The Only Victor Read online

  He saw sunlight flashing on glass and knew they were watching Truculent’s slow approach, as surprised by his flag at the fore as Varian had been.

  Captain Poland joined him by the side.

  He said, “Do you think it will be a long campaign, Sir Richard?”

  He spoke with elaborate care, and Bolitho guessed he was probably wondering what had passed between himself and Varian in the cabin. Bolitho lowered the telescope and faced him.

  “I have had some dealings with the army in the past, Captain. They are more used to campaigns than I care for. A battle is one thing—you win or you strike. But all this drawn-out business of supplies and marching is not for me.”

  Poland gave a very rare smile. “Nor me, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho turned to look for Jenour. “You may signal for water lighters when you are anchored, Captain. A word of praise to your people will not come amiss either. It was an admirable passage.”

  A shaft of sunlight like the blade of a lance swept down on them as the Afterguard hauled over the great driver-boom.

  Bolitho gritted his teeth. Nothing. They had to be wrong. There was nothing. He could see the other ships plainly in spite of the unwavering glare.

  Jenour watched him and felt his heart thumping against his ribs. Then he saw Allday coming aft, the old sword protruding from his polishing cloth.

  Their exchange of glances was swift but complete. Was it too soon to hope? For all their sakes?

  The two frigates rounded-up and anchored in the late afternoon considerably earlier than even the taciturn Mr Hull had predicted. As signals were made and exchanged, boats lowered and awnings spread, Bolitho watched from the quarterdeck, his mind exploring the task which lay ahead.

  It was strange how the land never seemed to draw any closer, and because of the difficult anchorage it gave an impression of brooding defiance. The point to the north-west which had been selected for the first assault was a good choice, possibly the only one. Bolitho had examined the charts with great care, as well as the maps supplied to him by the Admiralty. Up there at Saldanha Bay the coastal waters were shallow and protected enough to land soldiers and marines under the cover of men-of-war, which could offer fire. But once ashore the true difficulty would begin. Saldanha Bay was one hundred miles from Cape Town. Foot soldiers, some sick and weary from weeks and weeks at sea in their cramped quarters between decks, would be in no fit state to march and skirmish all the way to Cape Town. The Dutch were excellent fighters and would harry rather than confront them every mile. When they finally reached the Cape, the enemy would be ready and waiting. It seemed unlikely that any large force of Dutch soldiers would be sent to contest the landings. It would leave them in danger of being cut off by this supporting squadron.

  Bolitho felt his impatience returning. A campaign then, lengthy and costly. A war of supply-lines, to be fought by soldiers, many of whom had been confined to garrison duties in the Indies. The Islands of Death, as the army called them, where more men died of fever than under the enemy’s fire.

  Jenour strode aft and touched his hat. “Your despatch to the general has gone, Sir Richard, taken by the courier schooner Miranda this moment.”

  Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the small and graceful schooner tacking away from the other vessels, her commander doubtless grateful to be free of other authority, albeit for only a few days.

  Bolitho watched the redness of evening spreading along the glittering horizon, the masts and yards of the small squadron suddenly like bronze. Ashore telescopes would have observed Truculent’s arrival as they had doubtless studied all the others.

  He remarked, “You are in irons, Stephen, so why not spit out what you think?”

  But for his self-control, Jenour would have blushed. Bolitho always knew. It was pointless to pretend.

  “I—I thought—” He licked his dry lips. “I would have thought that the Commodore might have requested to come aboard.” He fell silent under Bolitho’s scrutiny.

  Bolitho said, “In his place I would have done just that.” He recalled Captain Varian’s tactless remark. “Call away the gig, Stephen. My compliments to Captain Poland and explain that I am going across to Themis.”

  Fifteen minutes later, sweating steadily in his dress coat and hat, he sat in the gig’s sternsheets with Jenour beside him, and a critical Allday crouching with the boat’s coxswain.

  As they pulled slowly abeam of the other ships, Bolitho saw officers-of-the-watch doffing their hats, motionless figures in shrouds and rigging staring in silence, their bare arms and shoulders like parts of the bronze around them.

  Allday leaned forward, his mouth just inches from Bolitho’s ear.

  “Y’see, they knows, Sir Richard. Only here an hour an’ the word has gone through the whole squadron!” He saw one of the oarsmen staring at him and scowled over Bolitho’s epaulette. The man dropped his gaze and almost lost the stroke. He had probably been surprised at seeing a seaman, even an admiral’s personal coxswain, chatting with his master, while the latter even turned his head to listen.

  Bolitho nodded. “Lord Nelson will be sadly missed. We’ll not see his like in our lifetime.”

  Allday leaned back again and rolled his tongue inside his cheek to restrain a grin. I’m not too sure o’ that, he thought.

  Bolitho watched the Themis’s bowsprit and tapering jib-boom sweeping out to greet them. She was an old ship and had been employed on every sort of duty other than the line of battle. Originally a sixty-four, she had been stripped of some of her armament while she was carrying soldiers from one trouble spot to the next; she had even been to the penal colony in New South Wales. Transport, receiving ship, and now with the war demanding everything that would stay afloat, she was here, part of the invading force.

  Jenour bit his lip and tried to relax. He had seen the assembled guard at the entry port, the glitter of red sunlight on drawn swords. An air of wariness.

  Bolitho waited while the bowman hooked on to the main chains, then pulled himself up to the entry port, immediately deafened by the bark of commands, the chorus of squealing calls, which sailors termed “Spithead Nightingales.” He no longer needed to look for Allday to know he was there, ready to reach out if he lost his footing, or if his eye . . . No. He would not think about it.

  The din faded away and he raised his hat to the poop, where the White Ensign made a lively dance against the hot sky.

  The officer who stepped forward to present himself wore the epaulette of commander. He was old for his rank and had possibly been passed over for captain.

  “I bid you welcome, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho smiled briefly. Allday was right. There were no secrets.

  “Where is the Commodore?” He glanced up at the curling pendant. “Is he unwell?”

  The commander, whose name was Maguire, looked uncomfortable. “He sends his apologies, Sir Richard. He awaits you in his cabin.”

  Bolitho nodded to the other officers and turned aside to Jenour. “Remain here. Discover what you can.” He patted his arm but did not smile. “I am certain Allday will do likewise!”

  Maguire led the way to the companion ladder and almost bowed as Bolitho walked aft, where a Royal Marine sentry drew his heels together with the precision of a bolt snapping shut.

  There was nothing slack about the old Themis. It was just as if she did not belong. Maybe too many tasks in far-flung stations, too long away from home. As far as Bolitho could gather, the ship had not returned to England for fifteen years, so God alone knew what state her lower hull was in.

  The screen doors were opened by a black servant and Bolitho received another surprise. During her role as accommodation ship they must have removed some of the armament from aft to enlarge the officers’ quarters. Now, with her gunports filled only with wooden “quakers,” the shortened muzzles of which might deceive another vessel at long-range, or even a landsman walking on a dockside, the after accommodation was huge, and contained nothing more war-like than furniture and a
stand of muskets.

  Commodore Arthur Warren walked from a screened-off cabin and exclaimed, “Sir Richard. What must you think of me?”

  Bolitho was shocked by what he saw. He had never really known Warren as a friend, but he guessed him to be about his own age. But the officer in the loose-fitting coat, whose lined face had somehow defied the suns of so many fierce climates, was an old man.

  The door closed, and apart from the watchful servant, who wore a red waistcoat above his duck trousers, they were alone. The elderly commander had taken his leave without dismissal. It was no wonder that the confident Captain Varian had seen this squadron as his own future responsibility.

  Bolitho said, “Please be seated.” He waited while the other officer beckoned to his servant and some finely-cut Spanish goblets were filled with red wine. Warren then seated himself. One leg was thrust out, as if in pain, his left hand hidden beneath his coat. He was not sick, Bolitho thought. He was dying.

  Bolitho raised his goblet. “Your health, sir. Everyone seems to know I am here, even though the news of Trafalgar has not reached them.”

  The wine was rough and brackish, but he barely noticed it.

  Once he had been a flag captain to Rear-Admiral Sir Charles Thelwall in the big three-decker Euryalus. Bolitho had been made to work doubly hard because his admiral’s health had deteriorated over the months at sea. He had admired Thelwall and had been saddened to see him step ashore for the last time with only a short while left to live. Bolitho was only glad that the admiral had been spared what had happened that year, the mutinies throughout the fleet at the Nore and Spithead, Plymouth and Scotland. No captain had ever forgotten. Nor would they, unless they were inviting disaster.

  But the admiral had looked and sounded like Warren now. As he swallowed some wine he struggled to contain a deep, tearing cough, and when he took his handkerchief from his lips Bolitho knew the stains on it were not all wine.

  “I would not trouble you, sir, but if you wish I could send for another surgeon from Truculent. He seems an excellent man from the talks I had with him.”

  Warren’s face stiffened with pathetic determination. “I am well enough, Sir Richard. I know my duty!”

  Bolitho looked away. This ship is all he has. The temporary title of commodore the only triumph he has known. He tried to harden his mind, to shut out the pity he could feel and understand.

  He said, “I have sent a despatch to the main squadron. I am ordered here to withdraw certain ships for service in home waters.” He thought he saw a small gleam of hope in Warren’s faded eyes and added gently, “Frigates, not this ship. There has to be a strategy for taking and then defending Cape Town, without prolonging it into a siege which only the Dutch can win.”

  Warren said huskily, “The army won’t like that, Sir Richard. Sir David Baird is said to be a forceful general.”

  Bolitho thought of the letter locked in his strong-box aboard Truculent. Not signed by some senior Secretary or Lord of Admiralty; not this time. It was signed by the King, and even though the uncharitable hinted amongst themselves that His Majesty often did not know what he was putting his signature to these days, it still held the ultimate power and opened all doors.

  “I shall cross that bridge in due course. In the meantime I would like to shift to this ship.” He held up his hand as Warren made to protest. “Your broad pendant will still fly. But as someone once said, I need room to bustle in!”

  Warren held down another bout of coughing and asked, “What must I do? You have my word that I will serve you well. And if Captain Varian has told you—”

  Bolitho retorted calmly, “I have been in the King’s service since I was twelve. Somewhere along the way I learned to form my own opinions.” He stood up and walked to an open port and stared along the false wooden muzzle at the nearest ship, another frigate. “But I have to tell you, Commodore Warren, I’ll not waste anyone’s life because we have not tried to do our best. Throughout the navy, loyal seamen and marines, officers too, will be shocked and disappointed that after Trafalgar, victory is not complete. In my view it will take years before the tyranny of France and her jackals is finally routed!”

  He realised that Warren and the silent servant were both staring at him and that he had raised his voice.

  He forced a smile. “Now I must ask you to forgive me. It is just that I have seen so many fine ships lost, brave men dying for the wrong reasons, some cursing those who despatched them in the first place. While I direct what is to be done here, those who forget the hard lessons of war will answer to me.” He picked up his hat. “Just as one day I will answer to God, I have no doubt.”

  “A moment, Sir Richard!” Warren seized his own hat from the black servant and followed him into the shadows of the halfdeck.

  Before they reached the entry port he said in his halting tones, “I am honoured, Sir Richard.” His voice was suddenly firmer than Bolitho had heard before. “I am unused to this sort of work, but I will do all I can. So shall my people!”

  Jenour saw Bolitho’s grave smile as he walked out into the strange sunlight. It gave him a twinge of excitement, like those other times, when up to now he had been expecting a dull and undemanding role for the man he had always looked up to, even before he had laid eyes on him.

  When he had told his parents in Southampton that he intended one day to personally serve Bolitho in some capacity, they had chuckled at his innocence. The chuckles had gone now. There was only the concern which was the legacy of all those with young sons away at war.

  Commodore Warren walked off to seek his commander; his cut-down Themis did not warrant a flag captain apparently. Bolitho took his flag lieutenant aside.

  “We are coming aboard, Stephen.” He saw no surprise on Jenour’s open features. “For the present at least. Fetch the others from Truculent . . . I fear that Mr Yovell will be writing throughout the night. And find a good signals midshipman aboard this ship—it does not look well to employ strangers. Tomorrow I want all captains on board at eight bells, so warn them before nightfall. Send the guardboat if you will.”

  Jenour could barely keep up with him. Bolitho seemed tireless, as if his mind were breaking out of a self-made prison.

  Bolitho added, “The enemy know we are about—they have all day to watch us. I intend to discover what is happening around the Cape where the other anchorage lies. I feel the remedy may be there, rather than a hundred-mile struggle from Saldanha Bay. I do not know these captains here, and there is little time to do so. As you are aware, Stephen, in my despatch to the army I requested that the attack be delayed.”

  Jenour watched the eyes, lighter grey now as he turned towards the open sea. Like the ocean itself, he thought.

  He said, “But you do not believe that the general will agree?”

  Bolitho clapped him on the arm like a boyish conspirator. “We will act independently.” His face was suddenly introspective. “As this is a day for remembering Nelson, let us use his own words. The boldest measures are usually the safest!”

  That night Bolitho sat by the stern windows of the cabin—which had once been used by no less than a governor-general, who had fled on board to escape the plague which had broken out amongst the islands he controlled—and watched the ships’ riding lights with no inclination to sleep.

  The air was heavy and humid, and as a guardboat pulled slowly amongst the anchored squadron, he thought instead of Cornwall, of the bitter wind on the night when she had come to him. Just over a month ago, no more; and now he was here in the shadow of Africa, and they were separated again at the whim of others.

  Did they need his skills so much that they could overlook his contempt for them? Or, like Nelson, would they prefer a dead hero to a living reminder of their own failings?

  The deck quivered as the anchor cable took the sudden strain of a faster current. Allday had not been very optimistic about shifting to the old sixty-four. The company had been aboard too long, pressed from passing merchantmen in the Caribbean, surviv
ors from other vessels, even pardoned prisoners from the courts of Jamaica.

  Like Warren, the ship was worn out, and suddenly thrust into a role she no longer recognised. Bolitho had seen the old swivel-gun mountings on either gangway. Not facing a possible enemy but pointing inboard, from the time when she had carried convicts and prisoners-of-war from a campaign already forgotten.

  He thought he heard Ozzard pattering about in his newly-occupied pantry. So he could not sleep either. Still remembering Hyperion’s last moments—or was he nursing his secret, which Bolitho had sensed before that final battle?

  Bolitho yawned and gently massaged his eye. It was strange, but he could not clearly remember why Ozzard had not been on deck when they had been forced to clear the ship of the survivors and the wounded.

  He thought too of his flag captain and firm friend, Valentine Keen, his face full of pain, not at his own injury but for his vice-admiral’s despair.

  If only you were here now, Val.

  But his words went unspoken, for he had fallen asleep at last.

  3 THE ALBACORA

  AN ONLOOKER, had there been one, might have compared the little topsail schooner Miranda with a giant moth. But apart from a few screaming and wheeling gulls, there was none to see her as she came about in a great welter of bursting spray, her twin booms swinging over to refill the sails on the opposite tack.

  She leaned so far to leeward that the sea was spurting through her washports, rising even above her bulwark to surge along the streaming planking, or breaking over the four-pounder guns like waves on rocks.

  It was wild and exhilarating, the air filled with the din of sea and banging canvas, with only the occasional shouted command, for nothing superfluous was needed here. Each man knew his work, aware of the ever-present dangers: he could be flung senseless against some immovable object to suffer a cracked skull or broken limbs, or be pitched overboard by a treacherous wave as it burst over the bows and swept along like a mill-race. Miranda was small and very lively, and certainly no place for the unwary or the inexperienced.