A Tradition of Victory (29 page)

He walked to the chart and spread his hands around the vital triangle. Remond’s squadron had left harbour, knowing that sooner or later their presence would be discovered. The French were obviously expecting to move their fleet of invasion craft before the weather worsened and place them across the Channel from England. Added to the ever-present rumour of intended attack, their arrival would give plenty of weight to the enemy’s bargain-ing power.

Browne said wearily, “Mr Searle of
Rapid
did all the hard work, sir. But for him …”

“I shall see that his part is mentioned in my despatches.”

Bolitho smiled. “But you were the real surprise.” He grinned wryly at Herrick. “To some more than others.”

Herrick shrugged. “Well, sir, now that we know the enemy is out of port, what shall we do? Attack or blockade?”

Bolitho paced across the cabin and back again. The ship felt calmer and steadier, and although it was now late evening he could see a bronze sunset reflecting against the salt-caked A

windows.
Soon, soon,
the words seemed to hammer at his brain.

“Captains’ conference tomorrow forenoon, Thomas. I can’t wait any longer.”

He frowned as voices murmured in the outer cabin, and then Yovell poked his head around the screen door. It was impossible to avoid interruptions in a flagship.

His clerk said apologetically, “Sorry to trouble you, sir. Officer o’ the watch sends his respects and reports the sighting of a courier brig.
Indomitable
has just hoisted the signal.”

Bolitho looked at the chart. The brig would not be able to communicate before daylight tomorrow. It was as if more decisions were being made for him.

“Thank you, Yovell.” He turned to Herrick. “The French squadron will stay in readiness at its anchorage, that’s my opinion. Once the invasion craft begin to move from Lorient and their other local harbours, Remond will be kept informed of our intentions by semaphore. There will be no need for him to deploy the main part of his force until he knows what I attempt.”

Herrick said bitterly, “The defender always has the edge over any attacker.”

Bolitho watched him thoughtfully. Herrick would follow him to the death if so ordered. But it was obvious he was against the plan of attack. The French admiral had all the advantage of swift communications right along the vital stretch of coast. Once the British squadron chose to attack, Remond would summon aid from Lorient, Brest and anywhere else nearby while he closed with
Benbow
and her consorts.

In his heart Bolitho was equally certain that the unexpected arrival of a courier brig meant fresh orders. To cancel the attack before it had begun. To save face rather than endure the humiliation of a defeat while secret negotiations were being conducted.

Without realizing it he said aloud, “They don’t have to fight wars! It might knock some sense into their heads if they did!”

Herrick had obviously been thinking about the brig’s arrival.

“A cancellation, a recall even, would save a lot of bother, sir.”

He hurried on stubbornly, “I understand what is right and honourable, sir. I suspect their lordships only know what is expedient.”

Bolitho looked past him at the stern windows. The glow of sunset had vanished.

“We’ll have the conference as planned. Then,” he looked calmly at Herrick, “I intend to shift my flag to
Odin.
” He saw Herrick jerk upright in his chair, his expression one of total disbelief. “Easy, Thomas. Think before you protest.
Odin
is the smallest liner in the squadron, a little sixty-four. Remember, it was Nelson who shifted his command flag from the
St George
to the
Elephant
at Copenhagen because she was smaller and drew less water for inshore tactics. I intend to follow our Nel’s example for this attack.”

Herrick had struggled to his feet, while Browne sat limply in his chair, his eyes heavy with fatigue and too much brandy, as he watched them both.

Herrick exploded, “That’s got nothing to do with it! With respect, sir, I know you of old, and I can see right through this plan as if it were full of holes! You want my broad-pendant above
Benbow
when we clear for action, so that in any defeat I shall be absolved! Just as you signalled
Phalarope
to stand inshore this morning to allow for any trouble over the fishing boat.”

“Well, Thomas, it turned out to be necessary.”

Herrick would not yield. “But that was not the reason, sir!

You did it to give Emes another chance!”

Bolitho eyed him impassively. “
Odin
is the more suitable ship, and there’s an end to it. Now sit down and finish your drink, man.

Besides which, I need the squadron to be split in two. It is our only chance of dividing the enemy.” He waited, hating what he was doing to Herrick, knowing there was no other way.

Browne muttered thickly, “The prison.”

They both looked at him, and Bolitho asked, “What about it?”

Browne made to rise but sank down again. “You remember, sir. Our walk from the prison. The French had a semaphore station on that church.”

Herrick said angrily, “Do you wish to go and pray there?”

Browne did not seem to hear him. “We decided it was the last semaphore station on the southern side of the Loire.” He made to slap his hand on the table but missed. “Destroy it and the link in the chain is broken.”

Bolitho said quietly, “I know. It is what I intended we should try to do. But that was then, not now.” He watched him fondly.

“Why not turn in, Oliver? You must be exhausted.”

Browne shook his head violently. “S’not what I meant, sir.

Admiral Remond will
depend
on information. He’ll know full well we’d never attempt a night attack. Any ship of the line would be aground before she’s moved more than a mile in those waters.”

Bolitho said, “If you’re suggesting what I think you are, then put it right out of your mind.”

Browne got to his feet and dragged the chart across the table.

“But think of it, sir! A break in the chain. No signals for twenty miles or more! It would give you the time you must have!” The strength left his legs and he slumped down again.

Herrick exclaimed, “I must be getting old or something.”

“There is a small beach, Thomas.” Bolitho spoke quietly as he relived the moment. The little commandant and his watchful guards. The wind dying as they had felt their way down the path to the shore. The only suitable place for
Ceres
’ captain to send his boat to collect them. “From it to the semaphore station is hardly any distance, once you are there. It would be folly.”

Browne said, “I could find the place. I’m not likely to forget it.”

“But even if you
could
…” Herrick scanned the chart and then looked at Bolitho.

“Am I becoming too involved again, Thomas, is that it?”

Bolitho watched him despairingly. “Neale could have found the place, so too could I. But Oliver is my flag-lieutenant, and I’ve allowed him to risk his life enough already without this madcap scheme!”

Herrick replied harshly, “John Neale’s dead, sir, and for once
you
can’t go yourself. The cutting-out of the fishing boat was your idea, and it proved to be well worthwhile, although I suspect you were more worried than you showed for the safety of your flag-lieutenant. I know I was.” He waited, judging the moment like an experienced gun-captain gauging the exact fall of shot. “A marine and two good seamen died this morning because of that encounter. I knew them, sir, but did you?”

Bolitho shook his head. “No. Are you saying I did not care because of it?”

Herrick watched him gravely. “I am telling you you
must
not care, sir. The three men died, but they helped to give us a small advance knowledge which we may use against the enemy. At the conference tomorrow they would all answer the same. A few lives to save the many is any captain’s rule.” His mouth softened and he added, “Ask for volunteers and you would get more lieutenants than you could shake a stick at. But none of them would know that beach or the path to the semaphore. It is a terrible risk, but only Mr Browne knows where to go.” He looked sadly at the flag-lieutenant. “If it gives us another advantage and a chance to reduce casualties, then it is a risk we must offer.”

Browne nodded vaguely. “That’s what I said, sir.”

“I know, Oliver.” Bolitho ran his fingers along the glittering sword on its rack. “But have you weighed up the danger against the chances of success?”

“He’s asleep, sir.” Herrick looked at him for several seconds.

“Anyway, it’s the only decision. It’s all we have.”

Bolitho looked at the sleeping lieutenant, his legs out-thrust A

like a man resting by the roadside. Herrick was right of course.

He said, “You do not spare your words, Thomas, when you know something should or must be done.”

Herrick picked up his hat and smiled grimly. “I had a very good teacher, sir.” He glanced at Browne. “Lady Luck may be fair to him again.”

As the door closed behind him Bolitho said quietly, “He’ll need more than luck this time, old friend.”

As one captain after another arrived on board
Benbow
at the arranged time, the stern cabin took on an air of cheerful informality. The captains, senior and junior alike, were among their own kind, and no longer required the screen of authority to conceal their private anxieties or hopes.

At the entry port the marine guard and side party received each one, and each would pause with hat removed while the calls trilled and muskets slapped to the present to pay respect to the gold epaulettes and the men who wore them.

In the cabin, Allday and Tuck, assisted by Ozzard, arranged chairs, poured wine and made their temporary guests as comfortable as possible. To Allday some of the arrivals were old friends. Francis Inch of the
Odin,
with his long horse-face and genial bobbing enthusiasm. Valentine Keen of the
Nicator,
fair and elegant, who had served Bolitho previously as both midshipman and junior lieutenant. He had a special greeting for Allday, and the others watched as he grasped the burly coxswain’s fist and shook it warmly. Some understood this rare relationship, others remained mystified. Keen could never forget how he had been hurled to the deck in battle, a great splinter driven into his groin like some terrible missile. The ship’s surgeon had been too drunk to help him, and it had been Allday who had held him down and had personally cut out the wood splinter and saved his life.

Duncan of the
Sparrowhawk,
even redder in the face as he

shouted into Captain Veriker’s deaf ear, and the latest appointment to the squadron, George Lockhart of the frigate
Ganymede.

Some arrived in their own boats, others from the furthest extremes of the patrol areas were collected and brought to the flagship by the ubiquitous
Rapid
which now lay hove to nearby, ready to return the various lords and masters to their rightful commands.

But whether they flaunted the two epaulettes of captain in a lofty seventy-four, or the single adornment of a junior commander like Lapish, to their companies each was a king in his own right, and when out of contact with higher authority could act with almost absolute power, right or wrong.

Herrick stood like a rock amongst them, knowing everything about some, enough about the others.

Only Captain Daniel Emes of the
Phalarope
stood apart from the rest, his face stiff and devoid of expression as he gripped a full goblet in one hand while his other tapped out a slow tattoo on his sword-hilt.

It had taken most of the morning watch and half of the forenoon to gather them together, and during that time the courier brig had sent over her despatches and then made off in search of the next squadron to the south.

Only Herrick amongst those present knew what the weighted bag had contained, and he was keeping it to himself. He knew what Bolitho intended. There was no point in discussing it further.

The door opened and Bolitho entered, followed by his flag-lieutenant. Browne had always been regarded as a necessary shadow by most of the others, but his recent escapades as an escaped prisoner of war, the partner in a daring probe amongst the enemy’s shipping, had raised him to a far different light.

Bolitho shook hands with each of his captains. Inch so obviously glad to be with him again, and Keen who had shared so A

much in the past, not least the death of the girl Bolitho had once loved.

He saw Emes standing on his own and walked over to him.

“That was a well executed operation, Captain Emes. You saved my flag-lieutenant, but now it seems I am to lose him again.”

There was a ripple of laughter which helped to soften their dislike for Emes.

Only Herrick remained grim-faced.

They seated themselves again and Bolitho outlined as briefly as he could the French movements, the arrival of Remond’s flying squadron, as it was now known, and the need of an early attack to forestall any attempt to convoy the invasion craft into more heavily protected waters.

There was need for additional warnings about this treacherous coast and the dangers from unpredictable winds. The conditions, like the war, were impartial, as the loss of
Styx
and the French
Ceres
had recently driven home.

Each captain present was experienced and under no illusions about an attack in daylight, and in many ways there was an air of expectancy rather than doubt, as if, like Bolitho, they wanted to get it over and done with.

Like players in a village drama, others came and went to the captains’ conference. Old Ben Grubb, the sailing-master, forth-right and unimpressed by the presence of so many captains and his own rear-admiral, rumbled through the state of tides and currents, the hazards of wrecks, which would be carefully noted and copied by the industrious Yovell.

Wolfe, the first lieutenant, who in peaceful times had once served in these same waters for a while in the merchant service, had some local knowledge to add.

Bolitho said, “When we mount our attack there will be no second chance.” He looked around their faces, seeing each one