A Tradition of Victory

7. The Secret

SINGLY and in groups, defiant, or dazed to the point of collapse, the survivors from Neale’s command staggered up the shelving beach which in the time it had taken to reach it had been ringed by a cordon of armed soldiers.

Almost the worst part of it was the complete silence. The bewildered sailors lay or squatted on the wet sand and stared not at their captors but at the lively water where their ship had once been. Others walked dejectedly in the shallows, peering at the flotsam, searching for a swimmer amongst the drifting corpses while the gulls hovered eagerly overhead.

Further along the beach a few women were tending to some other survivors. A handful of seamen from one of the invasion craft which Styx had sunk before she too had foundered. They glared at the growing crowd of British sailors, showing a hatred which even the distance and the line of soldiers could not hide.

Bolitho watched the boats pulling off shore, fishermen mostly, hastily commandeered by the local military to search for the living, friend and foe alike.

Neale groaned and tried to get to his feet. “How many?”

Allday replied, “Hundred, maybe more. Can’t be sure.”

Neale fell back and stared dazedly at the blue sky. “Less than half, dear God!”

Browne, who had somehow managed to retain his hat during the pull to the beach, asked, “What happens now? I am somewhat unused to this.”

Bolitho held his head back and allowed the sun to penetrate the ache in his eyes and brain. Prisoners. Somewhere on the enemy coast. Because of his own folly.

He said shortly, “Go amongst the others. Call a muster.”

He saw Styx ’s surgeon on his knees beside a spreadeagled seaman. Thank heaven he had survived. Some of the men looked in a bad way.

The three midshipmen had all lived through it, as had the youthful third lieutenant, although he was barely conscious, and delirious with his shattered arm. Bundy, the master, the boatswain too, and one or two marines, although most of the afterguard had been swept away when the mizzen had crashed amongst them. As Neale had said, less than half. In the twinkling of an eye.

Bolitho shaded his face and stared seaward again. The mist seemed thicker, and there was no sign even of the French menof-war. But the flotillas of invasion craft were assembling into some kind of order and would soon be on their way again. This time they would know they had an escort nearby and also be more vigilant against another surprise attack.

Allday whispered, “Here they come, sir.”

The cordon at the top of the beach had parted, and three French officers with a close escort of soldiers strode purposefully towards the scattered groups of sailors.

He recognized the uniform of the leading officer as that of a captain of artillery. Probably from one of the coastal batteries.

The captain reached the three midshipmen and eyed them coldly.

Bolitho said, “Give them your weapons and the third lieutenant’s sword.”

Allday drove his cutlass savagely into the sand and said vehemently, “I wish this was in his belly!”

Browne unclipped his own sword and stooped down to remove Neale’s from his belt.

For the first time since he had been carried into the boat Neale seemed to show some of his old zest and courage. He struggled to his feet, clawing his hanger from its scabbard, while around him the soldiers raised their pistols and muskets, taken off guard by Neale’s apparent recovery.

Neale yelled in a cracked, barely recognizable voice, “To me, lads! Face your front! Repel boarders!”

Bolitho saw the French captain’s pistol swing up from his hip and stepped quickly between him and the delirious Neale.

“Please, Capitaine. He is ill!”

The Frenchman’s eyes darted swiftly from Neale to Bolitho, from the terrible wound on the young captain’s head to the epaulettes on Bolitho’s shoulders.

The silence closed round again like a wall. Neale remained swaying on his feet, peering at his men, who in turn were watching him with pity and embarrassment.

It was a tense moment. To the French soldiers, more used to monotonous garrison duty than to seeing an enemy ship sink in minutes and disgorge her company on a hitherto untroubled beach, it was like a threat. One wrong act and every musket would be firing, and the sand red with blood.

Bolitho kept his back on the Frenchman’s pistol, sweat trickling down his skin as he waited for the crack, the smashing impact in his spine.

Very gently he took Neale’s hanger from his fingers. “Easy now. I’m here, and Allday.”

Neale released his grip and let his arm fall. “Sorry.”

He was giving in to the pain at last, and Bolitho saw the ship’s surgeon hurrying up the beach towards him as Neale added brokenly, “Loved that bloody ship.” Then he collapsed.

Bolitho turned and handed the hanger to the nearest soldier. He saw the officer’s gaze on his own sword and unfastened it, pausing only to feel its worn smoothness slipping through his fingers. A dishonoured end, he thought bitterly. In a few months it would be a hundred years old.

The French captain glanced at the weapon curiously and then tucked it under his arm.

Allday muttered, “I’ll get it back somehow, you see!”

More soldiers and some waggons had arrived at the top of the beach. Wounded and injured men were being bustled unceremoniously into them, and Bolitho saw the surgeon being ordered to take charge.

He wanted to speak to the files of exhausted men who were already losing personality and purpose as like sheep they followed the impatient gestures, the menacing jerks of bared bayonets.

Perhaps that was what had roused Neale from his torpor. What they were all trained for, those last few moments before a victory or a defeat.

Bolitho glanced at some of the civilians as he followed the French officers up to a narrow roadway. Women mostly, carrying bundles of bread or clean washing, caught in their domestic affairs by the sudden intrusion of war.

He saw a dark-haired girl, her apron twisted bar-taut in her hands, watching the seamen as they limped past. As he drew level her eyes became fixed on him, unwinking and without expression. Maybe she had lost somebody in the war and wanted to know what the enemy looked like.

Further along the roadway a man pushed through the crowd and tried to seize one of the seamen by the shoulder. A soldier gestured threateningly and the man vanished in the crowd. Who was he, Bolitho wondered? Another one unhinged by battle? Curiously, the seaman had not even noticed the attack and was plodding obediently after his messmates.

Browne whispered, “They’ve got a carriage for us, sir.”

The final parting. A French naval lieutenant had now appeared and was busy writing details of the captives on a list, jerking his finger at the soldiers to separate and divide the prisoners into their proper stations.

The midshipmen were behaving like veterans, Bolitho thought. Young Kilburne even smiled at him and touched his hat, as with his two companions and a handful of junior warrant officers he was directed back along the road.

The artillery captain relaxed slightly. Whatever happened now, he could control it.

He pointed to the carriage, a faded vehicle with scarred paintwork, a relic of some dead aristocrat, Bolitho thought.

Allday scowled as a bayonet barred his path, but the naval lieutenant gave him a curt nod and allowed him to climb into the carriage.

The door was slammed shut, and Bolitho looked at his companions. Browne, tight-lipped and trying desperately to adjust to his change of circumstances. Neale, his head now wrapped in a crude bandage, and propped beside him, Styx ’s remaining commissioned officer, the unconscious third lieutenant.

Allday said hoarsely, “No wonder they let me on board, sir. Always need a poor jack to carry his betters!”

It was a wretched shadow of a joke, but it meant more than gold to Bolitho. He reached over and gripped Allday’s thick wrist.

Allday shook his head. “No need to say nothing, sir. You’re like me just now. All bottled up inside.” He glared through the dirty window as the coach gave a lurch and began to move. “When it bursts out, them buggers will have to watch for themselves, an’ that’s no error!”

Browne lay back against the cracked leather and closed his eyes. Neale was looking terrible, and the lieutenant, blood already seeping through his bandages, was even worse. He felt a touch of panic, something new to him. Suppose he got separated from Bolitho and Allday, what then? A strange country, probably already reported dead… he shook himself and opened his eyes again.

He heard himself say, “I was thinking, sir.”

Bolitho glanced at him, worried that another of his companions was about to give in.

“What?”

“It was as if we were expected, sir.” He watched Bolitho’s level stare. “As if they knew from the beginning what we were doing.”

Bolitho looked past him at the humble dwellings and scurrying chickens beside the road.

The missing flaw, and it had taken Browne to uncover it.

The journey in the jolting, swaying coach was a torment. The road was deeply rutted, and with each savage jerk either Neale or Algar, the third lieutenant, would cry out with agony, while Bolitho and the others tried to shield them from further harm.

It was useless to try and halt the coach or even ask the escort to slow down. Whenever he tried to attract the coachman’s attention, a mounted dragoon would gallop alongside and make threatening passes with his sabre to wave him away from the window.

Only when the coach stopped for a change of horses was there any respite. Lieutenant Algar’s arm was bleeding badly, in spite of the bandages, but Neale had mercifully fainted into painless oblivion.

Then with a crack of the whip the coach took to the road again. Bolitho caught a glimpse of a small inn, some curious farm workers standing outside to stare at the coach and its impressive troop of dragoons.

Bolitho tried to think, to discover substance or disproof in Browne’s idea that the French had known all about their movements. His head throbbed from the jolting motion, and the ache of despair which grew rather than lessened with each spin of the wheels. They were heading away from the sea, north-easterly, as far as he could judge. He could smell the rich aromas of the countryside, the earth and the animals, much the same as in Cornwall, he thought.

Bolitho felt trapped, unable to see a course to take. He had destroyed Beauchamp’s hopes, and had lost Belinda. Men had died because of his tactics, because of their trust. He looked through the window, his eyes smarting. He had even lost the family sword.

Browne broke into his thoughts. “I saw a roadside stone, sir. I am almost certain we’re heading for Nantes.”

Bolitho nodded. It made sense, and the bearing was about right.

The pace slowed a little after that and Bolitho said, “They must have orders to reach there before dusk.”

“Alive, I hope!” Allday wiped the lieutenant’s face with a wet rag. “What wouldn’t I give for a good tot right now!”

Browne asked hesitantly, “What will become of us, sir?”

Bolitho lowered his voice. “Captain Neale will doubtless be exchanged for a French prisoner of equal rank when he is well enough to be moved.”

They both looked at Lieutenant Algar, and Bolitho added, “I fear he may not live long enough to be exchanged.” He turned his gaze to Neale again, his face normally so pink from wind or sun was like a sheet. Even with good care he might never be the same again. He said, “I want you to agree to any French proposals on exchange, Oliver.”

Browne exclaimed, “No, sir. I cannot leave you… what are you saying?”

Bolitho looked away. “Your loyalty warms me, but I shall insist. It is pointless for you to remain if offered the chance.”

Allday asked gruffly, “D’you think they will keep you then, sir?”

Bolitho shrugged. “I don’t know. Not many flag-officers get taken prisoner.” He could not hide the bitterness. “But we shall see.”

Allday folded his massive arms. “I’m staying with you, sir. An’ there’s an end to it.”

Once again the coach shook itself to a halt, and as two mounted dragoons took station on either side, the rest of the escort dismounted.

A face appeared at Bolitho’s door. It was the French naval lieutenant, his blue coat covered in dust from the hard ride across country.

He touched his hat and said in careful English, “Not much longer, m’sieu.” He glanced at the two bandaged figures. “A surgeon will be waiting.”

“ Nantes?”

Bolitho expected the lieutenant to turn away, but instead he gave an amused smile.

“You know France, m’sieu.” He thrust two bottles of wine through the window. “The best I can manage.” He touched his hat again and sauntered towards the other officers.

Bolitho turned, but said nothing as he saw the intent expression on Browne’s face.

“Look, sir!”

There were a few trees beside the road and some tiny dwellings nearby. But rising above all else was a newly built tower, and there were some masons still working around its base and chipping away at the gold-coloured stone.

But Bolitho stared at its summit and an ungainly set of mechanical arms which were clearly framed against the sky.

He said, “A semaphore tower!”

It was so obvious he was stunned by the discovery. Even the stone which had gone into the rough walls must be some of that brought from Spain. It was certainly not from hereabouts.

The Admiralty too had ordered the construction of semaphore towers, south from London to link their offices with the main ports and fleets, and the French had been using their own signalling system for even longer. But both countries had concentrated on the Channel, and nothing at all had been reported about the wider usage of this new chain of towers. No wonder their movements had been so swiftly reported up and down the Biscay coast, and French men-of-war had been ready to move into planned positions before any possible raid on their harbours and shipping.

Allday said, “I think I saw one just as we were leaving the coast, sir. But not like that. The semaphore was mounted on the top of a church.”

Bolitho clenched his fists. Even at Portsmouth the semaphore was set on the cathedral tower to command the anchorage at Spithead.

“Here, open those bottles!” Bolitho pushed them into Allday’s hands. “Don’t look at the tower. That lieutenant will see us.”

He dragged his eyes away as the semaphore arms began to swing and dance like a puppet on a gibbet. Ten, maybe twenty miles away a telescope would be recording each movement before passing it on to the next station. He recalled reading of the new chain of towers which linked London to Deal. In a record-breaking test they had sent a signal all seventy-two miles there and back in eight minutes!

How the local admiral must have gloated when Styx ’s first penetration of the channel beyond the Ile d’Yeu had been reported. After that it had been simple. He must have despatched three ships to seaward during the night, and when Styx, accompanied by Phalarope, had attempted to engage the invasion craft, his own vessels had pounced. No time wasted, no vessels squandered or wrongly deployed. Like a poacher’s sack. Bolitho felt the anger rising to match his despair.

The coach began to roll forward again, and when Bolitho glanced through the window he saw the semaphore arms were still, as if the whole tower, and not its hidden inmates, was resting.

A new thought probed his mind like a needle. Herrick might be ordered to mount an attack with heavier ships of the squadron. The result would be a disaster. The enemy would gather an overwhelming force of vessels, and with the advanced knowledge arriving hourly on their new semaphore system, almost every move Herrick would make could be countered.

He looked at the sky. It was already darker, and soon the signal stations would be rendered dumb and blind until daylight.

The horses and the iron-shod wheels clattered over a madeup road, and Bolitho saw larger buildings and warehouses, and a few windows already lit and cheerful.

There still had to be some faint hope. Twenty-five miles down the Loire from Nantes was the sea. He felt the chill of excitement on his skin in spite of his efforts to contain it. One step at a time. No more hope without a constructive thought to sustain it. He opened the window slightly and imagined he could smell the river, and pictured it wending its way towards the open sea, where ships of the blockading squadron maintained their endless vigilance.

Allday watched him and recognized the mood.

He said quietly, “Remember what you asked afore, sir? About the falcon on a line?”

Bolitho nodded. “Don’t hope for too much. Not yet.”

Voices challenged and equipment jingled as the carriage and escort clattered beneath an archway and into a walled square.

As the coach responded to its brake, Browne said, “We have arrived, sir.”

Bayonets moved across the windows like pale rushes, and Bolitho saw an officer carrying a large satchel watching from a doorway. As promised, a doctor was waiting. Even that order must have been passed directly here by semaphore. Yet it was all of forty miles from the beach where they had struggled ashore.

The door was wrenched open and several orderlies lifted the moaning lieutenant and carried him towards the nearest building. Then it was Neale’s turn. Still unconscious and unaware of what was happening, he too was carried bodily after his lieutenant.

Bolitho looked at the others. It was time.

The French lieutenant made a polite blow. “If you will please follow me?” It was courteously asked, but the armed soldiers left no room for argument.

They entered another, heavily-studded door on the other side of the square, and then into a bare, stone-flagged room with a solitary window, barred, and too high to reach. Apart from a wooden bench, a foul-smelling bucket and some straw, the room was empty.

Bolitho had expected some sort of formal investigation to begin at once, but instead the heavy door slammed shut, the sound echoing along the corridor like something from a tomb.

Browne looked round in dismay, and even Allday seemed at a loss.

Bolitho sat down on the bench and stared at the stone floor between his feet. Prisoners of war.

The French naval lieutenant stood with arms folded as Bolitho, assisted by Allday, slipped into his coat and tugged his neckcloth into place.

They had been awakened early by the usual commotion of the military. The main building and smaller outlying ones had obviously been commandeered by the local garrison, but still bore the mark of grandeur and privilege. A great house and home farm before the revolution, Bolitho thought. He had seen a small part of it when he had been escorted to another room where Allday, watched the whole time by a keen-eyed guard, had been allowed to shave him.

Bolitho knew it was useless to ask Allday to leave him now. They would make the best of it, as they had been forced to do before. But to all outward appearances Allday must be seen as his personal servant. If he was recognized as a professional seaman he would soon be sent to join the rest of Styx ’s company, wherever they were.

The lieutenant nodded approvingly. “Bon.”He ignored Allday’s warning scowl and brushed some dust from Bolitho’s shoulder. “Are you ready, m’sieu?”

Bolitho, followed by Browne and Allday, walked out into the corridor and began to climb a grand staircase to the next floor. Much of the stairway had been damaged, and Bolitho saw several holes in the plaster where musket balls had cut down some of the previous occupants.

Some orderlies had given them food, minutes after the first trumpet call. The food had been coarse but plentiful, with some rough wine to wash it down. Bolitho had forced it down rather than worry his two companions.

The French lieutenant was saying, “You will now meet my superior officer, Contre-Amiral Jean Remond. He ’as travelled much of the night to be ’ere.” He gave a brief smile. “So please do not rouse ’is temper!”

Before Bolitho could make a sharp retort, he added almost apologetically, “For my sake, m’sieu!”

Leaving them with an escort he strode on ahead to a pair of high doors.

Browne whispered, “He must be the French admiral’s flaglieutenant, sir.” For a few seconds it seemed to amuse him.

Bolitho looked towards a window and beyond. The country-side was lush and green in the morning sunlight. Between some houses he saw the glint of water, the masts of a moored vessel. The river.

The lieutenant reappeared and beckoned to Bolitho. To Browne and Allday he said shortly, “Remain ’ere.” His casual attitude was gone. He was on duty again.

Bolitho entered the big room and heard the door close quietly behind him. After the abused lower floor and staircase this room was sumptuous. Thick carpets, and a towering painting of a battle which seemed to involve many hundreds of horses, gave the room a kind of arrogant elegance.

He walked towards an ornate table at the opposite end of the room. The distance seemed endless, and he was very aware of his dishevelled appearance when compared with the figure behind the desk.

Contre-Amiral Remond was dark-skinned, even swarthy, but incredibly neat. His hair, as black as Bolitho’s, was brushed forward across a broad forehead, beneath which his eyes glittered in the filtered sunlight like stones.

He stood up only briefly and waved Bolitho to a gilded chair. That too, like the carefully measured distance from the door, was placed just so.

Bolitho sat down, again conscious of his own salt-stained clothes, the throbbing ache of his wounded thigh, all of which added to his feeling of defeat. The fact he guessed that was the intention of his captor did nothing to help.

In spite of his guard he felt his eyes drawn to his sword which lay across the table as if for a court martial.

The French admiral said curtly, “Is there anything you wish to tell me?”

Bolitho met his unwinking stare. “The officers and men of the frigate Styx. I am responsible for them. Their captain is too ill to plead for them.”

The French officer shrugged as if it was of no importance. “My officers will deal with the matter. It is you who interest me.”

Bolitho fought for time. “You speak very good English.”

“Naturally. I was a prisoner of your people for some months before I was released.” He seemed to grow irritated at revealing something personal and snapped, “We of course knew of your new command, of the misguided attempt to interfere with French ships. In fact, we know a great deal about you and your family. Of a noble tradition, would you say?” He hurried on without waiting. “Whereas I had to work my way up from nothing, without privilege.”

“So did I!” It came out sharper than he had intended.

Remond gave a slow smile. He had very small teeth, like a terrier’s. “No matter. For you the war is over. As your equal in rank it was my duty to meet you, nothing more.” He picked up the old sword and casually turned it over in his hands.

Bolitho had the strange feeling that Remond was less sure of himself. He was testing him, trying to find out something. He dropped his eyes, praying that the swarthy-faced admiral would not see his sudden determination. The new semaphore system. Remond needed to know if he had discovered it.

Perhaps the French had a Beauchamp all of their own who had created a plan to destroy the would-be destroyers?

Remond remarked, “A fine old blade.” He replaced it carefully on the table, nearer to Bolitho. “You will be given suitable quarters, naturally, and allowed to keep your servant with you. And if you give your word of honour not to try and escape, you will also be afforded certain liberty as decided by your guards.” He looked at the sword. “And you will be permitted to keep your sword also. When peace is signed you will be sent home without a stain on your character.” He sat back and eyed Bolitho bleakly. “So?”

Bolitho stood up slowly, his eyes on the man across the table.

“Peace is only a rumour, Contre-Amiral Remond. War is still a reality. I am a King’s officer and find no comfort in waiting for others to fight for me.”

His answer seemed to take Remond aback.

“That is absurd! You reject captivity with all the rights of your rank? You have hopes for escape, perhaps? That too is ridiculous!”

Bolitho shrugged. “I cannot give my word.”

“If you intend to persist with this attitude, all hope of rescue or escape are gone. Once I leave here, the military will be in charge of you!”

Bolitho said nothing. How could he stay in comparative comfort after losing a ship and so many lives? If he ever returned home it would be with honour, or not at all.

Remond nodded. “Very well. Then your companions shall stay with you. If the injured captain dies because of his captivity, you will be to blame.”

“Must the lieutenant stay too?” Strangely, Bolitho felt calmer with the threats, now that the promises had been pushed aside.

“Did I forget to mention him?” The French admiral picked a piece of thread from his breeches. “The surgeon had to remove his arm during the night, I believe. But he died nevertheless.”

Remond lowered his voice and continued, “Try to see reason. Many of the garrisons are manned by fools, peasants in uniform. They have no love for the British navy, the blockade, the attempt to starve them into submission. In Lorient now, you would be with your fellow officers and protected by the sailors of France.”

Bolitho lifted his chin and replied coldly, “My answer is unchanged.”

“Then you are a fool, Bolitho. Soon there will be peace. What use is a dead hero then, eh?”

He shook a little bell on his desk and Bolitho sensed the doors open behind him.

Remond walked round the desk and eyed him curiously. “I think we shall not meet again.” Then he strode from the room.

The lieutenant joined Bolitho by the table and looked at the sword. He gave a deep sigh and said sadly, “I am sorry, m’sieu.” He beckoned to the escort and added, “It is arranged. You will be taken to another prison today. After that…”

He spread his hands. “But I wish you luck, m’sieu.”

Bolitho watched him hurry to the stairway. No doubt Remond had somebody superior to him waiting at Lorient. The chain of command.

The soldiers fell in step with him, and moments later he was back in the cell, and alone.