The Only Victor

by Alexander Kent

  The doctor had eventually attended, a weak sort of man who had been overwhelmed by the manner of Dulcie’s death.

  The carriage had followed several hours after Bolitho, when Yovell had commented that Lady Belinda had left since his departure for Chatham. He glanced at Catherine’s profile and held her arm even tighter. Not once had she mentioned that Belinda had abandoned her to cope with Dulcie on her own. Almost anyone in her position would have done so, if only to bring contempt and scorn on a rival. It was as if she no longer cared. Only that they were together. Six days on the awful roads, a long and tiring journey, but now they were here.

  Ferguson and his wife, the housekeeper, were waiting for them, while other familiar faces floated into the carriage lamps, gathering luggage, calling greetings, glad to see them back.

  Ferguson had had no idea of the exact date of their return but he had been well prepared. Great fires in every room, even in the stone hallway, so that the contrast with the cold outside was like an additional welcome. Alone at last in their room facing the headland and the sea beyond, Catherine said she would have a hot bath. She looked at him gravely. “I want to wash it all away.” Then she held him tightly and kissed him.

  She said just one word before she prized herself away. “Home.”

  Ozzard came up to collect his uniform coat and left with it, humming softly to himself.

  She called through the door, and Bolitho guessed it had been on her mind for much of the time.

  “When will he be told?”

  “Thomas?” He walked to the low window and peered out. No stars, so it was still overcast. He saw a tiny light far out to sea. Some small vessel trying to reach port for Christmas. He thought of Herrick coming to him and bringing the news of Cheney’s death; it was something he could never forget. He answered quietly, “Admiral Godschale will send word on the first vessel carrying despatches to the squadron. I sent a letter to go with it. From us both.” He thought he heard a catch in her voice and he said, “You are not only lovely, you are also very brave. I would have died if anything had happened to you.”

  She came out wearing a robe, her face glowing from the bath which was something else Ferguson had thought of.

  “Dulcie said something of that to me.” Her lip trembled but she composed herself. “I think she knew what was happening to her. She called for her husband several times.”

  Bolitho held her against him so that she could not see his face. “I will have to join the Black Prince quite shortly, Kate. A few weeks, perhaps less.”

  She rested her head against his shoulder. “I know . . . I am prepared. Don’t think of it—take care of yourself as much as you can. For me. For us.”

  He stared desperately at the crackling log fire. “There is something I did not tell you, Kate. There was so much to do, after the duel and . . . everything—then poor Dulcie.”

  She leaned back in his arms as she so often did to study him, as if to read his innermost thoughts before he uttered a word.

  She whispered, “You look like a little boy, Richard. One with a secret.”

  He said bluntly, “They can’t help me with my eye.” He gave a great sigh, relieved to have got it out at last, fearful what she might think. “I wanted to tell you, but—”

  She broke away from him and took his hand to lead him to the window. Then she thrust it wide open, oblivious to the bitter air. “Listen, darling—church bells.”

  They clung to each other as the joyous peal of bells echoed up the hill from the church of Charles the Martyr, where so many Bolitho memories were marked in stone.

  She said, “Kiss me. It’s midnight, my love. Christmas morn.”

  Then she closed the window very carefully and faced him.

  “Look at me, Richard. What if it were me? Would you cast me aside? Do you think it makes any difference, could make any? I love you, so much you’ll never know. And there is always hope. We shall keep trying. No doctor is God.”

  There was a tap at the door and Ozzard stood there with his tray and some finely cut goblets. He blinked at them. “Thought it might be proper, m’lady.”

  It was champagne, misted over with ice from the stream.

  Bolitho thanked the little man and opened the bottle. “The only thing of any value to come out of France!”

  She threw back her head and gave her bubbling laugh, something Bolitho had not heard since the pleasure gardens.

  Bolitho said, “You know, I think this is the first Christmas I have been in Falmouth since I was a midshipman.”

  She turned down the bed, the half-empty glass still in her other hand. Then she let her robe fall to the floor and faced him, with pride and love in her dark eyes.

  “You are my man. I am your woman. Then let us celebrate.”

  Bolitho bent over and kissed her breast, heard her gasp, all else forgotten. And so it would be, he thought. The new flagship, Herrick, a court-martial . . . even the war could wait. He touched her breast with some champagne and kissed it again.

  She pulled him down. “Am I stone that I can wait so long?”

  Ferguson and Allday were crossing the yard to share a last drink before the festivities in the house and on the estate commenced in earnest. Allday glanced up at a candlelit window. Ferguson, his friend since being pressed into Bolitho’s Phalarope, heard him sigh, and guessed what he was thinking. He had known his wife Grace since childhood. Allday had nobody to call his own.

  He said, “Come and tell us all about it, John. We’ve heard a few rumours, but not much else.”

  “I was thinking about Rear-Admiral Herrick. Takes you back, don’t it, Bryan? Phalarope, the Cap’n, us an’ Mr Herrick. Come a long way. Now he’s lost his wife. Full circle, that’s what.”

  Ferguson opened the door of his little house and glanced round to make sure Grace had retired at long last.

  “Here, I’ll fetch some grog from the pantry.”

  Allday gave a sad grin. Like them up there in that great bedroom. A sailor’s woman. “I’d relish that, matey!” All of us, holding things at bay, knowing it must end, but making the best of it.

  He coughed on the rum and spluttered, “God, this is the stuff to fill the sails!”

  Ferguson smiled. “Got it off a trader from Port Royal.” He saw the shadow lifting from Allday’s face, and held up his glass.

  “Welcome home, old friend!”

  Allday’s eyes crinkled. What Bolitho called him. “An’ here’s to those who won’t never come home.” He laughed, and the cat sleeping by the fire opened one eye with irritation. “Even the officers—well, some of ’em!”

  As Ferguson went away to open another bottle, Allday added quietly, “An’ to you both over yonder. May God protect you!”

  When he looked out, their window was in darkness and only the distant boom of the sea gave him an answer. Always waiting.

  16 THE SQUADRON

  HIS BRITANNIC Majesty’s Ship Black Prince seemed to hesitate for a moment before plunging her massive one thousand eight hundred tons into the next procession of troughs.

  Aft in his spacious day cabin, Bolitho looked up from his final cup of coffee before starting the new day, and was surprised how easily the big second-rate took even the heaviest sea.

  It was eight o’clock in the morning, and he could vaguely hear the muffled movements of the forenoon watchkeepers as they relieved the men on deck. Unlike Hyperion or any other two-decker, there was a sense of protected remoteness in Black Prince. Bolitho’s quarters with their own private sternwalk were sandwiched between the wardroom beneath his feet and Keen’s own domain directly above.

  He shivered and looked at the leaping patterns of salt spray on the stern windows, frozen there like the ramblings of some insane artist. The day cabin was finely painted and moulded with carved panels, the stern bench seat and chairs finished with dark green leather. Catherine could have chosen it herself, he thought. But now it was bloomed with damp, and he could picture without effort the discomfort and as yet unfamiliarit
y endured by the flagship’s company of eight hundred souls, including one hundred Royal Marines. Bolitho had once been a flag captain in a big first-rate, the Euryalus, renamed after being taken as a prize from the French. Twelve years ago. At the worst time for England’s embattled shores, when the fleet had mutinied at the Nore and Spithead. If ever Napoleon had missed his chance, it had been then. They could be thankful a hundred times over that he was a land-creature and not a sailor.

  Allday entered the cabin and regarded Bolitho impassively. “First day o’ February, Sir Richard.” He did not sound very enthusiastic about it. “Like ice on deck.”

  “How are things, Allday?” My eyes and ears.

  Allday shrugged his broad shoulders and winced. He felt his wound more in cold weather.

  “Things? I think most o’ the people are in irons about the new ship.” He glanced around the magnificent cabin with neither dislike nor contentment. “You can’t find nothing when you needs it. All different from Hyperion.” His eyes gleamed momentarily and he added, “I’ll say one thing, Sir Richard, she’s a good sailer for a big ’un. A few months’ drill and who knows what Cap’n Keen will make her do.”

  Bolitho understood. It was often so in a brand new vessel.

  Everything to be learned from the beginning again. Black Prince was no frigate, and with her towering hull and three lines of ports for her total firepower of ninety-four guns and two carronades, she would need firm handling.

  “I heard a pipe just now.” Bolitho saw Ozzard pause beside the beautiful wine cooler and cabinet which he had found waiting on board when he had hoisted his flag at the fore. Catherine had made no mention of it. A gift like the previous one which now lay on the bottom with his old flagship. She had taken great care; the mahogany cabinet was perfectly matched, and on the top was an inlaid shield—the Bolitho coat of arms.

  Ozzard wiped some of the damp bloom from it with his cloth and nodded approvingly. He had no need for words.

  Allday watched him warily. “It was a pipe to witness punishment in the forenoon watch, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho eyed him steadily. Keen would hate that, even when there was no other obvious solution. Bolitho had known too many captains who had flogged first and sought explanations only when it was too late.

  There were voices at the outer screen door and Bolitho heard the marine sentry tap the deck with his musket. Keen, reporting at his usual time after he had checked the log, seen the new watch take over, and discussed the day’s work with his first lieutenant.

  He entered the cabin and said, “Fresh nor’westerly, Sir Richard.” He nodded to Allday. “But the decks are dry. She takes it well.” He looked strained, and there were shadows beneath his eyes. “I am assured we will make contact with the squadron by noon if the weather holds.”

  Bolitho noticed that Allday and Ozzard had quietly departed.

  “Be seated, Val. Is something wrong?” He forced a smile. “Is there ever a time in a sailor’s life when there is not?”

  Keen stared through the spray-dappled glass. “There are several familiar faces in the company.” He shot him a quick glance. “I thought you should know before you have cause to meet them.”

  Bolitho watched the sea, silent beyond the thick windows, leaping and breaking, so dark it was almost black. There were always old faces. The navy was like that. A family, or a prison. With faces went memories. It could not be otherwise.

  He answered. “That was thoughtful of you, Val. I have deliberately kept out of your way since I stepped aboard.” He saw a big roller break astern and felt the responding shudder of the tiller-head one deck below. He had been at sea for four days. But for Catherine, it might have seemed that he had never left it.

  He asked, “How has my nephew settled down? With his H.E.I.C. experience he should soon prove ready for a lieutenant’s examination, eh?”

  Keen frowned. “I have to speak my mind, Sir Richard. I think I know you too well to do otherwise.”

  “I would expect nothing but honesty, Val. Despite demands on our authority, we are friends. Nothing can change that.” He paused, seeing the uncertainty on Keen’s handsome features. “Besides which, you command here, not I.”

  Keen said, “I am obliged to order another flogging. A seaman named Fittock, who was allegedly insolent to Mr Midshipman Vincent. The lieutenant of his division is young, perhaps too much so in experience if not in years, and maybe . . .”

  “And maybe, Val, he thought better than to dispute Midshipman Vincent’s testimony. The vice-admiral’s nephew might do him harm.”

  Keen shrugged. “It is not easy. A new ship, a larger proportion of landsmen than I would wish, and a certain listlessness amongst the people—any kind of weakness would be seen as something to exploit.”

  “In other words, Vincent provoked the seaman?”

  “I believe so. Fittock is a skilled hand. It’s foolish to berate such a man in front of pressed landsmen.”

  Bolitho thought of Hyperion’s captain before Keen had taken his place. He had been driven mad, and had tried to shoot his first lieutenant. He thought also of the sick and overworked commodore, Arthur Warren, at Good Hope, and of the wretched Varian, now awaiting a court-martial which might easily end with his own sword pointing towards him on the table, and death. Captains all; but all so different.

  He suggested, “It could be inexperience, or a need to impress.”

  Keen said softly, “But you don’t think so.”

  “It seems unlikely. Either way there is little we can do. If I admonish Vincent—” He saw the unspoken protest on Keen’s face and added, “You are his captain. But if I took a hand, they would see it as interference, a lack of trust, perhaps, in you. On the other hand if you quash the sentence the end result would be the same. The people might believe that no junior officer, Vincent or any other, is worth the cut of his coat.”

  Keen sighed. “Some would say it was a small thing, Sir Richard, but this ship is not yet of one company and does not have the loyalty which will unite the people, given time.”

  Bolitho smiled grimly. “Aye, that’s so. Time is also in short supply.”

  Keen prepared to leave. “I have spoken with my first lieutenant about it. Mr Cazalet is already my right arm.” He gave a rueful grin. “But doubtless he will soon be promoted out of my ship for a command of his own.”

  “A moment, Val. I merely wanted you to know that Catherine intends to call upon Zenoria. They were very close to one another and their suffering was much the same. So take heart—who would have believed that I might find Catherine again?”

  Keen was silent, his eyes faraway. He was remembering how she had spoken to him, her sincerity about Zenoria matched only by the passion in her words.

  Then he said, “Shall you visit Rear-Admiral Herrick before Benbow quits the station?” When Bolitho did not answer immediately he added, “I know there was bitterness between us . . . but no man should learn of his wife’s death in such a fashion.” He hesitated. “I beg your pardon, Sir Richard. That was a thoughtless and indiscreet thing to say.”

  Bolitho touched his sleeve. “Indiscretion is not unknown to me.” He became grave. “But yes, I hope to see him when we meet with the squadron.”

  There was a knock at the outer screen door and the marine sentry bawled, “Midshipman-of-the-Watch, sir!”

  Bolitho winced. “God, you would think we were three fields away from the fellow!”

  Ozzard had appeared in the other cabin, and opened the door to admit the midshipman.

  Keen said quietly, “Someone else whose life you changed, I think, Sir Richard?”

  Bolitho looked at the pale-faced youth who was staring back at him, his eyes shining with a barely-contained recognition.

  Bolitho said, “I am glad you are in this ship, Mr Segrave.” He seemed older than when he had helped the cruelly disfigured Lieutenant Tyacke to steer the blazing Albacora into the moored supply ships at Good Hope.

  “I—I wrote to you, Sir Richard, to
thank you for your sponsorship. My uncle the Admiral was full of admiration!” It sounded as if he was about to add for once.

  Segrave turned to Keen. “Mr Cazalet’s respects, sir, and the masthead has just sighted a sail to the nor’-east.”

  “My compliments to the first lieutenant. I shall come up presently.”

  As the door closed Keen said, “I heard all about that lad, and the bullying he received in his other ship. Your Mr Tyacke has become a bit of a hero in his eyes, I think.” He smiled, so that the strain seemed to fall away. “Next to you, of course, Sir Richard!”

  It was good to see him smile again. Perhaps his lovely Zenoria came to him in his dreams and tormented him, as Catherine had done and would do again if they were too long separated.

  “Lieutenant Tyacke is a remarkable man. When you meet him there is only pity. Afterwards you can only find admiration, pride, even, at knowing him.”

  They went on deck together and walked out on to the broad quarterdeck, where at their approach the watchkeepers and the hands who were working there adopted stances and attitudes as if they were mimers.

  Bolitho looked up at the dull sky, the tall masts and rigging dark against it. Under topsails and courses the Black Prince was leaning only slightly to leeward, her sails quivering to the wind’s wet pressure.

  “Deck there!” After Truculent, the lookout sounded a mile distant. “Frigate, zur!”

  Keen turned up his collar as the wind probed the rawness of his skin. “Not a Frog, then. He’d be about and running by now if it was!”

  Bolitho tried not to touch his left eye. Many were watching him, some seeing him for the first time. A new ship, a well-known flag-officer; it would be easy to lose their confidence before he had found it.

  A tall, dark-haired midshipman whose generally aloof behaviour to the other “young gentlemen” was obvious even on the busy quarterdeck snapped, “Aloft, Mr Gough. Take a glass, lively now!” A minute midshipman scampered to the shrouds and was soon lost from view amongst the dark crisscross of rigging. Bolitho smiled to himself. The tall youth was named Bosanquet, the senior member of the gunroom, and next to go for promotion. It was not hard to see him as a lieutenant, or even a captain for that matter.