A Tradition of Victory Read Free

spoil it. He disliked Lewis Roxby, the squire, intensely, and could not imagine what his sister Nancy had seen in him when she had married him. But he could be relied on to keep her entertained and occupied with his horses and his spreading empire of farms and villages.
    Behind his back, Roxby’s servants called him the King of Cornwall.
    The shock had really hit Bolitho when he had been ushered into Admiral Beauchamp’s chambers. He had always been a small, frail man, seemingly weighed down as much by his epaulettes and gold lace as the tremendous responsibility he held and the interest he retained wherever a British man-of-war sailed on the King’s service. Hunched at his littered table, Beauchamp had been unable to rise and greet him. In his sixties, he had looked a hundred years old, and only his eyes had held their fire and alertness.
    “I will not waste time, Bolitho. You have little to squander, I daresay. I have none left at all.”
    He was dying with each hour and every tight breath, and Bolitho had been both moved and fascinated by the intensity of the little man’s words, the enthusiasm which had always been his greatest quality.
    “Your squadron performed with excellence.” A hand like a claw had dragged blindly over the litter of papers on the table.
    “Good men lost, but others rising to replace them.” He had nodded as if the words were too heavy for him. “I am asking a lot of you. Probably too much, I don’t know. You have heard about the peace proposals?” His deepset eyes had caught the reflected sunlight from the tall windows. Like lights in a skull. “The rumours are true. We need peace, a peace moulded within the necessity of hypocrisy, to give us time, a breathing space before the final encounter.”
    Bolitho had asked quietly, “You do not trust them, sir?”
    “Never!” The word had drained the strength from him, and it had taken several moments before Beauchamp had continued,
    “The French will force the most advantageous terms for a settle-ment. To obtain them they are already filling their channel ports with invasion craft and barges, and the troops and artillery to fill them. Bonaparte hopes to frighten our people into a covenant advantageous only to him. When his wounds are healed, his ships and regiments replenished, he will tear up the treaty and attack us. There will be no second chance this time.”
    After another pause, Beauchamp had said in a dull voice, “We must give our people confidence. Show them we can still attack as well as defend. It is the only way we’ll even the odds at the tables. For years we’ve driven the French back into their ports or fought them to surrender. Blockade and patrol, line-of-battle or single ship actions, it is what has made our Navy great. Bonaparte is a soldier, he does not understand these matters, and will take no advice from those who know better, thank God.”
    His voice had grown weaker, and Bolitho had almost decided to call for assistance for the small, limp figure at the table.
    Then Beauchamp had jerked his body upright and had snapped, “We need a gesture. Of all the young officers I have watched and guided up the ladder of advancement, you have never failed me.” A wizened finger had wagged at him, like part of a memory of the man Bolitho had recalled so vividly from their first meeting. “Well, not in matters of duty anyway.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    Beauchamp had not heard him. “Get as many of your ships to sea as soon as possible. I have written instructions that you are to assume overall command of the blockading squadron off Belle Ile. Further vessels will be obtained for your convenience just as soon as my despatches are delivered to the port admirals.” He had fixed Bolitho with an unwinking stare. “I need you at sea. In Biscay.
    I know I am asking everything, but then, I have given all I have to offer.”
    The picture of the high-ceilinged room at the Admiralty, the view from the windows of bright carriages,