Authors: Alexander Kent
Herrick watched him as if seeking a trap. “As your second-in-command I will be ready
if
we are called to battle. But I still believe you are misguided.”
Bolitho said despairingly, “You are not listening, man! I am not commanding you, I am asking for your help!” He saw Herrick's astonishment as he exclaimed, “In God's name, Thomas, must I plead?
I am going blind,
or did that piece of gossip rouse no interest amongst you?”
Herrick gasped, “I had no ideaâ”
Bolitho looked away and shrugged. “I will trouble you to keep it to yourself.” He swung round, his voice harsh. “But if I fall, you must lead these men, you will make them perform miracles if need beâare you listening now?”
There was a tap at the door, and Bolitho shouted,
“Yes?”
His anguish tore the word from his throat.
Keen entered and glanced between them. “Signal from
Phaedra,
sir, repeated by
Tybalt.
”
Herrick asked quickly, “What of
La Mouette?
”
Keen was looking only at Bolitho. He guessed what had happened, and wanted to share it with him.
He answered abruptly, “She is down.”
Bolitho met his gaze, grateful for the interruption. He had almost broken that time.
“News, Val?”
“There is an enemy squadron on the move, Sir Richard. Heading west.”
Herrick asked, “How many?”
Still Keen avoided his eyes. “
Phaedra
has not yet reported. She is damaged after a stern-chase.” He took a step towards him, then let his arms fall to his sides. “They are Spanish, Sir Richard. Sail of the line, that we do know.”
Bolitho ran his fingers through his hair and asked, “How many ships does Nelson have?”
Keen looked at him, and then his eyes cleared with understanding.
“It was last reported as two dozen of the line, Sir Richard. The French and their Spanish ally are said to have over thirty, which will include some of the largest first-rates afloat.”
Bolitho listened to the moan of the wind.
Divide and conquer.
How well Villeneuve had planned it. And now with this new formation of ships, discovered only accidentally by
Phaedra,
Nelson's fleet would be overwhelmed and hopelessly outnumbered.
He said simply, “If they slip through the Strait we may never catch them in time.” He looked at Keen. “Signal
Phaedra
to close on the Flag.” He caught his arm as he made to leave. “When that brave little ship draws close enough, spell out
well done.
”
When Keen left Herrick said with sudden determination, “I am ready. Tell me what to do.”
Bolitho stared through the stained windows. “Minimum signals, Thomas. As we discussed.”
“But your eyesight?” Herrick sounded wretched.
“Oh no,
not any more,
Thomas. Little
Phaedra
has lifted my blindness. But hear me. If my flag comes down,
Benbow
will take the van.”
Herrick nodded. “Understood.”
Bolitho said, “So hold back your conscience, my friend, and together we may yet win the day!”
He turned to look at the breaking wave-crests, and did not move until he heard the door shut.
Bolitho put his signature to his final letter and stared at it for several minutes.
The swell was as steep as before, but the wind had lessened, so that the hull seemed to rise and fall with a kind of ponderous majesty. He glanced at the quarter windows as a pale shaft of sunlight penetrated the sea-mist and showed up the salt stains on the glass like ice-rime. He hoped the sun would break through completely before the day ended. The air was heavy with damp; hammocks, clothing, everything.
He reread the last of the letter which
Phaedra
would carry to the fleet. He tried to picture Nelson eventually reading it, understanding as a sailor, better than any other, what Bolitho's ships and men were trying to do.
He had finished with,
“And I thank you, my lord, for offering my nephew, who is most dear to me, the same inspiration you have given to the whole fleet.”
He pushed it aside for Yovell to seal and turned the other letter over in his fingers, while he imagined Catherine's dark eyes as she read the words, his declaration of love
which now can never die.
There would be many letters going in
Phaedra.
What would Herrick say to his Dulcie, he wondered? Their parting yesterday had left a bad taste. Once, such a thing would have seemed impossible. Maybe people did change, and he was the one who was mistaken.
Keen would have written to his Zenoria. It was a great comfort that she would be with Catherine. He stood up, suddenly chilled to the marrow despite the damp, humid air.
Nothing must happen to Val.
Not after what they had shared. The pain and the joy, the fulfilment of a dream which had been snatched from Keen and had left him like half a man. Until Zenoria. The girl with the moonlit eyes; another whose love had been forged from suffering.
Keen looked in. “
Phaedra
's captain is come aboard, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho faced the door as Dunstan almost bounded into the cabin.
A young man of tireless energy, and certainly one of the scruffiest captains Bolitho had ever laid eyes on.
“It was good of you to come.” Bolitho held out his hand. “I believe it was intended we should pass the despatches over by line and tackle.”
Dunstan beamed and looked around the cabin. “I thought, damn the sea, Sir Richard. I'll go myself.”
Bolitho gestured to the letters. “I place these in your hands. There is one for Lord Nelson. When you have run him to ground I would wish you to present it to him personally.” He gave a quick smile. “It seems I am fated not to meet him in person!”
Dunstan took the letter and stared at it as if he expected it to look different from all the others.
Bolitho said, “I am told that you had some casualties.”
“Aye, Sir Richard. Two killed, another pair cut down by splinters.”
For just a moment Bolitho saw the young man behind the guise of captain. The memory and the risks, the moment of truth when death sings in the air.
Dunstan added, “I'm only sorry I could not linger to estimate the full array of Spanish vessels.” He shrugged. “But that damn frigate was at my coat-tails, and the mist hid many of the enemy.”
Bolitho did not press him. Keen would have laid all of his findings and calculations alongside his own on
Hyperion
's charts.
Dunstan said, “It struck me that war is an odd game, Sir Richard. It was just a small fight by today's standard, but how strange the contestants.”
Bolitho smiled. “I know. A captured British frigate fighting under Spanish colours against a French prize beneath our own flag!”
Dunstan looked at him squarely. “I would ask that you send another to seek out Lord Nelson. My place is here with you.”
Bolitho took his arm. “I need the fleet to know what is happening, and my intention to prevent these ships of yours from joining with Villeneuve. It is vital. In any case I can spare nobody else.”
He shook his arms gently. “
Phaedra
has done enough. For me, and for us all. Remember that well and tell your people.”
Dunstan nodded, his eyes searching Bolitho's face as if he wanted to remember the moment.
He said, “Then I shall leave, Sir Richard.” Impetuously he thrust out his hand. “God be with you.”
For a long while afterwards Bolitho stood alone in the cabin, watching the sloop-of-war as she went about, her gunports awash as she took the wind into her courses and topsails.
He heard distant cheers, from
Phaedra
or the other ships he could not tell.
He sat down and massaged his eye, hating its deception.
Allday clumped into the cabin and regarded him dubiously.
“She's gone then, Sir Richard?”
“Aye.” Bolitho knew he must go on deck. The squadron was waiting. They must assume their proper formation long before dusk. He thought of his captains. How would they react? Perhaps they doubted his ability, or shared Herrick's opposition to his intentions.
Allday asked, “So, it's important?”
“It could well be, old friend.” Bolitho looked at him fondly. “If we head them off, they
must fight.
If they have already outrun us then we shall give chase.”
Allday nodded, his eyes faraway. “Nothin' new then.”
Bolitho grinned, tension slipping away like soft sand in a glass.
“No, nothing new! My God, Allday, they could do with you in Parliament!”
By the next morning the weather had changed yet again. The wind had veered and stood directly from the east. That at least put paid to any hope of beating back to Toulon.
The squadron, lying comfortably on the starboard tack, headed north-west with the Balearic Islands lying somewhere beyond the starboard bow.
Sixth in the line leading his own ships, Rear-Admiral Herrick had been up since dawn, unable to sleep, and unwilling to share his doubts with Captain Gossage.
He stood in one corner of
Benbow
's broad quarterdeck and watched the ships ahead. They made a fine sight beneath an almost clear sky, broken only by fleecy patches of cloud. His face softened as he remembered his mother, in the little house where he had been born in Kent.
Watch the big sheep, Tommy!
She had always said that.
Herrick looked around at the busy seamen, the first lieutenant in a close conversation with several warrant officers about today's work.
What would that dear, tired old lady think of her Tommy now?
Captain Gossage crossed the deck, his hat tilted at the jaunty angle which he seemed to favour.
Herrick did not wish to pass the time in idle conversation. Each turn of the log was taking his ships further westward. He felt uneasy, as if he had suddenly been stripped of his authority. He shaded his eyes to peer across the starboard nettings. Their one remaining frigate was far away from the squadron.
Tybalt
would be the first to sight any enemy shipping. He bit his lip until it hurt. If the enemy had not already slipped past them. Slamming a door after the horse had bolted.
Gossage remarked, “I suppose that
Phaedra
's captain was not mistaken, sir?”
Herrick glared. “Well, somebody sunk
La Mouette,
he did not imagine that!”
Gossage grunted. “Had we been relieved from the Maltese station we would have been at Gibraltar anyway, sir. Then our ships would have had the honourâ”
Herrick snapped, “Honour be damned! Sir Richard Bolitho is not the kind of man to seize glory for himself!”
Gossage raised his eyebrows, “Oh, I see, sir.”
Herrick turned away, quietly fuming.
No, you don't.
Try as he might he could not tear his thoughts from the twenty-odd years that he had known Bolitho.
All the battles, some hard-won, others surprisingly kind to them. Bad wounds, old friends lost or maimed, sea-passages and landfalls when at times they had wondered if they might ever walk ashore again. Now it had gone rotten, thrown away because ofâ
Gossage tried again. “My wife wrote to me and says that there is talk of Sir Richard being relieved.”
Herrick stared at him. Dulcie had said nothing of the kind.
“When?”
Gossage smiled. He had caught his admiral's attention at last.
“Next year, sir. The fleet will be reformed, the squadrons allocated differently. In this article she readâ”
Herrick gave a cold grin. “Bloody rubbish, man! Sir Richard and I have been hearing the bleats of shorebound experts all our lives. God damn it, the day weâ”
The masthead yelled, “Deck there! Signal from Flag!”
A dozen telescopes rose as one and the signals midshipman called, “
General,
sir!
Have
Tybalt
in sight to the north!
”
Gossage hissed to the officer-of-the-watch, “Why in hell's name did they sight her first?”
Herrick smiled wryly. “Acknowledge it.” To the first lieutenant he called, “Send a good master's mate aloft, Mr O'Shea!”
The lieutenant turned as if to confirm the order with Gossage but Herrick snapped, “Just do it!”
He moved away, his hands grasped behind his back. He had never got used to flag rank, nor had he expected it, no matter what flattering things Dulcie had said about the matter.