A Tradition of Victory Read Free Page A

colourful gowns and scarlet uniforms seemed to blur as Bolitho’s mind came back to the cabin in Benbow.
    He said, “Admiral Sir George Beauchamp is ordering me to sea, Thomas. No arguments, minimum delays. Unfinished repairs, short-handed, outstanding powder and shot, I shall need to know everything to the last detail. I suggest a conference of all the captains, and I shall draft a letter to Captain Inch which must be sent immediately by courier to his ship at Chatham.”
    Herrick stared at him. “It sounds urgent, sir.”
    “I—I am not sure.” Bolitho recalled Beauchamp’s words. I
    need you at sea. He looked at Herrick’s troubled face. “I am sorry to burst into your new happiness like this.” He shrugged. “And to Biscay of all places.”
    Herrick asked gently, “When you went back to Falmouth, sir …”
    Bolitho looked through the stern windows and watched a local bumboat edging towards the Benbow ’s counter. Food and drink to be examined and bartered for. The small luxuries in a sailor’s life.
    He replied, “The house was empty. It was as much my fault as anyone’s. Belinda had gone away with my sister and her husband. My brother-in-law wanted to show her a newly purchased estate in Wales.”
    He swung round, unable to conceal the bitterness, the despair.
    “After the Baltic and that hell at Copenhagen, who would have expected I should be sent to sea again within weeks?”
    He looked around the quiet cabin as if listening for those lost sounds of battle. The despairing cries of the wounded, the jubi-lant cheers of the Danish boarders as they had swarmed up through these very stern windows to die on Major Clinton’s bloodied bayonets.
    “How will she see it, Thomas? What use are words like duty and honour to a lady who has already given and lost so much?”
    Herrick watched him, scarcely daring to breathe. He could see it all exactly. Bolitho hurrying back to Falmouth, preparing his explanations, how he would describe his obligations to Beauchamp even if it turned out to be a fruitless gesture.
    Beauchamp had given his health in the war against France.
    He had selected young men to replace older ones whose minds had been left behind by a war which had expanded beyond their imagination.
    He had offered Bolitho his first chance to command a squadron. Now he was dying, his work still unfinished.

    Herrick knew Bolitho better than himself. So that was why Bolitho had come to the ship. The house had been empty and with no way of telling Belinda Laidlaw what had been decided.
    “She’ll despise me, Thomas. Someone else should have gone in my place. Rear-admirals, especially junior ones, are two a penny.
    What am I? Some kind of god?”
    Herrick smiled. “She’ll not think anything like that, and you know it! We both do.”
    “Do we?” Bolitho walked past him, his hand brushing his shoulder as if to reassure himself. “I wanted to stay. But I needed to do Beauchamp’s bidding. I owe him that much.”
    It had been like that old dream again. The house empty but for the servants, the wall above the sea lined with wild flowers and humming with insects. But the principal players were not there to enjoy it. Not even Pascoe, and that was almost as unnerving. He had received a letter of appointment to another ship within hours of Bolitho leaving for London.
    He smiled even as he fretted about it. The Navy was desperate for experienced officers, and Adam Pascoe was equally eager to take the first opportunity which would carry him to his goal, a command of his own. Bolitho pushed the anxiety from his mind. Adam was just twenty-one. He was ready. He must stop worrying about him.
    The sentry’s muffled voice came through the door. “Admiral’s coxswain, sah! ”
    Allday stepped into the cabin and smiled broadly at Bolitho.
    To Herrick he gave a cheerful nod. “Captain Herrick, sir.” He laid a large canvas bag on the deck.
    Bolitho slipped into his uniform coat and allowed Ozzard to pull his queue over