A Tradition of Victory (23 page)

She smiled and held out her hands to grasp his. “They are kindly people, Richard. But for them …”

He slipped his arm around her waist and together they walked to the window. The sun had already moved over the Rock, and against the deep blue water the precisely anchored men-of-war looked like models. Only the occasional tail of white spray marked the movements of oared boats, the fleet’s busy messengers.

She leaned her head against his shoulder and murmured, “The
Thrush
seems so tiny from up here.” She looked at the
Benbow
anchored at the head of the other vessels. “To think that you command all those men and ships. You are like two people.”

Bolitho moved behind her and allowed her hair to touch his mouth. They were alone. On this overcrowded, unnatural outpost they had found a place to be together. It was like looking down on another world, upon himself at a distance.

She was right. Down there he was a commander, a man who could save or destroy life by a single hoist of flags. Here he was just himself.

She leant against him and said, “But if you are leaving here, then so am I. It is all arranged. I believe that even Polly, my new maid, is eager to go, for I think she hopes to see Allday again.

She is much taken with him.”

“I have so much to tell you, Belinda. I have seen you for so short a while, and now …”

“Soon we are to be separated again. I
know.
But I am trying not to think about that. Not for a few more hours.”

Bolitho felt her tense as she asked, “Is it so very dangerous?

It’s all right, you can tell me. I think you know that now.”

Bolitho looked over her head at the ships swinging to their cables.

“There will be a fight.” It was a strange feeling. He had never discussed it like this before. “You wait and you wait, you try to see things through the eyes of the enemy, and when it eventually happens it is all suddenly different. Many people at home believe their sailors fight for King and country, to protect their loved ones, and so they do. But when the guns begin to thunder, and the enemy is right there alongside rising above the smoke like the devil’s fury, it is John who calls for Bill, one messmate seeking another, as the bonds of sailormen are stronger than symbols beyond their ship.”

He felt her sob or catch her breath and said quickly, “I am sorry, that was unforgivable!”

Her hair moved against his mouth as she shook her head in protest.

“No. I am proud to share your thoughts, your hopes. I feel a part of you.”

He moved his hands up from her waist and felt her stiffen as he touched her breasts.

“I want you to love me, Belinda. I have been so long in the ways of ships and sailors I am frightened of turning you away.”

For a moment she did not speak, but he could feel her heart beating to match his own as he clasped her body to his.

When she spoke he had to bend his head to hear.

“I told you before. I should be ashamed of the way I feel.”

She twisted round in his arms and looked up at him. “But I am not ashamed.”

Bolitho kissed her neck and her throat, knowing he must stop, but unable to contain his emotions.

She stroked his hair and moaned softly as his mouth brushed against her breast.

“I
want
you, Richard. After today neither of us knows what may happen.” When he made to protest she said calmly, “Do you think I want to remember only the embraces of my dead husband, when it is you I want? We have both loved and been loved, but that is in the past.”

He said, “It
is
past.”

She nodded very slowly. “There is so little time, my dearest.”

She held out her hand, her eyes averted as if she were suddenly aware of his nearness. Then with the toss of her head which Bolitho had come to love, she walked to the curtained-off com-partment at the end of the room, tugging at his hand like a wanton child.

Bolitho pulled back the curtain from around the bed and watched her as she unfastened her gown, her hands almost tear-ing at it until with a gasp she stood and faced him, her hair hanging over her naked shoulders in a last attempt at modesty.

Bolitho put his hands around her throat and thrust her hair back and over her spine. Then with infinite care he laid her on the bed, almost afraid to blink in case he missed a second of her beauty and his need for her.

Moments later he lay beside her, their bodies touching, their eyes searching each other for some new discovery.

Bolitho’s shadow moved over her and he saw her eyes following him, while at her sides her fists were clenched as if it was the only way she could withstand the torture of waiting.

Across the floor the blue gown and pale undergarments lay entangled amongst the dress coat with the bright epaulettes, like the ships below the window, discarded and forgotten.

They lost all sense of time and were conscious only of each other. They discovered a love which was both tender and demanding, passionate and gentle.

Darkness fell over the anchorage, but Gibraltar could have been split in halves and they would not have known.

In the first uncertain glow of dawn Bolitho moved carefully from the bed and walked to the window.

A few lights bobbed around the ships, and his returning instinct told him that life had restarted there. The hands had been called, the decks would be holystoned as the yawning watchkeepers waited for the bells to chime, the half-hour glasses to be turned to greet another day.

He heard her move and turned back to the bed where she lay like a fallen statue, one arm outstretched towards him.

He sat down beside her and touched her skin, feeling his resolve crumble, the desire returning to match hers.

Somewhere, a million miles away, a trumpet blared raucously and soldiers blinked away their sleep.

He said softly, “I have to go, Belinda. Your friends will be coming soon to prepare you for the passage to England.”

She nodded. “The Barclays.”

She was trying to smile, but when he touched her body she seized his hand and squeezed it hard around her breast.

“I am not so strong as I believed. The sooner you leave, the quicker will be our reunion, I
know
that!”

Bolitho looked down at her. “I am so lucky.” He turned away.

“If—”

She gripped his hand more tightly. “No, my darling, not if,
when!
”

He smiled and slowly released himself from her grip.

“When.” He looked at the crumpled uniform on the floor. “It has a good ring to it.”

Then he pulled on his clothes, not daring to look at her until he had clipped on the sword and was ready to leave.

Then he sat down again, and in an instant she threw her arms around his neck, her naked body pressed against his coat as she kissed him with something like desperation while she breathed words into his skin.

He felt the salt tears against his lips, his or hers, he did not know.

She made no attempt to follow him, but sat on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chin, as she watched him move towards the door.

Then she said huskily, “Now you are the admiral again, and you belong down there with your world. But last night you belonged to me, dear Richard.”

He hesitated, his hand on the door. “I shall always belong to you.”

The next instant he was outside in the passageway, as if it were all a broken dream.

Two servants were in a yard below the walls chopping sticks for a fire, and a garrison cat strolled along the rough stones as if undecided how to begin the day.

Bolitho strode down the slope towards the landing-stage, looking neither right nor left until he reached the jetty.

Then, and only then, did he look back, but the Rock’s shadow had swallowed the house completely.

The guard-boat was idling past the jetty, a lieutenant dozing in the sternsheets while his men continued their monotonous sweep around the squadron. The lieutenant was soon wide awake when he saw Bolitho’s epaulettes in the first sunlight.

As he directed his boat to steer for the squadron’s flagship, the lieutenant’s mind was awhirl with speculation. The admiral had been to a secret meeting with the military governor. He had received instructions on a move to parley with the enemy on a new peace mission.

Bolitho was unaware of the lieutenant’s interest and of everything else but the night which had gone by in minutes, or so it seemed now.

And he had thought of himself as a man of honour! He waited for the shame and the dismay to come, but instead he felt only happiness, as if a great weight had been lifted from him.

“Boat ahoy!”

Bolitho looked up, startled to see
Benbow
towering high above the boat. He could see the marine sentry with his fixed bayonet moving above the beakhead on his little platform where he watched for unlawful visitors and would-be deserters alike.

The boat’s coxswain cupped his hands and bellowed, “Flag!

Benbow!
”

Bolitho straightened his shoulders and gave a rueful smile.

Now they would all know. Their rear-admiral was back in command.

But he could not let go so easily.
Belinda.

“Sir?” The lieutenant stooped attentively by his side.

Bolitho shook his head. “Nothing.” He must have spoken her name aloud.

What had Sir John Studdart said of him?
Like a junior lieutenant.

He certainly felt like one.

Herrick walked from beneath the poop and nodded to the master and his men by the wheel before he continued on to the quarterdeck. Without even being aware of it his eyes recorded that everything was as it should be on what promised to be another scorching day.

The ratlines and yards were alive with scurrying figures, and he heard the petty officers’ hoarse cries as they urged the topmen to greater haste.

Herrick paused by the rail and glanced along his command.

The barge was hoisted inboard, as were the other boats. There was the usual air of excitement and expectancy which even discipline and routine could not completely disguise.

Wolfe strode across the deck, his arms and great feet moving like pistons.

He touched his hat and reported, “Ship ready to sail, sir.” He glanced across at their consort and added, “I think we have an edge on
Nicator
this time.”

Herrick grunted. “I should hope so, dammit.”

Below on the gun-deck more men surged about in response to the shouted commands, raising fists as names were checked against a watch-bill or duty list.

Benbow
was preparing to weigh. At any other time it was rare indeed to see so many of her people disgorged on to the upper decks. Seamen and marines, idlers and ships’ boys, the highest to the most junior. The ship was leaving harbour again. Where bound and to what purpose was not their concern.

Wolfe, like every first lieutenant worth his salt, was going through his own list for the day. At sea or in port, the work had to continue, and his captain must be kept informed.

“Two hands for punishment this forenoon, sir. Page, two dozen lashes for drunkenness and quarrelling.” He paused and glanced from his list to Herrick’s features. “Belcher, twelve lashes for insolence.” He folded his list, satisfied. “All hands aboard, none deserted.”

“Very well. Man the capstan. Get the ship under way.”

Herrick beckoned to a midshipman for his telescope and then trained it on the eighty-gun
Dorsetshire.
No last minute argument from Sir John Studdart. He was probably keeping well out of it.

Bolitho had the bit between his teeth, and anyone seen to agree with him or encourage further action against the enemy’s invasion fleet might be painted with the same brush. He smiled grimly.

As if anyone could or would stop Bolitho now. He glanced up at the flag at the mizzen masthead. Lifting quite well in a rising breeze. It would have to do. He tried not to think of what Dulcie would say when he lost his broad-pendant.

Wolfe said, “I was about early this morning, sir. I saw the rear-admiral come off shore.”

The blue eyes regarded him mildly. “And?”

Wolfe shrugged. “Nothing, sir.” He swallowed hard. “Capstan’s manned. That damn fiddler is scraping like a blind man’s spoon.

I’d best go forrard.”

Herrick hid a smile. He knew about Bolitho’s return at first light. The whole ship probably knew or guessed the reason. It was always like that. Good or bad, you shared it.

Clank … clank … clank … The capstan was turning slowly, the men straining over the bars, sweating and breathing hard, while the fiddler kept them going to a well-known shanty.

The great forecourse, loosely brailed, stirred at its yard, and far above the decks the fleet-footed topmen raced each other in readiness to set the upper sails in obedience to Wolfe’s speaking trumpet.

Across the glittering water Herrick could see similar activity

aboard
Nicator.
It would be good to draw the squadron together again. For the last time? Even to think of peace after all the years of fighting was a mockery, he decided.

He heard feet on deck and saw Bolitho, with Browne march-ing in his shadow, crossing the quarterdeck to join him.

They greeted each other formally as Herrick said, “No instructions from the flagship, sir. The anchor’s hove short, and it looks like being a fine day.” As an afterthought he added, “
Ganymede
sailed at eight bells as you instructed, sir. She will keep company with the packet
Thrush
until they are clear of these waters.” He watched Bolitho, waiting for a sign.

Bolitho nodded. “Good. I saw them go.
Ganymede
will contact the rest of our ships long before we reach the rendezvous.”

Herrick said, “I’d give a lot to see young Pascoe’s face when he learns that you are alive, sir. I know how
I
felt!”

Bolitho turned and looked at the other seventy-four. As he had said, he had watched the little
Thrush
clearing the approaches and setting her tan-coloured sails within minutes of catting her anchor. Belinda had probably been watching
Benbow
from her temporary quarters. Like him, unable to share the moment under the eyes of the squadron.