THE ONLY VICTOR
Selected Historical Fiction Published by McBooks Press
BY ALEXANDER KENT
The Complete Midshipman Bolitho
Stand Into Danger
In Gallant Company
Sloop of War
To Glory We Steer
Command a King’s Ship
Passage to Mutiny
With All Despatch
Form Line of Battle!
Enemy in Sight!
The Flag Captain
Signal–Close Action!
The Inshore Squadron
A Tradition of Victory
Success to the Brave
Colours Aloft!
Honour This Day
The Only Victor
Beyond the Reef
The Darkening Sea
For My Country’s Freedom
Cross of St George
Sword of Honour
Second to None
Relentless Pursuit
Man of War
Heart of Oak
BY PHILIP MCCUTCHAN
Halfhyde at the Bight of Benin
Halfhyde’s Island
Halfhyde and the Guns of Arrest
Halfhyde to the Narrows
Halfhyde for the Queen
Halfhyde Ordered South
Halfhyde on Zanatu
BY DEWEY LAMBDIN
The French Admiral
The Gun Ketch
Jester’s Fortune
What Lies Buried
BY ALEXANDER FULLERTON
Storm Force to Narvik
Last Lift from Crete
All the Drowning Seas
A Share of Honour
The Torch Bearers
The Gatecrashers
BY JULIAN STOCKWIN
Mutiny
Quarterdeck
Tenacious
Command
BY JAN NEEDLE
A Fine Boy for Killing
The Wicked Trade
The Spithead Nymph
Ramage
Ramage & The Drumbeat
Ramage & The Freebooters
Governor Ramage R.N.
Ramage’s Prize
Ramage & The Guillotine
Ramage’s Diamond
Ramage’s Mutiny
Ramage & The Rebels
The Ramage Touch
Ramage’s Signal
Ramage & The Renegades
Ramage’s Devil
Ramage’s Trial
Ramage’s Challenge
Ramage at Trafalgar
Ramage & The Saracens
Ramage & The Dido
BY FREDERICK MARRYAT
Frank Mildmay OR
The Naval Officer
Mr Midshipman Easy
Newton Forster OR
The Merchant Service
Snarleyyow OR
The Dog Fiend
The Privateersman
BY V.A. STUART
Victors and Lords
The Sepoy Mutiny
Massacre at Cawnpore
The Cannons of Lucknow
The Heroic Garrison
The Valiant Sailors
The Brave Captains
Hazard’s Command
Hazard of Huntress
Hazard in Circassia
Victory at Sebastopol
Guns to the Far East
Escape from Hell
BY JAMES DUFFY
Sand of the Arena
BY JOHN BIGGINS
A Sailor of Austria
The Emperor’s Coloured Coat
The Two-Headed Eagle
Tomorrow the World
BY R.F. DELDERFIELD
Too Few for Drums
Seven Men of Gascony
BY JAMES L. NELSON
The Only Life That Mattered
BY C.N. PARKINSON
The Guernseyman
Devil to Pay
The Fireship
Touch and Go
So Near So Far
Dead Reckoning
The Life and Times of Horatio Hornblower
BY NICHOLAS NICASTRO
The Eighteenth Captain
Between Two Fires
BY DOUGLAS REEMAN
Badge of Glory
First to Land
The Horizon
Dust on the Sea
Knife Edge
Twelve Seconds to Live
Battlecruiser
The White Guns
A Prayer for the Ship
For Valour
BY DAVID DONACHIE
The Devil’s Own Luck
The Dying Trade
A Hanging Matter
An Element of Chance
The Scent of Betrayal
A Game of Bones
On a Making Tide
Tested by Fate
Breaking the Line
BY BROOS CAMPBELL
No Quarter
The War of Knives
Alexander Kent
THE ONLY VICTOR
the Bolitho novels: 18
McBooks Press, Inc.
www.mcbooks.com
ITHACA, NY
Published by McBooks Press 2000
Copyright © 1990 by Highseas Authors Ltd.
First published in the United Kingdom by William Heinemann Ltd. 1990
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any
portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such
permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc.,
ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.
Cover painting by Geoffrey Huband
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kent, Alexander.
The only victor / by Alexander Kent.
p. cm. — (Richard Bolitho novels ;18 )
ISBN 0-935526-74-9 (alk. paper)
1. Great Britain—History, Naval— 19 th century—Fiction.
2. Bolitho, Richard (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Napoleonic Wars, 1800-1815 — Fiction I. Title
PR6061.E63 O55 2000
823’.914—dc21
99-089386
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Printed in the United States of America
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother . . .
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Henry V
1 “IN THE NAME OF DUTY”
CAPTAIN DANIEL POLAND of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Truculent stretched his arms and stifled a yawn, while he waited for his eyes to accustom themselves to the darkness. As he gripped the quarterdeck rail and the dim figures around him took on identity and status, he was able to accept the pride he felt for this command, and the fashion in which he had moulded his company into a team, one that would react to his wishes and orders with little room for improvement. He had been in command for two years, but would not be fully “posted” for a further six months. Then, and only then, would he feel safe from disaster. A fall from grace, an unfortunate mistake or misunderstanding of some senior officer’s despatches—any of these could hurl him down the ladder of promotion; or worse. But once a post-captain with matching epaulettes on his shoulders, little could shift him. He gave a brief smile. Only death or some terrible wound could do that. The enemy’s iron was no respecter of the hopes or ambitions of its
victims.
He moved to the small table by the companion way and raised its tarpaulin hood so that he could examine the log by the light of a small shaded lamp.
Nobody on the quarterdeck spoke or disturbed him; every man was well aware of his presence and, after two years, his habits.
As he ran his eyes along the neatly written comments of the most recent officers-of-the-watch he felt his ship lift and plunge beneath him, spray whipping across the open deck like cold hail.
In an hour all would be different. Again he felt the same twinge of pride, cautious pride, for Captain Poland trusted nobody and nothing which might bring displeasure from his superiors, and which in turn might damage his prospects. But if the wind held they would sight the coast of Africa, the Cape of Good Hope, perhaps at first light.
Nineteen days. It was probably the fastest passage ever made by a King’s ship from Portsmouth. Poland thought of the England they had seen fall into a rain squall as Truculent had thrust her way down-Channel for open waters. Cold. Wet. Shortages and press gangs.
His gaze fastened on the date. The first of February, 1806. Perhaps that was the answer. England was still reeling from the news of Trafalgar, which had exploded less than four months ago. It seemed people were stunned more by the death of Nelson, the nation’s hero, than the crushing victory over the French and Spanish fleets.
Even aboard his own ship, Poland had sensed the change, the damage to morale amongst his officers and seamen. Truculent had not even been in the same ocean at the time of the great battle, and to his knowledge none of the people had ever laid eyes on the little admiral. It irritated him, just as he damned the luck which had taken his ship so far from a fight out of which only glory and reward could result. It was typical of Poland that he had not considered the awesome lists of dead and wounded after that memorable day off Cape Trafalgar.
He peered up at the pale shape of the bulging mizzen topsail. Beyond it there was only darkness. The ship had rid herself of her heavy canvas and changed every sail to the pale, light-weather rig. She would make a fine sight when the sunlight found her again. He pictured her rapid passage south, with the mountains of Morocco misty blue in the far distance, then south-east across the Equator with the only landfall the tiny island of St Helena, a mere speck on the chart.
It was no wonder that young officers prayed for the chance to gain command of a frigate, where once free of the fleet’s apron strings and the interference of one admiral or another, they were their own masters.
He knew that to his company a captain was seen as some kind of god. In many cases it was true. He could punish or reward any soul aboard with impunity. Poland considered himself a just and fair captain, but was sensible enough to know that he was feared rather than liked.
Each day he had made certain that his men were not lacking in work. No admiral would find fault with his ship, either her appearance or efficiency.
His eyes moved to the cabin skylight. It was already sharper in the gloom, or maybe his eyes had become completely used to it. And there would be no mistakes on this passage, not with such an important passenger down there in the captain’s quarters.
It was time to begin. He walked to the rail again and stood with one foot on the truck of a tethered nine-pounder.
The ship’s second lieutenant appeared as if by magic.
“Mr Munro, you may muster the Afterguard in fifteen minutes, when we shall wear ship.”
The lieutenant touched his hat in the darkness. “Aye, aye, sir.”
He spoke almost in a whisper, as if he too were thinking of the passenger, and the noise of the Royal Marines’ boots above his sleeping cabin.
Poland added irritably, “And I don’t want any slackness!”
Munro saw the sailing-master, who was already at his place near the big double-wheel, give what might have been a shrug. He was probably thinking that the captain would blame him if the dark horizon was as empty as before.
A burly figure moved to the lee side of the deck and Poland heard him fling some shaving-water into the sea. The passenger’s personal coxswain, a powerful man by the name of John Allday. One who seemed to have little respect for anyone but his vice-admiral. Again, Poland felt a sense of irritation—or was it envy? He thought of his own coxswain, as smart and reliable as anyone could wish, one who would take no nonsense from his crew. But never a friend, as Allday appeared to be.
He tried to shrug it off. Anyway, his coxswain was only a common seaman.
He snapped, “The vice-admiral is up and about, apparently. Call the Afterguard, then pipe the hands to the braces.”
Williams, the first lieutenant, clattered up the ladder and tried to button his coat and straighten his hat when he saw the captain already on deck.
“Good morning, sir!”
Poland replied coldly, “It had better be!”
The lieutenants glanced at each other and grimaced behind his back. Poland was usually realistic in his dealings with the people, but he had little sense of humour, and as Williams had once put it, divided his guidance evenly between the Bible and the Articles of War.
Calls shrilled between decks and the watch below came thudding along the glistening planking, each man bustling to his familiar station where petty officers stood with their lists, and boatswain’s mates were waiting to “start” any laggard with rope’s end or rattan. They were all aware of the importance of the man who wore his reputation like a cloak, and who for most of the lively passage had remained aft in Poland’s quarters.
“There she comes, lads!”
Poland snapped, “Take that man’s name!”
But he looked up nevertheless and saw the first frail glow of light as it touched the whipping and frayed masthead pendant, then flowed down almost like liquid to mark the shrouds. Delicate, salmon-pink. Soon it would spread over the horizon, expand its colour, give life to a whole ocean.
But Poland saw none of these things. Time, distance, logged speed, they were the factors which ruled his daily life.
Allday lounged against the damp nettings. They would be packed with hammocks once the ship lay on her new course. Landfall? It seemed likely, but Allday could sense the captain’s unease, just as he was aware of his own private anxieties. Usually, no matter how bad things had been, he was glad, if not relieved, to quit the shore and get back to a ship again.
This time it was different. Like being motionless with only the ship’s wild movements to give the sensation of life around them.
Allday had heard them talking about the man he served and loved as he loved none other. He had wondered what he had really been thinking as Truculent had ploughed through each long day. Something apart. Not their ship. He let his mind explore the thought, like fingers probing a raw wound. Not like the old Hyperion.
October 15 th, less than four months ago. Was that all it was? In his heart he could still feel the crash and roar of those terrible broadsides, the screams and the madness, and then— The old pain lanced through his chest and he clutched it with his fist and gasped in great mouthfuls of air, waiting for it to ease. Another sea, a different battle, but always a reminder of how entwined their lives had become. He could guess what the stiff-faced Poland thought. Men like him could never understand Richard Bolitho. Nor would they.
He massaged his chest and gave a little, private smile. Yes, they had seen and done so much together. Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho. Even their paths had been spliced by fate. Allday wiped the spray from his face and shook his long pigtail over his collar. Most folk probably believed that Bolitho wanted for nothing. His last exploits had swept the seaports and taverns of England. A ballad had been composed by Charles Dibdin or one of his fellows: “How Hyperion Cleared the Way!” The words of a dying sailor whose hand Bolitho had held on that awful sunlit day, although he had been needed in a hundred other places at once.
But only those who had shared it really knew. The power and the passion of the man behind the gold lace and gleaming epaulettes, who could lead hi
s sailors, be they half-mad, half-deafened by the hellish roar of battle; who could make them cheer even in the face of the Devil and the moment of certain death.
And yet he was the same one who could turn up the noses of London society, and invite gossip in the coffee houses. Allday straightened and sighed. The pain did not return. Yet. They would all be surprised if they knew just how little Bolitho did have, he thought.
He heard Poland snap, “A good man aloft, Mr Williams, if you please!”
Allday could almost feel pity for the first lieutenant, and hid a grin as he replied, “Already done, sir. I sent a master’s mate to the foremast when the watch came aft.”
Poland strode away from him and glared when he saw the vice-admiral’s coxswain loitering.
“Only the Afterguard and my officers—” He shut his mouth and moved instead to the compass.
Allday stamped down the companion ladder and allowed the smells and sounds of the ship to greet him. Tar, paint, cordage and the sea. He heard the bark of orders, the squeal of braces and halliards through their blocks, the thud of dozens of bare feet as the men threw themselves against the tug of rudder and wind and the ship began to change tack.
At the door of the great cabin a Royal Marine sentry stood near a wildly spiralling lantern, his scarlet coat angled more steeply as the helm went hard over.
Allday gave him a nod as he thrust open the screen door. He rarely abused his privileges, but it made him proud to know he was able to come and go as he pleased. Something else to gall Captain Poland, he thought with a grim chuckle. He nearly collided with Ozzard, Bolitho’s small, mole-like servant, as he scuttled away with some shirts to wash.
“How is he?”
Ozzard glanced aft. Beyond the sleeping quarters and Poland’s swaying cot the cabin was almost in darkness again, but for a single lantern.
He murmured, “Not moved.” Then he was gone. Loyal, secretive, always there when he was needed. Allday believed Ozzard was still brooding about the October day when their old Hyperion had given up her last fight and gone down. Only Allday himself knew that it had been Ozzard’s intention to stay and go with her to the seabed, with all the dead and some of the dying still on board. Another mystery. He wondered if Bolitho knew or guessed what had almost happened. To speculate why, was beyond him.
Then he saw Bolitho’s pale figure framed by the broad stern windows. He was sitting with one knee drawn up on the bench seat, his shirt very white against the tumbling water beyond.