The Only Victor (2 page)

He heard the shrill of calls again and could picture the orderly bustle on deck as the sails were sheeted home, the slackness shaken from braces and halliards. At heart he was perhaps still a frigate captain, as he had been when Allday had been brought aboard as a pressed man. Since then, so many leagues sailed, too many faces wiped away like chalk off a slate.

He saw the first hint of light on the crests, the spray leaping away on either quarter as the dawn began to roll down from the horizon.

Bolitho stood up and leaned his hands on the sill to stare more closely at the sea's face.

He recalled as if it were yesterday an admiral breaking the painful truth to him, when he had protested about the only appointment he could beg from the Admiralty after recovering from his terrible fever.

“You
were
a frigate captain, Bolitho . . .” Twelve years ago, maybe more.

Eventually he had been given the old
Hyperion,
and then probably only because of the bloody revolution in France and the war which had followed it, and which had raged almost without respite until this very day.

And yet
Hyperion
was the one ship which was to change his life. Many had doubted his judgment when he had pleaded for the old seventy-four as his last flagship. From captain to vice-admiral; it had seemed the right choice. The only choice.

She had gone down last October, leading Bolitho's squadron in the Mediterranean against a much more powerful force of Spanish ships under the command of an old enemy, Almirante Don Alberto Casares. It had been a desperate battle by any standards, and the outcome had never been certain from the first broadsides.

And yet, impossibly, they had beaten the Dons, and had even taken some prizes back to Gibraltar.

But the old
Hyperion
had given everything she had, and could offer no further resistance. She was thirty-three years old when the great ninety-gun
San Mateo
had poured the last broadside into her. Apart from a short period as a mastless stores hulk, she had sailed and fought in every sea where the flag was challenged. Some rot in her frames and timbers, deep down in her worn hull, undiscovered by any dockyard, had finally betrayed her.

In spite of everything Bolitho had witnessed and endured during a lifetime at sea, it was still too hard to accept that she was gone.

He had heard some say that but for his judgment in holding and defeating the Spanish squadron, the enemy would have joined with the Combined Fleet off Trafalgar. Then perhaps even brave Nelson could not have triumphed. Bolitho had not known how to react. More flattery? After Nelson's death he had been sickened to watch the same people who had hated him and despised him for his liaison with
that Hamilton woman
sing his praises the highest and lament his passing.

Like so many he had never met the little admiral who had raised the hearts of his sailors even in the squalor most of them endured on endless blockade duty or firing gun-to-gun with an enemy. Nelson had
known
his men, and given them the leadership they understood and needed.

He realised that Allday had padded from the cabin, and hated himself for bringing him out here on a mission which was probably fruitless.

Allday would not be moved.
My English oak.
Bolitho would only have hurt and insulted him if he had left him ashore at Falmouth. They had got this far together.

He touched his left eyelid and sighed. How would it torment him in the bright African sunlight?

He could recall the exact moment when he had faced the sun and his damaged eye had clouded over, as if a sea-mist had crept across the deck. He felt the chill of fear as he relived it: the Spaniard's sharp breathing as he lunged forward with a cutlass. The unknown sailor must have realised the fight was over, that his own shipmates were already flinging down their weapons in surrender. Maybe he had simply seen Bolitho's uniform as the enemy,
all authority everywhere,
which had brought him to this place of certain death.

Jenour, Bolitho's flag lieutenant, attempting to defend him, had had his sword struck from his hand, and there was nothing to stop the inevitable. Bolitho had waited for it, his old sword held out before him, and unable to see his would-be assassin.

But Allday had been there, and had seen everything. The Spaniard's cutlass had gone clattering across the blood-stained deck, his severed arm with it. Another blow had finished him. Allday's own revenge for the wound which had left him almost constantly in pain, unable to act as swiftly as he once did.

But abandon him, even out of kindness? Bolitho knew that only death would ever part them.

He pushed himself away from the window and picked up the fan from his sea-chest. Catherine's fan. She had made certain he had had it with him when he had boarded
Truculent
at Spithead.

What was she doing now, all those six thousand miles astern? It would be cold and bleak in Cornwall. Crouching cottages beyond the big grey house below Pendennis Castle. Winds from the Channel to shake the sparse trees on the hillside, the ones Bolitho's father had once called “my ragged warriors.” Farmers making good damage to walls and barns, fishermen at Falmouth repairing their boats, grateful for the written protection which kept them safe from the hated press gangs.

The old grey house would be Catherine's only sanctuary from the sneers and the gossip. Ferguson, the estate's one-armed steward, who had originally been pressed into naval service with Allday, would take good care of her. But you never knew for certain, especially in the West Country.

Tongues would wag.
Bolitho's woman. Wife of a viscount, who should be with him and not living like some sailor's whore.
They had been Catherine's own words, to prove to him that she did not care for herself but for
his
name and
his
honour. Yes, the ignorant ones were always the most cruel.

The only occasion when she had revealed bitterness and anger had been when he was called to London, to receive his orders. She had stared at him across the room they shared which overlooked the sea, that constant reminder, and had exclaimed, “Don't you
see
what they are doing to us, Richard?”

In her anger she was beautiful in a different way, her long dark hair in disorder across her white gown, her eyes blazing with hurt and disbelief. “It is Lord Nelson's funeral in a few days time.” She had stepped back from him as he had made to calm her. “No, listen to me, Richard! We shall have less than two weeks together, and much of that time spent on the road. You are worth a hundred of any of them, though I know you would never say it . . .
Damn their eyes!
You lost your old ship, you have given
everything,
but they are so afraid that you will refuse to attend the funeral unless you can take
me
with you, when they are expecting Belinda!”

Then she had broken and had let him hold her, his cheek in her hair like the time they had watched the first dawn together in Falmouth.

Bolitho had stroked her shoulders and had replied gently, “I would never allow anyone to insult you.”

She had not seemed to hear. “That surgeon who sailed with you—Sir Piers Blachford? He could help you, surely?” She had pulled his face to hers and kissed his eyes with sudden tenderness. “Dearest of men, you
must
take care.”

Now she was in Falmouth. Despite all the offered protection and love, a stranger nonetheless.

She had accompanied him to Portsmouth on that cold blustery forenoon; so much to say still unsaid. Together they had waited by the old sally-port, each aware that these same worn stairs had been Nelson's last contact with England. In the background, the carriage with the Bolitho crest on its doors waited with Matthew the coachman holding the horses' heads. The carriage was streaked with mud, as if to mark the time that they had spent together in its secret privacy.

Not always so secret.
Passing through Guildford on the way to London, some idlers had raised a cheer. “God bless you, Our Dick! Don't you mind they buggers in Lonnon, beggin' yer pardon, Ma'am!”

She had watched his reflection in the carriage window and had said quietly, “See! I am not the only one!”

As the frigate's gig had pulled strongly towards the sally-port she had clasped her arms around his neck, her face wet with rain and drifting spray.

“I love thee, dearest of men.” She had kissed him hard, unable to release him until the boat had hooked on with a noisy clatter. Then, and only then, had she turned from him, pausing just briefly to add, “Tell Allday I said to take good care of you.”

The rest was lost as if darkness had suddenly descended.

There was a sharp tap at the screen door.

Captain Poland stepped into the cabin, his cocked hat jammed beneath one arm.

Bolitho saw his eyes flit around the shadows, as if he expected to see his quarters completely changed or gutted.

Bolitho sat down again, his hands on the edge of the bench seat.
Truculent
was a fine ship, he thought. He pictured his nephew, Adam, and wondered if he had yet accepted the greatest gift, the command of his own frigate. His ship was probably commissioned by now, even at sea like this one. He would do well.

He asked, “News, Captain?”

Poland looked at him squarely. “Land in sight, Sir Richard. The Master, Mr Hull, thinks it is a perfect completion.”

Always the caution.
Bolitho had noticed it before when he had asked Poland to sup with him a few times during the voyage.

“And what do
you
think, sir?”

Poland swallowed hard. “I believe it to be true, Sir Richard.” He added as an afterthought, “The wind has dropped—it will take most of the day to stand close to the mainland. Even Table Mountain is only plainly visible from the fore-topmast.”

Bolitho reached for his coat, but decided against it. “I shall come up. You have performed a fast and exceptional passage, Captain. I shall say as much in my final despatches.”

It would have been comic at any other time to see the swift changes of thought and expression on Poland's sun-reddened features. A written compliment from the vice-admiral,
the hero,
which might facilitate an even quicker advancement for the captain.

Or might it be seen differently by those in office? That Poland had found favour with the same man who had flouted authority, left his wife for another and tossed honour to the winds . . .

But it was not
any other time,
and Bolitho said sharply, “So let us be about it, eh?”

On the quarterdeck Bolitho saw Jenour, his flag lieutenant, standing with the ship's officers, and marvelled at the change he had seen in him since his flag had been hoisted above
Hyperion.
A keen, likeable young man—the first in his family to enter the navy—Bolitho had once doubted if he would survive the campaign, and the battles they would have to share together. He had even heard it said that some of the “hard men” of the old ship's company had taken bets on how long Jenour would live.

But survive he had—more than that, he had come through it a man, a veteran.

It had been Jenour's beautiful sword, a gift from his father, which had been parried aside and jerked from his grip as he had run to Bolitho's aid, before Allday could bound forward and deliver the fatal stroke. Jenour had learned from that experience, and many others. Bolitho had noticed that since
Hyperion
's last fight, whenever the young man wore his sword, it carried a strong lanyard for his wrist as well as its decorative knot.

It was interesting, too, to see the respect with which
Truculent
's officers treated Jenour, although most of them were older and by far more senior. The thirty-six-gun frigate had been on constant patrol and convoy duty since Poland had taken command. But there was not a member of her wardroom who had ever been in a major fleet action.

Bolitho nodded to the officers and walked to the larboard gangway which, like the one on the opposite side, joined the quarterdeck with the forecastle. Beneath it the vessel's main armament was already being checked and inspected by the gunner and one of his mates. Poland was certainly thorough, Bolitho thought. He was by the rail now, his eyes on the barebacked seamen as they packed home the hammocks in the nettings like neat lines of pods. Some bodies were already brown, some showing a painful rawness from too much exposure to the unaccustomed glare.

The sun was rising as if from the ocean itself, the lines of low rollers curling away like molten copper.
Truculent
was already steaming, despite the lingering chill of night. She would look like a ghost-ship when the heat really enfolded her and every sail dried out in its intensity.

Bolitho pitied the officers on watch in their hats and heavy coats. Poland obviously believed that there was never a proper moment to relax any show of authority, no matter how uncomfortable. He wondered what they thought of his own casual rig. There would be time enough for pomp and tradition when he made contact with the fleet, which was allegedly assembled off the coast. For all they had seen on passage they could have been the only ship afloat.