A Tradition of Victory (16 page)

He saw Browne smile. He had almost forgotten about his flag-lieutenant’s other assets. A small thing, but in their favour.

Browne clung to a strap as the carriage gathered speed. “I heard some talk about more invasion craft being sent up to Lorient and Brest. Two types, I think. One is called a
chaloupe de can-nonière,
and the other is a smaller type, a
péniche.
They have been building them by the hundred, or so it sounds.”

Bolitho found he was able to relate this sparse information to his own predicament without despair. Perhaps the testing he had endured, alone in the cell, had given him the hatred he needed to think clearly, to plan how best to hit back.

He looked at Neale as he lolled against Allday’s protective arm. His shirt was open to the waist, and Bolitho could see the scratches on his skin where someone’s fingers had torn off the locket Neale always wore. It had contained a portrait of his mother, but they had seized it nonetheless. Poor, broken Neale. What was his mind grappling with now, he wondered, as the wheels clattered and bounced along the open road. Of his beloved
Styx,
of his home, or of his first lieutenant, the taciturn Mr Pickthorn, who had been an extension of his own command?

But for me, he would he safe in hospital.

Dozing, and reawakening as if fearful that their reunification might be just one more taunt and part of the nightmare, they sustained each other, and endured the heat of the shuttered coach without knowing where they were or where they were bound.

Several times the coach halted, horses were watered or changed, some bread and wine were thrust into the carriage without more than a swift glance from one of the escorts, and they were off again.

“If we are separated again we must try to keep contact somehow.” Bolitho heard a carriage clatter past in the opposite direction.

A wide road then, not some winding lane. “I intend to escape, but we shall go together.” He felt them looking at him, could even sense their awakened hope. “If one of us falls or gets taken, the others must go on. Get the news to England
somehow,
tell them the truth of the French preparations and their new signals system.”

Allday grunted. “Together, sir. That’s what you said. If I have to carry all of you, begging yer pardon, sir, we’ll stay together, an’

England will have to wait a mite longer.”

Browne chuckled, a welcome sound when they might all be shot dead before another day had passed.

He said, “Keep your place, Allday. You’re an admiral’s servant, not his cox’n, remember?”

Allday grinned. “I’ll never live it down.”

Bolitho put his finger to his lips. “Quiet!”

He tried to loosen one of the shutters but only managed to move it very slightly. Watched by the others, he knelt down on the floor, ignoring the pain in his wounded thigh, and pressed his face to the shutter.

He said softly, “The sea. I can smell it.” He looked at them, as if he had just revealed some great miracle. To sailors it was just that.
The sea.

They would be taken out of the carriage and shut away once more in some stinking prison. But it would not be the same, no matter what privation or suffering they had to face. How many men must have seen the sea as an enemy, a final barrier to freedom. But any sailor nursed it in his heart like a prayer.
Just get
me to the sea, and somehow I’ll reach home.

The carriage stopped, and a soldier opened the shutters to let in some air.

Bolitho sat very still, but his eyes were everywhere. There was no sign of water, but beyond a series of low, rounded hills he knew it was there.

On the other side of the road was a great stretch of bare, bar-ren looking land, across which, in rolling clouds of thick dust, troops of mounted horsemen wheeled and reformed, the spectacle like part of that huge picture in the commandant’s room.

Browne said softly, “Like the escort, sir. French dragoons.”

Bolitho heard the blare of a trumpet and saw the sun gleam across black-plumed helmets and breast-plates as the horses changed formation and cantered into another wall of dust. Open country. Very suitable for training cavalry, perhaps for invasion.

Also, they represented a real threat to anyone trying to escape from captivity. As a boy, Bolitho had often watched the local dragoons parading and exercising at Truro, near his home in Falmouth. Had seen them too hunting some smugglers who had broken away from the revenue men, their sabres glittering as they had galloped in pursuit across the moor.

The shutters were replaced and the coach jerked forward.

Bolitho knew the act had been a warning, not an act of compassion. No words could have made it clearer. Those proud dragoons shouted it from the skies.

It was dusk by the time they finally alighted from the carriage, stiff and tired after the journey. The young officer in charge

of the escort handed some papers to a blue-coated official, and with a curt nod to the prisoners turned on his heel, obviously glad to be rid of his charges.

Bolitho looked past the official, who was still examining the papers as if he was barely able to read, and looked at the squat building which was to be their new prison.

A high stone wall, windowless, with a central tower which was just visible through the shadows of the gates.

An old fort, a coastguard station, added to and altered over the years, it might have been anything.

The man in the blue coat looked at him and pointed to the gates. Some soldiers who had been watching the new arrivals fell in line, and like men under sentence of death Bolitho and the others followed the official through the gates.

Another delay, and then an elderly militia captain entered the room where they had been left standing against a wall and said,

“I am Capitaine Michel Cloux, commandant here.”

He had a narrow, foxy face, but his eyes were not hostile, and if anything he looked troubled with his command.

“You will remain as prisoners of France, and will obey whatever instruction I give without question, you understand? Any attempt to escape will be punished by death. Any attempt to over-throw authority will be punished by death. But behave yourselves and all will be well.” His small eyes rested on Allday. “Your servant will be shown what to do, where to go for your requirements.”

Neale gave a groan and staggered against Browne for support.

The commandant glanced at his papers, apparently unnerved.

In a gentler tone he added, “I will request aid from the military surgeon for er, Capitaine Neale, yes?”

“Thank you, I would be grateful.” Bolitho kept his voice low.

Any sign that he was trying to assert his rank might destroy everything. Neale’s distress had made a small bridge. The commandant obviously had distinct instructions about the care and A

isolation of the prisoners. But he was probably an old campaigner who had lost comrades of his own. Neale’s condition had made more sense to him than some coldly worded orders.

The commandant eyed him warily, as if suspecting a trap.

Then he said, “You will attend your quarters now. Then you will be fed.”

He replaced his cocked hat with a shabby flourish.

“Go with my men.”

As they followed two of the guards up a winding stone stairway, supporting Neale in case he should slip and fall, Allday murmured, “They can’t steal anything from me here. I’ve naught left!”

Bolitho touched his throat and thought of the locket, her face as he had last seen her. And he thought too of Belinda the day he and Allday had found her in the overturned coach on the road from Portsmouth. Allday was probably right. The locket had been a link with something lost. Hope was all he had now, and he was determined not to lose it.

For Bolitho and his companions each day was much like the one which had preceded it. The food was poor and coarse, but so too was it for their prison guards, and the daily routine equally monotonous. They soon discovered they had the little prison to themselves, although when Bolitho and Browne were allowed to walk outside the gates with an armed escort, they saw a heavily pitted wall and some rough graves to show that previous occupants had met a violent end here before a firing-squad.

The commandant visited them every day, and he had kept his word about sending for a military surgeon to attend Neale.

Bolitho watched the surgeon with great interest. He was the same one he had seen at Nantes who had removed the young lieutenant’s arm. Later Browne told him that he had heard him saying he must get back to his barracks, a good three hours ride.

To men kept deliberately out of contact with the rest of the

world, these small items of news were precious. They calculated that Nantes was to the east of their prison, twenty or thirty miles inland. That would fix the prison’s position no more than twenty miles or so north of where they had stumbled ashore from the wreck.

It made sense, Bolitho thought. They had been taken inland, then brought back to the coast again, but nearer to the Loire Estuary. In his mind’s eye Bolitho could see the chart, the treacherous reefs and sand-bars, the start and end of many a voyage.

He had noticed that the commandant only allowed two of them to take a walk or exercise outside the walls at any given time. The others remained as surety and hostages. Maybe the graves marked where others had tried to outwit the little commandant and had paid the price.

On one hot August morning Bolitho and Browne left the gates, but instead of heading for the road, Bolitho gestured west-wards towards the low hills. The three guards, all mounted and well armed, nodded agreement, and with the horses trotting contentedly over the grass they strode away from the prison. Bolitho had expected the guards to break their usual silence and order them back, but perhaps they were bored with their duties and glad of a change.

Bolitho tried not to quicken his pace as they topped the first rise.

Browne exclaimed, “God, sir, it looks
beautiful!
”

The sea, a deeper blue than before, spread away on every side, and through the dazzling glare and drifting heat haze Bolitho could see the swirl of currents around some tiny islets, while to the north he could just discern another layer of land. The far side of the estuary, it had to be. He glanced quickly at the guards but they were not even watching. Two had dismounted, the other still sat astride his horse, a bell-mouthed blunderbuss resting across his saddle, ready for instant use.

Bolitho said, “There should be a church, if I’m right.”

Browne made to point, but Bolitho snapped, “
Tell
me!”

“To our left, sir. On the blind side of the prison.”

Bolitho shaded his eyes. A square-towered church, partly hidden by the hillside, and nestling into the ground as if it had been there since time had begun.

“We’ll go back now.” Bolitho turned reluctantly away from the sea. “Someone might be watching.”

Browne fell in step, completely mystified.

Bolitho waited until he heard the jingle of harness behind him and then said, “I know exactly where we are, Oliver. And if I’m not mistaken, that church tower is occupied by French sailors rather than priests!” He glanced at the lieutenant, the urgency making his voice desperate. “I would lay odds that it is the last semaphore link this side of the estuary.” He strode towards the prison, his hands clasped behind him. “If only we could break out long enough to destroy it.”

Browne stared at him. “But they will build another, surely, sir, and we …”

“I know. Executed. But there has to be a way. If our ships attack, and I believe they will, if only to prove Beauchamp’s plan too hazardous, they will be completely destroyed. And as to time, my friend, I think there may be little enough of it left. England will know of
Styx
’s loss, and efforts begun to obtain exchanges at least for the surviving officers.”

Browne bit his lip. “Captain Neale will be reported missing, some of
Styx
’s people are bound to speak out and say what happened to him and ourselves.”

Bolitho smiled gravely. “Aye. Neutral sources will soon be selling that information to the right ears. My guess is that the French intend to delay matters over releasing any of
Styx
’s people until they are ready and their new invasion fleets are in position. Admiral Beauchamp was
right.
”

“He chose wisely for his commander,” said Browne.

Bolitho sighed. “I would like to think so, Oliver. The longer I remain in captivity and useless, the more I think about that attack. I should have seen the flaw in the plan, ought to have allowed for it, no matter what intelligence the Admiralty was able to offer.” He stopped and looked Browne squarely in the eyes.

“When I saw
Phalarope
stand away, I nearly cursed her captain’s soul to damnation. Now I am not so convinced. He may have acted wisely and with some courage, Oliver. I have always said a captain should act on his initiative if his set orders tell him nothing.”

“With respect, I must disagree.” Browne waited for a rebuke then hurried on. “Captain Emes should have risked a hopeless battle against odds rather than leave
Styx
unaided. It is what you would have done, sir.”

Bolitho smiled. “As a captain perhaps. But when my flag fell, Emes took over command. He really had no choice at all.”

Bolitho could feel Browne’s disagreement more strongly than a shouted argument.

Allday was waiting in the upper part of the tower, and as the two officers, sweating from their walk in the sunlight, climbed the curving stairway, he said, “The surgeon’s been back, sir. Cap’n Neale is pretty bad.”

Bolitho brushed past him and hurried into the larger of the two rooms. Neale lay on his back, his eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling, while his chest heaved and fell as if it would burst. One of the guards was removing a bucket which contained some bloodstained dressings, and Bolitho saw the little commandant standing by the barred window, his face grave.

“Ah, Contre-Amiral Bolitho, you are here. Capitaine Neale is worsening, I fear.”

Bolitho sat carefully on the rough cot and clasped Neale’s hand. It was like ice, in spite of the room’s warmth. “What’s this, A