A Tradition of Victory

by Alexander Kent

  As Searle vanished through the trap-door, Browne followed him, chilled instantly by the breeze across the headland.

  Searle was still fuming. “More sins have been committed by the church than any seaman, I shouldn’t wonder!”

  “You’re very cynical for one so young.”

  Browne walked to the parapet and stared towards the sea. As yet it was still too dark to see it. But for the tang of salt, and the liberal coating of gull droppings on the tower, they could have been anywhere.

  Searle chuckled. “My father is a clergyman. I should know.”

  Browne heard the thump of a body being hauled from the stairs and recalled that the French seaman had not even bothered to carry a weapon when Cooper, the cut-throat from Lime House, had killed him. He remembered the curious stares of the French people who had seen them marched along the road as prisoners.

  Why should they be on their guard? It was unlikely anyone in the north or west of England would anticipate being confronted by a Frenchman.

  “Sir!”

  “Not so loud!” Searle threw himself down on to the ladder.

  “What is it now?”

  “Someone comin’!”

  Browne hurried to the other parapet and peered down to where the entrance should be. There was a path of sorts, made of small pale stones from a nearby beach. As he watched he saw a shadow move over it, and seconds later heard a metallic clang at the door.

  “Hell’s teeth!” Searle struggled down to the stairs. “Earlier than I thought!”

  Browne followed and heard Searle say, “Shuffle your feet, Moubray! You, be ready to open the door!”

  Browne clung to the ladder, barely able to breathe. After the total darkness of the roof, the little drama below seemed suddenly clear and stark. Searle, his breeches very white against the old stone wall, the seaman Moubray, shifting his feet as he pretended to walk towards the door. The key squeaked noisily and the door swung inwards, the man outside calling something as he hurried out of the chill air.

  It all happened in a second, and yet to Browne it seemed as if the moment was frozen for a much longer time. The newcomer, another French sailor, standing mouth agape as he saw the half circle of crouching figures. Searle, his hanger drawn, while Jones, the gunner’s mate, held a musket above his head like a club.

  The picture broke up in short, frantic scenes. The Frenchman yelled and turned back towards the entrance, while Jones struck at him with the musket. But in the sudden tension they had all forgotten about the pool of blood which had run down the stairs when the first man had died. Jones gave a cry of alarm as his foot slipped from under him, the musket flew from his hands and exploded, the sound deafening in the confined space.

  Browne heard the ball crack against the stone wall, but not before it had hit Jones in the face.

  Searle yelled, “Get that man, you fool!”

  Cooper, small and deadly, threw himself down the steps, and seconds later they heard a terrible scream which was choked off instantly.

  Cooper came back, breathing fast, his dirk bloody in his fist.

  He gasped, “More o’ the buggers comin’, sir!”

  Jones was rolling on the floor, his blood mingling with that of the French sailor.

  Browne said sharply, “Take care of him!” To Searle he added rightly, “We shall have to shift ourselves now!”

  Searle had recovered his outward calm. “Harding, carry on with the fuses.”

  The second gunner’s mate darted a look at his friend and said harshly, “Not right, sir. In a church an’ all.”

  Searle plunged a hand into his coat and pulled out one of his pistols, and said coldly, “Don’t you talk to me like that, you super-stitious oaf. I’ll see you receive a checkered shirt at the gangway when we rejoin the ship, you’ve my word on that!”

  Fists and boots hammered at the door, and Browne said,

  “Keep away, lads.” He winced as a shot cracked into the stout door and more voices echoed around the building as if the dead had risen from their graves to seek revenge.

  Cooper said, “There’s another door at the far end, sir. Very small. I think it’s for fuel.”

  Searle snapped, “I’ll look at it. Cooper, come with me.” He glanced meaningly at Browne. “Watch ’em, Oliver. They’ll cut and run if they think they’re done for.”

  He strode off between the worn pillars of a doorway, his feet clicking on the flagstones as if he were on parade.

  Outside the church it was very quiet and still, whereas Browne was conscious of Harding’s irregular breathing as he cut his fuses, the occasional shuffle of feet on the ladder above the stairs as another seaman rammed home some of the charges.

  Harding whispered, “What you reckon they’m doin’, sir?” He did not look up, and his thick, scarred fingers were as gentle as a child’s as he worked to complete what his friend had begun.

  Browne guessed that some of the French seamen or prison guards had hurried away to tell the dragoons. It would not take long for them to reach here. He thought of the black horsehair plumes and long sabres, the air of menace which even at a distance the dragoons had roused.

  But he replied, “Waiting to see what we intend. They don’t know where we’re from or who we are, remember that.”

  Jones gave an agonized moan and Browne knelt over him.

  The musket ball had taken out one eye and a splinter of bone as large as a man’s thumb. The seaman named Nicholl held a piece of rag over the terrible wound, and even in the feeble lantern light Browne could see the gunner’s mate’s life ebbing away.

  Jones whispered, “Done for, look you. Stupid thing to do, isn’t it?”

  “Rest easy, Jones. You’ll be all right soon.”

  Jones gave a terrible cry and gasped, “Oh God, help me! ”

  Cooper returned and stared at him savagely. “If it worn’t for you droppin’ th’ musket, this wouldn’t ’ave ’appened, you Welsh bastard!”

  Searle appeared at that moment, his knees and chest covered in dirt.

  “There is a way out. Very small and not used for months, I’d say. Not since the navy commandeered this church, by the look of it.” He glanced at Harding. “How long?”

  “I’ve given it half an hour, sir.”

  Searle turned to Browne and sighed. “You see? Hopeless.” In a sharper tone he added, “Make it ten minutes, no more.”

  Then he looked thoughtfully at Browne. “After that, I’m not sure, Oliver.”

  Browne examined his pistols to give himself time. Searle was

  right in setting a short fuse. They had come to destroy the semaphore, to break the chain, and he guessed that most of them had not even expected to reach this far. But he wondered if he could have given the order with such cool authority.

  “We’ll leave.” As two of the men bent to pick up the groan-ing Jones, he added, “He’ll not get far.”

  Searle said, “A good gunner’s mate, but put him ashore …”

  He did not finish it.

  Carrying and dragging the luckless Jones they groped their way to the tiny door. When it was forced open Browne expected a fusilade of shots, and as Cooper thrust his thin body through it he had to clench his teeth as he waited for a blade to take him across the neck.

  But nothing happened, and Searle muttered, “The Frenchies are no better than Jones, it seems.”

  “Wait here.” Browne looked back at the curved doorway where Harding waited beside his fuses. “I’ll do it. Then we’ll make for the beach. You never know.”

  As Searle wriggled through the tiny door Browne felt suddenly alone and ill at ease.

  His shoes sounded like drumbeats as he joined Harding and asked, “Are you ready?”

  “Aye, sir.” Harding opened the lantern’s shutter and lit a slow-match which he had carried in his jacket. “You can’t trust ’em, sir. Not this short.” He stared into the shadows and added bitterly, “But some’ll not be told.”

  Browne watched fascinated as the gunner’s mate
swung the slow-match around until the end shone like a glowworm.

  Then he said, “Now.”

  The fuses began to hiss loudly, and the sparks seemed to be moving at a terrible speed.

  Harding grasped his sleeve. “Come on, sir! No time to dally!”

  They ran through the empty church, heedless of the noise or A

  their dignity. Hands dragged them out into the cold air, and Browne found time to notice that there were a few pale stars right overhead.

  Searle said, “We heard horses!”

  Browne stood up, it was too late for stealth. “Follow me, lads!”

  Then they were stooping and running, with Jones dangling between them like a corpse.

  Browne stared ahead and saw the prison wall. He veered away from it, and heard the others stumbling and cursing behind him.

  They were making a lot of noise, but it was just as well, he thought, as it helped to drown the sounds of pounding hoofs which were drawing rapidly closer.

  He managed to gasp, “They’ll make for the church first!”

  Searle replied jerkily, “I hope it blows them to hell!”

  Browne almost fell on wet grass as he ran towards the lip of the hill. The beach would be empty, but at least it was the sea.

  He heard the louder clatter of horses and guessed they had at last reached the road.

  Someone called, “Got to stop, sir! Poor Jones is dyin’!”

  They paused, gasping and wheezing like old men.

  Browne said, “We must keep on the move, it’s our only chance!”

  The gunner’s mate Harding shook his head. “S’no use. I’m stayin’ with me mate. They’ll catch us anyway.”

  Browne stared wildly at him. “They’ll cut you down! Don’t you see that?”

  Harding stood firm. “I wear the King’s coat, sir. I’ve done nowt but obey orders.”

  Browne tried to clear his mind, to remember how long they had been running since they had fired the fuses.

  He turned away. “Come along, the rest of you.”

  They reached the top of the path and heard the familiar hiss and gurgle of surf.

  As they plunged down the narrow path Browne thought he heard a shout, but it was lost immediately in a thunder of hoofs, and he knew the dragoons had found Harding and his dying friend.

  Seconds later came the explosion, deafening and terrible, like Harding’s revenge on his murderers. The whole hillside seemed to shake, and small stones rattled down the slope like musket balls.

  Searle said, “Get on ahead, Cooper.” He clutched at Browne for support. “No quarter if we’re taken. I hope it was worth it.”

  Above them the light died as suddenly as it had exploded, and Browne caught the stench of burned powder drifting with the wind.

  Cooper came back within minutes. “I found a boat, sir. No more’n a skiff, but better than nothin’.”

  Searle smiled in the darkness. “I’d swim rather than die here.”

  Cooper and Nicholl vanished into the gloom to find the boat, and Browne said, “I think some of the dragoons are still up there.”

  The explosion would have killed anybody within twenty yards of the church, he thought. But at dawn there would be soldiers by the hundred searching every cove and patch of cover.

  He wondered if any of the squadron were near enough to hear the explosion.

  Searle said, “I’ve got my breath, Oliver. Lead on.”

  They tramped past the camel-shaped rock and down towards the rocks where someone had beached a small boat. Smuggler or fisherman, Browne did not care. It was unlikely they would ever reach safety, but anything was better than waiting to be slaughtered.

  “Halte-là!”

  The voice cracked out of the darkness like a shot.

  Browne dragged Searle down beside him and pointed. “Up to the left!”

  It came again. “Qui va là?” But this time there was also a click of metal.

  Searle let out a sob of despair and anger. “Damn their bloody eyes!”

  Feet slipped and thudded over the rocks, and Browne heard one of the seamen yell, “Take that, you bugger!”

  He saw Nicholl shine suddenly in the blast of a musket fired at point-blank range, saw him drop his cutlass and fall dead.

  But in the flash Browne had seen three, perhaps four, French soldiers.

  “Ready?” He barely recognized his own voice. “Them or us!”

  Searle nodded violently, and together the two lieutenants rose to their feet, and with pistols drawn and cocked ran the last few yards along the beach.

  There were more shouts, which changed to screams as the pistols flashed across wet sand and brought two of the soldiers kicking amongst the rocks.

  Cooper’s wiry shape darted forward, and a choking cry announced another victim to his dirk.

  The remaining soldier threw down his musket and yelled at the top of his voice. That too was cut short with the suddenness of deafness, and the seaman named Moubray joined his lieutenants and cleaned his cutlass in the sand.

  “That were for Bill ’Arding, sir.”

  Browne tried to reload his pistols, but his hands were shaking so badly he had to give up.

  “Launch the boat, lads.”

  He saw Cooper stooping over a sprawled body, doubtless stealing something, he thought wearily.

  Then he grasped Cooper’s shoulder and pushed him roughly aside. “Help the others. It’ll be light very soon.”

  He dropped on one knee and peered at the corpse. It was the

  little commandant who had bade them farewell on this same beach. Well, they had met once again after all.

  Searle called, “What is it?”

  Browne stood up shakily. “Nothing.”

  Searle completed reloading his pistols without any difficulty.

  “You really are a marvel, Oliver.”

  Am I? Is that what you think?

  Browne followed him down to the small boat, but paused long enough to stare back at the dark shape which was already being lapped by the tide.

  For a moment longer Browne felt cheated and unclean. It was like leaving a friend, not an enemy.

  Then he said, “Pull hard, lads. We’ve a whole ocean to choose from.”

  “North-west by north, sir! Full and bye!”

  Bolitho glanced up as the maintopsail shook violently in protest. Odin was sailing closer to the wind than he had imagined possible. A heavier ship like Benbow would have been in real difficulties by now, he thought.

  Inch said, “I’ve put my best lookouts aloft, sir.”

  Bolitho watched the water creaming away from the lee side as the sixty-four heeled over to the strengthening breeze. He could see the white patterns reaching out across the surface, when only a short while ago there had been darkness. Faces stood out too, and the uniforms of the marines looked scarlet and not black as they had appeared in the night.

  “Deep nine!” The leadsman’s chant floated aft.

  Bolitho glanced briefly at M’Ewan, the master. He appeared calm enough, although nine fathoms was no great depth beneath Odin’s keel.

  He saw the land for the first time, a ragged shadow to starboard which marked the entrance of the bay.

  Inch observed, “Wind’s steady, sir.” He was thinking of his ship’s safety this close inshore.

  Bolitho watched Stirling and the ship’s signal midshipman with their assistants, surrounded by flags to suit every demand.

  Without turning his head, Bolitho knew Allday was standing just a few paces away, arms folded as he stared fixedly ahead beyond the gilded figurehead and bowsprit as the ship thrust towards the top of the bay.

  “By the mark seven!”

  Inch stirred uneasily. “Mr Graham! We will alter course two points. Steer nor’-west by west!”

  Graham raised his speaking trumpet. There was no need for silence any more. Either the invasion craft were here or they were not.

  “Hands to the braces, Mr Finucane!”

  Inch walked aft a
nd consulted the binnacle as the ship paid off and then steadied on her new course. It was a small alteration but would keep the keel out of danger. Above the decks the sails hardened and filled as they too responded to the change.

  “By the mark ten!”

  The midshipman-of-the-watch coughed into his hand to hide his relief, and several of the marine marksmen glanced at each other and grinned.

  “Deck there! Anchor lights fine on th’ weather bow!”

  Bolitho followed Inch and his first lieutenant to the starboard side.

  Dawn was minutes away. If they had kept to their original plan of attack they would be miles away, with every French ship and coastguard on full alert.

  He tried not to think of Browne and what must have happened, but concentrated everything on the paler shadows and winking lights which must be the anchorage.

  A distant boom echoed and re-echoed around the bay, and

  Bolitho knew the sound was being thrown back by the land.

  A signal gun, a warning which was already too late, and had been from the moment they had slipped past Remond’s sleeping ships.

  With the wind thrusting almost directly at the starboard side, and the ship tilting over to a steep angle, the guns would have all the help they required for the first broadsides.

  Already the gun captains were waving their fists and their crews were working feverishly with tackles and handspikes.

  Inch called, “On the uproll, Mr Graham, when I give the word!”

  “Take in the mains’l!”

  As the great sail was brought up to its yard Bolitho was reminded of a curtain being raised. There was sunlight too, prob-ing out from the land where night mist and wood smoke drifted above the water like low cloud.

  And there lay the anchored vessels of the invasion fleet.

  For a moment Bolitho imagined the frail light was playing tricks, or that his eyes were deceiving him. He had expected a hundred such craft, but there must have been three times that number, anchored in twos and threes and filling the elbow of the bay like a floating town.

  There was a medium sized man-of-war anchored nearby, a cut-down ship of the line, Bolitho thought, as he peered through his telescope until his eye throbbed.