The Only Victor

by Alexander Kent

  She pressed her hand over his lips. “Say no more. I do understand. If secrecy is necessary, then I’ll not plead to share it. But come back to me.”

  Bolitho embraced her. Just a few days since his summons to the Admiralty. Maybe the secrecy was necessary; or was it merely another ruse to keep him out of the country? The latter was hard to believe. It all took organisation and trust. He was to go to Dover, not Portsmouth or Chatham as might be expected, and from there take passage to Copenhagen. He would be met at Dover and the rest of his mission explained.

  As if to dispel his own doubts he said, “It will not take long. Perhaps two weeks, certainly no longer. And then—”

  She looked at him and asked, “What would you have me do?”

  “Oliver Browne has said that this house is ours for as long as we require it. His lordship is visiting his family estate in Jamaica.” He smiled. “It is hard not to think of him still as my flag lieutenant!”

  “What of Lieutenant Jenour?” She too smiled, remembering. “A fellow conspirator and a good friend.”

  “He will already be at Dover waiting for me.”

  “Then he is luckier than I!”

  He felt her tense as iron-shod wheels rolled along the street and halted outside the house.

  Bolitho spoke hurriedly. “Ozzard will tend to your needs, Kate, and Yovell will apprise you of everything you wish to know. I am leaving you in their care. I would offer Allday’s services but—”

  She smiled. “No. He would never allow it, and besides I need your ‘oak’ to protect you!”

  The doors opened a few inches and one of the servants said, “The carriage is here, Sir Richard. Your chest is inside.” The doors closed silently. It was as if the house, even the street was holding its breath for these last, fleeting moments.

  “Come.” Bolitho put his arm around her shoulders and together they descended to the hallway. “I have so much to say, and it will all come flooding out once we are parted.”

  She looked back up the staircase, thinking perhaps of the night she had been carried here in her filthy clothing, her feet bare from her experiences in the Waites prison. Recalling their love and moments of tender passion. Now she would be looking at her other man, the King’s officer; the service which would always be a rival if given the chance.

  The front doors were wide open and there was a chill in the evening air. She clutched his arm and said, “I cause such trouble for you, when I would do anything but harm you. I have even come between you and your friends, and all because of our love!”

  Bolitho held her. Somehow he had known that she had guessed or understood what had happened with Herrick that day at the Admiralty.

  He replied, “Nothing separates us.” He looked into the street, the house lights already reflecting on the side of the carriage. “Except what I must do.” He had noticed that the carriage was unmarked by any crest or recognition. A secret indeed.

  One of the horses stamped its feet, and the coachman murmured something to soothe its impatience. Behind the rear wheels Bolitho could see Allday’s thick shadow waiting, as he had so many times.

  Bolitho said, “I wrote to Val Keen. It is all I can do. If you are staying here until I return it is possible he might come to see you.”

  “It still troubles you?”

  “Yes.” He smiled distantly. “A war raging all about us while we stumble in personal crossfire. I suspect that has always been my real weakness.”

  She shook her head. “Strength. I hear people talking of you as a man of war, and yet with you I have never before known such peace.”

  He wrapped his boat-cloak around her shoulders as they walked down the steps together, then she stooped to pick up a dead leaf which had blown against her shoe.

  When she faced him again her eyes were dark and shining. “Remember when I sent you the ivy leaf from our house?”

  “I still have it.”

  “And now here is a messenger of another coming winter. Please God we may not be parted for too long.” She was speaking quickly as if fearful he would interrupt. “I know I promised—I vowed to you I should be brave, but I have only just found you again.”

  He said quietly, “There is none braver than you, Kate.” He had to leave; it was best to do it quickly, for both their sakes. “Kiss me.”

  He felt her mouth mould into his body as if to hold them together for ever. Then they were just as suddenly apart. Allday held open the carriage door and raised his hat.

  She handed him Bolitho’s cloak and stood very upright on the bottom step, her body framed against the chandelier-lit hallway.

  She said, “I ask of you again, Mr Allday. Take the best care of him!”

  Allday grinned, but felt the sadness like his own. “We’ll be back afore you knows it, m’lady.” He went around the carriage so that Bolitho could watch her from the window.

  Bolitho said, “You hold my heart, dear Kate!” He might have said something more, but freed from the brake and with the sharp crack of the coachman’s whip, the words were lost in the din of wheels and the jangle of harness.

  The carriage had been out of sight for some time before she eventually turned, oblivious to the cool air, and entered the house. How empty and alien it seemed without him.

  She had considered returning to Falmouth, but something, a hint in his tone had made her believe that her place was here. Was it only a short distance he was going this time? She thought of his sea-chest, the fine new shirts she had forced him to buy in London. She smiled, remembering again. Her London. He certainly was not carrying enough baggage for a lengthy mission.

  She found Yovell waiting for her, to discover her requirements.

  “Why him, Mr Yovell? Can you tell me that? Is there no limit to what they can demand?”

  Yovell removed his small gold-rimmed spectacles and polished them vigorously with his handkerchief.

  “Because he is usually the only one for the task, m’lady.” He smiled as he replaced his glasses. “Even I do not know what he is about this time!”

  She looked at him proudly. “Will you sup with me tonight, Mr Yovell? I would take it as a favour.”

  He stared at her, trying not to let his eyes stray over her hair, the way she lifted her chin, the very presence of her.

  “It would be a privilege indeed, m’lady!”

  She made for the staircase. “There is a price, Mr Yovell. I will wish to hear everything you know about the man I love, more than life itself.”

  Yovell was glad she did not press him further. Her frankness, the light of defiance which seemed to shine from her eyes, was like nothing he had ever experienced.

  He took off his glasses and polished them again without even realising what he was doing.

  And she trusted him. The woman who had created the gossip and lies but had just spoken so fervently of her love, could have done the round-shouldered secretary Daniel Yovell no greater honour.

  It was four o’clock in the morning when, stiff and painfully aware of the fast drive from London, Bolitho finally stepped down from the unmarked carriage and tasted the salt air in his mouth.

  It was pitch dark as, followed by Allday and two seamen who were waiting to carry his chest, he walked towards the gates of the guardhouse. When he looked up at the low clouds he saw just a hint of the castle’s solid silhouette. It could easily have been a ridge of rock, a miniature Table Mountain.

  He heard Allday cough, then stifle it with his hand. His coxswain was probably as glad as he was to have arrived in one piece. Thank God the Dover Road had been deserted, because the coachman had driven like a soul possessed. Bolitho had the feeling he was well used to this kind of work.

  “Halt! Who goes there?”

  Bolitho tossed his boat-cloak back from one epaulette and walked into a circle of lantern-light.

  He heard Jenour’s familiar voice, saw his pale breeches as he hurried out to greet him.

  “Bravo, Sir Richard! You must have been blessed with wings!”


  Bolitho shook his hand. It was cold, like his own, and he was reminded of Catherine’s words about the coming winter.

  Allday muttered, “That bugger nearly did what the Dons an’ the Frogs has failed to do many times!”

  The Officer-of-the-Guard joined them and doffed his hat. “Welcome to Dover, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho could feel the lieutenant’s scrutiny even in the dark. Recognition again, curiosity too.

  Bolitho had never really liked Dover. He found it difficult to forget the months before the outbreak of war—what was it? Thirteen years ago? It did not seem possible. He had been unemployed, still weakened by the fever which had struck him down so cruelly in the Great South Sea, and which had all but killed him. Too many captains, too few ships. In peacetime the fleet had been cut to the bone, sound vessels laid up to neglect and rot, sailors thrown on the beach unwanted with no jobs to go to.

  Bolitho was still very bitter about it. Like the shantyman’s song which had ended on that same note, Now we have naught to eat and drink, For you have naught to fear . . . Would it be the same when this war was finally won, and a part of history?

  More than anything he had wanted a ship then. To forget his experiences in the Great South Sea, to begin all over again with another fine frigate like his Tempest had been. Instead he had been offered the thankless task of recruiting men at the Nore and the Medway towns, and at the same time seeking out deserters who had fled the navy for the more lucrative and brutal trade of smuggling.

  His work had sometimes brought him to Dover. To see a smuggler kick out his life on the gallows, or to pit his wits against the authorities, the men of power who were hand-in-glove with the Brotherhood, as it was called. But the guillotine’s blade which had fallen on the neck of France’s king had changed all that overnight. Not a frigate; they had given him the old Hyperion. It was as if she had been destined for him. Now like so many faces, she too had gone to the bottom.

  He realised the others were waiting and said, “What ship?”

  The lieutenant swallowed apologetically. “My orders are—”

  Bolitho snapped, “Don’t waste my time, man!”

  “She lies out at anchor, Sir Richard. The Truculent, Captain Poland.” He sounded crushed.

  Bolitho sighed. Like a family. You either lost touch completely, or faces and ships reappeared again and again. He knew that both Zest and Truculent had joined the North Sea squadron and would eventually serve under his flag once Black Prince was in full commission. He forced himself from going over the mystery of Keen’s silence again and asked, “Is there a boat waiting?”

  “Er, yes, Sir Richard.”

  Jenour hid a smile as the lieutenant led the way with a lantern, half-shuttered as if the dock area was filled with spies and French agents. He watched Bolitho’s quick stride and was glad to be with him again. Jenour had enjoyed his freedom, which he had spent with his parents in Southampton, and yet when the messenger had brought his orders he had felt something like elation, without even the hesitation which might have been expected after his recent experiences.

  Feet shuffled on cobbles, and as they turned a corner around some victualling sheds the sea-breeze swept amongst them like a boisterous greeting.

  Bolitho stood on the edge of the jetty and stared past the other moored vessels, the gaunt shadows of rigging and furled sails, to the riding-lights of ships at anchor. He rarely thought about it at sea, but now, standing here on the wet cobbles which would soon reveal themselves in a grey dawn, it was a strange, unnerving feeling. Out there in the darkness, no more than twenty sea-miles away, was the enemy coast. In a man-of-war you could fight or run as your wisdom dictated. Along these shores, thinly protected by gunboats, the sea fencibles or some local militia, the ordinary people had no such choice. They more than any others probably thanked God for the weather-beaten ships of the blockade which day and night rode out storms and calms alike to keep the enemy bottled up in his harbours.

  “Boat’s ready, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho nodded to the Officer-of-the-Guard. “How sets the tide?”

  The man’s face looked paler in the gloom, or was it imagination? He replied, “It’ll be on the ebb in two hours, Sir Richard.”

  “Good.” It would mean a quick start. But who was the one chosen to give him the information he needed? He relented slightly. “You keep a good watch, Lieutenant. It is just as well in this port!”

  Then he was down into the boat with unexpected familiarity; even the lieutenant who had been sent in charge of the gig he recognised instantly.

  “I’ll wager you never expected to see me again so soon, Mr Munro?”

  Jenour watched it all; as he had tried to describe it to his parents. The way Truculent’s young second lieutenant responded with such obvious pleasure. Had it been daylight Jenour was certain he would have been blushing. Just small points, but Bolitho never seemed to forget, nor did he overlook the importance which these brief contacts he had with his men might carry for them when they most needed them later on.

  Jenour shivered despite his warm cloak. It was exactly like one of his old storybooks. A secret mission. Jenour was not so naive that he did not see past the excitement to the danger and death which might lie in store. He had witnessed plenty of it since he had joined Bolitho; was still surprised that he had not cracked because of it. Perhaps later? He pushed it aside and said, “I see her, Sir Richard!”

  Bolitho swung round and turned up the collar of his cloak as the spray from the oars spat over the gunwale and stung the tiredness from his mind.

  He could guess what Jenour was thinking. But the mission, whatever it was, could already be common gossip on messdecks and in wardrooms alike.

  He saw the frigate’s spiralling masts cut across the clouds to tower over them, heard the ship’s own noises moving out to receive them. Shouted commands carried away by the breeze which might soon be a strong south-westerly wind, the creak of tackles and the urgent shrill of calls. Men feeling their way about the decks or high above them on the treacherous yards and ratlines, slippery with spray; no place for the unskilled. But there were some of the latter, Bolitho thought. A man was calling out in fear, his pleas cut short by a blow. Captain Poland must have put a press gang ashore somewhere away from the port, or else the local flag officer had sent him a few landsmen from the guardship. For them the long, hard lesson was about to begin.

  He thought again of Catherine, all that they had done together, all that they had given each other, and still there had not been enough time. He had not found the necklace he wanted for her lovely throat, nor had they been to visit the surgeon, Sir Piers Blachford. He had thought several times of his daughter Elizabeth, who would be four years old. The last occasion when he had seen her was when he had had his first confrontation with Belinda—she had passed him by with barely a glance. Not like a child at all. A doll in silks, a possession. But it would all have to wait.

  “Boat ahoy?” Figures jostled around the light at the frigate’s entry port.

  Before the gig’s coxswain could reply to the age-old challenge, Allday cupped his big hands and yelled, “Flag! Truculent!”

  Bolitho pictured the tension on board. They might have been waiting and wondering for hours. Nobody could have known when his carriage would arrive or even when he had left London. But he had no doubts at all that Captain Poland would have kept every man alert and ready to receive him, if it had taken him another full day!

  The gig’s bowman managed to hook on to the main chains, while others did their best to control the boat’s pitching and swaying as it felt the surge of the current alongside.

  Bolitho reached the entry port and saw Poland and his officers waiting to be presented, even at this unearthly hour. As he had expected, they were all smartly dressed for his arrival.

  He took Poland’s hand and said, “I see that I must congratulate you, Captain.”

  Poland smiled modestly as the swaying lantern threw a glow across his matching pair of epaulet
tes.

  He said, “And I must thank you, Sir Richard. I cannot say how grateful I was to be told that my posting had been confirmed as a result of your report.”

  Bolitho paused to watch the gig being hoisted up and over the nettings, then manhandled down on to the boat-tier with the others. A sense of urgency and mystery he had known often enough as a young frigate captain.

  He said, “It will be a mite different from the shores of Africa.”

  Poland hesitated, sifting it through as if to seek out any possible traps. Then he admitted, “I know our eventual landfall, Sir Richard, but in God’s name I know nought else.”

  Bolitho touched his arm and felt it stiffen. Poor Poland; like so many before him he had imagined that to gain the coveted rank of post-captain was to be beyond the reach of uncertainty, a summit from which nobody could topple you. Bolitho smiled to himself. He was learning otherwise. Like the epaulettes, the responsibility was also doubled. As I discovered for myself many times.

  Poland glanced quickly at his hovering first lieutenant. “Have the capstan fully manned, Mr Williams. We shall sail on the tide, or I shall need to know about it!”

  To Bolitho he added, “If you will come aft, Sir Richard, there is a gentleman who is taking passage with us.”

  While the ship came alive with the noise of getting under way, Bolitho entered the stern cabin, which he had come to know so well in his solitude. The first thing he saw was a curly wig which stood on its rest by an open chest; the second was the man who walked unsteadily from the shadows by the stern window, his legs as yet unused to the uncomfortable motion of a ship eager to tear free from the ground.

  He was older, or appeared so, perhaps more stooped in the light of the spiralling lanterns. Sixty at a guess, his head almost bald so that his old-fashioned queue hung down over his collar like a rope’s end.

  He put his head on one side and regarded Bolitho like a quizzical bird. “It’s a long while, Sir Richard, and many miles since we last met.”

  Bolitho clasped both his hands in his own.