A Tradition of Victory (20 page)

“Huzza! Huzza!”
The shouts sounded wild and inhuman. “To me, Ganymedes!”

Then the awful clash of steel, the occasional bang of musket and pistol before feet trampled over them as they tried to reload.

To the soldiers it was like a signal. Bolitho saw the nearest one, a corporal, raise his musket, the bayonet glinting in the lanterns as he aimed it straight at Neale’s chest.

“Too late, matey!” Allday bounded up from the side, the big cutlass swinging and hacking the soldier across the mouth like an axe in a log. As the man fell writhing in his own blood, Allday turned towards the second one. The man had also raised his musket but was stricken like a rabbit confronted by a fox after seeing his companion fall.

Allday yelled, “Not so brave now, eh?”

Browne swallowed hard as the cutlass slashed the man’s crossbelt apart. The force of the blow made the soldier double over, his cries silenced as the cutlass hacked him across his exposed neck.

Above and seemingly all around the air was rent with shouts, curses and screams. Steel on steel, feet staggering and slipping in blood, bodies thrust and ducked to gain and hold an advantage.

Allday clung to the swaying cot with one hand and threatened any circling figure who came near. A musket ball slammed into the side within inches of Bolitho’s shoulder, and he heard Allday’s blade hiss over his head like a protective scythe.

A corpse fell headlong down the companion ladder, and someone gave a terrible cry before a blade silenced him instantly, as if a great door had been slammed shut.

Hatless, his white breeches smeared with blood, and his eyes blazing like fuses, a British marine stood on the ladder, his levelled bayonet shaking on the end of his musket.

He saw Allday with his bared cutlass and yelled, “Here, lads!

There are more o’ the bastards!” Then he lunged.

Allday had fought alongside the marines in many a boarding party or skirmishes ashore, but never before had he seen the madness of battle from the other side.

The man was crazed with fighting, a kind of lust which had left him a survivor in the fierce struggle from ship to ship.

Allday knew it was pointless to fight the man off until he could explain. More figures were stumbling down the ladder, marines and seamen alike. He would be dead in seconds unless he acted.

“Stand still, you stupid bullock!”
Allday’s bellow brought the marine skidding to a halt, “Cut these officers free or I’ll cleave your skull in!”

The marine gaped at him and then began to laugh. There was no sound, but his whole body shook uncontrollably, as if it would never stop.

Then a lieutenant appeared, a bloodied hanger in his hand as he peered around the orlop, sniffing for danger.

He pushed past the marine and stared at Neale and then at the others.

“In God’s name. Get these men on deck. Lively, the captain’s ordered our recall.”

A seaman brought a spike and levered the ring-bolt out of the timber, then hoisted Bolitho and Browne to their feet.

The lieutenant said sharply, “Come along now! No time to dawdle!”

Bolitho loosened the manacles on his wrist, and as two seamen prepared to lift Neale from his cot said quietly, “That is Captain John Neale of the frigate
Styx.
” He waited for the lieutenant to turn. “I’m afraid I did not catch
your
name Mr, er … ?”

The first madness of battle was already passing, and several of the boarding party even managed to grin at their lieutenant’s discomfort.

The lieutenant snapped, “Nor I yours,
sir!
”

Browne took a first careful step towards the waiting seamen.

How he managed it he did not know, although Allday later swore he never even blinked.

Browne said coldly, “
This
is Rear-Admiral Richard Bolitho.

Does that satisfy you, sir? Or is this the day for hurling insults at all your betters?”

The lieutenant sheathed his hanger and flushed. “I—I am indeed sorry, sir.”

Bolitho nodded and walked slowly to the foot of the companion ladder. High above him he could see the hatch which opened on to the gun-deck. It was unnaturally bright, and he guessed the ship had been completely dismasted.

He gripped the ladder hard to control his shaking hands.

To the lieutenant he said, “You did well. I heard you shout
Ganymede.
”

The lieutenant wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He was beginning to shiver. Now it was over, later would come the pain of what he had seen and done.

Discipline helped, and he was able to forget his humiliation when he had all but dragged Bolitho to his feet in his eagerness to get back to the ship.

He replied, “Aye, sir. We are part of an escort. Under the broad-pendant of Commodore Herrick.”

Bolitho looked at him for several seconds. It was impossible.

He was as mad as the marine.

“Perhaps you know him, sir.” The lieutenant winced under Bolitho’s gaze.

“Very well.”

Bolitho climbed on deck, each step on the ladder standing out with unusual clarity, every sound distinct and extra loud.

He passed through stained and panting boarders, resting on their weapons, grinning and nodding to him as he passed.

Bolitho saw the other ship grappled alongside, a midshipman hurrying aft to inform the captain whom they had discovered in the
Ceres
before Bolitho arrived.

The captain strode to meet him, his pleasure clear in his voice

as he exclaimed, “You are most welcome, sir, and I am grateful that my ship was of service.” He gestured ruefully to the damage to his rigging and decks. “I was outgunned, so I tempted him into a chase. After that …” He shrugged. “It was all a question of experience. The French have some fine ships. Fortunately, they do not have our Jacks to man them.”

Bolitho stood on the
Ganymede
’s deck and took a deep breath.

In a moment he would awake in the carriage or the prison, and then …

The captain was saying, “We have sighted two enemy sail, but they are staying their distance. But I fear we must abandon our prize. The wind is shifting.”

“Deck there! Sail on th’ lee bow!”

The captain said sharply, “Recall the boarding party and cast that hulk adrift. She’ll not fight again.”

The masthead lookout yelled again, “Ship o’ th’ line, sir! ’Tis the
Benbow!
”

Bolitho walked across the deck and knelt beside Neale who had been laid there to await the surgeon’s attention.

Neale stared up at the sky and whispered, “We did it, sir.

Together.
”

His hand lifted from his side and clasped Bolitho’s as firmly as he could.

“It was all I wanted, sir.”

Allday crouched on his other side to shield his eyes from the early sunlight. “Easy, Cap’n Neale. You’re going home now, you see.”

But Bolitho felt the hand go limp in his, and after a moment he bent over to close Neale’s eyes.

“He’s there, Allday. He’s gone home.”

“I STILL can’t believe it, sir.”

Herrick shook his head again, unable to accept what his decision had brought. From the moment he had made signalling contact with the frigate
Ganymede
he had paced up and down the quarterdeck, cursing the time it took for both ships to draw together, the further, seemingly endless delay as his own coxswain, Tuck, had taken the barge to collect Bolitho.

He had listened enthralled as Bolitho had sat by the stern windows in his torn clothing and had allowed Ozzard to fuss over him like a nursery maid.

And now, with the frigate following in
Benbow
’s wake, they were standing away from the French coast, the wind no longer an enemy.

Bolitho explained, “
Ganymede
was at a disadvantage. Her captain tried an old ruse and tempted the
Ceres
to follow him. He even took some severe damage to give the enemy overconfidence.”

He shrugged heavily. It no longer seemed to matter. “Then he luffed, and put two broadsides into her before she knew what was happening. It still could have gone against him, but the last raking cut down
Ceres
’ captain, and the rest you know, Thomas.”

He had already told Herrick about the new chain of semaphore stations, but even that seemed unimportant set against Neale’s death.

Herrick saw the pain in his eyes and said, “The French ships which were sighted as
Benbow
showed herself must have been directed to aid
Ceres
by that same semaphore.” He rubbed his chin. “Well, we know about it now, damn them.”

Bolitho stared past him at the empty sword rack. “And they will know we know. The danger is there just the same.”

He thought of the two soldiers who had fallen to Allday’s cutlass. They must have had specific orders to kill the prisoners if the ship was in danger of being seized. It had been that close.

But the arrival of the French ships had made
Ceres
’ capture impossible. It would not be long before the French high command knew that their prisoners had escaped, that the secret would be out.

Lieutenant Wolfe entered the cabin and tried not to stare at Bolitho as he was stripped of his shirt and torn breeches by Loveys, the ship’s surgeon, while he lay against the seat and con-sumed his fifth cup of scalding coffee.

Wolfe said, “With respect, sir. Convoy in sight to the sou’-east. All accounted for.”

Herrick smiled. “Thank you. I’ll come up presently.”

As the door closed Bolitho said, “You took a wild risk, Thomas.

Your head would have been on the block if the convoy had been in danger. The fact
you
thought it safe would have carried as much water as a shrimping net at your court martial.”

Herrick grinned. “I felt certain I’d discover something if only I could help
Ganymede
to take the enemy.” He eyed Bolitho warmly. “I never dreamed …”

“Neither did I.”

Bolitho looked up as Ozzard, followed by Allday, entered the cabin with clean clothing and his other dress coat.

He said wearily, “Fetch the old sea-going one, Ozzard. I don’t feel like celebrating.”

Allday stared at Herrick in disbelief. “You’ve not told him, sir?”

“Told me what?” He needed to be alone. To sift his feelings, decide what to do, discover where he had gone wrong.

Herrick looked almost as astonished as Allday. “Damn my eyes, in all the excitement I forgot to explain!”

Bolitho listened without a word, as if by inserting a question, A

or by trying to smooth out the ridges in Herrick’s tale, he might destroy it completely.

As Herrick lapsed into silence he said, “And she is in the convoy, Thomas?
Right here,
amongst us?”

Herrick stammered, “Aye, sir. I was that worried, you see—”

Bolitho stood up and took Herrick’s hard hands in his “Bless you, old friend. This morning I believed I had taken enough, more than I could safely hold. But now …” He shook his head slowly.

“You have told me something which is stronger than any balm.”

He turned away, as if he expected to see the other ships through the stern windows. Belinda had taken passage to Gibraltar.

Danger and discomfort had meant nothing, his likely fate had not shaken her confidence for an instant. And now she was here in the Bay.

Herrick moved towards the door, content and troubled at the same time.

“I’ll leave you. It will be a while before we exchange signals.”

He hesitated, unwilling to cast a shadow on the moment. “About Captain Neale …”

“We’ll bury him at dusk. His friends and family in England will have their memories of him. As he once was. But I think he’d wish to stay with his men.”

The door closed silently, and Bolitho lay back again and allowed the sun to warm him through the thick glass.

Neale had known from the beginning he was going to die.

Only his occasional bouts of delirium had deceived the rest of them. One thought, one force had kept him going, and that had been freedom. To gain it in company of his friends so that he could die in peace had been paramount.
It was all I wanted,
he had said. His last words on earth.

Bolitho found he was on his feet without noticing he had moved. He did not even see Browne enter the cabin, or Allday’s sudden concern.

John Neale was gone. He would not die unavenged.

Barely making a ripple above her own black and buff reflection,
Benbow
moved slowly past other anchored vessels, all of which were dwarfed by the towering natural fortress of Gibraltar.

It was morning, with the Rock and surrounding landscape partly hidden in mist, a foretaste of the heat to come.

Bolitho stood apart from the other officers and left Herrick free to manœuvre his command the last cable or so to the anchorage. With all canvas but topsails and jib clewed up,
Benbow
would make a fine sight as she altered course very slightly away from her convoy, the largest vessel of which was already making signals to the shore.

It had taken nearly nine days to reach Gibraltar, and Grubb had described it as a fair and speedy passage. To Bolitho it had been the longest he could recall, and even the daily sight of Belinda on the Indiaman’s poop had failed to calm his sense of urgency and need.

From the beginning, when Herrick had made a signal to the
Duchess of Cornwall,
their daily rendezvous, separated by the sea and one other ship, had been without any sort of arrangement. It was as if she knew he would be there, as if she had to see him to ensure it was not a dream but a twist of fate which had brought them together. Bolitho had watched her through a telescope, oblivious to the glances of his officers and other watchkeepers.

She always waved, her long hair held down by a large straw hat which in turn was tied beneath her chin by a ribbon.

Now the waiting was almost over and Bolitho felt strangely nervous.

Herrick’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Hands wear ship!”

Wolfe’s long legs emerged from the mizzen-mast’s shadow.

“Man the braces, there! Tops’l sheets!”