The Only Victor (46 page)

Segrave felt Fittock's hard hand helping him to his feet as he called, “Leave them, Gunner's Mate!” He did not recognise himself. “There is enough to do!”

Fittock glanced across at his own crew, his teeth very white in his grimy face.

“Told you, eh? Right little terrier!” Then he guided Segrave to the curve of one great timber so that the others should not see his distress. He added, “One of the best!”

Throughout the ship men stood or crouched at their tasks, bodies streaked with sweat, ears bandaged against the deafening roar of cannon fire, fingers raw from hauling, ramming and running-out again and again.

It took time for the marine's trumpet call to penetrate each deck, and then the cheering clawed its way up towards the smoky sunlight, that other place where it had all begun.

Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck rail and watched the enemy ship. As she drifted downwind she turned her high stern towards him, the name
San Mateo
still so bright in the sunlight. He had thought it would never stop, and yet he knew that the whole action, from the time the Danish flag had been hauled down and his own run up to the fore, had lasted barely thirty minutes.

He said, “I knew we could do it.” He felt Allday near him, heard Keen yell, “Stand by to starboard!”

There had been casualties. Men killed when seconds before they had been waiting to start the game.

“
Nicator
's signalling, sir!” Jenour sounded hoarse.

Bolitho raised a hand in acknowledgment. Thank God. Jenour was safe too.
Black Prince
must have fired three broadsides before the enemy had gathered wits enough to return a ragged response. By then it was already too late.

He said. “Signal
Nicator
to close with the convoy. Make certain that she tells the boarding parties that if they try to scuttle our ships or harm the crews, they will have to swim home!” He heard men muttering with approval and knew that had he so much as suggested it, they would have run every French prisoner up to the mainyard.

It was what war dictated. A madness. A need to hurt and kill those who had brought fear to you.

He thought suddenly of Ozzard. So innocuous, and yet he had known, had recognised that it was that same ship which had so brutally destroyed
Hyperion.
Maybe it was the ship, and not the men who crewed her? French flag, Spanish, and now if she surrendered, an addition to His Britannic Majesty's fleet. Would she, the ship, remain unchanged, like something untamed?

It still sickened him to recall how
San Mateo
had poured her broadsides into
Hyperion,
regardless of the destruction and murder she was causing to her own consorts, which were unable to move clear.
The ship then.

Keen walked round to face him.

“Sir?” He watched quietly. Feeling it. Sharing it. There was pride too. More than he had dared to hope for.

Bolitho seemed to rouse himself. “Has she struck yet?”
Is that me? So cold, so impersonal . . . An executioner.

Keen answered gently, “I believe her steering is shot away, sir. But their guns are still, and I think many of her people are dead.”

Bolitho said, “A glass if you please.” He saw their surprise as he crossed to the opposite side and levelled the telescope on Herrick's flagship. Unmoving and heavy in the water, her masts and trailing rigging dragging from either side. Thin scarlet threads ran down from the upper deck scuppers to the littered surface and the ship's unmoving reflection. As if she herself were bleeding to death. He felt his heart leap as he saw the tattered ensign still trailing from the poop where someone had braved hell to nail it there. Beyond
Benbow,
the other vessels drifted to no purpose. Spectators, victims; waiting for it all to end.

He called sharply, “Prepare all divisions to fire, Captain Keen!” There was no reply, and he could almost feel them holding their breath. “If they do not strike,
they will die.
” He swung round.
“Is that clear?”

Another voice; another still alive. Bosanquet called, “Brig
Larne
is closing, sir!”

Perhaps his meticulous interruption helped. Bolitho said, “Call away my barge and ask the surgeon to report to me.
Benbow
will need help. Your first lieutenant would be a great asset.” He shook himself and walked to his friend. “My apologies, Val. I had forgotten.”

Cazalet had fallen to the first exchange. A ball had all but cut him in half while he had been sending men aloft to attend repairs.

They were cheering again; it went on and on and Bolitho believed he could see men in
Nicator
's yards waving and capering, their voices lost in distance. Like great falling leaves the two French flags drifted down from
San Mateo
's rigging and men stood back from her guns, silently watching like mourners.

Keen said harshly,
“She's struck!”
He could not contain his relief.

Bolitho saw his barge lifting and then dipping over the nettings, and knew that Keen had been dreading the order to re-open fire, flags or not.

Allday touched his hat. “Ready, Sir Richard.” He studied him anxiously. “Shall I fetch a coat?”

Bolitho turned to him and winced as the sunlight pricked at his eye.

“I have no need for it.”

Julyan the sailing-master called, “What about your hat, Sir Richard?” He was half-laughing, but almost sobbing with relief. Men had died right beside him. He was safe—one more time. Another step up the ladder.

Bolitho smiled through the smoky sunshine. “You have a son, I believe? Give it to him. It will make a good yarn, one day.”

He turned away from the surprise and gratitude in the man's face and said, “Let us finish this.”

It was a silent crossing, with only the creak of oars and the bargemen's breathing to break the stillness.

As
Benbow
's great shadow loomed over them, Bolitho did not know where he would find the strength to meet whatever lay ahead. He pinched the locket beneath his filthy shirt and whispered,
“Wait for me, Kate.”

Followed by the others, he clambered up the side. Shot holes pitted the timbers from gangway to waterline, rigging, some with corpses trapped within it like weed, tugged beneath the sea, pulling her down.

Bolitho climbed faster. But a ship's heart could be saved. He saw faces staring at him from open gunports, some driven half-mad, others probably killed at the outbreak of the battle.

He reached the quarterdeck, so bare now without the main and mizzen to protect it.

He heard
Black Prince
's surgeon calling out orders, and another boat already hooking alongside with more willing hands; but at this moment he was quite alone.

The centre of any fighting ship, where it all began and ended. The shattered wheel with the dead helmsmen scattered like bloodied bundles, even caught in attitudes of shock and fury when death had marked them down. A boatswain's mate who had been kneeling to fix a bandage to the flag lieutenant's leg, then both of them killed together by a hail of cannister shot. A sailor still bending on a signal when he had fallen, and the halliards were torn from his hands as the mast had gone careering overboard.

Propped against the compass box with one leg bent beneath him was Herrick. He was barely conscious, although Bolitho guessed that his pain was deeper than any gunshot wound.

He held a pistol in one hand, and raised his head, holding it to one side as if the broadsides had rendered him deaf.

“
Ready, Marines!
We've got 'em on the run!
Take aim,
my lads!”

Bolitho heard Allday mutter, “God, look at it.”

The marines did not stir. They lay, from sergeant to private, like fallen toy soldiers, their weapons still pointing towards an invisible enemy.

Allday said sharply, “
Easy,
sir.”

Bolitho stepped over an out-thrust scarlet arm with two chevrons upon it and gently took the pistol from Herrick's hand.

He passed it to Allday, who noted that it was in fact loaded and cocked.

“Rest easy, Thomas. Help is here.” He took his arm and waited for the blue eyes to focus and recover their understanding. “Listen to the cheering! The battle's o'er—the day is won!”

Herrick allowed himself to be raised to a more comfortable position. He stared at the splintered decks and abandoned guns, the dead, and the scarlet trails which marked the retreat of the dying.

As if speaking from far away he said thickly, “So you came, Richard.”

He uses my name and yet he meets me as a stranger.
Bolitho waited sadly, the madness and the exhilaration of battle already drained from him.

Herrick was trying to smile. “It will be . . . another triumph for you.”

Bolitho released his arm very gently and stood up, and beckoned to the surgeon. “Attend to the Rear-Admiral, if you please.” He saw the dead marine corporal's hair blowing in the breeze, his eyes fixed with attention as if he were listening.

Bolitho looked at Jenour, and past him to the waiting, listless ships.

“I think not, Thomas. Here, Death is the only victor.”

It was over.

E
PILOGUE

T
HE RELENTLESS
bombardment of Copenhagen by day and night brought its inevitable conclusion. On the fifth of September, General Peyman, the governor of the city, sent out a flag of truce. Terms were still to be agreed, if possible with some honour left to the heroic defenders, but all fighting was to end.

While Bolitho and his ships took charge of their prizes and did what they could for the many killed and wounded, the terms of Copenhagen were decided. The surrender of all Danish ships and naval stores, and the removal of any other vessel not yet completed in the dockyard, and the occupation by Lord Cathcart's forces of The Citadel and other fortifications for a period of six weeks while these tasks were carried out, formed the basis of the armistice. It was thought by some that even the skills and experience of the English sailors would be insufficient to complete this great operation within the allotted time, but even the most doubtful critics were forced to show admiration and pride at the Fleet's achievements.

In the allotted span of six weeks, sixteen sail of the line, frigates, sloops and many smaller vessels were despatched to English ports, and the country's fear that the blockade of enemy ports would collapse due to lack of ships was ended.

The various squadrons were returned to their normal stations and some were disbanded to await further instructions. Perhaps, after the glory of Trafalgar, the second battle of Copenhagen was slow to catch the imagination of a public hungry for victories. But the results, and the severe setback to Napoleon's last hope of breaking the line of wooden-walls which stretched from the Channel ports to Biscay and from Gibraltar to the shores of Italy, were real enough.

The New Year arrived, and with it some of the victors came home.

For late January it was deceptively mild and peaceful in the little Cornish village of Zennor. Some said it was an omen for such a special occasion, for this part of the county was not noted for its placid weather. Zennor lay on the north shore of the peninsula, as different from Falmouth and its pastoral landscape of low hills, silver estuaries and lovely bays as could be imagined. Here was a savage coastline of cliffs and serried lines of jagged black rocks like broken teeth, where the sea boiled and thundered in constant unrest. In normal times, a bleak, uncompromising shore where many a fine ship had made its last and fatal landfall.

Zennor was a small place, owing its existence mainly to the land, as only the foolhardy sought to live from fishing, and there were many stones in the church to confirm as much.

Despite the chill, damp air, not a villager missed this particular day, when one of their own, the daughter of a respected local man who had been wrongly executed for speaking out on the freedoms of farm workers and others, was to be married.

The village had never seen such an occasion. At first glance there were more expensive carriages and horses than residents. The blue and white of sea officers rubbed shoulders with a few Royal Marines and some of the local garrison, while the gowns of the ladies were of a quality and style rarely seen in this proud but humble place.

The little twelfth-century church, more accustomed to farming festivals and local weddings, was packed. Even with extra chairs and stools brought from the dairy, some of the congregation had to remain outside in the timeless churchyard—as much a part of their heritage as the sea and the rolling fields which surrounded the village.

A young lieutenant bowed to Catherine as she entered the church on the arm of Captain Adam Bolitho. “If you will follow me, my lady!”

An organ was playing in the background when she reached her allotted place; she had noticed several heads leaning forward to watch her pass, then moving together for a quiet remark, or more gossip perhaps.

Strangely, it no longer mattered. She glanced across the church and thought she recognised some of Bolitho's captains. It must have been difficult for a few of them to reach this remote village, she thought. From Falmouth it was some forty miles, first north and through Truro on the main coaching road, then westward where with each passing mile the roads became narrower and more rutted. She smiled to herself. Nancy's husband, “The King of Cornwall,” had performed magnificently, living up to his name by obtaining the full co-operation of the local squire, willingly or otherwise. He had offered his spacious house, not only for many of the guests to stay overnight, but had also joined with Roxby in providing such a spread of food and drink there that it would be talked about for years to come.

She said quietly, “I am so glad it is a fine day for them.” She watched Adam's profile and remembered what Bolitho had told her, that he seemed troubled by something. “Look at poor Val! He would rather face another battle than stand and be still like this!”

Keen was standing by the small altar, with his brother beside him. Like his two sisters in the church, the other man was fair; and it appeared odd, in this gathering, for him not to be wearing uniform, but Catherine knew he was a distinguished barrister in London.

Adam said, “I shall have to leave soon after the wedding, Catherine.” He glanced at her, and she felt her heart leap at the resemblance as it always did. So like Richard; or perhaps all the Bolithos were cast in the same mold.

“So soon?” She laid her hand on his sleeve. The young hero who said that he had all he had ever dreamed of; but for a few moments he had looked quite lost, like the boy he had once been.

He smiled at her—Bolitho's smile. “It is the burden of every frigate captain, I'm told. Turn your back and the admiral will poach your best men for some other captain. You find only the sweepings of the press if you stay away too long.”

It was not the reason, and she knew that he realised she understood as much. He said suddenly, “I want to tell you, Catherine.” He gripped her hand. “You of all people—I know you—care.”

She returned the pressure on his hand. “When you are ready, you will share it perhaps.”

There were more whispers by the altar. She sat silently, studying the ancient ceiling of Cornish barrel vaulting, recalling the famous legend of this place. It was said that a mermaid had once sat in the back of the church and lost her heart to a chorister here. Then one day she had lured him out to the little stream which ran through the village and down into the sea at Pendour Cove. They were never seen again; but even now it was claimed by many that you could hear the lovers singing together when the sea was calm . . . like today.

She smiled wistfully as Keen turned and gazed up the aisle, a brave, distinguished figure in the cool winter light reflecting against these old stone walls. Theirs was a role reversed, surely? Zenoria had been his mermaid, and he had plucked her from the sea to make her his own.

She saw Tojohns, Keen's coxswain, proudly dressed in his best jacket and breeches, wave a signal from the door. It was almost time. Beyond him she had seen Allday's familiar figure. Did he feel a little neglected, she wondered? Or was he, like herself, trying not to think of that other marriage that could never be? She touched her finger where Somervell's ring had been. They must not waste a day or an hour, whenever they were together. All those years which had been denied them could never be lived again.

There was a sound of distant cheering, and someone ringing a cow bell. Then carriage wheels on the rough track, and she felt a burning pride as the cheers grew louder, not for the bride this time but for her man. The hero whom even a stranger could recognise and make his own.

She wished they could be alone afterwards, escape back to Falmouth after the wedding, but it was impossible. Forty miles on these roads in the darkness was a sure way of ending everything.

Catherine turned and watched their shadows in the bright sunlight of the ancient doorway, and put her hand to her breast.

“What a lovely creature she is, Adam.” She turned to speak further and then made herself face the aisle, as Bolitho with Zenoria on his arm moved slowly into the body of the church.

It was no imagination. Perhaps another woman might have been mistaken; and Catherine found herself wishing it were so.

But she had seen the look on Adam's face before, on Bolitho's in those difficult, reckless days . . .

Adam was in love all right, with the girl who was about to marry Valentine Keen.

Richard Bolitho looked down at the girl and said, “A promise kept. I said I would give you away. It is a coming-together of so many hopes!”

What had she been thinking on the endless journey by coach, and now along the aisle's weathered stones where so many generations had trod? There seemed only happiness.

He saw familiar faces and smiles, his sister Nancy already dabbing at her eyes as he had known she would. Ferguson and his wife Grace, people from the estate side by side with officers high and low. Even the port admiral from Plymouth had made an appearance, and was sharing a pew with Midshipman Segrave— a suddenly older and more confident young man who would be standing for lieutenant when he returned to the ship.

He smiled at Allday and knew he would have liked to be in charge today as was Keen's own coxswain, organising a carriage decked with ribbons, to be drawn on boat ropes by some of Keen's midshipmen and petty officers to carry them to the squire's house.

He saw a dark shadow slip along the wall and enter the pew shared by Adam and Catherine; he sat among other shadows with his face half averted and the collar of his boat-cloak turned up. He did not need to be told it was Tyacke, paying his respects in his own special way, no matter what the cost to himself. A true friend, he thought with sudden affection and admiration.

He touched his injured eye and tried to ignore it. It was pricking painfully in the smoke of the many candles which lined the church.

There were many others in the shadows today who would remain equally silent. Friends he would never see again; would never be able to share with Catherine.

Francis Inch, John Neale, Charles Keverne, Farquhar, Veitch, and now poor Browne . . . with an “e.” And so many more.

He thought too of Herrick, who would be at his own home recovering from a flesh wound, but with a far harder disablement to endure forever.

He gave his place to Keen as the clergyman, whom he did not know, opened his book and beamed nervously at the unusually illustrious congregation.

Bolitho stood beside Catherine and they clasped hands as the familiar words were spoken and repeated, and the ring was offered and received to seal their vows to one another.

Then the ancient bells were chiming overhead and people were leaning out of the pews to call their best wishes to the bridal couple.

Bolitho said, “Wait a while, Kate.” He saw that Adam had already gone, and of Tyacke there was no sign, although almost lost in the joyful clamour of the bells he heard the beat of hooves as he galloped away; like the devil's highwayman, he thought.

“Young Matthew will bring the carriage for us after the others have left.”

He looked past her at the empty church, a child's glove fallen between some stacked Bibles.

“What is it?” She watched him, waiting, believing he had seen and recognised Adam's despair.

He said quietly, “This is for you.” He raised her hand and held the ring above it, a glistening band of diamonds and rubies. “In the eyes of God we
are
married, dearest Kate. It is right that it should be here.”

Allday watched from the porchway. Like young lovers.

He grinned. And why not? A sailor and his woman. There was no stronger bond.

And he shared their joy: and somehow, it dispelled his own envy.