Bath, hauled himself up to and through the entry port, and in spite of his portliness was not even breathless as he doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and waited patiently for the marine fifers to complete a rendering of Heart of Oak for his benefit.

He had a warm, fruity voice and a complexion as pink as a petticoat, Herrick thought. A man who always had time to listen to any visiting captain and do his best for him.

The admiral glanced up at the flapping broad-pendant and remarked, “I was glad to hear about that.” He nodded to the assembled lieutenants and added, “Your ship does you credit. Ready to sail soon, what?”

Herrick was about to say that his readiness report only needed his signature but the admiral had already moved on towards the shade of the poop.

Behind him trooped his flag-lieutenant, secretary, and two servants with what appeared to be a case of wine.

In the great cabin the admiral arranged himself carefully in a chair, while his staff busied themselves, with Herrick’s servant’s guidance, laying out goblets and wine cooler.

“This the report?” The admiral dragged a minute pair of spectacles from his heavy dress coat and peered at it. “Sign it now, if you please.” In the same breath he added, “Good, I hope that glass is cool, man!” as he took some wine from one of his minions.

Herrick sat down as the lieutenant and secretary retreated from the cabin, the latter clutching Herrick’s sealed report like a talisman.

“Now.” Sir Cornelius Hoskyn regarded Herrick searchingly over the top of his spectacles. “You will receive your orders, possibly tonight. When I leave I shall expect you to call your other captains to conference, prepare them for sailing without further dalliance. Short-handed or not, leaking, I don’t care, it is their problem. Some say peace will soon be upon us, pray God it is so, but until I am convinced otherwise, the state of war still exists.” He had not even raised his voice, and yet his words seemed to echo around the sunlit cabin like pistol shots.

“But with all respect, Sir Cornelius,” Herrick was out of his depth but persisted “my ships are still under the command of Rear-Admiral Bolitho, and you will of course be aware that-”

The admiral eyed him gravely and then deliberately refilled their goblets.

“I have the greatest respect for you, Herrick, for that reason I came to do a task I hate more than any other.” His tone softened. “Please, drink some more wine. It is from my own cellar.”

Herrick swallowed the wine without noticing it. It could have been pump water.

“Sir?”

“I have just received news by special courier. I must tell you that ten days ago, whilst apparently attempting to destroy enemy shipping south of the Loire Estuary, His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Styx was wrecked and became a total loss. It happened quickly and in a rising wind.” He paused, watching Herrick’s face. “And due to the arrival of several enemy vessels, including a ship of the line, the attack was discontinued.”

Herrick asked quietly, “Our other vessels withdrew, sir?”

“There was only one of any consequence, and her captain, as senior officer present, made the decision. I am terribly sorry to have to tell you. I have heard what your particular friendship meant.”

Herrick rose as if he had been struck. “Meant? You mean…”

“There could not have been many survivors, but of course we can always hope.”

Herrick clenched his fists and strode blindly to the stern windows.

“He often said it would be like that.” He asked harshly, “Who was the other captain, sir?” In his heart he already knew.

“Emes of the Phalarope.”

Herrick could not face him. Poor Adam must have seen it happen, while that bloody coward Emes took to his heels.

Another thought made him exclaim, “My God, sir, she’s coming here from Falmouth!” The words tumbled out of him. “The girl he was to marry! What shall I tell her?”

The admiral rose to his feet. “I think it best that you go about your duties and try to lose yourself in them. It has been common enough in this everlasting war. But you never get used to it, nor will I try to console you, when I know there is no consolation. If I hear more I shall let you know as soon as possible.”

Herrick followed him to the broad quarterdeck, only partly aware of what was happening.

When his mind eventually cleared, the admiral’s barge had left the side, and Wolfe faced him to ask permission to dismiss the guard and side party.

“Will you tell me, sir?” His hard, flat voice was somehow steadying.

“Richard Bolitho, the Styx, all gone.”

Wolfe swung round, shielding him from the others.

“Right then, you laggards! Move your lazy carcasses or I’ll have the bosun use his rattan on your rumps!”

Herrick returned to the cabin and slumped down in a chair. The ship, his broad-pendant, even his new-found happiness meant nothing.

Wolfe reappeared at the screen door. “Orders, sir?”

“Aye, there are always those, Mr Wolfe. Make a signal to Nicator and Indomitable. Captains repair on board.” He shook his head helplessly. “It can wait. Sit you down and have some of the admiral’s wine. He says it is very good.”

Wolfe replied, “Later I’ll be glad to. But I have certain duties to deal with. I’ll make that signal at eight bells, sir. Time enough then.”

Outside the cabin Wolfe almost fell over the tiny shape of Ozzard. God, the man had been weeping. Everyone must know already. Always the same in the Navy. No damn secrets.

Wolfe paused in the sunlight and took several deep breaths. He had no special duties, but it was more than he could do to sit and watch Herrick’s anguish. The fact he could do nothing for a man he had come to respect so much troubled him deeply, and he could not recall ever feeling so useless.

In the cabin Herrick poured himself another goblet of wine, then another. It did not help, but it was something to do.

His hand paused in mid air as his glance settled on the sword rack and the presentation sword which Bolitho had left behind when he had gone over to Styx.

It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. But not much to show for the man who had earned it a hundred times over.

Herrick climbed out of the Benbow’s green-painted barge and waited for his coxswain to join him on the jetty.

He was later, much later, than he had intended in getting ashore. There was a dusky red glow over the Sound and anchorage, and the ships looked at peace on the flat water.

Herrick had sent a message to his wife, telling her as much as he could. She was a sensible woman and rarely lost her selfcontrol. But Herrick had meant to be with her when the Falmouth coach rolled in.

“Return to the ship, Tuck. I’ll get a wherry when I return. Mr Wolfe knows where I am.”

The coxswain touched his hat. He knew all about it but was thinking more of Allday than Bolitho. As coxswains they had come to know each other well, and got along together.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“And if there is any rumour through the lower deck…”

Tuck nodded. “Aye, sir, I know. I’ll be across ’ere so fast the keel won’t touch the water.”

Herrick strode along the jetty, his shoes clicking on the round, worn cobbles which had felt the tread of a legion of seafaring men as far back as Drake, and further still.

Herrick paused, unnerved, as he saw the Golden Lion, its windows glowing red in the sunset, as if the whole building were ablaze. In the yard a coach stood empty, abandoned by its team of horses, a servant or two loading boxes on its roof for the next leg to Exeter.

It was bad enough as it was, but for the coach to be on time, even early on this particular evening, made it worse.

He saw a one-legged man, balanced on a crude crutch, playing a tin whistle to the amusement of some urchins and a few passers-by. His shabby red coat showed he had once been a marine, the darker patch on one sleeve where the chevrons had once been sewn told Herrick he had also been a sergeant.

Herrick fumbled for some coins in his pocket and thrust them at the crippled figure. He was ashamed and embarrassed, angry too that such a man could end like this. If peace did eventually come, there would be many more red coats begging in the streets.

But the man did not seem at all perturbed. He gave a broad grin and touched his forehead with mock smartness.

“Sar’nt Tolcher, sir. This is the life, eh, Cap’n?”

Herrick nodded sadly. “What ship, Sergeant?”

“Last one, sir? The old Culloden, Cap’n Troubridge, a real gennelman ’e was, for a sea-officer, that’s to say.”

Herrick needed to go, but something held him. This unknown marine had been at the Nile when he and Bolitho had been there. Another ship, but there.

“Good luck to you.” Herrick hurried away towards the entrance.

The marine pocketed the money, aware that his small audience had gone. But the stocky captain with the bright blue eyes had made up for a lot.

Down to the Volunteer now for a few pots of ale with the lads.

His crutch scraping over the cobbles, the crippled marine, one-time sergeant in the Culloden, was soon lost from sight.

Both women were facing the door as Herrick entered their room, as if they had been there for hours.

He said, “I am sorry, Dulcie, I was detained. Fresh orders.”

He did not see the sudden anxiety in his wife’s eyes for he was looking at the girl who was standing by an unlit fire.

God, she is beautiful. She was dressed in a dark green gown, her chestnut hair tied back to the nape of her neck by a matching ribbon. She looked pale, her brown eyes filling her face as she asked, “Any news, Thomas?”

Herrick was moved both by her control and the easy use of his name.

He replied, “Not yet.” He walked to a small table, picked up a glass and put it down again. “But news travels slowly, good news that is.”

He walked across to her and took her hands in his. Against his hard seaman’s hands they felt soft and gentle. Helpless.

She said quietly, “Dulcie told me what you wrote in your note. And I heard something about the loss of the ship from some officers downstairs. Is there any hope?”

Her eyes lifted to his. They made her outward calm a lie. Her eyes were pleading with him.

Herrick said, “We know very little at present. It’s a foul bit of coast there, and as far as I can discover, Styx foundered after hitting something, possibly a wreck, and went down immediately.”

Herrick had gone over it a hundred times, even while he had been explaining his orders to the other captains. He knew well enough what it would have been like. Herrick had lost a command of his own. He could hear the din of falling spars, the screams, the pandemonium of a well-ordered ship falling apart. Men swimming and dying. Some going bravely, others cursing their mothers’ names until the sea silenced them.

“But your Richard was in good company. Allday would be at his side, and young Neale was a first-rate captain.”

She looked quickly at the other woman. “Who will tell his nephew?”

Herrick released her hands very gently. “No need for that. He was there. Aboard the ship which-” He caught the words in time. “In Phalarope. She was in company at the time.”

Dulcie Herrick touched her breast. “Bless the boy.”

“Aye. He’ll take it badly.”

Belinda Laidlaw sat down for the first time since she had left the coach.

“Captain Herrick.” She tried to smile. “Thomas, for you are his friend, and now mine too, I hope. What do you think happened?”

Herrick felt his wife place a glass in his hand and eyed her warmly.

Then he said, “Richard has always been a frigate captain at heart. He would want to go for the enemy, waste no time. But as the rear-admiral in total command he had other responsibilities this day. To execute Admiral Beauchamp’s plan to help rid England of a mounting threat of invasion. It was his task, his duty.” He looked at her imploringly. “God, ma’am, if you knew how he cared, what it cost him to put to sea without seeing you, without explaining. The last time I saw him he was fretting about it, the unfairness to you.” He added firmly, “But if you know Richard, really know him, you will understand that to him honour and love are as one.”

She nodded, her lips moist. “That I do know. I will have it no other way. We met only last year, merely months ago, of which time I have been with him just a few days. How I envy you, Thomas, sharing things with him, looking back on memories I shall never know.” She shook her head, her hair tossing over one shoulder. “I will never give him up, Thomas. Not now.”

Tears ran unheeded down her cheeks, but when Herrick and his wife moved towards her she said, “No. I am all right! I do not intend to lose myself in self-pity now that Richard needs me.”

Herrick stared at her. “That warms me deeply, ma’am. But do not destroy yourself for hoping too much, promise me.”

“Too much?” She walked to the open windows and stepped out on to the balcony, her slim figure framed against the sea and sky. “Impossible. He is what I live for. There is nothing more I care about, dear friend.”

Herrick felt his wife’s hand in his and squeezed it gently. Belinda was like a ship caught aback by a fierce squall. Only time would tell.

He looked at his wife as she whispered, “You spoke of orders, Thomas?”

“Forgive me, dearest. With all this on my mind…” He looked at the window as the girl re-entered the room. “I have been ordered to sail with a merchant convoy to Gibraltar. Several valuable cargoes, I understand, and a rich prize at any time.”

He recalled his dismay and fury at being sent on a convoy when he needed to be here. Admiral Hoskyn had spoken of his respect for him. But if he refused to accept this first duty as acting-commodore, not respect, love, even a knighthood would save him. The Navy had a long, long memory.

He added, “It will be a safe if wearisome task, and I shall be back in Plymouth before you know it.” It was only half a lie, and came easier than he had expected.

Belinda touched his sleeve. “Will the ships come here?”

“Aye. Two from Bristol and the others from the Downs.”

She nodded her head, her eyes very bright. “I shall take passage in one of them. I have some friends in Gibraltar. With friends and money I might be able to discover some news of Richard.”

Herrick opened his mouth to protest but shut it as he saw Dulcie give a brief shake of the head. It was true that more information had been gleaned from Spain and Portugal about dead or missing officers than through accepted sources, but her sincerity, her incredible belief that Richard Bolitho was alive and safe would leave her vulnerable, and a long way from help if the worst happened.

“One is an Indiaman, the Duchess of Cornwall. I believe you had some contact with John Company in India. I am certain they will make you as comfortable as they can. I will send her master a letter.” He forced a grin. “Being a commodore must have some uses!”

She smiled gravely. “Thank you. You are good to me. I only wish I could sail with you instead.”

Herrick flushed. “Lord, ma’am, with all the roughknots and gallows’-bait I have to carry as my company, I’d not rest easy in my cot!”

She tossed her hair from her shoulder. No wonder Bolitho was completely captivated, Herrick thought.

She said, “At least I shall see your ship every day, Thomas. I will not feel so alone.”

Dulcie took her hand in hers. “You will never be that, my dear.”

Herrick heard a clock chime and cursed it silently.

“I have to leave.” He looked at the girl in the green gown. “You will have to get used to this too.” He was deceiving her. Or was he gaining some of her courage, her belief?

Outside in the cooler evening air everything looked much as before. Herrick glanced at the street corner, half hoping to see the one-legged marine there.

At the jetty he saw the barge riding motionless in shadow, then the oars swinging into life as she headed towards him.

Herrick gripped his sword tightly and wished his eyes would stop stinging. Tuck would no more let him take a waterman’s boat than spit on the flag.

Between them, Tuck and the beautiful girl with the chestnut hair had given him a new strength, although deep inside him he knew he would probably pay dearly for it. But that was tomorrow. This was now.

He tapped his scabbard on the worn cobbles and said half to himself, “Hold on, Richard! We’re not done yet!”

“You wish to see me, sir?” Lieutenant Adam Pascoe stood in the centre of the cabin, his eyes on a point above the captain’s right epaulette.

Emes sat back in his chair, his fingertips pressed together.

“I do.”

Beyond the screen and the darkened stern windows it was quiet but for the muffled sounds of sea and wind, the regular creak of timbers.

Emes said, “It is five days since Styx foundered. Tomorrow it will be six. I do not intend to go through another hour, let alone a day, with you saying nothing but the briefest words demanded of your duties. You are my first lieutenant, an honoured appointment for one so young. But perhaps you are too young after all?”

Pascoe looked at him squarely. “I can’t understand! How could you do it? How could you leave them to die like that?”

“Keep your voice down, Mr Pascoe, and address me as sir at all times.”

Tap… tap… tap… his fingers touched each other very gently and exactly.

“The attack on those French vessels was pointless, once the presence of larger men-of-war was realized. This is a very old frigate, Mr Pascoe, not a liner!”

Pascoe dropped his gaze, his hands shaking so that he had to press them against his thighs to control himself. He had thought about it, dreamt about it, and never lost it since that terrible moment. If his uncle had died, it would not be death he would have feared. But the sight of the Phalarope, the ship he had once loved, going about to leave him and his men to drown or to perish from their wounds, would have been the worst part for him.

Emes was saying in his usual controlled tones, “If your uncle had not been aboard Styx, you might have felt differently. You are too involved, too close to accept the facts. Styx had no chance. My first responsibility was to this ship, and as senior officer to take control of the remainder of our strength. A brave but pointless gesture would get no thanks from the Admiralty, nor from the widows you would create if you had your way. I am satisfied with your duties up to a point. But if I have cause to admonish you again, I will see you stand before a court martial, do you understand?”

Pascoe blurted out hotly, “Do you think I care about-”

“Then you should!” Both hands came down on the table with a bang. “From what I have heard, your uncle’s family has a proud name, am I right?”

Pascoe nodded jerkily. “He has done everything for me. Everything.”

“Quite so.” Emes relaxed very slowly. “You are of that family, the same blood.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then remember this. You may be the last of the Bolitho family.” He held up one hand as Pascoe made to protest. “You may be. Just as I am the last in mine. When you return home, others will be looking to you. There is more at stake now than your despair. Hate me if you will, but do your duty well-that is all I ask, no, demand!”

“May I go, sir?”

Emes looked down at his hands and waited for the door to close behind the young lieutenant with the unruly black hair. Then he touched his forehead and looked at his palm. It was wet with sweat, and he felt dirty and sick.

It was not over, and he knew that it would take more than time to heal it. Pascoe would not let it lie there, and in his despair might destroy everything.

Emes picked up his pen and stared emptily at his log book. He had been right, he knew he had been right, and he must make the others recognize the fact.

Would the nightmare never end? The accusations and the contempt he had been shown by those who had never heard a shot fired or known the agony of a captain’s worst decision.

Those same unknown inquisitors would condemn him outright. To be given a chance, and then allow his admiral to be lost without some personal sacrifice could have no defence in their eyes.

He glanced round the cabin, remembering Bolitho here, how he must have felt aboard his old command after all this time. If he needed further reminder of that meeting he only had to look at his first lieutenant, it was stark and clear in his eyes.

In his neat hand he began to write. Today’s patrol passed without further incident…